The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel (5 page)

She could hardly go traipsing around the countryside like a country maid.

No matter how fun it sounded.

Two

    The good humor Erik enjoyed after leading the English into the rocks didn’t last long. As he and his men approached the castle, he knew something wasn’t right. It was well after midnight, but Dunluce was ablaze in light. On the beach to the north, two massive fires roared like the pyres readying a warrior for the road to Valhalla.

“What are those?” Randolph asked, noticing the same thing.

Erik shook his head and squinted into the darkness. They were too far away for him to see clearly, but he could swear there were people swimming in the water.

“It appears to be villagers,” Domnall said.

All of the sudden Erik lightened, remembering the date. “It
is
villagers,” he said. “Well, the village lasses at least.”

Randolph looked at him questioningly.

“Virgin’s Plunge,” he explained.

Randolph frowned. “The pagan practice? I didn’t realize the Irish still celebrated the heathen festivals.”

“It’s still observed around most of the Isles. Something of a rite of passage. But mostly it’s just an excuse for the young folk to have a little fun. There is no harm in it.”

The young knight still looked disapproving. “It’s indecent.”

Erik laughed. “Exactly. That’s why it’s fun. And if you can’t appreciate the effects of cold water on a lass’s chemise then I fear you are completely beyond my help.”

One corner of Randolph’s mouth lifted. “Perhaps I can see
some
appeal.”

Erik laughed and slapped him on the back. “That’s more like it. Maybe there is still hope for you yet, Sir Tommy.”

The sail had once again been lowered to keep them as invisible as possible, and Erik kept the boat well back from shore to avoid being seen as they rowed past the castle. Dunluce Castle was uniquely—and dramatically—situated atop a massive triangular rocky crag of hundred-foot cliffs that fell to the sea in a sheer drop. A deep chasm ran behind the castle, separating it from the mainland, which could be reached only by crossing a narrow wooden bridge.

Below the castle was a magnificent sea-cavern that the locals called Mermaid’s Cave. The cave tunneled through the rock for nearly three hundred feet end-to-end—accessible from the sea at the south and from a rocky ramp from the land to the north. With ceilings that soared over fifty feet high, it was a vast underground palace. Easy sea access made it the perfect place for a meeting with the McQuillans—the former Scots who’d come to Ireland as gallowglass mercenaries and decided to stay as keepers of Dunluce for the Earl of Ulster. But the fierce warriors still hired out men … for a price.

Erik steered the
birlinn
around the rocky outcrops that protected the mouth of the cave. “Stay sharp, lads,” he said in a hushed voice. The Virgin’s Plunge explained the unusual nighttime activity, but something was setting the hair at the back of his neck on edge.

As the boat slid through the jagged entranceway, he kept one eye on the castle perched high above him and the other fixed on the back end of the long cavern. He knew they couldn’t be seen from above, and although he would never be accused of an excess of caution, an acute sense of danger had saved his neck more than once.

For a moment they were blinded by darkness. But then, floating out of the black abyss, he saw flickering shards of orange at the opposite end of the cavern. Three long waves. A pause. Two short. Then repeated.

It was the right signal, but he relaxed only when they drew close enough for him to recognize the crude features of the McQuillan chief’s henchman, Fergal. A rare frown turned his expression. Fergal wasn’t who he was expecting, and the substitution wasn’t a welcome one.

Fergal McQuillan was a vicious scourge who would not only kill his own mother for coin but enjoy it. Erik had fought by his side years ago and although he could appreciate enthusiasm and frenzy in battle, Fergal’s bloodlust didn’t end with the fighting. However, he didn’t need to like him. Fergal might be scum, but he could wield a sword, and right now they needed all the warriors they could get. Chief—Tor MacLeod—had once told Bruce he would need to get dirty to win. He was right.

As long as Fergal and the rest of the McQuillans kept their word, they wouldn’t have any problems.

Having nearly reached the water’s edge, Erik jumped over the side of the boat and waded through the knee-high water to the rocky shore.

He met the McQuillan warrior with a firm grasp of his forearm. After greeting a few of the other men he knew by name, he made the necessary introductions as Randolph and Domnall came up behind him. McQuillan seemed agitated about something—something Erik suspected he wasn’t going to like.

“I expected to see your chief,” Erik said evenly, forcing a gracious smile to his face that never reached his eyes.

Fergal shook his head. He was bald, and his head had an odd conical shape that was especially noticeable given his flat features, thick neck, and scruffy ginger beard. “Change of plans,” the warrior said. “He couldn’t get away. Ulster has arrived, and the castle is swarming with English. His absence might be noticed.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed just a hair. His instincts had been right. They’d just sailed right into the middle of a hornet’s nest. If this was a trap, Fergal’s ill-formed head wouldn’t be long for his body. Two seconds—that’s all it would take to grasp the handle of his battle-axe and swing. A sizable part of him wouldn’t mind the excuse.

Half expecting English troops to come pouring down the ramp, Erik glanced past Fergal’s shoulder before giving the warrior a cool stare. “I thought your chief said Ulster would be at Carrickfergus.”

“That’s what we were told, but he showed up unexpectedly on Edward’s orders.” Fergal spat reflexively at the king’s name. “De Monthermer—or the Earl of Atholl, as he calls himself now—is here as well.”

Well, wasn’t that interesting? That explained the English patrol being so close to the castle. De Monthermer commanded the largest—and most experienced—fleet of galleys in Edward’s navy. Though the Englishman had come to Bruce’s aid once before, Erik could not count on him to do so again.

What the hell was de Monthermer doing here? Before he could ask, Fergal explained, “An alliance with one of Ulster’s daughters.”

