Chapter One

Scotland 1310, the Isle of Iona

Lyra MacInnes eyed the evening repast laid before her on the sturdy oak table in the refectory at the Iona Priory. She sighed rather too loudly. “Fish again.”

Sister Morag, the elderly nun seated opposite tilted her head disapprovingly.

“We must be thankful fer what the Good Lord provides, Lyra.”

Both Lyra and Sister Morag dipped their heads, signing the Cross, before picking up their spoons.

Lyra hesitated, her appetite having fled at the sight of the watery stew, but the Sister spooned in a large mouthful.

Giving her meal a desultory glance Lyra downed her spoon. “I’m nae hungry this evening,” she said, although adding hastily, “but I am indeed grateful.”

Glancing up, her heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight of the old nun’s face. It was crumpled into an expression of pain, her mouth hung open, her eyes rolling in her head. She clutched her belly and doubled over, making a truly awful, gurgling sound.

Lyra leapt to her feet. By now the nun’s mouth was ringed with froth. It was clear that something very bad was happening.

“What is wrong, Morag? Are ye in pain?” Looking around helplessly for someone to come to Morag’s aid, Lyra screamed and the other nuns looked up in horror at the unfolding scene.

Suddenly, Morag let out a terrible groan, closed her eyes and sank slowly forward so that her head was on the table next to her platter, while her arms sagged by her side. Lyra grabbed one of the Sister’s icy-cold hands to prevent her from slipping to the floor.

Fortunately, at that moment Mother Una darted across the refectory, followed by the two nuns in charge of the infirmary.

“Quickly,” Lyra cried, holding Morag’s slumped figure to prevent her toppling onto the stone floor. “She’s taken ill.”

The Prioress rushed to Lyra’s side and snatched her dish away while the other two nuns took charge of Sister Morag.

After only a brief moment one of the nuns, Sister Fiona, looked up, her jaw tight, her shoulders hunched. “Dinnae eat anything. We must make haste. She appears tae have been poisoned.”

Mother Una turned an anguished face to Lyra. “Lyra, I fear yer enemy has found ye. Ye must away from here with all speed.” She grabbed Lyra’s hand. “Come. Leave the sisters tae care fer Morag. Purging is the only cure and it is nay something fit fer a fine-born lady such as yerself tae witness. Follow me now tae gather yer things and prepare wi’ all haste tae travel from this place.”

Without another word Lyra picked up the ends of her robe and dashed through the arched doorway following Mother Una along the stone walkway and up the stairs to her small sleeping space.

Her mind raced, blaming herself for what had befallen Sister Morag. The possibility that, even here, her enemy would find her, was never far from her mind and it seemed that, tonight, he had discovered her at last. Gentle Sister Morag had paid the price for protecting her.

That knowledge pierced her heart. The necessity for secrecy had been so great she had even lied to her dearest friend, Davina, who thankfully no longer lived in the priory. She had pretended to be a novice, unhappy under the stern guidance of the Prioress just as Davina had been. She had hidden the truth that she was an oblate of Saint Augustine secreted in the Priory since childhood in an effort to protect her.

As continuing to lie to her friend would have been too difficult, after Davina had escaped, she had sent her a letter to convince her she had left the Priory and was returning to her family. As long as Davina believed Lyra was safe, she would not put herself at risk by attempting to aid her escape.

As she was lost in thought Mother Una went to speak briefly to a man that worked in the gardens of the convent and then she was back by her side. “I must assume the poison was meant fer ye. We can be thankful it was nae intended tae claim yer life, or Sister Morag would have left this mortal realm by now.” She crossed herself with shaky hands.

She met Lyra’s gaze with troubled eyes. “Ye cannae waste another minute. ‘Tis time ye left us, now it is nay longer safe here.”

“Where am I tae go? What am I tae dae?” Lyra’s voice was husky with unshed tears.

“Gather yer belongings without delay, including the things that were brought here with ye fer safekeeping. The box wi’ yer maither’s brooch and necklace. Now that they ken where ye bide, neither yerself nor the others here under the Priory roof are safe from harm.” She busied herself, rolling a change of clothing into a small bundle “Ye ken the plan, they will expect ye on Mull.”

