The Ranger

by Monica McCarty

  “I’ll lead them,” Arthur said. “I know the terrain well.” Neil was still one of the most formidable warriors in the kingdom, but he was fifty and not as fleet-footed as he once was.

  Bruce’s gaze swept over him and Arthur could read his uncertainty. Though he’d washed most of the blood and filth from him before donning his borrowed battle garb, wrapped his hand and wrist, and ate and drank enough uisge-beatha to put color back in his face, he knew he still looked like he’d been chewed up and spit out by a rabid beast from hell.

  Before the king could deny him, he added, “I can do it, sire. I look worse than I feel.”

  It was a lie, but not much of one. The knowledge that he was close to the reckoning with Lorn had invigorated him.

  “You’ve earned the right, Sir Arthur,” the king said. “Without your information, this could have been a disaster.” Arthur knew the memory of Dal Righ, two years before, where Lorn had sent him fleeing for his life, was still too fresh on Bruce’s mind. Bruce called forward one of his youngest but most trusted knights, Sir James Douglas. Douglas’s chief rival, the king’s nephew and former turncoat Sir Thomas Randolph, was with MacSorley in the west, readying the sea attack should it be necessary. “Douglas, I want you to go with him.” He motioned to one of the other warriors. Gregor MacGregor, Arthur’s original partner in the Highland Guard, stepped forward. To him he said, “Arrow you’re in charge of the archers.” To Arthur he ordered, “Take as many men as you need.”

  “Better toss some MacGregors in there, Ranger,” MacGregor said to him, as the king turned to confer with Neil and MacLeod. “We can’t let the Campbells claim all the glory.”

  Arthur managed a smile. God, it was good to be back. Good to jest about the ancient blood feud between the MacGregors and Campbells that had once made them bitter enemies. “That’s just like a MacGregor, wanting credit for a Campbell’s hard work.”

  “I need something to impress the lasses with,” MacGregor said.

  Campbell laughed. MacGregor didn’t need anything to impress the lasses; his face did it for him—it was also a subject that provided plenty of fodder to prod him with. “If you want help with that pretty face of yours, I can send you to the guy who did this.” He pointed to his own.

  MacGregor winced. “The bastard was thorough, I’ll give him that.”

  “I’ll make sure to compliment him for you when I catch up with him,” he said dryly. They both knew that would not be a long conversation.

  Neil had finished with the king and pulled Arthur aside as he was going to ready the men. “Are you sure you’re all right, Arthur? Everyone would understand if you don’t feel up to it. You’ve done enough already.”

  I would understand, he meant. Arthur could see it in his brother’s face. But they both knew this wasn’t the end. “I’ll be fine,” he assured him, “when this is done.”

  Twenty-five

  Arthur’s plan worked. With Douglas, MacGregor, and a small force of his brother’s men, he led the war band to a place high on the slopes of Ben Cruachan above Lorn’s lying-in-ambush clansmen. As Bruce’s army came marching through the narrow pass below, the MacDougalls unfurled a hail of arrows and rolling boulders down on the “unsuspecting” soldiers.

  But the MacDougall “surprise” attack was met by another. The MacDougall warriors gazed up in horror as Arthur and his men let unfurl a hail of arrows of their own and descended on them like wraiths.

  Having lost the element of surprise, and the strategically important higher ground, the MacDougall ambush became a rout. Trapped from above and below, the men were crushed. When Lorn launched his frontal attack at the mouth of the pass, instead of confronting an army in disarray, he was met with the full force of Bruce’s powerful army.

  Arthur raced down the steep mountain, joining in the fray, cutting through the swarm of battling soldiers with one purpose in mind: finding Lorn. He caught sight of Alan MacDougall across the hillside, rallying his men and valiantly attempting to wage another charge. But valiance wouldn’t be enough. He hoped for Anna’s sake that Alan recognized this before it was too late.

  The narrow funnel of the pass took away some of Bruce’s advantage in numbers, but it wasn’t long before Lorn’s attack collapsed. Arthur reached the front line just as the MacDougall vanguard started to break.

