Chapter 38
Calum and his Spirithorde crossed the auld courtyard of Duart Castle.
Clang and clatter thickened the air. Men rushed between barracks and stores—strapping on mail, sharpening blades, cramming provisions into packs.
The whole fortress was bristling, a war-beast straining at its leash.
The plan was unspoken, but every man knew: the first strike of the War of the Isles was near.
At the far side of the keep he spotted Iain. The wiry seaman raised a hand, then halted, staring as if he scarcely believed the man before him. A flicker passed across his face as he approached. “Och. I’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten what?”
“How I dreaded going down a narrow wall walk wi’ you at my back.”
Calum rolled his eyes. “Has Hector arrived?”
“Aye, he’s in there.” Iain nodded toward the officers’ barracks. “An’ good tidings from Moy—Cara’s fever broke last night. Ursula says her shoulder blade’ll need time tae mend, but she’s already wantin’ out o’ bed tae chase the bairns.”
“And Angus?”
The grin slipped from Iain’s face. “Nae so fine. He bled heavy. They’ve stitched him, but he’s weak still. The mend’ll no’ come easy. I fear he’s out for months yet. Come oan, best we see Hector.”
The officers’ hall was small and dark, lamplight gleaming off helms stacked against the wall.
A broad map stretched across the long table, stones and daggers marking routes.
The team hunched over the map, each searching it for answers, as though sheer will and shared memory could force the puzzle to yield.
John Mór’s brow furrowed. “I’m no strategist, but northeast—here—may be the better entry. Longer march, aye, but those northern lands are Lachlan’s. The guard are better acquainted with the terrain.”
Hector traced the coastline with a finger. “Iain, we’re weighing Loch Sunart. What do you know of the depths off Glencripesdale—” His eyes lifted, then stopped cold.
The room went still. Every head turned Calum’s way.
Birdy’s eyes blinked rapidly, her cheeks flaming as she signed. Lightning?
“Aye?”
She looked gobsmacked. Dear faeries—you’re…handsome. Exceedingly handsome.
Léo narrowed his eyes at her. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Birdy rolled her eyes. Nothing—only that he doesn’t look a seafaring hermit anymore. More the sea-raider. Menacing. Intense. Young.
Léo’s mouth flattened as if someone had watered his wine. “I get the point. We all see him.”
Calum shrugged, embarrassed. “I just shaved the beard.”
Hector beckoned him closer. “Glencripesdale. It’s outside the Wolf’s defenses, for a northern assault. Half a day’s march from port. We’ve two options, siege or infiltration. Neither appealing. Birdy scouted all last night in the area—look at this.”
Hector pulled Birdy’s sketch from the corner of the table and spread it flat in the center. Calum scanned the lines, his heart sinking.
Birdy’s finger tapped the rough strokes of charcoal.
Caterans are east of the Loch. Here— she pointed to a dense copse southeast of the castle, the ground is boggy.
No caterans, but near impassable for an assault.
This path is the only way forward, but it is too treacherous for any kind of organization.
It isn’t close enough for a stealth attack either.
Eoghan rubbed his chin. “Darkness won’t even help. Around the base of the castle there’s nothin’ but barren hills. Nowhere to hide.”
David grunted. “Then a siege may be the only way.” The door banged open so hard the table rattled.
Cold air rushed in with Lachlan MacLean as he stumbled through, clutching a torn missive.
His breath came quick, chest heaving as if he’d just run the entire length of Mull, the color drained from his face.
“She’s been tried. Freya—Freya has been tried. ”
It took Calum several seconds to grasp what he’d heard. “What are you talking about? Rory’s taken her for bride.”
Lachlan shook his head, breath ragged. “No. Queen Marjorie fled last night to bring us word. The new council put Freya on trial. Rory tried to force her into marriage, but it could not stand. They… made her surrender Garmoran. She believed they’d grant her and Aoife’s freedom in return.
” He swallowed hard. “Instead Rory betrayed her—as the Storyteller. And Cota Liath with her. He’s imprisoned now, beside her.
Marjorie says they’ve been cruelly handled. ”
Cold shock gripped Calum, his body torn between paralysis and the urge to bolt for Ardtornish that instant. He forced his voice steady. “What was the verdict?”
Lachlan thrust the paper into Calum’s shaking hands. “Death.”
John Mór surged to his feet, outrage shaking his voice. “Madness! She is our half-sister!”
