Chapter 25 #2
“It’s not often I get a herald from Colonsay.
When I read what you’d endured, I had to come.
Anything to tweak the Abbot. First he locks me up, then tries to annul your marriage.
” He leaned across the couch and kissed Freya’s hand.
“Eoghan O’Gallagher, fought with your husband at Dun Ringill.
Saints, you weren’t jesting—she’s gorgeous. ”
Self-conscious and unsure how to reply, she shifted quickly. “Were you the one they called ‘Charger’ in the missives?”
Silence fell. All eyes fixed on her. Everyone but Eoghan and Calum looked hard—even Aileen. Sweat pricked her palms.
Hector navigated around the clutter and claimed a stool at the far end of the room. “Calum, I think we need to speak plainly. Give everyone a chance to ask her the questions they’ve been wanting answers to.”
Calum shifted and perched on her chair-back like a menacing gargoyle, one hand heavy on her shoulder. Bog lay his head across her feet protectively.
She nodded. “Ask me anything you like, I will speak honestly.”
Silence met her. The hardness in their eyes told her enough—they all wondered how much of what she had written might endanger them.
Calum’s hand squeezed her shoulder. Freya edged closer to her story, gathering its threads. “Then I’ll start at the beginning.”
“Long ago, in the ancient mists of auld, an island rose in the narrow Sound of Islay…”
Iain scoffed. “Hold oan. I tho’ ye’d explain why Tyr MacLean went aff his heid and hired ye tae write tales.”
Freya hesitated, noting the rolled eyes and strained looks.
“Shut yer gob, MacLeod,” Calum cut in.
Aileen signed sharply, incredulous. Calum answered in clipped gestures. She folded her arms, settling into Léo’s side, face unreadable.
Freya drew a deep breath, summoning the bard’s voice she used with the children. She pictured the clan’s bairns gathered around the hearth, eager for their tale, and steadied. Straightening, she opened her eyes. She could do this.
“Long ago, in the ancient mists of auld, an island emerged in the narrow Sound of Islay. The world was young, newly breathed to life. The island gleamed as vivid as an emerald, its form jagged as a dragon’s tooth, cloaked in mists as delicate as Tuatha Dé Danann’s veil.
2 There did Finn MacCool prepare to wrestle, and away did Benandonner flee. ”3
David burst with a snort, and Hector cast him a withering look.
Léo and Angus’s expressions softened. Eoghan and Iain leaned forward.
Aileen twirled a curl around her finger.
Murdoch stroked his mustache, boots propped before the fire.
The tension in the room began to ease, and she felt a small spark of hope that her words were finding their mark.
She continued. “Of all the Isles, Jura was cloaked in majesty—and mystery. A wild land of stag and shifting shadows…of peace,” she lowered her voice, “and great violence. Upon its shores, men scarce dared to tread—save for the man whose heart was stout enough to brave the judgment of war and beast—one of the Seven Sons of Cruithne, named Fotla.”
“The father of the greatest Pictish kings,” Eoghan breathed.
Freya nodded. “Fotla’s bloodline rose countless Pictish kings and nobles, yet one alone claimed Jura: the formidable Cù Cogaidh.
Branded with the sacred mark of the wolfhound, he reigned as the island’s guardian for nearly one hundred years, driving back every invader.
Savage, indomitable, he hewed the peaks of the Sgùrr na Cìche with the swing of his war-axe, etching his legacy on the very bones of our land. ”
Hector’s mangled mouth lifted into a half smile. “The great-great-great grandfather of Gillean of the Battle Axe, the first MacLean chief.”
She continued. “Cù Cogaidh was fearsome, yet within him beat a heart of flesh. Each morning from the peaks of his mountains he vowed to protect his clan…
“My name is not my own, it is borrowed from my ancestors. I will return it unstained. My honor is not my own, it is loaned from my descendants. I will give it to them unbroken. My blood is not my own, it is a gift to generations yet unborn. I will carry it with responsibility.”
Everyone in the room bent beneath the story’s power, leaning into every word. A swell of pride rose in Freya’s chest. She held them, drawing each listener into the tale, placing them beside her ancestors.
“For hundreds of years our Pictish rulers kept the promise. Then, on a wind-torn morning when the fog clung low over the Sound, the great sea-king Sumarlier crept toward Jura.
“The sea was black with storm, yet his dragon-prowed ship drove on, rising with the waves until it landed among the kelp-strewn waters of Ardlussa Bay.
“From the chieftain’s broch came Derilei, daughter of Cù Sithe, ruler of Jura.
She had come to the bay for the morning’s catch.
Her hair shone bronze, her eyes the color of the Hebridean Sea.
Sumarlier beheld her beauty—and a clever opportunity—and seized her, refusing to release her until Cù Sithe yielded the island in exchange for his daughter.
“And so Sumarlier claimed not only Jura, but Derilei’s heart. She fell in love with the Norse-Gael and pledged herself to him against her father’s will, bearing him a son: Gillebride, the founder of a new sept on Jura. In our tongue, we are called Sumarliersson.”
“The MacSorleys,” Angus guessed. “Sons of Somerled.”
