To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Twenty Three

R onan’s chest heaved, and his heart pounded in his ears. They had set out every morning before the first light of dawn, pounding the earth with their leather clad feet as they tore through wooded path and open road and did not cease until the moon rose high in the sky. When they needed food, they stopped only under the veil of forest canopy and filled their bellies, gulping down the dried herring and crusty bannock, prepared by the women they loved and sought to defend. Holes intentionally lined their shoes, allowing the water to drain and their feet eventually to dry so they could stay their course, heedless of streams or rivers.

At the king’s command, Ronan and his father formed two bands of warriors and took separate paths to conceal their numbers from enemy scouts. The land was alive with the threat of war. The flash of tartan could be seen darting through every wood they entered. On several occasions, they had met bands of warriors from other clans including the MacDonalds, Fergusons, and MacLeods. Ronan cringed when Guthrie asked the MacLeod chieftain if he knew a healer named Bridget, but Guthrie did not press the issue when the chieftain shook his head. The MacLeods had many territories and clans. Anyway, every man had only one thought—war. They were almost to Largs and eager for battle, but they were careful to remember the king’s order to travel in small groups. They greeted each other, and then went their separate ways.

Reaching the outskirts of Largs, they remained inland to avoid being spotted by the Norse sailors whose ships were anchored in the Firth of Clyde. Standing beneath the vibrant forest canopy, Ronan admired the rainbow of colors; autumn had arrived. His nostrils were assailed by the scent of wet earth and rotting leaves. Soon, the winds would blow and churn the now peaceful waters of the Firth. The skies would open, unleashing a fury of seasonal storms that would wreak havoc upon the Norse fleet.

The moon rose high, and the forest creaked with the rhythmic sounds of nightfall. They would sleep for a few hours and then advance into Largs at first light. Ronan sat beside Aidan who chewed on some dried herring.

“We have done well, Aidan, arriving sooner than expected.”

“Aye, and my aching feet can testify to that.”

“Ye whine like an old woman,” Ronan grinned.

“I’ve never known an old woman who could match complaints with Aidan,” Dugald said.

Guthrie slapped Aidan on the back. “Aye, my ol’ granny would be mighty offended by that comparison. ”

“His feet are as soft as lambskin, I’d wager, just like his face,” Dugald added with a wink.

Aidan smiled good-naturedly, “I pray the good Lord looks upon me with mercy and guides a Norse blade across my cheek to give me a fearsome scar, forever marring this mug of mine. That is, before I take the Norse fiend’s head clear off his body.”

“He could take yer nose clear off, and ye would still look like a maid,” Guthrie laughed merrily.

“Do not tempt the Lord’s wrath, Aidan,” Ronan scolded. “Like the rest of us, ye are no stranger to sin. Instead, pray the Norse blades are blunt.” Ronan took a swig of ale and passed Aidan the jug.

“Rest now, lads. Tomorrow, we make for Largs.”

Ronan lay down, pulling his plaid around his shoulders. When they were on the move, his mind was on the journey ahead and the threat that awaited them. But at night, when his men slept and his eyes closed, he thought only of Shoney. He wondered if she kept her promise, or if she had already returned to her hut, once again donning the cloak of the Witch of Dervaig. He hoped she stayed and was happy.

It was overwhelming at times, the hurt that gripped his heart if ever he pictured her drowning solitude. Suddenly, his own life was a trifling; something he would gladly trade to ensure her well-being. That is, if his life was his own to trade, but even that mattered little now. He no longer doubted their future together. He would fight his father. And he would fight her for that matter, and he would win .

He looked into the trees and saw her there, staring down at him, her golden hair disheveled and swinging like gilded ropes in the breeze. Stormy eyes, heavy with passion stared into his as she chewed on her bottom lip, trying to resist him, trying not to love him, but it was a fight she always lost. She stretched her arms into the night air and reached for him. He heard his name float from her lips as she slowly drifted down with the heat of longing in her eyes. But then, one of his men snorted and shifted in his sleep, forcing Ronan to concede to reality. Shoney’s image disappeared, and once again, they seemed a world apart, surrounded by uncertainty.

At first light, Ronan awoke, ready to embark with his men. The air was heavy as they strode into Largs. The sky overhead was overcast. Despite the warnings of foul weather, the town was bustling with preparations for the upcoming battle. The thriving and growing community was bursting at the seams with the arrival of so many Highland warriors. Ronan led his men through the streets toward the church in the village center where he and Nathair had agreed to meet.

