Chapter One

1578, Port Mallaig

Today was the day. The first of a new chapter in James MacGregor’s life, leaving home and traveling across the ocean. For most this would have been intimidating or even frightening. But James found that he was rather excited about the prospect. There was something thrilling for him about stepping off his familial lands and onto the deck of a boat to carry him on the same pilgrimage as all his ancestors before him.

Standing at eight and twenty, there was no doubt that James was a red-blooded male. Cold morning air bit into his skin, the waves in the distance pushing fresh salt into the air in enough abundance that he could feel it grimy in the lines of his face as he squinted over to the slowly rising sun in the distance. The whole port was washed in a bath of pale morning light, crewmates finishing up the final headcounts and supply onboarding around him. James held his rucksack up over his shoulder with one calloused hand.

He could get used to this, the brine and salt in the air, the rocking of the boat as they started to pull out of the harbor and into the water. The noise and constant chatter, somebody always moving, it felt so similar to the castle, it was hard not to feel at ease despite the unfamiliar faces around him.

James walked backward once more to the gangplank, his boot nearly catching on the wooden rungs. He bowed once, just an incline of his shoulders and head before the crew started to lift the gangplank and tied off the gap in the bow. A short journey all things considered, and then he would seek his blessing from Saint Cuthbert’s relic.

One of the crew clapped him on the shoulder, motioning with his head to follow him down below deck where his sleeping arrangements likely were. It was a much more difficult squeeze into the space for him than for the sailor in front of him. He had to angle himself sideways and shuffle down the stairs, his head bowed for quite some time before he could stand straight again.

The crewmate led him to his hammock, and he hurled his bag onto it without thinking. He supposed he could attempt to rest, but he was wired, wide awake. His focus, instead, shifted to the four men sitting around a circular table with tall edges to prevent anything from falling off and to the floor. But it was mainly empty, save for the cards in their hands.

“Dinnae stare like ye’re some bogle,” one of them said, speaking out of the side of his mouth, his cap pulled down low over one eye. “If ye’re goin’ tae sit, then sit.”

James decided that he liked him immediately. The other players around the table had to shuffle, squeezing closer together to accommodate for the space took up. He had always been a large lad.

“If ye think that sitting in me lap means that ye can cheat me cards, then ye’re sorely mistaken!” One of the others said, angling his torso away from the third man with an overly accusatory narrowed glance, cupping his hands around his cards and seemingly wholly unaware that by doing so, he was showing the whole hand to the man on the other side of him.

Just last night, he had been in the village, celebrating, in the local tavern. Edward and his other friends had argued similarly, over trivial things. Edward had gone on and on about how James was unlikely to have time for a proper buck’s night when he returned from his journey and he could choose his wife. Teased and pushed for him to lose himself in drink, to make merry.

The man with the hat pulled low plucked the cards right out of his crewmate’s hands, reshuffling the very weathered deck of cards. Quite a feat indeed considering that he seemed to be missing two fingers on his right hand, but he moved like he didn’t miss them in the slightest. In the dim room, it seemed to James that the ship was rocking precariously from side to side. Every crash of the waves on the side of the ship startled him, the sound loud and jarring, the force of them unexpected. When they had boarded the ship, the sea had been calm, or at least calm enough. Now he was just glad to be sitting, knowing that were he to stand, he, too, would be swaying precariously.

“So, what brings ye ontae our ship?” He asked, not making eye contact as he focused more on dealing the cards to them all. “Name’s Callum, by the way. That’s Angus and Rory over there.”

As he spoke, Callum pointed to the other two sailors sitting around the small table—Angus, an older man with dark hair that was graying at the temples, short and solid and broad-chested, and Rory, a man closer to James’ age, perhaps even younger, apple-cheeked and ruddy-faced like a cherub.

“James,” He answered, reaching for his hand. “Well, me faither wants tae find me a wife, ye ken? Every man in me family takes the trip tae the convent before marriage.”

