“Ye look as poor an excuse for a man as I’ve ever seen,” Ian said, leaning over the bed to squeeze Connor’s good shoulder. “But ye never looked better to me.”
Connor was weak and battered, but he was alert.
“He’s no fit to go anywhere yet,” Ilysa said, her brows pinched together. “And poor Duncan is as weak as a kitten.”
Despite the direness of their situation, he and the other men exchanged amused glances. Even badly injured, no one but Duncan’s sister would compare him to a kitten.
“And Alex’s leg wound frets me something fierce,” Ilysa said, pointing an accusing finger at the offending patient.
“Ach, we’ll all be fine,” Duncan said, though he was so pale that the freckles stood out on his face.
“Do ye think ye can travel?” Ian asked Connor. “The gathering is starting.”
Wee thing that she was, Ilysa stood between him and Connor and put her hands on her hips. “Ye can’t mean to get him out of this bed, Ian MacDonald.”
“I can make it to the gathering,” Connor said between his teeth, as he tried to sit up.
Duncan caught his sister’s arm as Ian went to help Connor. “Connor has to go,” Duncan said. “We all do.”
The effort to sit up had cost Connor; he was breathing hard and sweat beaded on his brow.
“We must go, but the question is how,” Alex said from his stool across the tiny room. “I hate to admit it, lads, but we won’t strike fear in the hearts of our enemies in our present condition.”
Ian looked them over. Duncan and Alex had two good legs between them and one good sword arm, and it was doubtful Connor could stand at all.
“Alex is right. If Hugh sees ye coming looking like this, he’ll finish ye off before we make it into the castle,” Ian said. “We need to get the three of ye inside without anyone seeing ye.
“We have two things in our favor,” he continued. “First, Hugh isn’t expecting ye because he thinks you’re dead.”
“And the second,” Sìleas said, “is that it’s the eve of Samhain, so we can dress ye in disguises.”
Half the clan would be wearing costumes—whether to imitate the dead or ward them off, Ian was never sure.
“We can paint our faces black,” Duncan suggested. “A lot of the young men do that.”
“If I arrive with three men of your size and hair color—especially yours, Duncan—I fear blackened faces won’t be enough to prevent someone from guessing who ye are.”
Teàrlag, who had been bent over something boiling in the iron pot over her fire, turned and spoke for the first time. “Ilysa, I haven’t yet given away the clothes of the last person we helped lay out. They should do, aye?”
“My braw brother won’t like it,” Ilysa said, a slow smile spreading over her face. “But I believe we’ll get ye into the castle without anyone recognizing ye.”
Ian steered Shaggy’s fine little galley around the point. Luckily, there was a stiff breeze so he didn’t have to row.
“Ye look fetching,” Alex said, choking back a laugh as Duncan held his bonnet against the wind. “I fear it will be hard keeping the men at a distance.”
Duncan was wearing the clothes of a well-known gossip who had died a few weeks earlier and who, fortunately, had been enormous. Duncan and Alex had drawn straws for the privilege.
“Any man that touches me will find himself on his arse,” Duncan said with a sour look.
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I think ye will be safe from untoward advances,” Ian said. “But just in case, I hope ye have a dirk hidden beneath your skirts.”
“Hmmph.” Duncan snorted and glared at the castle.
Alex put on one of the masks Teàrlag had fashioned from scrap cloth to cover Connor’s and Alex’s bruised faces. “I hate to hide my pretty face, when all the lasses of the clan will be at the gathering.”
Connor was lying in the bottom of the boat, fast asleep. Even though Ian had carried him most of the way, the trip down to the boat from the cottage had sapped what little strength he had.
“Best get him up now,” Ian said.
Duncan and Alex helped Connor sit up, and Sìleas put on his mask for him.
Ian didn’t need to hide his own identity, since people would expect him to be at the gathering. All the same, he kept his cap low over his eyes as he guided the boat up to the castle’s sea entrance. Earlier, there would have been a line of boats waiting, but the afternoon light was gone, and evening had settled in. The torches inside the sea gate shone on the boat ahead of them, the only other latecomer.
Ilysa had returned to the castle earlier by the road, since it might raise alarms if she was missing when it was time to set out the food for the gathering.
