Chapter Three
The salt spray had dried to a crust on Cullen’s clothes. His hair was stiff with it. As the spring sun sent pale fingers of light through the inn’s small windows, he picked grains of sand out of his fingernails. A lass was singing a song to a man she was trying to seduce, sitting on his lap and sliding her fingers through his hair. Her affection was for sale, and soon enough, she hooked him, leading him away to the back room, and her song faded away. A shame, for she had a nightingale’s voice – sweet, high and soft. It had calmed his spirits.
Exhaustion lay heavy on Cullen as he let the whisky in his belly steady his racing heart and ease the pain from aching muscles. By God, that had been a rough crossing, and offloading contraband cargo in small boats in the chop had taken its toll. The rocks on either side of the drop point at Midge Beach were unforgiving. Fools who didn’t navigate the narrow channel carefully often came to grief on their jagged teeth. They hadn’t had much time to stow the stuff, as the risk of discovery by excise men or other kinds of villains grew steadily as night marched towards dawn. He should take less risk, but that meant less reward, and every coin in his pocket brought him closer to freedom.
The tavern door swung open, bringing with it an icy blast of wind, the briny tang of seaweed and a muscular fellow with a stare that could cut through flesh. Folk scuttled aside as he made his way over to Cullen.
‘Well met, Macaulay,’ said Heap, so-called because he was a mountain of muscle, well over six feet and wide-shouldered as a bull.
‘Is it?’ said Cullen. ‘I scarce made the crossing in one piece.’
Heap took a stool opposite and held out his hands to warm them before the fire. They were as broad as spades, and the knuckles were split in places. Cullen wondered whose face had caused that to happen.
‘Losing your nerve, Macaulay?’ The man leant in. ‘Our cargo. Is it secure?’
Now came the dangerous part. ‘It is my cargo until we agree on a price,’ said Cullen steadily.
‘It was already agreed.’
‘It was a rougher crossing than expected. The price has gone up.’
The man spat into the flames. ‘He won’t like it.’
‘Then he should have come himself to negotiate. Why didn’t he?’
‘Not your business.’
‘Fair enough.’ Cullen leant in. ‘Let’s talk then.’
They haggled for a while until they agreed on a price, as Cullen knew they would. He was sailing close to the wind, squeezing more money out of a ruthless man, but it was worth it.
Heap stood up. ‘I must take my leave. Oh, I almost forgot. I bear a message from your father.’
‘Since when did you run errands for my father? I thought you hadn’t spoken in a while.’
‘We do each other a service now and again.’ His smile was smug, a sure sign Heap knew something Cullen did not, and to his detriment. ‘My message is this. Griffin says you must return to Scarcross as soon as may be. He is in need of your services.’
‘What does he want?’
‘I neither know nor care, but it can’t be anything to your advantage. And now that you’ve cheated my master out of extra coin, perhaps it is best to make yourself scarce. So, my greedy friend, you should finish your whisky and tup whatever whore takes your fancy, and get passage back to Scotland as soon as may be. It’s a lonely passage home with Lucifer at your back and a cold welcome awaiting you at Scarcross.’
As it ever was. Cullen quaffed a cup of whisky, but its burn soured his gut. He glared into the fire and cursed his father, his Macaulay name and the reckless streak that dogged his character. Then he headed outside. Wind blustered, snatching his breath from his lungs. Cullen stared at the vast churning grey of the sea stretching back to Scotland and cursed his bad luck.
***
A rough crossing and a two-day ride brought Cullen to Scarcross at dusk. The grey stone tower house lurked near a crossroads, but was set well back, surrounded by thick, dark woods. Boasting little beauty, it had mean little windows set high and a small doorway that forced a man to stoop to get through it. The house squatted on a hill, and water ran in silty rivulets down the track leading up to it, overhung with trees and pock-marked with puddles and troughs.
It had never been a welcoming sight, but then, the Macaulays were not a clan known for their hospitality, being more likely to throw unannounced visitors onto the fire than to offer themits warmth. His mother had died within Scarcross, in miserable circumstances, and every homecoming was bleaker than the last.
Cullen kicked his horse forward and shivered into his jacket as sleet blew in, turning Scarcross’ black slate roof slick, and sending water gurgling from its leaky gutters. One of his father’s men stood outside the furthest outbuilding. He had not taken shelter from the weather, so he must be standing guard over the void below it. Cullen’s ears pricked for danger.
As he rode through the collection of ramshackle dwellings scattered around the place, folk peered out of their doorways, mouths falling open in shock or disapproval. He got a few wry smiles from a friend or two, but though he had been gone for two years, it seemed that the memory of his many transgressions still lingered.
The thick studded doorway to Scarcross was barred, so Cullen banged on it, hard. A grill opened, and beady eyes peered out.
‘What foul tide washed you up, Cullen?’ said Allard Macaulay.
‘What kind of welcome is this, brother?’ he replied cheerily, for that was bound to stoke the bastard’s ire.
