Blood of the Clans

The three story-tellers stood at the prow, looking at the faces of the love-struck women, as they heard the story of Garreth and Therese. They couldn't help but feel they were telling a love story, the way they all sighed and moaned, at all the romance of it.

They had made it to the tip of the western coast and came to Neist Point Lighthouse, perched atop a jagged out-cropping of rock, the sheer bluffs surrounding it. The yacht plowed through the breaking waves, making the turn to head north and soon into Dunvegan Bay once more. As the yacht approached the castle, the seals were swimming alongside of them once again, welcoming them back. Slowly the yacht edged its way to the dock and mooring lines were tossed out to the staff waiting for them. As Dennis shut the engines down, he turned to Stuart looking smugly. "And it's five to six, can't do any better than than, eh Stuart?"

"No Dennis, ye did a grand job, so ye did. The boys as well. Thank ye everyone fer yer efforts, it was truly a marvellous journey. Now, let's get up tae the castle and rest ourselves before dinner." Stuart said, as he led the way back up to the castle.

The entire entourage, including Dennis and Frick and Frack, made their way up the sea-wall passage and into the courtyard. Everyone stopped to take a breath from the long climb and looked out at the bay, as a brilliant streak of sunlight was bursting through the clouds and illuminating the water.

"Shall we all go inside and ha'e some refreshments before dinner is served. I think it's time tae gi' the men a bit of action fer a change, so I'll ha'e Argus pick up wi' Sloan and his lot, where he left off, while I attend tae a few things and I'll join ye all later."

Stuart said, as he ushered everyone inside to the hall and some beverages, as well as some fresh shortbread and ginger cookies.

The guests sat in their regular seats and started enjoying themselves to the refreshments, before calling for Argus to start off again. Taking a few more bites of shortbread and finishing them, Argus wiped the few crumbs from his mouth and thought of where he had left off. Remembering, his face turned a degree or two more serious, as he set about describing a night of thieving birlinns, with men you hated and wanted to kill.

********************

As night fell, Sloan, Blain and six of the strongest and best fighters of his clan, entered Dunollie Castle, to join the others who would be going on the raiding party. They stood at the entrance en masse, Sloan discreetly noting to Blain who the main players were. Blain paid particular attention when Sloan pointed out to him who Jacob MacLean was. He took stock of him and his men, sizing them up against their own, should the timing be right to take Jacob MacLean out of the living. James MacRae noticed Sloan's arrival and boomed out his name.

"Sloan Fraser. Come, join us fer a drink before ye go."

Sloan crossed the room with his uncle, the others milling about with men from the other clans, accepting tankards of ale mixed with mead, in friendship. James stood with the other leaders, Andrew, Jacob and Harlan, in front of the fire, enjoying the warmth more than the others. James offered Sloan a cup of the ale they were drinking, one of considerable better quality, than what the other men were drinking. James looked to Blain, standing beside him and Sloan introduced him.

"James MacRae, This is my uncle, Blain Fraser, brother tae my father, McCaulay." He said to him, looking for any reaction and seeing a change in facial expression, then turned to his uncle. "Blain, this James MacRae, who will be oor new Chieftain, we will sept wi'."

James held his hand out in greeting, taking Blain's wrist, Blain taking his in kind. There was a careful study made by each man of the other, before James smiled and offered him a drink of ale. Blain accepted it with a cheer of, " Slainte", to him, James returning it in kind.

"Blain, this is Andrew MacDougall, this is Harlan Douglas and this is Jacob MacLean." directing his hand to each, as he spoke.

Blain greeted each with a shake of clasped wrists, holding on to Jacob's hand a little

longer, looking into his eyes and studying him, before letting go, showing no emotion one way or the other, then stood beside Sloan again. Jacob looked visibly unnerved by the look and body language Blain used, then tried laughing it off with some derision of him.

"So, Blain, are ye better at taking a poke of fun, than yer brother was?" Jacob chuckled out, thinking it would lighten the mood between them.

As Jacob was about to laugh again, his eyes went wide in horror, realizing what Blain had just done. He clutched his throat, feeling the sharp point of the small snee buried deep in his windpipe, the blood already drowning him. Before he closed his eyes, Blain had moved in, holding him by his tunic, taking hold of the handle and looking into his darkening eyes.

