Becca St.John Read online

  SEONAID

  BY

  BECCA ST. JOHN

  A shamed woman,

  a lad with a tarnished legacy,

  & the man who loved them both

  Seonaid©2014 Martha E. Ferris

  All rights reserved

  ISBN-13:

  978-1502583802

  ISBN-10:

  1502583801

  Cover Art © 2014 Kelli Ann Morgan / Inspire Creative Services

  www.inspirecreativeservices.com

  Edited by

  Barb Wilson ~ http://www.editpartner.com

  Nancy D. Wall, Wordsmith ~ [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  WARNING: This book deals with the aftermath of incestuous abuse. It does not titillate or romanticize, but bears witness to the journey of a survivor and the power of love to transform.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1 ~ THE JOURNEY

  CHAPTER 2 ~ ADVENTURES

  CHAPTER 3 ~ CAPTURE

  CHAPTER 4 ~ THREE ON THE ROAD

  CHAPTER 5 ~ BOGGY PLACES

  CHAPTER 6 ~ DESTINATIONS

  CHAPTER 7 ~ SEDUCTION

  CHAPTER 8 ~ A SHIP

  CHAPTER 9 ~ CAUGHT

  CHAPTER 10 ~ OUTNUMBERED

  CHAPTER 11 ~ FACING THE ENEMY

  CHAPTER 12 ~ SEPARATION

  CHAPTER 13 ~ A NEW MOTHER

  CHAPTER 14 ~ CONFESSION

  CHAPTER 15 ~ OUTWITTED

  CHAPTER 16 ~ ENOUGH

  CHAPTER 17 ~ CONCESSION

  CHAPTER 18 ~ THE MEETING

  CHAPTER 19 ~ BEAUTIFUL ODE

  CHAPTER 20 ~ STORIES TOLD

  CHAPTER 21 ~ A NAME IS BUT A NAME

  CHAPTER 22 ~ HIGHLAND SONG

  CHAPTER 23 ~ A FAMILY

  EXCERPT ~ AN INDEPENDENT MISS

  NOTES FROM BECCA

  VICTIMS OF TABOO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1 ~ THE JOURNEY

  Evil ran in Lochlan’s blood.

  The same blood that ran in her veins, in her son’s.

  Seonaid squeezed Deian’s hand as they stood, high upon a fold of the mountain. Cottages, their cottage, far below, no larger than a knot on a tapestry, as if distance could shrink longing to a speck on her heart.

  Tall and stoic as the land around them, Seonaid allowed herself one last look. Impatient, as any five year old, Deian tugged her hand, wanting to be off.

  They would be gone, soon enough, but first she filled her heart with a last look at the only home she’d ever known.

  Glen Toric.

  Its familiar bustle of life too far away to be seen. The breeze dried unacknowledged tears. She refused the weakness, accepted her choice. They’d slipped out in the dark, before dawn’s chorus. Padraig the only one to know of their leaving.

  You could marry me.

  Oh, that he asked, a mere four words she would cling to for the rest of her life. The harsh hope in his voice, for her, a lass who dressed like a man, trained in the art of hunting and warfare, too full of secrets to speak.

  She could not marry him. She could never marry anyone, refused to be sorry as stubbornly as she refused weakness. Life held other treasures. She gazed at her son, awed such sweetness and strength would bless her life after the horror of his conception.

  That he was her brother’s son. Lochlan’s son.

  Would she have fought so hard, to nearly die in the violence of begetting, if she’d known this child would become her heart? Would the poor mite turn, like his father had, from a loving, laughing lad to a cruel and twisted man?

  God, please, let it be like eyes and hair, let him be free of that curse.

  Fears nearly crippled her while Deian, so trusting in tomorrow, stood at her side looking the other way, toward their future, as if the endless ripple of land held the promise of great grand adventures.

  A lot of nothingness was what it held. Mountains, their long arms squeezing a valley filled with ominous shadows, hiding who knew what. No dwellings or fires’ smoke to warn of others, just a vast expanse of God’s green earth. An emptiness they must face.

  Later.

  Just the two of them. A disgraced woman and her five-year-old lad.

  “You’re hurtin’ my hand, Mama.” Deian tugged at her hold.

  Chastened, she released him, certain this was just the first of many mistakes she would make. What did she know of caring for a wee lad? The young widow Deidre, and her sister Ingrid, had raised Deian, kept the cottage, garden in good order. In turn, Seonaid hunted, farmed, ensured safety. Such a simple plan.

  Nothing was that easy. Consequences loomed, far worse than a hand sore from being held too tightly. Like a boil, festering and wicked, shame stuffed deep inside wrested its way to the surface, so now the whole clan knew of their humiliation, their family’s disgrace.

  Word of it would spread across the vast highlands. How, she hadn’t a clue, but gossip spread faster than the wind could blow. No hope for it, they must carry on to escape the scandal. No more views of her beloved home.

  Deian hunkered down, exploring a rabbit hole he’d just found.

  “I’ll race ya’,” she challenged.

