Page 68 of The Speed of Lightning
Chapter 18
MOY CASTLE, LOCHBUIE - NOVEMBER 15, 1386
Three days later, Calum descended the spiraling staircase at Moy, a nagging dread dogging every step. He could not shake the sense that something terrible was about to happen.
His pleas to Hector—and to every man of the Shield—that his father had only meant to help had met with nothing but outrage. To explain why his father had done the unthinkable meant recounting the centuries-old feud within Jura, Somerled’s takeover, the fractured lines of Picts and Norse. Each attempt left him sounding like a madman delivering some tangled, tedious lecture. Even he did not fully understand it. Only Murdoch, who had lived on Jura and seen it with his own eyes, had stood beside him.
And then, last night, everything had turned worse.
At the end of yet another fruitless argument—Calum begging them to reconsider turning his father and Freya over to the king—a rider came from Ardtornish with a sealed missive.
King John was dead. And had been dead more than two weeks.
The kingdom had not passed to the rightful heir, John Mór, but had been stolen in an act of treachery by Dómhnall, the younger and more unpredictable son. His first decree struck like a hammer: Hector stripped of his command as war chief, the armies of the Isles stood down, the Shield disbanded forever, and Hector himself banished from the Council. At the bottom came the final warning—any further act of war against the Stewarts would be judged high treason, punishable by death.
Feeling unsteady, Calum walked the long corridor beside the great hall and halted before the heavy oak door carved with an axe flanked by laurel and cypress, the mark of Hector. He studied the emblem and whispered a prayer that God would protect them, restore the mission they had fought for three long years, and soften his team’s anger toward his father and Freya. He needed them now, if not to fight the Wolf, then to hunt the fiend stalking his wife.
A gust of icy wind slipped through the lancet window, lifting the furs and stinging his face. With a hard knot in his gut, he rapped once on the door.
Hector’s deep, growling brogue spoke from the other side of the door. “Enter.”
The members of the Shield gathered around the large table in Hector’s solar all in various degrees of lingering depression. Every man looked haunted, all too familiar with what the Wolf could accomplish unchecked. This wasn’t just a setback, it was disastrous.
From his position between Hector and Léo, John Mór looked like a child dwarfed by two giants, yet he sat with the same grace and noble bearing of his father. His expression grim, but not hopeless.
“Tànaiste MacLean,” Mór said, giving him a nod. “Thank you for joining us.”
Calum nodded. “I’m sorry I’m late, I was at the treasury. My father asked for a count of the clan’s funds from harvest.”
It was busy work. The kind of task that would keep him occupied and away from everyone else on the team. He could hardly meet the eyes of his comrades, outrage simmering that in his hour of need they had refused him. How many times had he ridden into battle for them? How often had he taken on a mission without hesitation or question? Could they not grant him the same courtesy now?
He scanned the table, weary of yet another fruitless fight with his team. Only Birdy met his eyes with a smile, fingers flicking a small sign—Can we talk later, Lightning?
He yanked his chair out and answered with a brief sign of his own.Fine.
Mór cleared his throat, picking up where Calum had interrupted. “Mhairi sent word weeks ago that Father was ill, but the rider claimed he was lost on the road to Scone. By the time I arrived, Father had been dead nearly a fortnight. I’ve been banned from Ardtornish and Findlugan. My lands seized. If not for Mhairi and Lachlan, I’d have no roof over my head. Dómhnall is as crafty as he’s ever been.”
Hector slid a missive across the table. “I drafted this last night. Can we call the chiefs to meet in secret? If we pledge our fealty to you as the true king, the Shield may yet stand. Dómhnall has withdrawn all forces from the Isle of Man and the surrounding waters. The Wolf will move the moment he can. We are in danger.”
Mór dragged a hand through his dark hair. “Four clans have already pledged to my brother. That is half the council. They are weary—the cost, the casualties. That is how Dómhnall took the throne. He wants no war with Scotland. From this point, raids, patrols, any operation at all are forbidden.”
David gave a low grunt. “First time I’ve been glad to be in Scotland instead of the Isles. Highlanders would never stomach that rot.”
Mór looked amused. “Not beholden when the King of Scotland instructs you?”
“He cansuggestwhat he likes. My duty is to my clan and the people under my protection.”
Birdy signed to Mór, her blond eyebrows raising as she gesticulated. Léo made a face and scratched the back of his neck with a finger. “She says there’s no reason for us to stop our observation of the Wolf’s movements.”
Mór shook his head. “I admire the courage. But think what happens if you’re caught slipping through enemy camps. What lesson would Dómhnall teach your husband’s clan then? Fingon still lives, and Dómhnall never misses a chance to make an example.”
Birdy’s aqua eyes iced over. She signed a sharp retort without mouthing the words, and a few of the men snorted into their cups. Hector scowled, shaking his head at her.
Mór frowned. “What did she say?”
Léo cleared his throat. “Something unladylike.”
Birdy crossed her arms and dropped into her chair beside Iain, the two of them snapping signs back and forth like sparks.
