CHAPTER Twenty-six
Being the laird and protector of Raasay, Calum had an understanding of the heightened emotional state of women when they were with child, but the way Mara carried on exceeded the limits of his imagination. Her wails rang through the hall as if her husband had already been skewered by an enemy blade.
John didn’t help matters. He grasped her by the shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “I’ll be back in no time. Ye need to tend to the keep, and nay think of me.”
“How can I do anything with ye out in the night with English ships sailing about?”
John’s face turned to panic as he looked toward the rafters as if in search of the right words.
Calum stepped in to lend a hand to his tongue-tied cousin. “He’s needed to protect the clan. If he stays here like a milk-livered coward, he’ll be no use to the lot of us.”
Mara shifted her gaze to him, and red-hot pokers shot from her baleful stare. “’Tis all yer fault, turning to piracy and leading the murdering English to our home.”
“Mara!” John swooped behind her and lifted her into a bear hug.
Calum rubbed his jaw. “John will be safer on The Golden Sun than any other place.”
John hauled his kicking bride up the stone staircase and her voice echoed through the cavernous walls. “He should be with his wife and unborn child. Blast the lot of ye.”
Sometime after supper, John descended the stairs smoothing out his shirt and kilt. “There’s just no placating her.”
Ian, who had three bairns of his own shook his head. “Ye’ve got several more months of it too—and it doesna get better.”
“John, ye must keep yer mind focused.” Calum had no time to worry about what to do with a matron who had lost her mind. He took charge and stationed a trumpeter on the high point lookout and climbed down to the shore, leading his men. John’s sailors boarded The Golden Sun and Calum decided his crew would sleep on the Sea Dragon. There was much needed preparation ensuring the cannons and ammunition was stocked and ready for battle. Besides, he couldn’t listen to Mara carry on as if all the menfolk were going to die—and if he couldn’t take it, neither could his men. No one needed the bellyaching of a naysayer the eve before a battle. They loaded up provisions and headed for the ships.
Friar Pat opted to row across with Calum for the night. He said his prayers might be better received by the Holy Father if chanted from the deck of the Sea Dragon. Honestly, Calum thought the friar needed to slip away from Mara’s grousing too. The entire keep was in for a very long summer.
After making his rounds and discussing strategy with his men, Calum retired to the captain’s cabin. Though not as extravagant as his cabin on The Golden Sun, this chamber had been his seafaring home for near seven years now and served his needs. His father had given him the carrack with the lairdship, and Calum had loved the ship as much as any human—except Anne. Perhaps that was why no lassie on the isle had turned his head. Of course he had a fond taste for women—but none under his watch. The wenching he’d done was away from the clan and away from scandal.
Calum removed his shirt and unwrapped his dressing. In the mirror, he eyed the marks on his back. Pink skin peeked out from under the scabs which had formed on the outer edges. The deeper lashings in the center of his back still oozed.
He answered the rap on his door, and the friar came in holding a pot of poultice.
“I’d like to let it air for the night.”
The friar placed the stoneware pot on the sideboard. “Very well. Shall I return in the morning then?”
“Aye, but first come in and have a tot of whisky with me.”
“I’ve never been one to turn down a fine sip of distilled spirit.”
“Ah, Father, you’re a holy man of keen sensibilities. ’Tis what I like most about ye.” Calum filled two goblets with his flagon and gestured to the table with four rickety wooden chairs. “Sit.”
Patrick held the liquor to his nose and inhaled the aroma before he sipped. “Do ye really think the baron is aboard the English ship?”
“I have no doubt. That man is a hater, that one. He and his black-hearted henchman are both hewn from the same cloth. Their hate feeds them.”
“’Tis a sad thing they cannot leave well enough alone.”
“Aye, but the English would have been after us sooner or later, looking for the Flying Swan.”
“They wouldna have found it.”
Calum tossed the whisky down his throat. The smooth amber liquid slid down with scarcely a burn. “They would have suspected The Golden Sun and blasted their cannons at us anyway. This just hurried them along.”
The friar reached for the flagon and poured two more goblets. “Ye will kill him?”
“I plan to.”
Friar Pat frowned and stared into his goblet.
“A man like that will no’ let up, and if I dunna stop him, Lady Anne will be his next victim.”
“And what will ye do once the baron is no more?”
“I’ll find her.”
“That’s what I thought.” Patrick drained his drink and set his goblet on the table. “That’ll do it for me. I’ll see ye in the morning.”
Calum watched the friar leave and pulled Anne’s kerchief from his sporran. He traced his finger around the needlework of the belt circling the sun. He held it to his nose and closed his eyes. With a deep inhale, he prayed she could hear him in her mind’s eye. Know that I love you.
