Abigail moved into the Great Hall, finding only guards staring at her. She nodded to the men stationed near Ronan’s solar before she checked the doors of each storeroom. She called out to the occupants of the ones with the false floors, reassuring the occupants that she was just checking on them. She glanced at the stairs and considered retreating to her chamber, but the idea left her mind as quickly as it came. She wouldn’t cower in the comfort of a bedchamber while others were on the ground floor and in places the invaders would look first. But she also realized she’d locked herself out of any secure hiding place. The storerooms didn’t lock from the inside, and she would never trust her keys to anyone but Angus, Bethea, and Maisie. She’d already ordered guards to seal the granary. The only place she could think of was a storeroom in the undercroft.
Thirty-Six
Ronan and his men trudged through the snow as they neared the Fairy Pools. He squinted as he tried to make out the shapes in the distance. It wasn’t long before he recognized them as people. He signaled to his men, who drew their swords. They led their horses closer until the forms clearly became men. Ronan prepared to order his men to gather the horses and task a handful to remain with the steeds. The force they approached was on foot too, because of the snow. But he recognized a russet-colored mane.
“It’s Clyde,” Ronan called out. The men sheathed their swords as they plodded toward the other half of their army. Ronan called out when they were within earshot. The two groups met beside the first fairy pool. “How’d you ken to come here?”
“We found signs of them making camp, then changing direction to come here. We thought to trap them between us.”
“The same for us. So where are they?” Ronan and the men gathered around him stared in every direction, but there was no hint that anyone passed by the icy pools. Some had steep drops from waterfalls that collected icicles, while others filled with water from a babbling brook. There were no foot- or hoofprints in the area, but he was certain they’d followed the correct path. He’d found signs that someone traveled in the same direction as them, but now there was nothing.
“How did they just disappear?” Clyde wondered. Many of the men looked warily at the pools, and Ronan knew what crept into their minds.
“There are no more fae here than there are in the Black Cuillins or at Dun Ringill. It’s more likely the falling snow has already covered their tracks. The fae didn’t come from the water and ferry them away, nor did the fae suck them in. The only place left for them to go is Dun Ringill. We make haste and return to the keep. We can be there in four hours. With luck, we’ll be in time for the midday meal.” Ronan looked at the sky, then the mountains that spread out in the distance. “How was the crossing?”
“We barely made it. The snow’s deeper in the hills, and the ice is thin at the loch.”
They had two choices: head back in the direction from which he and his group came to skirt the mountains or attempt to traverse them in the foul weather. The continuing snowfall left him with only the former as a reasonable option, despite Clyde and his men taking the latter route the day before. With twice the men came at least twice the risk. Even if they circumvented most of the mountains by following the coast, they would still have to climb a small distance before making the dangerous crossing at the isthmus of Loch Coruisk. Ronan supposed that was the way the MacLeods went, but he didn’t want to engage in battle while getting snowed into a mountain pass. Going back the route he came would only add a half an hour to their journey and was safer. He gave the command, and the four score of men turned northeast.
As the morning progressed, Ronan feared they would have to seek shelter once more. The snow was knee deep in many parts, and snow drifts came to the men’s waists. But being unable to account for the Dunvegan men made everyone apprehensive. Ronan and Clyde weren’t the only MacKinnons eager to return to their families. With heads down against the wind, they pressed on. Ronan was glad he’d ordered such an early start that morning. It had been one of the coldest he’d ever experienced before the sun rose overhead, but it gave them more time to wind their way across the width of MacKinnon territory.
Ronan was the first to spy the solitary figure approaching them on horseback. They’d been able to mount again when they drew closer to the shore ofLoch na Cairidh. He recognized the MacKinnon plaid before he could distinguish the face. There was only one person with only one reason who would brave the elements.
“It’s Willy,” Ronan announced. The threat of imminent danger took hold of Ronan’s heart. Something was terribly wrong at Dun Ringill if Angus sent his son out alone during a snowstorm. The man was trying to reach Ronan. He spurred his horse on, but he could go no faster than a trot. When he was certain Willy would hear him, he called out, “What’s happened? Is it Lady MacKinnon?”
“MacLeods!”
A visit from Kieran wasn’t a reason for Willy to search for him. It could only be his nemeses from Dunvegan. He looked back at Clyde; his dark look told him he suspected the same thing Ronan did. Whether Ronan, Abigail, and the other men escaped Dunvegan, there had always been a plan to attack by water. The men sent out on horseback were a diversion, or additional swords to attack by land. When Willy reined in, Ronan knew the attack would already be underway when he arrived home. It was clear from the urgency in Willy’s expression.
“Most of their fleet was at the mouth of Loch Slapin when Da sent me. That was close to two hours past. They will have already made landfall by now.” Willy said no more before all the men urged their horses on. Where the snow wasn’t as deep and the road was easy to follow, the men pushed their mounts to move faster. The cacophony of battle reached them on the crisp air before the keep came into sight. When the village was within view, the men pushed their horses to a gallop, the land finally clear enough for their horses to run.
* * *
Abigail ducked into the armory as the first arrows rained down on the bailey. The volley didn’t come from the shore. The MacKinnon lookout spotted the MacLeod riders only minutes before they launched their ground attack. MacKinnon archers returned fire, and Abigail heard the pained whinnies as they struck horses. She’d been too slow to enter the building before one of her husband’s men pitched backwards over the wall walk and landed in the bailey with an arrow through his chest.
