by Amy Jarecki
In a single move that made the flesh on his back sear with pain, Angus rolled to his knees and thrust his face through the iron bars. “Where is she?”
Jolting away, the man howled with an ugly laugh. “Ye may as well forget Anya O’Cahan. By the time ye arrive in London, she’ll be married.”
Dressed in her black sealskin cloak and wearing a kirtle of charcoal grey, Anya waited beside the window while her sister sat in the embrasure, then stood, then paced with her palms pressed to her temples. “This is never going to work.”
“Stop!” Setting aside her makeshift rope, Anya tugged up her black leather gloves, grasped Finovola by the shoulders, and gave her a firm shake. “I cannot listen to a naysayer at the moment. The only way I will be successful is if we play our parts. Heaven’s stars, all ye must do is mind guards and insist I refuse to allow anyone inside—for but two days. Can ye not do that for me?”
Finovola huffed. “Aye. I can.”
“There’s a good lass. And when this is all over, ye will be in the arms of the man ye love.”
“But what if Ulster discovers our ruse?”
“As long as ye allow no one in this chamber, he will not.” Anya took her sister’s hand and led her back to the window. “When the sun rises, Sunday will be upon us, then all ye must do is wait one more day. When ye wake on Tuesday morn, tell the countess I’ve gone missing and show her the rope. They’ll be none the wiser.”
“Ugh!” Finovola threw her arms about Anya’s shoulders. “I hope ye are right.”
“I am right.” Anya kissed her sister’s cheek. “Furthermore, Ulster will curse me to hell for disappearing again. He’ll not be able to deny your happiness, especially when Lord O’Doherty demands your hand in place of mine.”
“Oh, bless it. Why does everything have to be so difficult?”
“Heavens, I’m the one risking my neck. All ye must do is bide your time—embroider and act like the winsome, compliant lass Her Ladyship adores.”
The tower bell sounded, announcing the change of the guard. “I must go.” Anya already had one end of the rope secured to the iron tieback on the wall. She peered out the window and scanned the wall-walk to ensure the guards had all moved toward the main gate.
Taking one last moment, she clasped Finovola’s cheeks between her palms. “Never forget I love ye with all my heart. Ye are my blood and all these years, ye have been my confidant and my closest friend. I wish ye every happiness that ye deserve.”
“Don’t go,” she whispered, a tear dribbling down her cheek. “We shall work it out somehow.”
“I must make haste.” Anya threw her rope out the window, gathered her cloak tightly about her body and climbed out. “As soon as ye see slack, pull it in as fast as ye can.”
“But it isn’t long enough.”
Anya clutched the rope tightly. “It will get me close to the ground and allow me to jump without injury.”
Without another word, she started on her way. But her gloves didn’t grip well at all. Slipping, she darted downward far faster than she’d intended. By the time she reached the end, there was no stopping. Gritting her teeth, she swallowed her urge to scream while she dropped to the cobblestones, her knees jarring as she landed.
“Oof,” she grunted while stars darted through her vision with the searing pain. With no time to spare, she drew in a deep breath. Above, the rope began to disappear, bless her sister’s heart. The pain ebbed as Anya hugged the wall and tiptoed through the shadows, making her way to the sea gate. About halfway, footsteps clattered from the wall-walk and she chanced an upward glance to her window. A flash of white caught her eye as did the veiled amber from the candlelight within. Finovola must have dropped the fur because all at once the light snuffed.
Anya hesitated for a moment as the guard’s march continued. Confident she hadn’t been seen, she hastened through the shadows.
“There ye are,” whispered Lord O’Doherty, grasping her elbow.
“The gate is open?” she whispered.
“For the moment. The earl knows of my departure. I informed him I’d received word of unrest.” He hastened forward. “Now hush.”
True to his word, the sea gate had been opened.
By the time they reached the pier, Lord O’Doherty’s men had already hoisted the galley’s sail, but Angus’ birlinn caught Anya’s eye. “A moment,” she said, hastening toward Islay’s boat.
“We haven’t time,” called His Lordship in a loud whisper.