"He did'ne like it, and neither do I."

With that, Blain tore a gaping slit through the side of Jacob's neck, his blood cascading out in a crimson waterfall. He wiped the blade off on the dead man's tunic and threw the lifeless body to the floor. The room had become frozen in time, as everyone watched in shock, at what had just happened. Blain stood and looked about at the others in front of him, challenging them to make a move against him. In as fast a move, his larger dirk, was out and ready to strike. Iain MacLean made a move for his sword, but before it was halfway out, the point of Blain's dirk was less than an inch from his throat, his fierce eyes showing his dark desire to go forward six more inches.

Iain staid his sword, as the MacLean's in the room came about the scene. Angers rose, seeing Jacob lying on the floor in an ever widening pool of blood, his head close to being severed completely. As they drew their swords and knives against Sloan and Blain, the other Fraser's, now standing close behind them, had theirs brandished and ready, a stand-off of steel taking place. One wrong move by anyone and it wouldn't end, until many bodies littered the floor, their blood staining it.

"STAY YER BLADES." The booming command of James MacRae filled the room and took hold of the situation. "He got what he deserved, same as Sloan's father got what he deserved, fer what he did. Is there any argument tae that?"

The MacLean's and Fraser's slowly lowered their swords in obeyance, but looks of hatred darted out and a dire unease fell upon the men.

"I'll let that be vengeance served, Blain Fraser. Raise another blade against a man under my command ag'in and I'll finish ye where ye stand. Are we in accord?"

James stood in close distance to Blain, the dirk and bloodied snee still in his hands. Blain sheathed them and bowed his head to MacRae.

"I swear an oath, nae tae draw against another, James MacRae."

Blain crossed his right fist over his heart, and looked up to see James, smiling at him.

"I can'ne hold it against ye, fer wanting tae do him in, Blain. It was a stupid thing tae say tae ye. Blood has been spilled by both sides noo and neither needs tae spill any more."

The law of MacRae's rule defined the logic in the men, as they sheathed their swords and eased the tense state among everyone, in every clan.

"Iain MacLean, yer noo the head of yer clan. Come and make peace wi' the Fraser's and put this tae rest noo. I'll say the same tae ye as well. Draw a blade against a Fraser, or any other under me, and ye'll wish ye had'ne."

MacRae's eyes bore into Iain's and showed the dominance of rule to obey. Iain crossed to Sloan and held his hand to him, the look in his eyes, a tale of hatred and submissive abeyance battling each other. Sloan took his offered hand and clasped the wrist tight with his hand. He pulled him closer and bore his own look into Iain's eyes.

"I'll abide by the rule James MacRae has set forth, will ye? If not, my sword is ready tae

draw blood against ye."

Iain saw the fierceness set in the steel blue eyes, the hand on the hilt of his sword, and seven more men looking at him the same way, helped him make the right choice for him and his clan.

"I'll abide by his rule and declare a peace wi' ye"

Sloan let go of his arm, throwing it away from him and watched Iain turn to go back to his men. The tension in the room dropped, as acceptance was taken and no one made an objection to it. They knew in their hearts and minds, to expect some sort of revenge by the Fraser's for their leader, McCauley, being killed. The MacLean's picked up the body of their fallen leader, still emptying his life's blood over the dirty, wooden floor and walked quietly from the room, a crimson trail of clan vengeance following them.

The clans talked quietly between themselves, taking stock of the situation and where things stood with them. James looked about at them and called for their attention, knowing they were becoming unsure of the alliance. Two leader's deaths already and they were at their ally's hands. The signs weren't pointing in the right direction to success for him.

"Clans, hear me. There'll be no more talk of bad blood. Each of us stands tae gain a great deal from this, if we stay t'gether. Do ye's want tae wage war against the other clans and hopefully win, only tae end up wiping oot the rest of yerselves afterwards, all because of bad blood. Noo, I'll ha'e no more talk of it. We ha'e a plan in place fer the night and it will be carried oot. When MacLean has settled wi' his brother, we'll get started. Tae keep the peace, the Fraser's will go wi' the Douglas', and the MacLean's will go wi' the MacDougall's, mine will be amongst ye's, making' sure tae keep the peace."

