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of his forearm. After greeting a few of the other men he knew by name, he made the necessary introductions as Randolph and Domnall came up behind him. McQuillan seemed agitated about something—something Erik suspected he wasn’t going to like.
    “I expected to see your chief,” Erik said evenly, forcing a gracious smile to his face that never reached his eyes.
    Fergal shook his head. He was bald, and his head had an odd conical shape that was especially noticeable given his flat features, thick neck, and scruffy ginger beard. “Change of plans,” the warrior said. “He couldn’t get away. Ulster has arrived, and the castle is swarming with English. His absence might be noticed.”
    Erik’s eyes narrowed just a hair. His instincts had been right. They’d just sailed right into the middle of a hornet’s nest. If this was a trap, Fergal’s ill-formed head wouldn’t be long for his body. Two seconds—that’s all it would take to grasp the handle of his battle-axe and swing. A sizable part of him wouldn’t mind the excuse.
    Half expecting English troops to come pouring down the ramp, Erik glanced past Fergal’s shoulder before giving the warrior a cool stare. “I thought your chief said Ulster would be at Carrickfergus.”
    “That’s what we were told, but he showed up unexpectedly on Edward’s orders.” Fergal spat reflexively at the king’s name. “De Monthermer—or the Earl of Atholl, as he calls himself now—is here as well.”
    Well, wasn’t that interesting? That explained the English patrol being so close to the castle. De Monthermer commanded the largest—and most experienced—fleet of galleys in Edward’s navy. Though the Englishman had come to Bruce’s aid once before, Erik could not count on him to do so again.
    What the hell was de Monthermer doing here? Before he could ask, Fergal explained, “An alliance with one of Ulster’s daughters.”
    Erik nodded grimly. Bad intelligence in war was more common than not, but this kind of “mistake” could get him and his men killed. One wrong move and their heads would be on pikes gracing Scotland’s castles. Although it would make a damned fine-looking addition, Erik was rather attached to his.
    “You need to get the hell out of here,” Fergal urged, clearly on the verge of panic. “English ships are patrolling all over this place.”
    “We know,” Erik said calmly. “We ran into one”—in a manner of speaking—“a few miles back.”
    “Give me the coin and we can be done.”
    Randolph, obviously eager to be away, reached under his armor to retrieve the bag he had tied around his waist, but Erik put a hand out to stop him. “Not just yet. Why don’t we all relax a little bit? We’ll get out of here, but I think we have some details to discuss first.”
    Fergal sputtered, “But there’s no time, the English—”
    “Are a bloody pain in the arse,” Erik finished with a conspiratorial wink. “I know.” Hornet’s nest or not, he had a mission to do. And until guards started rushing down that ramp, he wasn’t going to be rushed. “We don’t want there to be any misunderstandings. Isn’t that right, Fergal?”
    The other man shook his head.
    Erik took the bag from Randolph and weighed it in his hand. Fergal watched it hungrily. “Half now as we agreed, the rest when you bring the three hundred men to Bruce.”
    “All we need to know is when and where.”
    “There’s a beach near Fair Head, do you know it?”
    Fergal nodded, a puzzled look on his face. “Aye.”
    “Be there on the night of the thirteenth with your men.”
    A skeptical look crossed the Irishman’s flat face. “Bruce intends to launch the attack from Ireland?”
    Erik shook his head. “Nay. I will take you to the king myself.” Fair Head was the closest point on the Irish mainland to Rathlin, where Bruce planned to rendezvous.
    Fergal’s expression hardened, realizing that Erik intended to keep him in the dark about the plan. But if Erik was