Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Michael paused in the act of removing his nether garments and straightened again to look down at Isobel, his most trusted instincts warring against each other. On the one hand, instinct told him she was telling the truth as she knew it. But a similar reliable instinct had told him he could trust Hector Reaganach, the admiral, and the Lord of the Isles. Logically, either the Maclean twins and MacDonald knew naught of this madness, or Isobel was mistaken.

Wondering how patient the others awaiting them would be, he glanced at the door, but he had securely barred it, and he did not think they would interrupt him without better cause than their own impatience. Deciding that that did not matter anyway when it was his life and hers that were at stake, he held his peace long enough to finish undressing and to climb into bed beside her.

When she shrank from him, he said, "I was mistaken, sweetheart. 'Tis clear that we need to discuss this matter further before we proceed, but I would like to hold you, if I may, whilst we do."

"Then you believe me," she said on a note of relief that reinforced his judgment that she believed what she said.

"I do. Now, come here to me." He stretched out his arm invitingly, remaining silent until she had scooted closer and laid her head in the hollow of his shoulder. Drawing her nearer yet, he stroked her bare arm with his fingertips, delighting again in the silky smoothness of her skin and hoping she would soon lose her tension and be at ease with him. Quietly, he said, "Tell me again how Lady Mariota died."

She hesitated as though choosing her words, then said, "There is a cliff above the castle."

"Above Chalamine?"

"Nay, here at Ardtornish. They call it Creag nan Corp."

"Aye, sure, I've heard of it," he said. "'Tis MacDonald's punishment rock, but surely, your sister was no felon cast to her death on the rocks beneath it."

"No," Isobel said. "We … we were on the cliffs one day—Cristina, Mariota, and I—and …" Her hesitation this time lasted longer, but he waited, then grimaced when she added in a rush, "Mariota and I fell off. We caught hold of shrubbery, but Cristina could only reach me. Mariota …" She fell silent again, her lips pressed tightly together as if she dared not trust her voice any further.

He shuddered at the thought that he might so easily never have met her. Turning to his side, still holding her close, he looked into her eyes and wished he had left the curtains open so that he could see her expression more clearly. He had a feeling that his change of position made her uncomfortable, but he did not think that discomfort stemmed from sexual fear of him.

Her gaze shifted from his, and knowing that the subject was uncomfortable for her, he said only, "That must have been terrifying for you."

"Aye, for I was but twelve at the time."

He waited, letting her choose her pace, knowing she would be more likely to tell him the whole tale if he did not press her.

He was watching her so intently that she could scarcely breathe, but although she had decided that she had to share her worry about Mariota's madness with him, she could not seem to get the words out. The few that had come had spilled from her tongue easily enough, but they danced around what she wanted to say without saying it. A nagging voice in her mind warned that she was betraying her family. Still, she knew he could tell that she was not giving him the whole truth, and in light of his warning earlier, his steady gaze made her nervous. In other circumstances, she might have invented a reason to postpone the discussion, but postponement now could so easily lead to much worse things. She exerted herself to meet his gaze, wishing that he would say something.

"I … I cannot think how to tell you about it," she admitted at last.

"Why were you so dangerously near such a cliff?" he asked.

Heat flooded her cheeks, making her grateful for the dim light as the voice in her head said jeeringly that she ought to have known he would not so easily accept her glib description of Mariota's fall. His curiosity was as active as hers, and his determination to find answers was, if possible, even more intense.

Resisting the strong temptation to evade his piercing stare, she said, "Mariota was already at the top of the cliff, and Cristina, too, when I rode up to them."

He frowned. "Were you not all three riding together?"

"Nay, I had followed them."

"So, even at twelve, you took your own road."

"Aye, sometimes." She grimaced, then said more sharply, "Pray, do not quiz me, sir. Telling you about this is difficult enough."

"Very well," he said. His tone was amiable, as it usually was, but she easily detected the slight edge that told her he wanted her to get to the point, and quickly.

Closing her eyes so that she need not watch that amiable expression change to one of horror, she said, "Mariota had threatened to throw herself off the cliff, and when Cristina tried to reason with her, Mariota tried to push her off instead."

"How did you come into it?"

His tone was so gentle that she opened her eyes, wondering if he had misunderstood her, but when she saw his expression, she shut them again and swallowed hard before she said, "Mariota had told me what she was going to do, and I told Cristina. That's why Cristina went after her."

