To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull series) (27 page)

“But what, Shoney?” Anwen implored.

“I am a fraud.”

“But that is not true. Your affection is genuine, and your help very real. Deception is often necessary in life. Do not fool yourself into thinking truth is always the noblest pathway; sometimes it destroys more than it creates. Think of all the good you have done, all that you have made that would be undone.” Anwen smiled slyly. “Think of the baby growing inside you.”

Shoney inhaled sharply, once again surprised by Anwen’s awareness.

“I have watched you closer than you think. My son loves you. He made that quite clear to everyone before he left.” Her penetrating eyes bore into Shoney’s as she searched for the truth.

“Your silence confirms my suspicion”, she said.

 “Aye, Ronan’s child does grow inside me.”

Anwen smiled and pulled her into a warm embrace.

“No, Please don’t”, Shoney pushed her away. “I have not decided where my future lies. Becoming Bridget is to surrender.”

Shoney stood up and walked to the doorway and pointed to the sacred stones. “All of the women who have come before me have worshiped at those stones. At some point, each woman would have been forced to decide—stay and be true to themselves, refusing your law and your religion, or leave, seeking out a new life. My mother refused to surrender. Now I am faced with that choice. If I leave, then I lay waste to all that my mother endured.”

“But where does it end, Shoney? Is your child to be raised in isolation, one day being left alone, faced with this impossible choice?”

Shoney’s mind was reeling. Anwen was right. Now that she was with child, it was not only her future she must consider. Her daughter, like Shoney, would find herself alone one day, faced with the same desolate isolation, assuming she had a daughter. What if she birthed a son? What kind of life would he know?

 “Shoney, regardless of where you live and by what name you take”, Anwen began, “my delight is unwavering. You carry my grandchild and nothing can change that. But I have one question.”

“If I have an answer, it will be yours”, Shoney replied.

“Have you made any promises to Ronan?”

She blushed crimson with embarrassment and anger when she remembered their last night together. “Only to remain in the village until his return”, she said.

“Then on his behalf, I ask you honor this promise and return with me now.”

But what if he doesn’t return, her heart screamed.

She was dizzy and about to be sick again.

“Shoney, rest for a minute. ‘Tis the baby. I suffered terrible sickness too.” Shoney did as Anwen suggested, and soon the waves of nausea passed, and she was ready to leave.

“Before we go, Anwen, I must speak.” Shoney took a deep breath. “I love him. I do. This I will not deny, but despite what you may believe deception can twist even that which is most pure. Our life together is based on a pretense. If ever the truth were revealed, the consequences might be unthinkable.”

“No more unthinkable than if you denied Ronan your love or your child the love of his father, but let us not argue.” She took Shoney by the hand. “These things have a way of working themselves out, you’ll see.” Shoney doubted that very much, but honored Anwen’s wishes not to argue.

They left the front door together arm in arm. Despite the tangle of questions threatening to trip her every move, she felt unburdened. She hoped knowing that someone else in Gribun was aware of her true identity would strengthened her sense of self, reinforcing the boundaries between myth and reality—Bridget and Shoney.

 She stopped to once more honor her mother at the Dervaig Stones.

“If you permit me, Shoney, I would speak.”

“Of course,” she replied.

“Your mother was no different than any other mother.”

“What do you mean”, Shoney asked.

“More than anything”, Anwen said as they walked side by side, “your mother would want you to live.”

Chapter 25

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

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

The enemy was climbing 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 and the taste of it gathered in his mouth, but it was not his. His destiny was his own, and he was not going to die on those rocks. He growled as the men crumbled at his feet. At the foot of the rocks, the remaining Norse fighters hesitated. He could taste their fear.

“Raise up your 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 was drawn to a distance 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.

“No”, 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 your back and ignite your hair like amber flames as you 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 as he ran toward his father.

“Aidan”, he shouted, pointing to Nathair. “The MacKinnon.”

Aidan did not falter as 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 as 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.

“No”, 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 as 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 lied wheezing and fighting to suck air into his failing body.

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

“Nay”, Nathair cried, “you must listen. Ronan, I lied to you.” He stopped as he struggled once again for breath.

“Father, it does not matter now.”

“Listen to me, boy”, 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 your 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 you 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 yours, but he did not curse her. 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,” Nathair said, trembling.

Panic seemed to grip Nathair as his hand seized hold of Ronan’s plaid, straining to lift his head as 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 as his chest heaved from the strain.

“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.”

“Tell her—thank you. Thank you for saving my Anwen.”

“I will, father.”

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

“Aye, Father.”

“I see your mother’s face. She is smiling…Anwen…my love.” His lips curved into a smile, 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.

As the battle raged on, Ronan saw the clouds dissipate and the wind die down. The storm that 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 called 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 sea worthy 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 left.

And so were they.

Ronan’s heart filled with sorrow as he stood witness to 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, Dugald,” he 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 as his surviving kin gathered around him. So few assembled, less than half the number that 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 as he stared down at his fallen laird.

“You will stay with him, Aidan, while I decide what should be done. The rest of you 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 receiving their last rites whose wounds ran too deep to mend. 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.