Lyra grabbed the small box containing her few treasures. Her heart was thumping and her mouth was dry. She licked her lips. She’d been with the nuns since she was little more than a bairn and all she knew was the nunnery. The thought of braving the unknown, outside world was almost as terrifying as being taken by her enemies.

“How am I tae find me way? I dinnae remember the Isle of Mull or the mainland. What if the lad I’m tae meet wi’ isnae there?”

Mother Una grew impatient. “’Tis nae time tae argue. If ye’re dead ye’ll nae be of use tae anyone.”

Lyra’s eyes misted and she bit back the threatening tears.

The Prioress’s voice softened and she reached a kindly hand to squeeze Lyra’s arm.

“I dinnae wish tae speak harshly tae ye lass, but if ye dinnae make haste to be out of here as soon as ye can, we’ll have little choice.” She raised her eyes to the sky. “It grows dark and ye’ll be able tae make yer way across tae the Isle of Mull under cover of night. I’ve sent one of our garden workers tae the shore tae find a fisherman tae row ye across.”

She turned to go. “I must check on Sister Morag. Dinnae waste time. I will see ye at the gate before ye leave. Dinnae fash. Ye will be just fine and everything will go according tae plan.” With that she darted off.

The clothes Mother Una had bundled for her to take were strange and unfamiliar. She was used to wearing only nun’s clothing consisting of a loose, woolen, black robe, which covered her from head to toe, with the veils and coverings of a nun. She swayed and clutched the bedpost to keep herself upright. This was the only home she was familiar with.

Florie, one of the younger novices, braided her fair hair before concealing it under the plain white veil. Lyra was reaching for her cloak when she heard raised voices and a terrible sound of splintering timber. This was followed by a series of piercing screams.

Heart hammering, she raced down the stairs and along the passageway, her cloak in her hands, with Florie close behind carrying her bundle and the carved wooden box containing her few treasures.

Sister Fiona came hurtling toward her, her robes and veil flying, a stream of blood coursing down her face from a cut on her cheek.

“Dinnae venture out there,” she said breathlessly. “There’s men… four of them. They are brutes. They’ve smashed their way through our heavy gate and are, even now, confronting Maither Una.”

Lyra’s hand flew to her mouth, while Florie tucked herself close behind her. “What dae they want?”

“They’ve named ye, Lyra, and they say they are tae take ye away.”

There was another stifled shriek and a second nun came tearing along the corridor towards them. “Quick, make haste, ye must come tae the other gate and make yer escape afore the men find ye here.”

“What of Maither Una?”

The nun groaned. “I am afeared fer her, Lyra. They have her arms pinned behind her back and are threatening her if she daesnae take them tae ye.” Her eyes widened in horror. “Already one of the brutes has slapped her and threatens worse.”

“Who are these men who are prepared tae violate this sacred place? Nay good, self-respecting Scottish warrior would dae such a thing.”

“I dinnae ken.” Sister Fiona shook her head. “They are dressed all in dun with darker britches and cloaks. They’ve nay plaid tae identify them.” She glanced at Lyra. “I dinnae wish tae afear ye, but they have the look of rough Gallowglass fighters. Soldiers for hire. Dangerous men with nay allegiance.”

Lyra hauled in a deep breath and let it flow out slowly, attempting to steady herself. She squared her shoulders. Although she was trembling all over, she held her head up and raced forward with Florie at her heels.

She was met with a horrifying scene when she arrived, breathless, at the entrance to the Priory. The large, studded, oaken gate had almost been torn from its iron and much of it lay in splinters beside the wall. Beside it, in a bloody heap, lay the bodies of the two men whose job it was to keep guard over the entrance to the Priory.

Mother Una stood stoically in the center of the stone-paved vestibule, a purple bruise already forming on her face where she’d been struck. Even so, she held herself straight, eyeing the four men down the length of her nose, a look of pure disdain etched on here proud features.

Florie squealed and dropped the bundle and the carved box she’d been carrying, turned on her heel and dashed back the way they’d come, leaving Lyra and Mother Una to face the men.