But Anya ignored him, stretched for the MacDonald pennant, and raced back. “We might need this.”
His Lordship offered his hand. “Sit in the bow and keep your head covered.”
She gripped his fingers and allowed him to assist her to alight. “Thank you.”
Chahir gave her a thin-lipped nod before he turned his attention to the crew. “Cast off.”
22
Raghnall did not usually sleep soundly, but when the sentry banged on his door, a fog filled his head as if he’d been asleep for a week. As he forced his eyes open, the pounding came again. “Why the devil will ye no’ leave me be?” he barked.
“An Irish galley is approaching.”
Instantly awake, Raghnall sat bolt upright and shoved his feet into this boots. “Is it Fairhair?”
“Nay, but I swear there’s a woman standing in the bow waving the MacDonald pennant as if her life depended on it.”
Raghnall flung open the door. “How far out?”
“Close enough to cause trouble,” said Gael, his eyes wide. “Shall we allow them to run aground?”
“Aye. Order the archers at the ready upon the wall. Ye said ’tis only one boat?”
“Only one. No other vessels in sight.”
“Good lord, I pray Islay has not met with an untimely end.” Raghnall belted on his sword and slung his cloak about his shoulders and started for the stairs of the guardhouse while his stomach roiled. If there was an Irish woman approaching, waving MacDonald colors, it could only be one female who’d risk her life to sail into the bay. “Assemble a retinue of twenty men on the shore.”
Raghnall took two steps at a time while Gael followed. “Where are the archers?” he bellowed.
“Already waiting above the postern gate, sir.”
“Good. No one fires unless I give the order.”
“Understood.”
By the time Raghnall’s boots crunched over the stony beach, the galley was near enough for him to make out Anya’s chestnut locks whipping against the dawn sky.
“They must have sailed all night,” said Gael.
“Aye.” Raghnall hailed the lass with a wave as the crew prepared to pull the boat ashore. But his gut sank to his toes when he made out the worry in her expression.
An armored Irishman hopped over the side and carried Miss Anya toward the beach.
“Raghnall!” she shouted while the man splashed through the surf. “Ulster has imprisoned the Lord of Islay. We must leave at once.”
The Irishman placed the lass on her feet. “I’ve fulfilled my promise,” he said, looking none too happy.
Anya curtseyed. “Thank ye, my lord. Be kind to my sister.”
“Do ye require food, friend?” asked Raghnall.
“Nay, I only ask that my identity be forgotten. I was never here, understood?”
Raghnall gave a curt bow. “Understood.”
Anya tapped his elbow. “This gentleman was kind enough to transport me here, though no one at Carrickfergus knows I’m gone.”
“Ye took great risk to come.”
“’Twas the only thing I could think of to do. Ulster intends to take Angus to London to stand trial—by way of Carlisle. We must leave at once.”
“We?” Raghnall asked, watching the crew in the Irish galley man their oars and head back out to sea.
“Aye, Lord O’…I mean, the man who brought me here said Ulster would not set sail until after the sabbath. He plans to deliver Islay into the Lord Warden’s hands at Carlisle and from the
re transport him to the Tower of London.” Anya grasped Raghnall’s arm, her grip surprisingly strong for such a wee woman. “And just yesterday they issued him with twenty lashes. I’m afraid he’s in no shape to fight, no shape at all.”
“My God.”
She gestured toward the moored MacDonald birlinns. “Come, sir. We must go.”
“Perhaps, but ships and crew first need to be appointed and provisioned.” Raghnall inclined his head toward the path to the keep. “I’m sure ye are tired after sailing all night, I bid ye go break your fast and take some rest.”
“How can I rest when Islay’s life is hanging on a precipice?”
To that, Raghnall had no response. Nonetheless, one thing was for certain, a rescue mission was no place for a female, even if she had risked life and limb to bring the news.
Since leaving Carrickfergus, Anya had focused on one thought—to free Angus from the clutches of her guardian and anyone else who saw fit to imprison him. But by the time she had entered the Dunyvaig by way of the kitchen, her purpose became even clearer.