Abigail prayed the barracks and armory connected like they appeared to from the outside. She hadn’t time to run to the undercroft after speaking with Norman. The cry went up, then the arrows appeared. Dun Ringill was a large keep with a wide and long bailey. A projectile was more likely to strike Abigail than she was to make it across. She didn’t want to shelter in the armory, knowing that if the MacLeods stormed the castle, they would search for additional weapons. But she hoped they wouldn’t bother with the barracks; it would be natural to assume that no man remained there while the fight was ongoing. She pushed open a door, welcoming the sight of additional doors leading to small chambers. She ran halfway down the corridor before trying the door to her right. When it wouldn’t open, she tried the one to the left. Her racing heart eased as she slipped inside. She looked for anything that would block the door, but there was nothing. The chamber was dim, so she slid under the furthest cot, praying no one would see her.
More cries filled the air as arrows met their targets. She’d smelled the scalding tar that boiled in the cauldrons, and she prayed the men placed them strategically. The weather was still as frigid as it had been an hour earlier, so she knew the ice remained from the water poured along the walls. If the MacKinnon archers kept the MacLeod archers at bay, then they could also pick off the foot soldiers who tried to scale the walls. Those who avoided death by arrow faced the impossible feat of bracing their ladders or entrenching their hooks. Many would die either from burns or the tar immobilizing them. Abigail knew ten men easily fit on a birlinn, though it would be tight. She’d spied at least fifteen boats sailing toward their docks. The MacLeods likely brought their entire force minus the men who approached on horseback. They outnumbered the MacKinnons, and Abigail feared they would besiege the keep.
Abigail reached for the dirk sheathed in her boot as she laid on her belly beneath the low bed. She commanded herself to slow her breathing, so she made no noise and could think without her heart hammering in her ears. She needed a plan in case she couldn’t remain in the barracks. If she was forced to flee the building, it was because MacLeods were nearby, and they were likely to find her. But she still didn’t know where she could go, since the undercroft was too far. She refused to open any door into the keep, nor would she lead men to the granary. Even if she had time to unlock a storeroom, they didn’t lock from the inside. She might have the strength to move some barrels or sacks, but that would hardly deter warriors from breaking in.
I’m stuck here. This might be where they find ma body, or it might be ma saving grace. I dinna ken, but it’s the best I can do. I can only pray Ronan’s figured out that Cormag’s men got around him, and he’s already on his way back. Mayhap even the weather will force him to turn back. Aught to get him home sooner. I dinna want to see him fighting, but St. Michael and all angels, we need him and his men.
Abigail shut her eyes, concentrating on her breathing until she no longer felt like her heart would beat out of her chest. When her body felt calmer—if not her mind—she channeled her focus into listening, trying to distinguish each sound or hint of movement. The minutes dragged on, but nothing hinted that the MacLeods stormed the bailey. There were still cries of pain and men’s voices issuing orders. But there was no organized chaos that indicated that the MacLeods had broken through the gates. She heard pounding footsteps outside the door several times, but she suspected men were passing through the building to avoid the projectiles coming over the walls.
A corner of Abigail’s mind whispered guilt. A sense of duty tempted her to leave her hiding place, feeling like her position dictated she do more. But there was nothing more for her to do. She couldn’t wield a weapon, and those under her care were more safely hidden than she. The most reasonable action was to remain where she was, even if it felt cowardly and insufficient. She would remain in hiding until the noise ceased, or they forced her out.
* * *
“We won’t get in,” Ronan yelled over the pounding hooves. “We take a stand against those outside the main gate. We’ve chased them to our own door. They will not enter.” He drew his sword as his knees squeezed his horse’s flanks, bracing himself and spurring the beast on. Many of his men had bows and quivers with them, having brought them not only to hunt but for battle. The noise surrounding the keep kept most of the MacLeods from hearing them approach. Ronan and his clan fired upon their enemy, cutting down nearly half of their men before any MacKinnon was within sword’s reach. His men fanned out, trapping their enemy between them and the walls.
Ronan leaned to his right before standing in his stirrups and lunging forward to drive his sword into a man’s back. He yanked it free before swinging it again, severing an arm. The stump sprayed blood that splattered Ronan and his horse. Despite not being his preferred warhorse, his mount was experienced in battle. When two men came toward the steed’s head, he reared back, his hooves his deadly weapons. Ronan was prepared, feeling the horse’s bunching muscles signaling its intentions. The beast’s hooves slammed into the men’s heads, knocking them to the ground before crushing them.
Ronan whirled around, locking his sights on his next target. Many of the MacLeods had dismounted, and Ronan assumed they awaited a battering ram. But none was in sight, even though MacLeod birlinns were already at his dock. Arrows flew from the birlinns, but he watched just as many fly from his battlements. As he engaged with another mounted warrior, his horse’s teeth clamped down on the other horse’s nose. The MacLeod warrior’s horse cried out in pain, distracting its rider. Ronan severed the man’s head from his shoulders. He scanned the fight around him and noticed his men were prevailing. They’d cut down most of the MacLeods on foot, and there were only a handful of mounted warriors left. His forces greatly outnumbered those who’d crossed the island, and his combined army rivaled those who sailed to his home.
As he and his men claimed victory against the men outside his keep, waves of MacLeods poured off the boats. On foot, the men were easier targets for Ronan’s mounted forces. One after another, MacLeods fell to the ground. Seeing Ronan leading the defense, Ronan heard Cormag order his sailors to approach from the opposite side. Ronan and his men raced to intercept the MacLeods, but their horses reared to a stop as the first cauldron of pitch streamed down the side. Ronan nor his men could approach, lest they become targets of the boiling, viscous ooze. He was certain that the gates were barred, so there was no way into the keep and little he could do to reach the rest of the enemy.
Thirty-Seven
