Read on for an excerpt from
The Hawk
by Monica McCarty
Published by Ballantine Books
Rathlin Sound, off the North Coast of Ireland
Candlemas, February 2, 1307
Erik MacSorley never could resist a challenge, even an unspoken one. One glimpse at the fishing boat being pursued by the English galley, and he knew tonight would be no different.
What he should do was ignore it and continue on his mission, slipping undetected past the English patrol ship on his way to Dunluce Castle to meet with the Irish mercenaries.
But what fun would there be in that?
After four months of hiding and hopping from island to island with nothing more than a brief foray to the mainland to collect Bruce’s rents and the occasional reconnaissance mission, Erik and his men deserved a wee bit of excitement.
He’d been as good as a monk at Lent, (except for the lasses, but Erik sure as hell hadn’t taken a vow of chastity when he joined Bruce’s Highland Guard) staying out of trouble and exercising unnatural restraint the few times he’d been called to action since the storm and their escape from Dunaverty. But with Devil’s Point within pissing distance, a high tide, and a strong wind at his back, it was too tempting an opportunity to let go by.
At nine and twenty, Erik had yet to meet a wind he could not harness, a man who could best him on or in the water, a boat he could not outmaneuver, or, he thought with a satisfied grin, a woman who could resist him.
Tonight would be no different. The heavy mist made it a perfect night for a race, especially since he could navigate the treacherous coast of Antrim blind.
They’d just skirted around the northwest corner of Rathlin Island on their way south to Dunluce Castle on the northern coast of Ireland, when they caught sight of the patrol boat near Ballentoy Head. Ever since the English had taken Dunaverty castle earlier this month and realized Bruce had fled Scotland, the English fleet had increased their patrols in the North Channel looking for the fugitive king.
But Erik didn’t like seeing a patrol boat this close to his destination. The best way to ensure the English didn’t interfere with his plans was to put them someplace they couldn’t give him any trouble. Besides, from the looks of it, the fishermen could use a little help.
English bastards. The treacherous murder of MacLeod’s clansmen was still fresh in his mind. And they called him a pirate.
He gave the order to raise the sail.
“What are you doing?” Sir Thomas Randolph sputtered in a hushed voice. “They’ll see us.”
Erik sighed and shook his head. Bruce owed him. Acting nursemaid to the king’s pompous nephew was not what he’d signed up for. The king might have to add a castle or two to the land in Kintyre he’d promised to restore to him, when Bruce reclaimed his crown and kicked Edward’s longshanks back to England.
Randolph was so steeped in the code of chivalry and his knightly “duties” that he made Alex Seton—the sole knight (and Englishman) among the elite Highland Guard—seem lax. After two months of “training” Randolph, Erik had new respect for Seton’s partner Robbie Boyd. Erik had heard enough about rules and honor to last him a bloody lifetime. Randolph was beginning to wear on even his notoriously easy going nature.
Erik arched a brow with exaggerated laziness. “That’s rather the point if we’re going to draw them away.”
“But damn it, Hawk, what if they catch us?” Randolph said, calling Erik by his nom de guerre—his war name.
When on a mission, war names were used to protect the identities of the Highland Guard, but as a seafarer Erik had no choice but to involve others. He needed men to man the oars and with the other members of the Highland Guard scattered, he’d turned to his own MacSorley clansmen. The handful of men who’d accompanied Erik on this secret mission were his most trusted kinsmen and members of his personal retinue. They would keep his secret.
Thus far, the infamous “Hawk” sail had not been connected with the rumors spreading across the countryside of Bruce’s phantom army, but he knew that could change at any moment.
The oarsmen in hearing distance of Randolph laughed outright at the absurdity.
“I haven’t lost a race in …” Erik turned questioningly to his second-in-command, Domnall, who shrugged.
“Hell if I know, Captain.”
“See there,” Erik said to Randolph with an easy grin. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“But what about the gold?” the young knight said stubbornly. “We can’t risk the English getting their hands on it.”
The gold that they carried was needed to secure the mercenaries. It had been collected over the winter months from Bruce’s rents in Scotland by small scouting parties led by Gregor MacGregor, a member of the Highland Guard known as “Arrow” for his extraordinary prowess with a bow. The nighttime forays had only added to the growing rumors of Bruce’s phantom guard. MacSorley and some of other guardsmen had been able to slip in and out of Scotland undetected thanks to key intelligence leaked from the enemy camp. Erik suspected he knew the source.
Bruce hoped to triple the size of his force with mercenaries. Without the additional forces the king would be unable to mount an attack on the English garrisons occupying Scotland’s castles and take back his kingdom.
Last month, MacLean and Lamont—two members of the Highland Guard—had been sent to Ireland with two of Bruce’s four brothers to begin recruiting soldiers. Erik had stayed with MacLeod and MacGregor to protect the king. But now, with the night of the attack approaching, Bruce was counting on him to secure the mercenaries and get them past the English fleet to Arran by mid-February.
