Caledonia Destiny Read online

  When the men arrived this time, the pinch betwixt her shoulders sharpened. She heard them asking about the sole survivor of the shipwreck four years back. People were willing to talk, their tongues wagging about the blessèd boy, sweet Iain, giving no thought to the strangeness of the outsiders’ questions. With haste she packed a bundle of necessities and, Iain in tow, wove behind the dwellings, peering around corners for sign of the foul warloghes. Young Iain said naught, staying close as if he sensed they were the prey in a heinous hunt.

  They slipped down the road forthwith, none taking notice as they made their escape, and she ushered her boy into the wildwood, away from the village. When the road was no longer within sight, she urged him to run. She could feel them coming, though she espied them not. She and Iain ran until their legs burned, and then they ran more. She knew not how Iain with his small stature kept pace, but he complained not.

  Coming to a small glen, they halted and leaned against a large, agèd tree. She dared not drop her bundle, for she carried what they would need in the coming days, if only she knew whereabouts to go. Iain caught his breath, looking at her with eyes too old for his tender age. He mayn’t reach his majority for several twelvemonths yet, and Ebba would evermore see him as the small boy pulled from the depths of the ocean.

  The sudden appearance of the old woman gave them both a fright. Ebba clutched Iain to her, afeared he would be taken, but the crone made shushing noises, pointing a gnarled finger to the opposite edge of the glen from whence the five men stepped from the forest’s shade. Her cold, hard fingers clutched Ebba’s arm, keeping her from fleeing. Ebba dared not whisper, rooted in place by fear, like a fat doe staring at the hunter, waiting for the tip of an arrow to pierce her breast.

  In her fright, Ebba noticed not until it was too late that the shadows about them had lengthened. The gloom swallowed Iain and her in a cool embrace. She espied not the old woman, but her hand upon Ebba’s arm turned dry and hot, reminding her they were not alone in the pressing darkness.

  Amazingly, the warloghes walked by them as if they espied naught but trees, so close Ebba smelled the stench of their bodies and beheld the sweat upon their brow. If she so desired, she could have reached out and plucked at their cloaks. Her brave Iain buried his face in her stomach, stifling any noise lest he give them away.

  They waited.

  Long after she lost sight or sound of the warloghes moving through the forest, she and Iain remained hidden in the shadow of the tree. When she thought they were far away, she moved to step into the light, but Iain drew her sight, pointing a finger in time for her to see one, then two of the warloghes step from the low brush close by.

  After that, they remained there until the sun set and the moon rose fat and heavy in the night sky. So long it was that Ebba had forgotten the grasp the crone had upon her arm until she pulled them from the shadows. Instead of releasing Ebba, she led them along a faint path in the wildwood. Now and again they halted and hid amongst the trees. She saw and heard naught, but refused to gainsay the woman who had saved her and her Iain.

  All nighttide they walked, not daring to stop for long. When they finally emerged from the forest they were miles from the village. A longboat sat offshore near a campfire that lit the rocky beach. When Ebba would have halted and hidden again, the crone hailed the camp, dragging Iain and Ebba behind her, albeit warily now.

  Her poor Iain half dozed upon his feet, and she held him close, attempting to stave off her own weariness whilst the old woman haggled for passage. Ebba trusted the crone, though some might say only a fool would put faith in one such as she. But Ebba’s husband and babes were long since lost to the illness that had swept through the village, cruelly leaving her behind. Alone and bereft, she had toiled, biding her time, waiting for the reaper to claim her as well. But when the boy had come into Ebba’s life she had given up the wait, for now she had something, someone to live for and to protect. Natheless, in the time since the red-haired maiden had placed Iain in her arms, Ebba had trusted no one.

  Why would she place her faith in the crone who had spoken no more than three words to them? When Ebba had been younger than Iain was now, this very same woman had come to the aid of Ebba’s mother’s mother. Ebba remembered her clearly. Naught about the crone had changed, from the colour and cut of her dress to the tattered patches of her cloak. Ebba knew not if the old woman was a goddess guised as the agèd or one of the Christian angels the abbey monks bespoke of. All Ebba knew was that she aided them again now.

