Page 23 of The Highlander’s Fallen Angel (Brotherhood of Solway Moss #2)

“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.”

William Arthur Ward – American Writer, 1921–1994

The night wind blew across the treeless spit of land, making the flames flaring up from the torches dance and dim before straightening again. “How kind of ye to come visit,” his younger brother, Gilbert, said, knowing how their father had punished Kenan anytime he deemed his son kind.

Kenan breathed through his rising anger and studied Gilbert. He hadn’t seen him since the day their father had been killed and Dunscaith burned. He was the same stout, heavily browed brother he remembered, although his hair was shorter, and he was keeping his beard in better shape. Gilbert had disappeared with Winnie Mar after their father had been killed.

The woman was wily, fanatical, and probably aspired to be queen of the entire world if she could just poison enough people. She’d yanked Gilbert along with promises of passion and devotion, things Kenan’s stocky, dark-hearted brother lacked.

“Is Winnie here with ye?” Kenan asked over the hard thumping of his blood, his body ready for battle. “And her brother, Reid?” Reid had helped Sara survive her ordeal with the MacLeods and their own father, but Kenan still didn’t trust him.

“My wife,” Gilbert said, stressing the title, “has journeyed to our Macdonald kin here on the mainland to acquire help in resurrecting Dunscaith for us.”

“Us?” Rory asked. “As in ye and that conniving traitor taking over Dunscaith?”

Gilbert didn’t acknowledge him. “Winnie and I will move in once ’tis completely restored.”

“Are ye challenging me for the chiefdom, then, Little Brother?”

“If there’s a need.”

His brother, who knew very well Kenan had the loyalty of their army and superior skill with the blade, must have another plan in mind that turned his tone arrogant. Perhaps it involved Murdoc and Ranulf Matheson.

Kenan looked at Murdoc, ignoring his brother’s boast. “Chief Murdoc Matheson, steward of Eilean Donan Castle, I am Chief Kenan Macdonald of Sleat on the Isle of Skye. Chief Rory MacLeod, Chief Cyrus Mackinnon, Henry Macqueen, and I have come with our warriors to retrieve what was unlawfully taken: Chief Douglas MacNicol, Fannie MacNicol from the Clan Lindsay, the crew of the Rosemary , and the ship. To garner a strong Scotland, we are willing to retrieve the MacNicols without bloodshed.”

“And that’s yer problem, Brother,” Gilbert said. “Everyone but ye wants bloodshed.”

Without warning, Kenan drew his sword and leveled the point at Gilbert’s thick throat. “If ye so desire.” Behind them, more men poured out of the bailey.

“I had heard ye were the reasonable chief,” Murdoc said, his tone calm as his warriors filed along the path to Eilean Donan, “with a desire for peace.”

Kenan leaned forward, the tip breaking the skin of Gilbert’s neck. Just a bit more, and he could sever an artery.

Gilbert jumped back. “Foking Christ, Kenan.” He grabbed his neck where blood squeezed out of his blotchy white skin.

“Lower ye sword and come inside,” Murdoc said.

“Did ye bring my bride?” Ranulf asked.

“Who?” Rory asked.

Ranulf’s lips twitched, and he looked at Henry, who’d remained silent. “Lady Tierney MacNicol, did ye bring her as requested? Is she on yer ship?”

“She’s handfasted to me,” Kenan said, “so she cannot be yer bride.”

“Is she here?” Ranulf raised his voice, staring into Henry’s eyes.

“Lady Tierney is near, but as Chief Kenan Macdonald says, he’s hand—”

“Which is not supported by the church or the government,” Murdoc cut in.

“’Tis been a tradition since the beginning of time,” Rory said.

“I have a contract,” Ranulf said, stepping forward, which was foolish since Kenan still held his sword level, tip outward. Murdoc’s arm went across his brother’s chest as if holding him back or trying to save his irritating life.

“A contract never agreed to nor signed by the lady,” Kenan said. “A contract that has a clause saying it is null if she marries a clan chief.”

“Douglas MacNicol reconsidered that clause and crossed it out. Ye were requested to bring Lady Tierney here,” Murdoc said. “To buy back her family and clan. Ye’ll bring her from yer ship.”

Kenan gave Henry a dark look and spoke before the arse gave more information away. “Master Henry does not know where she is.”

