Raghnall knew better than to ask why. He strode directly toward the man and pointed to the top of the curtain across the courtyard. “How many archers have their arrows trained on us at the moment?”
As Angus upended the shovel and jammed its shaft into the rear side of the cogs, the man laughed. “And ye reckon I’d tell ye if I knew?”
“We’ve come in peace,” Raghnall persisted. “Robert the Bruce is Ulster’s son-in-law.”
Pushing down on the handle, Angus ensured the shovel’s scoop was wedged good and tight against the stone wall. It just might save the king’s neck, and those of the men, should the earl’s hospitality be found lacking.
“Ye follow a fool king who knows not his arse from his eye.” The guard glanced Angus’ way. “Move along, ye oaf.”
Angus yawned and ambled beside his man, ever so happy to have his bonny face hidden beneath the nose guard of his helm. “Where can a fella take a piss around here?”
“Tie a knot in it,” growled the buffoon, giving Angus’ shoulder a shove.
Raghnall’s fingers skimmed his hilt, but Angus stilled the man’s hand with a sharp hiss. “We’re nay here to make war.”
The man-at-arms snorted. “At least no’ today.”
As the retinue filed into the courtyard, Robert held aloft the black flag of parley and moved into the center with Boyd and Campbell on his flanks. A tic twitched at the corner of Angus’ eye. He ought to be beside the king rather than among the soldiers who encircled the bailey walls.
From the mammoth tower doors, Ulster’s guardsmen approached in diamond formation—not a good sign for a greeting with kin. The earl’s purple robes flapped with the wind, though he was mostly hidden by a wall of soldiers.
“I haven’t a good feeling about this,” grumbled Raghnall under his breath.
“No man can ignore a request for parley, nor can he raise a hand against us,” Angus whispered, though if he acted on the prickles that had been firing across the nape of his neck since they’d set sail, he never would have stepped beneath the chilly, razor-sharp teeth of the sea gate’s portcullis. “Be on your guard.”
Before Raghnall had a chance to mumble another prediction of doom, the King of Scotland bowed to his father-in-law, the Earl of Ulster. “I come in peace to beg your forgiveness and your favor.”
With the light rain, a fog rolled in, making Ulster appear as if he were standing behind a shroud. “Do ye now?”
“As ye are aware, not only has your daughter Elizabeth been taken by the hands of Edward’s men, my only daughter has been captured as well. My brother Nigel, hanged, drawn, and quartered in Berwick-upon-Tweed merely for the crime of protecting my wife and daughter. And now it seems Lord Percy is leading my brothers Alexander and Thomas to the same fate.”
“And ye wish me to stop the delivery of justice? I’d be outlawed with the stroke of Edward’s quill.”
“I need men. ’Tis all I ask.”
“Ye disappoint me, Robert. Not only have ye turned my daughter against me, ye believe me fool enough to absolve ye of your crimes?”
The king thrust out his hands. “What crimes are they, compared to the Scottish blood spilled?”
Ulster smoothed his fingers along the earl’s chain atop his chest. “Ye want to stop the senseless bleeding? Throw down your arms and bow to Edward.”
“Scotland’s subjects tried to do so and were treated worse than chattel. Our sons were forced to fight England’s wars, our daughters were raped and murdered by those who called themselves Edward’s own.”
“And ye think more fighting will make the King of England acquiesce and kiss your filthy feet? The man will not stop until your head is on a spike on the Tower of London. Did ye learn nothing from Wallace’s demise? When I gave my daughter to ye in marriage, I thought ye to be a savvy man, but I was grievously mistaken.” Ulster took a step away. “Look at ye come begging for men—a sheep on a fool’s errand, backing a cause ye can never win.”
Robert drew a hand down his beard and, as he glanced over his shoulder, the look in his eye was as deadly as nightshade. Any other man might have been defeated by such a tongue-lashing, but the tripe spewing from Ulster’s mouth appeared to embolden the Scottish king.
Angus gripped his fingers around the hilt of his sword as the Bruce backed away from the man he’d come to ask for help. “I see the quarrel between us is too great for the strength of kin and clan to assuage,” said the king, his voice deep and resonating between the courtyard walls.
“Ye’re no kin of mine.” With a flourish of purple robes, the earl thrust his finger at Robert. “Seize him!”
The order to apprehend the Bruce hadn’t left Ulster’s lips before Angus and his soldiers drew their weapons and readied for battle.
“Protect the king!” Angus bellowed, racing ahead as he and his soldiers surrounded His Grace. Taking the lead, he eyed Ulster from behind the mask of his helm. “We wish no bloodshed here!”
Hesitating, the earl squinted at Angus before two pikemen crossed their weapons in front of His Lordship’s body.
Not about to wait for a reply, Angus and his retinue backed the king toward the sea gate, sidestepping while eyeing every venomous cur in the courtyard. They hadn’t attacked yet, but the surrounding enemy encroached, pikes leveled and weapons drawn.
“I said seize him!” roared Ulster.
Within a blink of an eye, the battle came from all sides. Angus and Raghnall stood shoulder to shoulder, fending off the brunt of it. Angus ducked beneath the strike of a lance. As he straightened, he deflected a thrust from a sword, slamming the spike of his targe through the attacker’s throat.
“Run for the boats!” he shouted, urging his retinue of fighting men to move faster.
As they approached the portcullis, the brutish guard lunged for Raghnall, swinging a ball and chain over his head. Before the bastard thrust forward with a killing strike, Angus bellowed his war cry and hacked through the man’s arm.
Raghnall didn’t even flinch as he fended off three. Angus smashed the broadside of his blade atop one’s head, sending him to the cobbles while the man-at-arms dispatched the others.
“Archers!” bellowed an order from above.
“God’s stones,” Angus cursed, raising his targe as an arrow hissed past his ear.
“Haste!” shouted Raghnall, darting through the gate. “The king has escaped.”
Backing into the gate’s narrow archway, Angus overturned a barrel and kicked it toward the onslaught of attackers, purchasing enough time to issue a chop through the shovel’s handle. Above, the deadly portcullis groaned and screeched as he launched himself beyond her savage teeth. His feet barely touched the dirt as the iron gate thundered closed behind him, shaking the ground as he ran.
But he wasn’t safe yet.
Arrows darted through the air on all sides. Forcing his legs to pump harder, Angus crouched, holding his targe over his head, praying for nearsighted bowmen. Only when he was out of range and had reached his birlinn did he realize a storm had rolled in, bringing with it driving rain and a hellacious wind.
Not long after a score of men filed into the courtyard via the sea entrance, Anya stood at the cellar gate, fishing in her satchel for her key. “Curses, where is it?”