Highland Raider

by Amy Jarecki

  And there was Anya’s conundrum. No one ever defied their guardian. Even if Chahir O’Doherty loved another, he would still proceed with the marriage. If only Anya were able to ask him if he found her appealing, or clever, or interesting. In truth, Finovola was far prettier with golden hair and flawless skin. The two sisters couldn’t be more opposite. Anya had dark brown hair and a splay of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She was shorter than the withers of a wee pony and stout to boot, while willowy Finovola was tall, thin, and graceful.

  But neither Anya’s adventurous spirit nor Finovola’s beauty would ever prevent them from walking down the aisles of their fates. They were the daughters of Lord Guy O’Cahan and destined to wed for the benefit of augmenting their future husbands’ lands, riches, and power. Alas, if only she could meet someone, fall in love with him, and sail into the sunset on a journey of new beginnings and fascinating discoveries.

  Why was it love matches abounded throughout Ireland for everyone except the highborn?

  Anya tied her cloak and slung her satchel over her shoulder. “I’m nearly finished with my drawing and Lord only knows how much longer I’ll have the freedom to slip outside the castle walls.”

  “Ye hardly have the freedom now.”

  She kissed her sister’s cheek. “I must complete it today whilst the weather is fine. This is the last time—at least afore the feast, I give ye my word.”

  Without further argument, Anya slipped out the door and hastened through the corridor until she reached the narrow stairs leading to the cellars. She stopped and listened for a moment. Though the keep consisted of five stories, Anya could detect a guard’s heavy footsteps all the way down to the bottom of the stairwell. After hearing nothing, she tiptoed around and around until she reached the dark cellars. She’d been using this route for seven years and needed no light to show her the way. Besides, torches were dangerous. They brought too much attention. If her guardian ever heard how often Anya left the castle to steal coveted time alone, she’d be disciplined for certain.

  She ran her fingers along the damp walls, turning left, then right, then left again until daylight shone through the bars of the forgotten old cellar gate. Anya dug in her satchel, pulled out a key, and slipped it into the rusty lock. Shortly after she’d arrived, she found the key hidden behind a loose stone near the hearth in her chamber. A slip of velum was attached to the loop with a bit of twine. Upon the note was written two words: vinariam porta, the Latin for cellar gate. Of course, having been tutored in Latin as well as being a bit of an adventurer, Anya immediately went searching for the mysterious lock to fit the key.

  She let herself out of the captive tower, locked the gate for good measure, and returned the key to her satchel. Pulling the hood of her sealskin cloak low over her brow to ensure she wouldn’t be recognized, Anya quickly skirted the shore, ever so careful to stay away from the prying gazes of villagers who tended the earl’s livestock and whatnot. She hastened up the hill to a small outcropping where she’d be sheltered from winter’s bitter wind—straight to her own little alcove.

  By the saints, it was good to be alone in her secluded hideaway. With her warm cloak wrapped snuggly about her person, she sat in the comfort of the grass and pulled out her scroll of velum and charcoal. Generally, Anya drew flowers and animals, but because she was soon to be taken away from Carrickfergus, she’d been working on a drawing of the castle and the cottages in the foreground. Aye, on any given day she’d be able to draw the keep with her eyes closed, but this work was different. She painstakingly detailed the masonry, the merlons and crenels, three feet in depth, no less. She used the minutest of strokes to etch the thatch on the cottage roofs, making it look as if it were real. Most of all, she paid particular attention to the animals—the thick sheep’s wool, a workhorse who was old and stooped, the dairy cows with their black and white spots.

  Over and over again she sharpened her charcoal and painstakingly added the finer details, while in the bay, ships came and went, bringing their cargoes of grain and stores for the castle, all none the wiser that Anya sat in her little alcove concealed between the stones, taking in every detail. She even captured the seabirds in flight.

  Lost in her work, she didn’t notice when the sun sank low in the western sky, but she jolted upright when a drop of rain splattered the toe of her shoe. Quickly rolling up her work, she looked to the clouds. When she’d ventured out, the sky had been clear, and now it looked as if a storm were brewing. She shoved her scroll and charcoal into her satchel and grabbed the strap. In her rush to keep the drawing dry, the bag caught on a craggy stone and upended, spilling everything into the grass.

