Chapter 5
Laying upon her bed, tears drying upon her cheeks, Freya stared up at the ceiling, listening for Papa’s distinctive snore, the indication that the henbane had taken full effect, robbing him of his ability to rage at her.
He had taken her pledge of loyalty to Tyr and Calum as a direct attack upon him as her father.
All night she had pleaded to make him understand that her words had been meant to shield him, to protect him from the wrath of the clan and from dishonor.
Yet he had been beyond reason, pacing and raging in that fevered, unreachable deranged state of agitation she tried so hard to avoid.
For hours he’d rioted, only slowing when he accepted the warm cup of milk she pressed into his fist with a small oatcake.
The nutmeg concealing the bitter henbane that would still his mind and keep his body heavy until dawn.
Ten minutes later he had collapsed upon his bed, breath grinding into the deep rumble of sleep.
Laying still ever since, she let her guilt-frayed body sink into the mattress, heartbroken and yet astonished that her plea to Calum’s man-God had been answered.
How? The small question stumbled through her mind, reaching for some reasonable explanation. Perhaps it was only coincidence. Yet deep down she knew that someone had heard her, just as she had been listening for Him since the tànaiste ceremony.
She wiped her cheeks and turned her head toward Papa’s back, watching it rise and fall in the steady rhythm of sleep.
“Did you hear me, then?” she whispered into the empty longhouse. No one replied. Her voice dropped again, fragile and wry. “I asked for a skiff, you know. Not the lad sailing it.”
Man, not lad, she corrected herself. The wolfhound etched upon him bore witness to the treacherous road he had traveled since leaving home.
Forty pounds heavier with muscle, scars crisscrossing his chest and back from a dozen battles, he no longer resembled the slender, affable boy she had once known.
His hair tumbled nearly to his waist in a pale, tangled mane, his face shadowed by a thick beard.
His eyes, cool and unyielding, swept over the bruise on her cheek; the muscle in his jaw jumping ominously, his rough hand angling her chin toward the light.
There was nothing courtly or tamed about him, though the beard and clothing suggested a wish to disguise it.
He was still Tyr’s son, a son of Jura—feral, undomesticated, the dangerous contrast to Rory.
And despite every warning she gave herself, despite knowing better, her stomach twisted in the auld way it used to.
From his bed, her father’s loud snore rose at last, the signal that it was safe to go. She wasted no time. Without changing, she tucked a blanket under her covers, threw her cloak around her shoulders, slid her feet into her shoes, and slipped through the door.
The moonlight lit her path as she ran, her breath catching in the cold night air, heart racing with the shock of coming face-to-face with the lad—no, the man—she had thought of every day since she was eight.
So fierce was her need to reach Tyr that the run took half the usual time. To her relief, he was already waiting, perched on the wide rock at the base of the falls. She gave his hooting owl call, barely managed to wait for his reply, then burst through the tree line straight into his arms.
Sobs tore from her chest. He held her back, enclosing her face in his hands. “Did he harm you, lass?”
She could only shake her head.
He wiped her cheeks with his thumbs, his eyes searching. “What is it then?”
She buried her face against him, wrapping her arms around his middle, clinging to the immovable wall of his chest. “I cannae do this anymore,” she choked out at last. “Da, Rory…always watching, waiting for me to stumble. I swear to ye, I dinnae wish to help my father become chieftain.”
Tyr’s gaze lingered on the bruise darkening her cheek. “I saw this. Calum saw it, too. He’s been pacing our cottage for hours, worried your father would do worse for your loyalty.”
She shook her head, voice breaking. “It wasnae Papa that put the mark on me.”
His brow furrowed. “Who then?”
Tears streamed in fresh cascades as her words tumbled out half-formed. “I’m stuck. I willnae ever be free of this. I ken I deserved it—but I thought…I thought—”
He leaned forward, brushing her cheeks with callused thumbs. “Breathe, Freya. You’re no’ making sense. In and out. Come now.”
She dragged in a breath then let it shudder out.
“Again.”
Another breath, steadier this time, and the hammering in her chest eased.
Then his arms closed around her. “Now. Who hurt you?”
Her lips trembled. “Rory.”
A savage oath ripped from Tyr’s mouth. His whole body bristled, rage trembling in his voice. “What did he do?”
She sucked in another shaky breath, pushing the words through.
