Scorrybreac Castle, Isle of Skye, Scotland, January 1312

Tyra MacNeacail paced the long length of the solar. The fire glowed bright in the giant hearth, her discarded embroidery lying crumpled on the mat where she’d dropped it. But she paid it no heed, her mind had frozen when the scullery maid had delivered her note on the tray with her refreshments.

Her heart pounding as she strode, her hands trembling and clammy, she attempted to settle herself sufficiently to take up the parchment, crack open the seal, and read the contents. Yet, she knew full well that the note – like all the others that had been delivered over the past weeks – would contain nothing but cruelty and wickedness. The cursed things had been as mysterious as they were hideous. They’d appeared under her door at the dead of night, on her table, even under her pillow. Now this one, delivered to the solar by an unwitting maid.

She smoothed her hair with long elegant fingers, even though not a blonde hair was out of place in her elaborate coif. Her gown was of fine blue wool, her stockings silk, her boots leather, yet, all her finery brought her no pleasure or delight. The castle where she’d been raised had once been a place of comfort and safety and had always surrounded her with warmth and kindness. Yet now she felt exposed, vulnerable, in deadly danger, even though she was supposedly safe behind its sheltering walls.

The door swung open and Annora, the wife of Tyra’s half-brother, the Laird Edmund, swept into the room. She was a little breathless, as if she’d been running, her dark brows drawn together in a worried frown.

“Oh, Tyra. I hurried here as soon as I heard. Are ye all right? The maid came tae me with word that ye’d been sent yet another message. Daes it contain the same threats?”

Tyra crossed the room to embrace her sister-in-law.

The two women hugged, Tyra clinging for reassurance to her sister.

“What are we tae dae Tyra? I dinnae believe ye can continue like this. Ye’re thin and pale, and I notice ye dinnae eat at supper time when we’re together.”

Tyra hauled in a deep breath to steady herself before she responded. She emptied her lungs and inhaled again, pointing with shaking fingers toward the offending parchment on the table.

“I havenae been able tae bring meself tae open it.”

She sank into one of the comfortable chairs in front of the fire, burying her head in her hands.

Annora stood beside her, a hand on her shoulder. “I dinnae ken how I can help ye.”

Tyra looked up, her eyes glazed with tears. “I dinnae believe anyone can help.”

Sighing, Annora was wringing her hands. “There must be something we can dae.”

Tyra reluctantly rose to her feet and walked across to the table. She picked up the note, holding it between the tip of her forefinger and thumb as if the very act of touching it would bring her harm.

As Annora stood by, Tyra cracked open the splotch of deep red sealing wax and folded out the parchment. She offered it to Annora.

“I cannae read this. Can ye please read it on me behalf?”

Reluctantly, Annora, held up the parchment, scanning it with her gaze. She paled, gasping, placing a hand at her throat, her eyes anguished.

“This makes me feel ill as if I have the black fever. Me stomach roils to look at it. I cannae believe anyone can be so wicked as tae send such a note.”

Tyra reached across to take the note, shaking her head, the tears now trickling down her pale cheeks.

Lady Tyra of the foul Clan MacNeacail, she read aloud, shivering at every word. I look forward tae the day when I will gut ye like a fish.

She gasped and cried out. “That is truly awful Annora.” She turned to pace the length of the solar one more time, refusing to glance at the parchment she still held in her hand.

Annora hurried after her and placed an arm around her waist.

“I ken this is a terrible burden on ye. We all feel it. Me dear husband Edmund and meself worry each day and night fer yer safety. Double guards have been placed at the portcullis and along the wall.”

“Yet somehow, these cursed notes still find their way tae me.”

Guiding Tyra back to her seat, Annora waited until she had regained the comfort of her chair and then took the seat beside her again.

“Look at this,” Tyra brandished the note, her voice wavering. “Whoever wrote this, wants me without breath, gasping like a fish, and then…” she shuddered. “He will slice me open, rip out me heart and entrails, sever me head and display it on a pike.”

“And whoever it was who wrote this, and all the other notes, is clearly mad.” Annora said, firmly. “Ye mustnae take it tae heart. He cannae touch ye here.”

Tyra moaned. “If he can penetrate our defenses tae somehow send his message tae the castle, then how dae I ken he willnae send an assassin tae capture me, or kill me in me bed, or while I’m bathing, or even here…” she looked around, rolling her eyes. “While I sit at me embroidery.”

Annora groaned. “I cannae say. Both Edmund and meself believe the threats are real.”

“I ken they are real. And I ken the madman who sends them,” she clenched her fists, “’tis the man I once believed loved me. The man I once gave me heart tae. Me betrothed. The man who betrayed all of us with his lies and treachery. The Laird Harris MacDonald of Sleat.”

“Aye.” Annora gave a weary shake of her head. “He is forbidden tae ever enter our lands. Yet, ye are right. These missives find their way into the very heart of the castle.”

The two women lapsed into a strained silence, Tyra’s thoughts racing. If only she could bury her head under the coverlets on her bed and never arise again. There was nowhere that seemed safe to her. Every figure she encountered in the passageway, or striding in the courtyard, could be someone intent on ending her life. Or worse still, abducting her and taking her to someplace where Harris could vent his fury and madness on her as he’d been threatening.

Annora rose to her feet and reached for Tyra’s hand.

“Come. Let us take this most recent missive tae Edmund. Mayhaps he will find a way to keep ye safe.”

