But it wasn’t working out like that. Few men had joined since Turnberry. The Scots needed more than a small, moral victory to risk King Edward’s wrath.
Since Turnberry, they’d been trying to get word of the southern prong of the attack at Galloway led by Bruce’s two brothers, but their constantly changing positions made it difficult for anyone to find them—even friends.
Yet with the help of a sympathetic priest, that was about to change.
The signal wasn’t a fire this time, but the hoot of an owl. When it came, Erik stepped out of the darkness and strode cautiously down the hillside to the valley below, where the old church stood. It was no more than a twenty-by-twenty single-story stone building with a thatched roof, but it had served as the local place of worship for centuries—and perhaps even beyond that.
From behind an ancient-looking stone cross came a familiar form. A man Erik hadn’t seen in over a year since he’d left the Isle of Skye after failing the final challenge to become a member of the Highland Guard.
But the truth had been more complicated than that.
Erik stepped forward and for the first time in a week felt the pull of a smile. He extended his hand, and they grasped forearms in a hard shake. “It’s good to see you, Ranger,” he said, using the war name Bruce had given him. “It’s been some time. I hope you’ve been working on your spear-catching since last we met.”
Arthur Campbell let out a bark of laughter at the reference to the challenge he’d “failed.”
Since that alleged failure, Erik had learned that it had all been a ruse to place Campbell in the enemy camp. Only Chief had known. Thinking their former friend had betrayed them, the other members of the Highland Guard were enraged to learn that they’d been deceived. It wouldn’t happen again; Chief had made damn sure of that.
Much of their intelligence these past few months had come from Campbell.
“Bugger off, MacSorl—”
Erik shook him off. “Hawk,” he said.
Campbell nodded in understanding. He’d left before they’d decided to use war names.
“Different name, same shite,” Campbell said with a mocking smile. The famed scout looked around, making sure they were alone. “Come,” he said. “I’ve someone who is anxious to see you.”
“What about the news—”
Campbell sobered. “He’ll tell you himself.”
Erik followed him across the yard toward the church, noting the fine mail and tabard beneath the dark cloak. “I heard Edward made you a knight after Methven. You sure look the part.”
But under all that armor, Campbell bore the same lion rampant mark as the rest of them.
Campbell grimaced. “For feeding him misinformation—not that it helped.”
“You did what you could. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”
Campbell made a sharp sound to suggest that was a huge understatement and opened the door.
They stepped inside. Erik felt as if he’d walked into a crypt. Cold and quiet, the air had a musty smell and an unusual stillness—as if that door hadn’t been opened for a long time. There was a small altar on a raised platform at the far end and a line of old wooden benches below. To the right was a tomb—probably the final resting place of one of the original priests.
A moment after the door closed behind them, a shadow emerged from behind the tomb.
Little moonlight streamed through the solitary window, and it took a moment for Erik’s eyes to adjust. The man pushed back the hood of his cloak and Erik swore. Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi. His cousin and fellow member of the Highland Guard.
Erik stepped forward and embraced him, even though (or perhaps because) he knew it would make his cousin uncomfortable. Lachlan MacRuairi was a coldhearted bastard—stealthy and deadly as the snake who’d given him his war name of Viper—but it was damned good to see him.
“What are you doing here?” Erik asked. “We thought you’d be gracing the Norse court with that sunny disposition of yours.”
MacRuairi’s face slipped out of the shadows and right away Erik knew something was wrong. There was an almost wild, frenzied look in his normally flat eyes.
Erik’s flash of humor departed as quickly as it had come. “Where’s the queen?” he said. His cousin had been placed in charge of the queen, Bruce’s sisters and young daughter, and the Countess of Buchan when they’d been forced to separate after the battle of Dal Righ.
MacRuairi’s eyes blazed with an unholy light. Erik knew what he was going to say even before he said it. “Taken. We were betrayed by the Earl of Ross before we could reach the safety of Norway.”
His cousin gave a quick recitation of the events that led up to the ladies’ capture and then of Ross’s violation of sanctuary.
By some twist of fate—MacRuairi refused to elaborate—he’d escaped capture. But the two other members of the Highland Guard who were in the party, William “Templar” Gordon and Magnus “Saint” MacKay, had not been so fortunate.
MacRuairi had been trying to rescue them ever since. Gordon and MacKay were being held in a dungeon at Urquhart Castle under the watch of Alexander Comyn. They’d escaped immediate execution only because they’d been mistaken for ordinary guardsmen. But the women … Erik felt sick when he heard what had befallen them.
A cage? Dear God.
Bruce would be mad with grief.
His thoughts went to Ellie, and this time he let them hold for a moment. He’d done the right thing. She needed to be kept far away from this madness.
“We need to do something,” MacRuairi said. Erik could finally understand the source of the frantic look in his eye. He was desperate to rescue his friends and companions.
“I’ll take you to the king.”
“I’m afraid there is more bad news,” Campbell said. Erik steeled himself, but it wasn’t enough. “The attack in the south failed. They were betrayed. The MacDowells knew they were coming and slaughtered almost the entire fleet. A few men escaped.”
