Less than an hour later, they were on their way. Erik led the way with the mercenaries, sailing point a short distance ahead to be able to give warning if needed.
Unlike the night before, it was a good night for sailing. The sky was clear—relatively; it was the misty Western Isles, after all—and a steady wind bore down on them from the north. Their destination, Arran Isle, lay to the northeast of Spoon, nestled in the armpit of the Kintyre Peninsula and the Ayrshire coast, forty or so miles from Rathlin.
But they would be forty tension-filled miles. Erik knew that danger lurked behind every wave. Evading the English patrols with one ship was one thing, but with seven it was another.
He took particular care near crossways, knowing that the English patrols liked to lurk where two or three bodies of water came together. After heading north around Rathlin, he ordered the ships to lower their sails.
It was a good thing he did. He was fairly certain he’d caught a glimpse of a sail to the south where the Rathlin sound met the North Channel. Once they’d skirted clear of Rathlin, there was nothing but open sea between them and Scotland.
He kept his eyes peeled for any sign of a ship, but all he could see for miles was the dark sky and the tremulous rise and fall of the glistening black waves.
It was almost too quiet—too peaceful—after the tumult of the night before.
He closed down his thoughts before they could take hold. Ellie had crept into his head too many times already, and he was determined not to think about her. She’d distracted him enough. Right now everyone was counting on him to get them safely to Arran, and this time nothing was going to interfere.
Not even a bossy, confounding termagant with green-flecked eyes, a stubborn chin, and the softest skin he’d ever felt.
He would forget, damn it. He would forget.
The closer they got to the Mull of Kintyre, the more Erik couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Although he didn’t have as acute a sense of danger as Campbell—the scout’s instincts were eerie—he lived by his instincts.
About a mile off the Mull of Kintyre, he gave the order to lower the sails and instructed the other captains to wait for him.
Silently, he ordered his men to row, keeping his razor-sharp senses honed on any movement in the darkness. When a few of the mercenaries started to whisper among themselves, he threatened to cut out the tongue of the next man who opened his mouth. They must have believed him, because the ship was deadly silent.
The birlinn inched forward in the darkness. Despite the cold winter night, sweat gathered on his brow. His blood hammered in his veins as he scanned the horizon before them.
His instincts flared, clamoring in his ears. But he couldn’t see anything. Not a single sail—
His gaze caught on something. An odd-shaped shadow in the distance. He gave the silent order for the men to stop.
Damn. It was them.
The crafty blighters were lying in wait, sails down, hoping to catch any fly attempting to sail into their web. Pirate tactics. It was a hell of a time for the bloody English to start paying attention.
He counted at least six dark shadows between Spoon and the small isle of Alisa Craig standing guard at the mouth of the Firth of Clyde, effectively cutting off any attempt to reach Arran.
Erik gave the order to fall back—carefully, so as to not be seen—and returned to the other ships. Pulling alongside Chief’s birlinn, he informed the king and his captain of the trap ahead.
Bruce swore and slammed his fist against the rail in frustration. “But how could they know?”
“I don’t think they do,” Chief said. “If they knew of an attack, there would be a lot more than six ships.”
Erik agreed. Boyd and Bruce had run into a similar blockade on their way back to Rathlin. “It’s dumb luck on their part to have picked the right night.”
“And bad luck on ours,” the king said. “Of which I’ve had enough. We need to do something. It’s the only way to reach Arran. Can we slip through one at a time?”
Erik shook his head. The night was too clear and the spans too narrow to avoid detection. “It’s too risky.”
“The only way” … Bruce’s words sparked a memory.
Of course! Normally Erik would have grinned, but his good humor seemed to have deserted him. About the same time as a little nursemaid.
“I have another idea.” He looked at MacLeod. “We can go the same way as our ancestors did: barefoot.”
Bruce frowned. “What in Hades are you talking about, Hawk?”
MacLeod’s gaze flickered, and then a slow smile crept up his face. In a strange reversal of roles, it was actually Chief who was grinning like the devil. “It’s a fine night to go a viking.”
