by Amy Jarecki
He searched the surrounding faces for an answer. All looked as baffled as he.
“William, take a skiff over to The Golden Sun and tell John half the Sea Dragon’s crew will fight the English troops by land. I’ll be severely handicapped once the battle starts. Friar—muster the women and have them patrol the battlements with long bows.”
“The women, m’laird?”
“It cannot be helped. Besides, they shoot arrows in the games. They’ll be safer on Brochel’s wall walk than any other place on the island.”
The friar crossed himself. “Heavenly Father, help us.”
“Once we take charge of the English ship, we’ll protect the castle. No need to worry, there are only forty foot soldiers. Brochel can withstand ten times that.” Calum marched across the deck and scowled. “What can forty foot soldiers do with no catapult, no cannon?”
He split the crew, ensuring Bran stayed with him where he could protect the lad. He surveyed the twenty MacLeods who would remain on the Sea Dragon. All good men, all trained by Calum himself. “Follow me to the gun deck. We’ve got a strategy to revise.”
***
They rounded Loch Carron and Anne’s palms grew moist against her leather straps of her reins. If only she could fly like an eagle, she’d see the Isle of Raasay from here. By the time the sun hung low in the western sky, they approached the shores Loch Kishorn. Rorie pointed. “She’s a salt water loch and opens up at the bottom of the Sound of Raasay.”
Anne’s insides fluttered. “We can reach Applecross.”
“’Tis five to seven more miles of riding. It will be well past dark when we arrive. I think it would be wiser to camp here for the night and make a fresh start at dawn.”
She could no sooner bed down than fight with a sword. “We cannot stop. Not when we are so close.” Anne wrung her hands. “’Tis only seven miles, Rorie. Surely we can make that.”
Rorie pulled up his horse, and his men gathered around. “What do ye say, lads? ’Twill be a long night if we keep going.”
Hamish leaned forward in the saddle. “I’ve had enough of making camp on the trail. I say we push on and sleep within the walls of Brochel Castle this night.”
Anne had not developed a fondness for Rorie’s burly son, but she thanked him under her breath. She would have died if she had to camp a mere seven miles from Applecross. She cared not if she had to ride all night. Calum was so close, she could feel his presence on the breeze as it blew the loose strands of hair across her face.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Calum listened to the waves slap the bow of the Sea Dragon. He stood on the forecastle deck and peered north through his spyglass. When the bloody hell would they come? Waiting was always the worst part before a battle. In his younger days, he would have given in to his impatience and weighed anchor, meeting the English head-on at the channel between Raasay and Rona. But he knew better than that. Lying in wait in the seclusion of the bay, the Sea Dragon was protected on three sides and with John hidden in Applecross, his flank was covered too.
He’d wait for weeks for the English to attack if that’s what it took. The high-pitched scream of a golden eagle sounded overhead. Anne. Calum snapped his head up and watched the bird glide across the sound toward Applecross. If only he could see the world from its vantage point, he’d be able to watch Wharton’s every move.
Calum craned his neck and followed the bird’s flight. Its enormous wingspan carried the raptor gliding on the wind. Thoughts of Anne flooded back. She’d been so skilled with the young eagle—and her lovely voice had lulled him. If only she would return and resume her training, Swan would make a fine raptor for hawking—even better than a falcon.
Shading his eyes, Calum gazed up at Bran in the crow’s nest. He’d sent the lad up the rigging hours ago. He’d need to send up a replacement if the English didn’t make an appearance within the hour.
Soon it would be dark. Would the English light their lanterns and give his cannons a clear target? Calum had ordered no fires to be lit at the castle or on the ships, except for the cannon torches. If the English took too long to mount their attack, Calum would be at a further advantage, so long as the moon remained hidden by clouds.
Calum turned full circle. The clouds showed no breaks. Mayhap God was with them this eve.
Bran blew the boatswain’s whistle. Calum’s stomach lurched. It had begun. The English had rounded the point of Arnish and would be upon them before the sky lost its last light. He ran his fingers across the woven pattern of his hilt. The enemy would espy both the Sea Dragon and the keep.
“Come down, Bran,” Calum hollered. “’Tis time to man the cannons.”
