At a fervent pace, she began to grind the ingredients into a paste with the pestle. But she was startled by the sound of the heavy chamber door slamming shut and bobbled the mortar before setting it down on the worktable.
“Is he healed?”
She wheeled around to find Laird MacDonald glaring at her. Ursula swallowed hard. “The potion is just finished now, mi lord,” she said with a groveling tone that disgusted her, but she thought necessary. She finished with a bouncy curtsy.
“Do nae dally with your own needs before my brother’s,” the laird said. She glanced back at the half-eaten food, tempted to admit she’d given it to his brother, but she saved her breath.
“I’ve eaten the food, brother,” Edward said, defending her.
He’d called her a bitch, and now he was standing up for her?
Laird MacDonald ignored his brother’s comment. “Let us not delay. He looks to be at death’s door.”
“I look death in the face and laugh,” Edward bragged.
That made the laird relax a little, and he strode over to where Ursula was working. She wasn’t interested in being interrogated, so she quickly spun around and dropped the concoction into a goblet that had come with the supplies. She poured in the wine that had been provided, filling the goblet halfway. By the time she felt Ian MacDonald’s presence behind her, she was finished.
“It is ready,” she offered, turning. “You may deliver it if you’d like.”
The laird grunted. “He may be my brother, but I will not dote on him.” He pointed toward the bed. “If he lives, you live.”
She started across the room, the distance now overly long. Clearly, no matter her skill, the laird would blame his brother’s impending death on her.
“You at least have a better chance of surviving than your paramour.”
Ursula’s back stiffened, and she almost stumbled, slowing to gather her wits. Alasdair? Was he saying Alasdair is dead?
Pride would rule her emotions, she decided, before finishing her walk to Edward’s bedside. Ursula didn’t want the innuendo to impact her actions. “That animal,” she said coldly as she glided to a stop at the canopied bed. “I’m happy to be rid of him. You should have kept us in separate cells.”
At that the laird let out a dastardly laugh. “His death was of no consequence to you?”
Her heart sank, but she needed to know more. Had he died from the wall or the sword?
“Nay, grateful to know the bastard was punished. His death will compensate for the improprieties he took. He was a MacLeod.” She said it as if his name left a dirty taste in her mouth.
“Rest assured his death was at our will. His body has probably washed ashore already. Although as full of holes as he was from the swords and spears, it’s more likely his body is at the bottom of the loch, being fed on by the creatures that frequent these waters.”
Bile scalded the back of her throat. She couldn’t heave now, even as her hopes and dreams cascaded down a treacherous cliff of despair.
Alasdair was dead, killed by these barbarians. Why? When she was just beginning to fall in love with him. To plan a future with him. Perhaps deliver an heir. Her heart was breaking, shattering into a thousand shards of disappointment. But she wouldn’t let these blackguards cripple her.
“Well-deserved punishment,” she said through gritted teeth as she stood at the bedside of his brother. Eliza was still there, looking at her with wide doe-like eyes. Ursula gave her a taut smile, “Hold the lord’s head for me, will ye, lassie?”
Then she turned her attention to Edward. “Shall taste like wine, mi lord,” Ursula promised, now wishing it was poison.
Edward downed the liquid quickly, as if he was thirsting for this very drink. Perhaps he had the inclination this was his last hope.
Ursula took the goblet back from him, and Eliza wiped his mouth. He closed his eyes and laid his head back on the pillows.
“Now we wait,” the laird said.
A bit of panic washed over her. She hadn’t expected the laird to stay and watch his brother live or die. She needed to escape. But she also needed to eat.
“The potion will take time, mi lord. Sir Edward will not benefit from the full effects until at least the morn.”
She gathered her courage and met his gaze. She stared straight into the eyes of the man responsible for killing her love. Her dirk sat on the table behind him. How she wished she had it in her hand now and could stab his black heart repeatedly for what he’d done.
If not for Rosalynn and the babes, she would have done the deed then and there. But instead, she looked at him with what she hoped was reverence and respect.
The MacDonald laird scrutinized her as if dissecting her soul. Finally, he said, “I will be back in the morn. We shall have a batch of thrushes brought in for you.”
As he turned to go, she said, “I shall need thrushes for the servant maids as well. Should Edward need anything in the night, they are the only ones who can retrieve it.”
He stopped with his back to her and his hand on the door’s lever. “So be it,” he said, and was gone.
Both women gathered with her at the round table, taking seats and waiting for her next direction.
They wanted freedom as much as she did. And they patiently waited while she shoved pieces of the sweet scones, slathered with jam and cream, into her mouth. She offered the plate of remaining scones, but they refused.
Once she had her fill, Ursula pushed back from the tray and sighed. Now that she had a full belly, her mind was clearer.
“Ladies, we must plan our escape while Edward is sleeping peacefully and the laird is out of our way,” Ursula whispered.
Gladys perked up and leaned forward, as did Eliza. “Here’s what I think will work,” Ursula said in a hushed voice. And she went about explaining a plan that allowed for a way to trick the guard. It called for disguising Ursula as a maid, then Eliza coordinating other maids to travel in and out with supplies for the laird’s brother until the guard would lose count and Ursula could be smuggled out, as well as the sisters.
