Highland Raider

by Amy Jarecki

  Before the wind overpowered him, he wrapped the rope around a cleat and secured it with a knot. Only then did he return to the tiller, setting a course for Carrickfergus.

  Battling the storm not only sapped his strength, it took the lion’s share of the day, but by the grace of God, Angus sailed into the protection of the harbor before dark. He tied the birlinn to the pier and splashed some water on his face and then made his way to the sea gate, which, unlike his last visit, was closed and heavily guarded.

  “Who goes there?” asked a sentry, peering through a barred viewing panel.

  “Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of Islay.” He held up the black flag. “I’ve come alone and in good faith to request an audience with His Lordship.”

  The viewing panel shut and great deal of shuffling sounded beyond the gate. When it opened, Angus faced a dozen men with pikes leveled at his heart.

  He spread his arms. “I come in peace under the truce of the flag of parley.”

  “Relieve him of his weapons,” barked the man-at-arms.

  Angus had hoped to be shown a courtesy by arriving alone. Nonetheless, he surrendered to the inspection of a nervous wastrel who skittered forward and removed his sword and dirk.

  “I’ll be wanting those back,” Angus growled.

  “Not so fast,” said the leader. “Take the knives in his flashes and search him.”

  Biting the inside of his cheek, he endured the search while the little weasel took both of his sgian dubhs. Bless it, the bastard even removed the eating knife from his sleeve. It was good for them, they did not frisk his loins, or bother inspecting the contents of his sporran where he kept the charcoal picture Anya had drawn of herself.

  Only then did the man-at-arms give a nod. “Diamond formation men. Pikes at the ready and if he takes one step out of line, skewer him.”

  “I appreciate your kind hospitality,” Angus grumbled as the blunt end of a pike jabbed him in the back.

  Inside, music grew louder while they moved through a passageway. Blinking rapidly, Angus fought to adjust his vision to the dim light when ahead the leader signaled for the retinue to stop in the archway of the hall. Beyond, an ensemble of minstrels performed with lute, flute, drum, and voice.

  The earl and his countess watched the performance from their high-backed thrones. Flanking them were knights and high-ranking officials, and a skinny lass with blonde hair peeking out from under her veil. Angus craned his neck and searched for Anya, but she was not to be seen.

  The guards waited until the song concluded to polite applause.

  “My lord,” said the man-at-arms, motioning for the retinue to march forward. “The Lord of Islay has arrived alone, requesting an audience under the terms of parley. Ought we throw him in your gaol?”

  Ulster chuckled. “The gaol might be too good for the likes of him.”

  “I bid ye hear me, m’lord,” boomed Angus, trying to step forward, only to be stopped by the sharp point of a pike leveled with his eyeball.

  The earl leaned back and crossed his arms. “Ye have nerve coming here, that I’ll say. After your exploits at Loudoun Hill, I doubt I need to tell ye it is too late to pledge fealty to Edward.”

  A stabbing pain needled Agnus’ back. He hadn’t expected the news of the battle to travel so quickly. “I’ve come neither for political gain, nor for political ruin. I am without arms or army, facing ye as a man, wishing for an audience, one man to another.”

  “Ye’ll never have an audience alone with His Lordship,” growled the guard.

  Ulster stroked his beard. “Why would ye risk coming here?”

  Angus shifted his feet. It would be a great deal easier to say his piece without a crowd, but come what may, he’d have out with it. “I come to ask for the hand of Anya O’Cahan.”

  The blonde lass gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth.

  The earl leaned forward. “What games are ye playing? Ye had the lass in your clutches for months. If ye wanted to wed my ward, then why did ye bring her back?”

  “’Twas my mistake.”

  “Come now, Islay. Ye may be a lot of things, but daft is not one of them. Ye expect me to believe ye did not intend to return Anya into my care?”

  Angus looked to the rafters. He only had one chance at this and he could not afford to shove his boot into his mouth. “Robert the Bruce ordered me to move Miss Anya to a monastery so that he could use her for negotiations in exchange for his wife—your daughter, mind ye.”

