Anya stopped short as if she’d been caught red-handed stealing weapons. With a huff, she stood taller and regained her composure. “Hello, Raghnall. I am preparing for the voyage, much the same as ye, I’d surmise.”
“Did I no’ make myself clear? Ye are no’ sailing with us.”
“With all due respect, you need me.”
“Nay, if I were to allow ye to come, ye would sorely hinder our progress.”
“Why? Because I am a woman?”
“Exactly. This is no’ a game. We won’t be firing arrows at targets, and I cannot be responsible for your well-being. Asides, Islay will have my hide if I allow ye to climb aboard one of those birlinns.”
“And I will not stand for it if ye force me to stay behind.” Anya held up the basket. “He needs me as much as he needs you. I’m prepared to treat his wounds.”
“Are ye prepared to die? Because once we leave the security of the barbican walls, that is very well what may happen. There’s no telling how long we’ll have to lay in wait, or if we’ll face a sea battle or will be forced to march inland. We could be gone for sennights—perhaps months.”
“Which is exactly why I must go along.” Anya picked up another quiver of arrows and slung it over her shoulder as well. “The Lord of Islay traveled to Carrickfergus to ask for my hand, did he not?”
Raghnall crossed his arms and jutted out his chin. “Aye, against my better judgement, and look where it got him.”
Pushing past the man-at-arms, Anya marched on. “I will not be dissuaded on this…and if ye try to stop me, I’ll…I’ll…”
“Ye will what?”
“I will find another way, even if I have to sail a boat on my own.”
“On the North Sea? Ye’ll drown.”
“Precisely, and what would the Lord of Islay say about that when he discovers I died because ye would not allow me sail in a MacDonald birlinn?”
When the man grew red-faced, Anya beckoned him. “There’s no use arguing the point. And I promise to tow my own weight without complaint. I am nay the daughter of Guy O’Cahan for naught.”
Raghnall grabbed the remaining arrows and followed. “Lord save us all.”
23
When they marched Angus out to the pier, he squinted to shade his eyes from the blinding daylight. How long had he been imprisoned in the dank shadows of the dungeon? Two days? Three? Wallowing in a constant state of darkness made it impossible to know.
The Earl of Ulster stood at the end of the pier where three galleys prepared to set sail, yet Angus’ boat remained were he’d left it tied to a mooring cleat. He eyed the cur. “Three ships for one man? Are ye expecting a fight?”
“Where are your men, Islay? Rutting in the Highlands with my wayward son-in-law?”
Angus damn well hoped they were nearby. Except he had not expected the earl’s wrath. Certainly, when Robert had paid a visit with an armada of armed men, there might have been cause for a battle, but when a highborn man came alone with his heart on his sleeve, it was against every chivalric convention to imprison him.
“Tie Fairhair to the anchor. If the MacDonald attack, throw the bastard overboard and let him sink.”
The earl’s hospitality grew more hideous by the moment.
Pushed from behind, Angus stumbled forward and climbed into one of the boats. He was immediately forced to sit while a beef-witted brute secured the damned anchor to Angus’ wrists.
“Anyone who tries to hoist me over the side will be joining me,” he growled, looking the behemoth in the eye.
The man squeezed Angus’ arm. “They say ye have the heart of a devil, but I reckon your arms are as feeble as a newborn babe’s.”
“Aye.” Angus tightened his muscle. “Would ye like to go a few rounds afore we set sail? Mayhap a swim in the bay will do ye some good.”
Rewarded with a backhand across his mouth, the man laughed. “I’d like nothing more than to rearrange that bonny face of yours.”
Angus licked the iron-tasting blood at the corner of his mouth, making a show of being unruffled. After the guard finished ensuring the anchor was secured, Angus feigned exhaustion. Leaning forward, he stealthily slipped a hand beneath his kilt and wrapped his finger around the sgian dubh hidden beside his loins. Dammit all, if they decided to throw him overboard, he wasn’t about to be pulled to the depths by Ulster’s anchor.
As the armada set to sea on an easterly heading, Angus masked his movement, ever so slowly sawing his knife through the rough-hewn rope.
From across the hull, a sentry glowered at him. “Ye have the look of a starved dog.”
Angus stilled his hand while agonizing prickles tortured his back. “A few days wallowing in hell will do that to a man.”
“Ye’d best grow accustomed to it.”
God on the cross, he prayed it wouldn’t be so. But he’d stupidly given Raghnall orders to come looking for him after a fortnight. Not enough time had passed. If Angus harbored any doubts about the sense of honor of those loyal to Edward, he certainly did not now. The Earl of Ulster was as much a backstabber as the king he served. If Angus made it out of this mess alive, it would be nothing short of a miracle.
With a favorable wind, it didn’t take but a half day to sail into the Firth of Solway. On the northern side of the water lay Scottish lands with England to the south. Angus was so close to being home, if he shouted, a man might hear him on the shore. But he had no friends here, neither on water nor land.
“Where do ye aim to drop anchor?” he asked, knowing full well the earl’s galleys were too large to navigate the River Eden and sail all the way to Carlisle. Not only would the crew be rowing upstream, they’d most likely run aground. Doubtless, the army would be marching to the city gates.
“Shut your gob,” the behemoth replied to his question.
On a sigh, Angus returned his sgian dubh to its hiding place. The journey on foot might be a good place for an ambush. If only he had a retinue lying in wait—a dozen bowmen would do. As they sailed deeper into the firth, a pair of Scottish birlinns rounded the headland at Southerness.
Angus quickly averted his gaze. Did he dare hope?
It was midday on Sunday when the MacDonalds sailed four birlinns into the Firth of Solway. At the mouth of the River Eden, Raghnall and a small crew had taken the smallest boat upstream to scout about Carlisle and verify that the Earl of Ulster and his party had not yet arrived. It would be exciting news to march the Lord of Islay through the city gates in chains—and every man and woman in the shire would be talking about it.
Of course, there was no chance the man-at-arms would allow Anya to sail in the boat that went to Carlisle. But at least she had been allowed on this voyage, her boat commanded by Gael. Last night, their birlinn and one other had moored hidden in a cove off Southerness and lain in wait until morn. On high alert, even Anya had taken a turn at guard duty, watching the waters for approaching ships, be them Ulster’s or otherwise.
True to Lord O’Doherty’s word, no galleys bearing Ulster’s colors were spotted until midday on Monday. The square sails of three of her guardian’s ships billowed with a strong westerly wind, heading directly for the outlet of the River Eden.