  “Curses!” she swore, shoving her things back inside, then hastened down the hill.

  2

  By the time the two birlinns arrived, ferrying King Bruce to Carrickfergus Castle, there wasn’t much daylight remaining, not that days offered many hours of sunshine this time of year. Moreover, the wind had brought in a squall, the rain already misting atop their helms. Before they set out, His Grace almost insisted Angus remain behind, but these were MacDonald boats and the few soldiers they’d brought along were MacDonald kin. They took orders from Angus.

  Dammit all, the failure at Loch Ryan had not been his fault, though by the jeers the king had spewed at him, anyone would have thought Angus was solely to blame. In hindsight, he should have refused to supply the men from the outset. He should have refused to provide the ships. Except that would have done nothing to further the MacDonald cause. He had naught but to take his lumps and persevere. He’d thrown down his gauntlet and committed to support Robert the Bruce. And that decision had not been made lightly. Angus was a Scot, and a Highlander to boot. Sooner or later an opportunity to redeem himself would arise and he fully intended to stay the course until it did. He would gain the king’s favor if it bloody killed him.

  “Taking up the rear again,” growled Raghnall under his breath as they marched toward the sea gate.

  Angus shot the man-at-arms a glare from beneath his helm. “Wheesht.”

  “Och, let us pray the weather doesn’t worsen, especially if we’re forced to make a hasty exit.”

  Angus slowed his pace as he examined the deadly teeth of the iron portcullis tucked into the archway above. The cogs of the wheel sat just inside on ground level rather than atop the guard’s walk. A sledgehammer and an old shovel rested against the masonry nearby. Nudging his man-at-arms with his elbow, he inclined his head toward the gate’s guard. “Distract him.”

  Raghnall knew better than to ask why. He strode directly toward the man and pointed to the top of the curtain across the courtyard. “How many archers have their arrows trained on us at the moment?”

  As Angus upended the shovel and jammed its shaft into the rear side of the cogs, the man laughed. “And ye reckon I’d tell ye if I knew?”

  “We’ve come in peace,” Raghnall persisted. “Robert the Bruce is Ulster’s son-in-law.”

  Pushing down on the handle, Angus ensured the shovel’s scoop was wedged good and tight against the stone wall. It just might save the king’s neck, and those of the men, should the earl’s hospitality be found lacking.

  “Ye follow a fool king who knows not his arse from his eye.” The guard glanced Angus’ way. “Move along, ye oaf.”

  Angus yawned and ambled beside his man, ever so happy to have his bonny face hidden beneath the nose guard of his helm. “Where can a fella take a piss around here?”

  “Tie a knot in it,” growled the buffoon, giving Angus’ shoulder a shove.

  Raghnall’s fingers skimmed his hilt, but Angus stilled the man’s hand with a sharp hiss. “We’re nay here to make war.”

  The man-at-arms snorted. “At least no’ today.”

  As the retinue filed into the courtyard, Robert held aloft the black flag of parley and moved into the center with Boyd and Campbell on his flanks. A tic twitched at the corner of Angus’ eye. He ought to be beside the king rather than among the soldiers who encir
cled the bailey walls.

  From the mammoth tower doors, Ulster’s guardsmen approached in diamond formation—not a good sign for a greeting with kin. The earl’s purple robes flapped with the wind, though he was mostly hidden by a wall of soldiers.

  “I haven’t a good feeling about this,” grumbled Raghnall under his breath.

  “No man can ignore a request for parley, nor can he raise a hand against us,” Angus whispered, though if he acted on the prickles that had been firing across the nape of his neck since they’d set sail, he never would have stepped beneath the chilly, razor-sharp teeth of the sea gate’s portcullis. “Be on your guard.”

  Before Raghnall had a chance to mumble another prediction of doom, the King of Scotland bowed to his father-in-law, the Earl of Ulster. “I come in peace to beg your forgiveness and your favor.”

  With the light rain, a fog rolled in, making Ulster appear as if he were standing behind a shroud. “Do ye now?”