The water sloshed between the boat and the sea steps as one of the guards grabbed the coiled rope from the front of their boat and tied it to an iron peg. This was the most dangerous moment. Ian was prepared to reach for his claymore and cut the guards down if he had to.
The other guard was a small wiry fellow, who gamely offered his hand to Duncan. “Big lass, aren’t ye now?”
Duncan looked as if he was going to squeeze the life out of the guard rather than take his hand. Ach, this was going to be trouble. Ian tensed as the guard turned his head, letting his gaze rove over each of them in turn. When his eyes met Ian’s, his face broke into a wide grin that showed several missing teeth.
“It’s me, Tait,” the man said in a low voice. “Ilysa sent me down to help at the sea gate.”
In the light from the torches behind the guard, Ian could just make out the features of Tait, the man who hated Hugh for violating his sister.
“I can handle this last boat and lock the sea gate,” Tait called to the other guard. “Ye don’t want to miss the bonfire, now do ye?”
This time when Tait offered his hand, Duncan took it. The boat dipped as Duncan stepped on the side of the boat then rose again when he stepped off.
“Glad to see ye here, lads,” Tait said as soon as the other guard disappeared up the stairs. “That damned Hugh Dubh has been parading around the castle all day like a damned rooster.”
Tait climbed into the boat to help him with Connor. As they half-carried Connor between them, Ian looked over his shoulder to see Sìleas helping Alex.
“By now, everyone will be outside in the yard for the bonfire,” Tait said.
Ian looked up the long flight of steps, lit by torches that lined the walls on either side. Unfortunately, they would have to go up through the keep to get to the bailey yard. All that was on the dank sea level of the castle was the dungeon—a place Ian hoped they wouldn’t see the inside of tonight.
Alex went first, managing well enough on his own. Duncan was next, dragging his leg, with Sìleas hovering beside him.
“I think I can go up myself,” Connor said in a tight voice, but a groan escaped him as Ian and Tait helped him up the first step.
“Save your strength,” Ian said. “You’ll be needing it soon.”
“Word is that Hugh has his men watching for ye, Ian,” Tait said, as they inched their way up the steps behind the others.
It was taking an eternity to get the men up the damned stairs.
“He’s heard that some of the men intend to put your name forward to be chieftain, now that they think Connor is dead—even though ye aren’t of the chieftain’s blood,” Tait said.
“Why do ye suppose I went to such trouble to get Connor here tonight?” Ian joked.
Connor stopped where he was and turned. “Maybe ye should take it, Ian. I’m in no shape to lead the clan.”
“No, ye will not be giving me the miserable task of leading this stubborn rabble,” Ian said, pulling Connor up the next step. “You’re the right man for it. The only one.”
The Samhain bonfire raged in the middle of the castle’s bailey yard, just as it had every year of Sìleas’s life. It seemed odd, when so much else had changed.
No one gave them a second look as they merged into the shadows at the back of the circle gathered around the fire. Many in the crowd wore garish costumes or carried lanterns made of hollowed-out turnips with carved faces to ward off evil spirits.
A few women were throwing bones or roasting nuts to divine whom they would marry, for Samhain was a time for divination. Many a lass told her young man aye or nay following Samhain, depending on what the signs revealed this night.
The children were enjoying themselves as they usually did, but Sìleas sensed the tension behind the adults’ revelry. Hugh had made it known he would call on every man to make a pledge of loyalty to him before the night was over.
“When we go inside for the ceremony, I want ye to find Ilysa and stand with her,” Ian said to her in a low voice. “She’ll know how to get ye out if things should turn violent.”
“I will.” She understood it would help him not to have to worry about her when the time came.
At the sound of pipes and drums, the crowd turned their attention to Hugh, who stood facing the crowd with the great fire behind him.
“Samhain is a time when we come together to celebrate the final harvest of the year and remember our dead,” Hugh said, holding his arms out.
“I am grateful for the long stories that so many of you have shared in remembrance of my dear, departed brother,” he said, emphasizing the long and the many, with a glance toward a group of older men that included Ian’s father. “But Samhain is also when we mark the beginning of our New Year. And on this Samhain, we also celebrate the beginning of a new era for the MacDonalds of Sleat.”
Sìleas tapped her foot. Hugh was in fine form tonight.
