In response, I reached for his hand and pulled him down beside me. I felt a wave of heat from his body; if I had been ice, I would have melted, but I am flesh and blood and I was drawn irresistibly to that warmth. Where our bodies touched it was like a lick of flame running through me. ‘You have been my mind’s constant companion since last night.’ It was a bold statement for any woman to have made, but even more so for a woman in my position. I knew the risk but I no longer cared. This was my one chance, and I could not let it go by me.

  The creases round his eyes deepened as he smiled. ‘All day in the saddle, I could not stop thinking of you. I feared I’d perform like a callow youth in the hunt, but I think you must have spurred me on to greater things.’ He leaned forward and chastely kissed my forehead, his lips firm and dry against my skin.

  After that, there was little need for words. Our bodies knew what our hearts desired. Our clothes puddled on the floor, our bodies tangled on the bed, hands and mouths exploring new territories, hard muscle against soft flesh, then the overwhelm of union. We were lost to the world, deep in discovery, searching for even more satisfaction.

  At last, exhausted, we pulled the furs over us and lay wrapped around each other as comfortably as if we’d been partnered for years, not scant hours. Finally, I understood what the act could mean. The more we’d loved, the more my appetite for him grew, as if it fed on itself.

  It was a world away from Gille’s idea of congress. I dared hope that the wisp of an idea that had underpinned this encounter might work. ‘I want this forever,’ I said.

  He kissed me. ‘I wish your father had set his sights on me, not my cousin.’

  ‘But we will be together again?’ I hoped he heard the plea in my voice.

  ‘We will find a way, be sure of that.’

  ‘Tomorrow? Again?’

  He held me close, and I felt his prick harden against me once more. ‘What’s wrong with now?’

  And it began again, that contrapunto of flesh and frenzy. Afterwards, we ended up side by side, sweating and panting.

  ‘I must leave for Mull at first light,’ he said.

  ‘No!’ I exclaimed, turning to cover his body with mine. ‘Not now we have discovered this.’

  His face contorted in despair. ‘I cannot stay in your orbit and act normally. I’m not good enough at putting on a false face And you? I look at you and I see you’re glowing. Gille will see that too. He may be a brute but he’s not a fool. The risk is too great.’

  My heart rebelled, but my head knew he was right.

  This madness had not been my plan. I wanted only to bewitch him so I could preserve my place. We’d fucked like animals for a night; perhaps Macbeth’s potent seed would take root in my womb. A child would appease Gille and secure my position. A boy would make me valuable; if it were a girl, I could go a second bout with our beautiful cousin.

  Rescue had been my stratagem, one way or another. I had not counted on this revelation. I had not anticipated the tidal surge of emotion.

  I had not known love so I had not expected it.

  The horses’ hooves find tracks that elude our dark-blind eyes. They walk steadily and only hesitate when paths diverge. Thankfully it’s a clear night and Angus knows how to navigate by the stars, so we soon learn to steer our mounts in the direction that best suits our destination.

  ‘Where are we headed?’ Ligach asks once we’re well under way and as sure as we can be that there’s no pursuit.

  ‘Mull is a safe haven for us,’ I say. ‘When Macbeth was their lord, they loved him. They’ll honour us.’

  ‘Or at least leave us be,’ Ligach mutters.

  ‘Mull? The island?’ Aife sounds incredulous. ‘How do we get to Mull?’

  ‘We ride for four or five days,’ Angus says. ‘We’re aiming for Dun Ollaigh fort. It’s one of the seats of the kings of Dál Riata.’

  ‘Dál Riata? Are they still our friends?’ Eithne asks, vague as ever in matters of high politics.

  ‘Back in the day, Kenneth MacAlpin built strong bonds with them. They honoured him. Since I’m a direct descendant of the High King MacAlpin, like Macbeth was, they’ll treat us with respect. They’ll not betray us, even if they’ve heard about Lulach’s death and our flight. We can send to Mull for a boat then.’ I try to sound reassuring.

  I sense unease from Eithne alongside me. ‘How will we be safe for four or five days?’ she asks in a low voice. ‘We have no way of knowing who our friends are.’

