The Warrior (15 page)

E
rik stood waiting on the rocky shore below Trotternish Castle on the appointed night
until he saw the outline of Hugh’s boat hovering offshore.

“Here,” Erik called, after glancing behind him again to make certain no one had followed
him. “Leave your men on the boat.”

He heard a splash and saw Hugh’s dark shape coming toward him.

“Where’s the boy?” Hugh asked when he reached Erik.

“I didn’t bring him,” Erik said.

“Ye told me he would be here. We had an agreement.” Hugh sounded outraged—as if he
had never altered a deal.

“I can’t give him to ye yet,” Erik said.

“Then when?” Hugh demanded.

“When ye give me information that makes it worth my while,” Erik said.

“I thought ye wanted to be rid of the lad as much as I did.”

“I don’t care one way or the other,” Erik lied. “But my chieftain will be displeased
if something
unfortunate
happens to the lad. I need a very good reason to take the risk. I need information.”

“Losing Trotternish is like a festering wound to my nephew,” Hugh said. “I know he
is planning to take it back.”

“And maybe I’m planning to fook the faery queen,” Erik said. “If ye want the MacQuillan
lad, you’ll have to tell me more than what your nephew is dreaming about.”

“Connor will attempt to take the castle,” Hugh said. “When he decides to make the
attack, I’ll hear of it.”

He sounded confident, but Erik did not trust Hugh any more than Hugh trusted him.

“When ye bring me your nephew’s plan for attacking my castle,” Erik said, “I’ll give
ye the lad.”

Duncan flinched as another bloodcurdling scream echoed down the stairs of Knock Castle.
He glanced at Ian to see if they should see to the injured, but Ian lounged back in
his chair and sipped his whiskey, showing no concern for the mayhem upstairs.

“Those wee lasses of yours have good lungs,” Connor said, raising his voice so he
could be heard over the twins’ continuing objections to their nap.

“Aye,” Ian said with a grin, as if it were a compliment. “They’re strong-willed lasses
like their mother.”

Connor winced as another screech reached them. And Duncan had thought it would be
good for Connor to escape Dunscaith for a couple of hours rather than send for Ian.

“Now that we’re here,” Connor said, turning to him, “what did ye want to talk about?”

“I know how to get inside Trotternish Castle,” Duncan said.

“How?” Connor asked.

“With my pipes,” Duncan said.

“Your pipes?” Ian laughed. “I thought ye were serious.”

“I am,” Duncan said. “When Teàrlag came to Dunscaith before I left for Ireland, she
told me that my music would provide the answer we need.”

That silenced them for a time. Teàrlag’s predictions usually came true, though not
always as one would expect.

“Teàrlag was right about Moira being in danger, and I found her in a pool of blood,
just like Teàrlag said,” Duncan told them. The old seer had also predicted Duncan
would need his whistle—and indeed, it had led the MacCrimmons to accept him. “So she
could be right about my music as well.”

“Go on,” Connor said.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about what Ian said about us needing spies on our enemies,”
Duncan said.

Ian groaned. “I can guess what you’re going to propose.”

“I’ll pretend I’m a piper making my way to visit the MacCrimmons,” Duncan explained.
“Once I’m inside, I’ll have a look around. If they have a weakness, I’ll find it.”

“Ye believe ye can fool them?” Connor asked.

“I’m a fair piper,” Duncan said with a shrug.

“Ye play well enough, but ye look like a warrior.” Ian squeezed Duncan’s upper arm.
“A man doesn’t get muscles like this from blowing on pipes.”

“People see what they expect to see,” Duncan said. “If I carry pipes and dress the
part, no one will look beyond that.”

“Someone could recognize ye from a battle or gathering,” Connor said. “I don’t like
the idea of ye going in there alone.”

“One man is less likely to draw suspicion,” Duncan said, telling Connor what he already
knew. “And neither of ye could play a tune to save your lives.”

“I don’t like him going in alone, either, but it is a good plan,” Ian said, looking
at Connor. “We don’t have another way to find out if the castle is vulnerable.”

“It’s too risky,” Connor said, shaking his head. “If the MacLeods find out who ye
are, they won’t give ye an easy death.”

That was a risk a warrior faced.