Ranulf sucked on his teeth, making a wet suction sound. “She likes to hide, like a timid mouse, but I thought the life of her parents and clan might make her brave enough to come.”

“If ye think Tierney is like a timid mouse, ye know nothing about her,” Kenan said.

Kenan lowered his sword so he wouldn’t be tempted. If he attacked first, the Mathesons around them, ten now behind with more on the steps above, would kill him and then Rory and Cyrus. His friends knew the risk going into this, which was why diplomacy must be suffered.

“Let us discuss this inside like civilized men,” Murdoc said and turned, yanking Ranulf’s arm to follow. Gilbert glared at Kenan but turned, striding across the grassy stretch of land before the gate leading into the bailey. Kenan kept his sword out and ready, but Rory gripped his arm.

“Tempting, I know,” Rory said, “but we’re committed to trying diplomacy first because they are Scots. If they were English, we’d slice them through.”

“Bloody diplomacy,” Cyrus muttered.

Rory looked at Cyrus. “When it involved Matilda, our jailor’s daughter at Carlisle, ye were all about diplomacy.”

“Her name was Mirella, and she couldn’t help she was born English. And I, too, want to discourage Scots fighting Scots,” Cyrus said and exhaled. “Which is why I must convince my father not to war.”

Kenan looked across at him, but the shadows hid his face. “I am indebted.”

“No matter what,” Cyrus said, “don’t drink anything my sister hands ye. She’s less forgiving than our father.”

“Warning taken,” Kenan murmured.

The three strode across the bailey, ignoring the dozens of Matheson warriors holding torches inside the bailey, watching in silence. Henry trudged behind them, keeping up with much grumbling while Tomas, Jok, and Bartholomew followed. They were outnumbered seven to fifty.

Rory slid a small parchment from his sash and whispered, “I forgot. Tierney gave me this for ye.”

Kenan’s brows furrowed as he took it. “When?”

“Right as we parted at the dock, and then we got busy,” Rory answered.

Kenan tried to read it, but the scrawl was light, and shadows covered almost everything. “Did ye read it?”

“Of course not,” Rory said.

As they walked beside the torches set in iron sconces flanking the gate, Kenan stopped. “Give me a chance to read this,” he whispered, and Rory strode faster ahead.

“Pardon, but I need to take a piss before going in,” Rory called to the guard. “Maybe we all should.”

Kenan stared at the looping scrawl.

Plan Number Four – Ignored but not forgotten.

An angel,

her wings clipped by a lover’s fear, falls toward the briny sea.

A crow,

her wings black as moonless night, answers her warrior’s plea.

Angel and crow fly together

under the vacant moon.

Clothed in cleverness, armor, and magic,

They will land on the mountain soon.

When the crow comes calling, I beg you to take heed.

Fly home upon its wings, with your power three.

“Daingead,” Kenan said. “She’s got another plan.”

…

With the MacNicol crew headed back to the Birlinn ship and freedom, Tierney and Morag walked arm in arm with their hoods up over their heads. Anyone glancing out in the night would see an old woman being helped by a younger one.

“Your armor in place?” Morag asked, her voice so soft it could have been the breeze.

Tierney patted her stomach. The leather casing made only a gentle thud under her palm. “Yes, although ’tis not comfortable.” The thick girdle wrapped between Tierney’s legs, across her backside, and ran all the way up her torso to cover her breasts with thick straps that lay over her shoulders. It was a full covering of protection, the likes of which she’d never seen before. It hugged her body and curves and had two locks, one at the top sitting between her breasts and one low at the top of her pelvic mound.

“Are you certain it would work against any man?” Tierney asked, sliding her hand over her trousers where the worked leather rubbed the skin at her hips.

Morag pulled her into a dark space between cottages, her hands rising to Tierney’s shoulders to tug on the straps. She yanked around her breasts and then fingered the edges under Tierney’s trousers, checking that nothing slid.

“I had this made by Gerard at Dunvegan when Bruce threatened to punish me in bed,” Morag said.

“You wore this to bed?” Tierney wiggled her body, but the leather held her firmly in place.

“Aye, after hiding the keys. No one can get inside unless you unlock the contraption. I think every woman should have one. Protection against cock-wielding madmen.”

“What did Bruce do when he discovered you wearing it?”