  ‘We’ll travel by night and find places to rest during the day. We have some food, and there are fish in the streams and rabbits on the hills. We’ll stay away from people. We’ll be fine, Eithne.’

  There’s a stubborn set to her mouth. I know she doesn’t believe me. I’m not sure I even believe myself, but there’s no alternative. It’s been years since I travelled to Mull, and I remember it being a hard road back then. A dozen years on my bones won’t have made it any easier.

  Dawn comes up behind us and it’s soon joined by a gusty wind from the north-east. The horses whicker as it swirls round their fetlocks and tousles their manes. We’re in the foothills of small mountains now, not the wild summits of the far north, but still it’s harder going for our mounts.

  Eithne is giving me a lesson in the plants we’re passing. I know she’s trying to lift her own spirits but also stir me back to myself and the days before Macbeth and I wed, and I’m grateful for it. ‘Can you smell the ramsons?’ she asks, pointing to a carpet of leaves shaped like tall shields, wee white flowers waving among them. ‘You know that smell, that taste?’

  It’s unmistakable. ‘Wild garlic. You make a paste with it for the cooks, for flavouring stews and meat.’ I pull a face. ‘You’re making me hungry just thinking about it.’

  She chuckles. ‘It’s good for the blood. See they wee yellow flowers? They’re called pilewort. They’ve got knobbly bundles of roots. Can you guess what I use them for? The clue’s in the name, and the shape of the roots?’

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘Would that be piles?’

  ‘Well worked out, Gruoch. I love this time of year, when the flowers start to keek out in the woodlands and the hillsides. Milk-gowans, wood anemone, dog’s mercury, primroses. They’re bonny, and they’re useful. All kinds of medicines and ointments and dyes for our cloth. And for the pot too. Nettle soup and milk-gowan salad.’

  Eithne’s trick is working. I’m starting to pay attention to my surroundings now, coming back to myself. ‘And the trees. The blackthorn and the rowan, they’re coming into leaf.’

  ‘The year’s turning towards summer. We’re coming into the light, leaving the darkness behind. All will be well, for all of us.’

  I’m not so sure about that but I can’t help loving Eithne’s optimism. Considering the things she sees in her visions, it’s nothing short of miraculous.

  We turn into a shallow glen and come up against the first habitation we’ve seen since we left in the dark. A couple of small huts, a pen for goats, half a dozen scrabbling chickens and a thin trickle of peat smoke emerging from a hole in one thatched roof. Two young children are playing with a bundle of chicken feathers in the dirt. As soon as they see us, they scream and run inside.

  As we approach, a woman emerges, a man at her back. They look astonished, as if they can’t quite believe there’s anyone else in the world. Ligach reins her horse in, and we all come to a halt. ‘Good day,’ Ligach says. They look blank. She tries Pictish; it’s still spoken where there’s little contact with the rest of the country.

  The man replies. I dredge my memory of the old tongue and understand he’s asking where we’re bound. Ligach lies. Something about ‘druimean’. I’m not sure if it’s a place name or just a landscape feature. Ligach cheerily tells them we’re on our way to her sister’s wedding. It seems to satisfy the man, who says something else I don’t catch. We all raise a hand in farewell and carry on.

  ‘What was that he said at the end?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s a small band of raiders in the next glen, but I lied about where we’re going – that’s not on our route. We’ll be fine.’

  I can feel my horse is growing tired. ‘We need to find somewhere to rest soon, Angus. The horses are weary, and so am I.’

  ‘Aye.’ I can see he’s scouring the hillside, looking for shelter and grazing. Up ahead, there’s a patch of woodland near the track. Behind it, a little further up the slope, there’s a clearing. Angus catches sight of it at the same time as I do. We both point and say, ‘Over there.’

  We turn off the track and head for the shelter. It’s a struggle for the slipe, and a couple of times I fear the heavy horse will lose its footing. But it’s dogged, and with Angus’s encouragement we make it to the shelter of the trees.

  It’s a relief to get back on my own two feet. Even at a walking pace, riding is an effort, and I’ve not had any long days on horseback since we moved to the isle. Muscles I’d forgotten about were stiff and sore, and I wasn’t the only one swearing as we tethered our mounts in reach of the coarse moorland grasses.

