The boy on the beach with the horses was the first to notice them, and he shouted something to the others, so that within moments everyone was looking up the hill to where Nicol and his young companion were wending their way down. Rob saw row upon row of upturned faces staring at them from the rowing benches on both sides of the galley’s central aisle, but though he was close enough to see the colour of their hair and beards he was still too far away to see any faces clearly. Above the oarsmen, on a platform in the prow, a dozen more men were working around the hoist being used to transfer the animals from the ship to the shore, and six more, besides the boy and his horses, were on the beach, four of them unloading the beasts from the galley, standing up to mid-thigh in the water but soaked to the waist as they waited for the suspended horse to be lowered to them. Their interest in the two newcomers had been brief, little more than a quick glance in response to the boy’s shout, and quickly abandoned in the need to maintain a secure footing among the waves that broke over the submerged stones of the shelving shoreline.
The remaining two men on the shore stood on the pebbled beach above the waterline and were clearly, even at the distance from which Rob first saw them, of a different rank to the others. As he and his uncle drew closer to the water’s edge, and details began to grow clearer, Rob saw what it was that set these two apart from their companions. Their clothing seemed little different from that worn by the rest of their party, but it was brighter, the colours bolder, more vivid, and the decorations adorning their garments—feathered crests and jewelled brooches—were larger, richer, and more elaborate, so that the pair stood out from their fellows like two of Earl Robert’s beloved cock pheasants among a brood of dowdy hens.
“Which one’s Angus Mohr?” Rob whispered to his uncle.
“Which do you think? The older one. The other’s his good-son, a MacRory lordling, married to his daughter Morag. I only met him once and I can’t recall his name but it will come to me … ” Nicol spoke from the side of his mouth without turning his head away from the bustle below. He was smiling, though, and Rob knew the smile was for the people watching them.
“Why would they land here, when Turnberry’s only four miles up the coast?”
“I can make a guess. Angus Mohr trusts no one—and believe me, he has learnt that to his cost. He has known your mother all her life and would probably trust her, but he does not know your father, other than as an English-born incomer, and therefore I would guess he is loath to sail blithely into Turnberry harbour without a guarantee of being able to sail back out again. Now say no more about it.”
The hillside beneath them began to level out, and as they neared the shore Rob kept his eyes on the fierce-looking older man of the pair awaiting them. The man called Angus Mohr was imposing, so much so, in fact, that the man beside him, his son-in-law, faded into insignificance, appearing slight and nondescript. The Lord of Islay was every inch what his title proclaimed him, tall and broad in the shoulders, but where both height and width should have demanded depth and weight, the man was slim and agile looking. He was stern looking, too, Rob thought, the space between his brows showing a single crease that, while not quite a frown, looked as though it might easily become one. His hair was thick and black, with a single blaze of white above his left eye, and it hung in ringlets to his shoulders. There was no trace of a curl in his short, neatly trimmed beard, though, and his sun-darkened skin emphasized deep-set eyes that were startlingly, brilliantly, blue. His thin-ridged nose was more like a beak than any Rob had ever seen. A brimless black cap with a silver ring brooch that secured a hackle badge of distinctive blackcock tail feathers hung from his left hand.
Rob felt the change in his horse’s gait as it stepped onto the yielding surface of the pebbled beach, and he tightened his reins, remaining slightly behind Nicol until his uncle reined in and slid from his mount’s back, stepping forward with hands outstretched to welcome his guests, the elder of whom was now smiling broadly. By the time the boy dismounted and followed him, their greetings had been made and Nicol was waiting for him, half turned to him with a beckoning arm. The tall man stood glowering down at him.
“Angus, may I present my great-nephew Robert de Brus. He is firstborn son to my niece Marjorie, whom you know well, and he has been spending time with me these past few months. Robert, this is Angus Mohr MacDonald, Lord of Islay, and beside him is Lachlan MacRuaridh of Garmoran, goodman to Lord Angus’s daughter Morag.”
Both men nodded soberly at the boy, and Lord Angus’s eyebrow twitched. “You would be what,” he drawled, “the seventh Robert de Brus?”