Morag didn’t say anything for a moment, and the silence felt heavy there in the shadows between the low buildings. “He reacted poorly, but he didn’t get what he wanted.” Morag patted her arm in the dark. “And now I pass it to you to use when going into the proverbial lion’s den of vile devils. Even if Ranulf finds you, he can’t threaten you with what that guard had in his wicked mind.”

Tierney smiled in the darkness, thinking of how furious Ranulf would be if he got her in that position and discovered the barrier.

“And if he tries to stick anything in your mouth,” Morag continued, “bite down hard.”

Tierney heard the woman’s teeth clack together. Holy Joan, Morag Gunn was fierce.

“Sound advice,” Tierney said, wondering how her marriage to Wallace would have ended if she’d had Morag’s courage. Although she’d also been protecting Maggie. Every woman’s circumstances were her own.

Above them, wings fluttered, and Tierney looked up to see several black crows sitting on the thatched roof. Morag laughed softly. “My army.”

Morag looped her arm again through Tierney’s, and they crept to the corner of the sleeping cottage before venturing into the street. Everything was quiet as if the townspeople locked themselves away at night.

A shiver ran through Tierney as she remembered her father’s bedtime stories about dragons roaming the countryside on the mainland of Scotland. The beasts would pick up stragglers at night with their talons, carrying them back to their young to eat. That was long ago when Douglas MacNicol still cared to spend time with her.

Tierney and Morag walked silently, their boots coming down with gentle steps so as not to crunch the gravel along the road. They neared the ferry station where a Matheson poleman stood, his gaze on the torches burning on the opposite side.

“We need passage across,” Tierney said, keeping her hood up. Next to her, Morag let out a piercing whistle.

The man jumped at the sudden noise. Tierney kept her hood raised while Morag lowered hers. “I am a soothsayer sent for by Chief Murdoc Matheson.” Her arm swept upward. “He wishes me to read his fate in the stars this eve since ’tis clear.”

The man was young, tall, and thin. “Chief Murdoc has guests this eve. Come back on the morrow.”

Morag tsk ed, her arm still raised. With a great flapping, one of her crows landed on her sleeve, black wings outstretched. Four more landed on the ground around them, and Tierney could hear the birds circling above.

“Holy Mother Mary,” the guard swore, crossing himself. “Demons.”

“They are birds, not demons,” Morag said as if the man was an imbecile. “And we were called to come this eve so we cannot wait. Perhaps we were called because of these guests.”

The guard continued to stare at the large crow, which hopped to the ground with the others, all of them walking with stick-like legs, stretching their wings before Morag, sentries guarding their queen.

“If the guests are potential enemies, the chief would like us to reveal them,” Tierney said, using a wispy voice that she hoped sounded mysterious or witch-like. Her heart thumped, making her want to twitch or run, but she forced herself to remain still.

The guard bent to try to see past the shadows into Tierney’s hood, but Morag swooped her arms, making the crows expand their wings, lifting themselves into the air before the man. He gave a little squeak and jumped onto the ferry.

“Call yer demon birds off me, and I’ll take ye across,” he said.

Morag settled her hood back on her head and preceded Tierney onto the flat ferry, one of the crows stepping sedately along the planks to follow her.

“They’re coming, too?” the ferryman asked, glancing between the one on the ferry and the others flying around, their black wings blending in with the inky night.

“Madeline goes where I go,” Morag said, and the man made another sign of the cross.

The poleman threw his weight into moving the ferry quickly. On the other side, Morag and Tierney disembarked, but the crow remained on the flat boat, flapping her wings as if part of the plan.

“Take yer bloody birds with ye,” the man called, but the two women strode down the wooden dock, climbing the rocks that led toward the castle. ’Twas mid tide, so the ferry had taken them close to the broken outer walls. While Madeline flapped and lifted off when the man tried to jab her with his pole, Tierney and Morag climbed the uneven rocks where the torchlight didn’t reach. They squatted behind a low wall that was no longer fortified, waiting until the ferryman poled his way back over to get away from the crow.

They did not speak as they moved from rock to rock, climbing the incline, avoiding tufts of washed-up seaweed with bulbous, wet leaves. In the silence, Tierney could hear the slight squeak of the leather armor hugging her body under her trousers and tunic. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use the privy before getting the contraption off. Even with the chilled night breeze coming off the sea, she wasn’t cold, not with thick leather encasing her like a sausage.