Lachlan nodded. “Aye. Mhairi and Marjorie are distraught. Marjorie risked everything to bring this to us. She has cast her lot with ours.”
Calum’s heart lurched, blood draining from his face as he read the neat, merciless script:
Whereas Freya Anna MacLean, convicted of high treason for the distribution of seditious stories and appeals for the king’s overthrow, is adjudged to death, to wit by decapitation, according to the statute, law, and custom of the realm of the Kingdom of the Isles.
You are commanded, immediately upon receipt of this writ, to cause her head to be struck off on the public green at Lochaline…
Fear and panic locked Calum in a mind-numbing state of helplessness, and he wavered on the brink of passing out. “Immediately after receipt—have they done it? Is she—please God, she isn’t—”
“Tomorrow at dawn,” Lachlan said hoarsely, raising a second paper. “Cota Liath bears the same judgment.”
Madness and grief boiled in his chest, burning up his throat until he loosed a feral scream. He shoved Lachlan aside and lunged for the door. “He will die—Rory MacDonald will die—”
A force struck him like a battering ram, driving him hard to the floor. He twisted, lashing out, breaking Hector’s grip as he clawed his way to the door. His fingers brushed the latch before Iain, Léo, and David dragged him down, pinning him to the cold stone.
David forced his head flat against the flagstones. A tear slipped free. He shuddered, bellowing in agony, straining against the weight that held him. “Let me up—curse you, let me up!”
“Lightning.” David’s voice was iron. “Get hold of yourself.”
Lachlan backed away a few paces, drawing a shuddering breath. “You cannae reach Rory, Calum. Even if you wanted to. He left last night—after his marriage. He’s taken his wife to his new lands in Garmoran.”
Murdoch backed along the wall, his face ashen. “What wife?”
Lachlan hung his head, a hand passing over his face.
Murdoch’s voice began to rise. “What wife, Chief MacLean?”
Lachlan swallowed. “Aoife.”
Stricken, Murdoch shook his head. “No. Not of her own will. It can be undone. Just as Calum’s was to be undone, we can bring her back, we can go to England, pursue a dispensation there.”
Lachlan folded the papers, his eyes misted. “You’re right. It wasn’t her will, MacFadyen. The Wolf gave her in repayment for the broken betrothal. They were wed by the Abbot of Iona and the marriage was solemnized and finalized before their departure.”
The word ‘finalized’ struck Murdoch like a stone. He lurched, his hand seizing the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened.
Calum’s gut twisted. He needed no further explanation—he knew what Lachlan meant, though none dared speak it aloud.
Murdoch shook his head, his voice breaking. “No. No, no, no, no.” He bent forward, pressing both hands to his face as though he could blot out the words. “No, not my Aoife. Not Aoife. No. No. No.”
Lachlan set a hand on his shoulder, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Doc.”
Murdoch didn’t answer. Slowly, he straightened, eyes vacant, jaw trembling as he swallowed back whatever remained of him. He turned, opened the door without a word, and walked away.
For over a minute the room held its breath. Then Hector spoke, voice low but cutting.
“Calum, I’ll let you up, but you cannae go storming off alone.
Freya still lives. She will be taken outside the walls of Ardtornish.
That, though it seems cruel, is a blessing.
There will be a crowd—another blessing. We have all day and the night to plan.
And we will bring her back. Do you hear me? ”
Calum nodded. The men eased off.
He rose, his knees shaking, staring at the door where Murdoch had disappeared.
He couldn’t lose her; if he were to face whatever lay in front of him, he couldn’t lose Freya.
He turned back to the map, pointing to the one-mile stretch of sound that lay between Mull’s northern coast and Lochaline’s shore.
“Go fetch Balder MacSorley.”
A few minutes later, Balder eased into the room, his eyes casting around to all the glum faces. “Reporting, Cù Cogaidh.”
Calum raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember the summer the MacLeans and MacSorleys swam a race through the Corryvreckan?”
True to form, Balder’s face lit up with barely disguised swaggering.
“Aye, Cù Cogaidh, the MacSorleys took it handily. We flew through that whirlpool with every last bit o’ our supplies, and still came out a full minute ahead of the nearest MacLean.
First cut o’ the hog was ours—thick, juicy, and well earned.
Poor Erik MacLean—leg cramped halfway through and down he went like an anchor.
I near swallowed half the gulf laughing. ”
Hector locked eyes with Calum, a half smile lifting his face. “How do you feel about swimming in March?”