CHAPTER 48
Rory and his thirty chosen men boarded the birlinn, a Highland longboat that was fast and sleek, on the MacKenzie side of Beauly of Firth and under the watchful eyes of Hector and a hundred of his men.
Hector would have men farther up the shore watching to make sure their boat passed by, but it would soon be too dark for anyone watching from the shore to see their sail. Rory had asked for a few hours to allow his men to bid goodbye to their loved ones and prepare for the journey, which ensured their departure would be near dusk.
They sailed through the night for an hour. When they were near Avoch, Alex’s parish, Rory ordered the sail dropped. The men rowed toward the shore, the birlinn cutting silently through the water like a hot knife through butter.
A night fog had rolled in, hiding the shore. Rory tensed, ready to give the order to reverse oars if they were met by Hector’s men.
But all was quiet. Without a word, he and his men slipped over the sides of the boat and hauled it onto the shore. He did not relax until Alex emerged from the fog.
“I’m glad to see you, Brother,” Alex said, putting an arm around Rory’s shoulders. “The horses are tied just behind that rise.”
Rory was not pleased when he saw Sybil. “You were supposed to stay at Alex’s house.”
“I’m going with you.” She rose on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “I want to be there to see it finished.”
“I want ye in a safe place,” he said. “Whether I succeed or no, this will not be a pleasant sight.”
“I need to be there, and I’ve earned the right,” she said with that stubborn look. “Years from now, I want to tell our children and grandchildren that I saw it with my own eyes.”
Rory heaved a sigh. He suspected he’d have to tie her down to keep her from following. “All right, so long as ye promise to stay well back.”
It felt good to have Sybil riding behind him on Curan across the fields. He and most of the thirty men had grown up in this part of MacKenzie lands and knew the trails well enough to ride them at night.
Rory’s plan depended on his uncle’s confidence in his victory. He was counting on his uncle relaxing his guard while he celebrated—and on Hector not discovering Duncan’s body. If they arrived to find a hundred sober men posted around the tower house, this would not go well.
They dismounted and left their horses a quarter mile from Fairburn Tower. While the others waited, Rory and a couple of his men sneaked through the wood to the edge of the clearing around the tower house. Boisterous laughter and drunken songs drifted from inside. A few men, who should have been watching the parameter, stood outside the door passing a jug and talking in loud voices.
His plan just might work. By the time Rory rejoined his men, they had a small fire going.
“Remember,” he cautioned them, “silent as the dead.”
At his signal, each man picked up a burning stick from the fire or one of the iron pots of oily tar they had brought with them.
“You can come to the edge of the wood with us, but no farther,” Rory said, holding Sybil by the shoulders. “At the first sign of trouble, you run back to the horses and ride as fast as ye can to Avoch.”
“Aye,” she said, though not as convincingly as he would have liked.
He kissed her hard. “Do as I said.”
Rory stood before his men, raised his sword high, and gave the MacKenzie battle cry in a loud whisper. “Tùlach Àrd!”
“Tùlach Àrd!” the others said in unison, and they started through the wood.
When they reached the edge of the clearing, Rory made the sound of the morning dove, whoo-whoo whoo-whoo, and the men dipped their arrows in the tar mixture.
Whoo-whoo whoo-whoo, he signaled a second time, and they lit the ends of their arrows. All along the edge of the clearing he saw the small bursts of flame.
Whoo-whoo. He gave the final signal, took aim, and thirty flaming arrows shot through the night sky. A handful of his men ran to the door to hold it shut, while others subdued the drunken guards, and the rest of them continued shooting flaming arrows.
As he watched the roof catch fire and burn bright against the night sky, Rory was taken back to the night Killin burned. He could feel Sybil’s limp body in his arms, the floor burning his feet, and the smoke choking his lungs as he kicked at the shutters that were nailed shut.
He had vowed revenge for that night, and he would have it now.
The first shouts and cries of alarm reached him through the crackle of the fire. Men inside began pounding on the door to get out. Rory was unmoved. He remembered the heads of the Munro dead in the holy well. Hector and his men deserved their fate. When a woman’s scream pierced the night, however, he realized there were innocents inside as well.
“Send out your women and children!” he shouted up at the windows. “They will not be harmed!”
His men opened the door and stood guard on either side of the doorway with their swords drawn, ready to cut down any man who attempted to escape with the handful of terrified women who ran out, some of them holding children. When the last one escaped the fire, he signaled for the door to be closed again.