“Aye. Somerled was so pleased with his firstborn that in mercy to Derilei he granted a charter, returning Jura’s rule to Cù Sithe’s heirs upon the Norseman’s death. Somerled himself left Jura’s shores for the halls of Findlugan, where he became the first King of the Isles.”
“And Jura remained with Cù Sithe’s line?” Angus asked, leaning forward, his curiosity piqued.
“Aye,” Freya nodded. “Though time brought change, as Norsemen came and gradually outnumbered and replaced the Picts, still the bloodline of Cù Cogaidh endured. And the story of Jura’s guardian was remembered by those who remained.
“Now that you have heard the story of our island, you will understand the foundations of Juran life and belief. Calum is descended of the Picts, and I of the Pict-Norse. Somerled’s charter expressly consecrated that our two lines should blend—speaking both tongues, observing each other’s customs, and sharing a common ancestry.
The chieftains of Jura must vow the promise of the first Cù Cogaidh, and swear a blood oath to Somerled’s gods in exchange for their right to rule.
Somerled and Cù Sithe intended peace—but it seems to have bred little more than resentment on both sides. ”
David grunted. “A bit like Abraham, Hagar, and Sarah. Descendants always in conflict.”
Freya nodded. “Aye. That is why my papa has always claimed the MacSorley line strongest to rule Jura, for we carry both Pict and Norse blood. He believes himself the first among MacSorleys, the true heir—not only to Jura, but to the Isles entire.”
Iain scoffed. “Is tha’ why Ragnall’s made that dunderheid Rory MacDonald tànaiste? Does he think by ruling Jura he will somehow take the throne?”
She licked her lips, chilled by how far Papa had carried his scheme. “Aye. I believe they both do.”
Angus crossed his arms, settling back in his chair. “The MacDonald sons might have something to say about that. Their claim runs from Somerled’s legitimate heir, Ranald.”
Murdoch passed a hand over his face. “That is why, when Calum pledged his oath to an outsider God, he was cast out. He broke the charter, slighted the MacSorleys, and cast doubt on a MacLean’s right to lead.
In denying both Picts and Norse, he set in motion a revolt—not just for Jura, but for the throne.
It ended two hundred and fifty years of fragile peace. ”
Calum looked as if a stone had settled on his chest, his face creased with exhaustion and sorrow. “Aye. But I couldnae deny what I knew to be true—the God who had taken hold of my heart. How could I?”
Aileen’s brow was creased, her face anguished. Léo interpreted as she signed. “His allegiance to the truth has cost him everything. Again, and again. His clan. His birthright. His father and mother. She’s heartbroken for him.”
Hector’s brow furrowed. “Is that why Tyr commissioned stories?”
Freya leaned down and withdrew her papers from her bag, handing them to Hector.
“These are all the stories I’ve ever written.
You’ll see that every one—save two—was about Calum, the second Cù Cogaidh.
Tyr asked me to compose them, to tell them secretly to the men and women of our clan loyal to the cause of peace.
To show them he was one of us—better than us, really.
The stories were for all on Jura who wished to end the feuding, to see Calum become the heir of Cù Cogaidh, as his father intended. ”
Iain scratched at his beard. “And the other two stories? Did you spread those as well?”
Freya shook her head. “Tyr asked me to write them from the dispatches describing the first conflicts of the Hebridean Shield. He wanted the clan to know Calum had aided our chief in such a crucial way. The tale of Léo’s rescue seemed a natural extension of an epic.
Had I known they’d be circulated, I’d have composed them more carefully. ”
David looked thoughtful. “Would you have objected to their circulation if you’d known what Tyr was about?”
She hesitated, weighing her words. “I might have then. But knowing now what a monster the Wolf is—his brutality, the murderous way he fights—I would not object. I’d go with my father-in-law and circulate them myself.”
Hector’s voice ground out, frustration pinching every feature. “Tyr was onto something. Those stories were about to win us the war. The Highlanders were ready to end him.”
Freya lifted her chin, her voice steady, commanding, filling the room.
“Aye, and they can do it again. They can loose the power of our God, unbind your team from their fetters, reunify the Council of the Isles. They can move an army to clear the Wolf from Ardtornish. They can do anything you ask of them. All I ask is to see my husband rule Jura, as has been his right from his first breath. He cannae do that with King Dómhnall on the throne.”
A hush fell over the room. Even Hector’s clenched jaw slackened as every eye turned toward her, the weight of her words settling among them.
The team looked at each other. Aileen began to sign, the others joining in—some sternly, others more openly. Suspended, Freya watched, her palms clammy, praying she had helped Tyr and Calum’s cause.
Eoghan leaned close, whispering, “I dinnae ken what they’re signing either.” His wink eased her nerves. “All will be well.”
At last, Calum smiled, capturing her hand and brushing a kiss across it. Had she truly done it?
Hector leaned back. “To topple Ragnall, we must topple a king. We are agreed—Freya is accepted into the Order of the Hebridean Shield.”
David leaned forward. “And to topple a king, we’ll need a tale like an arrow-strike—swift, sharp, strong enough to knock him from his complacency.”
Freya lifted her chin. “I’m sure I’m up to the task—”
David shook his head. “I have the story. You need only compose it.”
Aileen rose, sweeping two fingers across her arm in a delicate motion, like playing a melody. Calum beamed. “She says your name…is Poet.”