Aftermath
The Salt-Stained Shore
The tide had risen and fallen once since the battle at the pans, but the land had not forgotten. Brine crusted white on stones that had been spattered red the night before. The waves came in slow and heavy, as though the sea itself had grown weary of washing away so much blood.
Agnes walked the shore with bare feet, feeling the sting of salt in cuts she had not noticed until now. Her skirts dragged damp and blackened at the hem, but she paid it no mind. Every overturned bucket, every charred beam of a shed, every cracked pan felt like a wound upon her body. She bent and righted what she could, whispering small prayers to herself: rise, mend, endure.
Behind her, the people gathered. Some leaned on each other; some had arms bound in bandages; a few still clutched their weapons as if the Keiths might rise from the sea again at any moment. They were tired beyond reckoning, yet none left her side.
"They'll come again," Ewan said at last. His voice, once the voice of a boy, now carried the gravel of a man.
"They will," Agnes answered, brushing ash from her palm. "And we will meet them again."
The cairn grew that morning. Stones were brought from the shore, from the fields, even from hearths where women pulled them loose though it meant a draft in their homes. The people built the cairn tall and broad, their breath smoking in the air as if the hill itself exhaled sorrow.
Màiri Mhòr stood before it, staff in hand, and called the names.
"Fionnlagh mac Iain—dead."
A widow sobbed, her wail thin and sharp, the sound of a hawk losing its mate.
"Sorcha Nic Iain—wounded, will live."
A ripple of relief, Sorcha herself leaning against her mother's side, head bandaged but eyes blazing.
"Màrtainn mac Coinneach—dead."
Silence, broken only by a babe crying at its mother's breast.
At each name, the people murmured as one: "Buaidh no Bàs." Victory or death.
When the fisher's husband was named, Màiri Beag did not weep. She pressed her babe to her chest and said, "He fed us when he lived. I'll feed us now he's gone."
Seumas stood apart, leaning on his claymore, ribs bound and breath ragged. He had heard lists like this before—at Prestonpans, at Culloden, in nameless glens where Gunn blood had turned the earth to mud. Yet each name struck him anew. He felt the weight of the dead pressing on his lungs as surely as his illness.
Agnes went to him, laying her hand over his. "Don't carry them all alone."
His eyes were hollow, but steady. "I carried too few at Culloden. I'll carry them all now."
Grief gave way to labour. Work was the only cure the Highlands ever knew.
Women stoked the pans that could still hold brine, shovelling kelp ash to keep the fires alive. Children hauled weed from the shore in baskets twice their size, faces smeared with soot. Old men patched stone with sea clay, humming tunelessly, their cracked fingers finding strength in rhythm.
"Every grain of salt we boil is a blade in our hand," Agnes told them. "Every weed we burn is a shield against hunger."
Even the widows worked, carrying wood, carrying ash, carrying grief like another load on their shoulders. The Craiks were not broken. They were bent, but they bent toward one another.
The longhouse had become a hall of moans and prayers. Màiri Mhòr and her apprentices moved like shadows, washing wounds with brine, binding with strips torn from tartan and sheets. The air stank of smoke, sweat, and crushed herbs.
One boy, no more than twelve, whimpered as she pressed nettle poultice to his leg. "It burns," he gasped.
"Aye," she said, not unkindly. "It burns the rot out. Better you curse me now than rot tomorrow."
Another man, grey-bearded, lay still as she stitched his side. "Will I live, Màiri?" he asked.
"You'll live to see your bairn's bairns," she lied, though her eyes were soft.
Later, when the smoke of day's labour hung heavy, Seumas coughed until blood flecked his lips. Agnes knelt beside him, fear twisting her heart.
"You can't fight like this," she whispered. "You'll tear yourself apart."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiled faintly. "I tore myself apart years ago. What's left holds for you."
Her eyes filled, though she blinked the tears back. "Don't speak like that. Not now."
His hand closed around hers, rough and hot. "Agnes… if I fall, lead them. You're the heart. They'll follow you."
She pressed her forehead to his. "Then you'll not fall. Not while I breathe."
The Widow's Song
That night, when grief was thick and silence heavier than stone, the fisher's widow lifted her voice. She sang not a lament but a working tune, steady and sharp:
"Turn the weed, beat the flame,
Salt and smoke, we'll live the same.