The Mull MacKinnons, awaiting his arrival in the courtyard, passed on the laird’s command for Ronan to meet him in the high stone tower above the rectory.

“Taking in the view?” Ronan shouted up to his father. Nathair grinned and motioned for Ronan to join.

Ronan, followed by both Aidan and Guthrie, ducked through a doorway into the priestly quarters. His eyes were still adjusting to the dimly lit and sparsely furnished room when he was approached by an ancient clergyman who did not speak but gestured for them to follow. He led them to the rear of the building and pulled back a dark, heavy curtain, which hid a narrow stairwell from view. Ronan thanked him as he mounted the stairs.

“How old do ye reckon he was?” Guthrie said.

“Not as old as ye think,” Aidan snorted. “That is what happens to a man when he is denied sunlight and a woman’s touch.”

“Again Aidan, ye know I am not the holiest of men, but for the love of God, do not tempt the Lord’s wrath on the eve of battle,” Ronan admonished. “Be silent and do not offend.”

Nathair greeted them at the top with a wide grin on his face. “We have arrived not a day too soon, men. Look to the West.” Ronan gazed out to sea and in the distance saw the gathering threat of storm clouds.

“Aye, it won’t be long,” Ronan said.

“Those clouds are as black as my Una’s eyes,” Guthrie said as he touched the lock of black hair Ronan noticed was tied to his belt.

“Aye,” Aidan agreed. “But not nearly as sweet.”

Guthrie snorted and grabbed a fistful of Aidan’s plaid. “Aidan MacKinnon, ye strutting cock, ye stay clear from my Una.”

Ronan pushed himself between the two and shoved Guthrie against the tower wall. “Save yer fury for the Norse, Guthrie. Una’s sweetness is known to all. Aidan meant nothing.” Guthrie muttered an apology but glared at Aidan as he stomped down the stairwell .

“They are like a pack of hounds hungry for the hunt,” Nathair said under his breath.

“Aye,” Ronan agreed, staring out the tower casement. The Firth of Clyde stretched out before them, teeming with long ships.

“Look, already the winds stir the waves,” Ronan said.

“Right now, every captain is running his men ragged trying to ready their ships for the storm,” Nathair grinned. “But nothing will save them from the hell about to be unleashed.”

As if summoned forth by the MacKinnon’s words, a crack of thunder shook the ground and a flash of lightning spread its fiery fingers across the sky. The black clouds twisted and spread, casting the firth in shadow as the winds thrashed the heavens and lashed out at the seas.

“The storm arrives earlier than predicted,” Ronan shouted over the wind.

“Aye, it will not be long now. Then we will have to take our position on the coast,” Nathair replied. Ronan glanced below and saw warriors from the lowlands who were part of the king’s retainer donning their mail and helmets and preparing their bows.

“The king has ordered archers in place on the slope above the shoreline,” Nathair said just as the rain began.

“Good,” Ronan replied. “The pelt of rain and steel shall tumble from the heavens upon their heads, and they will wish they never set sail for Scottish waters.”

He leaned out the window and closed his eyes, turning his face toward the blackening sky. Rain poured down, washing over him, and for a moment he imagined Mull and the soft harvest moon.

“For Mull,” he muttered as the last light of day was blotted out by the storm’s nightmarish expanse, and it was as though night.

Thunder clapped. Ronan shouted, “How many warriors have gathered, Father?”

“There is a cavalry of a hundred heavily armed men and twice as many archers,” Nathair answered. “And the infantry is greater than a thousand strong.”

“I counted over one hundred ships. King Haakon has more than twice as many men,” Ronan said.

“He will not have so many by the time he reaches the coast,” Nathair grinned.

“Aye, Father, but even with the help of the storm, we still face a formidable army.”

“I reckon so, lad, but I would not have made such a journey if I thought my blade would not shine red with Norse blood.”

Ronan reached behind his back, pulling his blade from its sheath. “Mackinnon,” he shouted down to his men. “Remember the Death of King Alpin.”

Once on the ground, his men sounded their battle cry again. And while they raced the short distance to the coast, Ronan heard the battle cries of other clans. Already the ground beneath his feet oozed with thick mud, and rain pelted his back. The sky above the tumultuous waters was black pitch and writhed with terrific life. Ronan watched as the waves emerged like cloaked demons from the very depths of the seas. Watery tentacles, sharp as blades, cut through the Norse fleet, tearing ships asunder.

