Assured that they were doing exactly as she had instructed, Iliana moved to the wall to peer down at the Englishmen. They seemed quite confused by this turn of events. Four barrels of Scottish liquor had just flown off the wall and crashed on the half-built causeway, splashing every which way, and soaking a lot of the men as well as the catapult. Even now, another four were tumbling through the air. It was obvious that her fellow countrymen did not know what to make of it. But then, doubtless they did not know what she had learned by accident. Uisgebeatha was like food for a fire.

Glancing over her shoulder at her own people again, she saw that the men had split up to their individual slots and were even now loading their bows with the arrows the women handed them. Once that was done, the women each used the torches they held to spark the whiskey-soaked cloth tips to life. The men turned, aimed, and fired.

Iliana turned to peer below again. She had been very specific about where to aim the arrows. Four of the men were to shoot at the catapult, two at the causeway, and two at the barricade of shields, which she had hoped might get splashed. Her men were right on target. The first arrow hit the causeway, and even she was startled at the way it burst into flames, the fire splashing outward just as the whiskey had done before it, following its trail. The other arrows seemed to hit all at once, sparking the catapult and the men’s shields at the same time. The whole area burst into flames with a whoosh.

Swallowing, Iliana peered at the catapult again, sighing when she saw that it was now gloriously ablaze. Hearing the people along the wall begin to cheer, she straightened and turned toward the stairs wearily.

“Watch them, Rabbie. Do they do anything else, fetch me. The rest of you get below and help put out the fires,” she ordered without looking back. The Scots all fell silent at that, peering worriedly at her slumped shoulders before moving to follow her instructions.

When she reached Angus’s room, Iliana found her mother and Janna already there, doing their best to hold the old warrior down in his bed.

“Nay. You will not get up,” her mother was arguing as Iliana entered.

“Aye,” Janna panted, pressing down hard on his uninjured shoulder in an attempt to keep him down. “Ye’ve been sore injured.”

“’Tis naught but a scratch, woman. Let me up.” When that had no effect on Iliana’s mother, he turned to glare at Janna. “I am yer laird!” he pointed out on an outraged roar.

The maid hesitated at that, then shook her head. “Nay. Ye said Lady Iliana was in charge until ye recovered. Yer not recovered.”