September 1496
Finlagan Castle, Isle of Islay
Inner Hebrides, Scotland
Rory MacLean stood on the quarterdeck of the Sea Dragon and watched the flames leaping from saw-toothed holes in the walls of Finlagan Castle. His gaze followed the billowing smoke that drifted lazily across the cerulean sky, then returned to the scorched, blackened stones with satisfaction.
It had taken a week of steady pounding from their long-range cannons before they’d breached Finlagan’s barbican. Once inside the outer bailey, they’d stormed the island fortress, cutting down the rebels with great two-handed claymores like wheat before the scythe.
Rory turned from the sight of the smoldering wreckage to glance indifferently at the captives who stood nearby, watching their stronghold burn. Then he met the pale blue eyes of his chief mate. Unlike his cousin, Rory’s own eyes were a deep, dark green. And while Fearchar came close to seven feet in height, Rory stood a mere four inches above the six-foot mark. Though not a giant like his kinsman, he still looked down on most men. And his strength in combat had been proven many times over.
“’Tis done, what we came to do,” Rory said. “Let’s return to Edinburgh and make our report to the king.”
Fearchar MacLean grinned, the wide gap between his front teeth giving him a boyish air despite his sharp, battle-scarred features, fearsome black eye patch, and huge frame. “’Tis done, Captain,” he echoed jubilantly. “And we wouldn’t want these treacherous whoresons to be late for their own hangings, would we?”
The clank of heavy chains brought Rory’s attention back to the two prisoners about to be taken below. Iain Mor, known to the English as Sir John Macdonald, would be turned over to the Prosecutor for the Scottish Crown and tried for treason. His kinsman, Somerled Macdonald, the notorious Red Wolf of Glencoe, would be executed for murder.
Rory met Iain Mor’s gaze, untroubled by the hatred burning in his bleary, deep-set eyes. With a snarl of disgust, the laird of Finlagan Castle spat on the deck. “The King’s Avenger! Pah! May your merciless soul be damned for what you did in this place.”
Neither the sobriquet given him by the Scots people nor Iain Mor’s contempt marred Rory’s sense of accomplishment. He and his half-brothers, Lachlan MacRath and Keir MacNeil, had crushed the rebellion in the South Isles with the ease of a mailed fist smashing a slug.
“The fault for what happened on that island lies at your feet, not mine,” Rory replied. “’Twas you who risked the lives of your family and clansmen to protect a fugitive from the king’s justice. I’ve no pity for traitors.”
Iain Mor’s bearded chin lifted arrogantly. “We fought for the rights of the chieftain of the Glencoe Macdonalds.”
“The Red Wolf has no rights,” Rory told him. “He relinquished them the day he killed Gideon Cameron and ran from the law.”
Despite the irons that bound him, Somerled glowered with the ferocity of a cornered bear. The Red Wolf of Glencoe had a great beak of a nose, shoulders as wide as a yardarm, and a massive chest. Beneath the full gray beard that hid his craggy features, his mouth curved in a taunting smirk. “You’re naught but a landless beggar, MacLean, with no home except this paltry ship. You hope to ease the sting of your shame by destroying the castles of honorable men, but greedy bastards like you aren’t fit to lick a Macdonald’s boots.”
In less than a second, Fearchar’s dirk pressed against Somerled’s throat. “You’ll not talk to The MacLean that way, you miserable worm,” he warned with a low growl, “or I’ll split your gullet easier than filleting a fish.”
Rory laid his hand on his cousin’s arm. “Leave the fellow be,” he said calmly. “Let’s not cheat the king of a legal execution. They’ll both be hanged in due time. Now send them below.”
As the prisoners were led away, Rory gazed across the water at the two warships awaiting his orders. “Signal the others to weigh anchor,” he told his chief mate, then added with a wry smile, “It’s time to show my younger brothers which of us is the finest sailor. We’ll leave both ships floundering in our wake before nightfall.”
Fearchar shook his head, his flaxen hair whipping about in the salty air. “Keir’s got half a league on us already, and he’s carrying the castle’s women and children. With all that caterwauling going on, he’ll be spreading every inch of canvas he’s got. We won’t have a chance to catch the Raven.”
“Damned if I’ll let Keir make port first,” Rory replied with a good-natured laugh. “No one outsails the Sea Dragon, not even my cocksure baby brother.”
The command to get under way sent the nimble-footed seamen scrambling up the ratlines to loose the sails. Nearby, the Sea Hawk returned the Dragon’s signal and prepared to come about. The Black Raven replied from a greater distance, her topgallants already unfurled in the strong breeze.
“Light out to windward!” Rory ordered the helmsman. “Full-and-by!”
The Sea Dragon leaped forward, her sails full and close to the wind.
In tight formation, the three galleons sailed out of the Sound of Islay, heading for the open sea. The full-rigged ships sliced through the gray water in a fiercely competitive race that pitted brother against brother. Sails bulged and boomed as they caught the gusts blowing over the curling whitecaps. Rigging creaked and tall masts shuddered. Each crewman knew his captain would award him an extra fifty crowns, if his vessel reached port first.
Then, after their doomed cargo was discharged and their stores reprovisioned, the three men-of-war, commissioned by James IV to protect Scottish merchantmen from Dutch and English pirates, would set sail for the Continent and the untold booty that awaited them.