Page 1 of Bound By Honor
CHAPTER 1
Ardtornish Castle, Morvern, Scotland, 19 September 1286
WITH HIS BACK to the stone tower on the rocky shore of Morvern, Angus shielded his eyes from the sun as he watched his father speaking to the captain of his great galley resting on the shore.
To where does Father sail?
No one had told Angus the purpose of his father’s voyage or why his elder brother, Alexander, had arrived from Islay the day before. Yet their whispered conversations before the fire last night told Angus something of significance was in the making.
He had sailed with his father, Angus Mor Macdonald, Lord of the Isles, many times to visit the clans that were a part of the lordship but he did not think this was one of those voyages. As a younger son, he had sometimes been left behind. He had not minded before but he did now, for he sensed this time would be different. This would be important.
At fourteen, Angus was already good with a sword, long-handled sparth axe, bow and spear, taught by his father’s constable, the head of the galloglass warriors. In letters, he had been tutored by his father’s chaplain, Michael Dominici, so that he could read and write in Latin and French. He spoke French sufficiently well to converse with Normans, which was sometimes a necessity when in Ireland.
Surely, he was ready to enter his father’s world. Alex, named for Alexander III, King of Scots, was twenty-six and their father’s heir, but Angus, too, had an interest in matters of state.
As his father began the climb back to the castle, Angus walked down the slope to meet him. “Father, may I ask to where you and Alex sail this day?” Angus half-expected the answer to be Ireland for his father had oft traveled there in recent months.
“Aye, you may,” his father said, stopping in his stride. “We are for Turnberry Castle.”
Turnberry.He had heard his father speak of the Bruce castle in Carrick on Scotland’s western shore but he had never been there. “Might I go with you?”
His father, tall, strong and fierce in his fourth decade, with shoulder-length red hair set aflame by the sun, returned Angus an assessing gaze. Running his hand over his short beard, the Lord of the Isles nodded. “Aye, you are of sufficient years. Though you’ll not attend my meeting with the Lord of Annandale, mind.”
“Might I at least know what will be discussed at the meeting?” Angus was on tenuous ground in asking but he thought his indulgent father might tell him and he was curious to know.
“Scotland’s future, lad. I cannot say more. Now, best tell your mother you are sailing with us. Get your sword and satchel. Bring a change of clothing adequate to be presented to nobility. We will be away for a few days.”
Angus’ spirits soared. “Thank you, sir!”
His father resumed his tread toward the castle, then paused in mid-stride and turned. “As I recall, Robert the Noble, Lord of Annandale, has a grandson your age, another Robert, of course.” He chuckled. “The eldest sons of the Bruces are all Roberts. Mayhap, you and he can keep each other company.”
Like Angus’ father, Robert Bruce, fifth of the name, the old Lord of Annandale, had more than one son and, apparently, more than one grandson. Angus twisted a strand of his copper-tinged light brown hair in his fingers, contemplating this younger Bruce.
He knew from his tutor that since 1266 and the Treaty of Perth, the overlordship of Argyll and the Isles, though never a strong one, had been transferred from Norway to Scotland. And, while his father considered himself a baron of Scotland, control of the Isles was effectively left to his lordship. To think his father was meeting with the Lord of Annandale, a close relative of the King of Scots, who had died only months before, to discuss the future of Scotland was significant indeed.
Just then, his younger brother, John, came running up to him. His hair, the same color as Angus’, flying about his face. “Are you going with Father?”
“Aye,” Angus said, pride in his voice. “To Carrick.”
“You must tell me about it when you return.”
“All right.” They were friends as well as brothers. Angus looked out for John. Wrapping his arm around his brother’s shoulders, they walked back to the castle. “I promise.”
September often brought mild, sun-filled days and Angus was pleased the fair weather held as they sailed south from Morvern. The crew pulled hard at the oars, their chanting providing the rhythm for their rowing, carrying him, his father and Alexander over the deep blue water. With his father’s guard and two men on each of the twenty-six oars, the galley carried nearly sixty souls.
They sailed past Lorne and Knapdale to Dunaverty Castle, a Macdonald fortress on the southern end of the Kintyre Peninsula. Angus’ father had several castles, each located with an eye for defense. It was why their ancestor, Somerled, the first Lord of the Isles, had sited the castles on promontories where enemy ships could be seen from afar.
The sun had already begun its descent, spilling its golden light on the waters of the bay, when they neared the shore beneath Dunaverty Castle. Angus turned to gaze south across the Straits of Moyle. Beneath the sunlit clouds, the long dark shape of Ireland rose in the distance. Ulster, a frequent destination of his father, was a mere twenty miles away.
As the crew beached the galley, his father announced to his captain and crew, “We’ll overnight here and sail to Turnberry early on the morrow.”
Angus gazed up at the rectangular keep rising above the high curtain wall. When he was a young boy, his father had assured him that once the drawbridge was raised, the castle was nearly impregnable. Of all his family’s castles, Angus considered this one the most magnificent.
Turnberry Castle, Carrick, Scotland, 20 September 1286
THE NEXT DAY’S voyage from Dunaverty was a short one, just across the Firth of Clyde to the Scottish mainland. Since his father’s meeting was expected to occur upon their arrival, Angus had dressed in a fine linen tunic and blue woolen surcoat, the steel sword at his side a gift from his father.
As the galley approached the Ayrshire coast, Angus fixed his eyes on the castle coming into view. The great stone edifice rose from the surrounding cliffs and crags as if a part of them. On the shore rested several fine galleys, their pennons bearing the badge of the lords who owned them.