The Prioress swiveled as Lyra entered, her eyes widened and her teeth clamped her lower lip as if to hold in the words she wished to speak. She gave an all but imperceptible nod, darting her eyes toward the men.

Terrified, Lyra pressed forward despite the clear warning, praying she could divert the men’s attention from Mother Una.

Mother Una screamed. “Run, Lyra, dinnae let these brutes take ye.”

The men exchanged glances and one of the ruffians stepped forward, a grin on his coarse features half obscured by a shaggy, red, beard. He licked his lips. “If ye’re Lyra, ye’re tae come wi’ us.”

Lyra swiveled and made a frantic dash for the passageway, Red-Beard striding after her. She shrieked helplessly as he seized her arm in his rough grip.

He grunted a laugh and turned to the other three men who were standing by, grinning. “We’ll have some fun wi’ this one. She’s a right beauty.”

He turned back to Lyra, his eyes raking her with a hungry expression.

She shook her head summoning every scrap of courage she could. “I’ll nae travel wi’ ye. This is me home and I’ll nae leave it.”

The man merely laughed. He stepped forward and with what seemed like one movement of his giant hand, slapped Mother Una hard across her face, tightening his iron grip on Lyra’s arm.

Lyra struggled, raking Red-Beard’s arm with the sharp nails of her free hand. This seemed to amuse him even more and he grabbed her with his two hands and cruelly yanked her arms behind her back.

She bit down hard on her lower lip to prevent herself from crying out. There was no way she would give these savages the satisfaction of seeing her fear and pain.

“Ye’ll come wi’ us. Make it easy. Dinnae resist.”

Lyra pshawed loudly. “I willnae go wi’ the likes of ye.”

He rasped a laugh. “Good. Ye’re a feisty one. I enjoy holding a struggling lass. There’s more pleasure in it fer me.”

At that moment Lyra’s furious rage overcame the fear and trepidation that was almost too much to bear, and with blood running hot in her veins she spat a response at the barbarian.

“Dinnae touch me, ye son-of-a-low-worm. Ye smell rank as a fox’s den and ye look like… like…” She was almost lost for words. With his shaggy hair and his dirty red beard, she could only conjure the image of a Highland cow. But they were animals she was fond of.

“Ye’ve the appearance of a moldy bale of hay.” She gave a satisfied snort having found the image she sought.

“Enough.” The man gave her arms an extra twist upward. This time she couldn’t suppress her cry of pain as he dragged her toward the ruined gate. While she struggled, he simply slapped at her as if she was nothing more than a troublesome midge.

As he pushed her through the entrance, she writhed violently against the man whose grip never loosened.

“Let me go, ye piece of filth,” she yelled, to no avail. She resolved to say nothing more, as it was clear her struggles amused him.

The other three men gathered around, each of them leering at her and licking their lips in a manner that disgusted her. One of them reached a hand and pawed at her breasts through the fabric of her tunic and kirtle, causing her to shriek loudly.

With that, Red-Beard hoisted her in his arms as if she was nothing more than a sack of barley, and flung her over his shoulder.

She beat helplessly with her boots to his chest and her fists to his back, despairing that these men were taking her to an uncertain fate.

And then a sudden shout caught her by surprise. “Put down the lass,” came a deep, commanding voice. “Have ye ruffians nay ears tae hear what she says. She daesnae want tae go wi’ ye.”

Chapter Two

Cursing loudly, the man who was holding Lyra on his shoulder broke his stride. He flung her to the ground and reached for the axe he carried in his belt, while she struggled to her feet, her heart pounding.

“And who d’ye think ye are?” He snarled as two men strode forward and faced Red-beard and his men, preventing them from passing.

“We’re the men who will prevent yer kidnapping plan. Mayhap ye’ll ne’er find out who we are.” The man who spoke was as tall as Red-beard and almost as broad, but rather than the appearance of a shaggy beast, he was clad in a great kilt of fine woolen twill woven in a red and green plaid. His hair, black as a raven’s wing, reached his shoulders, and his eyes, shooting fire at Red-beard, were the gray-blue of a stormy sea. There was something about the man that drew Lyra’s attention, yet at the same time, his fierceness filled her with trepidation. One thing was certain – he was a handsome man, captivating in his brutality.