“I’ve laid a place at the head table for my dead brother and my nephew Ragnall, as is our tradition, so their spirits can join us for this special Samhain night.”
Sìleas thought calling on the memory of their former chieftain was bold on Hugh’s part, for most members of the clan knew Hugh had resented his brother from the day he was born. Still, blood ties were respected in the Highlands.
Hugh put his hand over his heart. “I know my brother would be pleased to see me take his place as chieftain.”
Alex and Duncan both made choking noises. Hugh glared in their direction, but they were safe from discovery here in the shadows.
“It is time now for all of us to set aside our sorrow, hard as it may be,” Hugh said, “and to swear fealty to your new chieftain.”
“Does he think he can avoid taking a vote altogether?” she whispered to Ian.
“Aye, but the men don’t like it.”
From the low grumbling around them, it was clear Ian was right.
“We’ll have our feast as soon as the oaths are taken,” Hugh said. “To the hall!”
“Move about among the men and be ready,” Ian said to Tait. Then he turned to Connor and the others. “Don’t let anyone see ye until I signal.”
“Grá mo chroí,” Ian said to Sìleas, and squeezed her hand before disappearing into the crowd. Love of my heart.
Sìleas waited with the three men until most of the crowd was inside. The rumble of voices was loud in the hall as they moved inside and found a place to stand against the back wall.
She leaned forward to look at the three of them. They appeared to be an odd but unremarkable, drunken threesome—two men in Samhain masks and an enormous woman in a large bonnet—leaning against the wall and holding on to each other for support.
Connor lifted his mask and leaned over to speak in her ear. “Ye shouldn’t be near us now, when things are coming to a head.”
His voice sounded stronger than before, and he was staying upright. That much was good. She squeezed his arm and went to join Ilysa and Beitris, who were standing with the other women.
She had a good view of Hugh, who sat in the chieftain’s chair on a raised platform at one end of the hall. She didn’t know the rough-looking men who stood on either side of him, but assumed they were companions from his pirating days. They glared at the crowd, looking as if they were eager to force the oath from any man who didn’t give it freely.
“Who wants the honor of being first?” Hugh called out.
The hall grew quiet as everyone waited to see who would be the first to come forward. There was an audible intake of breath from the crowd as Ian stepped into the space that had been left in front of Hugh and the guards flanking him.
“Well, ye have more sense than I gave ye credit for, Ian Aluinn,” Hugh said, using the nickname the women had given Ian years ago in an attempt to ridicule him. “I thought my men would have to ‘persuade’ ye to do what ye must.”
Instead of bending his knee to take his oath, Ian turned to face the crowd. There was fire in his eyes, and he stood with his legs apart as if he was ready to fight half a dozen men at once—which he probably was. Ach, her husband was breathtaking.
“It is our tradition to allow men to speak before the selection of a new chieftain,” Ian said in a voice that reached every corner of the hall. “I intend to speak.”
A loud murmur of agreement rose from the crowd.
Hugh drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, as if he were itching to give the order to cut Ian down. But Hugh was no fool. It was clear from the reaction to Ian’s statement that the clan expected him to follow the traditions, even if they believed the outcome was certain.
“Speak if ye must,” Hugh said with an impatient wave of his hand. “But as I am the only man here of chieftain’s blood, I see little point in it.”
Ian turned to look over his shoulder at Hugh. “Can ye be so sure my uncle did not leave another son or two that ye don’t know about?”
There were barks of male laughter around the room, for everyone knew their chieftain, like his father before him, had bedded countless women over the years.
“But no, I’ve not disrupted the evening to tell ye about a new claimant to the chieftainship.” Ian raised his fist in the air. “I’ve here to tell ye I’ve taken Knock Castle back from the MacKinnons!”
The hall erupted as men waved their claymores, and the crowd roared their approval. Hugh stood and raised his hands for quiet, but it was some time before he could be heard.
After the cheering died down, Hugh said, “Just saying ye took the castle doesn’t make it so.”
Sìleas was startled to see Gòrdan emerge from the crowd to stand beside Ian at the front. His clothes were streaked with soot, and he looked as if he had ridden hard to get here.
“Most of ye know I’ve had my differences with Ian,” Gòrdan said. “So ye can trust my word when I say he did take Knock Castle yesterday.”
