by Amy Jarecki
Alas, most highborn marriages were arranged without giving consideration to love. Many brides did not meet their husbands before the ceremony. Though Chahir O’Doherty had been known to Anya for years, in all that time, they had exchanged merely a handful of words. She did not know him as she knew Angus. She did not love him as she loved Angus. And now she was to join in holy matrimony with a man she was quite certain harbored no fondness for her whatsoever.
So flummoxed by this state of affairs, Anya did not remember her journey above stairs, standing dazed as the guard opened the door to her chamber and gestured inside. “Miss.”
Still unable to believe her lot, she held her chin high and strode inside. Anya’s heart might be torn to shreds, but she was not about to act the victim. Especially not when everyone in the castle thought the match was favorable.
“Not to worry,” said the second guard. “A fortnight will pass in no time, and then ye will be Lady O’Doherty.”
As the door closed behind her, across the room, Finovola lay with her face buried in a pillow, her body wracked with muffled sobs.
Immediately shedding her own woes, Anya dashed to her sister. “Whatever is the matter?”
The lass turned toward the wall, hugging her arms across her body. “I cannot say!”
“Nay, lass, ye mustn’t hold your woes inside.” Climbing onto the bed, Anya mirrored her sister and wrapped her arm around her shoulders. “Have we ever harbored any secrets between us?”
“This one is unforgivable. If I dare utter it, I fear ye never will be able to look me in the face again.”
“Oh aye? Is your secret as abhorrent as me developing a fondness for the Lord of Islay?”
Finovola hiccupped with her cry. “F-fondness?”
“Merely a wee bit of affection, I’d call it. I could not help myself.” Now Anya was telling tall tales. The first time she’d set eyes on Angus, he’d taken her breath away. But that was not the issue at hand. She sat upright and urged her sister beside her, holding her in an embrace and rocking gently. “Come now, my pet, tell me what has ye out of sorts.”
Finovola had been crying so intensely, she could barely catch her breath. “I—am—too ashamed to utter it.”
In the hall, Anya had been rather surprised at Finovola’s reaction to the earl’s news. And the night before, she had also noticed her sister sitting beside Chahir at the high table. “Have ye a care for Lord O’Doherty?”
“Oh, if only what I felt in my heart were merely a care.” Finovola buried her face in her hands. “I cannot help myself. I love him.”
“Oh,” Anya said, while a stone sank to the pit of her stomach.
“I’m so ashamed,” Finovola wailed. “I have always loved him, from the very first time he visited the castle. But I swear we did not act upon our affection until after…”
“After?”
“After the men Ulster sent to find ye returned emptyhanded.” Finovola rocked to and fro. “I was bereft with grief and, God save me, I found comfort in His Lordship’s a-a-a-arms,” she cried, launching into another hiccupping bout of sobs.
Anya was not unfamiliar with finding solace in a man’s arms. And she’d felt plenty guilty about it as well. But her own sister loved the man she was contracted to marry? It seemed familial betrayal was rife between them. How could life be so cruel as to deny Finovola of the love she craved, forcing Anya to wed the same lord? How could she possibly go through with the wedding ceremony now?
The lass sucked in a gasping breath. “H-he promised to ask for my hand, but then ye returned. And ye know how persuasive Ulster is. Chahir pays fealty to Ulster. Going against the earl’s wishes would ruin him.”
“I’ll wager Lord O’Doherty tried to back out of the agreement. Our guardian told me he was forced to add to my dowry.”
“It is hopeless! Ye know there is no chance Ulster would allow me to marry first. Ye are the eldest and I cannot ruin your prospects.”
“Hush.” Anya swirled her palm around her sister’s back. “If ye love him, then His Lordship ought to face the earl and speak the truth.”
“He cannot! Not when the agreement is already signed.”
“I beg your pardon, but the marriage vows have not yet been spoken.”
“A plea to Ulster will not work, I swear it.” Finovola grasped Anya’s arm and squeezed, her expression filled with suffering, her eyes swollen and red. “And ye do not understand the extent of my sin. I am ruined.”
