Chapter 26
He had spent much time at Findlugan, though only as a stopover between missions—a place to mend armor or join war councils.
In the past ten years it had grown into more than a town—a true capital, a thriving hub where Islanders traded, shared news, and renewed the ties that bound them.
He had rarely lingered in the Great Hall, or forecourt, instead relegated with the Lochbuies to the shacks at the fringes.
The minstrels and their entertainments had never tempted him; it had always been mission first. But now, sitting with Shadow at a makeshift table near the west gate, he began to understand the allure.
Cota Liath wasn’t at all what he’d expected.
They had found him quickly enough, yet the man himself was a surprise.
For one thing, he was English, speaking their tongue with a gentler elegance—his voice slow and unhurried, carrying a natural rise and fall, a lyricism their harsher intonation lacked.
For another, he was refined, maybe twenty years older than himself, yet still tall, slender, and strong, dressed in courtly finery.
His once-white brocade surcoat, however, had dulled to gray, the mark of long years spent beside fires like this one.
The courtyard was packed this evening. Shadow and Lightning had paid their four-pence and huddled ale in hand, blending with the crowd.
For such a fee, Lightning expected rapt silence, but folk clustered in groups, laughing and talking as the man performed.
Cota Liath pressed on, voice ringing clear, carrying his poem above their scattered attention.
“Now welcome summer, with your sun soft,
that this winter’s weather does off shake,
and the long nights’ black away does take!
Saint Valentine, who art high aloft—thus sing the small fowls for your sake—
Now welcome summer, with your sun soft,
that this winter’s weather does off-shake.”
Lightning leaned in, transfixed by the man’s skill, though the lofty words of the ballad drifted past him.
Perhaps this was what his father had seen—clear talent wasted on dull material, flatter than a wet peat fire.
He scanned the apathetic crowd, grimacing.
The numbers were right, but would Poet hold them long enough?
This might be their first—and only—chance to strike at King Dómhnall directly.
Cota Liath’s fingers flew over the buttons of the instrument, his other hand cranking in rhythm.
Eyes closed, he lost himself in the whirring buzz of the tune.
Lightning’s heart hammered as the final bars neared—the plan was about to begin.
His eyes scanned the walls and found Birdy high upon the tower, perched on a narrow corbel.
He crossed both fingers, sweeping them out. Ready?
She mirrored him. Ready.
Guards?
Five patrols. Three men each. Circling northeast. Five minutes apart.
He swigged ale, scanning to be sure no one watched, then looked up again. Charger?
In position. South of the causeway.
To his right, Rock leaned against the wall, solid and wary. The tale had been his idea, but Lightning worried if he could withstand reliving it. Rock gave a short nod.
Are you certain? Lightning signed.
Rock made another short nod.
Cota Liath’s hands moved over the buttons, his feet tapping a subtle rhythm. The hurdy-gurdy ground to a stop, its final note hanging over the forecourt. The crowd offered scattered applause. He raised a hand, expression deflated.
“Thank you, lads and lasses. This latest work, Roundel, from the bard Chaucer. Copies for sale—a ha’penny.”
Lightning nodded to Murdoch, sitting to the far north beside a figure draped in black wool.
He nodded back, then lifted his flute to his lips.
Like a whipcrack, the lively notes of a jig zinged across the crowd.
The audience glanced at one another, smiles spreading as they began to clap along with the tune.
Across the crowd the draped figure rose, gliding before the audience, completely concealed.
Cota Liath’s noble brow drew down. His mouth curved into a smile as he backed away from the fire, as much in awe as the rest of the waiting crowd. “Someone offers an entertainment?”
The draped figure lifted her arms overhead and unfolded her cloak like the wings of a butterfly. The crowd gasped as she dropped it at her feet, and she spun on her toes and into the steps of the dance.
A pulse of wonder throbbed in his chest as the coppery silk of her gown shimmered with each turn.
The discs and beads woven into her Norse fletters sparkled in the light.
A striped kestrel feather dangled from her right ear.
Charcoal dusted her eyes and brow, creating a dark masque that set her gaze aglow with secrets.
She moved across the forecourt like a tempest. Her movements were precise, lightning-fast, and rhythmic.
Her body was held taut with strength, yet moved with fluid grace, calling to him like a siren’s song, daring him to chase after her.
Men rose to their feet around the clearing, evidently as entranced by her as he was.