"She is the eldest, so mayhap I can understand that, although she ought to have told Hector, or you should have. And if you followed only out of curiosity—"

Knowing how consistent men were in believing that women could not handle crises without their assistance, she interjected hastily, "I got frightened, and rightly, too, because when I arrived, Mariota was daring Cristina to stand at the edge with her. I could see that something was dreadfully wrong, and I shouted at Cristina not to do it, but she always wants to think the best of people, particularly of Mariota, because she loved her, so she told me to be silent and did as Mariota asked. But I jumped off my pony and ran closer. Neither was paying me heed, because Mariota was intent on cozening Cristina into doing what she wanted her to do and Cristina was trying to persuade her to return to the castle. Then Mariota grabbed her and tried to push her off, and I ran and caught hold of Cristina and tried to pull her back, but Mariota would not let go, so I tried to push her as I pulled Cristina, and …"

"… and you and Mariota fell over the edge," he said when tears she had not noticed before choked her into a watery sob. His voice seemed strangely hoarse as he added, "Don't stop there, sweetheart. Tell me what happened next."

Despite the gruff tone, his calm steadied her, and she said, "Cristina tried to reach us, but she couldn't, and when Mariota realized that although Cristina might succeed in rescuing me, she could not reach her, she …" She gulped, hardly able to believe it herself even now but forcing the words out. "Michael, she grabbed my foot and tried to climb right up me, but I … I kicked her and … and she fell."

The sobs came then, wracking her body, but Michael gathered her close and held her tight. He did not speak until the worst of the storm had passed, but then he murmured, "Just cry, sweetheart, until you can cry no more. It will all be easier then."

But commanded to flow freely, the wellspring of her tears dried up instead, and she was able to regain control of herself within a minute or two.

He was gently stroking her hair, and the sensation of his warm hand against her scalp was comforting. She sighed deeply and let herself relax against him.

"Better?" he said.

"Aye," she muttered. "But I don't understand why I lost control like that, because I don't think I cried that hard even when she died."

"Do you think that by pushing her, you were responsible for her death?"

Her throat and stomach tightened at so blunt an expression of the very thought that had flitted through her mind as she had described what happened, that she was responsible, but common sense stirred quickly. "I never described it to anyone in just those words before," she said. "Hector came, and it was he who rescued me, because Cristina was only able to hold on to me, not to pull me up, and we—Hector and I—were more worried about her than anything else. But you can see, sir, can you not, that Mariota must have been mad to do what she did."

"Sweetheart, what I see is that at twelve, you were as brave as you are now, and if our children are lucky enough to inherit such bravery, I'll be a proud man."

Her heart swelled, but she looked searchingly into his eyes, trying to see if he spoke the truth or merely felt obliged to say such a thing because his pride refused to allow him to reject her so soon after marrying her.

He met her gaze steadily and then bent his head to claim her lips in a warm kiss. When she realized that the kiss was quickly becoming more demanding, she pulled away. "But she was mad," she said. "She must have been!"

"I'm thinking 'tis more likely that she was badly spoiled, that if she was so beautiful, she was used to getting her own way and was just trying to do that when everything went amiss," he murmured. "Even if she was mad, though, you have six other sisters and a host of kinsmen, sweetheart. How many of them are mad?"

"None that I know about," she admitted. "But surely you would care very much if by marrying me you introduced madness into the St. Clair family."

He chuckled. "What will happen, will happen. Besides, you have not met Henry yet. When you do, you may change your mind about who is introducing madness into the family, and indeed, doubt your own wisdom in marrying me."

"Faith, sir, Henry will be a prince! But our children … what if—"

"Our children will inherit bravery and strength of mind from their mother," he said firmly. "Those two qualities will overwhelm any tendency to madness."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he said in that same firm tone. "Now then, lass …"

Three sharp knocks on the door made them both jump, and Hector's voice thundered through the wood paneling: "The tide has turned, you two, and time is fast fleeing. If you want the advantage to be with us when we meet your enemies, you'd better stir yourselves out of that bed, and right swiftly."

"We'll be with you shortly, my lord," Michael said.

"Faith, sir, how can we be?" Isobel said. "It is my fault, I know, but—"

Michael silenced her this time simply by placing a finger to her lips. "We are not going to consummate our marriage with a hasty coupling, sweetheart. It would be too easy for me to hurt you, for one thing, and for another, I want to enjoy my bride at some leisure when we do."

