Angel of Skye (2 page)

Fiona tried to understand her mother’s words. What did she mean? The words swirled through her head. Papa was not coming. Innocent. Of what? Why did her mother no longer need her cross? Who was this evil man?

Fiona began to cry, hiccupping and sobbing as her mother tucked the leather purse inside her clothes. Margaret then wrapped the heavy cloak over Fiona’s shoulders and tied the leather thongs at her neck.

“Listen to me carefully, Fiona,” Margaret continued. They were both weeping now, and she wiped her daughter’s tears from her flushed face. She cupped the innocent young child’s face with her shaking hands and looked intensely into the worried eyes. “I need you to be very brave. You have to go away...to a place where you will be safe. And you have to stay away until your papa comes to get you.”

“But why isn’t he here?” Fiona cried. “Where is Papa now?”

“I wish I knew, Fiona. But the evil men are already here. These men will hurt us, my love. It is too late. You must go. They...But, listen to me, this is most important.” Margaret knelt beside her child and held her tightly with one arm as she pointed to the wall where she had hidden the packet. “When your papa brings you back here, show him what is behind that stone. He will punish the evil ones who have come here tonight! I promise you, he will!”

Margaret hugged Fiona fiercely, and the little girl clung to her mother.

They both jumped at the sound of the gentle knock at the small rear door.

Holding her sobbing child against her, Margaret called for her knight to enter.

Sir Allan entered the room, his face dark with concern.

“M’lady...should you not...should I not be down with Lord Andrew...” he began courteously.

“NO!” Margaret interrupted. “You must take Fiona far away from him...away from here. He...”

With a resounding bang, the heavy oak door of the room burst open, and a half dozen soldiers rushed in, drawn swords in their hands. Instinctively, Allan pulled his own sword from its scabbard, stepping in front of his mistress.

Margaret gripped Fiona’s hand and started backing toward the rear chamber door. As her heart slammed in her chest, she knew that it was not her own life that she feared for, but the life of her own precious child.

Holy Mother, Fiona is an innocent, she found herself praying. Please help her. Please save her.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” the knight bellowed.

Instead of answering, four soldiers charged at him.

Gallantly, Allan parried the first blows of the onslaught, managing to shove one of the assailants clear across the room. Slashing at the soldiers, Allan managed to plunge his brand into one of the men where the shoulder meets the neck, but before he could pull his sword out of the dying man, two of the other soldiers found their chance; their swords pierced his chest and his back, the blades crossing somewhere between his ribs.

The valiant knight was dead before he hit the floor.

The assailants then turned on Fiona and Margaret, who watched in horror as the killers approached them.

Quickly recovering, Margaret drew Fiona behind her as she pulled a small dagger from her belt. Slowly, they continued backing toward the door.

“Stay behind me,” Margaret commanded in a voice that shook with emotion. “These animals will not dare to harm—”

Suddenly, Fiona felt herself being lifted high into the air. Twisting her body, she tried desperately to dive toward her mother. But a huge man, bigger than Sir Allan, held her with a viselike grip that sent shockwaves of pain shooting down her arms. Turning her head, she glimpsed the ugly, scarred face and the wild, unkempt beard of the grinning madman who held her.

From the corner of her eye, she saw that another man had taken hold of her mother’s arms and wrenched the knife from her hand.

Reacting to her mother’s cries, Fiona felt her body stiffen with anger. Suddenly something snapped within her, and all her fear vanished. She was a whirlwind of motion, arms and legs flying in all directions at once. Wildly, Fiona kicked hard at the man’s stomach, sinking her teeth into his massive paw at the same time. Her attacker snapped his hand away, and Fiona swung loose for a moment. Twisting her arm, she kicked again hard at his midsection, this time causing the man to throw her away from him.

“The devil…”

Fiona landed on her hands and knees, but quickly scampered to her feet, eyeing the ugly man defiantly.

“Are you going to let this wee thing best you, m’lord?” one of the soldiers sneered.