“I need to take the castle from Erik MacLeod,” Duncan said, meeting Connor’s gaze.
“I have fought for this clan since I was old enough to swing a claymore. You owe me
this chance at vengeance.”

“All right.” Connor blew out his breath and rested his hand on Duncan’s shoulder.
“If ye do discover a weakness in the castle’s defenses, we’ll need to gather every
warrior we can spare for the battle. I’ll send word to Alex on North Uist. By the
time you’re back, he’ll be here with his men.”

“I will find a weakness,” Duncan said.

“In the meantime, we must keep this among the three of us,” Connor said. “If a whisper
of it reaches the MacLeods, we’ll find Duncan’s broken body in the sea below the cliffs
of Trotternish Castle.”

Duncan leaned back in his chair. If they succeeded in taking Trotternish Castle, Connor
would surely make him the new keeper. Then he would finally be in a position to marry
Moira.

All would be well. Even the twins had stopped screaming. Surely that was a sign.

D
uncan hauled his boat to shore in a quiet cove a couple of miles from Trotternish
Castle and hid it in the low shrubs. With a sigh of regret, he unstrapped his claymore
and laid it carefully in the bottom of the boat.

“Guard it well while I’m gone, Sàr.” He scratched the wolfhound’s ears and picked
up his pipes.

No one was supposed to know Duncan was going, but his sister Ilysa had shown up at
his cottage with the dog just as he was leaving. She claimed she had seen a vision,
or some such foolishness, and insisted he bring the wolfhound with him. Though Duncan
did not believe Ilysa had The Sight—or at least, he hoped not—he was happy for the
dog’s company on the two-day sail.

He let Sàr accompany him until they were in sight of Trotternish Castle, then ordered
him to stay. Because wolfhounds usually belonged to the highborn and were distinctive,
he could not take the dog with him.

As Duncan walked across the wide grassy field that led up to the castle, he could
see the whitecaps of the sea stretching out for miles, all the way to the outer isles.
Up here on the bluff, with the fierce wind blowing his hair back, he had the sensation
of being at the edge of the world. He understood the pull his Viking ancestors must
have felt to sail ever westward into the unknown.

Duncan had been to Trotternish Castle several times when it was in the possession
of the MacDonalds. But this time, he came as an enemy.

The castle was perched on a point of the bluff, with sheer, fifty-foot cliffs on three
sides. There were only two ways to attack it. From the sea, warriors had to climb
single-file up steep steps that were cut into the rock and curved up the cliff from
the adjacent crescent beach. The sea approach was nigh onto impossible unless you
had a great many men—and you were willing to lose a lot of them.

From what Duncan had heard, that was what the MacLeods had done.

The only other approach was through this wide-open expanse on the bluff, which gave
the castle defenders plenty of forewarning. In fact, Duncan could feel the guards
watching him now. An attack from here would have to be made under cover of darkness
or in extremely poor weather.

As Duncan crossed the last several yards to the castle, the land fell away on either
side of him. This final stretch of land leading up to the point on which the castle
stood was narrow and had a ditch dug across it, enhancing the defensibility of the
castle.

Duncan did not bother calling out or banging on the gate since the guards had been
watching his slow arrival for some time. Instead, he opened his bag and held up his
pipes for the guards to see. He felt half naked without his claymore strapped to his
back. Entering his enemy’s lair with no weapon but his pipes—he may as well be holding
his cock in his hand.

The guards swung the gate open without even questioning him. When Duncan returned
to Dunscaith, he would make damned sure the MacDonald guards were not so easily deceived
by appearances.

“Hope you’re better than the last piper who came through here,” one guard said. “Go
in the hall and someone will feed ye.”

Duncan pulled his cap low over his eyes as he entered the keep. He had become fairly
well known for his fighting skills. He was counting on the MacLeod warriors inside,
like the guards at the gate, to see a man with pipes—and no claymore—and not look
closer.

The hall was noisy, and it appeared the midday meal had just ended. Near-empty platters
of food were on the tables, and about half the people in the hall were still sitting
at them, while the others were milling about before setting to their afternoon tasks.

As Duncan made his way to a table, a few people looked at him curiously, but no one
tried to stop him. He decided he may as well eat while he observed the MacLeods and
found an empty seat in front of a platter that still had a goodly amount of food on
it. He stabbed a hunk of roasted pork with his eating knife. Before the juicy meat
reached his mouth, a deep voice rumbled across the hall.

