The Chief

by Monica McCarty

  She relaxed a little, realizing he was probably right. It wasn’t until the other boat had pulled away, however, that she heaved a sigh of relief.

  Rhuairi greeted them as they disembarked, holding his hand out to help her from the boat. “Did you have a pleasant day, my lady?”

  “Aye,” she said. “I did. Was that a messenger we saw leaving?”

  His expression went blank. “Nay, my lady. Just some local clansmen wishing to see the chief.”

  She exchanged a look with Brother John. Local clansmen? Those had been warriors.

  She didn’t think much about the strange exchange until later.

  —

  Hours after he’d nearly slid off the mountain, Tor sat back against a low boulder, his legs stretched out toward the glowing embers of the fire, listening to the guardsmen argue. It was strangely relaxing. Comfortable in its predictability. Not unlike the squabbling he’d done with his siblings around the dais when they were young. As usual, the talk was of the looming war with England and when—and if—Bruce would make his move.

  It had to be near midnight, and with the day he had planned for them tomorrow, he should be abed. But he was still too restless from what had happened earlier to sleep.

  When the others had seen him and MacRuairi coming down the hill, they’d assumed that Tor had found him. MacRuairi—full of more surprises—made no effort to correct them, but Tor quickly explained what had happened. The men seemed just as surprised as he’d been—with the possible exception of Gordon. MacRuairi kept to himself, and for the most part the rest of them were happy to keep it that way. But Gordon, the gregarious young alchemist, seemed not to notice the menacing cloud surrounding MacRuairi, and the two had formed a friendship of sorts—if you called Gordon talking and MacRuairi listening a friendship.

  MacLean’s deep voice broke through the din of his thoughts. “Wallace’s mistake was thinking he could repeat his success at Stirling Bridge and best Edward in a pitched battle—army to army. He should have stuck to raids; that was his strength in leadership. After the loss at Falkirk he was done. Only his scorched-earth tactics prevented Edward from taking Scotland right then.”

  The more Tor listened to him, the more he recognized MacLean’s keen mind for battle tactics and strategy. Something he had every intention of taking advantage of later. Or rather, he corrected himself, something MacSorley would take advantage of.

  “You weren’t there,” Boyd argued angrily. The fierce patriot tolerated no criticism of Wallace, whom he’d fought beside for years. “It wasn’t Wallace, but the traitorous Comyns who caused the defeat at Falkirk when they retreated and left the spearmen in their schiltron formations open to Edward’s longbows.”

  MacRuairi usually avoided any talk of politics, but he liked to stir up trouble between Seton and Boyd—not that they needed his help. “Sir Dragon, you look like you have something to say,” he said, the nickname referring to the coat of arms on the tabard Seton insisted on wearing.

  Seton’s jaw clenched. “It’s not a Dragon, it’s a Wyvern, you damned barbarian,” he gritted out. MacRuairi knew full well what it was. “Wallace lost because he couldn’t control his men in a pitched battle. He knew how to set fires and attack at night. Falkirk proved that unorganized and undisciplined foot soldiers—no matter how brave—are no match against trained knights.”

  Boyd looked like he wanted to tear off the young Englishman’s head, but after the near disaster at the loch he’d kept a tight rein on his anger toward his partner. “If that’s what you think, then why the hell are you here?”

  Seton gave him a look of haughty disdain. “Bruce is my liege lord.”

  “And his liege lord is King Edward,” Boyd pointed out. “So shouldn’t you be fighting for him?”

  Seton’s face flushed angrily. “Why are you here? It wasn’t that long ago that you were fighting alongside Comyn.”

  “I fought for the Lion,” Boyd said through clenched teeth, referring to Scotland’s symbol of kingship. “Always for Scotland, and right now that means Robert Bruce. I’d sooner see you on the throne than Comyn. He lost his claim to the crown when he deserted us on the battlefield.”

  Seeking to defuse the tension, MacLean said, “Bruce has learned from Wallace’s mistakes. The very fact that we are here attests to that. He will not meet Edward army-to-army until he is ready. And Bruce is a knight—one of the best in Christendom. When the time comes, he will know how to command an army.”