  At the head of his army, fighting alongside his closest knights and the members of the Highland Guard, King Robert ordered pursuit of the fleeing clansmen. In the frantic attempt to retreat to Dunstaffnage, many MacDougalls were cut down or drowned while trying to cross the bridge over the River Awe.

  They’d won! The MacDougalls’ attempt to best Bruce had failed, and the king had his revenge for Dal Righ. The hold of the most powerful clan in the Highlands had been broken.

  Victory was sweet, but it wouldn’t be complete until Arthur found Lorn.

  In the chaos of the retreat, he scanned the fleeing clansmen for his enemy. He was glad to see Alan MacDougall leading a contingent of his men to safety.

  Catching sight of MacRuairi near the bridge, he made his way down to him.

  “Where is he?” Arthur didn’t need to say who.

  MacRuairi spat and pointed south to the mouth of Loch Awe. “He never left his birlinn—the bloody coward directed the battle from the water. As soon as the men started to retreat, he fled down the loch.”

  Arthur swore, refusing to believe that he could have come so far to be denied the chance for justice at the last moment. “How long ago?”

  “Five minutes, not more.”

  Then he still had a chance. But he would need MacRuairi’s seafaring skills if he was going to try to catch him. Lorn had three castles on Loch Awe, but the newest—and most heavily fortified—was Innis Chonnel, the former Campbell stronghold. That’s where he would go.

  Arthur’s gaze fell levelly on MacRuairi. “Feel like a race?”

  The man known as one of the most feared and menacing pirates on the sea smiled—at least it was supposed to be a smile. “I’ll gather the men; you find the boat.”

  Arthur was already running down the edge of the river toward the harbor. This was one race he didn’t intend to lose. John of Lorn would not escape his fate this time.

  All Anna could do was wait. But not knowing what was happening beyond the thick stone walls of Innis Chonnel Castle was pure torture.

  Her heart tugged. Nay, not torture. It was nothing like what Arthur was going through. She couldn’t bear to think about it, yet it seemed she could do nothing else. Imagining what was happening to him … Not sure whether he lived or died …

  It was madness! How was her uncle going to get into the castle, let alone rescue him?

  I should have gone with them. Then at least she would know. But her uncle was right: she would only have led her brother back to the castle.

  The hours passed slowly. When not on her knees praying in the small chapel, she tried to keep herself busy.

  With most of her father’s soldiers called to battle, only a small force of guardsmen—perhaps a score—had been retained to hold the castle. When her party had arrived the evening before (with no more false trips to the stream), Anna had organized the men into preparing the chambers, freshening the Great Hall, and inventorying the stores.

  Innis Chonnel Castle had been built about the same time as Dunstaffnage. Though not as grand, it shared a similar construction. The square-shaped fortress was built upon a rocky base on the southwestern end of the island. The high, thick stone walls surrounded a small courtyard. Two square towers had been built into the corners, the large one serving as the donjon and the second as the guard house. Between them was the Great Hall. Other smaller wooden buildings, housing the barracks, armory, stables, and kitchens, had been built against the walls.

  It was strange to think that this had once been Arthur’s home. She’d always enjoyed visiting this castle with her father, but now it felt strange. It felt as if she shouldn’t be there. As if she were an intruder.

  S
he knew it was ridiculous. Castles changed hands all the time in war. But with what he’d told her …

  Anna was torn. Torn between the father she still loved though no longer idolized and the man whom she should hate but couldn’t.

  She didn’t want to understand why Arthur had done what he’d done, but she did. She could understand the loyalty that drove him because it drove her as well. Loyalty to king and country. Loyalty to clan and family.

  Aye, she especially understood that.

  Arthur was a Highlander. Blood for blood was the Highland way. He would feel it his duty to avenge his father’s death. But she knew it was more than vengeance. A part of him was still that little boy who’d watched his father die, believing he should have been able to prevent it. Justice. Revenge. It was also atonement.

  But understanding did not bring any answers. What could she do when loving one meant losing the other?