***
Lord Wharton woke before dawn, dressed and clamored out of the captain’s cabin. He used the hilt of his dagger to pound on all the stateroom doors. “Wake, you lazy sots. There’s a battle to be fought.”
Wharton didn’t wait for the officers. He strode down to the sailor’s quarters and clanged the meal bell. Men suspended in hammocks griped and glared at him with murderous scowls. Wharton chuckled. He liked their spirit, but he wouldn’t tolerate even a hint of insolence. “All hands on deck and wipe that evil grimace off your face sailor, or I’ll have you whipped.”
Wharton lumbered up to the main deck and paced. A sailor scurried past, and Wharton caught his arm. “Ready the skiffs.”
“But I…”
“No argument, sailor. Ready the blasted skiffs, I say.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Wharton committed the man’s face to memory and watched him scurry away. If the skiffs weren’t ready by the time Raasay was in sight, he would make an example of that useless sailor.
Captain Gilman stepped onto the deck, adjusting his feathered cap.
“Sir Edward. ’Tis about time you showed yourself. I’ve asked the men to ready the skiffs.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“Do you know nothing of warfare? I would expect more from a knighted captain in the queen’s navy.” Wharton waited for a reaction, but the captain restrained his ire well. “We shall drop foot soldiers at the north of the island. If we fail by sea, then we will conquer by land.”
“Hmm. And the terrain on the north of Raasay is passable? I thought it was uninhabited.”
“Of course it is passable. No obstacle can stop an English soldier.”
“Very well. And will you be accompanying these troops with your keen knowledge of fighting the Scots overland?”
Wharton watched as more surly, stinking sailors swarmed to the deck. “Do not think your impertinent tone has gone unnoticed. I might think to send you.”
With a thin-lipped nod, the captain climbed the steps to the quarterdeck. “Prepare to launch the skiffs, quartermaster.”
Wharton headed back to the officer’s quarters and found Master Denton. “I want you to take a contingent overland and attack from the rear.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Wharton ground his fist into his palm. No one would stop him from killing the Scot and blasting his keep off the island. He would take back the Flying Swan and shove it down Fortescue’s throat. He smirked. Perhaps the queen would grant him other titles, possibly even an earldom. Then he’d be on a level playing field with Northumberland. The queen might offer him his pick of any castle in Northern England. With her permission, he would take a fortress as grand as Alnwick. Lindsfarne on the Holy Island would suit—and what an excellent stronghold from which to control the pillaging Scots.
Wharton rubbed his belly. This day his appetite was not for eggs and rashers of bacon. This day he would satisfy his hunger with victory.
Under Wharton’s orders, they moored the White Lion off the Isle of Rona, nearly a stone’s throw from the northern shore of Raasay. There, he commanded the skiffs to be launched. The White Lion would lay in wait until the sun set. Wharton preferred to attack under cover of darkness, to pull the Scots from their supper feast, skewer them and rape their women. Wharton could scarcely control the jittering inside his bones.
***
Late morning, the battle trumpet sounded from the north cliff, signifying Wharton had rounded the Isle of Skye and entered Raasay waters. Calum used his spyglass to locate William MacLeod. The skinny man skittered down from the lookout and headed toward the beach.
Friar Pat walked in beside Calum. “It looks as if William has news.”
“Aye. And ’tis time for ye to head back to shore.”
“I’ll hear what William has to say and take the boat back with him.”
Calum filled his lungs with the crisp salty air. Clouds blanketed the sky and he hoped the rain would stay at bay. He preferred to fight upon the sure footing of dry decks. He raised his arms over his head and stretched. With fresh air in his lungs, Calum’s strength returned and his muscles twitched in anticipation of the battle to come. He flexed his wrist. Even it felt stronger.
They crossed portside to meet William as the winch hoisted him to the main deck. Bran and Calum reached out and pulled him across the rail.
“What news?” Calum asked.
“They are ferrying men to the shore. Looks like they’re planning an attack by land as well as sea.”
“How many have gone ashore?”
“Forty or so.”
Calum stroked his chin. “They think the troops will make it to Brochel from the rocky north and be here by in time for the battle?”
“Could be done with hard marching. The ship dropped anchor off Rona. Looks like they’re waiting for nightfall.”
“Dropped anchor did ye say?” Calum looked across the Inner Sound to Applecross. The Golden Sun was hidden from sight. He could send a skiff across to bring back a few men, but they were needed to man the ship. “Blast it all, where is Norman with Ruairi? Can I no’ count on me own kin?”
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.