Chapter 2 #3
The king cleared his throat, his voice rasping with fatigue.
“In light of your identity being revealed, Calum, I believe it prudent someone go to Jura and warn them of possible reprisals. My instinct is to send you to your father, to help him prepare and bolster patrols around the island. Yet—” his eyes shifted toward Rory, heavy with implication—“perhaps it is wiser to send Commander MacDonald.”
Triumphant, Rory edged forward in his seat. “Thank you, Your Grace. I am certain I can handle this mission. Organizing them should be a simple task.”
Calum’s audible scoff cut the air.
The king’s gaze narrowed. “You disagree?”
Calum leaned in, his voice edged with steel.
“As individual fighters, aye—Jurans are skilled. Efficient. Deadly. But there is no formal guard on Jura beyond my father’s retinue.
No watches. No drill. No structure at all.
To command them would be near insurmountable, a task of years, not months.
The defensive wall is crumbling, the ring forts little more than rotting stone.
And even if you could patch the defenses and whip the men into order, you’d still face the greater impossibility—getting Jurans to agree on anything. ”
King John’s face tightened in contemplation. “Rory has spent much time on Jura these past years, in courtship with a clan noblewoman.”
A deep throb of exasperation coursed through him. “I understand, Your Highness. But Rory is a coigreach—an outsider. He may live the rest of his days in Inverlussa and still be thought as such.”
Rory’s mouth curled into a smug sneer. “I’ve made allies of the hardest-necked pagans on Jura. More than you or your father ever managed.”
The slight to his father’s legacy, the disdain for his land, the insults he had endured all evening—together they struck like sparks against tinder.
Calum surged to his feet, control shattering.
In a heartbeat he lunged at Rory, seizing his cuirass and dragging him up nose-to-nose. His voice was a growl.
“Speak ill of my father or Jura again—and those words will be your last.”
Rory’s face twisted venomous. “Dinnae stand here and lie. We both know I’m the better choice. I’ve even won over the MacSorleys. It’s the daughter of one of their elders I’m to wed. You’re the coigreach now.”
Mhairi pushed her hands between them. “Please, for my father’s sake—cease this at once.”
Hector stepped forward, fury barely contained. Whether aimed at him or at Rory, Calum could not tell. He clenched his fists tighter, unwilling to let go. “Which MacSorley daughter?”
Rory’s grin widened. “Ragnall MacSorley’s child.”
The floor tilted. Calum’s throat went dry. “Freya?”
Faintness rippled through him, knees threatening to buckle beneath him. His grip weakened, and he released Rory.
Straightening his embossed cuirass with smug precision, Rory brushed at the leather. “You’re familiar with her?”
The pouch hanging at Calum’s neck seemed to grow heavier with every breath, dragging at him, though it had been long emptied of Freya’s meager treasure. He didn’t answer.
“Of course you must be,” Rory impelled, stepping back with slick satisfaction. “She helped you escape, didn’t she? Nearly sailed off with you like a siren.”
Until that moment, Calum had not known for certain that Freya lived.
The knowledge staggered him—God had kept her safe, just as he had prayed.
Relief and disbelief tangled in his chest. “She helped me launch my boat into the harbor, that’s all.
I’m sure her father thought something untoward. Such was Ragnall’s way.”
His heart continued to pound. It can’t be. It can’t be. She accepted me. She swore to walk beside me. How could she have forgotten?
He shook his head hard, fighting to dam the flood of irrational thoughts. They had been children. It was more than ten years past. Of course she would not have waited for the failed tànaiste of Jura.
From his right, Birdy’s sharp eyes caught him. Her hands moved swiftly. Are you all right, Lightning? You’re pale.
He gave a sharp shake of his head then collapsed back into his chair, hand scrubbing the back of his neck as if he could rub away the weight pressing down on him.
Freya MacSorley lived. And she was to wed Rory.
After enduring her father’s oppressive house for twenty-six years, this hardly seemed a reward for her courage or her generosity.
The prayers Calum had whispered day after day—for her protection, for God’s mercy over Jura—now thudded through his mind like hammer blows.
He needed to go home. He needed to be sure.
The king pushed himself higher, his face ashen. “I’ve met Ragnall. Difficult man. I thought Rory the best choice of emissary to help me…” A violent cough overtook him, his eyes watering as he fought for breath.
Queen Marjorie leaned in, steadying a cup at his lips as his face darkened toward purple. “You’re vexed. Sip slowly.”
Léo rose to his feet. “Perhaps we should go and let him rest.”
The queen nodded, her voice taut. “Yes. This has been most upsetting for him—”
The king flung out an arm, sloshing water across the eiderdown. “No. I am hale—please, let us continue.”
Marjorie withdrew, sinking into her seat beside Mhairi, her eyes hot as flaming arrows cast between Rory and Calum.
Heat climbed Calum’s neck, shame prickling that once again he’d let his temper betray him, making him look every bit the savage every person in this room thought he was. He bowed his head. “I apologize, my Queen.”
Rory settled smugly into his chair. “Yes, I apologize as well.”
Calum drew a silent breath, shaping a plea to God for guidance. Then he lifted his eyes. “If it pleases you, Your Highness, I humbly request that you send me to Jura on your behalf. This estrangement with my father has gone on long enough.”
King John eased back against his pillows, eyes fluttering shut.
His voice came thin but steady. “If Hector can spare you, Calum, I would have you go to Jura and see to its defense. And more than that—I would have you find this Storyteller. If indeed such a bard lives among your clan, bring him to me at once, that he may stand trial for the theft of private reports. That his tales have stirred support in the Highlands may be fortuitous, but such recklessness cannot be allowed again.”
Rory’s face darkened, his voice edged with fury. “But Your Grace, I assure you none is better suited than I. I remind you of my relationship with Thane Ragnall.”
The king did not open his eyes, his chest rising with the effort of each breath.
“I am well aware. Yet as you and Dómhnall have reminded me, Calum is the tànaiste of Jura. He shares a past with the lass, Freya—and with her father—for which he may also have amends to make. I trust him to see Jura’s defense set in order…
and the matter with the lass mended. I need you here, Commander MacDonald, until…
” His breath hitched, his voice trailing to a whisper. “…until the end comes.”
Hector nodded. “I will send him at once.”
Calum sank back into his chair, scarcely able to breathe. Freya MacSorley lived. And he was going home to Jura—not only to her, but to the reckoning that had waited ten years to claim him.