Chapter 2 #2
Hector took a measured sip from his cup, expression stony.
“What about a meeting of the war council? Can we call a vote to form a battle plan? With the full strength of our armies we could drive the Stewarts back to Scone. The time is now to end the war, while he’s pinned on Man.
Already, several clans have withdrawn their guardsmen, believing the war as good as won. ”
Dómhnall gave a sharp snort. “That is because there is no threat—not from Stewart. He’s lost all taste for island land. Have you spared any thought of how Scotland will respond if you murder the king’s son while he remains at peace?”
Hector seemed to swell before their eyes, looming like some dark loch-monster.
“There is no threat, Dómhnall, because my team has spent twelve long months running missions on and around Man. We cannae hold him off forever. Every attempt he’s made to leave Peel Castle, we’ve thwarted.
Every supply line, cut by the MacLeod blockade.
Your Grace, you know as well as I do—the time to end this is now. We must act.”
The king closed his eyes and reclined into his cushions.
For several minutes Calum wondered if he had drifted to sleep.
Then John’s lids lifted, and his gaze sharpened with thought.
“If we do not proceed with caution, matters with Scotland may unravel. I know this frustrates you, Hector, but I believe a brief stay in any attack—to renegotiate first—would be prudent.”
Hector’s jaw hardened. “But Your Grace—”
The king held up a quieting hand. “John Mór has devised a plan that may circumvent any repercussions from an inevitable attack.”
John Mór inclined his head. “Appeal to King Robert directly. We’ve not tried in three years.”
David bristled. “Robert’s attention has been fixed on England since their invasion last year. He cares nothing for what his son does in the Isles.”
John Mór did not flinch. “His brothers care. They do not wish to inherit the ruin Stewart has sown in the Isles and Highlands when Robert passes. If we press hard in the Scottish court while the Wolf is contained, it may be the swiftest way to end this war—with little bloodshed.”
A violent tremor passed through King John as he strained to remain alert, his breathing shallow and unsteady. “I will send him as my emissary to Scone—this very night.”
Léo’s eyes flicked between Hector and John Mór. “And how long will that take? Will you reach him before…”
John Mór rubbed a hand over his bald head, considering. “Perhaps two months—to allow for the journey and time to make inroads with the Stewarts and the privy council.”
The king turned to Hector, one brow arched. “Can you hold the Wolf on Man for two months?”
Hector released an agitated sigh. “Aye.”
“Then I shall endeavor to live.”
A ripple of chuckles moved around the room, easing the solemn tension for a breath.
The king cleared his throat, voice rasping but steady.
“Now, to the next matter. I have received word this evening from Clan Ranald, Clan Cameron, and Clan Morrison—they will send forces to support an attack, should it prove necessary.”
David straightened. “Highlanders?”
The king inclined his head. “Aye. Support for your cause is growing in the Highlands.”
Hector frowned. “Last we heard, those three clans had no wish to pursue the Wolf within the Isles.”
“It seems something has indeed changed their minds. Rory intercepted a rather unusual piece of intelligence on the matter. He was bound for Jura to investigate further—but I—I wished to speak with Tànaiste MacLean before making any final decision.”
Calum blinked, thrown off balance. “Jura, my King?”
“Aye.” The king’s voice dropped, heavy with import. “Your identity has been exposed—tied to the figure of Lightning in a rather remarkable tale.”
With a furtive kind of enthusiasm, Rory produced a folded sheet of vellum, unfastened the woven cord of bright saffron, and passed it to Hector.
Hector held it to the firelight, his thumb brushing over the raised beeswax seal. “Scripsit Relator.”
The words meant nothing to Calum. His mother’s careful instruction had never gone so far as Latin. “What does that mean?”
Léo’s brow furrowed. “It means, ‘Written by the Storyteller.’”
Hector handed the parchment into Calum’s hands.
He fumbled with the saffron cord, cracked the seal, and scanned the page.
Elegant script spilled across the vellum, a beautifully crafted tale recounting the destruction of the trebuchet on the Aird of Sleat.
But as his eyes darted down the lines of the ballad, his stomach tightened.
The tale did not rightfully credit Birdy for the act—it named him.
From the corner of his vision Calum caught a hand waving. He looked up as Birdy signed, What does it say?
He cleared his throat and read the last lines aloud for her.
Birdy’s face twisted; she signed with a sharp shake of her head. He’s got the details all wrong.
