The Scottish Selkie (15 page)

Though he strained every tendon in his body, Malcolm relaxed his facial features into a look of boredom, fooling Thorseth into thinking Malcolm didn't have to work a single muscle to hold him back. This caused the Viking to hesitate before he swung the axe. Malcolm had time to leap off his horse before the blade cleaved him in two. Landing on his feet, Malcolm lifted his sword and with a fast thrust he sliced Thorseth's neck. Blood trickled down the Norseman's orange tunic.

With one dead, Malcolm vaulted on his horse and wheeled around to face his next foe. A man in a yellow tunic with thick white-blonde hair charged. He had a crazed look in his eye. Malcolm knew it well. The Norseman was caught up in blood lust. 

Malcolm charged his horse forward. The youth brandished his Viking sword high. Malcolm did the same with his Celtic blade. As closed in on each other they swung their weapons. With fast, unyielding blows, hard iron struck and sparked. 

Malcolm's fingers squeezed the hilt and he lunged at the warrior's belly. The Viking turned his horse in time, so the blade merely scraped his side. Blood trickled. The Norseman took his hilt in both hands and slammed the blade down. But Malcolm's horse stepped back. The Viking's horse stepped in. Malcolm and the Dane swung. The air rung with the clang of iron as blades clashed. Setting his eyes and his mind on the Viking, Malcolm thrust his blade with full force. The whetted point pierced the Viking's chest. Blood cascaded down the Norseman's limp body as he toppled from the saddle and fell hard to the ground. 

Malcolm sucked in air, trying to catch his breath. While he had battled that Viking, other Norse raiders, worked up into a fever of killing, surrounded him, Bethoc, and the wagon.

“Donald, to me,” Malcolm yelled. “We are surrounded.”
There are too many. Donald, someone come.
“Bethoc, are you all right?” 

“Yes,” she yelled back in a steady voice. 

Father Degnan stood on the wooden seat and waved his fisted hands at the heathens. “Cursed Norsemen, what do you want?” 

“We come for the Jewel of Destiny,” a tow-headed youth bellowed as he turned his horse sharply out of Malcolm's reach and rushed the wagon. 

“We have no jewel,” Father Degnan shouted. “It is a relic we carry, you heathen.” The priest bent down and picked up a cudgel, kept on the wagon floor. 

When the Viking reached the wagon, Father Degnan lifted the wooden club and swung it hard. Bones cracked. The Norseman's upper body swayed in the saddle, then fell with a thud. 

A shriek brought Malcolm's head around to gaze at Bethoc. Her white stallion reared as she furiously swung and lunged at two attackers. As she thrust at one Viking, Malcolm yelled out to warn her the other Dane had moved his horse aside her. 

Holding an axe, the second Viking sneaked up beside Bethoc, and with one flick of his wrist, he swung. The blade tore into her chest. She went limp. The horrific thud of her body hitting the dirt resounded like an echo in Malcolm's head. Bethoc emitted an audible gurgle as she lay in a scarlet puddle.

He let out a thunderous roar like that of a wounded bullseal. In a rage, Malcolm dug his heels into his horse's flanks and bolted toward Bethoc's attacker. All the Vikings wheeled their steeds to the left. Malcolm glanced in that direction. Kenneth's’ troops, fifty or more, were closing in at a

hammering, dirt-flying gallop.

The Viking who struck down Bethoc bellowed in guttural Danish, “Ware! Ware! Ware!”

Goading their steeds into a gallop, the Vikings bolted as if their horse's tail were on fire. With the Vikings on the run, Malcolm leapt off his horse and ran to Bethoc who lay motionless in the dirt.

Donald rode up and jerked his horse to an abrupt halt. His steed reared up on his legs, but Donald quickly brought him under control. As second in command, Donald yelled out to Kenneth's soldiers, “Halt. Do not give chase. There may be others waiting to attack us. Stay here and defend our

people.”

