He escaped into the freedom of a long swim in the sea loch. Since 'twas only September, the saltwater was not overly icy.
When he waded from the water, the chill wind blew over his wet skin, making him feel vibrantly alive. On shore, Dunn shook himself off, spraying water from his bristly fur, while Neacal pulled on his shirt and belted his plaid into place.
After donning his baldric, he picked up his bow and quiver full of arrows. He quickly made his way up the stony hillside toward the round, wool-stuffed plaid target he'd set up at the top, backed by rocks. From here he had an excellent view of the castle and the loch below. Seeing no movement, he focused on the target, some hundred yards away, nocked an arrow and let it fly. Bullseye. Dunn lay patiently nearby while Neacal released a dozen arrows, lining them up in the row of red squares of the plaid.
After collecting his arrows and preparing to shoot again, he noticed a movement from the corner of his eye. He stared down toward the loch. In the distance, four galleys sailed at a brisk pace from the sea toward the castle. Even though the breeze filled the square white sails, the oarsmen rowed as if they were in an all-fired hurry.
"Who the devil is that?" Neacal growled, heading down the hillside.
***
Chief Aonghus MacDonald of Sleat stood upon the oaken galley while the twenty oarsmen rowed it along the calm waters of Loch Moidart. The gray stone walls of Bearach Castle came into view in the distance. He ground his teeth as greed for the well-fortified tower house twisted his gut.
"'Tis a damned fine castle," Sleat told Hamish, his second son, standing beside him. The lad was brawny and an inch or two taller than him.
"Aye." Hamish's black hair blew in the morning breeze and his dark eyes narrowed, focusing on the large structure. At one and twenty, the lad would soon be ready to lead his own clan, while Sleat's eldest son, Rupert, would inherit the Sleat Peninsula.
"It stands in a strategic location, guarding the entrance to Loch Sheil," Sleat said.
Hamish nodded, then glanced around. "I like it here." His calculating gaze reminded Sleat of himself twenty-five years ago. They strongly resembled each other and, if anything, Hamish was even more devious than he was himself.
Sleat grinned. "You'll be a strong chief for this branch of the MacDonalds, son."
"Of course. I'm nay worried about these MacDonalds. I'm more concerned about their new allies, and our neighbors, the MacKenzies. 'Twas only a few weeks ago they cut short our visit to Bearach and kicked us out on our arses."
"Aye, the damnable MacKenzies," Sleat growled. "They'll nay ken anything about it. We're doing naught but generously offering our help to Neacal."
Several weeks ago, the former MacDonald chief—also Neacal's older brother—Elrick, had taken Chief MacKenzie's brother hostage. Instead of paying the steep ransom Elrick so desperately coveted, the MacKenzies had killed Elrick along with many in the clan during a siege.
'Twas all before Neacal had arrived and taken over as chief.
"My man on the inside says the MacKenzies left a fortnight ago," Sleat said. "Taking that witch Maili with them."
Hamish smirked. "I ken you wanted to marry that bonny young witch, Da."
Sleat shrugged. "Ba! Who needs her?" He didn't want a lass distracting him from his ambitions for his sons.
His spy inside Bearach was starting rumors and whispers among the clan and servants about their new chief. Soon, no one would support Neacal. 'Twould be easy to overthrow him, for most of the clan already believed him mad and unfit to lead them.
Once Sleat and his men neared the small island upon which Bearach Castle sat, his clansmen jumped into the shallows and dragged the galley onto the wet sand. The other three galleys followed. Sleat leapt onto the packed sand and they hastened up the rocky bank toward the portcullis. Glancing up, he admired the strong walls of the keep. One day soon, it would be theirs. Of a certainty, Neacal was not an acceptable chief for this branch of the MacDonalds, even if he was the former chief's son. This clan would thank Sleat soon enough for finding a fitting chief for them.
***
"What the hell does Sleat want?" Neacal growled, striding across the damp sand toward the castle, Dunn following. Sleat was no better than a common criminal and had tried to rape Neacal's sister, Maili, only weeks ago. Despite Sleat being a MacDonald, and a very distant cousin, Neacal trusted the bastard about as much as he trusted a viper.
Neacal arrived to stand before the portcullis as Sleat and his men leapt off their galleys and climbed the sloping rocky bank from the shore.
"The chief has returned!" guards inside the walls shouted. He frowned, glancing around. Had the clan truly been that concerned over his absence? He couldn't get used to dozens of people knowing his every move.
Moments later, around fifteen of his guards and clansmen moved in behind him. He nodded his thanks, though he did not mind facing Sleat and his followers alone. He counted over three dozen of Sleat's men, but was not concerned about being outnumbered. More men would rush from inside the walls if this turned into a skirmish.
"What do you want, Sleat?" Neacal demanded.
The man paused ten feet away, breathing hard, his smirk almost hidden by his blackish gray beard. His dark eyes communicated his malice clearly enough. "Is that any way to greet a cousin?"
Dunn growled, though he didn't move from his steadfast position beside Neacal's leg.
"'Tis the way I greet the man who attempted to rape my sister. You're not welcome here."
