Page 13 of Bound By Honor
As they walked through the pine forest, Angus stole a glance at John, pleased to see no fear shadowed his face. With each passing year, Angus and John had grown more alike in appearance with their blue eyes and light brown hair that took on a reddish cast in the sun. It was nothing like their father’s vivid red, of course, which made sense when Angus thought of it. Their mother was a Campbell and had the brown hair of that family. Their sisters and older brother favored their mother more than did Angus and John.
Gripped by a sudden need to protect his younger brother, Angus determined to keep him close. He had helped in John’s training and the lad had done well, gaining the nickname “Sprangach”, meaning “the bold”, but he lacked experience in battle. Today would change that.
Once through the forest, they set out over the moors, heading toward the woods where they were told Turlough, the son of Angus’ oldest sister, Mary, would be waiting. She had married The O’Donnell when he reigned as King of Tirconnell. Mary was young at the time and his second wife. A son had been born of each marriage and that was the source of the conflict once the old king died.
Angus had only met his nephew once before. They were of an age, neither yet twenty. They shared their Macdonald lineage, their faith and their Gaelic language. But there was one difference between them, and that had to do with history.
Angus could still hear the gruff voice of Michael Dominici when the chaplain had been his tutor. “Enough from General Caesar for today,” he said, as he closed the book in the solar at Ardtornish. The priest was paid to teach Angus Mor’s sons the gospel and Latin but he often strayed from the classics to the politics he believed a son of the Lord of the Isles should know. “So tell me, young Angus—who are the Gaels?”
Angus answered without hesitation. “The first people in Ireland, Western Scotland and the Isles.”
“The first people, aye. Who else came to live in these lands? Did the Romans, like our General Caesar?”
Angus had thought carefully before answering. “Aye and nay. The Romans invaded Scotland but not the Isles. And they were beaten back from Scotland and never returned.”
“Very good. Who else?”
“Well, my ancestor, Somerled, was partly Norse.”
“Aye, you do well to remember. And he was also of royal Irish blood and the great Gaelic kingdom of Dalriada. Who else?”
Angus pondered for a moment. “The…Normans?”
“Correct, at least so far as Scotland east of the Isles is concerned. Unlike Ireland where the Normans invaded, King Davidinvitedthem into Scotland. And they all became Scots. The Bruces are descended from them as well as King David. But in Ireland only some of the Irish joined with the Normans. Others remained independent—like the O’Donnells in Tirconnell.”
“And so did the Isles for more than a hundred years,” Angus had offered proudly.
The old voice faded as a large group of men slowly emerged out of the mist like ghosts. Angus knew by the men’s unguarded and open approach, devoid of menace, that this group was not the enemy.
Some wore quilted tunics, or aketons, to which they’d added chainmail and shiny helmets, much like Angus and the Islesmen. Others wore no armor at all, their legs naked beneath their tunics, and they carried spears. Galloglass that had been a part of his sister Mary’s dowry were present as well with their long-handled sparth axes.
Angus spotted archers among this group. Like the archers that had come with the Lord of the Isles, they were lightly armored and carried short poplar bows looped over the shoulder, their quivers full of arrows with goose feather fletching.
Most, save the archers and the galloglass, had only swords or spears and a long, fearsome dagger.
Angus’ father removed his helmet and shook out his flaming red hair.
“Grandfather!” Turlough strode forward, a look of relief on his face. “I knew you would not fail me.” The would-be King of Tirconnell had dark coloring like his mother, his hair worn long to his shoulders. But he dressed more like his Irish kin, his tunic embroidered in Celtic design.
Angus’ father laid a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “I’d not see your inheritance denied you, lad.” The relationship was one of long standing as Turlough’s father had fostered with Angus Mor’s father, Donald.
Turlough smiled at Angus and John. “Greetings, Uncles.” Then he acknowledged Duncan with a nod, for he was also kin. Looking past them to the Islesmen that filled the woods, Turlough said, “You have many with you.”
“More than a thousand,” said Angus’ father.
Turlough nodded. “It will be enough. Aodh cannot have more than seven hundred. As you can see,” he gestured behind him, “many stand with me.” Behind Turlough stood several hundred men. “I like to think ’tis because they favor me as their king but it could be due to their knowledge the Lord of the Isles has come to enforce the bargain made long ago.”
“Is your mother well?” Angus’ father inquired.
“Aye, though she is in hiding at the moment and much concerned. We had hoped Aodh would agree to our request that he step aside. He has long known the way it was to be. Alas, our pleas went ignored. I took to the forest after that, expecting to be slain. If today goes well, you must see Mother before you leave.”
“I will. But first, we will dispatch this man who would disregard the old king’s pledge.”
Angus Mor beckoned his captains to him and Turlough gestured toward a clearing where a small table had been set upon the grass. As they walked to it, Angus saw a parchment had been placed on the table and held down with rocks.
“I have drawn the land and the water,” said Turlough. “My spies tell me Aodh’s forces are camped north of us along the River Eske.” He used the tip of his dagger to trace the path of the river north. “I think we can take them here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the east bank of the river. “We’ll have the high ground.”
“I cannot argue with your strategy,” said Angus’ father, studying the drawing.