“Relax, Tommy, lad,” Erik said, knowing full well that the nobleman with the sword firmly wedged up his arse would only be antagonized further by the admonition. “You sound like an old woman. The only thing they’ll catch is our wake.”
Randolph’s mouth pursed so tightly his lips turned white, in stark contrast to his flushed face. “It’s Thomas,” he growled, “Sir Thomas, as you bloody well know. Our orders were to secure the mercenaries and arrange for them to join my uncle, without alerting the English patrols to our presence.”
It wasn’t quite that simple, but only a handful of people knew the entire plan.
It was safer that way. For Bruce to have any chance against the formidable English army, it was imperative that they have surprise on their side. After years of serving as a gallowglass mercenary for his cousin, Angus Og MacDonald, King of the Isles, in Ireland, Erik knew that it was wise to be cautious with information. Coin was the only loyalty most mercenaries honored, and the McQuillans were a rough lot—to put it mildly.
Erik would not trust them with the details of their plan until he had to, including both the location of the rendezvous with Bruce and when and where they planned to attack. He would arrange to meet the Irish two nights before the attack, and then personally escort them to Rathlin to rendezvous with Bruce to assemble the army. The next night Erik would lead the entire fleet to Isle of Arran, where Bruce planned to launch the northern attack on the Scottish mainland set for February 15.
The timing was imperative: the king planned to attack at Turnberry while his brothers led a second attack on the same day in the south at Galloway.
With the timing so tight, and since they could only travel at night, there was no margin for error.
Nothing would interfere with his mission. Having a little fun with the English wasn’t going to change that.
“It’s reckless,” Randolph protested angrily.
Erik’s shook his head. The lad really was hopeless. “Now, Tommy, don’t go throwing around words you don’t understand. You wouldn’t know reckless if it came up and bit you in the arse. It’s only reckless if there is a chance they’ll catch us, which—as you’ve already heard—they won’t.”
His men hoisted the square sail. The heavy wool fibers of the cloth coated with animal fat unfurled with a loud snap in the wind, revealing the fearsome black sea hawk on a white-and-gold-striped background. The sight never ceased to get his blood pumping.
A few moments later he heard a cry go up across the water. Erik turned to his disapproving companion with an unrepentant grin. “Looks like it’s too late, lad. They’ve spotted us.” He took the two guide ropes in his hands, braced himself for the gust of wind, and shouted to his men, “Let’s give the English dogs something other than their tails to chase. To Benbane, lads.”
The men laughed at the jest. To an Englishman “tail” was a hated slur. Bloody cowards.
The sail filled with wind, and the birlinn started to fly, soaring over the waves like a bird in flight, giving proof to the Hawk namesake emblazoned on the sail and carved into the prow of his boat.
The faster they flew, the faster the blood surged through his veins. His muscles strained, pumping with raw energy, holding the boat at a sharp angle to the water. The wind ripped through his hair, sprayed his face, and filled his lungs like an elixir. The rush was incredible—elemental. Freedom in it’s most pure form.
He felt alive—invincible—knowing that he’d been born for this.
For the next few minutes the men were silent as Erik maneuvered the boat into position, heading strait for Benbane Head, the northernmost point of Antrim. His clansmen knew him well enough to know what he planned. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken advantage of a high tide and treacherous rocks.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he could see that his ploy had worked. The English patrol had forgotten all about the fishermen and were giving chase.
“Faster,” Randolph shouted above the roar of the wind. “They’re gaining on us.”
The lad certainly knew how to put a damper on a good time. But grudgingly, Erik had to admit, that the English galley was closer than he expected. The captain had some skill—and some luck. The Englishman had taken advantage of a gust of wind, one even stronger than the one Erik had tapped into, and was augmenting their speed with their oarsmen. Erik’s oars were silent. He would need them later.
A little English luck didn’t worry him overmuch—even a blind squirrel found an acorn once in a while.
“That’s the idea, Tommy. I want them close enough to lead them into the rocks.”
Devil’s Point was a promontory that jutted out like a rocky finger from the coastline just west of Benbane Head on the far north coast of Ireland. At high tide the rocky reef would be invisible until it was too late. The trick would be to get the English between him and land, so it wasn’t his boat that was torn apart by the jagged rocks. At the last minute Erik would let them catch up, and then turn sharply west, holding course just past the edge of the rock while leading the English right to the Devil.
It was just the kind of deft maneuvering that he could do it in his sleep.
“Rocks?” Randolph said, his voice taking on a frantic edge. “But how can you see anything in this mist.”
Erik sighed. If the lad didn’t learn to relax, his heart was going to give out before he reached three and twenty. “I can see all I need to. Have a little faith, my fearless young knight.”
The dramatic high cliffs of the headland came into view ahead of them. On a clear day the majestic dark walls topped with emerald green hillsides took your breath away, but tonight the looming shadows looked menacing and haunting.
He looked back over his shoulder again and cocked an eyebrow, a hint of admiration coming into his gaze. The English dog wasn’t half-bad. In fact, he was good enough to throw off Erik’s timing. Running parallel to the shore wasn’t going to work, he was going to have to lead them straight in and turn—directly into the wind—at the last minute.