Each of the newcomers drew their claymore, hefting them in strong hands, prepared to fight.

It was clear these two, even though outnumbered, were skilled warriors, while the bunch of gallowglasses, lacking skill, relied on nothing more than their sheer size, strength, and brute force.

Lyra clenched her hands in terror, yet she could not tear her eyes away from what was unfolding before her. The four hulking gallowglasses launched themselves with a series of grunts and guttural mutterings at the two stalwart warriors blocking their path.

It took very little time and even less effort from the two warriors before two of the ruffians lay badly injured in the grass, groaning and clutching at their wounds, while blood flowed freely, turning the green grass red.

One of the remaining pair hurled himself at the second of the two warriors, holding his axe up high with two hands. Lyra flinched, her heart jumping like a jack-in-the-box as he brought down the axe with a mighty blow aimed at the head of the second of the two warriors.

But the lad was too quick. He feinted to the left and, leaning to the right, brought his claymore up under his opponent’s ribcage as swift as an arrow, piercing his heart.

With a deathly grunt, the brute toppled like a fallen tree, to lie unmoving at the warrior’s feet.

Meanwhile, Red-Beard was locked in battle with the tall, gray-eyed warrior. By now the barbarian was clearly tiring, swinging his battle-axe with less and less strength, failing with each attempt to land a blow. Every time he brought his weapon down, the warrior skipped nimbly out of the way.

The two men circled each other, Red-Beard’s face drawn into a terrible snarl. The other warrior maintained his calm, watching, parrying each wild swing of the axe, waiting for his moment to strike.

Although Lyra’s stomach roiled at the bloodshed and she trembled uncontrollably, she was strangely excited, hearing only the sounds of steel upon steel and the grunts and heavy breathing of the men. That these two warriors had come to her rescue just as she was despairing at her captivity, was surely meant to be. Her heart was in her mouth as she prayed for the victory of the tall, dark-haired warrior.

To her unbounded relief he took his advantage when it came, thrusting a fierce claymore through his opponent’s belly. Red-beard sank to his knees, blood spurting and, with a loud groan, he fell face forward and lay still.

It was over.

The two warriors hastily wiped the blood from their weapons and the slightly taller one of the pair turned to Lyra and bowed from the waist as calmly as if this was a mere Sunday afternoon pleasantry. She marveled at the cool way he had dispatched two men to meet their Maker, while her heart was hammering at what she’d been witness to.

“I am Tòrr MacKinnon. At yer service, lass. Ye’ve naught tae fear from these four unholy miscreants now.”

He turned to the other tall lad who also bowed. But where Tòrr was elegant, the second man was burly, his shoulders wide. “Me companion is named Edmund Sinclair.”

Still trembling, Lyra studied the two men. Both were good to look upon in their own way, although she had seen few men during her years in the Priory to make comparisons. Edmund’s strong face was marred by a scar that travelled from his temple to his jaw while Tòrr’s features were fine-boned, unblemished and aristocratic. Truth be told, there was something in Tòrr’s face that appealed to her more than Edmund’s, despite his fierce frown.

Hauling in a deep, steadying, breath, she curtsied, “I thank ye kindly fer yer valor. I dinnae ken who these wretches were, yet I feared fer me life when they took me.”

At that moment Mother Una came darting from the gate where she’d remained while the fighting took place. She carried the carved box containing Lyra’s precious items and the bundle of clothing they had put together. She seemed to recognize the dark-haired man.

She squinted, taking in the warrior’s features, a flash of recognition in her eyes. “I believe ye’re the Laird Tòrr MacKinnon, are ye nae? I remember ye from many years past. Now ye’re grown and have earned a reputation.”

Tòrr nodded, gravely. “Aye. That is me name.” He gave a soft laugh. “And, I ken some have called me The Mad Laird. I came here fer a meeting with the Abbott Finguine, who is one of me kin. We had business at the Monastery.” He gestured toward the distant Abbey, further along the path. “We were making our way back tae the village of Baile Mòr, planning tae take a boat over tae Mull, when we came upon these ruffians.”