“I shall make sure the guard has plenty of wine. When I came in here with the tray, he already looked sleepy,” Eliza told them.
Ursula laid her hand flat on the table, and the other women followed suit, each placing a hand on top of the other, until all six hands were alternately stacked together.
They smiled at each other across their unified stance. Ursula’s shattered heart was mending thanks to the sisters’ aid. They were becoming fast friends. Maybe more than friends. Perhaps she’d be a sister of the heart to them like she was to Rosalyn.
Ursula could not bring Alasdair back from the dead, but neither would she allow this tyrannical MacDonald to influence her future.
As much as she wanted to kill the laird’s brother now, cut out his heart and leave it on the bedsheets, she was a healer, and it was against her nature to kill anyone. Her escape alone would have to be her vengeance.
Chapter 36
The army had grown through the Highlands at every village stop. Clans MacKenzie, MacKinnon, and even the Mathesons had joined in the march. Alasdair estimated the group at two hundred strong.
As they traveled, the group gathered catapults and cannons. Fire power was new to the Highland tribes, but the Mathesons said they’d perfected the new weapons.
Although the cannons would be helpful, they wouldn’t arrive with the rest of the contingent, as they moved at a wagon’s pace, drawn by four large workhorses. Still, the cannons could be vital to their offense when the other resources were exhausted.
When the multi-clan army arrived at the foothill overlooking Eilean Donan Castle, the sky was pitch black. Late into the night, the men set up a hidden camp overlooking the descent to the castle.
Fortunately, the moon was shadowed
by dense clouds. They were not far from the rise where they’d approached two days ago. Had it been that long since he’d loved Ursula like no other? The woman had haunted his dreams since he’d been forced to escape the MacDonalds.
Alasdair had walked away from many a lass in his life with no regrets. But with Ursula, his only regret was not meeting her sooner. He cringed, remembering his initial self-interest. She was to provide him with an heir? What a Scottish arse he was to start their relationship that way.
She had to be alive. He could feel it in his bones, in his gut, in his heart. She was worth sacrificing all he had for her. Now that they were within striking distance of the dungeon where she sat, he was ready to risk all to save her.
With that resolve, Alasdair gathered his men and recited the instructions again. The leaders of each rank knew the castle from top to bottom. They carried intricate maps drawn on dried sheepskins. Each commander had a team and a purpose.
From the north, Alasdair would wade through the low tide with Gavin, John, Kenneth MacKenzie, and most of the MacLeod clansmen, then climb up the outside to the seawall.
From the south, McTavish Matheson would position his catapults and archers at the fringe of the woods. From there, the ammunition would reach the parapets easily and take out the garrisons who manned them. If the cannons arrived in time, they’d add them to the offense.
From the east, MacKinnon’s clansmen would lie low in the tall grasses, watching the north and south attacks, preparing to join whichever contingent appeared to be the most in need.
And from the west, on the sea loch, Clan MacKenzie would support the cause from nimble longboats. These clansmen had not only lost their castle to the MacDonalds, they had witnessed their cruelty and were ready for revenge.
Alasdair’s most trusted men guarded the Faery Flag in one of the longboats. It was unclear, even to him, which one carried the flag, but he was assured it would only be unfurled if needed.
The clansmen who had sworn allegiance to Alasdair were in position and ready to take on the MacDonalds. The soldiers, covered in mud, blended into the landscape.
Alasdair raised his sword to the heavens, the signal for the planned ambush to begin. He led his group to the loch bank, where he’d journeyed across with Conn’s men days before.
Thankfully, it was low tide again, the moon guiding the cycle of the waters at night. The men traversed the short passage, bending low so only their heads stuck above the water.
Once on the other side, Alasdair quickly climbed the bank with his men at his heels. They passed through the break in the seawall, then crouched down in the darkest corner of the castle’s courtyard.
According to Alasdair’s plan, the fireball attack would start first, drawing all available MacDonald soldiers to the south side of the castle’s parapets. Once MacTavish Matheson in the south was confident he’d taken out enough of MacDonald defense, he would shoot a blazing arrow into the water. After the signal, Clan McKinnon’s leader would release a fire arrow straight up in the air. Alasdair needed only to train his gaze on the eastern sky for the signals. Once he had them, the land approach on the eastern castle entrance would begin.
Alasdair watched the glowing fireballs arching into the sky and then disappearing beyond the large walls of the keep. Time stood still while his heart raced, pumping him up for what was to come, direct combat with the MacDonalds and the laird whose plans he would crush.
Ursula had to be alive. He willed her to be. If the prophecy was true, then she had to be. Undeniably, it was critical to his mission and to King James’s sovereignty for the MacKenzies to regain possession of their castle. Still, his ultimate purpose was to save her.
The place to start his search was where he’d seen her last. And once he rescued her from the dungeon, Alasdair would guide her to the longboats.
Finally, the arrow from the south blazed through the night sky into the water, followed closely by another into the sky.