  “Passage be paid.” The crone’s face was deeply lined by time, yet her eyes were clear, the same stormy blue as Iain’s. Ebba had not noted the similarity afore. “They shall take you to an isle far to the north. Seek out a priest called Alric and leave the boy at the temple. Then you shall travel west upon a Norseman route.” A bulging satchel was pressed into Ebba’s hand afore the crone turned to leave.

  Of a sudden Ebba was afeard. Her home, the life she led, would be forever gone once she stepped upon the longboat. “Mother?” Her throat closed over the word, revealing the tumult fluttering in her breast.

  The crone did not glance back, but her steps slowed. “Be wary, Ebba. Continue to trust your eyes, for they shall evermore show you what be true.”

  Ebba watched as the crone strode to the edge of the wildwood from whence she burst into a flock of white owls as soon as she touched the trunk of the first tree. Startled, Ebba glanced at the men by the fire, for surely they had seen what had happened, but nay, they espied naught but what they wished to see, busy finding places nigh to the fire to bed down for the night, too occupied with their tasks to notice the departure of the old woman.

  Rousing Iain from his light drowse, Ebba claimed a place for them. He lay betwixt her and the fire, and for the first time that day she gave in to the lethargy swamping her. They would need their wits unhampered by exhaustion. Not having been aboard a boat afore, the journey ahead would be an adventure for herself as well as Iain.

  True enough, the trip north was arduous and took longer than she had thought it would. Ebba spoke to Iain of the warloghes and decided to call him Roi, since being known as Iain was no longer safe for him. The length of the trip helped him become accustomed to his new name afore they reached the isles.

  Two days of asking after the priest brought naught. All she spoke to turned stony-faced and closed-lipped. In the end, they found the priest, but he rebuffed her when she let slip another had sent them. He escaped into the crowds afore she could explain further.

  That night, Iain—Roi—woke her, overflowing with excitement. “Ebba, I know the way. She told me in my dream. Hurry, come. She said the moon must be straight up when I— we get there.”

  Again, Ebba questioned naught, merely gathered their meagre belongings and followed her excited boy as they snuck through the village, leaving it behind. She knew not how long they travelled to reach the circle of old stones, white and jagged, almost like bony fingers pointing at the sky. The moon hung full and fat above their heads, causing the stones to gleam with an otherworldly light.

  She glanced down at her Roi. He would soonest be nine by her best guess, being with her going upon five twelvemonths now. She had known when they climbed into the longboat that their days together were numbered and, seeing his excited face, his sun-coloured hair painted white by the moonlight, Ebba knew. They had found the place the crone had spoken of, and she must leave anon. But the thought of parting from him crushed her already fractured heart.

  Ebba watched as Roi approached the circle, the awe plain in the brightness in his eyes and the shape of his mouth. He espied not the priests who observed from the shadows, unhidden from her sight. When Roi stepped into the circle, he went stiff, and his whole body trembled. She took several steps towards him, afeard for the first time of what his fortune held. Ebba had believed that running from the death the warloghes intended, taking Roi away, would make him safe. He was a boy upon the cusp of becoming a man, and he deserved to have a future. She refused to
lose another child, to have him stolen from life when there be so much more for him to know. Mayhap the crone had been wrong and this was not the place for him.

  All of a sudden, the red-haired maiden who had plucked Roi from the sea and set him in Ebba’s arms appeared. Why had the maiden bestowed the child unto Ebba if she planned upon taking him away? The maiden caught Roi as he swooned and sagged, laying the boy gently upon the ground as the priests swarmed them.

  “You cared well for him, more than I had hoped. I am in your debt.”

  Ebba blinked back angry tears. “The dark warloghes, the ship be their doing?”

  The red-haired maiden answered not her question but held out a hand. Ebba knew what she wanted. The satchel the crone had bestowed unto her held a man’s robes of the finest crimson she had ever seen. The knowing told her they would be Roi’s one day, and she could only imagine what grand future he would have. Over the course of their journey, Ebba had added to the satchel lest he have nothing to remember her by.