“Ah, ye’re the laird’s boy?” Callum grinned, a slow expression.

James nodded. They already knew that, but he appreciated the teasing. His title and future titles likely meant nothing to them when they were out at sea.

“Is she a fine lass?” Angus asked off-hand. “I had me a wife once, all she did was nag me all day and night. Drove me tae the sea she did.”

“Mm, the nagging is what drove ye tae the sea? Nae because ye were messing around and she threatened tae cut yer bollocks off?” Rory challenged.

It must have been right because the second stomped the third clear on his foot, loud and hard enough that the table rattled as the ship lurched to the other side. James and Callum had to latch onto it. James looked at the others to see if they were alarmed at all, but they were all simply looking at their cards idly as though this was a daily occurrence. Perhaps, for them, it was. Perhaps they were used to not having solid ground beneath their feet and James was the only one in that room who was alarmed at all.

He did his best to ignore it. If the sailors were unbothered by it, then it could only mean it was normal.

“I have a duty,” James offered, making his first play just to distract himself. “They will choose her when the time comes.”

Angus groaned. “Say the word, lad, and we shall keep ye on this ship, run away across the ocean.”

“True, true, there’s nay shame in it either. Ye never ken what ye’re getting with a marriage of obligation.” Rory said sagely, making his play. James had a sneaking suspicion that the two of them were likely to break out in a brawl before the game was even completed.

“This journey is nae jest tae me,” James answered, his tone serious. “The pilgrimage is a duty, and I intend tae honor it. Saint Cuthbert’s blessing means the world tae me—it’s meant tae protect me future, me family.”

He made eye contact with Callum, who nodded with obvious respect for his choice. No doubt the man could see the determination on his face. This journey was an honor, after all. He could not take that lightly, even if the adventures that they spoke about sounded appealing. His future wasn’t his own, he had responsibilities for the privilege of being born into his station. His clan meant far too much to him to be swayed.

One hand turned into another, and then again, as sparse conversation passed among the lot of them. There was no way of knowing how far they had gone, and James wasn’t about to question how it was that they were able to stay down here while the rest were working. But he appreciated the company. The last thing that he wanted was to have idle hands.

In the duration of the game, he had been so focused on the cards that he hadn’t noticed the way the sway of the ship had gradually turned into a wild rocking, the vessel moving from one side to the other. Never had it been so clear to James that he was at the mercy of the sea. The slam of waves against the sides and the deck, the chilly draft that entered through the gaps in the door, the knowledge that they were out in open seas—it all served to unnerve James, yet still, the other sailors seemed perfectly at ease.

“Oy!” A voice called down the open door to the quarters where they played. “Callum! Get yer arse up here!”

The man played his hand, which was far better than any of the rest of theirs, resulting in Angus slamming down his cards and cursing, while Rory did the same before they, too, started toward the stairs.

“Come on then!” Callum called back over his shoulder, and James followed. It was only then that he saw the same fear he felt flash in the other men’s eyes.

The sky overhead was dark, like the sun had suddenly changed its mind about rising entirely. Sailors moved this way and that in a chaos so organized that it almost looked to be a dance. Callum pointed at the main mast. “Tie down the lines, ye can tie a knot?”

James nodded, pushing up his sleeves, the cold rain hitting his face like ice as he moved with footing far less certain than all of the men around him. Despite his size and muscle mass, he was far less skilled at maneuvering slippery rope on a ship that was starting to rock ever more violently. Barrels were being strapped down, the sails secured, and long lengths of lifelines coiled up and waiting to be tied around the waist of those above deck in case the storm decided to open up.

“It’s getting too dark, too fast!” One of the men yelled, and James spun, looking at the angry clouds and the sparks of yellow and white lightning illuminating them sporadically in the distance. It seemed like the section that they were sailing into was almost purple, a strange fog lingering over the surface of the choppy water. The ship swayed and rocked just enough for freezing water to slosh up over the sides.