“Och, nay,” Anya whispered, hugging her sister tightly.
But as they sat clinging to each other with Finovola’s sobs filling the chamber, the condemning significance of her sister’s words sank in. “Ruined did ye say?”
“Have mercy on my soul,” the lass cried. “W-we pledged our love. Chahir told me he could wait no longer—that he wanted me. And I was too weak to resist. I am nothing but a wretched jezebel!”
Scarcely able to breathe, Anya released her arms while Finovola curled over, and cried all the more.
“Is this why Lord O’Doherty is still in attendance at Carrickfergus so long after Saint Valentine’s Day?”
Gasping for air, the lass nodded while tears spilled from her eyes. Of course, the lordling had not stayed to assist Ulster’s efforts to find Anya. The man had stayed to woo Finovola. If Angus had waited to take her home, her sister might have received the proposal which she so desperately desired.
So many warring emotions coursed through her, and not all of them kind. By the rood, Anya had only been gone for a couple of months and yet in that time, her husband-to-be had courted her sister.
Had he mourned?
No.
His Lordship most likely never gave a fig about Anya’s whereabouts. And then he’d been so obsessed with wooing Finovola, he’d bedded her. A sickly feeling swirled in Anya’s stomach. Chahir O’Doherty had stolen her sister’s maidenhead without giving care to Anya’s plight. Adding insult to injury, the cur had never once tried to kiss Anya or hold her hand. At the countess’ insistence, they had once taken a stroll together atop the wall-walk and they’d barely spoken.
Yet the man had readily pledged his affection to her lovely, winsome sister.
After all, Finovola was prettier, lither, more gifted with embroidery, and, as far as Lady Ulster was concerned, was exceedingly more suitable to be the wife of a nobleman.
Anya hopped off the bed and paced, clutching her fists against her stomach. “I cannot marry the man ye love. Good heavens, ye could be impregnated with his child.”
Finovola responded with a heart-wrenching wail. “Nay, nay, nay! Ye deserve him far more than I.”
“But I do not want him,” Anya spat.
“How can ye say that? He is the sun and the moon and the stars.”
Anya stopped her pacing and stamped her foot. “I do not love him. I never wanted to marry him.”
With Anya’s every word, it grew harder and harder to breathe. She needed to leave this chamber and think. To clear her head, she needed the wind on her face. If only she could run for her alcove. Marching across the floor, she jerked on the latch but the door didn’t budge.
How the devil was she going to help her sister and wheedle herself out of this disaster when she was trapped inside this godforsaken room?
19
After days of meetings with the Bruce and his knights, spies finally arrived announcing Lord Aymer de Valence was marching his English forces to Stirling—exactly what Angus needed to win the king’s favor. Together with six hundred soldiers, the Scots hastened to Loudoun Hill, where it took three days for Angus and his men to dig trenches in the boggy marshland before the pass. Ever since Longshanks first invaded, the English cavalry had dominated most battlefields, making it nearly impossible for the Scots to defend. The Bruce’s army was still so poor they had no cavalry and their army of foot was lightly armored at best. Angus had seen for himself brave Scottish solders trodden to death under the hooves of the horses of English knights. And he wasn’t about to allow suc
h barbarism to happen again.
“Dig it deeper,” Angus hollered, inspecting the third trench. “It will be your throat cut if we cannot stop their cavalry.”
Covered with mud, Raghnall hopped out of the hole. “With the thicket to the east and the enormous rock on the right, we’ll stop them.”
“Never allow overconfidence to mar your judgement,” said Angus, looking up the craggy hill that presided over the pass that led to the north. Loudoun Hill was a landmark, the top of which could be seen for miles to the south.
At the top, a soldier blew a ram’s horn. “The enemy is less than three miles out.”
“Cover the trenches with brush,” barked Angus, picking up an armload of rushes they’d cut to camouflage the ditches.
“Are they deep enough?” asked a sentry.
“They’ll have to be.”
James Douglas approached, riding one of the few warhorses in the king’s retinue. “Did ye hear?”
