The raiders moved down the slope like shadows. Half broke away toward the kelp pits, torches smouldering, while the rest followed Margaret, their boots crunching on heather and stone. The wind carried the crackle of flame as brush caught, but it also carried sound upward — and already a dog barked sharp from the Craik yard.
A whistle pierced the night: three short, one long, like the call of a curlew. From the longhouse, torches flared, doors flew open. Men poured out, targes and muskets ready, women with slings, even bairns carrying stones. Agnes Craik herself stood at the fore, hair bright as blood in the firelight, her dirk in hand. Seumas loomed beside her, musket cradled, coughing once then steadying himself.
"Craik! Craik! Craik!" the defenders roared.
The mercenaries faltered. This was no sleeping village — it was a hornet's nest awake.
Margaret shrieked above the din. "Forward! Cut them down!"
Steel rang as the two sides met, clash and grunt echoing over the loch. Sparks flew where blades struck targes, shouts mingled with the hiss of arrows. The kelp pits smoked, but the fire was smothered by quick hands with wet hides. The Craiks held.
Margaret drove at the heart of it, dirk flashing. She was not coward now — she was fury embodied, slashing at any who blocked her path. "Where is she? Where is Agnes?" she screamed.
Then she saw her: Agnes in the torch-glow, steady, fierce. Margaret's face twisted. "Yours is the head I'll take!"
Robert forced himself into the melee, shoving through shouting men, heart hammering. He saw Margaret raise her dirk, lunging at Agnes, who braced with her targe. Time seemed to slow — Robert saw the madness in his daughter's eyes, the terror and rage in equal measure.
"Margaret!" he cried, and his voice broke like an old man's.
She turned, startled, giving Agnes the moment to shove her back. Margaret stumbled, then rounded on him, eyes wild. "You again? Always in my way!"
"Stop this!" he begged, breath ragged. "For God's sake, child — lay it down. Come away with me. It's not too late."
Her face softened for a heartbeat — just a flicker, enough for him to see the girl she had been, the child who once begged him to mend a broken-winged gull. Then her mouth twisted into a snarl.
"Too late? Too late was when you taught me victory mattered more than kindness. Too late was when you praised me for every cut I struck. Too late, Father. I am what you made me."
She lunged — not at him, but at Agnes again.
Robert's body moved before his mind. His dirk came up, old steel flashing. He caught her as she drove past, the blade sinking beneath her ribs.
Margaret gasped. The dirk clattered from her fingers. Her eyes went wide, not in fury now but in shock. She staggered, hands flying to his shoulders as if seeking balance.
"Father?" she whispered. The word was small, the word of a child.
"I'm here," Robert choked, catching her as she fell against him. Her weight folded into his arms, hot blood soaking his cloak.
"I… I thought you'd always shield me," she breathed, lips pale.
Tears blurred his sight. "I tried, Margaret. God help me, I tried. But I should have taught you mercy, not pride. Forgive me."
Her head lolled against his chest. She shuddered, fingers clutching weakly at his cloak. "It's… cold," she murmured.
He lowered himself to the ground, cradling her as though she were again the bairn he once carried home from the strand. Around them, the battle's noise dimmed, the Craiks and mercenaries pulling back in awe.
Margaret's eyes searched his face, desperate. "Was I… ever good, Da?"
He wept openly now, the tears running into his beard. "Aye, love. Aye, you were. You were bright as the sun. You were mine. And you are still mine."
Her lips trembled. A faint smile flickered, fragile as dawn. "Then… I'm not afraid."
Her breath left her in a sigh. Her eyes stilled, fixed on nothing.
Robert rocked her body, keening low, an old Highland lament breaking from his chest.
"Ochón, mo nighean, mo chridhe.
Ochón, gun do ghèill thu don dorchadas.
Is mise a thug ort, is mise a mharbh thu."
(Alas, my daughter, my heart.
Alas, that you yielded to the darkness.
It was I who led you, I who killed you.)
The field stilled. The mercenaries dropped their blades, shame on their faces. The Craiks lowered targes. Even Agnes, dirk still in hand, stepped back, eyes shining with something like pity.
Robert held Margaret's body, rocking her as the night wind keened over the loch. He pressed his forehead to hers, whispering broken prayers.
The woman who had sought to burn Caithness was gone. And the man who slew her had killed not only his child but his own soul.
The men Margaret had hired stood in silence, blades hanging loose at their sides. A few shifted uneasily, muttering about omens, about cursed blood. One spat into the heather, another crossed himself. Their paymaster lay dead in her father's arms; the silver she had promised would never be paid.