  We agreed that Angus should take the first watch with Aife and Eithne. Ligach and I curl up together under the trees with a couple of wolfskins for warmth. I say warmth, but really all they’re good for is to keep the wind out. In spite of the cold, I fall asleep as soon as I pillow my head on my forearm.

  When Angus shakes me awake, the sun is past its midpoint. He settles down between Aife and Eithne, who treat him as a human cushion. By the time Ligach and I have crouched in the bushes to empty our bladders, he’s snoring. Ligach stations herself at one end of the clearing behind a boulder, the arbalest resting on it; if trouble is going to come, that’s the likely direction.

  The dray horse is lying down, gentle breathing making its stomach rise and fall. I sit down, leaning against it, smelling its sweet breath, an arrow nocked on my bowstring. I watch a pair of eagles dancing above the hill, chasing each other, breaking off to swoop dramatically away, then stooping for prey. It’s hypnotic, but not so much so that I forget the sharp sorrow in my heart. Nor to pay attention.

  Just as well. A movement strikes the corner of my eye, and at the far end of the trees I catch the shape of a man. ‘Ligach!’ I shout. ‘Over here!’

  I’m thankful that she still possesses a turn of speed that’s beyond most men. She is by my side in seconds, just as the figure in the trees breaks out into the open. My cry has warned him there’s no further point in stealth, and he runs towards us, followed by two others, all brandishing claymores and shouting the battle cries that are meant to strike fear into our hearts.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Ligach cries, taking aim with the arbalest. The bolt strikes the first bandit in the throat, and he falls like a stone. While she’s reloading her weapon, I line up a shot at one of the others but my arrow whistles past him. Thankfully Angus is already at my side, woken by the clamour. He looses off an arrow, catching one of the attackers in the thigh. He collapses to one knee, trying to free the arrow, not realising the peaceful monks’ armourer favours barbed tips.

  As Ligach fires again, hitting the wounded man in the chest, I realise Aife has circled behind them and shot the third man in the back. His momentum drives him on to his stomach in time for Eithne to run from the trees, screaming like a banshee, waving her knife, and slicing deep into his neck. She knows where to strike, no one better; blood jets in a fountain from his neck and she has to jump clear to prevent it splashing her.

  Two dead and one wounded. Not bad for a quartet of women and one man. Angus grabs the claymore of the one Ligach killed outright and approaches the third man. He’s clearly mortally wounded, but I don’t think he knows that yet. He waves his claymore feebly and Angus kicks it to one side. ‘Are there more of you?’ he demands.

  ‘Next glen,’ comes out in a defiant gurgle.

  ‘How many?’ This is Ligach.

  He gives her a look of vicious hatred, and who could blame him? ‘Enough to . . . fucking finish you . . . bitch.’

  Coolly, she stamps on his wounded leg. He screams in agony, a very different sound from his battle cry. ‘How many?’ she snarls.

  He moans. ‘Seven.’

  We exchange looks. Time to move, without delay. Angus takes out his knife and cuts the man’s throat in one swift slice. Not, I suspect, out of kindness, but rather to make sure there’s nobody left to tell the tale of four mad women and a single man, all capable of slaughter. In a few short minutes, I have ceased to be the only killer among us.

  I am not ashamed to say I was glad of the company.

  Macbeth was as good as his word. Come the morning, he announced to all in the hall that in spite of the delights of our hospitality he and his men would return to his steading on Mull. ‘I would not stand upon the order of my going, my lord Gille Coemgáin,’ he said. ‘I’ll go at once, while I’m still welcome at your table.’

  ‘We’re sorry to see you leave, cousin. Haste ye back!’ Gille managed to sound sincere, but I doubted he was. He liked to be acknowledged best at everything. But everybody had seen that Macbeth was a better huntsman and a better dancer. Gille hated to be outshone; had he known Macbeth was also an infinitely better lover, his cousin would never have made it back to Mull alive.

  Nevertheless they clapped each other on the back, apparently the best of friends as well as kinsmen. We women watched from the benches outside our quarters as they saddled up and trotted out in tight formation. Macbeth cast not one look in my direction, and I was glad, for I would as lief not struggle to maintain my composure. My body ached sweetly and that was enough.