Shadow leaned close, his voice a low rumble of amusement. “Your mouth is hanging open, lad.”
Poet spun before them, performing the cross he had once botched in the sword dance—a teasing signal that she saw him. Lightning’s mind jolted. This was not the girl who had cowered from her father.
Whistles and crude shouts broke the spell. A tall ruffian near the well winked, calling out, “Your hips sway like St. Ninian’s bell! Give us a ring, pretty one, and I’ll show you a coin!”
Possessiveness coiled in Lightning like a serpent. Rage flared sharp and blinding. He rose, dagger in hand—only for Shadow to yank him back by his plaid. “Are ye mad?!”
“The lecherous ba—”
“Shh,” Shadow hissed, grabbing his kyrtill, not letting him go. “Ye have to stay put. Mission first. Focus on her, watch.”
He was watching all right. The memories of the lass she’d been paled in comparison to the woman before him.
She gleamed with a radiance that felt almost untouchable.
To the crowd she was a spectacle, a wild enchantress meant to dazzle and entertain.
But to him she was a revelation—his childhood friend transformed into something bold, untamed, and glorious.
He wanted to let out a savage roar as she circled before him, staking his primal claim.
The jig softened, its notes winding low and entrancing.
She moved with it, prowling around the fire like a hunting cat.
The rhythm drew the crowd in, their clapping slowing as every eye followed her.
Torchlight caught the sharp planes of her face as she wove between the children gathered at her feet, her presence magnetic, commanding.
“Good citizens of the Kingdom of the Isles, gathered here on this blessed feast of Saint Valentine, hear my voice. I’ve journeyed from the amber veil of the skies, from the cliffs where the eternal watchfires burn.
I have listened to the cries for justice from the hills where the sainted rest. I have gathered the testimony of our brethren.
Hear it well, my friends and neighbors. Travel with me beyond the veil, and hear their words. ”
The tune dwindled to a few soft notes. She swept her hand first to one side of the crowd, then to the other.
“Close your eyes but once, and the world is gone…”
Around her, the audience obeyed, lids fluttering shut. The flute wound its plaintive line through the stillness, twining with her voice.
“Open them again, and you are in my keeping. A voice has come to me in prayer… it bade me speak, lest the world forget.” She dragged her hands slowly down the night sky. “I bring you the Ballad of Bonnie Morven…”
She clapped, and a burst of powder flared into the fire—sparks shot upward, smoke curling into the wind. Gasps rose from the crowd, some faces alight with awe, others shadowed with fear.
The flute droned, low and mournful. For a moment, Poet’s eyes closed.
Then she glided around the fire in tiny steps, as though walking on the palms of angels.
Softness and peace radiated from her features.
Passing among the children, she reached for a lass in the front.
The child’s eyes shone as she took Poet’s hand, swinging it back and forth as they skipped together around the fire.
Her voice rose in song, unfurling through the courtyard like a chantress in a cathedral, each note vibrant and warbling, carrying a holy reverence in its wake.
“O see the glen, where morning glows, golden and fair,
Little birds sing their bright anthems through the highland air.
Little Morven walks, her laughter a father’s delight,
Through heather and moss, beneath the soft sunlight.
‘My bonnie Morven, sweet, bonnie Morven,
Nothing can part us, all my heart you hold.’
She returned the girl to her seat and knelt down in front of her, bowing her head, making her voice sweet.
They wander the hills, the chapel’s quiet near,
Whispered prayers float softly, tender and clear.
“Keep my maw and my da close within your will,”
Her voice echoes gently—O bonnie Morven still.
“There in the abbey, her spirit with learning was fed,
Among sisters of wisdom, she bowed her fair head.”
As if hearing some unheard din, Poet’s head snapped up, eyes wide.
She rose to her feet, looking around, shoulders heaving with rapid breaths.
Terror etched every feature of her face, her eyes shimmering, her lower lip trembling.
Still her voice echoed soft and strong, carrying the spirit of Morven through the gathering.
“But the Wolf of Badenoch came, torch in hand,
Flames rising high, consuming the land.
The abbey burned red, smoke curling to the skies,
Little Morven cried out, terror in her eyes.
“Da, save me from the fire!” she called,
But the daughter of Chattan in the blaze was trapped, enthralled.
Her life, like her father’s heart, vanished in the pyre,