Keith may come, Keith may die,
Craik stands strong, and so will I."
Her voice was cracked, yet strong enough to pull others with it. One by one, the Craiks joined. Soon the longhouse rang with voices, men and women stamping feet, clapping hands, even the wounded humming through clenched teeth.
Seumas leaned against Agnes, eyes half-closed, whispering, "This is stronger than steel."
"Aye," she said, kissing his temple. "And steel enough to cut kings."
After the song, the children gathered in a corner, playing at war. They swung sticks like claymores, their shouts echoing: "For Agnes! For the Gunn!"
Niall watched them, sling still looped at his side. He looked older already, though his face was still smooth. "They don't know," he muttered.
Ewan clapped his shoulder. "They'll learn. Or maybe they'll be the ones to make new songs that don't need blood."
"Do you believe that?" Niall asked.
Ewan's grin was crooked. "Not yet. But I'd like to."
Margaret's Poison
Far away, in Wick, word spread of the salt pan battle. Some called it a miracle, swearing the Craiks had boiled men alive, that smoke had blinded whole ranks. Others whispered that Seumas Gunn had risen from the grave, his claymore guided by spirits.
Margaret heard every word and smiled. "Good. Let them make him a ghost. The harder the shadow, the sweeter the breaking."
Robert, pale over his ledger, whispered, "We bleed men faster than coin can buy. This cannot last."
Margaret turned, eyes burning. "This is not about coin. It is about love. And I will win it, Father—even if it costs the last man in Caithness."
Robert said nothing, but fear rooted in his bones like frost in stone.
Back at Loch Wattenan, the Craiks set their watch. Men and women took turns on the headland, eyes on the horizon, ears pricked for horns. The stars were sharp above, the loch black as glass below.
Seumas insisted on taking a turn despite his pain. Agnes scolded, but he only said, "If death comes, I'll meet it standing."
She stood beside him anyway, her hand finding his. Together they stared into the dark, the weight of storm still pressing.
"We held them," she whispered.
"For now," he said. "But this storm's not done."
Her grip tightened. "Then let it come."
The Craiks had survived, but survival was not peace. They had buried their dead, healed their wounded, boiled salt and burned kelp again. Their grief was real, but their resolve was fiercer still.
Seumas weakened with each breath, yet his people saw him as a ghost who could not fall. Agnes blazed brighter every day, binding them with fire and faith.
And Margaret Sinclair, in Wick, twisted her hatred sharper than any blade.
The storm had not passed. It had only grown darker.
The Keith Council of War
The gates of Wick creaked open in the dull light of dawn, and what returned through them was no victorious host but a ragged remnant. The soldiers stumbled in with mud to their knees, blood stiff on tartan, pikes splintered and muskets fouled with brine. Some leaned on comrades, others dragged their feet as though the earth itself clutched at their heels.
At the head rode Colin Keith. His claymore was dark to the hilt, his targe dented and scorched. He sat straight in the saddle, but his jaw was clenched so tight that his teeth ground audibly when he spoke.
"Open the yards. Clear the square. They'll not see us slink back like beaten curs."
The townsfolk of Wick watched in silence. Some crossed themselves, seeing men with blistered faces from boiling brine. Others whispered: "The kelp-witch burned them.""The Gunn came back from the dead." Mothers pulled children close, as though the soldiers' shame might be catching.
Margaret Sinclair rode at the rear, scarlet cloak immaculate despite the smoke of battle. Her white palfrey lifted its hooves high, stepping daintily past corpses dragged in carts. She smiled faintly at the silence of the crowd. Fear is more useful than cheers, she thought.
Robert Sinclair rode beside her, his ledger unopened at his side, face drawn grey. "They'll talk," he muttered.
"Let them," Margaret answered. "Every whisper of Gunn's ghost feeds my fire."
By midday, the square outside the tolbooth was filled with captains and chieftains, their plaid stiff with dried blood. The hall itself smelled of sweat and smoke, the fire burning low in the hearth.
Keith slammed his claymore onto the long oak table, the iron boss of his targe thudding after it. "Enough shame," he growled. "Twice now they've bloodied us. At the burn. At the pans. Twice."