“Miss Anya,” said Cook. “I just heard the news.”
“’Tis dreadful. Please tell me, how long will it take to provision the ships?”
“No more than an hour or two.”
“Thank ye. I must find Lilas at once.”
“At this early hour, she’s most likely in her cottage.”
It took but a moment to reach the dwelling, just beyond the castle gates. Anya rapped on the door. “Lilas, are ye within?”
“A moment,” came the reply before the door cracked open. “Miss Anya? Something has happened.”
“Indeed it has,” she said as the healer stepped back and gestured inside, wearing a shift with a blanket wrapped about her shoulders. Drying herbs hung above, making the cottage smell like an autumn garden. Anya quickly explained all that had transpired. “I need a medicine bundle to take along. I’m afraid His Lordship’s wounds are grave.”
“Ye were right to come here. I’ll prepare a salve for the welts and a tincture to ward off fever.”
“Thank ye. I’d like to bring along rolls of bandages as well. Will ye be preparing the violets and whey tincture?”
“Aye.” Lilas took a vial from a shelf lined with stoppered pots and the like. “But ye’ll need this more. ’Tis the oil of avens. There is nothing better to treat open wounds. I only pray they have not already started to fester.”
Anya left the healer’s cottage with a basket filled with everything she ought to need to tend Angus’ wounds. At least she prayed it would be enough.
From there, she made her way to the armory and found a bow. She tested the string for strength, then slung a quiver of arrows over her shoulder.
“What, pray tell, are ye doing, miss?”
Anya stopped short as if she’d been caught red-handed stealing weapons. With a huff, she stood taller and regained her composure. “Hello, Raghnall. I am preparing for the voyage, much the same as ye, I’d surmise.”
“Did I no’ make myself clear? Ye are no’ sailing with us.”
“With all due respect, you need me.”
“Nay, if I were to allow ye to come, ye would sorely hinder our progress.”
“Why? Because I am a woman?”
“Exactly. This is no’ a game. We won’t be firing arrows at targets, and I cannot be responsible for your well-being. Asides, Islay will have my hide if I allow ye to climb aboard one of those birlinns.”
“And I will not stand for it if ye force me to stay behind.” Anya held up the basket. “He needs me as much as he needs you. I’m prepared to treat his wounds.”
“Are ye prepared to die? Because once we leave the security of the barbican walls, that is very well what may happen. There’s no telling how long we’ll have to lay in wait, or if we’ll face a sea battle or will be forced to march inland. We could be gone for sennights—perhaps months.”
“Which is exactly why I must go along.” Anya picked up another quiver of arrows and slung it over her shoulder as well. “The Lord of Islay traveled to Carrickfergus to ask for my hand, did he not?”
Raghnall crossed his arms and jutted out his chin. “Aye, against my better judgement, and look where it got him.”
Pushing past the man-at-arms, Anya marched on. “I will not be dissuaded on this…and if ye try to stop me, I’ll…I’ll…”
“Ye will what?”
“I will find another way, even if I have to sail a boat on my own.”
“On the North Sea? Ye’ll drown.”
“Precisely, and what would the Lord of Islay say about that when he discovers I died because ye would not allow me sail in a MacDonald birlinn?”
When the man grew red-faced, Anya beckoned him. “There’s no use arguing the point. And I promise to tow my own weight without complaint. I am nay the daughter of Guy O’Cahan for naught.”
Raghnall grabbed the remaining arrows and followed. “Lord save us all.”
23
When they marched Angus out to the pier, he squinted to shade his eyes from the blinding daylight. How long had he been imprisoned in the dank shadows of the dungeon? Two days? Three? Wallowing in a constant state of darkness made it impossible to know.
The Earl of Ulster stood at the end of the pier where three galleys prepared to set sail, yet Angus’ boat remained were he’d left it tied to a mooring cleat. He eyed the cur. “Three ships for one man? Are ye expecting a fight?”
“Where are your men, Islay? Rutting in the Highlands with my wayward son-in-law?”
