Blood of the Clans Ch. 27

"Men, we ha'e tae take the bodies back tae their clans and let them deal wi' them in their own way. Once we've done that, we ha'e a mission tae do. One I need each and every man under me tae do wi'oot question. One that will bring a peace tae my mind and those of us who stand here. We ha'e traitors among us and they must be dealt wi', so that none of the others will think tae try anything against us again."

MacRae's words bore into each man. Every word said the same thing to each man, death was coming. In what form, was yet to be decided by James MacRae, but each knew there would be the greatest measure of suffering to accompany it.

Braedon sat and cleaned his sword, removing the charred flesh stuck to it. His guest couldn't hold back his curiosity and had to ask what had happened. Braedon explained their rule of aid and said they had found a man on a small atoll out in open water.

"The lads figure he'd been stranded after his boat went down, but there was no sign of wreckage anywhere. There was'ne anyone else either, just him. He had a couple of broken ribs and I set them. His ankle was'ne any good. I could feel it was crushed and shattered inside and would ne'er heal right. It looked likely he'd end up wi' gangrene, so there was no choice, I had tae cut it off."

Braedon's recollection left Foster Stewart awed and amazed. He had just heard his recalling of losing his son and the shame he felt, his distressed heart at not knowing how to face Arabella MacDonald again. He himself, had only just finished his telling of his news and yet Braedon rose without question and saved an unknown man's life by his own hands. Foster had always admired his cousin. His intelligence was vast in many ways; his skills in leading men in battle were legend in the clan. He was a good chief and a man of good heart, yet here he sat before him, calmly wiping away the burnt flesh of a man from his sword.

"Ye don't know who the man was, Braedon?"

Braedon shook his head, but Foster could see he was thinking of something. It came to him as he kept polishing, a gleam coming to the side he was working on.

"I think it was a McGregor tartan he had on. At the least, it's the right colours, I'm sure."

"McGregor, ye say? The man I just told ye aboot is a McGregor. It was his boat that caught those boys. Is that no odd, Braedon? Where is he?"

Braedon stopped polishing and laid his sword down gently. He looked at Foster and pondered what he had just told him and weighed it against the odds of the man downstairs being the same one. He couldn't fathom it happening, but decided to bring him down. They walked down the steep, stone steps and made it to the table, where Foster saw the amputation and then looked up the body. In a dawning recognition of how Eamon

had dressed that day to leave for Oban, it was only two steps more that convinced him.

"Eamon, Eamon McGregor." Foster shouted out in shock and went to shake him.

Before he could move him, Braedon caught hold of him and held him back. He didn't want him to move Eamon at all and upset the fractured ribs again. He moved him back a few steps and held him, until he caught hold of himself.

"That's the man ye were telling me of, the man who found those boys?" Braedon questioned him, wanting to make sure.

"Aye Braedon, that's Eamon McGregor. I've sailed the same seas wi' him fer many years. I've been tae his village and he's been tae mine. I know him, Braedon. This is all getting tae be tae odd fer me tae think aboot."

Braedon could see clearly that Foster recognized the man, but his telling of where he had gone and how he ended up more than a mile off shore, just made no sense to him at all either. He called for his servants to bring two cups and whisky to his chambers, then led Foster back upstairs and away from Eamon.

Sitting in front of the fire, Foster still felt a chill in him, that heat nor drink would ever warm. He looked at Braedon and they shared a look of wonderment. How could such events be brought together like this? He'd left the same day, travelled the same route most of the way. They were only going to tell Harlan Douglas about his boys. He needed answers and looked to Braedon with questions forming in his head, but no idea where to start.

"We were only going tae Oban, where the Douglas clan are. We were going tae tell them aboot their boys and go back. I thought tae come and see ye, keep him company most of the way. We parted after coming around Loch Feochan. Noo he's here, twenty miles north of where he was supposed tae be, but how did this happen tae him? He was riding his horse, so why was he so far oot in the loch on a wee dot of land? In a raging storm, no less. There is a strangeness at work here, Braedon."

Braedon listened to Foster recount that day and it made no sense to him either. The Douglas' didn't have any birlinns, so how did he end up there? Without the knowledge of events taking place, Braedon was left stymied with a perplexing set of circumstances to weave together. As he sat with his cousin, trying to put mismatched pieces of the puzzle together, a lone birlinn was sailing south past the castle.

James MacRae was bringing the bodies back to their people and their lands. He wanted to attend to that personally. At this point, he was completely unsure of the stability of his alliance and the clans who made it up. Once this duty was done, he would be sailing back and gathering a large force of men. Men he knew would carry out the orders, he was now preparing himself to give to them, as he sailed past the area he knew the Fraser's were in.

