captured—rather than taking up the rear, no matter how much the Bruce’s brothers had argued.
He may have been overruled from the start, but never again. He was Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of Islay, and he intended to protect clan and kin no matter what. As the boat chased the setting sun, the dreaded truth weighed heavily upon his shoulders, yet the hours passed in a blur.
By the time they reached the promontory on the southern end of the Isle of Islay, Dunyvaig Castle was but a black shadow against the night sky—looming like the murky abyss in Angus’ heart.
“It looks as if the king has returned,” said Gael, pointing to a row of MacDonald birlinns used in the attack on Turnberry. Even if the king had failed, more men must have survived the northern raid for certain.
Ready for a confrontation, Angus disembarked first. Raghnall hastened to catch him and walked at his shoulder as they made their way up the hill and into the great hall of the keep. “What are ye planning to tell the Bruce?” asked Angus’ most trusted man.
“The truth.”
“Aye? Ye aim to tell the King of Scots he sent his brothers on a fool’s errand? ’Cause that’s the reality of it. Damnation, Scotland’s never going to win this war.”
Angus stopped and grabbed his man by the throat. By the gods, he loved Raghnall as a brother, but he’d not tolerate anyone who bleated words of everlasting doom. “We may have lost this battle but, mark me, I’m no’ aiming to lose another.”
Raghnall threw out his palms. “Forgive me,” he croaked. “I spoke out of turn.”
Releasing his grip, Angus shook off his ire. “Och, I’m every bit as disappointed as ye are, lad. We’ve not but to face our failures, pull ourselves together, and persevere.”
“I’d be happier about it with you at the helm.”
“I’m no king,” Angus growled.
“How can ye say that? The blood of Somerled flows through your veins. Besides, ye look as if ye’ve been kissed by the sun itself.”
Rather than reply, Angus continued to trudge along the path. Aye, the great Norse-Gaelic king, Somerled, had formed the Lordship of the Isles and were it not for the marauding MacDougalls, the entirety of the Hebrides would be well and truly under the MacDonalds’ banner. If only Alasdair were still alive to claim it. But the burden of the lordship had fallen to Angus, a mere second son.
“Fairhair has returned!” shouted the sentry from atop the baily walls.
Angus snorted. He’d been referred to thus since he was a wee bairn and, at one time, the epithet caused him consternation, even though his ancestor Harald Fairhair had reigned as King of Norway. When they were lads, Alasdair had oft poked fun and thought his younger brother weak, until Angus grew larger and stronger. Now he’d met no man who could best him, though the name Fairhair had stuck. Every time the men called it out, he was reminded of his mishappen youth—and the triumph of besting his elder brother, God rest his soul.
Tonight, the weight of an anvil hung about his neck. Not only had good men lost their lives, Angus had naught but to face the king. As he strode through the sea gate and toward the doors to the Dunyvaig keep, his feet grew sluggish, the fatigue from the battle made facing his duty all the more repugnant.
“Greetings, m’lord,” called a pair of sentries as they opened the heavy oaken doors.
Angus gave a tight-lipped nod. No salutations were in order for this day’s failure.
Judging by the music and merriment coming from the great hall, the raid to the north had been a success.
To my very bones, I pray they fared better than my sorry lot.
Indeed, the ale was flowing, the piper and fiddler playing, but as soon as Angus stepped inside, the merrymakers took one look at the grim expression he wore upon his face and the hall fell silent.
Upon the dais, King Robert slowly lowered the tankard from his lips. He first looked to Angus, then his gaze trailed beyond. Any joy that may have shone in his eyes turned to black cinders.
Steeling himself, Angus removed his helm, strode to the dais, and climbed the steps. At the top, he dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “My Lord King.”
“What news from Loch Ryan?”
“We were ambushed, Your Grace. Upon our approach, it first appeared there were no more than a handful of soldiers guarding the bay. However, after we disembarked, Edward’s army set upon