John Mór leaned in. “What’s she saying?”
Hector folded his arms. “That the bard muddled the details of the event. It wasnae Calum who loosed the arrow—it was Aileen. Calum only spirited her out of danger.”
Calum frowned at the page, a strange disorientation sliding through him, like an ankle giving way on loose gravel. “How would this bard have known I was there at all?”
Dómhnall crossed his arms over his narrow chest, his face clouding with contempt. “Obvious enough. From the dispatches of these reckless missions your band insists on carrying out.”
Around him, Calum felt his companions stiffen, their irritation palpable.
Queen Marjorie clasped her husband’s hand as he dissolved into a fit of coughing, her voice sharp with concern. “Peace, Dómhnall—you are upsetting your father.”
But Dómhnall pressed on. “What is this Cù Cogaidh the tale speaks of?”
Calum shifted uneasily, reluctant to cast light on his clan or the tenuous thread of loyalty that bound him to it.
“My title,” he said at last. “I have not used it since leaving Jura ten years ago. It would become my style when I am chieftain.” He paused, the words heavy, his throat tightening around them. “If I become chieftain.”
The king’s hazy eyes swept over them, face tight with concern. “This story was found circulating off Galloway.” He motioned toward Rory, who produced still more tales and placed them in Hector’s hands. “Another set of ballads were obtained by one of our guards in Badenoch.”
Hector’s glacial eyes scanned the script. “Lochindorb… the account of Cara’s recovery. Cù Cogaidh is named here as well, though the rest of us are called only by our sobriquets. The details are sharper, less muddled. Do you believe this is why the Highlanders have pledged their retinues?”
The king nodded gravely. “I believe it may be. It is a stirring tale, Hector. Your figure—Beithir—reads as though he carries a spark of God’s own judgment, raised to mete justice on evil-doers.”
Dómhnall scoffed. “It seems plain enough. A ploy of Tànaiste MacLean’s heathen clan, spreading tales to raise his standing and his popularity.
They are the least respected in all the Isles.
That is why his is the only name revealed.
The fact that such drivel has stirred Highland support for this reckless war is nothing more than luck. ”
Calum couldn’t contain himself. A sharp, indignant snort escaped before he burst out, “First of all, everyone knows Hector is called Beithir. That name has been in circulation for three years—Aileen herself used it when she first came to Lochbuie in ’84.”
Birdy leapt to her feet, signing with emphatic strokes. Exactly right. Tell him, Lightning.
“Second of all,” Calum pressed, “you clearly have never set foot on Jura. They care nothing for their rank among the Isles. Left to themselves, as ‘heathens’ as you say, they’d sooner withdraw from the Council entirely.
And last—” his voice caught, but he forced it through—“I havenae been home in ten years. My parting with my father and clan was…difficult. I assure you, they hold me in no special esteem.”
The room fell silent, every eye drawn to the blue-black Pictish marks that peeked from the short expanse of skin between his gauntlet and sleeve. They branded him other—savage, unbelieving, set apart from the civilized in the starkest of ways.
John Mór accepted the pages, his green eyes flickering uneasily from the Wolfhound to the text. “A difficult parting, you say?”
Calum grimaced. “I was young. I tried to stand on principle—on something I believed in. I should have—” He hesitated, the memory of Freya slipping beneath the waves searing him.
“I should have prepared my father first. I should have talked with him honestly. Thought through the consequences. Faced it before—” His voice caught again, and he swallowed hard.
“It doesnae matter now. What’s done is done.
The result is that my father and I havenae spoken in ten years. ”
Rory stepped forward, his glance sharp and sour. “Because he refused to complete his tànaiste ceremony. Shamed his father before the clan. Walked out on his duty as heir.”
Calum snapped forward in his chair, losing the fight to master his fury. “That is a lie.”
Dómhnall’s eyes narrowed, and Calum felt the weight of judgment before the words landed. “Juran savage. What man fails to uphold his duty?”
The king raised an admonishing hand. “Dómhnall, you think much too harshly. Everyone carries regrets. I have mine. Calum was but sixteen when his came upon him. I was in my forties when I made my mistakes.”
An indecipherable look passed between him and Queen Marjorie, and she squeezed his hand gently. “Our mistakes do not define us,” she said. “What matters is what follows after.”
Hector inclined his head. “I believe I’m proof enough of that.”