Facing his men, Angus again thrust his sword into the air. “We are the sons of the MacDonald of the Isles, of Somerled, and his clan. The blood of the most powerful men ever to call Scotland home thrums through our blood. I swear by all that is holy, we will make these sassanach bastards tremble in their boots. This is our day and we will not fail!”
The ranks erupted with a tumultuous battle cry while the English cavalry thundered forward.
“Hold!” Angus shouted.
The horses charged head-on into the trap, horses falling into the boggy trenches with nowhere to go. The men atop the hill barraged the English with an onslaught of arrows sailing toward the flailing knights. Only then did Angus slice his sword through the air and lead the charge. “Advance!”
Confused and already bloodied, the English stood knee-deep in mud as the Scots bore down upon them. The heinous sounds of battle swelled around him as pikes pierced through flesh and the clang of swords clattered. Shrieks and groans of the wounded and dying rose louder as Angus pressed forward with Raghnall at his side, both men fighting as if Satan himself were blowing fire up their backsides.
By the time Aymer de Valence gave the order to retreat, the English had suffered countless losses. Angus and his men surrounded a half-dozen well-armored knights, knee-deep in mud, standing back-to-back, so exhausted they were scarcely able to raise their swords.
“Throw down now and we’ll spare ye,” Angus shouted. “I give my word, no harm will befall a one of ye.”
“I’d rather finish them,” growled Raghnall.
“The king needs these bastards alive. Relieve them of their weapons and bind their wrists.” Angus leapt onto the high ground and faced the king’s army. “Sons of Scotland, God has looked upon us with favor this day. Let it be known that Robert the Bruce will hide no more!”
After the battle, the bone-weary Scots camped with the Trinitarian monks at Fail Monastery. By the next day, their energy was once again restored on the march to Turnberry, where they were met with a feast of the king’s venison and casks of ale.
Angus opted not to dine at the high table and made merry with his men. “Ye all proved your worth and instilled the fear of the MacDonald in the hearts of the English.”
They raised their tankards and bellowed their Gaelic war cry, “Fraoch eilean.”
“Let us march on Sterling!” shouted one.
“Aye, afore the bastards have time to regroup!”
“I commend your spirit,” Angus replied, though he knew they did not yet have the numbers for a successful march on the stronghold known as the gateway to the Highlands. Nonetheless, this was no minor victory and, with the news, the king and his nobles were already bringing in fresh recruits. But they needed tens of thousands more to end this war.
Angus swilled his ale and chuckled as he watched his men celebrate. After the loss at Loch Ryan, it felt good to be triumphant at long last. Mayhap he had even redeemed himself with the Bruce. At least he prayed his efforts at Loudoun Hill were enough to regain a modicum of favor.
Raghnall grabbed the ewer and poured himself another pint. “What is next, m’lord?”
Angus released a long breath as he stared into his frothing ale. “I need to right a wrong.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He finished his drink and climbed off the bench.
“Where are ye off to?” asked the man-at-arms.
“Off to cut my own throat, I reckon.”
“Then I’d best go with ye.”
Raghnall started to rise, but Angus grasped his shoulder and urged him to stay put. “I’ve something I must do. Remain here and if the king doesn’t sever my cods, I’ll return anon.”
Though he ought to be inflated with the frenzy of a victor’s mirth, Angus headed for the high table with a heart as heavy as a five-stone rock. Even the roar of the crowd ebbed to his ears, replaced by the thumping in his chest and the rush of every breath.
Robert gave him a nod. “Come join us, Islay.”
“My thanks,” he said, taking a seat across.
The king leaned forward on his elbows. “Why do I perceive ye want to talk?”
“Because I’ve something to say that cannot wait.”
“Ye have made up for your blunder with the O’Cahan lass, though I…”
“Nay, I have made amends for nothing.”
Robert sat back and stroked his beard. “Go on.”
“It is true, I greatly desire favor in your eyes. I pledged my men and my sword to ye and Scotland. I provided ye with a safe haven through the winter. I also supplied men and boats more than once and will do so any day at any time for any reason. And though my losses are not as great as yours, my brother fell to the MacDougall and for that I will not rest until the Lord of Lorn is in his grave. Aye, I am the first to admit I have made mistakes, but my biggest blunder was saying goodbye to Miss Anya O’Cahan.”
The king snorted. “’Tis a wee bit late to realize that now.”
“Aye, but it is no’ too late to beg for forgiveness.”
“Och, but I have already forgiven ye, lad.”
“Nay, ’tis the lass who must forgive me, and then I wish for nothing more than to marry her.”
“The daughter of an O’Cahan?” asked the Bruce, with a belly laugh. “Are ye in your cups?”
“I’ve had but two pints of ale this night and I’m as sober as a lark on a chilly Highland morn.”
When a serving wench landed in his lap, Angus promptly set her on her feet, then met the king’s steely-eyed gaze. “Sire, I beg your leave come dawn.”
“My leave? Are ye telling me ye intend to confront Ulster?”
“Under the flag of parley—and this time without men-at-arms behind me. Not even Ulster would dishonor the black flag waved without threat.”
The king drummed his fingers on the handle of his tankard. “Very well, I shall grant ye leave. But have a care. My father-in-law has been quite clear as to where his loyalties lie.”
“Aye, and that is exactly why I’m going alone with no army to provoke him.”
20
Angus set sail beneath an overcast dawn sky but with a favorable breeze. But by the time his birlinn passed the Isle of Rathlin, the north wind had kicked up her ire, bringing rain, and making the voyage perilous. When the square sail collapsed and flapped like wet bed linens, Angus tied the tiller in place before he lunged for the boom’s rope, whipping through the air.
As it slashed across his face, the boat listed starboard and sent him crashing to his back, but by some miracle, he managed to catch the rogue rope in his fist. Grunting as he stood, Angus adjusted the boom’s angle until the sail again billowed, making the boat shoot through the white-capped waves like a dart.
Before the wind overpowered him, he wrapped the rope around a cleat and secured it with a knot. Only then did he return to the tiller, setting a course for Carrickfergus.
Battling the storm not only sapped his strength, it took the lion’s share of the day, but by the grace of God, Angus sailed into the protection of the harbor before dark. He tied the birlinn to the pier and splashed some water on his face and then made his way to the sea gate, which, unlike his last visit, was closed and heavily guarded.