Angus damn well hoped they were nearby. Except he had not expected the earl’s wrath. Certainly, when Robert had paid a visit with an armada of armed men, there might have been cause for a battle, but when a highborn man came alone with his heart on his sleeve, it was against every chivalric convention to imprison him.
“Tie Fairhair to the anchor. If the MacDonald attack, throw the bastard overboard and let him sink.”
The earl’s hospitality grew more hideous by the moment.
Pushed from behind, Angus stumbled forward and climbed into one of the boats. He was immediately forced to sit while a beef-witted brute secured the damned anchor to Angus’ wrists.
“Anyone who tries to hoist me over the side will be joining me,” he growled, looking the behemoth in the eye.
The man squeezed Angus’ arm. “They say ye have the heart of a devil, but I reckon your arms are as feeble as a newborn babe’s.”
“Aye.” Angus tightened his muscle. “Would ye like to go a few rounds afore we set sail? Mayhap a swim in the bay will do ye some good.”
Rewarded with a backhand across his mouth, the man laughed. “I’d like nothing more than to rearrange that bonny face of yours.”
Angus licked the iron-tasting blood at the corner of his mouth, making a show of being unruffled. After the guard finished ensuring the anchor was secured, Angus feigned exhaustion. Leaning forward, he stealthily slipped a hand beneath his kilt and wrapped his finger around the sgian dubh hidden beside his loins. Dammit all, if they decided to throw him overboard, he wasn’t about to be pulled to the depths by Ulster’s anchor.
As the armada set to sea on an easterly heading, Angus masked his movement, ever so slowly sawing his knife through the rough-hewn rope.
From across the hull, a sentry glowered at him. “Ye have the look of a starved dog.”
Angus stilled his hand while agonizing prickles tortured his back. “A few days wallowing in hell will do that to a man.”
“Ye’d best grow accustomed to it.”
God on the cross, he prayed it wouldn’t be so. But he’d stupidly given Raghnall orders to come looking for him after a fortnight. Not enough time had passed. If Angus harbored any doubts about the sense of honor of those loyal to Edward, he certainly did not now. The Earl of Ulster was as much a backstabber as the king he served. If Angus made it out of this mess alive, it would be nothing short of a miracle.
With a favorable wind, it didn’t take but
a half day to sail into the Firth of Solway. On the northern side of the water lay Scottish lands with England to the south. Angus was so close to being home, if he shouted, a man might hear him on the shore. But he had no friends here, neither on water nor land.
“Where do ye aim to drop anchor?” he asked, knowing full well the earl’s galleys were too large to navigate the River Eden and sail all the way to Carlisle. Not only would the crew be rowing upstream, they’d most likely run aground. Doubtless, the army would be marching to the city gates.
“Shut your gob,” the behemoth replied to his question.
On a sigh, Angus returned his sgian dubh to its hiding place. The journey on foot might be a good place for an ambush. If only he had a retinue lying in wait—a dozen bowmen would do. As they sailed deeper into the firth, a pair of Scottish birlinns rounded the headland at Southerness.
Angus quickly averted his gaze. Did he dare hope?
It was midday on Sunday when the MacDonalds sailed four birlinns into the Firth of Solway. At the mouth of the River Eden, Raghnall and a small crew had taken the smallest boat upstream to scout about Carlisle and verify that the Earl of Ulster and his party had not yet arrived. It would be exciting news to march the Lord of Islay through the city gates in chains—and every man and woman in the shire would be talking about it.
Of course, there was no chance the man-at-arms would allow Anya to sail in the boat that went to Carlisle. But at least she had been allowed on this voyage, her boat commanded by Gael. Last night, their birlinn and one other had moored hidden in a cove off Southerness and lain in wait until morn. On high alert, even Anya had taken a turn at guard duty, watching the waters for approaching ships, be them Ulster’s or otherwise.
True to Lord O’Doherty’s word, no galleys bearing Ulster’s colors were spotted until midday on Monday. The square sails of three of her guardian’s ships billowed with a strong westerly wind, heading directly for the outlet of the River Eden.