“Aye, and as soon as we have the trenches covered, we will stand in plain view as agreed.”
“After ye have words with de Valence, Campbell’s archers will fire from the hill and take out as many front men as possible. Once ye engage, I’ll lead the second regiment of foot and attack their flank.”
“We will be ready.”
Angus belted the orders for his army of nearly three hundred men to take their places behind the trap, Douglas and his army hid from sight, as did the archers above. If de Valence sensed the possibility of a quick victory, he would be more likely to give the order for his cavalry to surge forward with a head-on attack.
At least that was their plan.
Marching across the line of men, Angus thrust his sword above his head. “At last, this is the day for Scotland to reign victorious. We have favorable ground, men. We will render their horses useless and put their knights under our blades. Nay, not all of us will survive this day, but we will die knowing that the blood we shed was not lost in vain. God save the king!”
“God save he king!” boomed the men, thumping their targes and raising a hellacious racket.
As Angus stood ready with a sword in one hand and a dirk in the other, the thunder of the English approach shook the ground. On the wind, the boom of the enemy’s drums reached him before the sun glistened off the first soldier’s helm.
But all too soon, the enemy’s numbers multiplied until countless horse and foot stopped but fifty paces from the trenches.
“I am Angus Og MacDonald,” he bellowed, standing front and center. If these were to be his last words, he wanted to be damned sure everyone heard. “In the name of Robert the Bruce, the true King of Scots, I bid ye turn back now or face your doom.”
“MacDonald, is it?” De Valence walked his steed forward, first glancing to the top of the hill and then to Angus. “Another traitor come to take on the greatest army in Christendom. We will be happy to slay ye and your lot of bedraggled miscreants.”
With the slight, laughter resounded from the enemy ranks—laughter that served to make Angus hate them all the more. “Suit yourself but let no one say I did not give ye fair warning.”
Angus signaled to the only archer in sight atop the hill while de Valence gave the order for his cavalry to prepare arms.
“Look at them,” moaned a sentry no more than five paces away. “They outnumber us at least three to one.”
Facing his men, Angus again thrust his sword into the air. “We are the sons of the MacDonald of the Isles, of Somerled, and his clan. The blood of the most powerful men ever to call Scotland home thrums through our blood. I swear by all that is holy, we will make these sassanach bastards tremble in their boots. This is our day and we will not fail!”
The ranks erupted with a tumultuous battle cry while the English cavalry thundered forward.
“Hold!” Angus shouted.
The horses charged head-on into the trap, horses falling into the boggy trenches with nowhere to go. The men atop the hill barraged the English with an onslaught of arrows sailing toward the flailing knights. Only then did Angus slice his sword through the air and lead the charge. “Advance!”
Confused and already bloodied, the English stood knee-deep in mud as the Scots bore down upon them. The heinous sounds of battle swelled around him as pikes pierced through flesh and the clang of swords clattered. Shrieks and groans of the wounded and dying rose louder as Angus pressed forward with Raghnall at his side, both men fighting as if Satan himself were blowing fire up their backsides.
By the time Aymer de Valence gave the order to retreat, the English had suffered countless losses. Angus and his men surrounded a half-dozen well-armored knights, knee-deep in mud, standing back-to-back, so exhausted they were scarcely able to raise their swords.
“Throw down now and we’ll spare ye,” Angus shouted. “I give my word, no harm will befall a one of ye.”
“I’d rather finish them,” growled Raghnall.
“The king needs these bastards alive. Relieve them of their weapons and bind their wrists.” Angus leapt onto the high ground and faced the king’s army. “Sons of Scotland, God has looked upon us with favor this day. Let it be known that Robert the Bruce will hide no more!”
After the battle, the bone-weary Scots camped with the Trinitarian monks at Fail Monastery. By the next day, their energy was once again restored on the march to Turnberry, where they were met with a feast of the king’s venison and casks of ale.
Angus opted not to dine at the high table and made merry with his men. “Ye all proved your worth and instilled the fear of the MacDonald in the hearts of the English.”