The English captain might be good …
But Erik was better.
A broad smile curved his mouth. This was going to be more fun than he’d anticipated.
With his cousin, Lachlan MacRuairi, off on a mission, and Tor “Chief” MacLeod land-bound as personal bodyguard to the king, it had been some time since Erik had tasted any real competition. About the last place he expected to find it was with an Englishman.
It was too dark and misty to see the precise edge of the shoreline, but Erik knew they were getting close. He could feel it. Blood pumped faster through his veins as he anticipated the danger of the next few moments. If anything went wrong or if he were off at all in his calculations, the English wouldn’t be the only ones swimming to shore.
He turned to Domnall who manned the rudder fixed at the stern. “Now!” he ordered the tack from port to starboard. “Come about and let’s send these English bastards straight to the Devil.”
The men responded with an enthusiastic roar.
Moments later the sail fluttered and the boat jerked hard to the starboard side: Devil’s point straight ahead.
He heard the hard snap of the sail behind him as the English followed suit, managing the sudden tack with ease.
They were right behind them, nearing firing range for their longbows.
Almost time …
“Stop in the name of Edward, by the Grace of God, King of England,” a voice from behind shouted in English.
“I serve no king but Bruce,” Erik replied in Gaelic. “Airson an Leomhann!” He shouted the battle cry of the Highland Guard: For the Lion.
The cacaphony of voices behind him suggested that someone understood what he said. “Traitors!” a shout rose up.
But Erik payed them no mind, his attention completely focused on the narrow stretch of black sea visible ahead of him.
The air on the boat was thick with tension. Not much farther now. A few hundred feet. He eyed the cliffs on the shore to his left, looking for the jagged peak that marked his reference point, but the mist made it difficult to see.
Blind.
His men squirmed a little anxiously in their seats, hands ready at the oars, anticipating his order.
“What happening?” Randolph asked in a high voice, reading the tension.
“Steady, lads,” he said, ignoring the knight. “Almost there …”
Erik’s heart pounded in his chest—strong and steady. Now came the true test of nerves. God, he loved this! Every instinct flared at the oncoming danger, clammoring to turn, but he didn’t flinch. Not yet …
A few more feet would ensure that the English captain—skilled or nay—didn’t escape the rocky bed Erik had waiting for him.
He was just about to give the order when disaster struck. A rogue wave rose out of the darkness like the jaws of a serpent and crashed against the starboard side of the birlinn, pushing them closer to shore, adding another twenty feet to his precisely timed manueuver around the point.
He swore, holding tight to the ropes of the sails. The rocks were too close. He could see the telltale white ribbons of water breaking around the very tip of the submerged peaks.
He didn’t have room for the agile turn around them that he’d planned. His only chance now to make it around them was a very risky maneuver directly into the wind.
Now this was really getting interesting. His pulse spiked with excitement. He lived for moments like these, a true test of skill and nerve.
“Now!” he shouted. “Pull hard, lads.” Domnall made the adjustment with the rudder, the men plunged in their oars at a sharp angle to turn, and Erik fought to keep the sail beating as close to the wind as possible to help carry them out of harms way.
He heard the raised voices on the ship behind him, but was too focused on the almost impossible task before him. The sea and momentum fought to pull them toward the rocks not ten feet to the port side. The men rowed harder, using every last ounce of their conserved energy. Energy the English rowers did not have.
The tip of the boat nudged just beyond the edge of the rocky point.
Only a few more feet …
But the rocks on his left kept getting closer—and bigger—as the birlinn carreened toward disaster. He could hear Randlolph alternatively cursing and praying, but he never broke his focus. “Harder,” he shouted to his men, his arms flexed and burning with the strain of manning the ropes. “Almost around …”
He held his breath as the boat edged past the tip of the point, his senses honed on the sounds below the waterline. Then he heard the soft screech. The unmistakable sound of rock scraping against oak would strike terror in the heart’s of most seafarers, but Erik held steady. The sound continued for a few more seconds, but did not deepen. They were around.
A big grin spread across his face. Ah, that was something! More excitement than he’d had in years. “We did it, lads!”
A cheer went up. A cheer that grew louder when they heard a cry of alarm go up behind him, followed by a deafening crash as the English boat smashed into the rocks.
Handing the two guide ropes to one of his men, he jumped up on a wooden chest that served as a bench and was rewarded with a clear view of the English sailors scrambling for the safety on the very rocks that had just torn apart their boat. Their curses carried toward him in the wind.
He bowed with a dramatic flourish of his hand. “Give my regards to Eddie, lads.”
The fresh wave of cursing that answered him only made him laugh harder.
He jumped back down and cuffed Randolph on the back. The poor lad looked a bit green. “Now that was risky.”
The young knight looked at him with a mixture of admiration and incredulity. “You’ve the Devil’s own luck, Hawk. But one day it’s going to run out.”
“Aye, perhaps you are right,” Erik gave him a conspiratorial wink, “but not tonight.”
Or so he thought.