  The earl snorted. “The fallacies grow more convoluted by the moment. So, my lord, ye willfully disobeyed an order from the King of the May?”

  Good God, on any other day, he’d challenge the bastard to a duel of swords for such a scathing slight. “I did.”

  “And I’ll reckon he has no idea ye are standing here now, begging to wed my ward.”

  “This time I have his blessing.”

  “Unbelievable.” Ulster examined his fingernails. “Regrettably, ye are too late. Her union with Lord O’Doherty has already been set.”

  “My lord,” said the blonde lass. “I think—”

  “If I wanted to hear your thoughts I would have asked,” clipped the earl before returning his attention to Angus. “Ye, sir, have committed treason of the highest order. Ye are an outlaw, and I’ll see to it your lands will be forfeit to the English crown.”

  “I have come in peace under the flag of parley. Where is she? I bid ye grant me due respect—”

  “Ye lost your right of respect when ye took up arms with my treasonous son-in-law.” Ulster thrust his finger forward. “Angus Og MacDonald, ye will be flogged and suffer the hospitality of my prison guard. And I am quite certain Edward will be all too happy to parade ye through the Traitors’ Gate beneath the Tower of London. Ye made a grave error by coming here, an error that will cost ye your life! Remove him from my sight!”

  Angus grabbed the nearest man’s pike, wrenched it from his hands, and jabbed him in the throat with the blunt end, using the momentum to drive the spear into the guard’s chest behind. Spinning in place, he cut down two more before a blow to the back of his head sent him face-first to the floor.

  The iron taste of blood filled Angus’ mouth as the point of a sword cut into his cheek.

  “Take him to the post!”

  The door of the bedchamber flew open and Finovola hastened inside and dashed across the room. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted in a whisper, “Ye will never believe what just happened in the hall!”

  Anya set her book aside. “Tell me now.”

  Being ever the dramatic one, the lass clapped her palm to her forehead and gasped. “The Lord of Islay arrived under the flag of parley and asked for your hand.”

  By the stricken expression on her sister’s face, it took a moment for the news to sink in. “Please say ye are not jesting!”

  “’Tis true, but it is awful! Ulster refused to honor the code of parley and called Islay a traitor.” Finovola grasped Anya’s hand and tugged her toward the window as shouts rose from the courtyard below. “He demanded the guard to seize him and now they’re taking him to the courtyard to be flogged.”

  “No!” Anya pulled aside the furs.

  Finovola thrust her finger toward the courtyard. “There he is.”

  Anya’s knees buckled as guards muscled Angus to the post at the far wall. “Stop!” she shouted, her plea falling on deaf ears. She searched the faces and recognized no MacDonald kin. “Where are his men? Where is Raghnall?”

  “He came alone, without a single man-at-arms.”

  “God, no.” Anya winced as they tore the shirt from Angus’ flesh. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Because he loves ye.” Finovola’s voice sounded haunted as she turned away and hid her eyes. “I cannot watch.”

  The whip hissed through the air and made a red stripe across Angus’ back.

  “No!” Anya shouted so loudly, her voice grated, but the roar of the hecklers below swallowed her plea. How could they be so callo
us when he came alone and under the accord of parley?

  Filled with horror, she watched as they turned His Lordship’s back into minced meat, until Angus’ legs gave out from under him, yet he uttered not a sound, his silence sending an eerie message that he would not be broken. “Mercy,” she cried, while the crowd repeated in kind.

  Once it was done, Ulster appeared in the courtyard with Lord O’Doherty on his flank. Though she couldn’t hear what was being said, guards dragged Angus away—and there was no doubt they were taking him to the filthy prison below the main gates.

  “How dare they treat him like a common criminal.” Anya’s stomach convulsed. “He’ll die down there.”

  Anya grasped Finovola’s shoulders. “I must see him!”

  “Aye? And exactly how do ye intend to do that? Not only is there a guard at our door, there’s no chance anyone can slip past the men guarding Ulster’s gaol. And then…”

  “Then? What is the earl planning?”

  “He mentioned taking Angus to the Tower.”