"But what can we tell them? I'm sure they will see that I've been crying."

"Aye, and if they do, they will blame me," he said. "If you would please me, you will offer no information to them about this conversation. I think your sister may ask you if all is well, but you need only say that it is, and she will not pry further. That is one good thing you will discover about being a married lady. People will usually respect the slightest hint that they tread close upon an impropriety."

She found that hard to believe, because none of her sisters had ever hesitated to ask her anything they wanted to know, but he was already getting up and reaching for his clothes. When she hesitated, he looked over his shoulder at her, grinned, and tossed her shift at her.

"Slip that on, lass. I'll help you do everything up when I've got my breeks on. Unless you'd prefer that I send for your sister's maidservant."

"No, thank you," she said, knowing she was blushing at the thought of him helping her. But it would be worse to have Brona fussing over her.

She dressed as quickly as she was able, and Michael fastened the buttons and tied the ribbons at the back of her gown. When she would have opened the door, he stopped her with a gesture and then, to her astonishment, drew his dirk from his boot and casually made a shallow cut in his upper forearm.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed.

He smiled. "They will expect to find blood on those sheets. If they find it, no one will ask questions. Have you something with which I can bind this up after I attend to that?" he asked.

"Trust a man to think of binding only after he's bleeding all over the carpet," she said dryly as she took his dirk from him and used it to cut a strip from her red-flannel underskirt. "This will have to do. I hope your doublet sleeve will cover it."

He chuckled, moved to the bed, and carefully rubbed blood onto the sheet.

"Faith, that is fine linen belonging to his grace and Princess Margaret," she exclaimed, horrified to think they would believe the blood was hers.

"So it is," he said, grinning. "Are you going to tend my wound?"

They bound up his arm and smoothed the doublet sleeve over the binding. Then, after looking around the chamber to be sure they had collected all their belongings, he draped her cloak over her shoulders and tied its strings under her chin. She moved again toward the door, but he drew her close and kissed her.

"Thank you for telling me, sweetheart," he said. "That took courage, I know, but I hope you will always find the courage to tell me what you think I should know."

She looked into his eyes again, wondering if she would ever understand this man she had married. But she had no more time to think, because Hector banged on the door again.

This time, Michael opened it, put his arm around her, and said, "We're ready, sir. We'll just follow you if you please."

Hector looked at Isobel, and in her guilt at the deception they had created, heat surged to her cheeks and she had to exert herself to manage a smile.

But, as Michael had predicted, Hector asked no questions. Turning to Brona, who stood behind him with a bundle of clean sheets, he said, "Tend to the bed, lass, and hurry. The women's boat will wait for you, and for her grace's women, too."

As he headed toward the stairway, he added over his shoulder, "I thought you'd prefer that Brona attend to the bed, rather than his grace's people."

Michael gave her a squeeze, and she hid a smile as they followed Hector downstairs, outside, and down the steep cliff steps to the waiting galleys. She had long since learned that men enjoyed pointing out their cleverness to women.

On the pier, Hector said to Michael, "We have fifteen boats now, so we've decided to put our ladies and their maidservants in two near the end of the flotilla, with one other boat following as rear guard. We've plenty of men armed with bows, arrows, and their dirks, and other weapons at hand if they prove necessary. But we want to keep the women as safe as we can, and away from any action."

"Aye, 'tis a good notion," Michael said. "And with respect, sir, I'd suggest that you, the admiral, Hugo, and I ride separately."

Hector said, "But we may find need to confer from time to time."

"Aye, sir, but I know my cousin Waldron's methods. He believes in cutting the head off any beast that attacks him, so I believe that if he sees us all in one galley, he may ignore the other boats and send all of his forces to destroy that one."

Hector nodded. "'Tis not the usual way of battle, to be sure, being suicidal for those who attempt it. But 'tis true that if a commander be willing to sacrifice boats full of men to defeat one ship out of a flotilla, he could well succeed."

"Aye, because a headless beast dies quickly," Michael said. "Or so Waldron says. You need not worry that Hugo or I might put ourselves forward to countermand orders that you or the admiral may issue to the men in our boats," he added diffidently. "Although Hugo is a fine soldier, and understands Waldron as well as I do, we also know how to follow orders. Moreover, we both know the pair of you to be outstanding commanders."