  It seemed absurd after such a short acquaintance, but I missed him every day. The sound of his voice in private moments; the weight of his body on mine; the smoky smell of his hair; the feel of his skin – all this and more, I ached for. I made sure that I was compelled to Gille’s bedchamber soon after Macbeth and his men had left, to cover myself should the outcome be what I’d settled for. But I built a wall around myself more even than before. I didn’t want the memories of Macbeth to be tainted by the reality of my husband.

  Of course, Gille noticed nothing.

  It was Eithne who saw the change in me. I was aware that she was watching me more closely than usual; she had started to prepare different concoctions for my evening drink, herbs and spices in combinations I’d not had before. When I questioned her, she simply said, ‘You need to keep your strength up.’ For what, she didn’t say.

  And then almost three weeks after Macbeth had visited me, I understood the reason. My monthly courses had not appeared. I had always been irregular on occasion so I hadn’t realised immediately. But Eithne knew without counting. She sat me down with Aife and Ligach in our quarters one morning after we had broken our fast. I’d been particularly hungry, demanding eggs and bannocks washed down with small ale.

  ‘You have an appetite,’ she began.

  ‘We all do sometimes,’ I said, a little puzzled at why she’d mentioned it.

  ‘But we’re not all with child.’

  I stared at her, not quite believing her. ‘How do you know?’

  Eithne shrugged. ‘I just do.’

  ‘Your courses are late,’ Ligach pointed out. ‘And you are eating like a horse that’s been ridden hard.’

  Aife smirked. ‘Oh, I think we all know she’s been ridden hard.’ They all titter like smutty children. ‘Your plan has worked, Gruoch. Macbeth has succeeded where Gille failed.’

  I wanted to believe them. But I also understood the enormity of it. The feelings Macbeth had provoked in my heart had undermined my goal. I yearned for him; I was revolted by Gille’s touch. The idea of raising Macbeth’s child under Gille’s roof, as Gille’s bairn, made me feel sick. The fall-back plan I’d considered so clever had turned into a terrible trap.

  And I had no idea how to escape it.

  We pause only to drag the bodies under the cover of the trees, then we pack up and set off again. We soon reach the end of the glen, where the track splits in two. To the southwest, the trail is wider and smoother, but we can see in the distance a threatening column of smoke. ‘That’ll be the rest of the raiders,’ Ligach observes. ‘I take it we head in the other direction?’

  ‘Aye,’ Angus says. ‘We’ll be among the trees in no time. We’ll have to go in single file, though. The path is too narrow for you to ride in pairs.’

  So Ligach leads off, me at her back. Then Aife, Eithne and Angus in the rear. Although the path is narrow, it seems well-trodden, the beaten earth hard beneath the horses’ hooves. The air smells soft and fresh, the scent of new growth all around us. There’s a burn to one side of the trail, and the sound of its burbling mingles with the calls of small birds as we make our way up the glen. We’re even sheltered from the wind by dense woodland on either side.

  On any other day, it would have been a pleasure. But the knowledge that we are hunted cuts through everything. Whenever we stop to relieve ourselves or just to stretch our legs, I sense the same tension in all of us. As darkness falls, we can see the woodland thinning out and beyond that, a cluster of buildings. Not a compound but a substantial enough group to be considered a danger.

  We come alongside each other on the edge of the wood. ‘I think this place is called Crubha,’ Angus says. ‘They trade cattle here. The roads cross here from the north and from Fife.’

  ‘Is it safe?’ I ask.

  ‘Nowhere is safe,’ Ligach says. ‘Can we pass it by?’

  ‘I think if we follow the western course of the river, we should manage not to attract much attention.’ Angus looks less certain than he sounds.

  ‘I’ll go ahead to scout the route,’ Aife volunteers.

  Eithne demurs and Ligach tries to take her place, but Angus insists she stay. ‘You’re the bonniest fechter,’ he says. ‘And Aife looks harmless.’

  Aife chuckles. ‘Sometimes it’s useful to look harmless.’ Without further argument, she trots off. Waiting is no less trying than the night before, but at least we’re further away from pursuit. The horses champ the grasses and Ligach cuts slices from a ham we’d had in the barn. I chew the meat slowly, remembering the adage that hunger is the best sauce.

 

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