Kenneth galloped up to them, wheeled his horse beside Donald's, and commanded, “Malcolm, laid Bethoc in the bed of the wagon. Donald, guard the other side of the wagon. Make haste.” Furry at the attack shown in Kenneth's tone and expression. “Fergus!”

The older man and his daughter ran to Kenneth. “Here my king.”

“Fergus, take father Degnan's place on the wagon seat. Riona lass, you help Father Degnan in the wagon. You need to help him care for Lady Bethoc.”

Malcolm laid his ear on Bethoc's face. He could hear a faint, shallow wheeze. She breathed! He gently lifted her. The smell of her thick, raw blood, running down his arms, from the wound in her back made Malcolm's stomach roil in agony.

Clutching Bethoc to his chest, Malcolm tilted his head back and let out a horrible lamented cry. It sounded like the wail of the wind on the fateful day he drowned.

“The wagon,” Father Degnan ordered. “Malcolm, place her in the wagon where we can heal her.”

Malcolm shuddered like a bare chested man, without a tunic, in an ice storm as he picked up Bethoc's still body and carried her to the wagon. With utmost care, he laid her down in the wagon bed, and swept the hair away from her face. The sacred Stone of Destiny lay at her side.

Malcolm couldn't speak. He just stared at her delicate face and her chestnut hair. “Bethoc, Bethoc,” he cried out in a tear choked voice. “My Bethoc. Do not leave me.”

“Malcolm, Malcolm, she yet lives,” Riona called out to him. “Forsooth. We shall heal her.”

“Malcolm, we must move on. Can you mount your horse?” Donald queried.

“Yes, but I will not leave her. I ride at her side.”

“Ave, but mount forthwith,” Donald said in a curt tone.

“We need move out, lest the Vikings attack once more.”

“Yes.” Malcolm leapt on his horse, and rode to the other side of the wagon.

Father Degnan pulled Bethoc onto her stomach. Malcolm could not lift his gaze from her. He kept his horse at a trotting pace, matching the speed of the wagon.

Riona ripped the tunic-dress off Bethoc's back. Blood was everywhere.

“How does she fare?” Malcolm’s voice trembled as he yelled, mounted on his horse.

“I know not. Let me tend her,” Riona shouted back as she opened Father Degnan's healing chest, and handed a vial of red powder to the priest.

Father Degnan dusted it over the bloody wound. Riona pulled out a bundle of swaddling and wound it tightly across Bethoc's back, to stop the bleeding.

“Father is it a bad gash?” Riona asked softly.

“Yes. It is deep.” The priest took out a vial of mashed yarrow. “This will help the pain and fever.” He dipped his finger in it, and then shoved it in her mouth. Turning his head to Riona, he said, “It is in God's hands, lass. You must pray for Lady Bethoc.”

“What have they done to her?” Malcolm asked out loud. He felt like this wasn't really happening.

“She will heal,” Donald called out to him. “The priest will cure her.”

Malcolm felt numb until he took one look at the huge gash. Anger rocked his insides. He lashed out at Donald, “You lie. I have seen too many wounds in too many battles. No. You cannot let her die.”

“You need to believe,” Donald said in a soft, faint tone.

“In false hopes?” Malcolm vented his anger on Donald.

“There is a chance,” Donald argued from the other side of the wagon.

With a violent jerk, Malcolm pulled his horse's reins. The steed lifted his front legs and let out a loud, angry neigh. “Halt,” Malcolm yelled. “Donald, hand me my skin. Forthwith.”
I must save her.

Kenneth rode up to the wagon, having been close enough to hear what was happening. “Malcolm.” Kenneth flashed him an are-you-mad look. “You cannot mean this.”

Malcolm pressed his knees against the jumpy horse and rode to Kenneth's side. “Give me my skin.” He emphasized each word, with the tone of a hiss.

Kenneth gazed intently into Malcolm's dark eyes. “You cannot leave her now.” His tone held an edge of pleading. “I shall give you your skin, but wait until she heals. I know you love the lass.”

