The Chief Read online

  It was safer that way. For Bruce to have any chance against the formidable English army, it was imperative that they have surprise on their side. After years of serving as a gallowglass mercenary for his cousin, Angus Og MacDonald, King of the Isles, in Ireland, Erik knew that it was wise to be cautious with information. Coin was the only loyalty most mercenaries honored, and the McQuillans were a rough lot—to put it mildly.

  Erik would not trust them with the details of their plan until he had to, including both the location of the rendezvous with Bruce and when and where they planned to attack. He would arrange to meet the Irish two nights before the attack, and then personally escort them to Rathlin to rendezvous with Bruce to assemble the army. The next night Erik would lead the entire fleet to Isle of Arran, where Bruce planned to launch the northern attack on the Scottish mainland set for February 15.

  The timing was imperative: the king planned to attack at Turnberry while his brothers led a second attack on the same day in the south at Galloway.

  With the timing so tight, and since they could only travel at night, there was no margin for error.

  Nothing would interfere with his mission. Having a little fun with the English wasn’t going to change that.

  “It’s reckless,” Randolph protested angrily.

  Erik’s shook his head. The lad really was hopeless. “Now, Tommy, don’t go throwing around words you don’t understand. You wouldn’t know reckless if it came up and bit you in the arse. It’s only reckless if there is a chance they’ll catch us, which—as you’ve already heard—they won’t.”

  His men hoisted the square sail. The heavy wool fibers of the cloth coated with animal fat unfurled with a loud snap in the wind, revealing the fearsome black sea hawk on a white-and-gold-striped background. The sight never ceased to get his blood pumping.

  A few moments later he heard a cry go up across the water. Erik turned to his disapproving companion with an unrepentant grin. “Looks like it’s too late, lad. They’ve spotted us.” He took the two guide ropes in his hands, braced himself for the gust of wind, and shouted to his men, “Let’s give the English dogs something other than their tails to chase. To Benbane, lads.”

  The men laughed at the jest. To an Englishman “tail” was a hated slur. Bloody cowards.

  The sail filled with wind, and the birlinn started to fly, soaring over the waves like a bird in flight, giving proof to the Hawk namesake emblazoned on the sail and carved into the prow of his boat.

  The faster they flew, the faster the blood surged through his veins. His muscles strained, pumping with raw energy, holding the boat at a sharp angle to the water. The wind ripped through his hair, sprayed his face, and filled his lungs like an elixir. The rush was incredible—elemental. Freedom in it’s most pure form.

  He felt alive—invincible—knowing that he’d been born for this.

  For the next few minutes the men were silent as Erik maneuvered the boat into position, heading strait for Benbane Head, the northernmost point of Antrim. His clansmen knew him well enough to know what he planned. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken advantage of a high tide and treacherous rocks.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, he could see that his ploy had worked. The English patrol had forgotten all about the fishermen and were giving chase.

  “Faster,” Randolph shouted above the roar of the wind. “They’re gaining on us.”

  The lad certainly knew how to put a damper on a good time. But grudgingly, Erik had to admit, that the English galley was closer than he expected. The captain had some skill—and some luck. The Englishman had taken advantage of a gust of wind, one even stronger than the one Erik had tapped into, and was augmenting their speed with their oarsmen. Erik’s oars were silent. He would need them later.

  A little English luck didn’t worry him overmuch—even a blind squirrel found an acorn once in a while.

  “That’s the idea, Tommy. I want them close enough to lead them into the rocks.”

  Devil’s Point was a promontory that jutted out like a rocky finger from the coastline just west of Benbane Head on the far north coast of Ireland. At high tide the rocky reef would be invisible until it was too late. The trick would be to get the English between him and land, so it wasn’t his boat that was torn apart by the jagged rocks. At the last minute Erik would let them catch up, and then turn sharply west, holding course just past the edge of the rock while leading the English right to the Devil.

  It was just the kind of deft maneuvering that he could do it in his sleep.

  “Rocks?” Randolph said, his voice taking on a frantic edge. “But how can you see anything in this mist.”

  Erik sighed. If the lad didn’t learn to relax, his heart was going to give out before he reached three and twenty. “I can see all I need to. Have a little faith, my fearless young knight.”

  The dramatic high cliffs of the headland came into view ahead of them. On a clear day the majestic dark walls topped with emerald green hillsides took your breath away, but tonight the looming shadows looked menacing and haunting.

  He looked back over his shoulder again and cocked an eyebrow, a hint of admiration coming into his gaze. The English dog wasn’t half-bad. In fact, he was good enough to throw off Erik’s timing. Running parallel to the shore wasn’t going to work, he was going to have to lead them straight in and turn—directly into the wind—at the last minute.

  The English captain might be good…

  But Erik was better.

  A broad smile curved his mouth. This was going to be more fun than he’d anticipated.

  With his cousin, Lachlan MacRuairi, off on a mission, and Tor “Chief” MacLeod land-bound as personal bodyguard to the king, it had been some time since Erik had tasted any real competition. About the last place he expected to find it was with an Englishman.

  It was too dark and misty to see the precise edge of the shoreline, but Erik knew they were getting close. He could feel it. Blood pumped faster through his veins as he anticipated the danger of the next few moments. If anything went wrong or if he were off at all in his calculations, the English wouldn’t be the only ones swimming to shore.

  He turned to Domnall who manned the rudder fixed at the stern. “Now!” he ordered the tack from port to starboard. “Come about and let’s send these English bastards straight to the Devil.”

  The men responded with an enthusiastic roar.

  Moments later the sail fluttered and the boat jerked hard to the starboard side: Devil’s point straight ahead.

  He heard the hard snap of the sail behind him as the English followed suit, managing the sudden tack with ease.

  They were right behind them, nearing firing range for their longbows.

  Almost time…

  “Stop in the name of Edward, by the Grace of God, King of England,” a voice from behind shouted in English.

  “I serve no king but Bruce,” Erik replied in Gaelic. “Airson an Leomhann!” He shouted the battle cry of the Highland Guard: For the Lion.

  The cacaphony of voices behind him suggested that someone understood what he said. “Traitors!” a shout rose up.

  But Erik payed them no mind, his attention completely focused on the narrow stretch of black sea visible ahead of him.

  The air on the boat was thick with tension. Not much farther now. A few hundred feet. He eyed the cliffs on the shore to his left, looking for the jagged peak that marked his reference point, but the mist made it difficult to see.

  Blind.

  His men squirmed a little anxiously in their seats, hands ready at the oars, anticipating his order.

  “What happening?” Randolph asked in a high voice, reading the tension.

  “Steady, lads,” he said, ignoring the knight. “Almost there…”

  Erik’s heart pounded in his chest—strong and steady. Now came the true test of nerves. God, he loved this! Every instinct flared at the oncoming danger, clammoring to turn, but he didn’t flinch. Not yet…

  A few more feet would