Indeed it was. The only way to sail to Arran was from the south through the Firth of Clyde, but there was another, less conventional, route. A route to the north that their ancestors had used to avoid having to sail around the long arm of Kintyre.
As Magnus Barefoot, the King of Norway, had done over two hundred years before, Erik led Bruce’s army around the western side of the arm of Kintyre. They carried their ships across the narrow spans of land at Tarbert, enabling them to reach Arran from the north and circumventing the trap the English had set for them.
The greatest seafarer of his age walked the fleet to Arran.
But they were in position.
In less than twenty-four hours, Bruce was going to launch the attack on his ancestral seat of Turnberry Castle that would signal his return to Scotland, and mark his final bid for the throne.
Ayr Castle, Ayrshire
After the excitement of her arrival and a teary reunion with her father and her two eldest brothers, John and Thomas, who’d accompanied him to Scotland, Ellie pleaded exhaustion and retreated to the solitude of her chamber.
She was able to delay her father’s questions for the remainder of the day, but the following morning, after breaking her fast, she was called to his solar.
She had a surprise waiting for her.
As soon as she opened the door, Matty came flying toward her, catapulting herself into Ellie’s arms. Her sister was sobbing so hard it was difficult to understand what she was saying, but the words didn’t matter. Ellie’s heart swelled at the heartfelt outpouring of emotion. She knew how much her brothers and sisters loved her, but it moved her to see it displayed so openly.
Especially after her own profession of love had been met with such coldness.
When Matty’s tears finally subsided, she drew back to gaze at Ellie through watery eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
A frown gathered between Ellie’s brows. Her sister looked different, she realized. As if some of the natural exuberance and joie de vivre had gone missing. Her absence had affected Matty more than she’d realized.
Matty blinked, as if she couldn’t believe Ellie was real. “When Ralph said you were all right, I didn’t believe him.”
Ralph? Ellie looked back and forth between Matty and her betrothed, who had taken a position on the opposite side of the small room.
Her father scowled. “So you decided to come here for yourself and see?”
To Ellie’s surprise, Matty didn’t flash him one of her brilliant, placating smiles. Instead she lowered her gaze as if she were embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Father. I had to come.”
Matty’s uncharacteristically subdued, filial response seemed to make her father just as uncomfortable as it did Ellie. Ellie turned to Ralph. “You went to Dunluce to tell the news to the rest of my family?”
He nodded, looking embarrassed. “I knew how worried they were.”
Ellie felt a lump in her throat, realizing how unfair she’d been to him. She wasn’t the only one affected by this alliance by marriage. It couldn’t be easy on him to take another wife after losing the woman he’d loved. Ralph de Monthermer was a kind man, and Ellie vowed to do her utmost to return that kindness. “Thank you,” she said.
He seemed uncomfortable with her gratitud
e, and she noticed that his gaze flickered to Matty before he tilted his head in acknowledgment.
She felt a prickle of unease. But before she could figure out its source, her father started to question her.
She kept as close to the truth as possible, including how she’d accidentally stumbled on a secret meeting—Randolph had already told them as much; she told them how the Irish ruffians didn’t believe she hadn’t heard anything, and how Hawk had taken her to keep them from killing her. She explained how she’d taken her captor for a pirate. She avoided any mention of what she knew of Hawk’s activities for Bruce.
“I only realized the truth when Edward Bruce arrived,” she finished.
He questioned her more about the details of Edward Bruce’s arrival, but she had none to give him. He seemed furious that her sister’s husband’s brother had not recognized her.
“And this Hawk never told you his name?” her father asked.
Ellie almost wished he hadn’t. “The only name I heard him called by was Hawk.” It was the truth, though finely parsed.
“Randolph said as much,” Ralph added.
“This Hawk never spoke to you of his plans?” her father asked. “Where he intended to go after bringing you home? Whether they were planning anything?”
