To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Twenty

“ W e climb again,” Ronan shouted. “Move.”

He turned to find his footing in the sheer cliff wall and climbed several feet in the air when he noticed none of his men followed. He leapt back to the ground.

“Something had best have rendered yer ears useless, or ye will all find yerselves paying the penalty for defiance,” he shouted.

“Jesus, Ronan,” Aidan swore. “A word please, if ye don’t mind.”

Ronan turned away from his men and released a loud, rumbling growl. He was seething with rage and wanted the world to suffer alongside him or at least his men. His father had given him an impossible choice—his clan and his family or Shoney. He could not live without Shoney, but he would not be the man she loved if he dishonored his family and abandoned his clan.

He turned around. All eyes were on him. He looked at Aidan. “What?” he snapped .

“Let’s just step over here,” Aidan said. Ronan followed him several yards away from the rest of his men.

“We’ve climbed that cliff quite a few times,” Aidan began.

“Aye, what of it?” Ronan growled.

“We’ve done a month’s worth of training already today.”

Ronan grunted in reply and looked away. He was not interested in Aidan’s complaints. He had his own problems.

“And what about poor Cormick? Ye nigh killed him earlier, and I know it was due to him asking her to dance last night.”

“He shouldn’t have touched her,” Ronan growled again.

“He’d have to touch her if they were dancing, and ‘tis not as if he knew she was spoken for.”

“I wasn’t too hard on him.”

“Ye were sparring with him like he was King Haakon himself.”

Ronan was losing his patience. “If yer rambling has any point, Aidan, then I suggest ye make it.”

“I don’t know what yer da said, but ye just go talk to him and work it out before ye kill us all and rob the Norse of the chance.”

Aidan was right. He hated when Aidan was right. His men had tolerated his ruthless orders long enough. Truth be told, he was surprised they had not rebelled sooner.

“Alright, I will go to my father. He must be forced to see reason.”

“Actually, ye can’t talk to him now,” Aidan replied.

Ronan grabbed him by his plaid and lifted him in the air. “Ye push too far. I don’t know if ye noticed, but I am in a foul mood.”

“I was merely pointing out that now may not be the best time to have it out with yer da after all.”

“Aye, and why not when ye just told me I should?”

“Oh, no reason really. ‘Tis just that a messenger from the king is heading this way.”

“Damn it,” Ronan swore.

He put Aidan down and covered his eyes against the glare of the sun and saw the rider in the distance, carrying the banner of King Alexander III.

He grinned.

His father and Shoney would have to wait. The messenger bore the battle colors of the king. It appeared as though God answered his prayer after all—war with the Norse was at hand.

“Warriors to me,” Ronan shouted. “Aidan, find my father. Guthrie, summon the council to the keep. The rest of ye, come with me. We ride out to meet him.”

A MIXTURE OF UNREST and excitement brewed in the great hall. The food and drink went unnoticed as Ronan’s men shifted about the room impatiently. The day’s grueling exercises and the overindulgences of the night before were forgotten. His men were ripe for battle. If someone shouted “charge,” the roar of battle cries would fill the air, and the men would ride out eager to meet the enemy. He sat with the messenger and his father, awaiting the arrival of Argyle who moved slower these days. No messages would be exchanged until the entire council was together.

“If so ordered I could go meet Argyle and carry him the rest of the way,” Aidan said.

“Patience, Aidan,” Nathair reproached. “Ye disrespect yer elder. If our departure is not immediate, ye will spend tomorrow’s entirety at Argyle’s service.”

Aidan spoke his apologies and took his seat just as the doors opened, and Argyle shuffled into the room.

The old man sat beside Nathair and asked, “What word from the king?”

“As ye know, Haakon rejected King Alexander’s claim over the Western Isles,” began the king’s messenger. “What ye may not know is that Haakon arrived some weeks ago with a fleet of long ships and has been pillaging the western coast of the mainland.”

“The Devil take the coward,” cried Guthrie. The hall erupted into chaos as the men stood and voiced their fury.

“Silence,” commanded Nathair. The men were quick to comply. Ronan could tell the king’s man approved of the order the MacKinnon maintained.

The messenger began again. “The king has agreed to begin negotiations.”

“What terms are negotiable?” Nathair interrupted. “We men of the Isles are Scotsmen. We must yield nothing to the Norse.” The MacKinnon’s words were met with cheers from his men.

This time, the messenger called for order. “Please, silence everyone and hear the king’s plan.”

The MacKinnon nodded his acceptance of the messenger’s request, and once again the men were silent.

“As we speak, Haakon and his fleet sail for the Isle of Arran where negotiations are to take place. Our King is going to prolong the talks over the remainder of the summer, ensuring the Norse fleet stays anchored in the waters of the Firth of Clyde come autumn. The harvest moon will ensure our enemy faces two foes in battle. The autumnal storms will waylay their ships, forcing them away from the isle to the mainland where they will be delivered broken and battered to an army of Scotsmen waiting on the coast of Largs.”

“Will the storms wreak such havoc upon the ships?” Ronan asked.

“Aye, the Firth of Clyde means certain death for any sailor foolish enough to try its waters during a heavy storm. The fleet will be devastated,” the messenger said. “Their long ships are light and narrow with shallow drafts. The waves will turn them over like twigs. Each one is likely to carry thirty to forty men or even more, but the vessels offer nothing for protection against the pounding waves. Many will drown, never making it to shore alive.”

“But the shallow draft will allow them easy port on the coast of Largs,” Guthrie said.

“Aye, to be sure,” replied the messenger. “But by the time they pull their ships to shore, they will be broken and facing a Scottish army ready for battle.”

“So, he plans an ambush,” Nathair said. “What say ye, Argyle? ”

“’Tis a shrewd plan as was to be expected of our young King. He has already managed to unite this country. He shall lead us to victory,” Argyle replied.

“King Haakon will likely surrender during negotiations before the summer’s end,” boasted Dugald.

“Indeed,” Argyle agreed. “Alexander is clever despite the scarcity of his years.”

Nathair turned to Ronan, “What say ye?”

“’Tis a good plan, but we will have to march soon.”

The messenger nodded. “Aye, ye must leave before summer’s end. Largs is more than a fortnight’s journey on foot, longer depending on the winds when ye first set sail.”

Nathair stood and addressed the room. “We must make preparations as we leave within the month. Go home now and rest, for there is much to be done. Meet tomorrow in the courtyard at dawn.” Then he turned to Aidan. “Except for ye.”

Ronan had forgotten Aidan’s earlier indiscretion, but clearly, Nathair had not. “Argyle, Aidan has offered to be of service to ye on the morrow.” Nathair gave Aidan a good-natured slap on his back. “Please be sure to give him plenty of work.”

“Why wait until tomorrow?” Aidan said to Argyle affably. “Let me walk with ye, and ye can decide if there is naught for me to do this very night.”

“Ronan,” Nathair said, drawing his attention away from the pair now slowly making their way from the keep.

“Aye, Father. ”

“Let us sup as we consider what needs to be done. We go to war,” he shouted for all to hear. Then he raised his mug. “For Scotland.”

“For Scotland,” the men repeated and downed their ale.