Keith stepped forward, face hard as stone. "It's done," he said flatly. "Go back to Wick, the lot of you. Or crawl back to whatever ditch spat you out."
Some grumbled, but none dared raise steel. One by one they melted into the dark, their torches dwindling to pinpricks and then gone.
The smoke of the failed fire at the kelp pits drifted over the ridge, sour in the nostrils. The only sound was the lap of the loch and Robert's keening.
At last Robert rose, still cradling Margaret's body. His face was streaked with ash and tears, his cloak soaked with her blood. He staggered forward until he stood before Agnes and Seumas, the Craik folk gathered behind them.
His voice was raw, breaking. "Bear witness. It was my hand that struck her. My hand, because she would not stop. My shame… and my punishment."
He laid Margaret gently on the earth, arranging her cloak to cover her face. His shoulders sagged as though the life had gone from him too.
"I raised her pride," he said. "I fed her hate. I thought to make her strong, and instead I made her cruel. Do not blame the Gunn. Do not blame the Craiks. Blame me."
No one spoke. The silence was deeper than any sermon.
Agnes's eyes glistened, but her voice was steady. "You did what had to be done. It was not mercy for us — it was mercy for her."
Robert shook his head. "Mercy would have been teaching her love when she was young. This…" He pressed a hand to his heart. "This is Cain's burden."
Seumas, his cough rattling in his chest, stepped forward. His voice was low but firm. "Then carry it, Sinclair. Carry it far from here. Let her rest, and let us live."
Robert nodded slowly. He bent, pressed his lips to Margaret's brow one last time, and whispered something too soft for any ear but hers. Then he lifted himself with effort and turned away.
By dawn, word had reached Wick: Margaret Sinclair was dead, struck down not by enemy hand but by her own father's. The town buzzed with disbelief and whispers. Some called Robert a murderer, others a saviour. Some spat her name with fear, others mourned the loss of a lady who might have ruled.
Keith left Wick that morning, riding west without a word. "No place for honour in a house that poisons its own," he told no one but the wind. He was not seen in Sinclair service again.
The apothecary shuttered his shop for a week, terrified of being dragged into the scandal.
Father Màrtainn preached of pride and ruin, of blood that curses itself, but even he wept for the sight of a father carrying his daughter's body.
The sky hung low over Caithness, a grey lid pressing down upon the hills. Rain had come and gone in the night, leaving the earth damp and fragrant with heather. The loch lay still as glass, its surface unbroken but for the flight of a single heron.
It was here, on the far side of the cairn, that Margaret Sinclair was laid to rest.
Robert had begged it before he left — that she not be buried among the Craik dead, nor in Wick where her name was already a curse. "Apart," he had said, voice breaking. "Apart, so she may lie quiet." The Craiks had agreed. Even an enemy deserved a place in the earth.
The cairn rose black against the skyline, stone upon stone, the memory of feuds and raids and kin lost. A new hollow had been dug, lined with heather and pine boughs. Margaret's body lay wrapped in her scarlet cloak, her dirk bound upon her breast.
Agnes stood at the head, the clan gathered in a circle behind her. Seumas was at her side, plaid drawn tight, his face carved from stone though his eyes were weary. Màiri Mhòr leaned on her staff, her shawl pulled close against the chill.
At a signal, the women of the clan began the caoineadh — the keening. It was no soft song but a raw, rising wail, voices weaving together in grief and defiance. They chanted Margaret's name, her lineage, her sins, her sorrow.
"Màiriadaidh nighean Raibeart,
bean a' phuinnsein, bean an teine,
cha till thu tuilleadh,
ach fhathast, nighean, bithidh do chuimhne nar measg."
(Margaret, daughter of Robert,
woman of poison, woman of fire,
you will not return,
yet still, daughter, your memory will remain among us.)
The sound carried over the loch, a lament that made even the gulls fall silent. Children clung to their mothers' skirts; men bowed their heads, targes resting at their feet.
When the keening ended, Agnes stepped forward with a small wooden bowl. In it was whisky — sharp, peaty, a draught meant for the dead. She knelt, dipped her fingers, and sprinkled it over Margaret's shrouded form.
"May you find peace," she said simply.
Seumas followed. He stooped stiffly, scooped a handful of damp earth, and let it fall. "May your pride lie quiet now, I am sorry I never loved you like I should have." he murmured.
One by one the clan came, each dropping a stone, a sprig of heather, or a pinch of soil. Some spoke; most were silent. Even Domhnall, who had cursed her name when the cow died, placed his hand to her shroud with a muttered, "Go easy, lass. You fought hard."