“No,” she lied. “I’m sorry.” She felt the tears gather in her eyes. Lying to her father was the hardest thing she’d ever done. But she tried to tell herself that they were small lies compared to the threat the truth could bring to the man to whom she’d given her heart.
Her father mistook her tears of guilt for sadness at her inability to help. He put his arm around her awkwardly and patted her shoulder. “Do not fret, daughter, if he still lives we will find him.” His face hardened. “And when we do, I will hang him from a rope myself.”
Ellie’s pulse leaped with alarm. “No!” She felt five pairs of eyes on her and heat rose to her cheeks. “He saved my life. He had no choice but to do what he did. He didn’t know who I was, and when I finally confessed my identity, he was furious. He had no wish to make an enemy of you, Father.”
Her father gave her a long look. Normally not a very perceptive man, she wondered how much he’d guessed. “It won’t matter,” he concluded. “If he lived through the storm, once King Edward finds him, he will wish he hadn’t. None of Bruce’s followers can expect any mercy.”
Something in his voice caught her attention, and when she looked into his eyes she knew something was troubling her father deeply. He stood from his place beside her and walked to a small window that looked out over the Firth. “I received a missive from the king a few days ago. In it he told me what has become of your sister.”
The room stilled. Ellie’s heart hammered hard in her chest, bracing herself for the news of Elizabeth they’d been awaiting. But if her father’s expression was any indication, it wasn’t news she would want to hear.
“Is she in Norway with Robert’s sister?” she asked hopefully.
Her father shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Elizabeth, Bruce’s sisters and daughter, and Bella MacDuff—the Countess of Buchan—were captured some months ago in Northern Scotland as they attempted to make their way to Norway.”
The room was deathly silent. Captured? Dear God.
“How?” Matty asked with a broken sob.
Her father’s gaze hardened. “In the worst, most treacherous manner imaginable. They were betrayed by the Earl of Ross after they’d taken sanctuary at St. Duthus’s Chapel in Tain.”
“Ross violated sanctuary?” Ralph asked, appalled.
Her father nodded.
It was an egregious offense in the eyes of the church.
“But they are alive?” Ellie asked, hope high in her voice.
Her father nodded, but she could tell there was something else.
“But why have we only just heard of this?” Matty asked. “You said they were taken months ago.”
Ellie didn’t think she’d ever seen her father look so grim. “I suspect the king didn’t want me to know and only decided to tell me once I came to Scotland, realizing I would hear it anyway.”
“Hear what?” his son John asked.
Their’s father’s eyes blazed. “Hear the vile and despicable manner in which they’ve been treated.” He gripped the stone windowsill until his knuckles turned white. “Edward ordered all of them—even Bruce’s nine-year-old daughter—to be lodged in cages hung high from a castle tower.”
Ellie’s gasp was joined by the others. Her horror was so complete, she couldn’t manage even a word of disbelief.
“The king has gone mad,” Ralph said. “Surely he relented?”
“He did for Elizabeth, Bruce’s young daughter Marjorie, and his sister Christina. But the countess and his other sister Mary Bruce were not so fortunate. They have been hanging in wooden cages over Berwick and Roxburgh castles for months.”
Ellie’s relief that her sister had not been subject to such cruelty was tempered by the knowledge that two women she knew had not been so fortunate to escape Edward’s barbaric form of justice. Or perhaps she should say vengeance. She had no doubt that Bella MacDuff was being punished so cruelly for her part in Bruce’s coronation.
“Can you do nothing?” Ellie asked.
Her father shook his head. “I managed to persuade him to move Elizabeth from her dungeon in Roxburgh to a manor in Burstwick, but on the others he will hear no pleas for mercy. The king is determined to crush this rebellion and see the traitors punished in the most horrendous manner possible. No one is safe. Not women, children—no one.”
Ellie shivered as Erik’s words of warning came back to her. She never imagined how prophetic they would be and how closely they would strike.
Dear Elizabeth.
“The king learned nothing from Wallace,” Ralph muttered.