  Seton turned to MacRuairi, proving he knew exactly what he’d done to instigate the argument. “And what about you. Why are you here? Something as noble as lining your coffers?” he sneered, not bothering to hide his disdain.

  MacRuairi’s expression was unreadable. “Of course I wouldn’t risk my head for something as fleeting as patriotism or duty. What better reason than wealth?”

  He spoke matter-of-factly, but Tor knew it wasn’t the truth. Not all of it anyway.

  “How about a lass?” MacSorley said with a grin aimed at Tor. “I can think of no better reason to lose my neck than the promise of a sweet lass in my bed.”

  “Getting tired of your hand, MacSorley?” Lamont said dryly.

  The big Norseman shook his head woefully. “Many more weeks of this and I’ll have to propose.” The men chuckled. Practicality borne of necessity. War and moving around so much sometimes made women scarce for weeks. “As soon as we finish here, I’ll be making a quick stop on Mull where I’ve got a lusty, wee lass with the biggest, sweetest pair of breasts just waiting for me. Creamy, flawless skin. Nipples the lightest pink and the size of two tiny pearls.” He sighed longingly. “A strong wind, a full belly, and a comely lass. It doesn’t take much to make me a happy man.”

  MacSorley wore his devil-may-care attitude well—it was part of what made him so popular and good at defusing tension in the ranks. It even followed him on the battlefield. Tor remembered how shocked he’d been to see the big Viking smiling as he wielded his fearsome battle-axe in the heat of battle.

  But Tor didn’t mistake MacSorley’s affability for weakness or softness. Beneath that smile was a core of steel. Only once had Tor seen him lose that roguish grin, but it had been a memorable sight. And people said he was cold and ruthless.

  “You going to marry this lass, MacSorley?” Seton asked.

  The Viking practically choked on his cuirm. “God’s blood! Why the hell would I do that, lad? Unlike our patron saint over there,” he motioned to MacKay, “one pair of breasts, no matter how fine, for the rest of my life?” He shuddered. “Besides, wouldn’t want to deprive the rest of the lasses of my expertise.”

  “Bugger off, MacSorley,” the surly Highlander growled.

  MacKay never talked about women, not like the rest of them. This earned him MacSorley’s curiosity, which when he failed to satisfy, inevitably led to more prodding.

  “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve heard you say the entire time you’ve been here,” MacSorley mocked. “Between you and MacLean, it’s hard to say who’s more of a monk.”

  MacLean was newly married, though he became silent when the subject arose. For good reason: He’d married a MacDowell—kin to the MacDougalls and Comyns.

  “You don’t talk much about your betrothed, Gordon,” Seton said, diverting the attention from MacLean.

  Gordon shrugged. “Not much to say, I barely know her.”

  “Who is she?” Seton asked.

  Gordon hesitated. “Helen, the daughter of William of Moray, Earl of Sutherland.”

  Tor happened to be looking at MacKay when Gordon made his pronouncement and saw the flicker of shock and pain that was quickly masked. Gordon must have caught the look in his friend’s face, too, because Tor saw the look of silent apology that he shot him.

  Tor understood why Gordon hadn’t said anything before. The MacKays’ bitter feud with the Sutherland clan was well known. But he wondered whether there was more to it.

  The talk returned to politics and the speculation on when they
would be called to arms. He was grateful for the change of subject, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the Viking turned his prodding in his direction. The last thing Tor wanted to talk about was his wife. He had a job to do, and only when it was complete could he set things right. It would do no good to brood over things he could not change. But the way he’d left her bothered him. He vowed to make it up to her when he returned.

  His thoughts turned back to what had happened earlier on the mountain. MacRuairi was seated at the edge of the group, shrouded in darkness, running a sharpening stone over the blade of one of his swords.

  Tor got to his feet and walked over to sit beside him. After a moment he said, “It wasn’t you—the recent raids on Skye.”

  MacRuairi didn’t bother to look up, but continued running the stone along the blade. “I was under the impression we’d agreed to a truce.”

  “I’ve been on the other side of one of your ‘truces’ before.”