At last, Màiri Mhòr raised her staff and spoke. Her voice was cracked but strong.
"Death levels us, bairns. It makes no matter if a soul came with love or with hate — the earth takes us all. Margaret Sinclair chose the fire and the knife, but in the end she was a daughter, and a child of Caithness. We bury her not as friend, nor as kin, but as warning. Let no one forget the ruin pride can sow. Let no one forget the tears of her father. Stones will cover her, and stones will keep her."
She struck the staff against the cairn, once, twice. The sound echoed like thunder.
Together, the people lifted their voices once more, this time in a gentler song — not the keening of grief, but the òran luaidh, a waulking rhythm, as if to soften the soul of the dead. The refrain rose and fell, words of release and forgiveness braided into the melody.
"Gheibh thu sìth, gheibh thu fois,
Fo na clochaibh, fo na reultan,
Sguiridh do fhearg,
'S cumaidh sinn cuimhne ort ann am bàrdachd."
(You will find peace, you will find rest,
Beneath the stones, beneath the stars,
Your anger will cease,
And we will keep your memory in song.)
As the last note faded, stones were rolled to seal the cairn. Rain began again, soft, mingling with tears. The cairn stood taller now, its shadow lengthening across the loch.
Agnes clasped Seumas's hand. "It is done."
"Aye," he said hoarsely. "The feud lies buried with her. Just Keiths now."
That night, Agnes and Seumas sat by the longhouse fire. Children slept nearby, curled like kittens, while the older folk sang low laments.
Agnes spoke softly. "It could have been us, Seumas. Her hate would have burned us all, but it burned itself first."
Seumas nodded, staring into the flames. "Hatred is a fire that eats its own house before it eats another's. She was doomed the moment she chose fear over love."
Agnes leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. "Then let us never make that choice."
He kissed her hair, whispering, "Never."
Robert Sinclair vanished into the wilds after burying his daughter, seen only once more by a shepherd who swore he wandered the moors muttering psalms. Margaret's name passed into whispers — a warning of pride without mercy, a tale told to frighten children away from hate.
For the Craiks, life at Loch Wattenan went on. Salt still boiled in the pans, kelp still smoked, bairns still laughed. They had faced poison, fire, and steel, and they still endured.
But none forgot the sight of a father holding his daughter in his arms, her blood on his hands, her last breath a child's plea for love.
In that memory lay the bitter truth: hatred consumes, but love — even too late — can still break a heart.
The morning, two days after Margaret's death dawned grey, the mist lying thick on the moor. The Craiks were still watchful, as if another raid might fall from the clouds. But instead of steel, a single rider came down the track — Keith of Clan Keith, his targe slung and his claymore sheathed.
Agnes met him at the yard gate, Seumas at her side. Behind them, wary eyes peered from doorways and from the wall.
Keith swung down from his horse, boots sinking into the damp earth. He looked older than when last he stood before them, his scar more ragged in the morning light. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he bowed his head.
"It ends," he said simply. "The feud, the blood, the striving for your pans. I'll have no more of it."
Agnes's eyes narrowed. "And why now? After years of fighting, after Margaret's fire and poison?"
Keith met her gaze, unflinching. "Because I have seen what it makes of us. Margaret Sinclair was a fire without hearth — she burned friend as quick as foe. I would not see my clan turned to ash the same way. Salt and kelp are not worth our souls."
Seumas coughed, wiped his mouth, then rasped, "And your honour, Keith? Where does that lie, after you rode with her?"
Keith's face darkened. He drew his claymore — not in threat, but slowly, reverently. He reversed it and offered the hilt to Seumas. "My honour lies in ending this with my own word. By steel I fought you, Gunn. By steel I end it. The Keiths will trouble Loch Wattenan no more. Your pans are yours, your loch is yours. If ever again you hear of a Keith crossing your bounds with ill intent, send me word, and I'll deal with him myself."
Agnes studied him long. Then she nodded. "Words are wind. But this—" She touched the offered sword, then lowered it gently. "This is weight. We'll take your peace, Keith."
Seumas added, voice low but firm, "Aye. Let the feud lie with Margaret in the cairn. Enough blood's been spilled between Gunn and Keith."
For the first time in years, Keith smiled — not warmly, but with a weary relief. "Then let it be so. I'll carry it back to my folk: the Craiks stand, the feud is ended. Mayhap our sons will know better than we did."
He mounted his horse again. Before turning to leave, he looked back once more at Seumas and Agnes. "You have steel in you both — and fire enough to last. Guard it well. Not for land, not for salt, but for each other. That's what Margaret never learned."
Then he rode into the mist, his figure fading into grey.