Whether fact or fiction, the direness of Bruce’s situation at the time cannot be overstated. His reclaiming of his crown has to be one of the greatest “comebacks” of all time, coming close to the 2004 ALCS comeback of the Red Sox against the Yankees. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) Sir Herbert Maxwell summarized Bruce’s position in early 1307 this way: “He had not an acre of land he could call his own; three of his four brothers and most of his trusty friends had perished on the gibbet; of his other supporters nearly all had given up his service as hopeless, and reentered that of King Edward; his wife, his daughter, and his sisters were in English prisons.” (Evan MacLeod Barron, The Scottish War of Independence, Barnes and Noble Books, New York, 1914, p. 261.)
Maiden’s (or Virgin’s) Plunge is my fictional take on the Polar Bear plunge, or ice swimming. When I was young, my sister and I used to do something similar in Lake Tahoe. We’d run through snow to jump into a freezing-cold pool and then jump back into a hot tub. It’s more fun than it sounds. Pagan celebrations were often incorporated into Christian holidays, and one school of thought has Candlemas as the Christianization of the Gaelic pagan celebration of Goddess Brighid.
Aymer de Valence would become the Earl of Pembroke by the end of 1307. His unchivalrous conduct at the disastrous Battle of Methven was perhaps the reason for Bruce’s abandonment of his knightly code for the “pirate” style of warfare that he used with such success. There might well have been a personal vendetta on de Valence’s part. His aunt was married to the Red Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, who Bruce murdered at Greyfriars (which takes place at the end of The Chief).
Sir Thomas Randolph—who, along with Sir James “The Black” Douglas, would become one of Bruce’s most trusted and famous companions—was captured by the English after Methven and “switched sides” until 1309. Famously, he is said to have accused his royal uncle of fighting “like a brigand instead of fighting a pitched battle as a gentleman should.” (Ronald McNair Scott, Robert The Bruce King of Scots, Barnes and Noble Books, New York, 1982, p. 111.) Randolph seems to have eventually come around, however, and becomes one of Bruce’s “most brilliant” commanders.
The number of men Bruce had to launch his attack on Scotland is uncertain. Three to four hundred in Carrick and about seven hundred in Galloway seems the most plausible. The larger fleet of mostly Irishmen and Islemen led by Bruce’s ill-fated brothers did meet with complete disaster at the hands of the MacDowells, with only two ships escaping. There is, however, no evidence that the attack was two-pronged as I suggested (although it would have made sense), and the Galloway disaster probably preceded Bruce’s attempt on Carrick. Both divisions are thought to have left from Rathlin, but they couldn’t have been there for long. With the English all around, “hiding” about a thousand men on the small island would have been very difficult.
Just where Bruce disappeared to for the four to five months between his fleeing Dunaverty and the attack on Carrick is one of the great mysteries of his history. Some believe Norway, where his sister was queen, but most historians think that he was hiding in the Western Isles and Ireland with the help of Angus Og MacDonald and Christina (MacRuairi) of the Isles.
Similarly, his route from Rathlin to Arran to launch the attack on Carrick is only a matter of conjecture. Bruce historian C.W.S. Barrow, in his seminal Robert Bruce and the Community of the Realm of Scotland, has him going from Rathlin to the Mull of Kintyre, up the coast, and then over to Arran. Going the way of Magnus Barefoot across Tarbert is my invention, but it seems plausible. The English fleet, called to action in a letter from King Edward to the Earl of Ulster at the end of January, presumably would have been swarming the Firth of Clyde. When I discovered that Bruce was reputed to have landed at Lochranza Castle at the very north of Arran Island, the Tarbert crossing made even more sense to me. They would have had to slip past the English occupied Tarbert Castle.
Militarily, the skirmish at Glen Trool—where Aymer de Valence’s attempted ambush of Bruce and his men backfired—wasn’t as important as Bruce’s victory at Loudoun Hill. But at Glen Trool, a woman was said to have been sent to spy on the Scottish the night before the battle. Instead of spying, however, the woman supposedly broke down and told Bruce of the English presence, thereby alerting him to the danger and saving the day for Bruce and his men. (See Scott, p. 101.) The story comes from John Barbour’s The Brus and might well be apocryphal, but it served as a great inspiration for how to get Ellie into camp.
Spoon Island, located two miles off the coast of Kintyre, has many different names but is known today as Sanda. “Edward’s Point” is said to be where Edward Bruce watched the coast while his brother was making his escape from Dunaverty. Spoon was not part of the MacSorley lands, however, at the time belonging to the Priory of Whithorn in Galloway.
Medieval forms of address are difficult, as they don’t seem to be as standardized as they are today. Bruce was referred to in many different ways, depending on who was talking about him: to his handful of supporters, “sire” or “King Robert”; to the English, who’d divested him of his holdings (Lord of Annandale and Earl of Carrick) and considered him a rebel, simply Sir Robert Bruce; and to others, Lord Robert Bruce. Citing period documents, Barrow notes references to “Earl John” (p. 224) and “Earl Malise” (p. 225), which are definitely not proper forms of address today. Sir “first name” seems to be the default, however, so where uncertain I went with that. Ellie would probably have referred to Ralph as “Sir Ralph,” but I decided to assume the more familial, and less cumbersome, “Ralph.”