The English galleon approached like death, quietly skimming the calm sea. The remnants of the orange-red sunset disappeared as the ship rounded the tip of the bay. Calum had teams of two manning each cannon. The torches were hidden in huge pots of iron, casting little light. Calum raised his hand in preparation for the signal, and watched the evil hull come into sight. “Hold,” he yelled.
The English ship slowed. Their sails flapped and began to furl. The loud splash of an anchor dropping twenty feet into the water told him it was time. Calum dropped his arm. “Now!”
The Sea Dragon lurched against the surf as eight guns fired in rapid succession. The familiar burning pall of sulfur-smoke billowed over the gun deck. Unable to see, Calum waved his hand in front of his face. He didn’t need his sight to count eight splashes dunk in the water. Not one cannonball hit its target. Their decoy revealed, a flash from the English ship’s porthole lit up the scene before the boom from the cannon boomed across the water. Calum’s gut clamped down hard as the lead ball whistled far above his head.
“Set your distances. Raise the barrels. Fire at will!”
The second English cannonball splashed feet from the Sea Dragon’s hull. The carrack rocked with the jarring blast. Cannons boomed from both ships. The deck above splintered and groaned as a cannonball ripped through the planks. The ship listed. Calum’s heart thundered. She was taking on water.
Calum dashed below to an unmanned cannon and turned the crank. He lined up the sights with the enemy ship. He stuffed down a ladle of black powder, hefted the heavy ball into the barrel and packed it tight with the ramming iron. Peering out the portal, the smoke cleared. The English ship neared, drifting close to the starboard rail. Hand-to-hand fighting would start soon. Using his legs, a bead of sweat streamed from his temple as he rolled the cannon carriage forward. Calum rechecked his sights. He could not miss this time. Water roared below decks—he blocked it from his mind. Calum reached for the torch and ignited the match cord.
The cannon kicked back and his ears rang. Deaf, he ran up to the main deck. The blast barreled through their center mast.
Through the ringing in his ears, the hull groaned as if alive. He pulled his spyglass from his hip. The Golden Sun’s guns blasted at the English galleon. The Sea Dragon’s stern set lower in the water. Calum prayed she would hold.
“Prepare to board!”
The men dashed up the ladder with Bran last. Calum grasped the lad’s arm. “Climb to the crow’s nest with yer bow.”
Bran held up his sword. “But I want to fight.”
“I gave ye an order, lad. Do as I say else I’ll throw yer skinny arse overboard and ye can swim home to yer ma.”
The boy turned tail and scurried up the rigging where he’d be safe.
The Golden Sun’s guns thundered. The English galleon pitched and visibly rose up with a direct hit to her hull. Thick smoke hung over the ships, and acrid sulfur burned the back of Calum’s throat.
Peering across to the crippled ship, swarms of Englishmen lined the deck, weapons ready. Calum swallowed. His clan was far outnumbered.
Drawing his claymore, he sounded the boatswains whistle three times to signal John. The English ship continued to drift closer. He grasped the rigging and sailed across the open water. When the rail of the English ship flew under his feet, Calum released his g
rip and dropped to the galleon’s deck. Snarling, he trained his sword across a mob of bloodthirsty sailors.
English swords surrounded him. Without hesitation, Calum launched into an attack, spinning and swinging his trusted claymore in one hand and thrusting his dirk with the other. He kept his back to the rail to prevent attack from behind. Cutlasses swung at him so fast, he could not avert his eyes to assess the battle. Venom raged through his blood and he fought like a madman. Iron clashed with iron on all sides and he knew the stakes. The MacLeod’s versus the English in a fight to the death. An English sailor dropped in front of him with an arrow through his neck. Good lad, Bran.
***
At the sound of cannons, Anne urged her weary horse to a gallop. She headed toward the outline of the stable. Rorie raced up beside her and tugged on her rein. “Slow down. Ye’ll startle the MacKenzie riding full bore like that.”
Rorie was right. Dougal MacKenzie stepped out of his stone hovel, claymore in hand. “Who’s riding on me lands like they’re hell bent on waging war?”
Anne opened her mouth to speak, but Rorie boomed over her, “’Tis the Douglas come to help Calum MacLeod fight the English.”