Isobel, long adept at reading Hector Reaganach, noted the shrewd look he shot Michael as he said, "I don't worry about insubordination, lad. Instead, I'd say that if either of you sees an opportunity to affect the outcome of whatever confrontation befalls us, you will have the good sense to follow your instincts."

"Thank you, my lord."

Isobel shifted her gaze to her husband, wondering how many personalities existed within the man. When he spoke to Hector he did not in any way resemble the man who had so easily followed her lead at the cavern and afterward. If anything, he sounded as if he had agreed to follow Hector only because he already knew and respected Hector's reputation as a soldier.

"I'll take you to the other women, lass," Michael said.

"I don't want to ride with them," she said, certain that although Brona and Mairi's woman, Meg Raith, might respect her new status long enough to forget they had known her since her arrival at Lochbuie, and might therefore refrain from quizzing her about her marriage bed, Cristina and Mairi would not.

"That is not a point for discussion," Michael said. "We may well find ourselves embattled as soon as we reach the opening of the Sound. At such a time, a lead galley is no place for a woman."

"Do you honestly believe that any cousin of yours would attack a boat with a woman in it?" she asked.

"Aye, I do," he said. "You heard what I told Hector Reaganach, and you have met Waldron yourself and should therefore understand that he sees only the goal he seeks. He would not have hesitated to hurt you at the cave, because he believed he could make me tell him all I knew if he did."

"But you have said you know nothing that would help him."

He looked at her. "Exactly so," he said. "I might even have been able to persuade him of that fact—in time."

She turned away, looking across the water as she digested his words. Understanding was neither pleasant nor persuasive.

"We have fifteen boats, several fitted with battering rams," she said. "They cannot possibly have so many. Nor, despite what you say, can I believe that your cousin's oarsmen will have so little regard for women, even if he does."

"Make no mistake about Waldron," Michael said, his tone harsher than she had yet heard it. "He has no one working for him whom he does not trust implicitly to obey him, and his men know well the penalty for disobedience. They will die for him, lass, without question or pause, or he will kill them himself."

"Faith, what manner of man is he?"

"He is an assassin at heart, a soulless killer of men. Remember that."

"I do not know that word, ‘assassin,'" she said, frowning.

"'Tis a word from another language," he said, "a word I learned from my father that he learned from his. One can only hope it never becomes so common here that everyone knows it, but you must understand it to understand Waldron."

"But what language? I thought he was your cousin, a man of your own clan."

"He is, but from the French side," Michael said. "Members of our clan came to Britain from Normandy with William the Conqueror. Waldron speaks both English and Gaelic fluently because he learned both languages, and French, from birth, and other languages that were a part of his training as a soldier. But we have no time for more of this now," he said, looking past her into the distance.

"But that word ‘assassin' is not Gaelic, English, or French," she protested.

"Sakes, lad," Hector boomed behind her, "have done with your trifling and get the lass aboard that boat. We've others to load as well, and little time for it."

"Aye, sir," Michael said with a rueful smile. "I apologize, although I warrant you know the source of my lethargy. Behave yourself, lass," he added, kissing her soundly and handing her into the women's boat before she could think of a retort that would not instantly make Hector wonder things she did not want him wondering.

Welcomed enthusiastically as she took her place on the cushioned bench between her sister and Lady Mairi, she noted that their women sat in a second boat, likewise boasting twenty-six oars and flying the little-black-ship banner of the Lord of the Isles over that of Clan Gillean.

She noted, too, that Michael went at once to the Raven to confer with Sir Hugo, who greeted him with a broad smile and a clap on the back. They talked for only moments, however, before Michael made his way to Hector and Lachlan, who were talking at the end of the pier nearest the cliff stairs.

To her relief, Mairi and Cristina said nothing about her bedding, talking quietly of other, trivial matters instead and generally leaving her to her thoughts. A short time later, she saw Princess Margaret and her two waiting women making their way down the cliff stairs. It seemed no time after that before Lachlan handed her grace into the women's galley and saw her settled near the stem-post with her women seated opposite her, the three of them thus occupying the seats most sheltered from wind and spray.

"I do apologize if I have caused any delay," Margaret said. "His grace sent for me because he desired to know that the embroidered sail he is sending as a gift to Sir Henry for his lead galley had got safely aboard. It had, of course." Smiling at Isobel, she added, "This must seem a strange way to begin a marriage, my dear."

