Chapter 20
The first rays of morning battled storm clouds that spit icy tears down onto the fortress. Lachlan made his way along the battlements, nodding at Roy and Caelan who stood sentry above the gate. The two of them looked as exhausted as he felt, their plaid bonnet slowly soaking up the rain.
“I’ll relieve the both of ye for now,” Lachlan said, gazing out at the fog-covered moors, and the shadows in the forest nearly half a mile away. “Cook’s made a honey porridge.”
“Thank ye, my laird.” Caelan wiped water from his eyes and flicked it at Roy, his brother, who chuckled.
“Shall we bring ye up some of Cook’s warm cider?” Roy asked.
“I’ve already had some,” Lachlan patted his stomach. One of the principles he’d always embraced was a well-fed warrior was a well-primed warrior.
He braced his hands against the cold, wet stone, watching the moors on the left, and the sea loch to the right, the inlets and harbors with small villages.
The tide rolled in hard from the north with the start of an incoming storm. Waves struck the shores, rocking small fishing boats and his own ship in port. Gulls circled above the harbor, their cries cutting across the morning stillness in warning.
Lachlan swiped water from his eyes and peered into the foggy depths of Loch Dunvegan.
Tiny islands jutted. A thick soup of fog met the water.
Even those who had lived and breathed their entire lives along these shores would have trouble telling the difference between land and water in the heavy mist.
A prickle at the back of his neck. A stone in his gut.
The sensations of instinct he’d had a thousand times kept him staring hard until the shapes on the horizon could no longer be dismissed.
These were not a part of the landscape he’d grown up memorizing.
On the pale line where sea met sky, large silhouettes wove in and out of the fog.
Something about them felt wrong. As the sun tore through the clouds, the blurs of movement drew into focus and his suspicion hardened into certainty.
They were too large to be fishing boats and moved slowly. Slow enough that he could not ascertain if this was for the element of surprise or if they wanted to be noticed.
And feared.
But the MacLeods were not easily intimidated.
Lachlan narrowed his gaze slightly, tracking the slow progression of the sails as they edged along the rocky coastline, in and out of the inlets that housed the tiny islands that made up Skye.
They did not cut directly toward Dunvegan.
Nor did they advance in formation or move with the aggressive speed of raiders.
More than once an errant clan had thought to descend upon his castle. More than once, they’d learned a hard lesson.
The Wolf of Skye took no prisoners.
But these ships merely lingered. Drifted just long enough to observe.
At their distance they wouldn’t be able to make out the guards on the wall.
But they could ascertain where exactly the castle was located.
It was the ship’s unhurried sailing that unsettled him most. Raiders struck fast, not wanting to give their targets a chance to fight back.
But a ship on recognizance. They would move slower, sailing close enough to be at a safe distance as they observed. And found the perfect striking point.
“My laird. Do ye see them?” Malcolm asked, leaning on the wall beside him.
“Aye,” Lachlan growled. “There are no’ flying flags, but I’d wager the harvest those ships are up to no good.”
“Looks to be three of them. But there may be more beyond the fog.”
Lachlan’s jaw tightened slightly, his gaze remaining fixed on the outline of the ships. “Sassenachs dinna know these waters well enough to move like that,” he observed more to himself than Malcolm. “No’ without risking their ships.”
That meant that someone who did know the rocky shores of Dunvegan, every inlet, every easily climbable wall, was on that ship.
Lachlan straightened slowly, the decision forming with the same clarity as the threat before him. “Call the men,” he said. “We need to prepare for battle.”
The great hall filled quickly, though the mood within it bore little resemblance to the warmth it held the day before.
The long table was cleared and covered with maps—coastlines marked in careful detail, narrow channels traced between islands, coves and inlets noted in ink that had been added over years of experience.
The rafters rattled against the wind, and though the hearth burned steadily, the air still felt colder than it should have.
The only bright side was the heartiness of his men. Used to fighting in foul weather, the storm would not hinder their own progress where it might in the bloody English.
Lachlan stood at the head of the table, his hands resting against the wood as he studied the terrain map laid out before him.