“English?” MacKenzie turned toward the sound of a cannon blast. “Is that what he’s on about? I thought he was testing the guns of his new ship.”
Anne could no longer hold her tongue. “They’re trying to kill him. We must hurry.”
Dougal MacKenzie’s eyes narrowed. “Why you’re a lass.” Anne tried to scowl, but he stepped in closer and squinted his eyes. “You’re the same woman who was with him weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
MacKenzie licked his lips. “I thought he was taking ye to Edinburgh, but you’re English.” He held up his sword, confusion furrowing his broad forehead. “Why did ye return?”
Rorie rode in between them. “She’s MacLeod’s woman. We need to spirit her to the keep.”
Anne’s stomach squeezed. Calum’s woman? She’d never heard it put so brashly, but she liked it. If only Calum would accept her that way. Anne clenched her fingers around her reins. Why did she have to be married to the devil? With her husband on the attack, Calum might sooner she drown in the bay.
MacKenzie eyed her from head to toe, as if appraising a horse on the auction block. “Then why was he taking ye to Edinburgh?”
She wasn’t about to allow a delay to appease this man’s over-curious nature. Anne jabbed her heels into her horse. “We haven’t time for idle chatter.” She’d kept her marriage to Lord Wharton a secret and wasn’t about to let it come out now.
Rorie followed her to the stable with MacKenzie on their heels. “Bloody Wharton’s on that ship and his black henchman too, I’ll bet.”
“Wharton? There’s not a man in all of Scotland who wouldn’t want a piece of that ill-breeding bastard.”
Anne slung her leg over her horse and jumped to the ground. “Then join us. Calum’s clan is small. He needs every sword.”
MacKenzie shoved his claymore into its scabbard. “The bloody MacLeods are causing problems with me kin in the north.”
Anne knew blood ran thick among Highland kin, but this was war. She would sell her soul to save Calum. “If you help us now, you have my word Calum will speak to Ruairi and stop the raids on your family.”
Dougal folded his arms and planted his feet firmly in the dirt.
Fearless, Anne walked up to him and jammed her finger into his sternum. “If you choose to tuck your tail and walk away, Calum will hear about that, too.”
“I’ll have a chance to skewer Wharton, ye say?”
“Yes.” Anne jolted at a cannon blast. “If Calum has not already run him through.”
Dougal looked to Rorie and chuckled. “She’s a spirited lass, no?”
“Ye dunna ken the half of it.”
Standing on the Applecross shore, fires blazed on the ships illuminating the mayhem. Swinging swords glistened in the firelight. Too far to discern carrack from galleon or English from Scots, Anne’s gut flew to her throat. She ran to a skiff on the beach and pushed. “We must fight!”
Rorie grasped Anne’s arm. “We cannot row a tiny skiff into that. We’ll be capsized.”
“I cannot stand on the shore and watch.” But Anne’s hands shook. If the skiff capsized, she would surely die before she saw Calum.
“Our best chance is to row round the battle and protect the keep. If the English break through MacLeod’s defense, they’ll burn the castle and every soul within.” Rorie whipped his arm around her waist and easily lifted her into the boat. “Ye sit there like a good lass while we launch.”
Anne sat on the forward bench, clutching the side of the boat and tried not to look at the water. She’d been across the sound in a skiff before. She could do it again. Her gaze focused on the raging horror before her. Calum was there. She sensed his commanding power and it heated her blood with determination. Please Calum, fight well and live. I’m coming to you. I’ll be in your arms soon. Stones screeched against the bottom of the boat until it rocked in the water. The men jumped in beside her and something on the northern horizon caught her eye. She pointed, dread filling her veins. “Another ship.”
The black outline of a three masted vessel traveling under full sail barreled straight for the battle. Rorie and the men manned the oars while Anne’s eyes adjusted to the dark. She watched the ship slow. The wind whooshed from the sails like ghosts hell-bent on murder.
Though she sat tall in the skiff, her teeth clenched. Anne reached down and brushed her palm across the hilt of her dirk, tied to the outside of her leg. She would stand beside Calum and fight to the death, if that’s what God intended.