The captain seemed to fly down the stairs onto the deck, weaving between his crew effortlessly before ending up beside James, the pair of them both looking at the unnatural gloom ahead of them. James didn’t care much for the way that the man’s eyes narrowed, his face grave. “This wasnae in the forecast,” he muttered, and such simple words they might be, they sent a shudder down James’ spine. His pulse quickened as he watched the clouds churn, the once-calm water growing restless beneath the ship. The captain turned to him, his eyes clear and focused, but his words instilled no confidence.

“If yer the prayin’ sort, lad, now would be the time.”

The sea surged, the angry wind lifting the water to spray bitterly in their faces while the ship rocked, the surge nearly lifting both James and the captain off of their feet. It was only quick reflexes and strong hands that kept them inside the boat. The captain swore and shouted more commands. Up overhead, a beam swung loose, a sailor dangling from it precariously. James couldn’t let go of the banister until he saw the sailor wrap the rope around his wrist, and swing his leg up and over the beam. He was certain he was going to fall. He couldn’t imagine having to encounter this sort of storm on the regular. It was so much stronger here over the water than anything he had witnessed on land. It had absolutely not been on the forecast.

However, he refused to believe it was an omen for his pilgrimage.

The deck was wet and nearly slippery under his boots. Every step he took felt like it was going to land him on his arse, whereas the smaller men seemed to be running about without any difficulty at all. There had to be some sort of trick to it that he wasn’t seeing. The waves were only getting worse—the few lanterns that they had swung rapidly to and fro, shifting the field of illuminated vision so quickly that it alone would have made him dizzy if the sea weren’t already doing such a good job of that on its own. Shouts filled the air as the crew scrambled to secure the rigging, their voices nearly lost in the roar of the storm. James gripped one of the ropes he had secured to the main mast, helping him to steady against the swelling waves. Rain lashed his face, and he struggled to keep his footing as the deck bucked beneath him.

At the wheel, the navigator let out a scream, low and guttural as he struggled to keep the wheel from spinning out of control. The ship’s carpenter, arms overladen with wooden planks, a pail of steaming pitch, and a hammer, nearly rolled down the deck and slid below deck, the door flapping and clapping open from not being secured properly. He and four other men all held the tether for the foresail to try and aid the navigator’s steering as best they could. James was shocked by just how much strength the five of them were putting in all together. Still, the rope was slipping. Inch by inch, they were losing ground. He had no idea what would happen if the sea were to win this battle.

All hands on deck, the lanterns were the next thing to go. The only visibility that was left was the flashes of lightning as it struck the water all around them, the angry claps of following thunder making him flinch each and every time. He could only tell where the others around him even were by the sounds of struggle they were making, and the sound of the captain’s voice starting to grow raspy from combatting the rush of the water as he yelled.

James’ muscles ached, and he was by no means a weak man, his hands raw from gripping the thick wet ropes. The sea thrashed them about wildly, as if determined to consume every one of them whole. He would not give up. Not when he was so close, he was so ready to enter into the next steps, to finally be eligible to reprieve his father’s weary bones. Yet this task seemed insurmountable, stripping every ounce of strength he possessed.

Hours. Minutes. A day. There was no telling how long it had been, and the storm showed no mercy. At least two men had been thrashed overboard and it was too dark to even think about going back to find them, to see if any of them remained. James had heard their screams, high pitched and mobile as they soared over the edge and were cut off too abruptly. The ship groaned under the relentless assault, creaking and shuddering as if the very planks might split apart.

“Brace yerselves men!” The Captain’s frantic warning was almost too late for James, and the four men behind him to abandon the rope they held and dive for the main mast, grabbing for the lifelines blindly in the darkness. A thunderous crash against the water hit like a solid wall, throwing him forward and smacking him into the mast. Warm blood trickled down over his brow, but he ignored the pain. His ears rang and even the darkness seemed to sway and swirl as he fumbled for a rope.

