Changing Course
Five days later, Kyla looked to the top of the mast, relieved to see the southwesterly wind fill the birlinn’s sails as they entered the wide mouth of the Solway. It would give the rowers a much-needed rest after the long, and sometimes difficult journey.
The crew cheered, many doffing their woolen caps to her. She appreciated that they recognized she’d brought them safely through some challenging seas. Pride in her maritime heritage filled her heart.
However, she was anxious for the voyage to end, despite her love of the sea. Corbin had ceased his suggestive comments and kept mostly to himself, confirming her suspicion he was hiding something. However, he hadn’t stopped watching her with a strange glint in his gray eyes that sent shivers of apprehension up her spine.
She found him increasingly repulsive and had already reiterated her father’s instructions to the crew that she never be left alone with him. Once the cargo had been unloaded in Annan and the return goods taken on board, they could be on their way back home. She doubted Corbin would lend a hand with the laborious tasks of loading and unloading that awaited them. In any event, she was prepared to follow her father’s advice and lodge a complaint to the Warden of the Solway if the promised trade goods didn’t materialize.
She’d tied her hair in the usual queue, but the buffeting wind muffled sound. Lulled into inattention by the warmth of the sun on her face, she didn’t hear Corbin approach until he was standing next to her at the prow, his hand on her elbow.
She looked up at him sharply, annoyed she’d allowed him to take her by surprise.
“Just helping you stay upright,” he teased with a tight smile.
She didn’t require his help to keep her balance on a ship, but tolerated his support for a short while, confident the crew would come to her aid if necessary.
“We’ll sight Southerness Point at the end of yon sands,” he eventually shouted over the wind. “The Firth narrows and you’ll see England across the water.”
She squinted into the distance. “Miles away.”
“Give the order to change course to the northeast once we pass Southerness,” he said gruffly.
Her hackles rose. “But that will take us to England.”
“Bowness, to be precise,” he smirked. “Closer to Carlisle.”
She yanked her arm from his grasp. “I’ll nay take my father’s galley into English waters,” she yelled, tempted to add that a voyage to the Lowlands was risky enough.
“You’ll do as I say,” he replied menacingly, “or the journey will have been for naught. England and Scotland are one realm now that James sits on the throne. In any case, we must turn away from the estuary of the Nith.”
This might have been a good opportunity to expound on her father’s opinion of the union of the two crowns, but the matter of a course change was more important. “Why?”
“It’s Maxwell territory. I don’t want that cursed clan meddling in my business.”
The man was evidently living in the past. “Why would they do that?”
“Broderick Maxwell’s been appointed Warden of the Solway.”
Wondering vaguely if he had some other motive for avoiding the Warden, she scanned the vast expanse of choppy sea ahead, dotted with numerous vessels going in both directions. “He canna possibly police every ship that plies these waters.”
Corbin clenched his jaw. “Notwithstanding, we’ll change course at Southerness Point and, no matter what happens, you’ll maintain that heading.”
*
“’Tis impossible to search every vessel entering the Firth,” Broderick admitted to Aiglon.
The eagle squawked agreement from her perch next to where he stood at the prow of his galley. She opened her wings and let the stiff breeze lift her as much as the jesses would allow; she, too, loved the sea. She was his token figurehead since the original one had been removed and replaced with a small saker cannon. He’d even renamed the vessel Iolaire. The Gaelic seemed more suitable than the English Eagle.
Usually the threat of cannon fire was sufficient to convince most vessels to allow his crew to board, but the two expert gunners had been obliged to shoot across a couple of bows.
Intrigued by reports from his falconer that Corbin Lochwood was headed home from the Isles, he’d patrolled the coast south of Caerlochnaven Castle every day. “He’s reportedly carrying cloth and hides, but I wouldna put it past him to include contraband,” he mused aloud to his captain. “’Tis in his nature.”
Delft agreed. “I suspect we’re watching for a vessel that suddenly changes course at the Point.”
“Likely a birlinn if they’re coming from the Hebrides.”
They patrolled the waters to the south for another hour. Broderick began to doubt the validity of his desire to intercept Lochwood. Was he really motivated by the responsibility to make sure peace reigned in the Borderlands, or was it a long-standing hatred for the enemy gnawing at his innards? Perhaps he was as much at the mercy of his thirst for revenge as his late father.
“Birlinn sighted, my laird,” the lookout called from the top of the mast. “They’re changing course for England off Southerness.”
Broderick’s gut churned. An inner voice told him Lochwood was aboard the vessel and was up to no good. He gritted his teeth. “Set a course to intercept,” he told Delft, “and arm the cannon.”