  “As ye are aware, not only has your daughter Elizabeth been taken by the hands of Edward’s men, my only daughter has been captured as well. My brother Nigel, hanged, drawn, and quartered in Berwick-upon-Tweed merely for the crime of protecting my wife and daughter. And now it seems Lord Percy is leading my brothers Alexander and Thomas to the same fate.”

  “And ye wish me to stop the delivery of justice? I’d be outlawed with the stroke of Edward’s quill.”

  “I need men. ’Tis all I ask.”

  “Ye disappoint me, Robert. Not only have ye turned my daughter against me, ye believe me fool enough to absolve ye of your crimes?”

  The king thrust out his hands. “What crimes are they, compared to the Scottish blood spilled?”

  Ulster smoothed his fingers along the earl’s chain atop his chest. “Ye want to stop the senseless bleeding? Throw down your arms and bow to Edward.”

  “Scotland’s subjects tried to do so and were treated worse than chattel. Our sons were forced to fight England’s wars, our daughters were raped and murdered by those who called themselves Edward’s own.”

  “And ye think more fighting will make the King of England acquiesce and kiss your filthy feet? The man will not stop until your head is on a spike on the Tower of London. Did ye learn nothing from Wallace’s demise? When I gave my daughter to ye in marriage, I thought ye to be a savvy man, but I was grievously mistaken.” Ulster took a step away. “Look at ye come begging for men—a sheep on a fool’s errand, backing a cause ye can never win.”

  Robert drew a hand down his beard and, as he glanced over his shoulder, the look in his eye was as deadly as nightshade. Any other man might have been defeated by such a tongue-lashing, but the tripe spewing from Ulster’s mouth appeared to embolden the Scottish king.

  Angus gripped his fingers around the hilt of his sword as the Bruce backed away from the man he’d come to ask for help. “I see the quarrel between us is too great for the strength of kin and clan to assuage,” said the king, his voice deep and resonating between the courtyard walls.

  “Ye’re no kin of mine.” With a flourish of purple robes, the earl thrust his finger at Robert. “Seize him!”

  The order to apprehend the Bruce hadn’t left Ulster’s lips before Angus and his soldiers drew their weapons and readied for battle.

  “Protect the king!” Angus bellowed, racing ahead as he and his soldiers surrounded His Grace. Taking the lead, he eyed Ulster from behind the mask of his helm. “We wish no bloodshed here!”

  Hesitating, the earl squinted at Angus before two pikemen crossed their weapons in front of His Lordship’s body.

  Not about to wait for a reply, Angus and his retinue backed the king toward the sea gate, sidestepping while eyeing every venomous cur in the courtyard. They hadn’t attacked yet, but the surrounding enemy encroached, pikes leveled and weapons drawn.

  “I said seize him!” roared Ulster.

  Within a blink of an eye, the battle came from all sides. Angus and Raghnall stood shoulder to shoulder, fending off the brunt of it. Angus ducked beneath the strike of a lance. As he straightened, he deflected a thrust from a sword, slamming the spike of his targe through the attacker’s throat.

  “Run for the boats!” he shouted, urging his retinue of fighting men to move faster.

  As they approached the portcullis, the brutish guard lunged for Raghnall, swinging a ball and chain over his head. Before the bastard thrust forward with a killing strike, Angus bellowed his war cry and hacked through the man’s arm.

  Raghnall didn’t even flinch as he fended off three. Angus smashed the broadside of his blade atop one’s head, sending him to the cobbles while the man-at-arms dispatched the others.

  “Archers!” bellowed an order from above.

  “God’s stones,” Angus cursed, raising his targe as an arrow hissed past his ear.

  “Haste!” shouted Raghnall, darting through the gate. “The king has escaped.”

  Backing into the gate’s narrow archway, Angus overturned a barrel and kicked it toward the onslaught of attackers, purchasing enough time to issue a chop through the shovel’s handle. Above, the deadly portcullis groaned and screeched as he launched himself beyond her savage teeth. His feet barely touched the dirt as the iron gate thundered closed behind him, shaking the ground as he ran.

  But he wasn’t safe yet.