“I thank ye most kindly fer yer intervention. Without it, I fear this lass would have been dragged with them tae a terrible fate.” Mother Una reached for Lyra’s hand. “I beg ye tae take the Lady Lyra wi’ ye tae the Isle of Mull.”

Lyra gasped.

What is this? I’ve only barely escaped from those barbarians and now Maither Una wishes tae foist me on tae these strangers.

In despair, she turned to Mother Una who spoke but quiet enough for Lyra to be the one hearing the words. “Lyra, dinnae forget the plan we made and the steps ye were tae follow if ye were in danger and needed tae escape.

Lyra nodded, recalling the instructions she’d memorized long ago. She had to flee across the water to Fionnphort. At the tavern there she was to ask for a man named Thorfinn Comyn, who would help her return to her clan lands.

She squared her shoulders and looked up at the Laird Tòrr. “I dinnae wish tae travel wi’ ye.”

Tòrr dipped his head. “Dinnae fash, lassie. I’ve nay intention of taking ye away from Iona. I’ve nay need fer a nun at me castle. The priest who bides at Dùn Ara is a solitary soul who’d nae take kindly tae a young nun disturbing his solitude.”

Mother Una quickly intervened. “Ye dinnae understand, me laird. This lady is nae nun but an oblate who has been wi’ us since she was a bairn. Enemies of her family have sought her out.” Here Mother Una caught her breath, signing the Cross. “She is in grave danger now they’ve discovered where she bides. She raised pleading hands. “I implore ye tae take her wi’ ye tae safety on the isle of Mull.”

Lyra observed this with a sinking heart. If she was taken to Mull in the custody of the Laird Tòrr, how would she ever be able to make her way back to the mainland, to her clan? She huffed with indignation.

The laird bowed deferentially to Mother Una. “I regret I cannae be of assistance tae the lass, Maither. I am nay sailing back tae Dùn Ara, but travelling tae me home on horseback.”

He turned to go.

Mother Una was wringing her hands in desperation, while Lyra looked on with a measure of satisfaction. She could hardly be blamed if Laird Tòrr was the one to refuse to take her.

“Look!” Mother Una cried out suddenly in great alarm, her hand pointing toward the waters of the Sound of Iona that separated Iona from the Isle of Mull. Although the light was fading and darkness would soon fall, it was clearly visible from where they stood. A boat was making its way toward the shore. “There are more of those evil men coming here. If ye abandon her she’ll be taken.”

Catching sight of the boat, Lyra felt a stab of ice through her heart.

Rowing hard against the tide were another eight men, dressed similarly to the four gallowglasses who had been defeated by Tòrr and his companion.

He groaned. “I see them. Ye’re right, there will be nay protection fer the lass.” He turned to Edmund who was nodding. “We must take her wi’ us. There’s nay choice fer I’ll nay leave the lass tae be taken by those vicious barbarians.” He reached a hand to seize Lyra’s arm. “Come, there’s nay time tae waste.”

Before she could so much as protest or even bid farewell to the Priory, Mother Una thrust her belongings into her arms and waved her away. “Go, quickly. Be safe. I shall send word tae yer clan of yer whereabouts, me dear.”

With that, the three of them hurtled down the path heading toward the village.

They raced along the shore; Tòrr held out a supporting hand to Lyra as she stumbled on the rocks, but she shook it away.

“Hurry lass,” Edmund urged. “We must reach our fisherman before the others reach the shore.”

Lyra ran as fast as she was able, Tòrr carrying her bundle and the carved box. Still her skirts tangled around her knees and the rocks underfoot caused her to tread too slowly. She felt as if she was a great burden to these men, a prisoner they’d been forced to take and protect.

When at last they came upon the boat they sought, the fisherman Tam who was to row them across the sound was waiting nearby. Lyra refused to stand by submissively, but bent her back along with the others as they hastily pushed the boat from the shore. Once they were in deeper water and Tam plied the oars, she took her place beside them without a word.