The clans parted to separate areas of the room, allowing a calm to settle, while they waited for the MacLean's to return. Once they did, James gave the signal for them to head to the birlinn and begin the plan that was scheduled. As they made their way out of the keep, James stopped and stood with the leaders at the entrance, save Sloan, who had other plans to attend to tonight and watched as they headed to the shore, dividing into their groups as they boarded it. The one thing the men were pleased to see, was the cloudy sky, covering a crescent moon that would shed little light to their deeds. Fate might yet play a hand they could win tonight.

At forty feet in length and ten feet in the beam, the birlinn was the master of the seas, able to hold up to forty battle-ready men. The larch wood hull was laid over oak ribs, making it light, yet extremely durable. A coating of charred ash had been rubbed over the light brown of the wood, taking away the sheen and any sight of it in the water. Sixteen oars were manned two each, by members of each clan, the strongest of each starting them out, the strain on their muscles hard, getting the heavy craft underway.

Cool night air and a gentle breeze added an ease to rowing, as they made their way south, taking the longer way around Kerrera Island, to avoid being spotted from the more populated areas along the channel. Catching the outer channel winds now, the oars were brought in and stowed length-wise along the keel, as the square, indigo coloured sail was raised. The pull of the wind, had waves breaking over the prow in no time, the mist wetting the faces of the marauders on board.

Even with the weight of all the men, the birlinn made great speed in open waters. With the good winds behind them, they made the end of Kerrera quickly and headed east to their first two birlinns on the list, in Loch Feochan. Just as Sloan and the other Fraser's had suspected, the Douglas' and the MacLean's had chosen the nearest ones to save time. The tops of the masts could be seen swaying back and forth gently with the waves, as they sailed closer.

The large fortress stood close to the water's edge, battlements and a high curtain wall provided a commanding view of the loch and a strong defence against attack. The birlinn sailed slowly past, far out in the loch, keeping their invisibility, as they scouted the crenellations for signs of guard movement. Throwing the rudder over gently, they came about and made a closer pass, looking for their plan of attack. The guards moved in counter-rotation to each other about the wall, giving a short window of opportunity, as they passed each other on the far side.

An inlet to the west of the fortress, provided an easy place to pull up and let the first ten men out quietly, their soft, deerskin boots making little noise on the grassy shore. They pushed the birlinn away from the shore and made their way back along the coast towards the fortress. The others sailed back around the isthmus near the mouth and moored in wait on the far side. Should there be any trouble, they were ready to ambush anyone who came after them.

Looking through a clearing, Bruce MacDougall, Andrew's younger brother, scouted the area for signs of the guards keeping watch. After a few minutes, he saw it was safe to approach, the guards making their way around to the rear, on their scheduled rounds. He motioned for the others to follow behind him and with no more than a whisper of a sound, the men made their way to the boats and untied them, pushing them out from the stone pier, into the water and climbing aboard. They quickly and quietly handed the oars out and set them in place, with only a few bumps to make noise. In unison, the men started stroking the oars quietly in the water, to get distance from the shore and into the cover of night, before putting more effort into rowing. It would be dawn, before the guards would notice the boats missing and raise the alarm, their punishment severe for the loss.

When the two boats cleared the point coming out of Loch Feochan, their sails were raised and they were sailing past the others, all hands raised in silent triumph. The main crew set their oars rowing again, getting past the point and raised the sail, silently going past the fortress and further down the loch to the head, to the retrieve the boat at the end. The next two MacLean and three MacDougall members prepared themselves to jump out, while the boat was still moving, allowing the birlinn to turn and get out of sight quickly. A clearing ahead, afforded them a safe landing, as well as making very little noise to alert anyone. As they made for the clearing, the five were over the side, making shore and rolling on the soft grass. Harold MacRae, steering the birlinn, gave a whispered order of, "Oars up," and threw the tiller over, turning the boat slowly, making little noise in the water, before giving the order to row again. They slowly rowed on back up the loch, the sound fading quickly, as the distance was made between them.

