The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(6)

“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’d expected. The captain had some skill—and some luck. The Englishman had taken advantage of a gust of wind stronger than the one Erik had tapped into, and was augmenting their speed with his 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 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 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 “Viper” MacRuairi in the north with the women, 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.

The English were right behind them, nearing firing range of 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 cacophony of voices behind him suggested that someone understood what he said. “Traitors!” a shout rose up.

But Erik paid 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 blinding mist made it difficult to see.

Blind, he reminded himself.

His men squirmed a little anxiously in their seats, hands ready at the oars, anticipating his order.

“What’s happening?” Randolph asked in a high voice, reading the tension.

“Steady, lads,” Erik 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, clamoring 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 maneuver 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 that he’d planned. His only chance now to make it around the rocks was a very risky maneuver directly into the wind.