Page 44 of Bride of the Mad Laird
Following the track to the shoreline below the castle, the track was rough going, slippery and rocky as she felt her way, following the faint glimmer of the ocean to her right. The noost was nestled into the foot of the hill in a small cove and was home to Tòrr’s birlinns and several lighter sailing craft as well as a scattering of fishermen’s boats.
Along further were three small cottages which she guessed were where the fishermen and their families stayed. Approaching the first of these with a light in the window, she rapped on the old timber door.
By now the soft breeze she’d enjoyed at Eilidh’s place had turned into a strong wind. Howling through the trees behind the cottage it almost drowned out the sound of her knuckles against the door.
No-one appeared in response to her knock. Growing impatient and needing to be on her way, she knocked again, harder this time.
“Stop yer knocking. I’m coming,” came a gruff voice.
She waited until finally the door was thrown open and a burly, older man, holding a candle aloft, appeared in front of her.
There was a distinctly bitter smell of ale surrounding him.
“What in the name of all that’s holy is a lass daeing here in the night?” He scratched his head, peering at her.
“I’m seeking a passage across tae the mainland taenight. It’s a matter of great urgency. Can ye ferry me across?”
The man was shaking his head when Lyra pulled out her purse and showed him a glint of silver in the candlelight.
“I can offer ye two silver coins fer yer service.”
“Aye.” He began to nod. “If ye make it three, I’ll take ye.”
Suddenly afraid that he could take the purse and throw her overboard and no one would any the wiser, she hesitated. But her need to flee was greater than her trepidation at setting off with the man. She nodded.
“I’ll pay ye one silver coin now and the rest when ye put me ashore at Lochaline.”
He grunted his assent as she handed him the coin. He grabbed a woolen cloak from a peg in the wall by the door and walked out.
“Follow me, I ken where me feet should go.”
By now the wind had reached an alarming pitch, causing Lyra to question whether attempting the crossing tonight was a good idea, but all it took was for the Laird Alexander MacDougall to flash into her mind and she headed off, following the fisherman down to the noost.
The man stumbled several times on the path, and it occurred to Lyra that he might be suffering from a surfeit of ale.
They arrived at the noost where his small craft lay on the sandy shore. She waited fretfully while he adjusted the single sail and placed his oars in the metal oarlocks on the side of the boat, while she took off her boots and placed them in the bag slung over her shoulder. The fisherman rolled up his britches and pushed the boat into the water.
He held up his hand, gesturing for her to wade over to the bobbing boat. Once she was on board, he scrambled over the side and, taking up the oars, began to row.
“’Tis nae good weather fer rowing, lass.” He gestured toward the surging water beyond the noost. “If the wind turns the sail, we might just end up going the wrong way. Mayhap ‘tis best fer ye tae wait until the wind drops.”
There was a catch in his voice that made her believe he was fearful. Her stomach lurched. But her fear of capture by MacDougall asserted itself and she shook her head.
“I’ll make it four silver coins.”
He bent his back to the oars again. But once they were beyond the safe haven of the noost and out in the Sound of Mull, where the wind blew twice as hard, the waves rose up over the sides of the boat. Within minutes Lyra was soaked to the skin.
The fisherman shook his head. “Lass, this isnae right. I’m turning back, silver coins or nae. I’d rather be poor and alive than drowned wi’ me hand filled wi’ silver.”
With that he plunged in one oar, striving against the pull of the tide to turn the boat.
There was nothing Lyra could do but hold on tight and pray they made it back to safety.
—
My dear reader,
I apologize for the interruption…