A few men shouted, but Gòrdan put his hand up to signal he wasn’t finished. “Shaggy Maclean is plying the waters nearby, so I hope some of ye will join me at Knock Castle in the morning. We don’t want to lose it to the Macleans after we’ve just taken it back from the MacKinnons.”
The hall again was filled with whoops and swords raised high. His speech done, Gòrdan gave a stiff nod and moved back into the crowd.
“This is a proud day, indeed, for the MacDonalds of Sleat.” Hugh spoke as if he were responsible for the victory, though everyone knew he had stood by while the MacKinnons held Knock Castle.
All eyes, however, were on Ian, who had won the crowd’s goodwill. He walked the few feet to the high table, where the two places had been set for the dead.
“Before we choose a new chieftain,” Ian said, in a slow deliberate voice, “we must settle the matter of the death of our last chieftain—and of his son, Ragnall.”
A chill went through the room at his mention of the dead, for the veil was thin between the dead and the living on Samhain. Sìleas could almost see the chieftain and Ragnall—big, muscular, fair-haired men with grim faces—standing on either side of Ian.
“Those of us who were at Flodden know what happened,” Hugh said, his hard, gray eyes sweeping the crowd. “While Ian here was drinking fine wines and dallying with the ladies in France, we were being slaughtered by the English!”
Ian waited for the murmur that followed to grow quiet. Then, in a voice choked with rage, he said, “Our chieftain and his son were not slaughtered by the English.”
The blood drained from Hugh’s face, and he stared at Ian openmouthed, before he caught himself and snapped his mouth shut. The crowd was stunned into silence.
Ian stretched out his arm, pointing at Hugh, and shouted in a voice that reverberated through the hall. “I accuse you, Hugh Dubh MacDonald, of murdering our chieftain and his son at Flodden!”
The crowd was in an uproar.
Hugh tried to speak several times before he could be heard. “I fought at Flodden,” he said, clenching his fists and fixing murderous eyes on Ian. “How dare ye accuse me of the vilest crime, when I sank in Scots’ blood to my ankles, fighting, while you deserted the clan in our hour of need.”
Hugh turned and shouted to his guard, “Seize him!”
Sìleas gasped and started forward, but Beitris and Ilysa held her.
Then Tait’s voice came from the other side of the hall. “Let’s hear what Ian has to say!”
Several others followed, shouting, “Aye! Let him speak! Let him speak!”
Hugh put his hand up as if to stop his guards, though they had been slow to follow his order.
“ ’Tis easy to make accusations,” Hugh said to Ian, “with nothing to back them up.”
“But I do have proof.” Ian paused, giving everyone time to take in his words, before he said, “I ask my father, Payton MacDonald, to come forward.”
Sìleas squeezed Beitris’s and Ilysa’s hands as Payton made his way to the front of the room. Despite his limp and his graying hair, he was still a formidable man with powerful shoulders and battle scars on his face and hands. Her heart burst with pride to see father and son, fine and honorable men, standing together before their clan.
“Da,” Ian said, “can ye tell us which of our clansman fought near ye in the battle.”
“I fought on our chieftain’s left and Ragnall fought on his right, just as we always did,” his father said. “We were in the front—again, same as always.”
There was a rumble of agreement among the men, for they knew the three always fought like that.
“And who was behind ye?” Ian asked.
“This time, it was Hugh Dubh and a few of his men.”
Payton’s answer caused a murmuring in the crowd, though Hugh’s being behind the men who were killed proved nothing in itself.
“Can ye tell us how the chieftain and Ragnall were killed?”
Payton shook his head. “I didn’t see who struck the blows, but they came from behind us. I’ve puzzled on that ever since.”
The hall was so quiet that Sìleas could hear her own breathing.
“The English came at us hard, and we were fighting for our lives,” Payton said. “All the same, I don’t know how English soldiers could have gotten behind us without us knowing it.”
Ian shrugged his shoulders. “In the heat of battle, ye can’t always see.”
“But the three of us were used to fighting together. We watched each other’s backs. I can understand one of us not seeing an English soldier slip behind us—but none of us?” Payton shook his head. “No, that doesn’t seem possible.”