“She is a demon,” the Goliath roared, taking a step toward the girl.

Fiona looked around her wildly. She could see that both doors were blocked. There was no way out. Running to the window, she picked up the stool and rushed toward the men who were holding her struggling mother. Throwing the stool at one, she bit down on the hand of the other before being grabbed by the hair from behind.

The man yanked her head back roughly and jerked her around to face him. His fist hung in the air, his eyes clouded with fury.

“I’m going to teach you how we deal with demon bairns where I come from.”

Fiona’s eyes shot darts of defiance into the Highlander’s face.

“If you hurt me,” she hissed. “My papa will kill you.”

A look of shock flickered into the man’s face as his fist opened. Then his black eyes narrowed into a hardness that froze Fiona’s blood.

“Where you are going, your almighty papa will never find you,” he growled menacingly.

Dragging her toward the rear door, past Margaret, who had been gagged, the leader flung the little girl at one of his men.

“Take her down,” he spat. “Now!”

“Should we wait for you in the courtyard, Torquil?” the man clutching Fiona asked. Fiona tried to jerk her hand free, but her captor twisted her arm behind her back, taking hold of her hair with vicious force.

“No, I will catch up,” the man responded gruffly. He turned with a sneer toward Margaret. “We have a very sad occurrence that needs to take place here.”

A look of horror came into Margaret’s eyes, and she cast a final look at her daughter as they dragged the screaming child from the room.

Lord Gray, Margaret Drummond’s uncle, was the first to discover his niece’s body. The shocking news traveled like a thunderbolt through the countryside.

From what could be gathered, earlier in the evening a group of strangers had kidnapped Margaret’s daughter, Fiona. On the eve of such momentous expectations, after waiting two long years for the child’s father’s return to them, the shock of this loss had proved too much for Margaret—she had lost all sense. In despair, she had taken her own life, poisoning herself in her daughter’s room. They had found the note she left, professing that life was not worth living without her child.

People searched high and low throughout the Scottish countryside. But the fruitless effort was curtailed a fortnight later when the worst gale in fifty years tore across Scotland, spreading havoc and destruction from the Outer Hebrides and the Isle of Skye to the Firth of Forth and Edinburgh itself.

Neither the child nor her kidnappers were ever found, and those who loved her wept, thinking her dead.

The nut’s shell, though it be hard and tough,

Holds the kernel, sweet and delectable.

—Robert Henryson
“The Fables”

Dunvegan Castle, the Isle of Skye, June 1516

He could hardly breathe.

The bodies of those around him were pressing so close that he felt he could not even lift his arms. And there were faces—faces that looked so familiar but that he could not put names to. Then, just beyond them, he could see King James looking at him with pleading eyes.

“What is it, m’lord?” he heard himself ask. His voice came from far away, as if from somewhere inside his head. He wondered if the words had even been uttered.

He tried to move toward the king, but the bodies were now pressing against him even more tightly than before. Then, like the surge of an ocean current, they pushed and carried him with excruciating slowness away from his king.

Alec continued to look at the king, following his gaze when James turned his face toward the murky shadows beyond.

Looking past him, Alec could see a door was opening. A cloud of mist streamed through the opening, swirling as it poured through the door. Suddenly he was blinded by the shimmering light of a thousand suns. Then that brilliance was eclipsed by another sight—the vision of an angel stepping through the door. Her red hair flowed about her in endless waves and framed a face of pure perfection. From where he stood, Alec could see her eyes, crystalline, radiating a spectrum of colors. Those eyes found his and drew him toward her with an unspoken promise of fulfillment. Light and warmth swept over him; his eyes were riveted on the dazzling creation.

Alec saw the king move toward the angel, beckoning to him with one hand and, with the other, reaching for the light.

But he couldn’t move. Alec tried desperately to fight the current carrying him away, but to no avail. He was carried farther and farther away from the light and the vision. More and more he felt his breath being crushed from his body. Struggling for air, Alec could see the light receding. He could see his angel disappearing.