Alasdair’s contingent began to move, half of them following him toward the entry to the buttery and the other half to the parapets.
Snatching a burning torch from its wall mount, Alasdair retraced the steps he knew to the religious alcove and finally down the winding dungeon steps.
Gone?
The cell was empty, and the door propped open, as if the occupant had been hurried out.
Even though his heart told him she was still alive, he dreaded looking for her elsewhere in the castle. But tormenting himself with possibilities would only lead to misery.
Now it was time for truth. Time for Alasdair to follow his plan to gather the MacDonald clansmen and lock them up in this dungeon. Time to face Ursula’s fate. And his own.
He pointed to the spiral staircase, and once they had gathered again in the alcove off the entrance, Alasdair drew out his map and dealt out the instructions.
Half the men would go to the great hall led by Alasdair. The rest would advance with Kenneth MacKenzie to join the first group at the parapets and take down any survivors.
Once the castle was secure and in the hands of his battalion, they would hand Eilean Donan back to Kenneth and let him decide how to punish the MacDonalds.
Even though a match with Ian would be sweet revenge, Alasdair wanted as little bloodshed as possible. While he promised his father retribution, he wouldn’t allow a duel with the MacDonald laird get in the way of his search for Ursula.
Storming the great hall from three different entrances, Alasdair led his group into the vast, darkened receiving room. The hearth flames were nearly extinguished, causing long shadows of his men to be cast on the stately, whitewashed walls.
The room was empty. Or so it appeared until Gavin poked his sword under one of the trestle tables, routing out one of the MacDonald clan. Soon, Alasdair counted nine of Ian’s men who’d hidden rather than fought. No doubt when these men heard cannon fire, the cowards had taken cover.
It wasn’t long before Alasdair’s group had corralled the nine MacDonald clansmen and locked them securely in the dungeon.
After all the contingents met back in the great hall, there was much celebrating among the men. But Alasdair wasn’t one of them. It didn’t take long for most of the soldiers to sober and the celebrating to subside, the men no doubt realizing there was still work to be done.
Alasdair was proud of the men, but certain the MacDonald laird had eluded capture. He asked the question they most likely dreaded, “What of Ian MacDonald?”
As he circled the room with little anticipation of proving otherwise, the men could not meet his gaze. Eyes downcast, they were silent.
After a long wait with no response, he asked, “Any noncombatants?” He didn’t speak her name for fear his voice might crack, but it was on his lips. It would be obvious to the men who he was asking about.
There was more awkward silence until Gavin finally spoke. “Your lairdship, no sign of Ursula. But we’ve yet to check the solars on the second and third floors.”
Alasdair’s unspoken fears were returning. Had Ian made an escape with his closest men when the castle came under siege? Had he taken Ursula with him? The only thing left to do was to sweep the solars and any additional bedchambers.
“We shall find them,” Captain John pledged. Turning to the group of mostly MacLeod clansmen, Alasdair’s leader scanned the volunteers, then began ushering the clansmen into groups of three or four and assigning them to sections of the upper chambers.
With determination, but not the same fanfare as when they’d arrived in the great hall, the groups dispersed. After making his way with John, Kenneth, and Gavin to the master solar, Alasdair strode into the first room with his sword drawn. As much as he wanted to take the laird down by himself, he was no fool. There was strength in numbers.
The room was almost pitch black, except for a few embers glowing in the
hearth. A man appeared to be asleep in the bed, propped up by many pillows.
Alasdair approached the bed. The man lying there was not the laird, although he bore a striking resemblance to Ian. As he stepped closer, so did his men behind him. Their swords were held ready to defend their advancements.
Alasdair paused at the edge of the bed. With one flick of his sword, the man would be dead. He called out instead. “On your feet. The MacLeods have taken Eilean Donan. You are a prisoner of this castle.”
The man did not respond, and Alasdair repeated himself. But that only yielded the same result.
A bawdy, low laugh belted out from behind him. Wheeling around, Alasdair found the MacDonald laird standing in the chamber doorway with his sword drawn and three guards behind him.
“He’s dead,” the laird stated flatly. “Your woman killed him.”
Alasdair backed up against the edge of the bed, giving his men room to spread out. He’d made a major mistake not guarding the door behind them, being too eager to sweep through the final rooms in search of Ursula. Now he’d have to fight defensively.
“She’s dead, too,” Ian MacDonald said with finality.
Alasdair almost dropped his sword.
“The task was simple,” MacDonald said. “Save my brother or die trying.”
Alasdair’s jaw twitched before he dove at the laird. Sword clenched in both hands, he met Laird MacDonald’s blade, driving him back with such force he knocked Ian backward into his own men. The three stumbled over each other, one falling to his knees.
Led by a fury he could not control, Alasdair leaped through the doorway, over the tangled clansmen, and met Laird MacDonald’s blade on the other side.
Alasdair’s men were at his heels without hesitation, and as they burst through the doorway after him, they met blade for blade with the other MacDonald clansmen, slaying one quickly.
The Secret of Skye Isle Page 24