  If MacRuairi took offense he didn’t show it, but he did set aside his stone. “Aye, but now we are family.” He smiled at Tor’s scowl. “Who else do you think it might be?”

  Tor’s expression was grim. “I don’t know. Perhaps Nicolson, but MacDonald assures me he’s been appeased.”

  “Perhaps they were not aimed at you, but you were merely a convenient target.”

  Tor frowned. “Aye, it’s possible.”

  But the attacks didn’t feel opportunistic; they felt personal. It hadn’t just been reiving cattle and stealing crops; his people had been targeted as well. That was one of the reasons he’d suspected MacRuairi.

  “When did the last one occur?”

  “While I was at Finlaggan.”

  “And the one before? Were you gone for that as well?”

  Tor shook his head but then remembered. “I was supposed to be, but at the last minute I changed my plans.”

  MacRuairi eyed him thoughtfully. “Without time for someone to receive word of the change?”

  “Nay,” Tor agreed, realizing what he was suggesting. “You think there might be someone spying on me,” he said flatly. Every instinct rebelled at the idea. He knew his men.

  MacRuairi shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

  As much as Tor didn’t like to think that one of his people could have betrayed him, MacRuairi was right. He had to consider it. Who had he angered enough to go to all the trouble? Nicolson certainly. For the attacks that were recent, he would have to add MacDougall to the list.

  If someone was spying on him…

  He swore. His first thought was of Christina. He forced back the spike of what could only be termed panic. She was safe. No one could get to her in the castle; Dunvegan was impenetrable.

  “Who knows how long you will be gone?” MacRuairi asked, reading his mind.

  “Too many people,” Tor answered, jumping to his feet, his earlier exhaustion forgotten. “If we leave now, we can be there by midday.”

  —

  Brother John was turning into an overprotective nursemaid. “Not today, my lady. Tomorrow will be soon enough. The children are improving and you, forgive me for saying, are looking tired.”

  She was tired. Her menses were about to start, and as always, she had cramps and a headache. But she could hardly explain that to a churchman. “I’m fine, and I’m not going to miss this beautiful day. I’ve forgotten what the sun looks like. Come, we won’t be gone long.”

  But she was wrong. The children had indeed improved and had decided to entertain her with a special song and dance. It wasn’t until near midday that she and Brother John started to make their way back to the boat for the return ride to the castle.

  “Slow down, Brother John,” she said with a laugh. “I’ve never seen you walking so fast.”

  He smiled. “Was I? I’m sorry, my lady. I must be hungry.”

  “After all those tarts that you ate?”

  He blushed. “I have a fondness for plums.”

  “As do I. What a wonderful treat this late in the season.”

  All of a sudden Brother John jerked to a stop. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear wh—”

  But her question was cut off by the far-off sound of a horn. The blood drained from her face. She looked to the clerk and could see her panic reflected in his gaze. “What is that?” she asked Colyne, one of the guardsmen who’d accompanied them.

  She suspected the answer, but it didn’t lessen the shock when it came.

  “It’s a warning from the castle, my lady.” His face looked grim. “We’re under attack.”

  Tor saw the first plumes of smoke from the village about a mile away, just as Campbell and MacGregor returned with a report.

  Their expressions were grim. “At least a hundred and fifty men—mostly mercenaries, by the looks of them,” Campbell said. “I counted four galley warships in the harbor, but I think more must be at the castle to prevent additional men from reaching the village.”

  She’s safe, he reminded himself. He forced his mind to lock down, knowing he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. Mercenaries, Campbell had said. This was not a raid, but a full-scale war. He’d stationed a guard to protect the village, but his score of men would be heavily outnumbered. “Casualties?”

  “A few dozen,” MacGregor replied. “Mostly theirs. Two of your men. Your guardsmen have set up a shield wall where the path from the harbor leads into the village.”

  Tor nodded, not surprised. His men were well trained, used to facing larger forces. It was a favorite tactic of his. As King Leonidas had done at the Battle of Thermopylae, they’d chosen to fight at the narrowest part of the village, taking away some of their enemies’ advantage in size. For a time. But they would not be able to hold out forever against such odds. And like what doomed the fabled stand of the three hundred Spartans at the pass of Thermopylae, there was more than one way into the village.