  Face scrunched with fierce determination, he hurtled down the hillside, too fast for his short legs. Three leaps and he tipped, head over tail, tumbled, curling into a ball, gaining speed as he rolled down the slope. Seonaid scrambled to catch him, heart stopping with each missed jagged stone or huge chunk of rock. Good Lord, he’d kill himself!

  Except he didn’t. He rolled to standing, glanced backward, eyes dark with challenge before charging forward again, uncaring of torn hose, or scraped and bleeding knee.

  Competitive, he was. Seonaid bent over, breathing in great draughts of fear, putting it back where it belonged, deep inside. She’d give him a chance. He’d earned that much. A chance for Deian to win, without a black cloud plaguing him.

  “I did it! I beat you!” He jumped up and down, fists pummeling the air as though he could reach the sky, punch through a cloud.

  “You won,” she agreed, striding down the hillside. She’d paid a price for that win. Parenthood shattered nerves she hadn’t known she had. It was his turn to have a shock.

  Without warning, she swooped down, grabbed him round the middle, swung him up over her shoulder.

  “Come, you.” She looked to where her mount grazed just a wee bit further down the slope. “Call for Peregrine.”

  Deian warbled like a sick little tufted titmouse, though he managed the telltale bend in the song. Peregrine lifted his head, shook it, then returned to grazing. Seonaid lowered Deian to the ground. “You couldna’ get the right air hangin’ over my shoulder. Try again.”

  This time, Deian’s whistle rang clear, true. Peregrine lifted his head, took a step, before starting to lower his muzzle again. Once more Deian whistled, but this time an edge of anger gained Peregrine’s full attention.

  Seonaid sighed. Control with anger was far too close to her brother’s ways. She didn’t want Deian to be anything like him.

  Peregrine reached them, Seonaid flipped open a saddlebag, found another bag inside, and undid the tie. “Here you go, get a handful of this.” She lifted Deian so he could do as she said, coming up with a handful of oats. Lowering him, she led him over to face the horse. “Open your hand, let Peregrine have the treat.”

  Deian giggled and pulled back with the tickle of Peregrine’s lips. Again, she gripped him around the middle, hoisted him onto the mount’s back. “Stroke
his neck; let him know you’re pleased with him. You’ll have better control with reward than punishment.”

  “He didna’ come when I called.”

  “Wasna’ my whistle. He’s still learnin’ yours and he’s here now.” She closed up the oats, tucked them into the saddlebag. “Let’s go.” Reins in hand, she led the way on foot. “We’ll stop at the river tonight.”

  “And we’ll sleep outside?”

  “Oh, aye, we’ll sleep under the stars.” Out of doors, with no fire to draw attention. No fire for warmth or to ward off prey.

  She looked for clouds. A few lined the western horizon. It would be wet soon enough, long enough. She wasn’t so foolish as to expect any different.

  Just let it be dry for the night, for my lad. She sent the plea to heaven, assured her request was not too greedy. Just one dry night, please.

  Wind kicked up, of a sudden, whipped her hair, smelled of rain. Perhaps a bit greedy. It always rained in the highlands. “Pull your hood up, son.”

  She needn’t have worried. The weather managed to stay dry two blessed nights, with two days of adventure, including Deian’s first hunt. Which he’d yet to stop speaking of. They’d caught a hare, fresh meat cooked mid-day. She’d not risk a fire at night.

  Her stomach growled at the memory, as she tried to remember what was in their meager store of food.

  “I got him,” Deian piped up, as if she hadn’t been there helping him to aim, steady the bow, “clean through the eye,” and gutting the carcass.

  “That’s enough, son. It’s time you slept.” She settled him between herself and a great standing stone.

  She yawned, tired, for she’d been on the alert most every night, with naught but a wee bit of sleep. Something tickled her thoughts, something to work out, to keep her awake.

  Och, yes, their meager store of food. What did they still have? A half-bag of oats, bannock cakes, some dried meat, and only a wee bit of salted fish because she didn’t really know what to do with it. All told, their food should last a week, possibly two if they were careful, but she didn’t know how long it would take them to get across the highlands.

  She’d never been away from the lands of Glen Toric, didn’t know what to expect. Their course, east and south, the only certainty. Every night she climbed to the highest point, to judge the best route. Find a way around water, avoid climbing the worst of hills and mountains. No straight lines for them.

  “Will you tell me the story of Seonaidh?” Deian mumbled through a yawn.

  “Hush now, try to sleep.”

  He never asked questions, never spoke of Glen Toric. Did he not miss their home? Ingrid or Deidre? Deidre’s daughter, Eba? Did he know what had happened? That his own mother had murdered Deidre?

  Seonaid refused the memory. Murder was too harsh a word. She’d saved Deidre from an ugly execution. Not that a child of five understood such a fine difference.

  “Please, Ma, tell me the story of your name.”

  It wasn’t a story for settling young lads to sleep.

  “I promise I will sleep after the story.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  “I’ll sleep.” He yawned again, halfway to his promise.

  “All right, I will tell you one more time.” For she must have told him a dozen times on this journey. “I am named by my ma, who grew up on the Isle of Lewis out in the western islands.”