Loman Stewart and his youngest brother, Ewan, had sailed the northerly route, after Coll and Griffin went south. Little was seen of any troubles befalling anyone along the coast; just the branches and debris picked up by the winds and tossed into the seas. They were ready to turn back, as they reached the entrance to Loch Leven, but the sight of a dozen fishing boats had caught their attention. They ran their small sailboat onto the sandy shore and pulled it up, before investigating the strange sight the men were looking at. They questioned the men about the smashed birlinn and garnered enough information, to take back to Braedon Stewart for a report.

After they had returned, Loman made his way up to his uncle's chambers. He knocked and was bid entry by him. He stood before his uncle and his father and told of the birlinn being smashed on the shore, over five hundred feet inland. Both men had incredulous looks on their faces hearing about it and that seven men died as well. Loman relayed what he was told by the men and how they were found and how only one had lived a short while after, before he too died.

"Do they know who it was in the birlinn, Loman?" his father asked.

Braedon was feeling over-whelmed with the series of events. Each event seemed completely apart from one another, but something tied them together. Something ate at him though, something he felt was the piece that put it all together, was still missing.

"Aye. The men said James MacRae knew them all. He spoke tae the one who had lived through it. His name was Douglas, Harlan Douglas. The other name I got, was MacDougall. Andrew MacDougall was killed as well, Uncle Braedon."

Braedon's head spun towards Loman, when he heard the names. He looked back at Foster and an equally shocked look was on his face. Faster and faster the pieces were re-arranged in their minds and soon they seemed to fit together.

"I think we know hoo Eamon ended up on that atoll noo. If he'd gone tae see Douglas and then tae MacDougall at Dunollie, that would explain why they were in a birlinn. But why in God's name would they risk going oot on a night like that? It must'ae been something of great importance that needed tae be told tae him. And all ye and Eamon were doing, was telling Douglas aboot the boys he foond?

Foster had nodded in agreement with everything Braedon had said, yet his mind was still grasping for sense of it.

"Aye, we had foond the boys that day sailing, their feet tied t'gether, like I said. That's all I know aboot it, same as Eamon. And all that happening just after a few birlinns were taken the night before. God save me, Braedon, things are just no right, are they?"

Braedon's mind twitched at the hearing of stolen birlinns. The fact they were stolen the same time as the boys must have been killed, started to make some progress at putting more pieces together for him.

"Where were the birlinns taken from, Foster?"

Loman stood and watched his uncle deduce the elements he was told, into a cohesive package of information.

"No far from Eamon's village, just up the coast. Two of them. Are ye thinking this is all connected some hoo?"

"It's making more sense tae me noo, Foster. If ye's were going tae Douglas' tae tell him and they went tae MacDougall's and sailed up tae see MacRae in Ballachulish, something happened tae Eamon on the way and then they kept going and somehoo ended up as Loman says, five hundred feet on shore. Are ye sure it was that far, Loman?"

Braedon weighed his thoughts against the facts presented and couldn't imagine he was far off the truth. One thing that remained a mystery to him was the birlinn.

"Aye Uncle Braedon, I walked the distance myself. Ye can see the water had washed o'er the land, but there were no signs the birlinn was dragged. It looks like it was thrown intae the rocks, the damage was so massive. The whole prow was splintered off, from hitting the rocks. The mast had broken off and lay over the boat. That took great force fer that tae happen, even I know that. Andrew MacDougall must'ae been sailing it."

Foster didn't understand the statement the same way Braedon did and asked.

"Why do ye think that, Loman?"

"He was impaled on a broken oar. Run him straight through the gut. The men said they had tae break the oar, tae get him down."

Foster winced at the thought Loman created in his mind and looked once again to Braedon. Braedon was already in deep thought, working everything around in his mind, making a sense of events. He took a large swig of whisky and put his cup down, thoughtfully wiping his mouth.

"Loman, go back wi' yer cousin and see tae Eamon and if he needs anything, Tell Jean

tae wrap his leg noo and put lots of salve on it. God has spared him the pain of not feeling

any of what's been done, but when he wakes, he'll feel it."

Loman bowed to his uncle and father and left the room, closing the door behind him. He stood for a moment and hoped he'd hear something, but realized his uncle and father were waiting until he was well away, before talking. He went down to the hall again and looked at Eamon McGregor, the raw, exposed end still oozing. He turned to the woman sitting beside him.

"Jean, Laird Braedon has said he is tae be wrapped noo and tae use lots of salve. If Eamon wakes up, he's tae be gi'en something fer the pain."

Jean nodded in understanding to Loman and started preparing a wrap for the amputated area. Loman watched her and helped when she asked for him to give her a hand. Upstairs, the two cousins were sitting and piecing the entire sequence of events together and still found the evidence hard to put together and make sense out of it. Braedon had his ideas, but he was keeping them to himself. His assumptions were leading him into dire circumstances, ones that meant great troubles were coming.

Loman left the rest of Eamon's care to Jean and went to see his brother and cousin and sat talking of the events of the morning. In three hours since rising, the calm, sunny morning seemed to be storming once again. This time the weather wasn't doing it, but the cost of lives and why they were dead, that cast a dark shroud over them.