  After a restless night, she spent the day after her arrival in much the same way as the first—praying and trying to keep herself busy so she wouldn’t think about what was happening beyond the thick walls. If her fears for Arthur’s fate weren’t enough, there was also the battle being waged.

  The world as she knew it could be ending right now. The men she loved could be lying dead or wounded, and yet here, in the protected confines of Innis Chonnel on the isolated isle on Loch Awe, everything appeared normal. The bright sunlight still shimmered off the softly undulating waters of the loch, the birds still flew, and the damp wind still ripped through her hair as she paced the courtyard.

  She caught sight of Ewen exiting the square donjon. “Any word?” she asked, though she already knew his answer. She would have heard the call go up if anyone was approaching.

  He shook his head. “Nay, not yet.”

  She knew the wait was hard on her brother too, albeit for different reasons. He wanted to fight. But if he blamed her for his banishment to Innis Chonnel while the battle waged on, he did not show it.

  She chewed on her lower lip. “I wish I knew what was happening.”

  He smiled. “I do as well. But as soon as there is anything to report—”

  “Ships approaching, sir!” The call came from one of the guards in the high tower.

  Anna followed her brother as he raced up the stairs to the ramparts. She could just make out the three square sails bearing down on them from the north. They were coming fast.

  “It’s father,” Ewen said, his voice despondent.

  A chill of foreboding ran down her spine. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Ewen didn’t bother to try to hide the truth from her. “He would only be coming here if it were necessary.”

  Necessary. Her heart dropped. Meaning if he were in retreat.

  They’d lost!

  She wobbled a little, her legs suddenly feeling like jelly. Gripping the stone edge of the rampart with her fingers to steady herself, she watched the ships approaching and prayed for another explanation. Anything but that Bruce had won.

  She squinted into the sunlight, seeing something else. “What’s that?” she said, pointing just beyond the oncoming ships. “Behind them?”

  But Ewen was already shouting orders. “Attack! To your positions!”

  The men sprang into action, while Anna, unable to look away, watched in stunned horror as the ships approached. Her father’s men didn’t seem to be aware they were being chased.

  “Behind you!” she shouted, trying to warn them. But the wind carried her voice away.

  Ewen shouted up to her. “Anna, get away from there. It isn’t safe. Go to the tower and bar the door.”

  Mutely, she nodded and did as he bid. Once inside, she raced to her second-floor chamber to look out the small window. As the donjon tower was on the southern corner of the castle, she couldn’t see the boats until they’d nearly reached the landing area.

  Heart in her throat, she watched as the battle broke out right below her.

  She could see her father at the rear of his men, shouting orders, as the ship of enemy warriors—

  She stopped, her heart catching with a fierce, thudding jolt. She blinked. No, it wasn’t a dream. Her heart squeezed as a hard swell of relief rose inside her.

  Arthur was alive.

  He was dressed in unfamiliar battle garb, his hair and face shielded by a nasal helm, on the surface unrecognizable from the other warriors around him. But she knew it was him.

  Thank God.

  Then, suddenly, the full import of his presence hit her. Horror washed over her, clinging in an icy embrace. If he was here, it was for one reason.

  She raced to the door, knowing she had to do something. She had to stop him. She couldn’t let him kill her father.

  * * *

  The moment Arthur had been waiting for was here. Somehow it seemed fitting that the final reckoning would take place on the small island of Innis Chonnel, in the hulking shadow of the castle that had once been his home.

  The race had been close, but in the end Lachlan MacRuairi had given proof that his reputation was well earned. Hiding in the black hole of the bright sunlight, he bore down on Lorn’s retreating ships undetected, catching up with the three birlinns as they neared the landing.

  Only then did Arthur launch a barrage of arrows on the unsuspecting MacDougalls.

  MacRuairi had gathered forty of his pirate clansmen, which given the roughly three times as many MacDougalls should have been an uneven fight. But MacRuairi’s men were more than up to the challenge. Brigands, cutthroats, ruffians—that was describing them generously—the MacRuairis had earned their reputation as the greatest scourge of the sea.

