The boy shifted about uneasily as his companions muttered amongst themselves. “You’re talking pish, you are. It’s a stone of Clan Macomrag, any fool can see that,” he said. But some of the others looked doubtful now.
She smiled.
“Kaetha—” warned Donnan.
She ignored him. “The lettering may have weathered but the name you’re pointing to is ‘Mealcanaul’ – an Edonian clan – not ‘Macomrag’.” The others squinted up at the writing too. “Would you like some reading lessons?”
There was sniggering amongst the group and the boy went red, glaring venomously at Kaetha. She felt like laughing at him but restrained herself. When a smile twitched the corner of her mouth, he came at her, seizing her clothing at the neck and pushing her against the standing stone.
“You’re nothing but a doaty bitch,” he snarled. He was pushing at her neck, making it hard for her to breathe. She grabbed his wrists, pushing his hands away. He flinched then and staggered backwards, staring at her. She thought of how she had burned Raghnall’s face with a slap all those months ago but her skin didn’t feel hot and tingly as it had then. What had made him look at her like that?
Then there was a loud bark of derisive laughter and she turned to see a man standing behind her, flanked by lairds and ladies. He was an imposing figure, tall, broad and muscular, with fair receding hair and a thick beard. A pleated cloak draped from one of his massive shoulders across his shirt and warrior’s leather jerkin, secured with intricately wrought golden clasps and a mighty sword hung at his side. Kaetha tried not to look intimidated.
“She proved you wrong and no mistake, Murdo! All that gold spent on the best tutors, learned men from Roinmor and Torrath. I’d have expected my son to read better than a common fishlass. You’d better let her be on her way before she bests you in battle as well as wits.”
“That’s the chieftain,” whispered Donnan, drawing her away from the group.
“You mean—” She looked at the boy again.
“Murdo Macomrag.”
Her insides squirmed. Had she just humiliated the son of Thane Macomrag? Heat rose to her face as she and Donnan made their escape. As they hurried down to the beach, the sky darkened. A fresh wind carrying the promise of rain.
Their feet crunched on shingle. To the west was the harbour where fishing boats clustered around jetties. To the east, great rocks marked the edge of Cannasay. It seemed to Kaetha that there was something strange about the rocks, as if they’d been prised out of the cliff itself and scattered by giants. Weeds, barnacles and limpets clung to those which would be submerged at high tide – to all but one anyway.
As she drew closer to it, a familiar tingling washed over the back of her neck. She climbed, her attention drawn to the bare rock as, once, it had been drawn to a particular spot in the River Eachburn. However, she saw no sign of life near it. Her fingers grew cold as she rested her hand on its rough surface.
“What are you doing?” called Donnan.
She snatched her hand away. “Nothing.” She said, jumping down. “Exploring.”
They wandered through the chattering crowd until they reached Aedan. Kaetha took her place beside him. Mairi was at his other side.
“Whatever this news is about, I’m sure the Macomrags will do well out of it,” said a man with fluffy white hair and monks robes.
“Kaetha, this is Brother Gillespie,” said Nannie who appeared at his side. “An old friend.”
Chatter subsided as the Macomrags made their slow descent down a gently sloping path which reached the shore opposite the fishing boats. The crowd parted for them as they strode down the beach, cloaks flowing out behind them, followed by their lairds, to a point where the cliff face formed a natural alcove. Indulf Macomrag stood upon a rock and cleared his throat.
“Some of you may not have heard,” he boomed, his voice amplified by the shaping of the cliff face, “that these are days of mourning for our late king. A ruler, a warrior and a friend to all of us in the great clanland of Mormuin.”
“Not to all of us,” someone in the crowd muttered.
“The seven earls have named the new ruler,” he continued, “and so, it is with honour that I proclaim Svelrik, son of Alran, as our king.” The gathering became more vocal now as they discussed this revelation. “As a boon to his people, our gracious king offers to waive this season’s taxes.”
This gained cheers from the people but Brother Gillespie’s voice cut through them all. “Where is Princess Rhona? The king’s trueborn daughter? His firstborn child? She should be queen,” he declared. Kaetha smiled but the thane looked darkly at him. “Where – is – Queen Rhona?” Brother Gillespie shouted. Some people nodded, voicing their agreement with him whilst others appeared to be happily contemplating a season free of taxes. Thane Macomrag gestured to two of his men at arms and they pushed through the crowd, seizing the monk.
“Let him go!” shouted Kaetha.
“What’s happening?” There was panic in Nannie’s voice. “Gippie?”
“There will be no tolerance of rebellious talk,” boomed Thane Macomrag. “Take him to Kaernock Hall where I will decide how to punish him.”
“No!” cried Nannie. “The bishop won’t allow this.”
“The bishop is not thane,” shouted Indulf’s son, Murdo.
How could they treat a harmless man like this? It wasn’t right. Rage shot through Kaetha. Then there was a loud crack. A streak of white fire, like lightning, flashed from the air, striking one of the guards. He let go of the monk, collapsing