Several men grunted in agreement, for the three men had been known as remarkable fighters who had survived many a battle when others had not.
“The three of us were struck at almost the same moment,” Payton said. “I saw our chieftain fall forward at the same time that I heard Ragnall cry out. Before I could reach either of them, I took a blow to the back of my head.”
“In the back, from behind,” Ian repeated. “Do ye know who struck ye, da?”
Payton shook his head. “I woke up a fortnight later in bed with no leg.”
“This is proof?” Hugh interrupted, lifting his arms. “ ’Tis a shame that my brother and Ragnall were lost at Flodden, but you’re wasting our time dwelling on the past.”
Ian pointed to three older men in the front. “Would ye say ye have fought against the English and other Highlanders often enough to know the difference in their weapons?”
“Don’t be a damned fool,” one of them said. “Of course we can.”
“Then can ye tell us what weapon made the scar on the back of my da’s head?”
Payton took off his cap and turned around. His head had been shaved around a five-inch wound.
“Lucky he caught ye with just the tip of his sword, or you’d be a dead man,” one of them said. “Your moving to reach the chieftain and Ragnall as the blow fell is probably what saved ye.”
“Can ye tell what kind of sword it was?” Ian asked.
“This was made by a claymore, not an English blade,” the man said, and the other two nodded. “Ye see how thick the cut is? Aye, that was done by a claymore.”
The noise in the hall was deafening until Ian raised his hands for silence.
“We have plenty of enemies among the clans, and most of them were there that day,” Hugh said. “Our chieftain was my brother, and Ragnall, my nephew. I’d never raise my hand against my own blood.”
“Is Connor not your own blood?” Ian said, stepping toward Hugh with his hands clenched into fists. “Why don’t ye tell our clansmen what ye did to Connor?”
“I haven’t laid eyes on Connor in more than five years.”
“I know what ye did,” Ian said, his eyes narrow blue slits. “First, ye asked Shaggy Maclean to kill the four of us before we got to Skye. But we surprised ye, when we escaped Shaggy’s dungeon.”
Hugh started to speak, but Ian shouted over him. “So ye made a deal with that devil Murdoc MacKinnon. Ye told him he could keep Knock Castle—and take my wife—in exchange for murdering Connor.”
Every man in the room had wondered why Hugh did not fight for Knock Castle; Ian had just given them an explanation they could believe.
“You’re a liar,” Hugh said, but sweat was beading on his forehead.
“Murdoc MacKinnon admitted the treachery to my wife.”
“A woman will tell ye what she thinks ye want to hear.” Hugh’s eyes darted around the room. “What I think happened is that Connor and the other two decided to return to France soon after the four of ye came home.”
“Then why have ye been spreading the word that they were murdered by the MacKinnons?” Ian asked. “Shall I call on Connor, Alex, and Duncan to tell us the tale?”
The high, sweet sound of a whistle started at the back of the hall, causing everyone to turn and look. At the back of the room, stood Connor, Alex, and Duncan, without their disguises. Men gasped and women drew back their skirts to let them pass as the three started forward.
“It’s Samhain, uncle,” Connor called out. “Are ye prepared to meet the dead?”
Hugh’s eyes went wide, and he made a strangled sound, while his men crossed themselves and backed away. Though the three men limped and their faces were bruised, there was no mistaking that these were warriors to be reckoned with.
“Ye should have murdered me yourself,” Connor said, when he reached his uncle at the front. “Only a fool would rely on a Maclean or MacKinnon for such an important task.”
When several clansmen surrounded Hugh, he looked to his guards to protect him. But Hugh’s men, who as pirates were known for vanishing into the mists to avoid capture, had disappeared into the crowd. In no time, Hugh was disarmed and dragged to the side.
Every eye in the room was fixed on the four Highland warriors who had returned from France. Despite their injuries, they were hard-muscled men in their prime, a new generation of MacDonald men, ready to take their place as leaders and protectors of their clan.
Ian’s father began pounding his cane rhythmically on the stone floor. Immediately, others began to stomp and clap to the same rhythm. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Deep voices filled the hall, shouting in time to the stomping and clapping. “Chief-tain! Chief-tain! Chief-tain!”
Connor stepped forward and raised his arms as the crowd roared louder and louder, proclaiming him as their choice.
