To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Twenty Five

R onan was incapable of drawing breath. Dazed, he stared at the grisly chaos below, which suddenly seemed far away. The sun streamed over him while Shoney’s voice echoed in his ears:

The enemy’s ascension will come from all sides, their blades gleaming in the sunlight. Ye fight with valor, but ye will be overrun, and they will cut ye down.

The enemy clamored toward him with their swords raised at the ready and bloodlust in their eyes, but Ronan’s numb arms hung useless at his side. His gaze skimmed over the wasting bodies of the dead on the ground below. He wondered if they were not better off. Then his eyes met Guthrie’s unseeing gaze, his lifeless body steeped in the spoiled earth. A blade had laid open his gut, spilling his entrails in a bloody heap where a seagull feasted, sounding its triumphant caw into the air. Around his fallen friend were countless slain Norsemen. He had struck down many of the enemy before he met his end .

Guthrie’s cold stare ignited an eruption of fury that coursed through Ronan’s body, reviving his senseless limbs. His hand reached behind his back, unsheathing his blade. He raised his sword high and bent his thighs low, readying his stance for the first mighty swing of his blade. Neither a vision nor God himself controlled his fate. The enemy approached, but he would not wait for their arrival. He raised his head to the sky and bellowed to the heavens. Rushing his attackers, he wielded his blade without mercy. He thrust down, cutting the first who crossed his path from neck to navel. Then he whirled around, slicing the head off the next. Blood splattered his face. The iron taste gathered in his mouth, but it was not his. His destiny was his own. He was not going to die on those rocks. He growled as the men crumpled at his feet. At the foot of the rocks, the remaining Norse fighters hesitated. He could taste their fear.

“Raise up yer swords and fight me,” he yelled. He bared his teeth, urging them to meet his blade, but they fled. “Cowards,” Ronan called after them.

He started to descend, bloodlust urging him to give chase, but he froze, his gaze drawn to a distant figure. A burst of sunlight streamed through the clouds and fell on the shoulders of a lone Scotsman, battling Norse warriors atop another tall cluster of rocks.

“Nay,” Ronan screamed.

His father stood perched on the jagged precipice. His sword reflected a gleam of blinding light as he swung at the encroaching enemy. The MacKinnon’s back was to him. He fought valiantly, his broad shoulders, so like Ronan’s, deftly swinging his blade. His brown hair shown like amber beneath the sun’s rays, and again Shoney’s words raced through his mind:

Then the clouds will break, and the sun will stream down upon yer back and ignite yer hair like amber flames as ye stand on a great precipice.

She never saw his face.

Shoney had not prophesied his own death, but rather the death of his father. Without hesitation, he leapt from the rocks, his fall cushioned by the bodies of the slain. Aidan was just ahead. Ronan called to him. “Aidan,” he shouted, pointing to Nathair. “The MacKinnon.”

Aidan did not falter. He pushed through throngs of warriors, slaying the Norse along the way. Aidan would reach his father first, and Ronan could only hope it would be soon enough. His heart hammered in his chest. He tore across the ruined land. The MacKinnon was still standing. His blade struck with swift speed, cutting down the enemy with every swing, but they did not relent. Norse fighters came at him from all sides. Still, Nathair battled on. Ronan sprinted forward, keeping his father always in his sights. He had to reach him in time. He was almost there. Nathair turned. His drawn lips and wilted shoulders bespoke of crippling exhaustion. Nathair’s strength was sapped; the fight was all but over. His looked up and met Ronan’s gaze.

“Father,” Ronan cried. He was almost there.

His father growled, raising his sword, his eyes never leaving Ronan’s. But then his mouth contorted as the tip of a blade pierced through his stomach from behind .

“Nay,” Ronan screamed.

Nathair fell as another sword cut into his flesh. Ronan reached the rocks and released a thunderous roar. A Viking was ascending just ahead of him. With his dirk, Ronan carved into the enemy’s calf. Then he dragged the blade down, snapping bone and tearing flesh. The Norse fighter rolled off the rocks screaming to the ground. Ronan bounded to the top where he found Aidan and Dugald defending their fallen laird and fighting with a fury to match his own. He knelt at his father’s side. He was still breathing, but with a heavy heart Ronan judged his wounds to be fatal. He eased his hand beneath Nathair’s back, cradling his head onto his lap.

