Page 19 of The Splendor of Fire
“Have you thought about how you’re going to communicate? Which of the MacLean brothers are you trying to reach? Lachlan?”
Moira tried to remember the name Léo had scrawled on the page through the panic in her mind.
“Hector?”
The bìrlinn skittered to one side and she made a silent yelp as she rolled into Father MacElduff’s legs.
Lachlan? Hector? The names meant nothing to her. As the boat righted itself she curled inward, slipping the missive up and stealing a look, then shoved it back down her leine.
She shook Father MacElduff’s shoe. Trembling, her hands formed letters.H-E-C…
“Ahh Hector. He’s a fearsome man, they say. Just elevated to noble chief for his successes against the Wolf. Largest holder of land of any of the chiefs now. Reckon the king is afraid of him?”
She shook her head back and forth with force, not daring to raise her eyes and catch a glimpse of the black waves.
The sails caught a gust of wind and the bìrlinn skittered with speed to the left. Her stomach rushed to the right, and she tightened her grip on the wood.O God, please don’t let me vomit.
“Have you heard his nickname?”
Why, oh why, did she have to be travel companions with the chattiest priest in all Scotland and Ireland? All she wanted to do was lay her cheek on the bottom of the boat and pray. She shook her head again.
“Beithir.”
The venomous monster famous for stalking its victims with poisonous sting and chasing them to the lochs to consume them. A shiver momentarily replaced her need to be sick. She looked up into the pouring rain at old Father Mac and raised an eyebrow.
“Aye. Accountin’ for his midnight escape from Lochindorb castle with his wife. The one he pitched Elspeth MacKinnonover for. Tore men apart with his bare hands to save her, nearly kicked the brains out of the Wolf.”
Out of habit she looked around for Niall MacKinnon’s lackeys before remembering she was safe on a boat of Irish priests loyal to the King of the Isles.
“They say he’s got the strength of twenty men. Ugly as sin. Dangerous with sword, lethal with axe. Berserker, they say.”
Moira swallowed, wondering who ‘they’ was. Father Mac inclined his head to an older priest, whose head lopped forward over his chest, his jowls flapping with snores. “Father McCaffrey says otherwise. Says the Beithir’s a man of God. Pure of heart. There’s others on Iona say he’s often there when he’s not traveling the Isles.”
A berserk man of God?
“Are you sure Hector MacLean is the MacLean chief you’re supposed to meet? It’s only…your father says you’re traveling to visit Lady MacLean with healing herbs?”
Her father’s concocted story. The story that caused her skin to crawl against the need to repent.Lord please don’t punish me and toss me back into this ocean.Trying to think of dry land, Moira nodded.
“It’s only…Lady Cara MacLean is not…that is…she’s with child. She hasn’t had a…woman time.”
Moira cringed and tried to think of a lie when all she wanted to do was confess the truth. With her hands she motioned a pregnant belly in front of her, then a baby in her arms, then fished the jar of herbs from her pack, holding it up, and mouthed the words,for after the delivery.
“Well that I am sure he will appreciate. Anything to help keep her safe. They say the Beithir is fierce protective of her. Doesn’t tolerate anyone speaking a word against her. Some fools in his clan attacked her last year and they say he raised a man up in one hand and choked him to death. They also say he almost killed the MacNeil chief at a council meeting last year for calling her—something unladylike. Yes, they say a fast way to die is look the wrong way at his wife. He doesn’t tolerate it.”
She gulped.
“I’m sure she’ll be grateful for anything to help with…em…woman’s complaints. You’re a cousin of one of the MacLeans, your father was saying?”
Moira made a face she hoped looked like agreement, uncomfortable with the lie Father wanted her to tell.
The boat pitched violently down and back up again, and she prayed for God to forgive her. What was she doing in a flimsy bìrlinn in the midst of a storm? Why was she doing anything for a man she hardly knew and seeking out a berserker for him?
“End of December it were when the Beithir got his wife out of Lochindorb. If you ask me, with the cold and the number of men guarding the Wolf’s castle—in the middle of a loch, no less—he had to have help. They say Laird MacKinnon’s brother was there.”
Moira froze and dared look up at Father Mac, skin prickling and heart squeezing.
“Course he’s a half-brother. Favorite of his father growing up, he were.”