Captain MacRobb spat into the rushes. His face was blistered raw from brine, eyes swollen half-shut. "It was smoke and women, no more. They fight like vermin, not soldiers."
"Then vermin bested you," Keith snapped. "Do you want your epitaph to read 'burned by a fishwife's pan?'"
A murmur went round the hall. Some chuckled nervously, others shifted uneasily.
Robert opened his ledger with trembling fingers. "Losses must be accounted. Seventy-three fit for service at dawn; forty-three returned sound, though weary. Fifteen wounded, some beyond cure. That leaves scarcely half our strength."
"Numbers," Keith growled. "I need men, not ink."
"And ink pays men," Robert retorted, surprising even himself. His voice wavered, but the truth of it hung in the air.
Silence stretched until Margaret's heels clicked against the floor. She moved to the centre of the chamber, cloak flaring, hair flaming in the firelight. All eyes turned to her, some with awe, some with suspicion.
"You quarrel like hens in a midden," she said softly, yet the hall hushed. "Keith curses, MacRobb blames smoke, my father counts coffers. And still Agnes Craik and her ghost stand, their pans smoking, their people singing."
Her smile was slow, dangerous. "If you cannot break them, then change the game."
Keith narrowed his eyes. "Speak, then, lass. But if this is more poison—"
"It is war," she cut him off. "And war is not fought only with steel. Break their food, break their trade, break their hope. Burn the kelp where it dries. Salt the fields where they sow barley. Seize their fishing boats. Let hunger do what blades could not."
The hall erupted in mutters. Some nodded. Others spat.
Keith slammed his fist on the table. "A Highlander does not starve women and bairns!"
Margaret's eyes glittered. "Culloden starved us all. Did the redcoats spare your kin? Did they spare mine? Honour fills no stomach, Colin Keith. If you cling to it, you will bury your men on empty bellies."
From the shadows, Bain stepped forward, dirk at his belt, smile crooked. "The lady speaks true," he said, voice smooth as oil. "Steel alone will not fell this Gunn. He's a ghost, aye—but ghosts bleed when you cut what they love."
He glanced at Margaret, and her smile sharpened. "What he loves," Bain continued, "is the fire-haired Craik. Strike her, and you strike him. Strike her, and the people scatter. No queen, no cause."
A few men nodded grimly. Robert paled. Keith's hand tightened on his claymore.
"You'd murder a woman in her own hearth?" Keith spat.
Bain shrugged. "Better one woman than ten more of your men boiled in pans."
Margaret's voice was honey over steel. "He is right. Kill her, and Seumas breaks. Then the rest fall with him."
Robert pushed to his feet, hands shaking over his ledger. "This is madness! Do you not hear yourselves? Boasting of slaughtering women while our men limp home half-dead? Already the town whispers that Gunn is a ghost, that Agnes is a witch. If you kill her, she will not die—she will become a saint. Every crofter in Caithness will rise for her. And us? We will be damned."
Margaret turned her burning gaze on him. "You are already damned, Father. Damned to count coin while others make history."
Robert's lips trembled. "History does not fill bellies."
"No," Margaret purred. "But it fills songs. And songs last longer than ledgers."
The captains argued long into the afternoon. Some called for an honourable battle, face to face, steel against steel. Others, their hands blistered and eyes bandaged, swore vengeance by fire and famine.
Keith listened, his face thunder. At last he raised a hand. Silence fell.
"We fight them again," he said, voice like granite. "But not as fools. Scouts to watch their pans. Pickets along the coast. We strike where they are weakest. And if hunger weakens them first—" his gaze flicked to Margaret—"then so be it."
He lifted his claymore from the table. "No more shame. Next time, the Gunn dies. Or we all do."
The captains roared, stamping feet, dirks clattering. But Robert sat pale, his quill idle. And Margaret only smiled, eyes far away, already dreaming of Agnes's blood on the snow.
Thus the Keith council ended, divided but set upon a course that promised more blood. Keith sought honour, Margaret sought vengeance, Robert sought survival. Between them, the storm only gathered darker.
And in the shadows, Bain sharpened his dirk, his promise to Margaret burning in his mind: strike her, and strike him.