Someone stirred towards the rear, glancing sideways at the man nearest him, and Angus pointed at the man thus singled out. “You. Iain. Was that you who spoke? What did you say?”
The man Iain, hulking and low browed, scowled. “Ye said four dead men. But that’s no’ right. There’s but the two. Tam’s no’ dead.” His speech was guttural, his words slurred and malformed, but everyone understood them.
All eyes went to the man felled by the axe. Sure enough, he was stirring, blood welling copiously but sluggishly from his shoulder wound, indicating that no artery had been severed. Someone hurried forward and knelt beside the man.
“Stand away!” Angus Mohr’s voice was icy.
The kneeling man looked up at him in astonishment, opening his mouth as though to protest, but his indignation withered before the chief’s flint-hard gaze, and he pushed himself erect and backed away as the Lord of Islay extended his hand. “Your dirk,” Angus Mohr commanded. “Give it.”
The other hesitated, then drew his weapon and held it out tentatively, hilt first. Angus Mohr took it wordlessly and reversed his grip on it, holding the point downward as he turned to face the man clearly dying on the ground nearby. Amid an appalled stillness he stepped forward, dropped to one knee, and used the index finger of his free hand to guide the dirk’s point to a precise point on the body beneath him. He gripped the hilt in both hands, braced himself above them, and thrust down quickly, the entire weight of his upper body behind the blade. The man on the ground convulsed, his legs kicking spasmodically, then went still.
Someone among the watchers moaned, a strangled, tortured sound, and Angus Mohr stood up and turned to them, his face white and expressionless.
“Murderers die,” he said, holding up his bloodstained hand. “It is the law, and I, his chief, have seen to it.” He waited, but no one moved or spoke. “He who takes any man’s life without just cause forfeits his own, and this man here killed twice, over ill words. You enjoy hearing ill words? Well here are more: two men were slain here needlessly and both were Macdougall. In redress, one MacDonald now faces his God, answering for the crime of that. But one is not enough. As I am your chief and that same God is my judge, one more of you will hang this night, for you were all involved in this abomination. I care not who it is, but one must die to make redress. Draw straws among yourselves, do what you will, but make your choice now.”
Rob sucked in his breath and held it, knowing instinctively that this moment was a defining one in the life of Angus Mohr. The new Lord of the Isles, at the very outset of his tenure, faced the threat of rebellion here among his own people unless he could convince them of the rightness of what he was proposing—and the outcome could alter everything in Scotland’s west. Rob felt, could almost hear, the drumbeat of a pulse in his neck, and the silence seemed to him to stretch unbearably as every man of the MacDonald group fought indecision, debated loyalty within himself, and searched for a response to something unforeseen, unimaginable. And throughout it Angus Mohr stood facing them alone, tall and straight-shouldered in the gloom of onrushing night.
“Angus of Islay!” The voice, loud and authoritative, was Alexander Macdougall’s, and all men’s eyes turned to him. “May I speak?”
“Say what you will.” Angus Mohr’s voice was harsh.
“I have no sympathy with what has happened here, but it was not one-sided,” Alexander began, turning to address the others. “Two of your number died, but only three men drew steel at the start, and the man who died last was fastest. Ranuff and Sian Morningstar were brothers, always hotheaded, as you all know, and that has cost them dear. And now the death of one more man has been ordained, a bystander like all of you, in expiation.” He stopped, and turned to look at Angus Mohr before addressing his own men again. “As witness to what has now been done and said, and speaking both as your chief and as high sheriff of Argyll and Lorn, it is my belief that the intent of that order is sufficient. All three dead men are gone and cannot be brought back. What’s done is done, and nothing worthwhile can be gained in throwing another life away solely to make amends.” He turned back to Angus Mohr and raised his voice yet higher. “And so, Angus of Islay, I would put to you two requests: take back your order on the hanging … And tell these men what we two have been doing while they waited on us.”
The MacDonald chief gazed at him in silence, his expression grave. Then he nodded. “So be it. No hanging will take place. And I thank you, Alexander of Argyll, for your forbearance.” He raised his voice. “Donuil Dhu, had you a fire back there?”