“Ye must play for your dinner first, piper!”

There was one MacLeod, after all, who had the wits to test a stranger entering the
castle. Reluctantly, Duncan set his knife down.

As the noisy room grew quiet, Duncan’s senses went on alert. Slowly, he turned in
the direction from which the voice had come. The blood drained from his head as he
met the gaze of the man seated at the center of the high table.

If the MacLeod chieftain were in the castle, he would be sitting in the decorative,
high-backed chair at the center. But Duncan had seen Alastair MacLeod before, a man
of sixty-odd years with a hunchback, and this was not him.

In the absence of the chieftain, the man who would have the honor of sitting in that
chair would be the keeper of the castle—and the man Duncan had been looking for all
his life. For the first time, Duncan stared into the face of his father.

His enemy.

Erik MacLeod was probably in his forties, though he still looked strong as an ox.
Except for his build, the likeness between him and Duncan was not strong. Erik had
steel-gray hair that he wore shorn short, and a beard to match. Still, Duncan could
see himself in the hardness of the older man’s eyes.

Every fiber of his body urged him to reach for the dirk hidden in his boot and charge
his enemy, shouting his war cry. Duncan was quick with a blade. He could sink his
dirk into Erik’s throat before anyone could stop him. But he was here on a mission
for his clan, and his personal revenge would have to wait awhile longer.

Your time will come, old man. And soon.

All these thoughts rushed through Duncan’s head in an instant. Quickly he dropped
his gaze and forced his muscles to relax as he leaned over and removed his pipes from
the oiled leather bag he carried them in.

“Your size is wasted on a piper,” Erik said in a booming voice. “Who are ye, piper?”

“I’m a MacKay.” Duncan had considered choosing the MacArthurs, another piping family
in the isles, but he settled on the MacKays because their lands were far away, up
in the north of the Scottish mainland.

“You’re a long way from home,” Erik said, narrowing his eyes at Duncan.

“I’m on my way to the MacCrimmons,” he said. “With your permission, I’ll pass this
way again on my return as well.”

Duncan hoped when he returned he would be storming the gates, rather than carrying
his pipes, but it seemed wise to smooth his path should he need to use the ruse again.

“What is your business with the MacCrimmons?” Erik asked.

“I hear they claim to be the very best pipers,” Duncan said. “I want to see for myself
if it’s true and trade a few tunes with them.”

“I’m not a trusting soul, either,” Erik said. “Let’s hear ye play those pipes.”

Erik was straining the rules of hospitality by demanding his guest perform, but then
the man had committed far worse sins.

Duncan’s fingers found their places on the melody pipe, or chanter, from long habit.
As he took the blowpipe in his mouth, he closed his eyes to concentrate. If he wanted
to stay out of the castle’s dungeon, he needed to give a persuasive performance. As
usual, his mood affected his music, and he played a tune that sounded like a pounding
storm with driving rain and sleet.

When he finished and opened his eyes, the hall was dead silent. The applause started
with a few claps and then spread through the room.

“I’ve never heard a tune quite like that one before,” Erik said when the cheers had
died down. “But you’ve earned your dinner, piper.”

And you’ve earned death at my sword. Before you feel my blade, I’ll make certain you
know who took your castle from you.

Duncan left the hall as soon as he had finished eating. He had counted a hundred MacLeod
warriors inside. That would be more than sufficient to hold such a strong fortress,
unless he discovered a weakness—a crumbling wall, a weak door, drunken guards.

As he strolled about the courtyard, pretending to enjoy the freezing cold, Duncan
noted that the heavy oak doors of the gate were reinforced with iron. He glanced along
the top of the walls; the half dozen guards all appeared to be alert and watchful.
Damn. If the castle had a weakness, he could not see it. Vile as Erik was, he did
his job of maintaining the castle’s defenses. After dark, Duncan would go inside the
storage rooms built against the outer wall and look for poorly patched holes. He did
not expect to find any.

He must find a way to take this castle. Everything depended upon it.

When one of the guards noticed that Duncan was examining the castle structure a mite
too closely for a musician, Duncan turned to go back inside. As he went up the steps,
he ran his gaze first over the old, four-story keep and then over the two-story building
attached at a right angle to it. This lower building ran along the edge of the cliff
overlooking the sea.