  But they fought just as fiercely on land.

  The MacRuairi warriors were already jumping out of the boat—swords raised, letting go a cry of “For the Lion”—as MacRuairi pulled their purloined ship up to the landing on the heels of the MacDougall ships. Arthur was right there with them, leading the charge.

  Lorn had positioned his men at the end of the jetty, expecting to easily cut down MacRuairi’s men as they attempted to reach land.

  But the MacDougall warriors weren’t any match for the vicious onslaught of their kinsmen. Though both clans were descended from sons of Somerled—the Norse king who’d ruled the Isles over 150 years ago—they’d battled often over the generations for supremacy. The MacDougalls had won after Largs, growing in favor with the Scottish kings, but assimilation had taken them farther away from their Viking roots. The MacRuairis fought like the barbarians that they had been not so long ago—that most might still call them.

  They broke through the wall of MacDougall soldiers easily, sending the battle onto the rocky shores of the island.

  With only one arm—not to mention his weakened condition—Arthur was at a disadvantage. But while nowhere near his normal fighting abilities, he managed to hold his own. Plowing determinedly through the clansmen, he kept his eye on Lorn the entire time.

  Lorn was at the rear of the battle, in the protective circle of his men. One of whom was his henchman.

  Arthur’s blood rushed in anticipation.

  The MacDougalls were being pushed back, and it soon became clear that Lorn’s superior numbers were not going to win the day.

  Locked in a fierce sword fight with one of the MacDougall clansmen—a man he unfortunately knew—Arthur heard the cry for retreat.

  He swore, knowing that he had to stop Lorn and his bloody henchman before they reached the safety of the castle gates.

  He wouldn’t come this close and be denied.

  With a renewed burst of energy, he deflected a blow from his opponent and, using the force of it, spun his sword around under him and delivered a death strike.

  Lorn—still protected by his henchman—was racing the fifty feet or so to the castle gate.

  Not this time.

  Arthur drew the attention of a few of MacRuairi’s men, telling them what he wanted them to do. He fought his way toward Lorn, the men following behind him. They created a hole in
the protective circle around Lorn, cutting him and his henchman off from the group. Once Arthur was through, MacRuairi’s men spread out to form a barrier behind him.

  If Lorn wasn’t a few dozen feet from the safety of the castle walls, Arthur would have enjoyed this particular death more. But as it was, he was forced to dispatch the henchman quickly. For all the man’s skill at torture, he was no match for Arthur—even one-handed.

  At last he turned to Lorn, catching up with him not ten feet from the gate. Lorn’s men were so busy defending themselves that no one was able to come to his aid.

  Arthur could see the rage in his eyes as Lorn lifted his sword to his. “How did you escape?” he demanded incredulously.

  “Surprised to see me?”

  Lorn’s eyes flashed murderously. “I should have killed you.”

  “Aye, you should have.”

  “You are the reason for this disaster. You betrayed my plans to the murdering whoreson.”

  “King Robert,” Arthur prodded, circling him like prey. “I would say you should get used to saying it, but you won’t be around long enough.”

  And with that he swung.

  Lorn was prepared for the blow and managed to deflect it—albeit barely, his entire body shaking with the effort. John of Lorn, once one of the most feared warriors in the Highlands, was no longer a threat. Age and illness had taken their toll. It wasn’t cowardice but illness that had kept him on the loch and at the back of the battlefield. Lorn’s damned pride prevented him from admitting just how sick he was.

  Arthur’s second blow brought him to his knees. He held the tip of his sword to Lorn’s neck, the mail coif no match for the sharp steel of Arthur’s sword.

  The sun flashed off the older man’s helm—just as it had that day fourteen years ago when Arthur had watched from afar as his father held the blade to this same man’s neck and offered him mercy.

  It was the moment he’d been waiting for. Anticipation should be surging through his veins. The taste of victory should be sweet. His muscles should be clenched, ready to drive the blade forward.