"Oh, no, your grace," Isobel assured her. "I love adventure, you see, and to travel so far north in such a company for such an event seems most exciting."

"I see. Well, Lachlan Lubanach informs me that we should make Skye tonight if those ships lingering near Mingary do not delay us overlong. He will send a boat on ahead of us once we are clear of danger, he said, to warn Macleod of Glenelg and Gowrie of Kyle Rhea to expect us, and invite them to join our flotilla."

Isobel nibbled her lower lip.

"What is it?" Cristina asked her in a low tone. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, aye," Isobel said hastily. "I was just thinking that Father will soon know that I have married. What he will say I don't even want to imagine."

"Sakes, do you fear he will be displeased?"

"Aye, sure," Isobel said. "Any plan that is not his own displeases him."

"Your marriage into the St. Clair family will not, however," Cristina said. "Hector has told me they possess wealth beyond one's imagining. Such a connection can only increase the power of the Macleods, Isobel. Not only will Father approve but so will Macleods throughout the Isles."

Isobel frowned. "I have heard that, of course, and mayhap Sir Henry is wealthy, but I still don't know that Michael is. To be sure, he seems to have his own galley, or at least the use of one of his brother's, and he is Master of Roslin Castle, but that is only a styling. 'Tis Henry who owns the castle."

"Hector told me that Sir Michael was most generous in your marriage settlements and that Sir Henry has naught to say to them unless he wishes to add to them," Cristina said. "No one, least of all our father, will condemn your marriage."

Her voice had risen, catching the attention of Mairi, who had been conversing quietly with her mother but who turned now and grinned at Isobel.

"Cristina is right," she said. "No matter what else happens today, Isobel, you need not worry about your father's reaction to your marriage. My father has had much to say about him over the years, but he has ever agreed that Macleod is nearly as practical a man as his grace is himself, and few men are more practical than he. Is that not so, madam?" she asked Margaret.

"You and Lachlan Lubanach certainly found him so," Margaret said dryly.

"Aye," Mairi said with another grin. "And so you will find Macleod, Isobel."

It crossed Isobel's mind then that even if Macleod did approve, she was by no means certain that she had been wise to marry Michael St. Clair. She would know the truth of that only after she came to know him better, assuming of course that he survived the encounter that lay just ahead.

Michael dozed lightly on and off in the galley to which Hector had directed him. The helmsman had his orders, and the galley's own captain was in command, giving Michael to hope that he need have no hand in whatever took place when they reached the western mouth of the Sound of Mull.

The rhythmic beats of the helmsmen's gongs drummed in his ears, but he found the rhythm soothing. Although he was as relaxed as a man could be in a moving vessel on sheltered, if swift-moving water, his eyelids rarely shut all the way, allowing him to watch enough through his lashes to catch the occasional smile of a resting oarsman who glanced back at him, and he had no doubt that others he did not see smiled, too. That they did so did not disturb him.

He also kept watch on the twin sons of Gillean in the two lead boats. Hector's boat, he noted, rode some distance ahead of Lachlan's, as one might expect, since it was Hector's duty to protect the Lord High Admiral. Michael noted, too, that Lachlan stood near his helmsman and seemed to watch the north shore of the Sound rather than the water ahead. More than once, Michael saw signals flashed from hilltops there, either lighted torches waving back and forth, or reflective materials that caught the sunlight.

At one point, the admiral's oarsmen eased their pace to allow the Raven to move alongside, and Michael heard Lachlan shout to Hugo, "Six ships, not four! They wait in ambush a short distance west of Mingary."

Hugo waved, and Michael did, too, to let Lachlan Lubanach know that he had heard. The admiral's boat continued its slower pace as if expecting him to catch up, too, and he was tempted to do so if only to make certain Lachlan understood that six ships posed a great threat even against a dozen if their commander was Waldron of Edgelaw. But he had taken the measure of the Maclean twins and, certain that neither man left such details to chance, he waved Lachlan on. He could now see Mingary Castle dead ahead, where the Sound curved sharply to the west.

Looking back to make sure the women's boats lagged well behind, and noting that rather than just one boat following them, two others had slowed, so that three well-armed galleys now protected them, he knew he need have no concern. Their own captains had orders to turn about at the slightest hint that the leaders might fail to control the conflict ahead, and to make all speed back to Ardtornish.