  “Of London? When?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Anya paced. “Soon?”

  “I know not, though I would suppose soon. The longer Islay remains here, the greater the chance of a MacDonald attack.”

  There was one person who would know, one soul who might help. Anya grasped Finovola’s shoulder and looked her in the eyes. “Did ye speak true? Ye are in love with Chahir O’Doherty?”

  “What the blazes does that have to do with things now?”

  “Do ye love him?”

  “Aye.”

  “And he returns your love?”

  Finovola nodded emphatically. “He said he did.”

  “Then bring him to me.”

  “Up here? The countess will flay me.”

  “Nay, ’tis me she will flay. Nonetheless, to ensure the guards do not suspect anything, ye will act as my chaperone.”

  “I don’t know if he’ll come.” The lass bit down on her fingernail. “What should I say?”

  “Tell him I need to speak to him.” Anya slammed her fist into her palm. “Tell him it is a matter of life and death. Go at once!”

  21

  Ever since she watched the horrors in the courtyard, Anya had been at her wits’ end, furiously knotting her bed linens. How dare Ulster treat the Lord of Islay like a common criminal? Not only was Angus of noble birth, he had come to Carrickfergus in good faith, to ask for her hand of all things! And he’d been punished severely for it. Worse, the torture had only begun.

  Anya felt as if she could jump out of her skin. And if she didn’t act swiftly, Angus’ fate would be sealed.

  Because of me.

  When the latch clicked, Anya startled. Hopping to her feet, she held her breath as Finovola led Lord O’Doherty inside.

  “Ye’d best be quick, else His Lordship will hear about this,” barked the guard in the passageway.

  “Ye cannot deny the lass a chance to see her betrothed even if she is restricted to quarters,” Finovola replied, her words like honey flowing from a spigot.

  After kicking her work beneath her bed, Anya smoothed trembling hands over her hair. “Thank ye for coming.”

  Lord O’Doherty and Finovola exchanged glances before the man regarded Anya with a frown. “This is very untoward.”

  “Forgive me, but it could not be avoided given my imprisonment.” Anya led them away from the door and to the bench seats in the window embrasure, where they could speak without being overheard. “I have a plan to benefit us all. If the two of ye indeed want to marry, I must have your help, my lord.”

  Her eyes dancing as if filled with sunshine, Finovola clasped her hands, though Chahir appeared to be about as comfortable as a man sitting in a bed of nettles. “Ye are aware that Ulster is my overlord. I cannot and will not agree to anything that might put the earl or his men at risk.”

  “Ye will not. I swear it. The only favor I ask is for ye to take me to Dunyvaig…tonight.”

  Finovola gasped. “But ye cannot leave this chamber, let alone set foot outside the castle.”

  “With all due respect, I have been slipping beyond these walls for seven years. Do ye think I cannot spirit past a guard or two?” Sounding far more self-assured than she felt, Anya looked to His Lordship. “Tell me, when is Ulster planning to take Islay to London?”

  “He hasn’t said for certain, but the morrow is Sunday, and I do not reckon he’ll set ships to sea on the sabbath. Did ye know his plans are to send Islay to Carlisle and have the Lord Warden take him to London?”

  “Ulster is not accompanying him to the Tower himself?”

  Chahir cringed, his gaze shifting to the woman he truly loved. “Not with our wedding coming so soon. He insists the ceremony cannot be delayed.”

  “Well, it will not be my wedding. On that ye have my solemn vow.”

  “Once ye leave, what should I tell the countess?” asked Finovola.

  “Nothing. And she’ll never know. The only time Her Ladyship has ever visited this chamber was when she brought the midwife. Am I wrong?”

  “Nay…but she could come all the same.”

  “She will not. I swear she will not.” Anya tiptoed to her bed and pulled out the rope of bed linens she’d hastily made, then returned to her perch in the embrasure, addressing her sister with a somber stare. “To purchase time for my plan to run its course, after the Lord of Islay has been gone for two days, ye are to report that I was not in my bed when ye awoke that morn. Tell the countess ye slept sound and did not wake.”

  “Wait two whole days?”