A few out of nearly seven hundred men and eighteen galleys?
Erik felt a pit of despair settle in his stomach. “The king’s brothers?” he asked dully.
Campbell shook his head grimly. “Beheaded a few days ago in Carlisle.”
Three of Bruce’s brothers executed in as many months.
Would it never end? The small glimmer of hope they’d gained after the attack at Turnberry had been cruelly snuffed out. Crushed by the man who called himself the Hammer of the Scots.
“Striker and Hunter?”
“I don’t know,” Campbell said. Suddenly he stiffened, getting that eerie far-off look in his eye.
“What is it?” Erik asked.
“I’m not certain.” Campbell went to the window to investigate. “Horses,” he said.
“Were you followed?” Erik asked.
Campbell gave him a scathing look as if to say he should know better. “You’d best get out of here. I’ll take care of it.” When Erik started to argue, he added, “I can’t be seen with you.”
Erik nodded. He was right. Campbell’s subterfuge had to be protected. Moments later, Erik and his cousin slipped out of the church and disappeared into the shadows.
Twenty-two
St. Gunioc Day, April 13, 1307
Ellie stood gazing out the tower window of Ayr Castle, waiting for a ship that would never come.
It was a clear spring day, giving her a perfect vantage of the shimmering blue seas of the Firth of Clyde. The Isle of Arran loomed in the distance, and beyond that—a tiny speck on the horizon—she swore she could see the rocky cliffs of Spoon.
A sharp pang knifed through her chest, a longing that almost two months had yet to dull.
She needed to accept the truth. If he’d wanted to come for her, he would have done so by now.
When she’d heard of Bruce’s victory at Turnberry, a tiny ember of foolish girl’s hope had kindled inside her. Hope that he was hurting as much as she was. Hope that distance and time would make him realize the
y’d shared something special. Hope that he would suddenly decide that he loved her as much as she did him.
But, as the weeks passed in long, painful silence, Ellie could no longer make excuses. He had to know where she was—Domnall would have told him—and thanks to Sir Aymer’s regular updates to her father, she knew that Bruce was nearby, raiding and harrying the English supply routes from his refuge in the mountains of Galloway.
It was time to accept the truth: Erik wasn’t going to have some grand epiphany. He wasn’t going to send word or come for her. He wasn’t going to stop her wedding to Ralph. It was over, and she would probably never see him again.
The familiar burning gripped her chest. Yet, in spite of the pain, she could not regret it. In the short time they’d spent together, Erik had reminded her how to breathe again. After the adventure and excitement of the time she’d spent on Spoon, she vowed to not let herself fall into the staid existence she’d known before.
With a heart-wrench of finality, she turned from the tower window and started to descend the stairs. She wouldn’t shed any more tears for a man who had probably forgotten all about her. She needed to get on with her life and stop mourning a dream that was never meant to be.
But it was easier said than done, when the hunt for Bruce and his band of rebels dominated everything around her. Matty would be returning to Dunluce at the end of the week, and Ellie decided to join her. She’d been putting off the preparations for her wedding long enough.
With June fast approaching, the time for indecision was running out. Although her discomfort around Ralph had faded, Ellie couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. But neither could she find a reason not to marry him.
Since her return, she’d made an effort to get to know him better and had been rewarded by the discovery that she actually liked him. Of course, he’d earned her unending gratitude when he’d granted her plea for mercy for Erik’s men by sparing their lives and moving them from the horrible dungeon to a secure building in the village. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised when two nights later, a strange explosion blew a hole in the stone wall of the building and the men were able to escape.
She knew who was responsible.
He’d been so close …
She crossed the Great Hall to the adjoining solar, intending to tell her father of her plans to return to Ireland, but the sound of voices stopped her.
Sir Aymer was here again. Despite her avowal to put the past—and Erik—behind her, her pulse jumped. The English commander was sure to have brought the latest news of the “rebels.”
Though the door was closed, she and Matty had discovered some time ago that if they sat before the fire doing their needlework, they could hear most of the conversations through the thinly partitioned wall. She knew she should be ashamed, but her craving to learn what was going on had overcome the minor twinges of guilt at eavesdropping weeks ago.
Sir Aymer’s voice was raised even higher than usual, and his obvious excitement made her heart sink with trepidation. She heard Ralph say something and then Sir Aymer’s annoyed response. “I’m certain we have it this time. I’ve seen their lair myself.”
Her stomach dropped. It couldn’t be! She forced herself to calm. She’d heard Sir Aymer say the same thing many times before, but Bruce always managed to evade him.
Her father must have had a similar thought. “How can you be sure they won’t move before you can get the troops in position?” he asked. “Bruce doesn’t stay in one place for long.”
“They’re preparing for a feast—one of his men’s saint’s days, apparently—and have sent for some of the village lasses and a barrel of ale. They aren’t going anywhere tonight.”
Women. Her heart twinged. Not just with fear, but with something else. She knew Erik too well.