He could draw many of these maps from memory, but he needed the time to prepare for what he would say.
Every battle, no matter how successful, brought risk to his people, his clan, his family.
Angus, Malcolm and the rest of his men gathered round, their expressions already grim, their attention fixed.
They trusted him with their lives, just as he trusted them.
How many of them had gone willingly into battle with him?
How many of them had risked their lives over and over again?
The answer was every man there, and then some, and he would protect them with his life. If that’s what it took.
“I’ve a feeling they will sail north, drop anchor, and then plan their attack.
They will meet our walls with their trebuchets, and we will meet their trebuchets with our own, rocking them from the ground up,” he said, his voice steady, carrying easily through the room.
“There will be no English victory as long as I have breath in my body.”
“Aye,” one of the men agreed immediately. “We should move the fishing boats inland as well. If they burn them—”
“They will no’ get close enough to burn anything,” another cut in.
“Aye,” Lachlan said firmly, lifting his gaze from the map. “They were foolish to come here. We will hold what is ours and send them bloody packing.”
A murmur of agreement moved through the warriors, their fists thumping against their chests.
Angus’s uncle, Ulrich, leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowed. “Do ye believe they are coming to Dunvegan specifically? ’Haps there is another target.”
Lachlan did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied the map again, tracing the path the ships would take if guided correctly, the most likely place they’d drop anchor. How long it would take for them to arrive at the threshold of his land.
“There is a traitor in the Bruce’s ranks.
And the Bruce himself warned us that Longshanks was driving his men northward.
Aye, there is a chance that the ships were merely passing through.
But, Ulrich, neither of us believe in coincidences.
Better to be prepared for a battle that does no’ come than to be caught unawares in sleep. ”
The men all nodded, voicing their affirmation, thinking about the time that William Wallace attacked the English sheriff William Heselrig in his bedchamber. Bloody bastard never saw it coming.
Orders moved quickly after that, the men dispersing to carry out preparations.
They’d need to warn those that lived in the village, and the crofters on the perimeter, to secure provisions and land and life before the English drew closer.
If Longshanks meant to starve them out, they’d be left waiting for many moons.
The rhythm of command took over, practiced and efficient, but beneath it all, the disquiet remained.
Whether it was today, tomorrow, or a year from now, as long as Longshanks prowled Scottish lands with his brutes, no Scotsman or woman or child was safe.
And Lachlan swore that until his dying breath, he would make sure that Scotland was protected. For wasn’t that the reason Robert the Bruce had named him a Guardian?
“Your men look as though they are preparing for war.”
Lachlan glanced up to find Isabel approaching him in the great hall.
Her voice broke through his thoughts, softer than the wind, but no less direct.
Intelligent blue eyes took in the maps laid out before him and then flicked back up at him.
Both Freckles and Zeus followed just behind her, his own pet having developed a fondness for the two newcomers.
“Perhaps they are simply cautious.” He shrugged, knowing that his ruse would not pull the wool over her eyes.
Isabel arched a delicate brow, and there was something almost amused in the look she gave him. “Ye are a poor liar, Lachlan.”
He exhaled, the weight of all that sat on his shoulders behind it. “English ships have been sighted along the coast.”
The ease in her posture stiffened. “How many?”
“Three. At least.”
“And they are coming here?”
“I dinna yet know,” he said. “My guess is they will drop anchor somewhere north and make their way on horseback.”
She stepped closer to the table, her fingers touching the small carved ships he’d placed near a cove several miles north of his most northern village. “Someone is guiding them.”
“Aye.”
“And Kerr would know where to go.”
The name settled heavily between them, carrying with it everything they had already begun to suspect.
“That possibility has crossed my mind.” Lachlan gritted his teeth. If Kerr were before him right then and there, he’d put the man in the ground for all he’d betrayed them.
Isabel stood up straight then, as if she were aligning her spine to the stone walls around them. “We will draw Kerr out.”
“We”— he gestured between them— “will do no such thing.”
Her eyes flashed defiant. “Why no’?”
“Because ye are no’ bait. Ye will remain safely in your chamber with your maid and let the men handle this.”