“Father,” he said.

Nathair’s lids fluttered at the sound and slowly lifted. “My son,” he gasped.

“Aye, Father, I am here.”

“Ronan,” Nathair croaked. “I must tell—” But the MacKinnon’s words drifted off as he lay wheezing and fighting to suck air into his failing body.

“Father, please, do not try to speak. Ye must rest.”

“Nay,” Nathair cried. “Ye must listen. Ronan, I lied to ye.” He stopped talking and struggled once again for breath.

“Father, it does not matter now.”

“Listen to me, lad,” Nathair whispered. Ronan lowered his head so that his ear was to his father’s lips. Each word came slower and softer than the last.

“My body is cold with death, but my heart is warm with thoughts of yer mother. Hers is the only face I’ve seen since this bloody mess started. I was surrounded and forced onto these rocks, and I knew then that I would die. I searched my soul and found but one regret. I lied to ye and the lass, but I would make this right before I’m gone.”

“Father, please, ‘tis done now,” Ronan whispered but Nathair fought to continue.

“Tell her that her father died in my arms just as I will die in yers, but he did not curse her.” Tears flooded Nathair’s eyes. “Alec MacKinnon begged me to watch over his woman and his child. He made me promise to bring them to the village and make them part of the clan.”

Panic seemed to grip Nathair as his hand seized hold of Ronan’s plaid. Straining to lift his head, he stared into Ronan’s eyes. “Listen to me. I thought she was evil. I thought she would bring about our ruin.” He collapsed, gasping for breath. His chest heaved. “I was wrong. I see now that I was wrong,” he whispered. “She was a woman alone and with a child. I should have helped them.”

“I will tell her, father.”

Tension eased from Nathair’s shoulders. “Tell her I said thank ye. Thank ye for saving my Anwen.”

“I will, father.”

Nathair closed his eyes. “Ronan,” he whispered.

“Aye, Father.”

Nathair smiled. “I see yer mother’s face. She is smiling at me...Anwen...my love.” His lips trembled, his smile fading, and then he was gone.

Ronan rested Nathair’s head on the ground. He swallowed the tears that rose in his throat. There was no time to grieve. He took up the MacKinnon’s sword and laid it on his father’s lifeless chest before joining his clansmen in their endless battle against the Vikings. He stood back to back with Aidan and Dugald, forming a defensive circle around Nathair’s body. With their backs protected by each other, they were impenetrable, stronger than any armor.

The battle raged on. Ronan saw the clouds dissipate and the wind die down. The storm that had raged and fought on behalf of the Highland warriors had passed. The din of crashing waves and rumbling thunder was gone, replaced by a new sound. The blare of the Norse horn calling the Vikings back to sea.

“They are retreating,” Aidan exclaimed.

The remnants of the Norse army raced toward the battered long ships. Those that were still seaworthy were pushed from the beach and into the surf. As the square sails unraveled and the oars dipped into the waves, Ronan remembered the once mighty fleet that had filled the Firth of Clyde just the day before. King Haakon was going to return to his homeland with a shadow of the glory with which he had left.

And so were they.

Ronan’s heart filled with sorrow while his eyes took in their own depleted numbers. Some of the warriors sounded their battle cries in triumph while others collapsed, overwhelmed with fatigue and heartache for their fallen brothers. Despite the Norse retreat, Ronan knew that neither side could be hailed the victor. From his vantage point on the rocks, he could see the dead choking the coastal waters and covering what seemed like every space of earth. Both sides had suffered agonizing loss.

“Now what do we do, Ronan,” Dugald asked, his eyes glazed and red with exhaustion.

“We push on,” Ronan said. He encircled his mouth with both hands and called out to his clan, “Remember the Death of King Alpin.”

Over and over, he shouted while his surviving kin gathered around him. Few assembled, less than half the number that had set out from Mull. He continued to holler with the hope that someone had not heard his call. Finally, he reached behind his back and withdrew his sword. Brandishing it high in the air, he sounded the cry one last time to honor the dead. One by one, the men raised their swords and cried out, “Remember the Death of King Alpin.”