  “’Tis the only surefire way Lord O’Doherty will not be suspected of intervention.” She shook the rope. “We’ll pile pillows under the coverlet so it looks as if I’m abed. If anyone asks, say I’m suffering a bout of melancholy. Then, once time has passed, tell the countess ye found my mode of escape and show her my makeshift rope. Let them form their own conclusions. Meanwhile, my lord, ye will be safely tucked away in your keep and none the wiser. After ye return ready to take your vows, and discover I have once again disappeared, ye will be free to demand Finovola’s hand in place of mine.”

  “But my plan is to remain here until the wedding,” said Lord O’Doherty.

  Sitting straighter, Anya tightened her grip around the rope. “For the love of all that is holy, ye have a castle to run—lands and enemies. I do believe ye are able to conjure something that requires your immediate attention—requires ye to set sail for home this very night. With the promise to return for the wedding, of course.”

  Chahir brushed his fingers over the O’Doherty crest embroidered in the center of his surcoat. “Providing I agree to this, what is your plan? Fairhair is an outlaw. Not only that, he’s an enemy of your kin. My kin as well.”

  Anya blinked. No wonder Angus thought the man dull. He had no imagination whatsoever. “Do ye want to marry me or my sister? Think of your future, my lord. With whom do ye want to share a bed for the rest of your days?” Anya drew in a deep, calming breath. “I am nay destined to be your wife any more than ye are destined to be my husband, and the Earl of Ulster has been using us as his pawns for far too long. Are ye a man or a puppet?”

  Finovola squeezed His Lordship’s hand. “Please.”

  Anya stood. “I’ll meet ye in the courtyard near the sea gate when the tower bell rings for the change of guard.”

  “But ye will be seen,” said Finovola.

  “Nay. At the change, the soldiers convene at the gate house—for a few moments, they will not be in view of this window. I’ll wear a dark cloak with my hair hidden beneath the hood. No one will know ’tis me, let alone a woman.”

  “’Tis a grave risk,” said Lord O’Doherty.

  “One I’m willing to bear.” Pursing her lips, she eyed him. “The question is, are ye?”

  The man stood and offered a curt bow. “I will make my excuses as ye asked, but if ye are not there upon the change of the guard, I will sail without ye.”

  Atop a
pallet of musty hay, Angus curled on his side. Every time he moved, hot pain seared his flesh as if he were being whipped anew.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  What the hell was the tapping? It rang out through the cavern of the dungeon cell and rattled in Angus’ head, making it throb.

  Where was Anya?

  The fair-haired lass in the hall had to be Finovola. He’d spotted O’Doherty as well, but what had become of his Irish rose? Had he risked all for naught?

  By the saints, if Angus knew Anya O’Cahan, she would move heaven and hell to see him. Would she not? Or was she still angry?

  They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, but he knew in his heart if he were allowed to face her and pledge eternal love, she would realize he meant every word. Except her guardian had proven as trustworthy as a gnat. There were unspoken rules between the nobility. Tying a nobleman to a whipping post in a public courtyard and issuing twenty lashes was unforgiveable. Especially when Angus had clearly arrived under the protection of the laws of parley.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The high-pitched pounding was enough to drive a man to madness. Angus raised his chin ever so slightly and peered through the slits of eyes.

  “The great Fairhair lives,” growled a black-bearded cur, sitting on the other side of iron bars with his filthy hands gripping the picture of Anya that had been in his sporran.

  “That’s mine,” Angus said, dropping his head back to the musty hay.

  The man grinned, displaying a row of brown teeth. “’Tis mine now.”

  “I’ll be wanting it returned.”

  “Ye’ll not need it where ye are heading.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Ye’ll die in the Tower, mark me. And Longshanks will send the pieces of your body throughout Scotland just like he did with William Wallace.”

  Angus tried to swallow, but there was no moisture in his mouth. “Water.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. The arse relentlessly kicked the bars with an iron-tipped boot. “The lad will bring a ladle around…eventually.” The guard examined the drawing. “Who knew the pirate with the devil’s heart would lose it to an Irish lass?”