Finally, July 7, 1307 marks the end of one of the most famous—and arguably one of the greatest—English kings. Edward I, the self-styled “Hammer of the Scots,” died on the march north to put an end to the Scottish “rebellion.” His last wish, to have his bones carried in an urn at the front of the army until the Scots were defeated, was ignored by his son and heir, Edward II.
If you want to read even more of the “real history” behind the story, make sure to check out the extended Author’s Notes and the other special features on my website: www.monicamccarty.com.
Read on for an excerpt from
The Ranger
by Monica McCarty
Published by Ballantine Books
St. Johns’s Church, Ayr, Scotland,
April 20, 1307
Arthur Campbell wasn’t there—or at least he wasn’t supposed to be. He’d told Bruce about the silver changing hands at the church tonight on its way north to the English garrison at Bothwell Castle. His part of the mission was over.
Bruce’s men were concealed in the trees not fifty yards away, waiting for the riders to appear. Arthur didn’t need to be here. In fact, he shouldn’t be here. Protecting his identity was too important. After more than two years of pretending to be a loyal knight to King Edward, he’d invested too much to risk it on a “bad feeling.” It wasn’t just explaining himself to the English that he had to worry about. If Bruce’s men discovered him, they would think he was exactly what he seemed to be: the enemy.
Only a handful of men knew Arthur’s true allegiance. His life depended on it.
Yet here he was, hiding in the shadows of the tree shrouded hillside behind the church, because he couldn’t shake the twinge of foreboding that something was going to go wrong. He’d spent too many years relying on those twinges to start ignoring them now.
The clang of the church bell shattered the tomb of darkness. Compline. The night prayer. It was time.
He held perfectly still, keeping his senses tuned for any sign of approaching riders. From his initial scouting of the area, he knew that Bruce’s men were positioned in the trees along the road approaching the church. It gave them a good view of anyone arriving, but left them far enough away to be able to make a quick escape in the event the occupants of the church—which was serving as a makeshift hospital for English soldiers—were alerted by the attack.
Admittedly, St. John’s wasn’t the most ideal place to stage an attack. If the wounded
English soldiers inside weren’t enough of a threat, the garrison of soldiers stationed not a half mile away at Ayr Castle should give Bruce’s men pause.
But they had to operate with the intelligence they had. Arthur had learned that the silver would change hands tonight at the church, but not by which road it would leave. With at least four possible routes out of the city to Bothwell, they couldn’t be certain which one the riders would take.
In this case the reward was worth the risk. The silver—perhaps as much as fifty pounds—intended to pay the English garrison at Bothwell Castle, could feed Bruce’s four hundred warriors hiding in the forests of Galloway for months.
Moreover, capturing the silver wouldn’t just be a boon to Bruce, it would also hurt the English—which was exactly what these surprise attacks were calculated to do. Quick fierce attacks to keep the enemy unsettled, interfere with communication, take away the advantage of superior numbers, weaponry and armor, and most of all, to instill fear in their hearts. In other words, fight the way he’d always fought: like a Highlander.
And it was working. The English cowards didn’t like to travel in small groups without an army to protect them, but Bruce and his men had been giving them so much trouble, the enemy had been forced to use furtive tactics by attempting to sneak the silver through by using a few couriers and priests.
Suddenly, Arthur stilled. Though there hadn’t been a sound, he sensed someone approaching. His gaze shot to the road, scanning back and forth in the darkness. Nothing. No sign of riders approaching. But the hairs at the back of his neck were standing on edge, and every instinct warned otherwise.
Then he heard it. The soft but unmistakable crackle of leaves crushed underfoot coming from behind him.
Behind.
He swore. The couriers were arriving via the path from the beach not the road from the village. Bruce’s men would see them, but the attack would be much closer to the church than they wanted. They’d been trained to expect the unexpected, but this was going to be close … very close.
He hoped to hell the priest didn’t decide to come out and investigate. The last thing he wanted was a dead churchman on his soul—it was black enough already.
He listened intently. Two sets of footsteps. One light, the second heavy. A twig cracked, and then another. They were getting closer.
A moment later, the first of two cloaked figures came into view on the path below him. Tall and bulky, he stomped forcefully up the winding path, pushing branches out of the way for the soldier trailing behind. As he strode past, Arthur could just make out the glint of steel and the colorful tabard beneath the heavy folds of wool. A knight.
Aye, it was them all right.
The second figure drew closer. Shorter and slimmer than the first, and with a much more graceful step. Quickly dismissing him as the lesser threat, Arthur started to turn back to the first when something made him stop. His gaze sharpened on the second figure. The darkness and hooded cloak blotted out the details, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. The soldier almost seemed to be gliding along the path below him. There was something under his arm. It looked like a basket—
His stomach dropped. Ah, hell. It wasn’t the courier, it was a lass. A lass with extremely bad timing.