Ronan stared down at his father as he listened, feeling the sorrow that imbued every call. When there was silence Ronan spoke. “Our grief must wait, for there is much to be done. Go now. Search for the wounded and bury the dead.”

“What about the MacKinnon?” Aidan whispered, staring down at his fallen laird.

“Ye will stay with him, Aidan, while I decide what should be done. The rest of ye spread out and pray for our fallen brothers.”

RONAN CARRIED BODIES draped in sodden plaid folds to the fresh earth beyond the shadow of the fray to await burial. A priest moved through the lines of the dead, blessing their bodies and praying for their souls. Beyond the dead were the soldiers with wounds too deep to mend who were receiving their last rites. Ronan stopped to rest, gazing further inland toward Largs where the wounded were being tended to by the village healers.

Two woeful days had passed since the Norse retreat. Ronan’s thoughts turned to his clansmen’s families who at that moment did not know that their cherished sons, brothers, and fathers were waiting to be placed deep in the ground forty leagues away from their home. They had managed to save some of the Mull MacKinnons. A few lucky souls would live to see their beloved isle again.

“Look, ‘tis the banner of the king,” a maid called out.

Ronan looked south toward Kelburn Castle and saw a dozen riders heading their way. Each soldier carried the banner of Alexander III, all but one. As they grew closer, Ronan had his first glimpse of the young king. Wide dark eyes and brown curls made his youthful face seem even younger, but his long straight nose hinted at the man he would grow into.

“Chieftains, to me,” the king called. Men split away from their clans as they moved to kneel before the king.

“Ronan that means ye,” Aidan said. “Go on.”

Ronan looked to where is father lay. Nathair had been blessed by the priest and shrouded with a length of clean white linen.

“Nay, Aidan. The king called upon the Mull MacKinnon, and it was my father who answered his call. ‘Tis my father who will answer his call now.” Ronan directed his men to encircle the MacKinnon. They lifted his body upon their shoulders and carried their laird to the king.

“What man is this?” Alexander asked.

“He is Nathair, Laird of the Mull MacKinnon,” Ronan said.

“And ye’re his son,” Alexander said knowingly. “Yer name?”

“I am Ronan.”

“Ronan, ye honor yer father here today. I mourn his passing as I mourn the passing of all those who have fallen for the sake of Scottish sovereignty. Ronan MacKinnon, take yer father’s sword to Iona and let it be buried amid the great Kings of Scotland.”

Ronan bowed his head, overwhelmed by the honor Alexander bestowed upon his father and his clan. His eyes burned with tears as he raised his head and met the young king’s gaze. “We are truly grateful, yer Majesty.”

King Alexander stepped forward and placed his hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “It is I who am truly grateful, Ronan.” Stepping back, he motioned to the warriors surrounding him.

“Hear me, chieftains of Scotland. Ye’ve fought bravely and have rid our shores of the Norse invaders. Their army is broken. Their ships do not sail back to Norway—they crawl.”

The king cast his gaze to the ground and did not speak. Ronan could tell that he too was shaken over the heavy losses, but when Alexander III raised his head, he was once again the composed leader .

“Many of our warriors have died—yer sons and brothers, fathers and kinsmen. Go home now to yer clans and soothe yer women with the knowledge that the fallen have not died in vain, but that Scotland is strong, and the Western Isles are now safe.”

Ronan’s mind drifted to Mull with its rolling moors and towering cliffs. He longed for home and for Shoney. He could not wait to feel her, to smell her. Only she could remove the dark sight of death from his mind. He pictured her then, standing near the port at Gribun, waving to him as their ship neared. But then doubt enclosed his heart in its menacing grip, and her image vanished from his mind.

What if he returned, and she was gone?

Ronan grunted aloud. Given the underhanded way he obtained her promise to stay, he could not think her dishonorable if she had fled. And what if she had stayed? The war against the Norse might be over, but his struggles with Shoney raged on. When he left, nothing had been resolved. He still had yet to convince her to leave behind her past for the sake of their love, and maybe he never would. Perhaps she would leave him once and for all to take up the legacy of her lineage and become forever the Witch of Dervaig.