The flash of lightning as he grabbed his rope illuminated the wall of black water looming directly in front of them. The nose of the ship started to lift, like the moment stretched impossibly slower as they climbed, at the mercy of the sea. His grip on the rope tightened as his feet were lifted clear off the ship as the deck moved nearly vertical for the wave that then dipped, sending them crashing forward. The man beside him slipped, and James shot out a hand, tightening around the man’s shirt and gritting his teeth through the pain of holding them both with one hand. He wouldn’t abandon a single soul if he had anything to do with it.

Slowly, he managed to lift the man against gravity just enough to share his rope, the sailor clinging desperately. For the span of a heartbeat, James could hear the man’s heavy, panting breaths—and then the water shifted again. Instead of the wave passing underneath the ship, this one toppled straight over them. The frigid water slapped over the lot of them, and he gasped, too much salty water trying to enter his lungs. The moment it backed off, he sputtered, and then the wave crashed again.

He lost his grip.

One moment he was steady, the next he was airborne, too cold to even think about calling for help, or praying for mercy. He couldn’t think yet was painfully aware of every passing second as the ship moved on—and he stayed behind, crashing into the choppy water hard enough to knock any remaining breath from his body.

Pulled under, disoriented and struggling against the powerful currents, his panic flared as he fought to break the surface, his lungs burning as he thrashed through the darkness.

Oxygen, sweet and fleeting as he sucked in a mixture of sea foam, air, and water before he was tossed about by the waves once more. Somewhere ahead the ship groaned; the wooden planks sounded like they were snapping, the main mast falling into the ocean as the water tipped the ship. Each frame highlighted for him only as lightning struck, debris and beams in the water floating around him as he tried to fight the current. Driftwood and who knows what else scattered in the churning sea.

Just as despair began to creep in, he caught sight of a large wooden beam floating nearby, the wood jagged, bobbing up and down in the water. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t hear a single other crew member in the water, and he couldn’t seem to stop coughing up sea water long enough to call out himself. Kicking with all his strength, he pushed through the waves, finally reaching the bit of the mast that floated nearby. As he had seen the sailor do before, he summoned the last of his strength to hook one leg up over the wood, clinging to it as if his life depended on it—which it did. All he could do was try to keep his head above water, no matter how the icy sea attempted to pull him under.

The night stretched endlessly, each passing moment another battle to hold on. James’s thoughts drifted as he shivered, tired down to his bones. His mind wandered through images of his family, the promise of his future, and the saint’s relic he had set out to seek. In his heart, he clung to the only thing he could as he fought to stay strong, to stay awake and breathing; the hope that he might survive this ordeal and return home to his family a stronger man.

He had to hope there would be mercy for him, no matter what the sea intended.
 

Chapter Two

1578, Island of Rùm
 
There was nothing quite like the peace of a calm morning. Whatever poison the sea had needed to turn over in order to bring about this beautiful morning, it was almost worth it. A week of storms had left most of the residents in the small seaside village unable to leave their homes. Half of the modest population had sniffles and fevers. Never mind the grumpiness that tended to come along with sleep deprivation, patching up homes for all the long hours of the night, stoking fires and scraping together meals. Never mind those who had to run out to tend to flocks or save livestock.

Their village would have their work cut out for them for the next few weeks, for the repairs alone. Freya would be busy, too, with all the healing she would need to do to keep the villagers healthy and sound after such a terrible storm. But, for this morning, she was able to walk down the clear beach just after dawn. Her basket was already full of herbs she would turn into salves and oils for her townsfolk, but she was presently on the hunt for something a little more charming for those children who were stuck in bed while the others were out playing after the long week indoors. Perhaps a fancy bottle, or a sand dollar, a pretty shell… anything to keep their hearts light. It would make their recoveries easier.

Well, that and her seaweed.

