Page 28 of Fallen
Craeg nodded, meeting the warrior’s eye. “The tide is turning against MacKinnon now … fear of the sickness has made folk take action. Life was hard enough here as it was, thanks to him.”
“We hear that things are getting worse in Dunan,” Fenella said quietly. “A man arriving from there yesterday said that they’re burning the dead outside the walls.”
A chill settled over Craeg at this news. The Grim Reaper had indeed come to Skye. Things were looking bleak for them all, and yet in times like these, folk looked for a savior.
He turned to Gunn then. “How are our coffers looking?”
His friend smiled. “Healthy … we still have a bag of silver left over from the last raid at Kyleakin.”
“Good,” Craeg grunted. “See that it’s distributed in as many villages as possible in the coming days … make sure everyone knows the silver came from MacKinnon’s purse.” He paused then, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his companions. “That raid was our last though. I’ve had plenty of time to think while I was laid up. I’m done hiding in the shadows. The men who’ve joined us don’t want to rob MacKinnon … they want to fight him. The hour has arrived for us to bring my brother down.”
12
Distracting Thoughts
“FOLK ARE STARTING to flee Dunan, brother,” Drew’s voice, tense and sharp-edged this morning, made Duncan MacKinnon glance up from buttering a wedge of bannock. “They are saying ye have abandoned them.”
The challenge in his sister’s tone was evident, and the clan-chief heaved in a slow, steadying breath. He hadn’t seen much of Drew lately, although this morning she’d honored him with her presence in his solar while he broke his fast.
“I haven’t,” he sneered. “But the good Lord has.”
“A group of flagellants have taken up residence in the market square,” Drew continued. “Did ye realize?”
MacKinnon scowled. His sister’s acerbic tone was starting to grate upon him, although her news came as a surprise. “No,” he admitted.
Across the table, Drew put down her knife. Those storm-grey eyes narrowed. “They’ve taken to beating each other with long leather straps studded with sharp pieces of iron … they do it three times a day as a display of penance and punishment for our sins.”
Duncan snorted. “Best of luck to them.”
“They are saying that our clan-chief is depraved and immoral … that God is punishing Dunan for his wickedness.”
A heavy sensation settled across Duncan’s chest then, and his belly closed. He’d been enjoying his morning bannocks until this conversation. To cover up the chill of dread that now crawled up his spine, he reached for a cup of milk and took a measured sip.
Nonsense, all of it.
His mother had turned him against religion many years earlier. Every time she’d beaten him, she’d shrieked that he was full of sin and that God would one day punish him for it.
A sudden dropping sensation in his belly made Duncan’s fingers tighten around his cup. “And what do ye think, Drew?” he asked finally, meeting her eye. “Do ye blame me as well?”
The woman’s boldness made him itch to take his fist to her face. He’d done so before when she’d overstepped, and she’d minded her tongue for a while afterward. However, now that nearly two months had passed since that incident, Drew had grown viper-tongued and critical once more.
His sister’s mouth pursed, and he watched her slender shoulders tense as danger crackled between them. “Of course not, Duncan,” she replied, her voice as cold as her gaze. “But I thought it worth bringing to yer attention … this outbreak could well put yer position here in danger.”
MacKinnon peered down at the horse’s hoof, a scowl marring his brow. “Damn the beast … it’s got an abscess.”
Carr leaned forward, at where the clan-chief still held his stallion’s fetlock between his knees. Pus oozed from the horn of the sole. “Aye,” he muttered. “That’s why he’s been favoring his near forequarter.”
“Favoring?” MacKinnon replied with a snort. “Curaidh is as lame as a club footed peasant.”
As if hearing his master’s appraisal, the huge bay courser snorted. Curaidh—Warrior—had been the clan-chief’s mount for the past five years. True to its name, the horse was tough. It hadn’t foundered once, but this morning it had limped its way out into the yard.
MacKinnon would have to take another horse out hunting.
The clan-chief released Curaidh’s fetlock and straightened up. He then gave the stallion an affectionate slap on the shoulder. Watching him, Carr marveled how the clan-chief was always gentler with animals than with his own kind.
Bran sat a few feet away. The wolfhound waited expectantly, ears pricked. MacKinnon always took the dog out hunting.
“See to this, would ye, Broderick,” MacKinnon said, meeting Carr’s eye. “I’ll saddle another horse and ride out.”