He was suffocating. He had to somehow get back to his king—to the light.

He could hardly breathe.

Gasping for air, Alec Macpherson sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat running down his chest and back.

It was the same recurring dream.

Throwing the covers aside, Alec vaulted from the bed. He looked around at the still darkened room. So cold. So large and cold and empty, he thought. The cool summer breeze flowed over his naked skin from the open slit of the window. The silence around him seemed a tangible thing, pressing on him like a millstone, crushing him.

Trying hard to rid himself of the dream, Alec walked to the window, stretching and breathing in deeply the misty salt air. Ever so slowly the sense of oppression that had gripped him began to ease. His eyes were drawn to the twin peaks of Healaval across the fog-shrouded waters of Loch Dunvegan. It didn’t seem to matter how long he remained here at Dunvegan; it simply was not home. He missed the noise, the life that existed at Benmore Castle. But then again, he thought, even being home had not been enough...had not helped.

Looking out into the morning fog, he saw in his mind’s eye the lingering images of the dream. This was the first time that he’d seen the face of the angel. Always before, she’d been nothing more than a light. But this time Alec had seen her. She was flesh and blood. But who was she?

King James IV had been dead for three years now, and Alec had fought beside him on that bloody day at Flodden Field, the day when the king had ignored all warnings and had challenged the English. The king had been cut down by an English arrow and a swarm of blood-crazed foot soldiers, because Torquil MacLeod and others had held back their troops when they were most needed to save their country. That had been a bitter day for Scotland and for Alec.

How strange, Alec thought, that after so long his dreams would now be invaded by his king’s ghost...and by the strange vision of the angel. Four months ago, Alec Macpherson had arrived at Dunvegan Castle. And that was when the dreams had started. He had come here, certain that doing the Crown’s work in this faraway corner of Scotland was what he needed. His life and his mind were all cluttered with events and people he just could not shake off. A false promise, a broken engagement, a faithless woman. Alec rubbed his face hard with his hands as if that act could somehow wipe away all thoughts, all traces of Kathryn.

Forcing his thoughts back to his dream, he wondered what the king could be trying to tell him. Why did he wait three years? Why did he come to him here?

As the new laird of Skye and the islands of the Outer Hebrides, Alec had hardly rested in his efforts to bring order to this wild and mysterious land that Torquil MacLeod had so barbarously ruled.

Justice had finally caught up with the murderous MacLeod, but his execution for treason had left a great void in the power structure of the northwestern Highlands. Alec Macpherson, future chief of his own Highland clan as well as a fearless warrior and well known leader, had been given the task of correcting the ills of thirty years of brutal repression and securing the region for the new Stuart king.

As he dressed for his morning ride, Alec thought over all that he had set out to do four months ago. It seemed to him he had been working night and day, and it was still a bit daunting to consider all that remained to be accomplished. He had arrived here with his own men, expecting resistance, even bloodshed. After all, he had not been chosen by these people to be their leader. He’d been made laird by the nobles of the Regency Council and had been given the Isle of Skye to rule as his own.

So Alec had been surprised by the reception of the men who had greeted him. The handful of soldiers still remaining at Dunvegan Castle were under the command of Neil MacLeod, a warrior crippled at Flodden, one of the few of this clan who it seemed had fought loyally for his king. He and his men had peacefully submitted to Alec’s will and had sworn to aid him in his royal commission. And indeed, Neil and his men had been true to their word.

It was not long before Alec discovered that the people of Skye—the clans MacDonald and MacLeod—deserved better than they had been getting for so many years under Torquil.

They were quite different from what he had expected. Yes, there were still small roving bands of rebel outlaws left in the outlying areas of the island. But aside from them, the crofters and the fishermen of Skye were, for the most part, good people. They were solid, common folk with strong beliefs in the old ways—people who, despite their treacherous leader, had somehow maintained a heritage of hospitality and decency and, most importantly, dignity.

And Alec could see that these people were beginning to trust him, to accept his commands in the spirit that they were given—to better the lot of all who depended on him.