“I need leave now, Kenneth.”

“Wait. Give her a chance to bid you farewell.” Kenneth held his hand to his chest in a beseeching gesture.

Malcolm reached out, grabbed Kenneth's shoulders and yanked him off his horse. He swung the king onto his lap, so Kenneth's feet dangled down the horse's side. Kenneth tried to get free, but Malcolm's grip was too strong. Malcolm drew his sword with his other hand and held the blade across.

Kenneth's throat. Malcolm glared at Donald.

“I'll kill him if you don't give me my skin. Now.”

“Malcolm, what is wrong with you. It is your cousin. You do not know what you are doing. Let Kenneth go,” Donald entreated.

“My skin, Donald. Now,” Malcolm snarled.

 “Yes.” Donald nodded, then wheeled his horse around and galloped toward the front of the troops, to a wagon full of Kenneth's possessions.

 Donald reined his horse in, dismounted, and climbed into the wagon. Once he found the right chest, he unlatched it, and knocked everything out until he felt the false bottom. Hastily, Donald flipped open the hidden compartment and found it empty. But he pulled open a niche underneath. The hiding place. He yanked out the precious brown selkie hide. Gently, he picked it up and clutched it to his chest. Then he rode like the wind to Malcolm.

Malcolm couldn't believe what he had done, but it was the only way. He couldn't let Bethoc die. He would never hurt Kenneth, but he had to stage this attack to get his skin. He had no time to spare. Bethoc was so pale and still. She had lost so much blood. No priest or healer could save her. He was her only chance. Malcolm had to get to the sea at once.

 As Donald charged forward on his snorting horse, Malcolm saw, he could even sense, the seal hide pressed to his cousin's chest.

 “Here,” Malcolm called out as he swung the blade away from Kenneth's throat and caught the skin with his other hand. He released Kenneth, who dropped to the ground.

Kenneth clutched his throat and stood up. He looked Malcolm in the eye. “Do not do this. Do not leave this way.”

 “I must. I wish you well cousin, I do. But I cannot stay a moment longer.”

 Kenneth reached his arm toward Malcolm. “You will regret leaving Bethoc like this. I know you love her.”

 “Yes. That I do.”

 “I know it hurts to see her wounded, but she will heal. Stay. For Bethoc's sake,” Donald pleaded.

 Malcolm clutched the skin tightly against his chest, and wheeled his horse in the direction of the shore.

 “Cousin, you are not the man I thought you were,” Kenneth thundered.

 Malcolm drove his horse at a hard gallop toward the rocky seacoast.

Chapter Twelve

Salt scented wind whipped through Malcolm's hair as he goaded the horse onward. As much a beast as his steed, Malcolm snapped out an angry bark and pulled his horse to a halt. He leapt off his saddle and his two feet hit the rock-covered sand with a hard thump.

Malcolm stared at the crashing white-capped waves of the sea, but only saw the image in his mind, an orange-red and sun-yellow crustacean whose smooth bottom was covered with a medicinal herb. An algae called Seafire.

Warmth glowed inside his chest and shined like a sunbeam straight to the bottom of the sea. The healing plant beckoned to him. Seafire brought him hope like a fire lit in a cold, dark beggar man's hut.

In his human form, he called out the selkie name for the herb, “Arrkeeee". Bethoc's cure. 

Though it hid deep in the dark waters, he had to find it, he must. It was Bethoc's only chance. Malcolm ripped off his tunic, unbelted and climbed out of his braies. In that moment, he tossed aside the new religion for the old.

Malcolm lifted his arms above his head and called out to the God of the Sea, “Manannan Mac Lir, ageless prince of the Tuatha de Danann, I invoke your power.” Malcolm's insides warmed and his flesh tingled from the magical energy in the air. “I, a shape shifter of the seal, call out to you. God of the Waters and shape shifter of the heron, guide me. Watch over my path as I seek the magical Seafire to save the life of my mate, my love, my wife. Bethoc.”