  “How come she was from there?”

  “Because that’s where her parents were from.”

  “How come she married your da?” Deian sat up, confirming the story did little to help him sleep.

  “You know that bit.”

  “Your da fought with her da and then they met.”

  “Aye. And that’s enough for tonight. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

  “You haven’t even told the good part, about the strong man who goes into the water.”

  “Tomorrow.” Seonaid stood firm, tucking his cover around him.

  “I wish…”

  “No.” He needed to sleep but she didn’t blame him for wanting to stay awake. They’d been enjoying each other’s company. A revelation, that she could have fun on this journey, more exodus than adventure.

  But it was more than that. The days had been warm, the sky dry and she felt free. Nothing to hide. No more pretending. All her ugly secrets revealed, poured out on the courtyard at Glen Toric. Landed there. Gone, finished. As dead as her brother.

  As long as she never went back.

  She shifted, resettled on the hard ground, looked over to find Deian asleep, sprawled out with a child’s abandon.

  A brook babbled just below them, lulling its sleepy tune, washing all thoughts away. The scent of rain rode the breeze. Further off, clouds gathered, no doubt headed their way. Not just yet. They had until morning, perhaps even longer. When it did come, there would be no cover, no place to escape it.

  The rain would turn adventure to trial soon enough for the tyke. At least they’d sleep dry tonight.

  The sparkle of stars, a river full of bounty, and the sweet scent of heather offered a new home. Seonaid rolled to her back, reassured by the steadiness of the night sky, calmed by the deep croaking of frogs.

  She made a pledge to herself. No more talk of leaving, of what was left behind. They wouldn’t run away. They would run to a place, a new home where no one knew who they were or where they came from. She’d gotten them this far. Barely into summer, she would get them to their destination before winter.

  Her breath deepened, lids slid down. Content with a future that beckoned.

  Startled, she woke to a sound, something, like a shoulder tap, alerting her. She listened hard. Heard nothing but the gurgle of the river, the scurry of a rodent.

  Two sleepless nights rattled her, turned normal shadows into great huge grotesque shapes. Fear slithered into her gut. She shook it off. A dream, that’s what it was. Imagination, no doubt. She should stay awake.

  Still, greater predators were out there. The moon had yet to rise, and the stars too dim to see truthfully. Anything could be creeping up on them.

  Tucked between her and the standing stone, Deian breathed quietly. Seonaid eased to her side, lifted her bow, slid an arrow from the quiver, notch to string. Taut, steady, she scanned the night, ready to fire on whatever was out there; serpent, beast, man, anything.

  A bird whistled.

  A bird, in the deep of night.

  Again, a warble cut through the dark. The MacKay clan signal.

  A MacKay.

  Or not.

  A bird’s song. Anyone could sing a bird’s song. She squinted into the night. They were still on MacKay land, though not even a croft to be seen by hilltop.

  Lochlan would have known the song, could have shared it with anyone.

  Surely it was an animal.

  Or one of Lochlan’s men survived to hunt down women.

  Another movement, slide of a paw or claw. Her heart raced. She wanted to cover Deian, to put her body over his, protect him, but she had to be prepared. She strained to see through the gloom, to shoot, attack, defend before danger reached them.

  Branches crashed to their left, a big careless noise, pinpointing the source of danger. She grabbed Deian, lifted him straight up with his cover and ran in the other direction, through the underbrush, along an animal path she’d noted earlier. She ran with all her might. Deian, bright lad that he was, didn’t fight, but clung to her so she could get a better hold on her weapon.

  Hard steps pounded the earth, unencumbered by a child or tears, racing toward them. A body crashed into hers, pitching her forward. Deian, she mustn’t land on Deian. Their assailant grabbed both mother and child in an iron grip and twisted to take the fall as they hit the ground.

  Oh mother of God, save us!

  “Seonaid! Are you all right, lass?” Padraig, out of breath and panting, had the nerve to ask.

  Padraig? Padraig was there?

  Deian scrambled to stand, shouting, his voice high-pitche
d, excited. “Padraig! You’ve come for us!” He’d been missing someone after all.

  “Aye, lad,” Padraig huffed, his chest still bearing her weight.

  “Let me go!” Seonaid pulled free, fought for stable ground.

  “You were the ones on top,” Padraig grumbled playfully.

  He winked at Deian. She just knew it, even with the pitch of night making it impossible to see. She knew he would do something like that, given the chance.

  But he surprised her when he asked, “Your ma was from the Isle of Lewis?”

  “You were listening? How long were you out there?”

  He rose up over them. Such a great, grand man, far taller than herself, so she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. Where she was slight of build, he was strong and hard and large as that stone that protected Deian when he slept.

  “Not so long, really, Seonaid.” Like a child he was, like a child promising to be good.

  “You’re terrible, sneaking up on us, waking Deian.”

  But that’s not why he was terrible. Sneaking up on them, scaring her, she would get over that. No, he did something far worse.

  He made her feel safe, secure, when she could not afford to feel such things. He wasn’t there to watch over them, to make their travels easier. He was there to take her back.