It was vexing to her that she had only ever managed to find this special ingredient along the rocks by this section of shore. Hopefully, the storm hadn’t ripped them all from the roots. The remedy she had in mind should be of particular relief to her aging neighbor, but, then again, she would take as much as she could to make as much of her special remedy for anyone who came asking for it.

Further down the shoreline, closer to where their dock was still mostly intact, fishermen were preparing their boats to go out and replenish the food stores for their families and anyone else who was feeling poorly. Despite how some of her neighbors squabbled, they were a community, and they worked well together. No doubt the fishermen were eager to return to their beloved sea after the week of being landlocked.

Ah, there it is. Freya lifted her skirt with one hand and quickly jogged down the beach to where her seaweeds were still clinging to the rocks. They were a little worse for wear than she would have liked, but she was not in a position to be choosy about her supplies. With more difficulty than she had anticipated, she started to pluck and pull as much as she could, plopping the slippery weeds into her basket on top of everything else. There wasn’t going to be enough here for her goals, but she would make do with what she—

A shout from near the docks caught her attention once more, halting her actions as she squinted to better see what had suddenly riled the men. From their pointing, she could see three small fishing boats returning rather quickly to the shore, and her heart plummeted. What had happened? What had they seen out there? If they were going to be landlocked for much longer, it was going to be bad news for everybody in the village.

Resting her basket in the crook of her arm, she watched them, forgetting that her skirts were now getting heavy with water from where she was standing, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from the sight in front of her. Almost against her will, her feet started to move her forward, slowly, reluctantly, fearing whatever bad news that they must be bringing.

But it was her name that they were calling.

Over and over again, the men were calling for her. Two of the fishermen took off down the dock, no doubt headed for her house where they presumed she was. The largest of the fishing boats was closer to the dock, and the other men were casting ties right back to it in order to secure it.

Her legs moved her body, even though her mind stayed a blank slate, fearing whatever she was about to run up to. The basket jostled painfully against her torso but she paid it no mind.

“Here,” She called, waving her free arm up over her head, eager to be helpful in whatever way she possibly could. “I’m here!”

One of the fishermen spun on his heel quickly, and the look of relief on his face was palpable when he saw her running closer. He turned, running to meet her in the middle, not wanting her to wait, clear urgency in his eyes.

“Freya! Come quickly!” He urged, as if she were not already running as quickly as her dress would allow. The moment he was within arm’s reach, she thrust her basket of supplies into his chest. With her hands free, she could pick up her skirts and give her legs far more mobility.

“What is it? What has happened?” She asked, still wary of his answer.

“There’s a man. They found a man floating on a board in the sea,” he explained, running alongside her.

The wood of the dock was wet and felt mighty unstable as she ran onto it, careful to avoid the obviously loose boards that were being repaired just moments before. “Is he alive?”

The man didn’t answer, and her worry only grew.

Nothing could have properly prepared her for the state of the man in front of her. Unconscious, from the look of things. She knelt in front of him, placing a hand gingerly on his chest as she bent her ear to listen. His heartbeat was faint, but still there. Each rattled breath from his pale, cracked lips made it sound as if it would be his very last. The man’s poor skin was red and raw, blistered in the places where the sun had been the cruelest to him. His clothes were shredded and salt-encrusted. He must have been drifting for days. His hands were worn down, still seeping blood from whatever he had been holding onto for so long.

“Help me, I need to get him inside,” she urged, her voice laced with worry.

He might be too far gone. He might be beyond her help but there was absolutely no way that she could leave anyone in that state and not at least try to help them the best that she could. The fishermen around her hesitated, and she clucked her tongue at them. They couldn’t do much worse to the man by carrying him than the damage that the sea had done already.

At her wordless reprimand, all the men moved into action at once, lifting him carefully. With the man’s bulk, it took four of them to carry him easily enough to her modest hut on the very edge of the town. They made a makeshift gurney out of fishing nets and poles, moving very slowly and carefully over the wet, soggy terrain.

