Colin Mortloch was a spy for Henry VIII and had seen many
strange and violent things, especially since he had 'the
sight' the ghosts of murdered men were happy to betray
their killers. But Noltlund Castle held a mystery like no
other, a Scottish hellhound called The Bokey, and a
strange and lovely mistress who was every bit as adept as
Colin when it came to matters of political intrigue.
Excerpt Colin Mortlock sat at his table in his private study in York
and read the messenger's missive over a second time, trying
in vain to make some sense of it. It was not that the
letter's words weren't straightforward enough. The sentences
were all simple statements and arranged logically, though
penned in a very ill fist by someone obviously not often
given to scrivacious pastimes.
The difficulty came with comprehending the context in which
the message was written, and in certain absences of comment
when some remark would have been normal.
Colin shook his head. He did not for one instant suppose
that the brief interregnum in the north isles had made the
new Laird of Skye any less intelligent or capable of looking
after the clan's demesnes than his ruthless and half-insane
father and uncle had been before him. But Colin was still
uncertain of precisely what The MacLeod wanted of him in
this instance, and whether he should be wary of answering
this intriguing familial summons.
The letter even began interestingly, using both Latin and
the Christian calendar. This was a certainly a change from
the previous laird's style, who had disowned Colin's mother
when she married a Catholic Sassun and moved south to the
lands of the enemy English- might the French pox rot them!
To our cousin, Cailean Mortlach, at the season on the
mellowing moon, in the year of our Lord 1544
Greeting Dear Kinsman!
Sorrowful tidings we have had of the death of the
fifth king of the Scots called Seumas. Many brave
lives and things more precious were lost at the rout
of Solway Moss. But such must be expected after the
dissolution of the treaty of perpetual peace.
Sir Michael Balfour and his thirty sons were also
recently lost to this world. There remains only his
daughter and a young nephew at Noltlund castle near
our kin on Orkney.
This was where the letter began to get obscure. Everyone had
heard the amazing tale of the death of Michael Balfour and
all of his sons in one battle--leaving only his daughter as
heiress to his fortunes and a distant kinsman, a lad of
twelve, to inherit the title-- but Colin had not the
slightest notion what it had to do with the MacLeods of
Skye. MacLeods were descended of the Vikings who had settled
in Orkney, but Noltlund was now in the territory of the
Keiths and Gunns and MacKays, and it was very unlikely that
they were going to stand aside for the MacLeods if they made
a grab for power.
"Cousin, cousin, what do you intend?" Without indulging in
offensive pridefulness, Colin knew that he was accounted as
being an astute man. But though he could sense that his
cousin was steeped in some purpose in regards to Noltlund,
what this project might be he could not yet see.
Not truly expecting enlightenment, Colin still read on.
Reports of a favorable nature have reached us and
we have need of you in Orkney. You must for a time
forsake the lands of this King Eachann and return
home at once to Dunnvegan.
We hope that you have not forgotten your gowff.
Yrs with great affection,
Alasdair, MacLeod of the MacLeods
Now, this was the puzzler, the contradiction that could not
be explained. The MacLeods were panophobic of all
foreigners--which, sadly, Colin was considered to be, in
spite of his mother being sister to the last laird. And this
reference to his boyhood training of the game of golf--a
sport which he actually detested and played most ill--was
frankly beyond his comprehension. He could only conclude
that one of the other of them was suffering from a
distemperature of the mind.
It would be reassuring to know that it was the MacLeod whose
humor and reason were so disturbed, but unhappily Colin
could not place his oath upon the ailment resting with his
Scottish cousin. His own nature had lately been excessively
troubled by odd humors, which he suspected had begun
affecting his judgment.
And now there had come this letter of rapprochement from his
kin in Skye. A letter that was full of intriguing references
to many strange events and people. Might this not lend
purpose to a life that had of late been lacking in stimulation?
Colin drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. It was
madness. He shouldn't even be thinking about accepting the
summons. The suggested journey smacked of potential grave
danger and certain discomfort as he traveled roads that went
from bad to nonexistent. He recalled little of his childhood
visit to the Orkneys beyond vast, disagreeable expanses of
gray rock, stinging midges and biting ponies. There were no
roads. And the region's politics were certainly among the
bloodiest and unsubtle in Scotland. It was for this reason
that his father had never permitted him or his mother to
return to the Isles once her homicidal brother became chief.
Still, was the potential for swift death not better than
slow suffocation from boredom? And for an intelligencer,
born as well as bred, there really wasn't another choice,
was there?
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