  Jaw clenched until her teeth ached, she handed over Roi’s bag, but afore she released the soft leather unto the maiden’s grip, Ebba glared into the goddess’s eyes—eyes the same colour as Roi’s. Many terse warnings were perched upon the edge of her tongue though she uttered none. The thought of taking Roi and fleeing came to her and left just as quickly. The priests hovered over Roi, whispers of “touched” and “seer” bandied betwixt them. And Ebba knew. She would not be allowed to bid him farewell. Others had claimed him now, carrying him away and stealing from her the chance to call him son one last time. Her chest ached with the cruel knowing.

  The maiden smiled gently as Ebba glared. “I hear your warning. I swear he shall be safe, Ebba.”

  She heard the note in the maiden’s voice, the one that said “for now” even if she spoke not of it. If this meddling goddess could protect him not, then Ebba would find a way to do so in her stead. Releasing the satchel unto her, Ebba watched the last of the priests disappear into the fog, bearing Roi away. If she were to be what Roi would need, she too must become more than who she was, who she had been.

  Later, the first touch of the morn’s sun found her standing upon the docks haggling for passage upon a longboat. The crone had said to continue west, so Ebba followed the old woman’s bidding regardless that her heart stayed with her boy. She would discover what fate lay at the end of the journey.

  And then she would find a way to use it to save Roi.

  III

  Ewen mhic Friscalach

  THE RED HAZE OF berserker rage crowded the edges of Toisech Ewen mhic Friscalach’s vision, and by dint of will alone he held the beast at bay. Ewen and his men had pursued the banner of the invading King of the Isles since the moment the battle began, only for the slick snake to slide through their fingers time and again. However, upon this day Ewen espied the scarlet clad pagan that the King of the Isles’ second-in-command, Gillie Ainndreis, kept close to his side. The bright colour of the pagan’s garment made him easy to follow amongst so many, so Ewen and his men used the pagan as a guide to track their quarry. The heart of the foolish but fierce man was admirable. Every day he had worn the flowing mantle without a scrap of armour, yet strangely suffered no injury. Of a sudden, the scarlet-clad pagan broke away from the king’s men, seemingly quite determined to meet them upon the field of battle, and to all appearances leaving the King of the Isles’ nobles no recourse save to follow him. With great elation, Ewen surged forward, his beast catching the scent of the man they needed to kill.

  A man-at-arms threw a javelin, wounding and felling the King of the Isles. The voices of the fighters lifted in a great cheer, spurring the knights around Ewen to push forward with renewed fervor. In his haste, Ewen almost became separated from his own men and the High Steward of Alba, Walter fitz Alan.

  The man in the flowing red robes had markings on his face that could be seen at a distance, as well as the runes and emblems of the old gods embroidered on his rainment, clearly marking him as a pagan. He wore no evident armour, yet wielded his blade and shield with a fierceness that closely matched Ewen’s. Afore they could cross swords, the golden-haired warrior turned aside, and there afore Ewen stood the man he sought to strike low, Gillie Ainndreis himself. Walter fitz Alan came up upon Ewen’s right. From under his helm, Gillie Ainndreis’ eyes glowed with an ambitious light when he laid eyes on the High Steward. But he would have to go through Ewen first, and Ewen was no easy prey.

  Over many days of battle, Ewen and his men had closely watched the King of the Isles and his nobles. Each eventide, they assembled in the tents of the High Steward to share their observations. At all times, the King of the Isles kept within a circle of mighty soldiers. Since there was a hefty price upon Gillie Ainndreis’ head for the bestiality and cruelty he reaped upon small villages in the name of the church, the sly advisor stayed within his king’s reach, ever behind the fighting and rarely lifting sword in conflict. Facing him now, Ewen was well aware the man be fresh faced, not battle weary. Natheless, he still would be no match for Ewen and the beast barely contained under his skin.

  The instant Ewen stepped to cross swords with Gillie Ainndreis, he caught a sweet smell that called to him like no other, yet there was no time to glance around and find whomever the scent belonged to. Until Gillie Ainndreis drew his last breath, danger lurked. Together, Ewen and his mathan raised their upper lip, baring their teeth in blatant challenge. The berserker haze that had stayed at the edge of his vision during battle darkened, spreading across his sight as the beast within sought to protect the bearer of the enticing scent. The tight control Ewen held over his mathan’s actions slipped away, leaving him utterly a base animal in mind, if not in body, as he engaged Gillie Ainndreis with a single-minded savagery that caused his kinsmen to give him a wide berth.