The five men travelled along the water's edge in stealth, until they could see the mast, a short distance ahead. Kyle MacLean motioned for the others to stay, while he went ahead and scouted the area. Looking along the coast and then up to the stone manse, Kyle looked for signs of a guard. He didn't see anyone and was just going to motion for everyone to come forward, when a cough alerted him to someone sitting against a tree a short distance away, to his left. He scouted for a way through the brush, without making noise and saw a clear enough path.

Measuring each step for weight and balance, Kyle approached the reclining guard from behind. The faint hiss of steel on leather was made, as he withdrew two dirks from their scabbards. Coming up behind the tree, he spread his arms wide and brought the blades around in a hug of death, as both tips pierced the guard and drove deep into his heart. With edges facing each other, he pulled them apart, severing the man's heart in half, a word never being uttered. The dull thud of the body hitting the ground, barely broke the silence of the night, after Kyle relieved the dirks from their duties. He crept back in silence and motioned for the others to follow. They passed the slain guard, each man noting him as they passed, the twin punctures slowing in their flow, releasing the lifeblood from him.

They made for the birlinn with quiet haste and untied it. The bottom scraped against the gravelled bottom, making enough noise to echo down the quiet loch. The barking of a dog had their cover taken, no longer caring now if they were heard, they continued pushing hard and floated the craft, before the five climbed in and took positions. Setting the oars in their locks, the men rowed in double-speed, not caring about the splashing of the oars in the water. Lit torches could be seen coming from the manse, bobbing and weaving about, as the holders made their way down the rocky terrain to them.

They were well out of range of the few arrows released at them, and in moments, they slid into the blackness of the night and disappeared. Rowing along the shore for guidance, they made their way back towards the mouth of the loch. As Kyle stood high on the prow looking for obstacles, a soft thud was heard and he was suddenly taken overboard into the black waters. The men quickly looked at him, as he floated past face down, an arrow plunged through his neck. In moments several more arrows were streaking in through the darkness, only the growing hiss of the flights in the air, making their presence known.

Dermott MacDougall felt the point of the arrow pierce his thigh, letting out a guttural cry, as it continued through and joined him to the wooden plank he was sitting on. With his life at stake, there was no time for tending to it and continued rowing with the others.

As they headed out into the loch's black escape, the last arrow found the back of Leonard MacLean's shoulder, as he was steering the tiller. He fell forward, sending their direction back towards shore. Torquil MacLean jumped from his seat and threw the tiller hard over the other way, bringing them about and back towards safety again.

Leonard grabbed the arrow and pulled it from his shoulder, gritting his teeth hard, as pieces of his flesh still clung to the shaft and quickly had a torn piece of his sash tied around it, stemming the flow. He took his place at the rudder again, while Dermott slid the blade of his dirk under his thigh, slicing into his own skin, as he worked to get to the shaft of the arrow and cut through it. He pulled the cut end from his leg and screamed in agony, as muscle and skin tissue tore away with the course wooden shaft.

He ran his blade through his sash and tore a long strip away, wrapping it around his leg tightly several times and knotting it. The four looked amongst themselves, silently acknowledging their success, as well as their loss, accepting what they got as the price paid for the lives they had and the birlinn they sailed. They made it back to the mouth of the loch without further incident, raising the sail and taking great pleasure in the wind, pushing them into the open seaway and on to their hiding place.

The remainder had sailed down the coast to where the next two birlinns had been spotted. The five Douglas' and the five Fraser's now had to take their turn at securing their boats. The men to be left on board, were the one's for rowing from each clan. Sloan rowed with Blain at the port side, away from any other clans in earshot and whispered his thoughts to him.

"We could be away wi' two birlinn, if we do this right."

Blain looked at him with interest, but with no idea how he was planning on it.

"How so, Sloan?" he whispered.

"When we all get oot and go fer oor boats. the MacRae's will head back tae Dunollie. We can leave oor man wi' MacRae as planned, like Douglas has to do. Once we ha'e both birlinn and rowing back, we'll make sure one of oors is at the helm and bring the two t'gether and board it. Oor men can best any of their lot I see on board. We'll command two birlinn the night and oor men can finish the plan we have set oot fer oorselves in quicker time."