Hector’s men called out from the windows, begging for mercy. In the light of the flames, Rory could see the growing unease of the faces of his men. He reminded himself that Hector’s men had refused to pledge their loyalty to their rightful chieftain, and they were responsible for many misdeeds that endangered the clan.
“These are our clansmen,” Alex said beside him.
“They don’t deserve mercy,” Rory said.
“Mercy is for the undeserving,” Alex said.
“Our father and grandfather were great chieftains, and ye know damned well neither of them would have spared men who rebelled against them.”
He glanced at Sybil, who had come out from the woods to comfort the women and children. She wanted to tell their own children and grandchildren the story of how he had outwitted his uncle, but this was not the story she would be proud to tell them.
And in his heart, he knew she and Alex were right.
“Any man willing to swear his loyalty shall be spared!” he shouted. “Drop your weapons as you come out!”
One after another the warriors streamed out, their faces marked with soot. They dropped their weapons in the growing pile and then dropped to their knees wherever they could find a place. There were so many surrendering that they filled the clearing.
“There must be three hundred of them to our thirty,” Alex said. “You’ve humiliated Hector with such a crushing defeat. Every MacKenzie who has not yet pledged his loyalty will be as anxious to do so.”
Rory had done what he set out to do.
Sybil came to his side and hugged his arm as she looked up him. “I knew ye would succeed!”
The flow of men fleeing the house had finally stopped. He stood with Sybil on his right and his brother on his left, ready to accept the oaths from Hector’s men.
“Where is Hector?” Sybil asked in a low voice.
“He’s chosen to die in the flames rather than face execution for his treachery.” Rory’s pardon did not apply to their leader.
Rory watched the door as a last man stumbled out and fell to his knees.
“Mercy!” he croaked. “By the blood we share, mercy!”
Hector. Rory drew his sword and walked toward his uncle. The heat from the fire was so intense this close to the house that it burned his skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire exploding inside him.
“I pledge my loyalty to you, the one true chieftain of the MacKenzies,” Hector cried out in a voice loud enough for those in the clearing to hear. “And I beg for mercy.”
“I know ye told Buchanan where he could find Brian,” Rory said, leaning close to look his uncle in the eye. “When my brother ran out of that house, did Buchanan show him mercy?”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Hector said, a lie that only fueled Rory’s anger.
“Did ye show Malcolm mercy? Or the Munros?” Rory said. “After all you’ve done to try to destroy me and our clan, how dare ye ask me for mercy.”
“After I’ve sworn my oath to you in front of my men, they’ll never follow me in rebellion again.” Sweat from the searing heat left sooty streaks down Hector’s face. “And ye need me in the west to fight the MacDonalds.”
“You kidnapped my wife and tried to murder my son!” Rory lifted his sword to cut his uncle’s head off.
But Sybil was suddenly beside him and lunged for his arm. He checked his swing and reluctantly let her draw him a few steps away.
“Ye can’t do this.” Her hair swirled around her face from the wind created by the fire. “I know ye want to kill Hector, and he deserves to die. But not now, not like this.”
“Why not?” Rage pulsed through his veins.
“Because you’re not like Hector,” she said. “Because if ye kill him when he’s surrendered and on his knees, it’s murder.”
Rory wanted to see the blood of his uncle on his blade and watch him die. “Then I’ll give him back his sword and let him fight.”
“If ye force him to fight after he’s submitted to your authority, you’ll lose the hearts of the men you’ve just won to your side,” she said. “And what about the MacDonalds? You’ve told me ye need Hector in the west to defend against their attacks.”
Rory clenched his fists in frustration. “I want vengeance!”
“Sometimes a leader must compromise.” She leaned closer to make sure they weren’t overheard. “And sometimes he must bide his time before he reaps vengeance.”
Rory turned back to Hector, who was still on his knees.
“I will let you live, uncle, for now,” he said. “But if you ever disobey me, or give me cause to suspect ye have, I’ll have your head on a spike and feed your body to the pigs.”
Rory laid out his terms for Hector’s surrender in a loud voice for all the men to hear. They included immediately relinquishing possession of Eilean Donan Castle, returning what he had stolen from the clan, and never setting foot in Eastern Ross.
“I accept your terms,” Hector said.
“You were right about one thing,” Sybil said as she leaned over Hector. “The man who can outwit his opponents is the one who ought to be chieftain.”