  Ewen ever exercised tight command over the mathan within him, but in battle that tightly held bridle broke. When the animal fury gripped Ewen he came away far more drenched in blood than a common warrior, the bodies of the fallen mauled viciously by his sword or axe. He lost himself so utterly to the animal that he recalled nothing of his actions or deeds, sparking endless worries that he would strike down friend or kin instead of the foes he faced upon the bloody field. Such was the outcome of the old lore of Ewen’s people: of oaths, curses, and battle rage.

  When he finally blinked the red murk from his sight, Ewen recalled not what he had done or how long he had fought. The berserker rage he rode vanished of a sudden. Never afore now had his beast calmed so quickly or effectually. More oft than not it took time for the rage to settle, Ewen’s kinsmen ensuring he caused no harm once the battle concluded. Somehow, on this day, the mathan that shared his skin went from combative to curious in the blink of an eye, soothed and pleased.

  Ewen’s arms and shoulders tingled and ached from prolonged labour. Sweat stung his eyes as he gulped sweet-smelling air. The dying sounds of clashing men rang all about him, a horrible noise he never wanted to remember but would evermore dream of in the dark of night. Wounded and dying men alike cried out in sorrow-filled wails, the sound equalling the haunting keening of a banshee’s song. Ravens added their sharp cries to the discord as they circled above or hopped amongst the fallen bodies, terrible memories he had no wish to take back to his family or his quiet forest, though Ewen knew he would never truly be free of them.

  As he strained to catch his breath, shocked at the sudden withdrawal of the beast, he took in the details of the waning battle. The King of the Isles’ invading soldiers retreated now that their king, and many of his lords, lay still upon the bloodied field. The Norman knights of the High Steward gave chase, victory cries leaving their lips as they rode past. Afore him lay the empty husk of Gillie Ainndreis, body armour dented and cleaved in twain as if parted by the powerful blows of an ogre or giant. Nigh to them lay the King of the Isles, and his firstborn and heir.

  The High Steward moved to stand next to Ewen and gazed down at what remained of Gillie Ainndreis. Ewen’s kinsmen o
f Clan Meinnear surrounded them loosely, protecting against a random attack whilst the knights pursued the fleeing men-at-arms. Ewen had a moment of lax regard for the fleeing Gaelic and Norse warriors who had followed the King of the Isles against the King of Alba. The disparity betwixt them and the High Steward’s well-outfitted knights had led to the downfall of the invaders, despite the numbers brought across the firth.

  Curiously, the knights rode by the red-robed warrior without slaying him. The pagan approached slowly and with caution, his blue gaze unerringly locked upon Ewen’s. Not knowing his intent, Ewen shifted his feet, readying his shield and sword to engage this new enemi who caused him to think upon Granda’s tellings of the old ways.

  Plaited golden hair lay in one long, thick rope over the warrior’s shoulder. Tattoos marked the fair skin of his face, yet even so, the design hid not the scarring that flowed from the right temple down the cheek and neck. The pagan wore a tiny cropped patch of hair, lighter than the colour of his braid, upon the lower part of the chin, his upper lip, neck and cheeks clean shaven.

  Eyes so blue they called to mind the land of ice in the far north held Ewen transfixed as the pagan dropped his weapons and knelt upon the far side of Gillie Ainndreis’ body. He held his arms stretched wide, those captivating eyes breaking away when he bowed his head and bared his nape. With his king now dead, this man willingly gave his life for Ewen to take. As he drew in the pagan’s scent, his mathan yowled and chuffed. This warrior’s smell was what had stirred the savage berserker rage, and then soothed the beast. The memory of the long-agone journey with his granda once again tickling Ewen’s mind, he looked back upon the warning given to him then. Many years had since passed with naught coming of Granda’s grave words, and Ewen had begun to doubt all that had been taught him.