But Sir Aymer was right: if they were preparing for a feast, they weren’t likely to be on the move. Could this finally be the time the English captured the elusive King Hood?
“How did you find them?” her father asked.
The powerful Englishman sounded as proud as a lad who’d caught his first fish. “One of my men grew jealous when a lass he’d taken a liking to at a village alehouse kept coming and going at strange hours. Last night he decided to follow her and nearly stumbled into their encampment. I should have thought of it before. Follow the women, and they will lead you to the men.”
“Why didn’t you attack immediately?” Ralph asked.
“They are camped in a valley between two rocky mountains,” Sir Aymer replied.
“And you can’t get your horses through,” Ralph finished.
“Aye, so we’ll take cover in the nearby wood and come upon them unaware. Have your men join us in the wood near the loch at the head of Glen Trool. With MacDougall’s Highlanders coming from the north, MacDowell’s men from the south, and the additional English troops from the king, we’ll attack at dawn and crush the rebels once and for all.” She heard the pounding of a fist on wood. “But I want to make damn sure he doesn’t escape this time.” He paused. “Do you have any loyal female servants with you?”
It was a strange question. Typically, conquering armies made use of the locals for their servants, and the English were no exception. Few personal servants were brought into war—and those that were were men.
“Nay,” her father started to say, then stopped, realizing at the same time as she did why Sir Aymer had come to them. Because of Ellie and Matty. “Aye, my daughter Matty brought a maidservant with her. She can be trusted. What do you have planned?”
Ellie could almost hear Sir Aymer smile. “There is going to be one extra woman who joins the feast tonight.”
“A spy?” Ralph asked.
“Aye, to discover their numbers and how well equipped they are. Despite the rumors, Bruce does not have an army of phantoms. I want to know who those men are—with all the trouble they’ve caused me, I’ve something special in mind for them.”
A cold chill ran down her spine. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard mention of Bruce’s phantom guard, and something about the stories of the mysterious warriors with nearly inhuman strength and skill sounded eerily familiar.
“Alice is a respectable girl, not a whore,” her father said, not hiding his disgust.
“Of course not,” Sir Aymer replied contritely. “She won’t be expected to do anything more than help with the food and ale. Be assured the woman will be well rewarded for her trouble.”
Her father must have looked uncertain.
“She won’t come to any harm,” Sir Aymer assured him. “My men will escort her to the edge of their encampment well after the feasting has begun. She can claim to have gotten lost from the rest of the group. By that time they’ll be too drunk to argue.”
“You’ve thought of everything,” her father said dryly.
Ellie moved away in a trance, her heart racing wildly in her breast as she tried to make sense of everything she’d heard.
One thing was clear: the English had set a trap for Robert and his men, and if they weren’t warned, they’d be in grave danger.
She raced up the tower stairs to the small chamber she shared with her sister, not knowing what she was going to do, but knowing she had to do something. She couldn’t let him die—not when it was in her power to help him. Even if he did not return her feelings, she loved him.
Besides, she owed it to him. She should have told him who she was as soon as she discovered his identity. She could not regret making love with him, but she did regret the difficulty it must have caused him with Robert. Too late she’d realized that he would see his actions with her as disloyal to the king. And with what she’d learned of his past, she understood how important that was to him.
Perhaps this was a chance to atone for her mistake. But what could she do?
Frantic, she tore open the door and was surprised to see her sister staring out the window in much the same manner as she’d been doing earlier. There was something forlorn and sad ab
out the set of her shoulders. Matty turned at the sound and smiled, though it didn’t brighten her eyes. So wrapped up in her own heartbreak, Ellie realized that Matty hadn’t been herself lately. She vowed to find out what was troubling her sister, but first she had to find a way to warn Erik.
The vague outlines of a plan had taken hold. A plan that was both risky and fraught with danger.
Matty took a step toward her. “What is it?”
Ellie met her sister’s concerned gaze and felt the weight of the past two months crash down on her. She hadn’t wanted to burden her sister with her secrets, but Ellie knew that if she was going to do this, she couldn’t do this alone.
She took a deep breath. “I need your help.”
Erik MacSorley, a man known for his perpetual good humor, was in a perpetually black mood. Not even the pretty lass sitting in his lap doing her best to get a rise out of him could cure what ailed him.
He’d been ruined. Bewitched by a lass with silky dark hair and flashing green-flecked hazel eyes who haunted his days, his nights, and every blasted minute in between.
He hadn’t forgotten her; if anything, his memories of her had only grown sharper. Standing out against everything that had come before—and after—in bold contrast. Making everyone else seem ordinary in comparison. The irony of his first impression of her as just that was not lost on him.
She had been different, he realized. Special. Though realizing it didn’t change things. She didn’t belong to him and never would.
In his darker moments, he tortured himself with the question of whether she’d married her bloody Englishman yet.
His muscles tensed, and the lass tittered something about his needing to relax. She nuzzled his neck and giggled as she whispered naughty suggestions in his ear, but he didn’t feel anything other than vague annoyance. He was tired of simpering and giggling. Of lasses who looked up at him as if he could do no wrong.