Abigail heard the bells ringing, no longer the constant jangle but the rhythmic one signaling Ronan’s return. She knew he would remain outside the barmekin, since no one would open the main gate or the postern in the middle of a battle, but much of her fear eased. She wasn’t so naïve that she believed the MacKinnons won the battle merely because Ronan returned with reinforcements, but she trusted her husband’s leadership and warrior training implicitly. She recalled watching him in the lists at Stirling Castle, then again at Stornoway. She still marveled at how men followed his corrections without hesitation and how he bested each of his opponents, graciously helping them up. Confidence suffused Abigail as she continued to wait.
With the additional men fighting, the noise had grown louder, making it difficult for Abigail to distinguish what was happening. The tar’s odor still permeated the air, but the smell of burning thatch soon joined it. Abigail sniffed as the second scent grew stronger than the first. There could only be a single cause, and it forced her out from beneath the cot. She darted across the chamber, but screamed and yanked her hand away when the circular ring handle burned her hand. Gathering her skirts and her arisaid, she used them to cover the metal as she pried the door open. The heat in the passageway already made the door swell within its frame. She tugged as hard as she could until it gave way. Smoke billowed in as heat scorched her face.
Abigail dropped to her hands and knees, thankful the flames blazed in the opposite direction from the armory. Her only known exit route headed in the armory’s direction. On her feet once more, she burst into the armory, then out to the bailey.
“Lady MacKinnon!” Angus cried as he charged toward her. She used her sleeve to wipe ash from her face, then used the other to wipe her watering eyes. “Merciful saints, I had nay idea ye were inside.”
Abigail and Angus turned toward the barracks as a creak, then a crack boomed from the barracks’ roof before it caved in. If Abigail had waited any longer, flames would have engulfed her. Abigail scanned her surroundings, shocked to only spot a handful of dead bodies. There were numerous injured men lining the far wall, but she knew far more still fought on the battlements than were unable.
“Have any made it over the wall?”
“Nay. The laird defeated those who attacked near the gate. Cormag’s ordered his men to approach from the postern side, but the tar is already stopping many. The ice is keeping the ladders from staying still. Our archers are exhausted, but currently they are our best defense. A few grappling hooks took, but most slipped as they tried to anchor against the wall. Norman had the men freeze the outside and the inside, but nay the top. It’s doing the trick, ma lady.”
“Do you think Cormag will retreat? Have you seen him?”
“I havenae been up to the battlements, but nay, I dinna think he will. He’s come to make a stand, to get revenge for his brothers’ deaths.”
“Is he fighting?”
“I dinna ken. If he is, I dinna doubt he and the laird will meet.”
Abigail nodded as she huddled beside Angus, his body and targe shielding her from the fire’s heat and the few stray arrows that soared over the wall. The diminished number of MacLeod archers among the land-based forces slowed the assault. She looked at the fire, her eyes narrowing. The flames continued to build despite men throwing buckets of water onto the blaze. Part of the building was already smoldering ash, but most of it was still alight. She watched as the men passed buckets to one another while another handful threw water onto the thatching of the buildings nearby, trying to prevent the fire from consuming anything else if it jumped from one structure to the next.
“How much tar do you think is left? Have they used most of it?”
“They’ve used all of it along the waterfront wall, but men are just dumping the first rounds above the postern gate.”
Abigail looked at the armory again. It sat beneath the waterfront wall. She pictured the scene on the other side of the retaining wall and the distance to the docks.
“Who’s your best archer, Angus?”
“Timothy, ma lady.”
“The same mon I spoke to earlier?”
“Aye.”
Abigail noticed the gleam in Angus’s eyes as he answered. “He’s one of your lads, too, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. Timothy is our auldest, then Willy, then Maisie. The rest are still youths, ma lady. They’re with Bethea and Maisie.”
“Can you take me to Timothy?”
“Nay! Ye canna go up on the battlements, ma lady. It’s far too dangerous. The laird will have ma heid.”
“Then give me a targe.” Abigail put her hands on her hips, determined to show Angus she wouldn’t back down.
“Nae even a sennight, and ye already sound like ma Bethea,” Angus grumbled. “I’m still nae taking ye. I’d rather slip ye into a storeroom.”
“Too late for that, Angus. I need to see what’s happening. Do you think they intend to lay siege? Do they still have the men for that?”
“Only if they defeat the laird’s men outside the wall. But even then, we have enough arrows to pick them off one by one if they try to trap us inside the walls.”
“What if we trap them?”
“What do ye mean?”
“Take me to see Timothy, and I’ll tell you.”