  Arrows darted through the air on all sides. Forcing his legs to pump harder, Angus crouched, holding his targe over his head, praying for nearsighted bowmen. Only when he was out of range and had reached his birlinn did he realize a storm had rolled in, bringing with it driving rain and a hellacious wind.

  Not long after a score of men filed into the courtyard via the sea entrance, Anya stood at the cellar gate, fishing in her satchel for her key. “Curses, where is it?”

  When a gust of icy wind cut through her cloak, she glanced back to the hills and her hiding place. Dread pulsed through her blood. The key must have fallen out when her satchel contents dumped onto the ground. Blast her rotten luck. And dashing back to retrieve it wasn’t an option. Not only was she late to dress for the evening meal, at this time of year, it would be dark before she reached the outcropping.

  The fishermen had all returned for the day, their boats moored alongside the pier. Most likely, the sea gate was still open. Anya didn’t dare head for the main entry, else she’d be flayed by her guardian. If not the earl, the countess would be happy to issue discipline in his stead.

  Making her decision, Anya headed aft, her feet slipping on the wet stones. Goodness, she missed Dunseverick Castle where she’d been raised until the Earl of Ulster had arrived with news of her father’s passing at the hand of Alasdair MacDonald. It was of no consequence that the miscreant had been killed in the same battle by the MacDougall Lord of Lorn. No matter who issued the killing strike, her father was gone. Anya and her sister had been taken away from their home to spend the next seven years as wards, serving the Countess of Ulster’s every whim.

  As she neared the gate, the wind carried her guardian’s voice over the walls. “I said seize him!”

  Sliding to a stop, she froze in place. The sounds of battle resounded from the courtyard. Men shrieked, weapons clanged.

  Clenching her fists beneath her chin, Anya shot a glance toward her cellar gate—perhaps she ought to double back and try her chances with the main. Except a horde of Ulster’s guards were racing her way along the narrow path, with pikes at the ready.

  “Blessed Mother, have mercy!”

  With nowhere to run but to the pier, Anya hastened for the ramp. A sentry bellowed for the archers while heinous cries came from beyond the gates. One thing consumed her mind as she ran the length of the pier.

  Hide!

  Rain pelted her face as she turned in place, her mind racing. Just as footsteps pounded the planks of the pier, she climbed into the bow of a sea galley, pulled an oiled tarpaulin over her head, and curled into a ball. As she shivered, something sharp and hard grazed her hip. Anya reached down and wrapped her fingers around
a shaft as the footsteps grew louder and more numerous, rattling the old wharf’s timbers.

  3

  “Cast off!” bellowed Angus, removing his helmet and leaping into the hull of his birlinn while a half-dozen men took up the oars. Thank God they were finally out of range of the archers’ arrows.

  “Where are the others?” he demanded, unfurling the sail.

  The sinews in Raghnall’s neck strained as the man-at-arms pulled on an oar to the cadence of “heave” by the lead oarsman. “Those who survived are in Robert’s vessel.”

  As the sail flapped and filled with air, Angus peered through rain and darkness, out toward the open sea. Well underway, the Bruce’s birlinn sailed low in the water on an eastward heading—the fastest escape. Angus let the wind take them eastward as well, at least until they were leagues clear of Carrickfergus. He secured the sail’s boom and headed aft to the tiller.

  After he took control of the steering, his breath stopped in his chest. Clouds as black as coal bore down from the north, carried by a tempestuous wind. Not long later, when the birlinn cruised farther away from the protection of the bay into the open sea, enormous, white-capped swells sloshed over the sides of the boat.

  “She’s taking on water!” shouted the lead oarsman.

  “Oars up,” Angus commanded, no longer able to see the king’s ship. “Start bailing unless ye want to bed down on the bottom of the icy sea this night!”

  The relentless wind violently rocked the ship, tilting her from starboard to port with the anger of each furious wave. “Tack northward and set a course for home!” Angus shouted while the sting of freezing water spray stung his face and salted his mouth. Besieged on all sides, there was no other option. A retreat to Ireland would end in certain death at the hands of Ulster’s army. Turning south and attempting to outrun this wrath of God would deliver them into the arms of Edward the Longshanks with a surefire meeting with a headsman’s axe.