When they were close enough, she pushed open the door and held it for them. She only had but one worktable, and one narrow bed, which she pointed for them to put the man on without delay. She preferred the quiet when she worked, and being too close to the town square never did suit her. Her hut was the smallest in the town, but she didn’t need much, being that it was only her.

The stranger didn’t make so much of a sound as they lowered him, not even a soft whine of pain.

That wasn’t a good sign at all.

Freya accepted her basket from the man lingering behind. “Dae ye wish fer me tae stay with ye?”

She appreciated the sentiment, but it was unnecessary. “He cannae harm anything or anyone in the state he’s in.”

Quickly, and with practiced ease, Freya tied her hair back and pushed her sleeves up to give her hands free access to the man in front of her. The larger townsfolk lingered, and while she appreciated it, she couldn’t very well work with them staring at her like that. “Go on then.” She commanded, and they slowly shuffled out of the room.

“I dinnae like the look of him, Miss Webster,” one of the fishermen said. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the waterlogged man.

“Well, then stay close enough tae hear me scream if it suits ye, but get out of me house.” Freya said without so much as looking back over her shoulder when she moved the man further out of the way. Mercifully, she heard the click of her front door, and she was left in a house that was far, far too silent for a man that injured. She leaned down once more, only touching him long enough to verify his pulse before practically flying over to her shelves.

It was muscle memory that had her hands moving over the shelves, pulling herbs from small jars and drawers to mix into poultices. She worked with efficiency as she added bits from various oils. It had always been that way for her, and she had never truly been able to explain it. The ill and injured had never bothered her the way they did other girls her age. She had an almost morbid fascination with them, healing people and learning how their bodies worked. She certainly wouldn’t deny she had gotten more than a few strange looks because of it.

She placed all her supplies on a flat tray with some clean cloth, a pitcher of water, and then her needles and moved them onto the bed. She dragged her small stool close and started with a numbing potion, tilted down his nearly blue lips slowly, massaging his throat to make him swallow. Not that he would need it but the last thing that she wanted was for him to wake up in the middle of her stitching him shut. It wouldn’t do much to help with the dehydration, but it was certainly a start.

How is he alive?

Freya allowed herself only one moment to marvel at the severity of his wounds, most of which weren’t even bleeding from how cold and weak he was. With her knife, she quickly cut off his shirt and gasped again. Even for her, it was almost stomach churning. Biting her bottom lip, she finished cutting off the rest of his ruined clothes and covered his modesty with her sheet as best she could. One by one, she flushed the wounds and packed herbs and poultices into them, making sure that they were as clean as they could be. It would be a pity for sickness to settle into the wounds. She stitched those that needed it in every place she could find. She had seen sailors suffer from exposure before, shark bites, all manner of impalements… but this?

She started to build up the fire in her hut, burning it as brightly as she could until she was barely able to take the heat. She kept her small oven burning, needing to ensure that the man’s temperature rose as well, if he were to have any chance at all. Gingerly, Freya started to lift his arm up and tuck it into his side, the golden ring on his finger glinting in the warm firelight. It was a pretty thing, gold and intricately designed with an arm shaped like swirling waves, something that she had never seen before. Was it a mark of his family? Of who he was? Did he have somebody waiting at home for him? Surely, a man built like this had to be. Half the scars on his body were long since healed over, marking him as a fighter, a warrior.

She slipped it from his finger, telling herself that it was to ensure his fingers didn’t swell and cause further injury as she slipped it into one of her many drawers. If he were to awaken, then she could return it to him. Of course she would. But, knowing her fellow villagers and how prone that they were to their superstitions and occasional greed it was for the best. She didn’t need him to be marked as any more of a misfortune omen or lord forbid, a prize.

She covered him and sat by his bedside, marveling as his chest started to draw in deeper breaths, a soft bit of movement behind his eyes. Only moments prior, it would have seemed impossible. She had done everything that she possibly could, and now it was out of her control.
 

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