Tyra stood, the note in her hand, giving Annora a watery smile. “Aye. Me braither’s wisdom is what I wish fer.”

***

Edmund had only just returned to his study after a morning in the jousting yard with his lance. He was hot and his arms were aching from the many thrusts he’d made with his heavy weapon. Yet there was satisfaction in it.

He called “Enter,” when he heard his beloved wife at his door, and both Annora and his sister entered. From their expressions, he expected bad news. He drew in a sharp breath as he caught sight of the folded parchment in Tyra’s hand.

She held it out and he reached for it. “Another?”

Both Annora and Tyra nodded, their faces etched with worry and concern. He could see the newly drawn lines of fear on his sister’s bonnie face. This was no good. He clenched his fists. His thoughts tangled momentarily with the bodily damage he would do to Laird Harris if he should be found within the boundaries of the lands belonging to Clan MacNeacail.

He gestured to the two women to sit, while he stood by the fire and read the message.

His faced darkened to thunder as he read the hate-filled words.

“This is shorter than the others, but even more vicious.” He moved to the drawer in his cabinet and withdrew a sheaf of similar parchments, tied with a length of black string.

Shuffling through them, he grunted. “From the first of his notes, when he seemed only to hint at harm,” he held up a several notes, “they have gradually become more menacing and even more evil. He speaks of ruining yer name, then destroying what ye love and what brings ye pleasure. He speaks of killing yer falcon and yer favorite mare and laying them at yer door. It appears that as the months wear on, his fury grows until the threats are now directed at yer person wi’ the aim of maiming ye and, ultimately, bringing about yer death.”

Tyra’s tears were flowing freely now. “Aye.” She looked up her brother an Annora with tear-stained eyes. “From the venomous snake he threatened tae place in me bed, tae drowning me in the burn as a witch and setting me on fire. Now this latest.”

Frowning fiercely, Edmund growled. “The man is clearly dangerous and should be destroyed like a mad dog.”

Annora nodded, giving him a wry smile.

“Indeed, ye are correct, Edmund. However, our chief mission now must be tae keep our dear Tyra safe from harm. If the man can send a message and we cannae detect the messenger, there’s nay telling whether or nae he can enter our keep.”

Edmund nodded. “Of course.” He turned to Tyra, “Yer safekeeping is uppermost in our minds.” He replaced the collection of notes in the drawer, adding the most recent missive.

“I have given much thought tae this. It is me view that as long as ye are here at Scorrybreac ye are in grave danger.”

“But where can I go?” Tyra clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap, twisting the folds of her woolen skirt.

“When I saw the threats becoming murderous, I took it on meself tae contact the Abbot at Pluscarden”. Edmund turned to Tyra. “He is a distant relative of our faither’s and I believe he may be able tae help.”

“Help? How?” Tyra asked.

“He has spoken with Mother Matilda at the Pluscarden Nunnery. She has agreed tae grant ye shelter there, as an oblate.”

Tyra gasped. “But… that would mean I must travel there. Pluscarden is at Moray, a great distance from us. Would it nae make sense fer me tae take shelter at Iona?”

“Iona is much closer, ‘tis true. But if Harris somehow learns ye’ve taken shelter wi’ the nuns, that is where he will go in search of ye. He’ll nae search fer ye at Moray.”

Annora was nodding. “I see this may be the answer we need.”

“’Tis practical, I admit, but I dinnae wish tae go so far from home.” Tyra looked from one face to the other, but Emund shook his head.

“I dinnae wish fer ye tae leave us, me wee sister. But if ye are safe wi’ the nuns, I can hope tae seek a marriage fer ye. Once ye are betrothed it will be unlikely that Harris will harm ye.”

Annora pshawed. “I’d nae trust him.”

Edmund nodded. “Surely, only a true madman would bring down the wrath of two clans on his head.”

Tyra drew a sharp breath. “A true madman is exactly what he is, Edmund.”

Always practical, Annora leaned forward. “When is Tyra meant tae leave us?”

“I dinnae wish tae leave me home.” Tyra looked from one to the other, but both Annora and Edmund were immovable.

“I can see nay other solution. Ye are correct when ye say our own keep may nae be able tae provide protection from a villain like Harris. I shall send a messenger tae the mainland tae make arrangements fer ye tae stay at the inns along the way and tae have horses ready fer ye.”

“And am I tae travel alone? Ye’ll nae accompany me?” Tyra’s voice shook.

Edmund enfolded her hand in his. “Me plan calls fer ye tae leave as soon as ye make ready. Me birlinn will take ye across. There is a need fer stealth. I wish ye tae make yer way before there is a chance fer Harris tae ken ye’re gone. It shall be a small party with soldiers from me garrison as yer guards. Harris will nae anticipate ye’ll be traveling in the depths of winter.”

Annora reached for Tyra’s other hand and squeezed it.

“Me dear sister, I ken yer life here is much curtailed by these terrible threats. ‘Tis nae the weather that keeps ye inside the confines of the keep, but fear. Even though ye’ll be mostly within the cloisters at Pluscarden, ye’ll be free tae walk abroad and tae visit the village.”

Tyra sighed. “I understand and I am grateful fer yer concern and fer yer help. But please,” she turned pleading eyes to Edmund. “Find me a husband as soon as ye can, fer I’m nae one fer the quiet contemplative life of the nuns.”

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