He was right. King Edward thought to win Scotland by fear and intimidation, showing no mercy and killing with barbarous cruelty, but in doing so he only ignited the country against him.
Fear, even deeper than what she’d felt before, turned Ellie’s blood to ice. She didn’t want to think what Edward had in store for Robert and his companions if whatever they had planned failed.
Keep him safe.
A knock on the door interrupted the mournful silence. The captain of her father’s guard came in, followed by a man she’d seen only once at court a long time ago but whom she knew well by reputation: Sir Aymer de Valence, King Edward’s commander in Scotland and the soon-to-be Earl of Pembroke when his mother, who was reputed to be very ill, passed.
It was Sir Aymer’s treachery at the Battle of Methven that had driven a stake in the heart of Bruce’s rebellion, when he’d agreed to wait until dawn to war but then attacked at night.
Her father and Ralph were obviously surprised by his arrival.
Sir Aymer hadn’t taken the time to remove his helmet or cloak, but he did so now, handing them to a squire who’d come up behind him.
He didn’t even give the ladies time to withdraw, but smiled as if he had the most wonderful news. “I just received word. We finally have a chance to end this once and for all. King Hood is back. Bruce has attacked Percy at Turnberry.”
Sir Henry Percy had been given Bruce’s forfeited earldom of Carrick—and his castle at Turnberry.
She said a silent prayer of thanks. If Bruce had attacked, it must mean that Erik had made it in time. The wave of relief was short-lived. Only by the greatest restraint did she stop herself from rushing forward at the news, demanding to be told the outcome.
Ralph did it for her. “And?”
De Valence frowned. “Percy sent for reinforcements; that is all we know. But the initial report was that Bruce had only a few hundred men. Percy will get him.”
Ellie’s heart clenched, her fear for Erik all-consuming. She could only pray the famed knight was wrong.
Erik hid in the dark cover of the trees, watching the old church and waiting for the signal. He hoped to hell nothing went wrong this time
.
Not like at Turnberry.
Bruce’s first foray into Scotland had been a success, but just barely. At first everything went as planned. While Bruce and the rest of the force waited at Kingscross on Arran for the signal, the four members of the Highland Guard—himself, MacLeod, MacGregor, and Boyd—had sailed to Alisa Craig, a small island a few miles off the Carrick coast. From there they swam to Turnberry to prepare for the battle and ensure a trap wasn’t waiting for them.
It was exactly the type of mission the Highland Guard had been designed for: getting in and out of dangerous situations by unconventional methods without being seen—with emphasis on the dangerous situations.
Once they’d scouted the area and determined the best strategy of attack, they were to light a fire on the hill opposite the castle to signal for the rest of Bruce’s army to attack.
But Erik had taken only a few steps on the beach before disaster struck. Chief swore and pointed to the hill in the darkness. In the black of night, the orange flames of the fire blared like a beacon—or, in this case, a signal.
Someone had lit a bloody fire, and safe or not, Bruce and his army were on their way.
Without the time for reconnaissance, Bruce hadn’t been able to take the castle as planned, but they’d achieved a small victory by attacking and plundering the English soldiers camping in the nearby village. Lord Henry Percy, the usurper of Bruce’s earldom, and his garrison of Englishmen were forced to lock themselves in the castle to avoid defeat at the hand of Bruce’s four hundred men. Bloody cowards.
But Bruce’s forces had been lucky. Damn lucky.
For a man who’d lived his life expecting nothing less, Erik hadn’t celebrated their good fortune. He no longer took good fortune as his due. Nothing went right lately.
It had all started in that cave.
He forced his thoughts away from Ulster’s daughter—it was better if he thought of her like that—by sheer brute strength, and concentrated on the task at hand.
In the week since Turnberry, Bruce and his men had taken to the heather, seeking refuge in the hills and forests of Carrick and avoiding capture by constantly changing their position. Their plan was to raise and harry the English with small raiding parties until they could recruit more men to Bruce’s cause.