The same waves rushed toward land, pounding the shoreline and eroding the sloping earth. Ronan stood, flanked by Scotland’s finest warriors who were primed for battle. They lined the coastline, their weapons at the ready. The Firth stretched out before him. He and his warriors silently beheld the magnificent power of the tempest, their bearing as unwavering as their conviction that Scotland was their sovereign. But many of the men around them were anything but silent. Their long, wet hair clung to their faces in wild disarray as they cheered with triumphant bloodlust. Swords were unsheathed and held high at the ready as the dead of the enemy could be seen tossed upon the waves. The sea hurled the Vikings toward the coast, and the bodies that still breathed life were cut where they lay by highland blades.

The Norse vessels were no match for the merciless force of the wind and the thrashing waves. The sea battered the ships, and in the face of the mounting carnage, Ronan knew the captains would soon be forced to head toward the coast and take their chances against the awaiting army. As the ships grew closer, Ronan could see the warriors standing at the ready. Except for the captains, the Vikings wore no armor over their brightly colored tunics, and most were armed only with shield and axe.

A whistling sound could be heard over the din of the storm, and he turned around to see the archers in formation further up the slope release another volley of arrows. The sky was thick with iron headed shafts. Many were swept away by the winds, but just as many found their targets. Ronan watched the slain Norse fighters fall into the churning sea.

Menacing fanged dragons swam into view, carved into the bows of the Viking ships. They drew closer, compelled forward by powerful winds, which drove their shallow drafts ashore. The beasts were a weapon of fear used against Scottish innocents only months before. The sight fueled Ronan’s hunger for justice as he imagined terrified children running from the monsters. The timber ships cracked and smashed together at the feet of the Highland warriors, but the Norsemen were far from defeated.

They lunged from their vessels, treading on the bodies of their brothers, with madness in their eyes and hatred in their hearts. Their blades were at the ready, and they struck with the strength of those who escaped certain death and now had nothing to lose. Every warrior that charged at Ronan held the gleam of revenge in their eyes. Their battle was no longer about individual riches and land for their king. They craved retribution against the storm that laid waste to their fleet and to the enemy that stood by and cheered their demise.

In the beginning, the seasonal squall was an ally to the Scotsmen, the frontline of their assault. But as the Norse fighters spilled out of their long ships and moved beyond the coast, both sides struggled to hold a firm stance against the wind while they moved over slippery stones and were pulled into thick torrents of mud. The enemy was fierce, but their motives lacked principle; whereas, the Highlanders fought for the sovereignty of their land and the protection of their families. Their virtue was an added advantage against the Viking axe and shield, and Ronan held fast to his conviction while he swung his blade with speed and precision, cutting down foe after foe.

Hours passed into what must have been nightfall and then morning, but the sky never released the sun or stars by which to distinguish one day from the next. Ronan’s mind had become as black as the sky that hammered an unrelenting onslaught of rain upon his back. He no longer heard the death cries of the Norse who crumpled at his feet, nor did he feel fatigue or hunger. He barely perceived the flood of mire and blood through which he trudged. He did not see the faces of friends or enemies. He only discerned movement and whether to kill or not to kill.

He climbed atop a high rock formation, slicing his sword through the bellies of men who gave chase. When he reached the top and stared out across the gruesome expanse, stretching out beneath his chosen precipice, his mind grew keen as if he had awoken from a dark dream. But what he saw could never be conceived even in the foulest nightmare.

The ground was strewn with the wasting bodies of the dead, many of whom were draped in the varied colors of the Scottish plaid. Wounded men from both sides dragged their bleeding bodies over the soulless carcasses and through the thick mud. Ronan turned his head toward the sky and felt the wash of rain pour down his face. All at once, Fatigue clouded his mind and weighed down his bones until he felt as though he might collapse.

But then something wondrous touched his face .

Fingers of warmth spread over his cheeks. He opened his eyes and gazed at a ray of sunshine, pushing its way through the gloom. Golden cascades of light mingled with dark clouds, summoning memories of Shoney’s sun-kissed waves and stormy eyes. It felt as if several lifetimes had passed since he last thought of her, and then he froze, remembering Shoney’s words:

Storms will rage, casting the land in darkness. Then the clouds will break, and the sun will stream down upon ye as ye stand on a great precipice.

“God’s blood,” he swore. Her vision was coming true.