“The night of the agreement they made me scribe the betrothal pledge. I wouldnae finish it. I couldnae bring myself to write ‘handfasted wife’ beside my name. I told them I dinnae wish to marry anyone. I told them I wanted to go to Iona, to become a nun, to take the burden off Papa.”
Tyr gave a short, humorless laugh. “You dinnae even know the coigreach god. Are you certain you’d bind yourself to him for life?”
She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Better than a lifetime as a wife to a man I dinnae respect.”
His face softened. “Of course. Go on. Why did he strike you?”
“I dinnae ken. At the mention of Iona, they went off their heads. I told him, ‘I’m sorry, Rory. I dinnae wish to hurt you. I remain your friend, but I cannae love you as a wife.’ For a moment he chuckled, then laughed—then drew back and struck me.”
Her voice wobbled. “I hit the floor so hard I chipped my tooth. He raged about the time he’s spent, the effort he’s made with the clan…
“Then Papa came home today with that horrible dress. I knew I had to wear it. If I didnae, Papa would lose his temper, and Rory would be angry, and he would…he would…”
Out of time and options, she buried her face in Tyr’s tunic, releasing the grief that had been knotting tighter and tighter since Rory’s departure a month ago.
Tyr patted her back. “I thought you looked lovely.”
She snorted, leaving a wet trail across his tunic. “Dinnae tease me. The color was an insult to ye both. There is nothing noble about me. Is Mariota cross?”
His solid hand patted her as if she were a bairn.
“I’m no’ teasing. You did look lovely. And no, of course Mariota isnae cross with ye, daft hen.
She understands better than anyone how your father can be.
I reckon the whole clan does by now.” He chuckled.
“It worked its charm, but no’ in the way Ragnall hoped. ”
She released him and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “What do ye mean?”
Tyr pulled her down beside him to sit on the rock and handed over his handkerchief. “Calum. His nose looked like it was balancing two shinty balls, so wide-eyed was he.”
Against her will she choked on a laugh. “Now who’s daft?”
Tyr propped his elbow on a raised knee. “No’ I. The lad has stars in his eyes.”
He was mistaken—or being kind to soothe her fears. Of course he was. The only time Calum had noticed her in more than pity was the day he fled. And even then, it was only because it seemed a very hard thing not to notice, that the daughter of your enemy has taken it upon herself to help you flee.
Unsure where Tyr now stood with his son, she gathered her courage and asked delicately, “Did you know he was returning?”
A glow lit his hooded eyes, a half-smile tugging despite himself. “I didnae expect contrition, but I always knew he’d return.”
A little steadier, she pressed the question she most needed answered. “He said he could speak for Rory’s absence. Was that what the king’s missive contained?”
“Aye. In part. The other part is…tricky.”
Unsettled, she picked up a stick and traced a star in the mud. “What is the first part?”
He crossed his arms, stretching his legs.
“There’s urgent business at Ardtornish—I dinnae ken what.
The king has kept Rory to manage it. He’s sent Calum back with orders to strengthen our defenses and raise a fighting unit.
Word of the Order has reached the Highlanders.
That’s why the king returned him to me.”
Astonished, she dropped her stick and watched it float into the rapids, unable to grasp his meaning. “How?”
He winced. “Your stories, lass.”
Clammy horror crawled through her belly. “But I thought they were just for our clan.”
Rubbing the back of his long neck, he confessed, “I passed a few to other clans.”
She stared at him, reeling. “What do you mean, passed them on?”
“At Findlugan, minstrels gather for reports they can take to the rest of the Isles. Early in ’84 I met one—Còta Liath.”
Her eyes widened. “Còta Liath?”
He nodded. “I gave him your tale of Lochindorb. He sold it—half a groat per telling, a shilling for a script. When I met him again, he begged for more. Said he’d earned thrice what he ever made from his own songs.
So I gave him the Imprisoned Lion, but made him promise to name the author only as ‘the Storyteller.’ For the coin he was raking in, he agreed gladly. ”
Appalled, she stared at him. “Tyr, how could you not tell me?” Sweat prickled her skin as the weight of his betrayal sank in. “We are at great risk of retaliation.”
“I felt it a risk worth taking. Hector needed every advantage as War Chief. I knew my son would march into battle after battle against one of the most ruthless merchants of war Scotland has ever seen. The Isles had to be united. If the clans heard your stories, they would send more men to fight, more resources, more strength to throw off the Wolf.”
She shook her head, unwilling to relent. “If you had told me, I could have written them differently.”