  “The villagers?” he asked.

  MacGregor’s mouth thinned. “Three men, a woman, and a child that I could see. The rest must have found shelter, but the attackers are showing no mercy.”

  Tor’s fists clenched with barely repressed rage. He honed the anger surging through him into a steely sword of retribution. Whoever his unknown enemies might be, they were about to pay.

  He wasn’t the only one eager to fight. Though the team had been marching all night across miles of rugged landscape, Campbell and MacGregor’s news acted like a lightning rod. Nothing invigorated a warrior like the promise of battle. And these warriors had been held at bay for too long.

  But this was not their war.

  The men had gathered round him in the trees. Despite the rigorous training they’d endured the past week and the nightlong journey without sleep, the elite guard looked intense and deadly. Their ragged, unkempt appearance only added to the fearsomeness of their grizzled, battle-hard faces. He met each man’s gaze. “You joined to fight for Bruce, not for me. You’ve heard what Campbell said: They have at least a hundred and fifty men; I have eighteen, maybe less.”

  “Nineteen,” MacSorley said, stepping forward. “No way in hell I’m letting you have all the fun.” The big Viking smiled. “Let’s give the skalds something to sing about.”

  The other men stepped forward behind him—except for one. “Time to put all that training to the test, captain,” Boyd said.

  Tor looked to the man who’d stayed back. MacRuairi slumped lazily against a tree. He shrugged and uncrossed his arms. The dual hilts of his swords rose behind his shoulders menacingly—like the smile that curved his mouth. “Someone needs to watch MacSorley’s back.”

  Tor nodded, moved by the unanimous show of support.

  Knowing they had to move quickly, he set out the plan. Half the team would move in to bolster the men at the shield wall; the other half would move around and try to outflank them, attacking from both sides. “Are you ready?”

  “Aye, captain,” they said in unison, determination and anticipation in their fierce visages. Beneath the metal m
ask of his helm, Tor smiled—a terrifying curl of the mouth that promised no mercy. “Then let’s give them a surprise before we send them to the devil.” He lifted his dirk in the air. “Death before surrender!”

  “Death before surrender!” they repeated in unison.

  Knowing they would only weigh them down, they left their packs behind and ran. In a little more than five minutes, they’d reached the outskirts of the village.

  The distant clamor of battle mixing with the desolate quiet of the shuttered stone houses was eerie. Some of the attackers’ flaming arrows had found their mark on the thatched roofs. Heavy in the smoke-filled air was the unmistakable metallic scent of blood.

  As they drew near, Tor swore, realizing they were too late to implement his plan to outflank them. Heavily armored attackers were pouring through the village. The shield wall had broken.

  He quickly changed tactics. It wouldn’t be a carefully orchestrated surprise attack, but an all-out brawl of strength and skill.

  The odds were against them. If he were alone, he knew he wouldn’t have had a chance. But he wasn’t alone. And he never worried about odds. He fought to win.

  Reaching behind his back, he slid his two-handed great sword claidheamh da laimh from its scabbard and gave the sign they’d been waiting for. With a fierce war cry, the team attacked.

  MacGregor let go a rapid stream of arrows, fired with perfect aim and angled trajectory to pierce any armor—mail or leather. Six men fell before Tor had even swung his sword.

  In one deadly swoop he added two more. Spinning around, he fended off the blade of an attacker. Steel clanged against steel. Despite the full-bodied attack of the other man, Tor’s blade barely moved, his muscles flexing as hard as stone.

  No mercy. With an angry growl, he pushed the man back, lifted his sword over his head, and brought it down full force on his enemy’s head, splitting his skull like a gourd.

  He felt nothing. Only cold purpose.

  Hacking, swinging, and thrusting, Tor forged a path of blood and destruction through the startled attackers with his sword. Like the thunderbolt the sword was named for, bheithir struck down all in its path. Battle lust roared through his veins. His senses flared—heightened—as the strange euphoria washed over him. His mind cleared of everything but the only truth that mattered in war: Kill or be killed.