It was a miracle Connor managed to stand alone as long as he did. Sìleas didn’t think the crowd noticed when he started to weave, but Alex and Duncan limped forward to stand on either side of him.
Ian stood a little apart, his eyes searching the hall until he found her.
They had succeeded. Connor would be the next chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat.
Ian felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders—a weight he had carried since the moment he first learned of the calamity at Flodden. He had redeemed himself by saving his clan from certain disaster.
The fight was not over. Hugh still had supporters—some in the hall and others who slipped out of the castle in the chaos. They would have to be dealt with eventually, but they would cause no more trouble tonight.
Ian wanted to share this moment with Sìleas. Smiling, he turned to look for her.
His heart swelled when he saw her, because she was smiling back at him, her eyes shining. People moved out of his way as he pushed through the crowd toward her. Suddenly, her gaze shifted to something behind him, and she screamed.
He spun around in time to see a flash of steel behind Connor, Alex, and Duncan, where the men were holding Hugh. In the midst of the tumultuous jubilation, no one else seemed to notice when one of the men holding Hugh sank to the ground with blood gushing from his throat. A moment later, the second man holding Hugh doubled over, with blood seeping between his lips.
Neither did anyone heed Ian’s cry of warning as Hugh pulled the dead man’s dirk from his belt. Ian was already pushing through the crowd, racing to get to Connor before Hugh did.
Though Ian was running as fast as he could, he saw everything with piercing clarity, as if time had slowed. He saw each person who fell out of his way, Duncan’s hands clapping, Alex’s head thrown back in laughter—and Hugh moving toward Connor with the point of his blade aimed at Connor’s back.
“No!” Ian shouted, as he took the last three steps at a dead run and flew through the air.
He felt the sting of a blade glancing off his back as he crashed to the floor on top of Connor with a hard thump. When he looked up, with his dirk ready in his hand, Duncan and Alex were holding Hugh above him. Screams and shouts echoed off the walls, and every dirk and claymore in the hall was unsheathed.
“I appreciate ye saving my life,” Connor grunted from beneath him. “But do ye think ye could get off of me now? I feel as if a horse fell on me.”
“I hope I didn’t break open any of your wounds,” Ian said, as he got up. “Ach, from the blood it looks as though I did.”
“The blood is yours this time,” Connor said after Ian helped him up. “Turn ’round and let’s see how bad he cut ye.”
“I don’t even feel it,” Ian said, looking over his shoulder at his bloody shirt.
“Connor, what do ye want us to do with this murderer?” Alex asked, and gave Hugh a shake.
“My father was a great chieftain, and my brother Ragnall would have been an even greater one,” Connor said, looking at his uncle. “You have deprived the clan of their leadership.”
Ian thought Connor would be a better chieftain than either of them, but it wasn’t the time to say it.
“You haven’t the hardness it takes to be chieftain,” Hugh spat out. “Your father at least had that.”
“I won’t mar tonight’s celebration with an execution—but say your prayers, Hugh, for you’ll die in the morning.” Connor turned to several clansmen who were standing nearby. “Take him to the dungeon. He’s a slippery one, so mind him closely.”
The noise in the hall was deafening as men carried Connor around in the chieftain’s chair. In the wake of the revelation of their former chieftain’s murder, the clan’s choice was clear. That did not mean no one had doubts about Connor’s leadership, but none would express them tonight.
They chose Connor because he was his father’s son and Ragnall’s brother—and because he was not Hugh. Most members of the clan did not know Connor’s mettle yet. In time, he would prove himself to them. Once they knew him as Ian did, they would follow Connor because of the good man he was and the great man he was destined to be.
For tonight, Connor and the clan were safe. The celebrations would go on through most of the night, but Ian did not need to stay for them. He had one more thing he must do to make up for the past, one last step to redeem himself with the person who mattered most.
He found Sìleas elbowing her way through the throng of men crowded around the front. When she felt his gaze, she gave him a broad smile, as before. After all the ways he had failed her, her smile was a small miracle, a gift he hoped to earn in time.
He lifted her in his arms and carried her out of the hall.
Most of the guests would be sleeping on the floor of the hall tonight, but Ian intended to take one of the few bedchambers. Connor owed him that.