Chapter 11
When Ramsay reached his bedroom, he barely managed to strip his clothes off before falling into the bed and sleeping like a hibernating bear.
He awoke with the dawn after dreaming of Signy in his bed. Alas, she wasn’t, but he spent several pleasant moments remembering their kiss and the intoxicating feel of her in his arms.
With a sigh, he swung his feet from the bed and turned his thoughts to the day ahead. Now that he knew where the record box and key were, he should study the estate finances after breakfast. It was not an enthralling prospect.
He stood and moved to the window. The sky was clear and tinted with delicate shades of pink and orange. This was not a morning to be wasted studying accounts.
Decision made, he swiftly dressed in riding clothes and descended to the kitchen. Ordinarily it would be bustling at this hour, but after the days of backbreaking work that had been put in by the cook and her assistants to prepare for the funeral feast, he’d told everyone to take the day off.
He looked in the pantry and smiled to find a beremeal bannock. Bere was an ancient, fast-growing strain of barley that did well in the short summers of these far northern islands. He hadn’t had bere since he’d left Scotland on his travels. He cut a sizable wedge and spread sweet butter on it, then grabbed a slightly withered apple and strode off to the stables. The nutty flavor of the beremeal took him back to his childhood.
Now it was time to make the acquaintance of Duncan’s horse, Thor the Fifth. The laird’s personal mount was always kept in a large loosebox at the far end of the stables. A sign above simply said THOR without specifying what number he was.
Ramsay caught his breath when he saw the dapple gray stallion. He was a splendid example of the Thorsayian horse, which was descended from a variety of breeds and included a large amount of Icelandic blood. Thorsayian horses were larger than their Icelandic ancestors, but with similar stamina, bold personalities, and equally full, flowing manes and tails. Ramsay had ridden many horse breeds over the years, but he thought none surpassed the Thorsayian. The fabled Arabians came closest, though they were very different.
Thor raised his head and whickered enthusiastically when he saw Ramsay. As he got a closer look at his visitor, he snorted with disgust and lowered his head. Ramsay wasn’t surprised that the horse had briefly thought he was Duncan, because in height and build he looked very like his grandfather. “Sorry, Thor,” he said softly. “The old laird is gone. You’re mine now. I know it won’t be the same, but I hope we can be friends.”
He held the apple out on his palm. Thor approached and sniffed the apple, then chomped it down in one quick bite.
“How about we go for a ride, my lad?” Ramsay asked as he patted the stallion’s neck and scratched behind his ears. “I imagine you haven’t been getting as much exercise as you’d like, so today you can have a good run.”
He continued talking as he saddled and bridled the horse. Thor showed restless excitement at the prospect of a run. Ramsay led him out to the yard and swiftly mounted. “You’re going to want to try to throw me off just to show who’s in charge, but don’t be too sure you’ll succeed.”
Thor exploded into a series of kicks and bucks, but Ramsay suspected that the horse wasn’t trying as hard as he might have. Surely Duncan hadn’t been strong enough to ride Thor for some time, so someone else must have been exercising him regularly.
When Thor had finished performing and settled down, Ramsay patted him on the neck approvingly. “One of the stable lads has been riding you, hasn’t he? I’ll have to find which one and thank him for keeping you in such good shape.
“Now we’ll head out and I’ll see how many gaits you have.” True Icelandic horses had two more gaits than most horses—the tölt and the flying pace. Ramsay walked Thor out of the yard and turned inland, wanting to see more of the island. It was good to be on a horse again after the weeks at sea on the voyage from Constantinople.
Ramsay signaled Thor to go from the walk to a tölt, which was a gait similar to a walk but which could be performed at a wide range of speeds. He gave the stallion his head, and soon they were skimming up a long slope at the speed of a fast canter. Swift, smooth, lovely. Ramsay laughed aloud, saying, “My grandfather was right—you really are the best of your breed!”
He slowed the horse at the top of the hill so he could admire the stunning views of the sea and distant surrounding islands. But the evidence of poverty was disturbing as he continued across the island. The herds of livestock were smaller than they should be, especially the cattle, and several farms seemed to have been abandoned. The sights were grim confirmation of the troubles Thorsay had endured in recent years.
He must ask Signy how much worse matters would be if not for Duncan’s aid to those most in need. As he headed north, parallel to the coast, he passed one of the larger peat cuttings. No one was working this early, but there were sizable stacks of drying peat. Without peat as a fuel source, these northern islands would be uninhabitable.
He halted briefly at one of his favorite historic sites, the crumbled circular remains of a stone broch built on a headland above the sea. A hundred yards out in the water was a stack—a tall, irregularly shaped pillar that had once been part of the cliff until the relentless pounding of the waves had eroded away the rest of the stone, leaving this imposing monument to the power of the North Sea.
He didn’t dismount to study the broch more closely, but as always he wondered how old it was. Who were the people who had built it, and whom had they been defending themselves against? The answers were lost in time, but he looked forward to doing the inventory of ancient sites he and Signy had discussed on his first day back. That seemed a long time ago, though it was less than a week.
He turned Thor back toward Skellig House. “Let’s see if you can do the flying pace, my lad.” This extra gait was possessed by the best Icelandic horses, and not all Thorsayians had it. It was a sprinting gait, very fast and smooth, though not designed for long distance.
As Thor moved easily from a tölt into the flying pace, the crack of a rifle echoed across the hills, and the shot sounded damned close. Swearing, Ramsay leaned forward and urged Thor into his top speed. Another shot rang out, as if it came from one of the hills above. It wasn’t as close as the first shot, because Ramsay and Thor were racing away from the shooter.
No more shots sounded, but Ramsay kept Thor at his top pace until they were well away down the path that edged the sea. Then he slowed the horse down, frowning as he considered the shots. There weren’t a lot of rifles in Thorsay. The larger landowners would have them, and it was likely that some of the returned soldiers might have managed to come away with their weapons. Could that have been a poacher? They usually preferred stealth.
It was certainly damned careless shooting. One of the first lessons of firearms use was never fire without a clear view of the target.
Maybe the shooter did have a clear view, and his target was Ramsay. It was a chilling thought, and he swore again. Surely he hadn’t been in Thorsay long enough to acquire murderous new enemies! More likely the shooting was accidental, or perhaps someone with an ugly sense of humor who liked scaring people.
Ramsay pulled Thor to a halt and turned to study the hills behind him. There weren’t a lot of trees in Thorsay, but the landscape had shrubs and boulders and irregularities where a shooter could conceal himself. Impossible to guess where those bullets had come from.
His earlier exhilaration gone, Ramsay continued south along the cliff path at a walk to cool Thor down. There was an itchiness between his shoulder blades, but no more shots disturbed the island’s peace.
The sun had risen high enough for islanders to be stirring. He was nearing Thorfield, the Mackenzie family farm, when it occurred to him that since he wanted to talk to a wide range of people, he might as well start with his old friends. He’d seen Broc and his mother and sister at Duncan’s funeral, but there had been no opportunity to talk.
The Thorfield house and farm building were set in a protected cup of land on the edge of the sea. As Ramsay rode down the slope toward the house, he was pleased to see a familiar-looking man leaving the house and heading to the barn. He gave the low, sharp whistle that he and Broc had used as boys.