Arthur’s senses hadn’t failed him. Something bad was going to happen all right. If the lass didn’t get out of here, he had no doubt Bruce’s men would make the same mistake he had. But they wouldn’t have time to correct it. They’d be attacking as soon as she and her knightly companion came into view—which would be at any moment now.
He tensed as she swept right by him, the faint scent of roses lingering in her wake.
Turn back, he urged her silently. When she paused and tilted her head slightly in his direction, he thought she might have heard his silent plea. But she shook it off and continued along the path, walking right into a death trap.
Christ. What a damn mess. This mission had just gone straight to hell. Bruce’s men were about to lose their element of surprise—and kill a woman in the process.
He shouldn’t interfere. He couldn’t risk discovery. He was supposed to stay in the shadows. Operate in the black. Not get involved. Do whatever he had to do to protect his cover. Kill or be killed.
Bruce was counting on him. The prized scouting skills that had landed him in the elite fighting force known as the Highland Guard had never been as valuable as they were now. Arthur’s ability to hide in the shadows and penetrate deep behind enemy lines to gather intelligence about terrain, supply lines, enemy strength and positions, was even more important for the surprise attacks that had become a hallmark of Bruce’s war strategy.
One lass wasn’t worth the risk.
Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to be here.
Let her go.
His heart hammered as she drew closer. He didn’t get involved. He stayed in the shadows. It wasn’t his problem.
Sweat gathered on his brow beneath the heavy steel of his helm. He only had a fraction of an instant to decide …
Bloody hell.
He stepped out from behind the trees. He was a damned fool, but he couldn’t stand by and let an innocent lass go to her death without trying to do something. Maybe he could intercept them before they came into view. Maybe. But he couldn’t be sure where all of Bruce’s men were positioned.
He moved stealthily through the shadows, coming on her from behind. In one smooth motion, he slid his hand around to cover her mouth before she could scream. Hooking his arm around her waist, he jerked her hard against him.
A little too hard. He could feel every one of those soft feminine curves plastered against him—particularly the soft bottom wedged against his groin.
Roses. He smelled them again. Stronger now. Making him feel strangely lightheaded. He inhaled reflexively and noticed something else. Something warm and buttery with the faint tinge of apple. Tarts, he realized. In her basket.
Her struggles roused him from the momentary lapse. “I mean you no harm, lass,” he whispered.
But his body disagreed, crackling like wildfire at her movement. A hard shock of awareness coursed though him. She had a tiny waist, but he could feel the unmistakably heaviness of very full, very lush breasts on his arm. A rush of heat pooled in his groin.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a woman.
Hell of a time to think about it now.
Her guardsman must have heard the movement. The knight spun around. “Milady?”
Seeing her in Arthur’s hold, he reached for his sword.
“Shhh …” Arthur warned softly. He kept his voice low, both to avoid being heard and to disguise his voice. “I’m trying to help. You need to get out of here.” He relaxed his hold on her mouth. “I’m going to let go of you, but don’t scream. Not unless you want to bring them down on us. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and slowly he released her.
She spun around to face him. In the tree-shrouded moonlight, all he could see were two big, round eyes staring up at him from under the deep hood of her cloak.
“Bring who down on us? Who are you?”
Her voice was soft and sweet, and thankfully low enough not to carry. He hoped.
Her gaze slid over him. He’d traveled lightly tonight as he always did when he was working, wearing only a blackened haubergeon shirt of mail and gamboissed leather chausses. But they were fine, and from his helm and weaponry, it was clear he was a knight. “You’re not a rebel,” she observed, confirming what he’d already guessed of her sympathies. She was no friend of Bruce.
“Answer the lady,” her companion said, “or you’ll feel the point of my sword.”
Arthur resisted the urge to laugh. The knight was all brute strength and moved about as deftly as a big barge. But cognizant of the situation, he didn’t want to take the time to prove the soldier wrong. He needed to get them out of there as quickly and quietly as possible.
“A friend, my lady,” he said. “A knight in
the service of King Edward.”
For now at least.
Suddenly, he stilled. Something had changed. He couldn’t describe how he knew other than a disturbance in the back of his consciousness and the sensation that the air had shifted.
Bruce’s men were coming. They’d been discovered.
He cursed. This wasn’t good. No more time to convince her gently. “You must leave now,” he said in a steely voice that brokered no argument.
He caught the flare of alarm in her gaze. She, too, must have sensed the danger.
But it was too late. For all of them.
He gave her a hard shove, pushing her behind the nearest tree moments before the soft whiz of arrows pierced the night air. The arrow meant for the lass landed with a thud in the tree that now shielded her, but another had found its mark. Her guardsman groaned as a perfectly shot arrow pierced through his mail shirt to settle in his gut.
Arthur barely had time to react. He turned his shoulder at the last moment as the arrow meant for his heart pinned his shoulder instead. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the shaft and snapped it off. He didn’t think the arrowhead had penetrated deeply, but he didn’t want to risk trying to pull it out right now.
Bruce and his men thought he was one of the couriers. An understandable mistake, but one that put him in the horrible predicament of battling his compatriots to defend himself or betray his cover.
He could still get away.
Maybe they would realize it was a lass? But he couldn’t make himself believe it. If he left, she would die.