Nor need he worry that Isobel might try to take matters into her own hands. Even she would not be so bold as to defy Princess Margaret, let alone try to sway his grace's oarsmen, helmsmen, and five captains from their sworn duty.

That the battle group had thus reduced itself to ten ships did give him pause, but as the lead boats neared the mouth of the Sound, all looked serene ahead. Just four gongs beat now, but Michael watched Lachlan's boat, and when a third banner, bright red, suddenly shot up its pole to join the other two, he looked for the three boats fitted with battering rams.

Although the beat of the four gongs continued without changing, oarsmen in the three ramming boats increased their pace to double-time, quickly passing leaders that fell in behind them, their own speed increasing to match the rammers. The men, taking their cues from their captains' silent hand signals, rowed their boats into formation, and Michael knew that anyone listening but unable to see the ten galleys would hear only the gongs from four.

The area for miles around—including the Ardnamurchan Peninsula to the north, the north coast of Mull to the south, and the Isle of Coll to the west—was MacDonald's territory, firmly controlled by the Lord of the Isles and his loyal followers. Therefore, chance was slim that any spy other than MacDonald's own lurked near enough to see that the boats numbered more than twice as many and were moving twice as fast. But Michael had long since learned not to count Waldron out if the slimmest chance existed that his cousin might out-think him.

As that thought flew through his mind, memory stirred of Hector's warning that the Green Abbot of Iona and other members of Clan Mackinnon would be likely to support Waldron if only because he claimed to represent God and the Vatican.

The Isle of Mull contained not just MacDonald's people and members of Clan Gillean but also a good many Mackinnons, any number of whom might be watching from the south shore of the Sound, just as Lachlan's men watched from the north. And those Mackinnons might be as deft at signaling each other, and might even manage to signal Waldron's boats, which could easily lurk to the south, out of sight, in the sea lane between the Holy Isle and the west coast of Mull.

Michael made certain that his dirk was ready to hand in his boot, and that his small sword and targe lay nearby. The likelihood that he would need the targe was better than that he would need dirk or sword, because arrows posed the greatest threat in a sea battle, but he liked to be prepared for any possibility.

It irked him to linger behind the vanguard, especially since Hugo and the Raven had moved ahead, but he had agreed to maintain the role he played when Hugo had reminded him that, because of it, Waldron tended always to underestimate him, which might provide an advantage in any future confrontation between them.

As they turned west, eight boats preceded his, drawing swiftly together. And not before time, he decided as they rounded the headland. He watched the sea, rougher now as it opened to the south, but shouts drew his attention to two ships moving toward them from the headland of Ardnamurchan to the north. Even as he noted the two, two more hove into view from the south and two more from behind him, near Oronsay. Waldron had hoped to confine them in a circle of his warriors.

As the ships flying banners of the Lord of the Isles continued to draw together, all six of the enemy ships aimed for the Raven, which had drawn a little away from the others. He realized then that whoever commanded the enemy had orders to take his boat and that the enemy commander assumed he was aboard her. He saw, too, that Hugo stood in plain view on the stern-post, holding on to the rope that led from the post to the mast. From a distance, he knew, he and Hugo looked much alike.

Shouting followed, and bowmen in the lead boats shot a rain of arrows at their attackers, who returned fire. Michael's boat increased pace to join the others, and he saw that they were closing quickly. Oars flew upward as one larger galley—Hector's, he thought—drew perilously near the largest of Waldron's boats.

Grappling hooks flew as men rapidly lashed the boats together. Two others from their flotilla closed in and began lashing, too, no easy task on waves from the open sea that rolled the ships about and broke against their sides.

The others in the flotilla joined swiftly in a wheel formation, stem-posts out, stern in, creating a huge defensive raft with the Raven now in the center. More men took up bows and began shooting a rain of arrows at the enemy boats. Other men boarded two of the enemy boats before Michael's galley was lashed to the rest, and he saw one of Waldron's ships already speeding away.

Stones followed the arrows, and someone from the flotilla threw one so hard that the man it hit toppled backward into the sea. His mates managed to grab him and haul him back aboard, but he was dead or unconscious, for he did not move.

Michael's weapons were out, and the moment his boat was close enough to let him leap to the next, he hurled himself into the fray.