He rose to his feet, pacing. “You may not understand, but I needed the Council of the Isles to see Jura was contributing. That my son is one of the greatest fighters in the land. I wanted to send men to stand beside him, to march with him into battle. But we are so woefully divided I had no guard to send. That is my shame.”
A weak sound of disbelief escaped her chest. “We’re under the Wolf’s close attention now, I’m sure.”
He shook his head. “We dinnae know for certain. But with my son back, I can at last do what’s been impossible these ten years.
We’ll rebuild the walls, raise a guard, and restore the crumbling ring forts.
With his return, with the support you’ve earned him, with your efforts to sway the MacSorleys—we can finally move forward instead of backward.
We can give something real to this war.”
A blast of cold harvest wind swept over them, and she drew the cloak tighter, hiding herself away. “I suppose I cannae fault you for loving your son more than your good sense. I only wish my words were not used to invite danger.”
His soft gray eyes held hers. “Your voice is powerful, Freya. The stories you’ve written turned the tide for Hector’s cause. Three powerful Highland clans reluctant to join now pledge forces for Man. That is your gift. And I need you to hear me—clear. You cannae stop writing.”
“But—”
“I believe the Shield needs you. To spread their cause across the Isles. To show what unity can accomplish. To carry their legend into Scotland, even to the Wolf himself, so he sees we arenae to be trifled with.”
“Have you told Calum?”
He winced. “No, lass. Perhaps when the time is right—but not yet. I willnae betray you to him. The king shall not take the matter lightly, and Calum is bound by oath to report any intelligence. Dómhnall is already wavering in his support. ’Tis a precarious time.”
She had come to Lealt Linn seeking Tyr’s guidance, but would leave even more burdened. The solitary piece of her life that brought her joy had placed hundreds in danger. How could she continue? “I never meant to wage war against the Wolf. I only wanted them to remember Calum.”
“And they do. Because of you, they welcomed him home without doubt or question. You showed them his courage, his worth. And with the children—because of you—this clan is uniting for the first time in memory. Please, Freya. Dinnae stop. We need your voice if we’re to withstand this storm.”
“The Wolf. Papa. The defenses. Too many storms for one lass to weather.”
“You forgot Rory.”
She groaned aloud, and Tyr laughed.
“That is the worst part,” she said bitterly. “I’m well and truly betrothed to a man as stubborn and unmanageable as my father. I’ll be shackled to him for life.”
Tyr’s chuckle rumbled low. “Aye, but look at the miracles you’ve already wrought among the MacSorleys.
Left to your father, Rory might grow into a problem.
With you as wife, I reckon you could soften even the hardest heart.
” He pinched her cheek, mischief glinting in his eyes.
“Or at least learn to plug your ears when he speaks and think of him as merely pretty.”
Again she laughed despite herself. “Rory’s full of belief he’ll be MacSorley chieftain after Papa, with me beside him to legitimize his claim. And with our heir, which I must produce as soon as possible. That’s what he tells Papa.”
Tyr’s face hardened. “He isnae a MacSorley. He’s a MacDonald, and that’s where his loyalties lie. Calum will need to watch him. There’s something more underlying with the man, but I cannae put my finger on it. What will you do? Word will reach him that you’ve publicly cast your lot with Calum’s.”
Her stomach twisted. “A fact neither he nor Papa will forget, I’m certain. Perhaps I can pass it off as concern for Papa’s safety? Do you think Rory will return soon?”
Tyr shook his head. “Calum reckons he’ll be at Ardtornish for weeks yet. There’s more he’s not telling me, and it smells of another storm. Who do you think carries the heavier load now?”
Freya laughed softly. “Always you. Calum counts for two storms all by himself.”
Laughter rumbled from his chest, and he glanced up at the cloud-thick sky. “Do you know something, Freya?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re a treasure. I love you as my own daughter.”
The words stunned her, so foreign were they from Papa’s steady stream of curses. She drew her cloak tighter, unsure how to answer. “W-why do you say that?”
Tyr turned his bonnet in his hands. “All this talk of what comes after I’m gone…it makes a man think. I willnae be here forever, and it’s right to tell folk how you feel before you cannae anymore.”
She peered at the endless night sky. “Are ye doolally? You’ll outlast us all with your running, fighting, and those greens you swear by.”
He chuckled, tugging gently at one of her fletters. “Perhaps. Still—it’s been an honor to love you, my star. An honor.”