Erik nodded grimly. Bad intelligence in war was more common than not, but this kind of “mistake” could get him and his men killed. One wrong move and their heads would be on pikes gracing Scotland’s castles. Although it would make a damned fine-looking addition, Erik was rather attached to his.

“You need to get the hell out of here,” Fergal urged, clearly on the verge of panic. “English ships are patrolling all over this place.”

“We know,” Erik said calmly. “We ran into one”—in a manner of speaking—“a few miles back.”

“Give me the coin and we can be done.”

Randolph, obviously eager to be away, reached under his armor to retrieve the bag he had tied around his waist, but Erik put a hand out to stop him. “Not just yet. Why don’t we all relax a little bit? We’ll get out of here, but I think we have some details to discuss first.”

Fergal sputtered, “But there’s no time, the English—”

“Are a bloody pain in the arse,” Erik finished with a conspiratorial wink. “I know.” Hornet’s nest or not, he had a mission to do. And until guards started rushing down that ramp, he wasn’t going to be rushed. “We don’t want there to be any misunderstandings. Isn’t that right, Fergal?”

The other man shook his head.

Erik took the bag from Randolph and weighed it in his hand. Fergal watched it hungrily. “Half now as we agreed, the rest when you bring the three hundred men to Bruce.”

“All we need to know is when and where.”

“There’s a beach near Fair Head, do you know it?”

Fergal nodded, a puzzled look on his face. “Aye.”

“Be there on the night of the thirteenth with your men.”

A skeptical look crossed the Irishman’s flat face. “Bruce intends to launch the attack from Ireland?”

Erik shook his head. “Nay. I will take you to the king myself.” Fair Head was the closest point on the Irish mainland to Rathlin, where Bruce planned to rendezvous.

Fergal’s expression hardened, realizing that Erik intended to keep him in the dark about the plan. But if Erik was disinclined to trust the McQuillan chief, he was even more so with Fergal.

“That’s not what we agreed,” the Irishman said angrily.

Erik took a step forward. Though Fergal was as thick and sturdy as a boar—and just as mean—Erik towered over him by at least a foot. As to who was the better warrior … they both knew there was no question. Only a handful of men had a chance of defeating Erik with a sword or battle-axe, and Fergal was not one of them.

Despite the implied threat of the movement, Erik smiled. “Now, Fergal,” he said complacently. “I remember quite well the conversation I had with your chief a few weeks ago, right here in this cave, and that’s exactly what we agreed. Half now, half at the rendezvous with Bruce. Why would you require more information?”

Fergal’s eyes shifted in the torchlight, understanding what Erik was implying. “I like to know where I am going.”

“You will, when you need to know. These are the terms. It’s up to you,” Erik said with a careless shrug, holding out the bag.

The Irishman snatched it and slipped it into his
cotun
. “Aye, the beach near Fair Head on the thirteenth. We’ll be there,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a dog who’d been backed into a corner. “Just make sure
you
are.”

A loud splash in the water behind him cut off Erik’s reply. Instinctively, he spun around, his battle-axe already in his hand. The rest of the men had drawn their weapons as well.

“What was that?” Fergal asked, holding up his torch.

Erik peered into the darkness. “I don’t know.”

The Irishman turned to two of his men and ordered, “Find out.”

    This wasn’t good, not good at all.

Ellie knew she was in trouble the moment she started to get out of the water and heard the men coming down the ramp of the cave carrying torches. She’d originally intended to swim back to the beach, but the water was colder than she remembered—either that or she was well and truly getting old—so she’d decided to walk back to the beach from the cave.

To think, up until this point she’d actually been having a good time. Matty had been so excited to see her. It had been worth it just to see the surprise on her face. And once she’d thrown off her cloak and jumped into the water, Ellie realized how much she missed swimming. Even in the freezing water the sense of freedom was exhilarating.

Perhaps she should have ignored the men and continued walking up the ramp, returning to the group at the beach to claim her crown. But there was something about being soaking wet in a chemise without a cloak to wrap around herself that made her want to avoid a large group of rough-looking warriors in the middle of the night.

So she’d quickly retreated to the icy sea, intending to swim back the way she’d come no matter how freezing it was, only to have her escape route cut off by the arrival of the boat.

One look at the men on the
birlinn
was enough to stop her heart cold. It was dark, but she could make out enough.

Dear Lord, the Vikings are coming!

Enormous warriors with long blond hair visible beneath steel nasal helms, fur mantles, armed to the teeth, and … did she mention enormous? There was no way she was going to try to swim past them. She was well and truly trapped.

Taking refuge along the side of the cave in the darkness, she managed to pull herself up onto a small jagged rock before she froze to death—not that the cold night air was much better. Her entire body was wracked with shivers. Her teeth clattered and her wet hair froze in icy chunks around her shoulders. She drew her feet up under her as best she could on the sloping, jagged surface and wrapped her arms around her knees, rolling into a ball to try to stay warm.

But she knew she couldn’t stay like this for long. She prayed the men finished their business quickly. She heard their voices but was unable to make out what they were saying. Still, she didn’t need to know what they were doing to know that she shouldn’t be here.

What would be worse, freezing to death or having them find her? Neither choice sounded promising at the moment.

She never should have allowed herself to get talked into this. Nor should she have swum so far away from the group alone—didn’t she always caution the younger children against this very thing?—but she’d wanted to win and she loved this cave.

Why, oh why had she let Matty get to her? Boring wasn’t so bad. Boring was safe. Boring was warm. Right now she could be sleeping in her nice, cozy bed stacked with furs instead of trying to feel her fingertips, perched on a rock in a dark cave filled with terrifying Vikings doing God-knows-what.

She was too cold and frightened to be curious. She didn’t even dare to peek her head out from behind her rocky hiding place to venture a glance toward the shore, for fear that they would see her.