Page 129 of The Speed of Lightning
Freya tried to push herself up, her head heavy and swimming. “Please… please… I’m sorry, Your Grace. I am sorry.”
Rory kicked her again, and she collapsed to the floor with a cry. “Aye. And she’s cheated me of a wife. I was promised a bride.”
The Wolf strode across the room, shoving Aoife toward Rory. “This one is passable enough. Take her and shut your gob. You’ve got your lands and your bride in exchange for your loyalty. Get out.”
Aoife screamed as Rory gripped her. “No! Please, no! I cannae leave my father and brothers, my home.”
Rory pressed a hand over her mouth, frustration flickering across his face. “What are you on about? We had a bargain, Stewart. I was supposed to sit on your council. That was part of the deal.”
Stewart made a wry laugh. “You are the most bungling intelligencer I’ve ever paid. That any of this has come to fruition is astonishing. Get out of my sight before I rip this charter to shreds and take Garmoran for myself.”
Aoife kicked, screamed, and bucked as Rory hauled her toward the door. Freya sobbed, sickened and heartbroken, as she disappeared down the hall.
The king’s gaze swept over Freya and then the men surrounding him. “You have heard the case brought against Freya MacLean and Cota Liath. What say you, Abbot of Iona?”
The thin, oily Abbot nodded, his eyes gleaming. “Death, for high treason and their crimes against the people of the Isles.”
“Council?”
Each of the men in the seats nodded in agreement.
King Dómhnall grunted. “For the crime of high treason—Freya MacLean and Cota Liath, you are both hereby sentenced to death. Your heads to be separated from your bodies by axe. Take them to the dungeon.”
Chapter 38
DUART CASTLE - MARCH 12, 1387
Calum and his Spirithorde crossed the auld courtyard of Duart Castle. Clang and clatter thickened the air. Men rushed between barracks and stores—strapping on mail, sharpening blades, cramming provisions into packs. The whole fortress was bristling, a war-beast straining at its leash. The plan was unspoken, but every man knew: the first strike of the War of the Isles was near.
At the far side of the keep he spotted Iain. The wiry seaman raised a hand, then halted, staring as if he scarcely believed the man before him. A flicker passed across his face as he approached. “Och. I’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten what?”
“How I dreaded going down a narrow wall walk wi’ you at my back.”
Calum rolled his eyes. “Has Hector arrived?”
“Aye, he’s in there.” Iain nodded toward the officers’ barracks. “An’ good tidings from Moy—Cara’s fever broke last night. Ursula says her shoulder blade’ll need time tae mend, but she’s already wantin’ out o’ bed tae chase the bairns.”
“And Angus?”
The grin slipped from Iain’s face. “Nae so fine. He bled heavy. They’ve stitched him, but he’s weak still. The mend’ll no’ come easy. I fear he’s out for months yet. Come oan, best we see Hector.”
The officers’ hall was small and dark, lamplight gleaming off helms stacked against the wall. A broad map stretched across the long table, stones and daggers marking routes. The team hunched over the map, each searching it for answers, as though sheer will and shared memory could force the puzzle to yield.
John Mór’s brow furrowed. “I’m no strategist, but northeast—here—may be the better entry. Longer march, aye, but those northern lands are Lachlan’s. The guard are better acquainted with the terrain.”
Hector traced the coastline with a finger. “Iain, we’re weighing Loch Sunart. What do you know of the depths off Glencripesdale—” His eyes lifted, then stopped cold.
The room went still. Every head turned Calum’s way.
Birdy’s eyes blinked rapidly, her cheeks flaming as she signed.Lightning?
“Aye?”
She looked gobsmacked.Dear faeries—you’re…handsome.Exceedingly handsome.
Léo narrowed his eyes at her. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
