Free On a Highland Shore by Kathleen Givens Page A

protect his family. Witch’s brooms were always made of birch twigs, but a birch tree near one’s home offered protection from the Evil Eye, or from barrenness. Everyone knew that a rowan tree planted by one’s door could protect from witchcraft, and that one never sat under a hawthorn tree on May Day or Midsummer’s Eve, or All Souls’ Eve, when fairies were known to be abroad. Simple things. A guttering candle meant death would soon threaten the household. Spells and chants offered protection; charms were even more potent protection. Not to recognize the forces of nature meant one risked becoming their prey.
    Which brought Margaret to another matter: that of her own faith. Had she been looking at her life and fate incorrectly all these years? Her dreams had been haunted by the old woman’s words about the golden man: “He will be unlike any man you’ve known. He will bring life after death.” Had she misunderstood the prophecy by assuming the golden man was flesh and blood? Had she been brought to where she was now because she was meant to choose a life of contemplation away from the world? Was being a bride of Christ her true destiny, her golden man a molten image of a dying Jesus? Had Lachlan betrayed her because she was not meant to marry any man, but to join Judith at Brenmargon Abbey and, using the power of prayer, slay the dragons of sin in the world?
    She could not be more confused.

Four
    I t was Rory O’Neill himself who came to get Gannon and Tiernan. It was a bright summer day when the chieftain of all Ulster, Ireland’s northernmost province, arrived at their stepfather’s fortress with a large retinue. And dressed for war. Rory O’Neill was a large man, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. He looked the same as Gannon had remembered him, though it had been years since he’d seen his mother’s cousin. His chestnut hair was streaked with gray, but his dark eyes were as bright and clever as ever. He burst into Patrick’s courtyard with his men and greeted Patrick, then, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his hair, turned to Gannon, wasting no time with niceties.
    “God above, Gannon, I would ha’ kent ye anywhere as yer father’s son! Ye look enough like Magnus to make one think of spirits rising from the grave.”
    Gannon nodded. He’d heard it all of his life.
    Rory continued with hardly time for a breath. “I’ve come to take ye and Tiernan back to Haraldsholm. Yer uncle Erik has asked for my help. If he needs me, he needs the two of ye. And it’s time anyway, lads. Yer mother’s been gone the year.”
    Gannon saw Tiernan’s surprise, but felt none, only an acknowledgment of what he’d know was coming. Change. “What has happened?”
    Rory shook his head. “Dinna ken all of it. That’s what we’re going there to discover. There’s trouble is all I ken for sure. Pack yer things, lads. We’ll eat some of Patrick’s fine food and get back on the road. And ye’ll no’ be comin’ back here, the two of ye. Ye need to be with yer own people. From here on ye’ll either be with Erik, or ye’ll be with me.” He laughed at their expressions. “Ah, family ties. Are they not marvelous?”
     
    Gannon took a deep breath as they left the forest. The perfume of the pines was fading and he could smell the sea, could hear their horses’ footfalls on the rocky road, now clear of the carpet of needles that had covered it under the trees. Ahead, Rory O’Neill rode with several of his men; more rode behind Gannon and Tiernan. The terrain was changing as the land leaned toward the sea. The wind lifted the edges of his clothing, heavy with the promise of rain later, but for now the sun shone, and he lifted his face to meet the light. He was pleased to be returning to the coast, whatever the real reason was for their travel. The sea called to him in a way that no inland water could. It was in his blood, he thought, this love of the shore.
    His blood.
    He was the son of Magnus