It was only as she watched the disappearing shore of Iona and the distant stone walls of the Priory, gulls wheeling overhead, that Lyra’s perilous situation truly dawned on her. Little did she know when the day had dawned, what would befall her by nightfall. Even her worst nightmare would not have prepared her for this day. Now, here she was, in the company of two strangers, fleeing from the only place she’d ever felt safe, having narrowly escaped being poisoned and kidnapped. She was heading for an uncertain future in a place she knew nothing about, except that it was taking her even further from her clan lands.

Trying to catch her breath, Lyra looked along the beach where the gallowglasses were just pulling their boat into the shore. As they reached it, to her horror, she saw one of them pointing in their direction. Several dun-clad men started along the beach heading their way.

“Quick, quick.” Her breath caught in her throat and her heart was pounding so hard she almost expected it to jump from her chest. She moaned as the men headed toward them at a run, shouting words she could not make out.

Tam, the fisherman, pulled hard on his oars while both Tòrr and Edmund unsheathed their claymores and hefted the heavy swords firmly in readiness. As the little craft skimmed across the water Lyra saw the men who were hunting her pushing their boat into the deep water.

“Can ye go faster?” Lyra tried to draw in a breath, but it seemed locked in her throat.

While she might escape, what would become of Mother Una and the sisters, now so unprotected in the nunnery. If the first four men had not hesitated to commit sacrilege by forcing their way into the nunnery and, even worse, striking Mother Una, she expected the others would show no mercy.

She grew cold, her fingers and toes tingled, her head was suddenly dizzy and her hands were stricken with a sudden, uncontrollable, shaking.

Edmund looked at her, a frown creasing his brow. “Are ye all right, lass?”

She shook her head, gasping, one hand clasping her chest as if to steady her heartbeat.

Tòrr caught her eye. “Dinnae fash, lass. We’re away. They’ll nae catch us now. Ye’re safe with us.”

He spoke kindly, but he did not understand. Her fear was not for herself, but for the sisters and Mother Una. She struggled to speak, but the words simply wouldn’t leave her lips.

They were still some way from the shore when Tam put up his oars. “Ye’ll need to slip over the side now. ‘Tis low tide and I cannae take the boat further in for fear of being jagged on those rocks.” He pointed to a row of sharp rocks exposed by the tide.

Edmund leaped over the side, the water well above his knees. Tòrr passed Lyra’s bundle and the wooden box over and Edmund began making his way toward the shore with her belongings under his arm.

Tòrr was tucking his kilt into his belt, paying her little attention. “There’s naething fer it, but fer us tae go into the water and wade tae shore. Tie up those robes, or else ye’ll be wet through.”

Lyra was still striving to draw breath and all she could do was shake her head while her fingers fumbled with her voluminous clothing. Suddenly it all seemed too much.

“Lass, we must away.” Tòrr threw one leg over the side of the boat, tipping it alarmingly, as he stepped into the water.

The boat righted itself and a shaking Lyra rose to her feet, still gasping, struggling to breathe evenly. She took a small step and raised one foot onto the edge of the boat which again threatened to tip. She gave a small, alarmed cry. Tòrr, who was standing in thigh-high water, urged her impatiently.

“Just slide yer leg over, lass, the water is nay deep. “Be quick if ye dinnae wish to be captured again.” He looked up at the sound of shouting from across the water. “They’re nae far behind us.”

Almost out of her wits by now, Lyra slowly lowered herself over the side into the dark water. As both her legs went in, she was suddenly afraid and clutched at the side of the boat, causing it to tip. She fell back, flailing, her feet scrabbling in vain for the seabed as the water rushed over her. Taking in a large, choking, gulp of salty water, she disappeared under the surface of the murky sea.

It was so dark. In her panic she quite forgot to hold her breath and the water rushed into her nostrils. She thrashed her arms and kicked her feet but she was weak and dizzy and it was impossible to tell which way would take her up to the surface and which direction would drag her to the bottom.

Her chest was burning as it filled with water. In one last desperate attempt, she managed to fling her arms wide, opening her mouth in a silent scream as the world became distant. She closed her eyes.

So, this is what drowning feels like.

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