Ahead, torches outlined the broken wall that used to surround the fortress. It hadn’t been kept up in recent centuries and provided cover as they neared the orchard along the north side of the keep. Reid Lewis hadn’t lied.

They reached the rustling leaves of the apple trees growing in rows. A small wall enclosed the bailey, leaving the keep only protected by the sea on the western side.

Tierney walked briskly amongst the trees. She inhaled the smell of apple mixed with the brine off the water. If at least one tree was close enough to the keep that she could use it to climb inside a second-level window, she could enter without anyone knowing. Reid had said he’d been able to reach out to pluck an apple from one when he’d visited.

Morag met Tierney at the last row of trees. Tierney exhaled, her rapidly beating heart sinking inside her. The trees were too far from the windows of the keep. Perhaps the tips of the limbs could reach, but not limbs strong enough to hold a person.

“On to our second plan,” Morag said.

“The next plan is actually number five,” Tierney said.

“Whatever the number,” Morag said, “we need to get you inside. If not through a window, then a door.”

Tierney thought of the diagram she’d drawn of the keep. “My parents will be held probably on the third floor in one of the sleeping chambers or in the small dungeon below. My guess is the bedchamber, or the letter would have mentioned their poor accommodations.”

“You will need a distraction to enter through the kitchen garden on the seaside,” Morag said, pointing past the end of the orchard to the right. “I will walk in the front bailey and say I am a soothsayer come to read the stars. I can get inside and chant so loudly that everyone in the keep will come to see my predictions.”

Tierney stared at her. “You can make that big a distraction?”

“I have been walking the edge of acceptable behavior my whole life.” Morag’s voice held a wicked smile. “Distraction is second nature to me.”

Tierney looked to the right. There were no guards walking the perimeter on that side. Murdoc and Ranulf must feel secure with the sea around them. Kenan had ordered several dinghies to be silently rowed to that shore if an escape was needed.

Tierney turned back to Morag. Even though the moon was merely a sliver, the older woman’s eyes seemed to glint. “I’ll wait in the back gardens until I hear your distraction.”

Morag slid her black cloak from her shoulders and motioned for Tierney’s crimson-colored cloak. “Wear my black one,” Morag said. “There are helpful things in the pockets tied underneath.”

Tierney exchanged the cloaks, putting the black one over her tunic and trousers. Her hand slipped into the cinched pocket. “A key?” She pulled it out.

“It fits most door locks but not the locks on your armor.”

A small velvety bag was heavy. “Coins?”

“Always good for bribes,” Morag said.

Tierney jerked her finger out of the pocket. “Something sharp.” She couldn’t see the bead of blood that must sit upon her poked finger.

“A long, sharp pin. ’Tis one of the best weapons, along with an awl.” Morag made a jabbing motion. “’Tis good for poking into eyes.”

Tierney nodded slowly. “With you by my side, Mistress Morag, we could take over Scotland.”

“I am merely interested in protecting my isle.” Morag patted her arm and turned, disappearing into the orchard toward the entrance to the bailey.

Tierney kept to the trees, moving in the opposite direction around the north side of the keep where a kitchen garden was planted. There didn’t seem to be any animals on the small isle, so all she had to watch for were raised tree roots. A low wall surrounded the garden, dividing it from the orchard. Morag’s black cloak transformed Tierney into a shadow. She blended in with the thick, twisting apple trees, moving with the night breeze.

Tierney swung her legs over the wall, pulling her cloak around herself, and slid to the ground in a crouch. No one was about, so she moved along the wall until she reached the door cut into the stonework of the castle. If Reid had been correct, this led to the household kitchen, which had a back staircase for servants. The door didn’t fit well, leaving a crack under it and at the top. Leaning close, she could hear muted conversation, splashing water, and a rhythmic thudding on wood.

What was going on in the Great Hall at the front of the keep? Had Morag entered yet? Had Kenan read her note? He’d either think her quite talented or completely mad.

If Ranulf found the poem, she doubted he was clever enough to understand it. But Kenan would know she was the angel and Morag the crow, and he’d know they were coming to Eilean Donan. He’d know that he and the other chiefs should leave after Morag shows up, because Tierney knew Ranulf wouldn’t just release her parents through negotiation, not without her surrender.

And Tierney wouldn’t surrender. Nor would she let Kenan pay the price for her decision. “Just stay alive,” she whispered so softly the rustling leaves hid any trace of her.