An idea began to form in Duncan’s head.

“I believe we have enough ale and wine to last till spring.” Ilysa narrowed her eyes
as she ran her gaze along the row of barrels, then clicked her tongue. “But we’re
down to one small barrel of whiskey. That will never do.”

Moira had found Ilysa in one of the storage rooms in the undercroft, assessing what
was left of the castle’s winter supplies, and offered to help.

“The men can survive without whiskey for a few weeks,” Moira said.

Ilysa gave her a doubtful look. “They do call it
uisge-beatha
, water of life.”

Moira laughed. “I assume ye have a plan to get more.”

“I’ll send word to Father Brian asking him to bring a barrel when he comes on his
annual visit to the island,” Ilysa said.

Ach, Duncan’s sister was a model of competence. Moira hoped her brother appreciated
how good Ilysa was, but she suspected that Connor, like most men, did not notice a
smooth-running household as much as he would notice one that wasn’t.

“Do ye know where your brother has gone or when he’ll be back?” Though Moira was still
mad enough at him to spit, she felt uneasy not knowing where he was. Duncan had surprised
her by leaving without attempting to speak with her again—and he had even taken her
dog!

“I don’t know where Duncan is,” Ilysa said.

It made Moira furious every time she thought about Duncan lecturing her about propriety
and what she could and could not do. How dare he? She was a grown woman. If she chose
to share a bed with a man, it was no one’s business but her own.

If she wanted to be ordered about and criticized, she’d take another husband. By the
saints, she would not suffer that misery again.

“Tell me,” Moira said. “Does your brother try to tell ye what to do?”

“Aye,” Ilysa said as she brushed the dust from her hands.

“Does it not annoy ye?” Moira asked.

“Not much.”

“What do ye do?” Moira asked.

“First, I smile at him, because I know he means well,” Ilysa said as she led Moira
into the next storeroom. “And then, unless he has persuaded me by raising some point
I hadn’t thought of already—which is rare—I do as I intended in the first place.”

Moira burst out laughing. “That is far more clever than arguing with him.”

“Ye know what my mother was like,” Ilysa said with a shrug. “I learned to make decisions
for myself at a young age.”

While Ilysa counted the sacks of oats stacked against the wall, Moira thought about
Ilysa and Duncan’s mother, a kind but fearful woman. Moira felt guilty for how she
had ignored the poor woman’s attempts to guide her. She had been far too spoiled and
strong-willed for such a meek nursemaid.

“When I was a bairn, Duncan was usually off with the other young men,” Ilysa said
when she had finished counting the bags of oats. “And then he left us.”

Moira had given no thought to the consequences of their affair on Duncan’s mother
and sister. At the time, Moira had been only a year younger than Ilysa was now, but
she could not have been more different from this contained, responsible young woman.
But as wild and undisciplined as Moira was, she had loved Duncan deeply.

Moira glanced at Ilysa’s delicate features and hoped Ilysa would not suffer as much
for love as she had.

Duncan went inside the keep, but instead of going straight through the second set
of doors into the hall, he opened the door to his right that led into the adjacent
building. When the MacDonalds held the castle, the chieftain’s private rooms were
here, and Duncan had never been inside before.

If anyone saw him in this part of the castle, he would need an explanation. Duncan
regretted not paying attention when Alex had talked at length about which lies worked
best in such situations. Before his marriage, Alex was always sneaking in and out
of bedchambers he should not be in.

Luckily, the building appeared to be empty. Whoever had these rooms now must still
be in the hall. Duncan glanced into the large room that made up the first floor. The
wall facing the courtyard was covered with tapestries and windowless, as he had known
it would be. But he cursed under his breath when he saw the narrow, arrow-slit windows
on the sea side. Most likely, the windows on the floor above would be the same, but
he wanted to check before giving up on his plan.

Duncan went up the stairs quickly, keeping his ears open.

When he heard the voices of children, he hesitated. But he only needed one quick look,
and the children sounded absorbed in their play. When he leaned around the doorway
from the stairwell, he saw a boy and girl playing with wooden swords. The boy wore
a hood and had his back to Duncan. The girl, who was half a foot shorter, had summer-blue
eyes and fair, bouncing curls.