They raised their tankards and bellowed their Gaelic war cry, “Fraoch eilean.”
“Let us march on Sterling!” shouted one.
“Aye, afore the bastards have time to regroup!”
“I commend your spirit,” Angus replied, though he knew they did not yet have the numbers for a successful march on the stronghold known as the gateway to the Highlands. Nonetheless, this was no minor victory and, with the news, the king and his nobles were already bringing in fresh recruits. But they needed tens of thousands more to end this war.
Angus swilled his ale and chuckled as he watched his men celebrate. After the loss at Loch Ryan, it felt good to be triumphant at long last. Mayhap he had even redeemed himself with the Bruce. At least he prayed his efforts at Loudoun Hill were enough to regain a modicum of favor.
Raghnall grabbed the ewer and poured himself another pint. “What is next, m’lord?”
Angus released a long breath as he stared into his frothing ale. “I need to right a wrong.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He finished his drink and climbed off the bench.
“Where are ye off to?” asked the man-at-arms.
“Off to cut my own throat, I reckon.”
“Then I’d best go with ye.”
Raghnall started to rise, but Angus grasped his shoulder and urged him to stay put. “I’ve something I must do. Remain here and if the king doesn’t sever my cods, I’ll return anon.”
Though he ought to be inflated with the frenzy of a victor’s mirth, Angus headed for the high table with a heart as heavy as a five-stone rock. Even the roar of the crowd ebbed to his ears, replaced by the thumping in his chest and the rush of every breath.
Robert gave him a nod. “Come join us, Islay.”
“My thanks,” he said, taking a seat across.
The king leaned forward on his elbows. “Why do I perceive ye want to talk?”
“Because I’ve something to say that cannot wait.”
“Ye have made up for your blunder with the O’Cahan lass, though I…”
“Nay, I have made amends for nothing.”
Robert sat back and stroked his beard. “Go on.”
“It is true, I greatly desire favor in your eyes. I pledged my men and my sword to ye and Scotland. I provided ye with a safe haven through the winter. I also supplied men and boats more than once and will do so any day at any
time for any reason. And though my losses are not as great as yours, my brother fell to the MacDougall and for that I will not rest until the Lord of Lorn is in his grave. Aye, I am the first to admit I have made mistakes, but my biggest blunder was saying goodbye to Miss Anya O’Cahan.”
The king snorted. “’Tis a wee bit late to realize that now.”
“Aye, but it is no’ too late to beg for forgiveness.”
“Och, but I have already forgiven ye, lad.”
“Nay, ’tis the lass who must forgive me, and then I wish for nothing more than to marry her.”
“The daughter of an O’Cahan?” asked the Bruce, with a belly laugh. “Are ye in your cups?”
“I’ve had but two pints of ale this night and I’m as sober as a lark on a chilly Highland morn.”
When a serving wench landed in his lap, Angus promptly set her on her feet, then met the king’s steely-eyed gaze. “Sire, I beg your leave come dawn.”
“My leave? Are ye telling me ye intend to confront Ulster?”
“Under the flag of parley—and this time without men-at-arms behind me. Not even Ulster would dishonor the black flag waved without threat.”
The king drummed his fingers on the handle of his tankard. “Very well, I shall grant ye leave. But have a care. My father-in-law has been quite clear as to where his loyalties lie.”
“Aye, and that is exactly why I’m going alone with no army to provoke him.”
20
Angus set sail beneath an overcast dawn sky but with a favorable breeze. But by the time his birlinn passed the Isle of Rathlin, the north wind had kicked up her ire, bringing rain, and making the voyage perilous. When the square sail collapsed and flapped like wet bed linens, Angus tied the tiller in place before he lunged for the boom’s rope, whipping through the air.
As it slashed across his face, the boat listed starboard and sent him crashing to his back, but by some miracle, he managed to catch the rogue rope in his fist. Grunting as he stood, Angus adjusted the boom’s angle until the sail again billowed, making the boat shoot through the white-capped waves like a dart.