***
The English sailors came at Calum in droves. He fought them back. With every kill, he scanned the deck. Blood splattered, staining the deck black-red. Smoke billowed from the fires. The ship listed, making it difficult for Calum to keep his footing. English cutlasses clashed with claymores, with no end in sight. A man ran at him with a maniacal roar. Calum dropped under the attacker’s sword and rolled, but the blade skimmed the tip of his shoulder. Hot blood soaked his shirt. Calum used the momentum of his sword to spring to his feet. With an upward thrust he impaled the English tar on his blade.
The wind shifted and smoke from the burning ship filled his lungs. Sputtering with a cough, Calum ran his arm across his burning eyes. Above the ship’s bow, a black-and-gold flag sailed into view. Ruairi. Calum raced up the narrow stairs to the forecastle deck. His brother’s carrack had coasted in close enough for his men to tie to the English galleon’s hull. Footsteps rattled the floorboards behind. Calum turned, swinging his sword in an arc, he faced an English sailor.
Calum fought, pushing his foe toward the narrow stairs until the man lost his footing and toppled backward. Tumbling down the steps, his neck broke with a crunch. Calum brandished his sword and blocked the passage to the deck. The English quartermaster bellowed for more men to attack the stern. Calum stood his ground and fended them off.
Planks clattered to bridge the gap between the ships. Ruairi was the first to dash across.
“I thought ye’d never arrive,” Calum said without looking back. “I’ve nearly got them licked.”
“We followed the galleon’s wake down the sound.”
“Aye?”
Ruairi pushed through and charged down the steps, beating down the tiring English. With a wave of fresh Scotchmen flooding across, Calum stopped and scanned the mayhem. Wharton was nowhere in sight. Calum raced along the main deck, slashing his sword as he ran toward the bow of the ship. He crashed through the portal to the officer’s quarters, barreled down the corridor and pressed his ear to the captain’s cabin door.
Someone moved within. Calum’s gut clenched with hate. Memory of his naked body being stretched on the rack seared through his mind. A low growl erupted from the back of his throat. Calum kicked in the door.
Wharton stood behind the table, a sword in one hand and a spiked mace swinging on a ch
ain in the other. Wharton chuckled. “You’ve come to allow me to carry out your sentence, have you, Scot?”
Calum crept forward. “I’ve come to cut yer throat.”
“Before I disembowel you, tell me...” Wharton narrowed his eyes. “Where is my wife?”
Calum’s heart squeezed at the mention of Anne and he blinked. Where was she? Wharton didn’t know? Calum rounded the table, training his claymore on the baron’s heart. “She’s no’ in Carlisle?”
Wharton sidestepped—a quick move for such a large man. “I assumed your men had spirited her away. You obviously would have been unable to do it given your physical state.” Calum’s eyes followed him as he scooted around the cabin. “It appears you’ve recovered from my hospitality. I should have finished you on the whipping post.”
Wharton reached up and grasped the edge of the desk. Using his weight, he pulled it forward. Books tumbled and crashed to the floor as it toppled. Calum jumped aside and it smashed into the table.
Calum wanted blood. With a roar, he leapt over the wooden splinters and swung his sword, aiming for the heart. Wharton proved skilled with a blade and deflected the blow, following it with a slam of the mace. Bone crunched as the iron spikes imbedded in Calum’s flesh. Searing pain incensed him. He swung up with his dirk. Wharton countered. They fought, swords clashing. Calum thrust his dirk for a killing blow, but the bastard had a keen eye and lithe feet. Calum slashed a cut through Wharton’s arm only to be met with the iron prongs of a mace to his thigh.
Calum’s muscles burned. He’d been fighting for ages while Wharton hid in the cabin. Ruairi’s voice boomed from the doorway. Wharton glanced away. Calum moved in for a blow to his heart. Wharton deflected the claymore but it gashed the big man’s side. He fell backward and flung the mace out. The chain wrapped around Calum’s arm. Wharton crashed into the glass windows. Glass shattered, and Wharton’s bulk pulled Calum through the gaping hole. Airborne, Calum twisted and wrenched his arm from the mace before he hit the water. Wharton bellowed, his hands grasped for Calum as if he could stop the baron’s fall.
