The Bruce family had held lands in Antrim along the north coast of Ireland for years. And his wife, Elizabeth de Burgh, was the daughter of the most powerful earl in Ireland. But his father-in-law, the Earl of Ulster, was Edward’s man.
“Once I have the supplies, it will not take longer than a day or two to repair the boats,” Hawk said.
Bruce nodded, knowing he should give orders but unable to shake the overwhelming sense of futility weighing down on him.
What did it matter?
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the spider leap once more from the rocky ledge. “See that spider?” he said, pointing to the wall on the right. The men nodded blankly. Bruce was sure they were wondering whether he’d lost his mind. “I keep waiting for her to give up. That’s about the sixth time I’ve seen her try to cross that span only to fall into nothingness.” He shook his head. “I wonder how many more times it will take before she realizes it will never work.”
Hawk flashed him a grin. “I wager that’s a Highland spider, your grace, and she’ll keep trying until she succeeds. Highlanders don’t believe in surrender. We’re a tenacious lot.”
“Don’t you mean stubborn and pig-headed?” Bruce said wryly.
Hawk laughed. “That, too.”
Bruce had to admire the affable seafarer’s ability to find humor even in the most wretched of situations. Usually Hawk’s good humor kept them going, but not even the towering Norseman could rouse Bruce from his state of hopelessness tonight.
“Get some sleep, sire,” Tor said. “We’ve all had a long day.”
Bruce nodded, too weary to do anything but agree.
Light tugged at his eyelids and a gentle warmth caressed Bruce’s cheek like a mother’s gentle embrace. He opened his eyes to a beam of sunlight streaming through the cave. A new day had dawned bright and sunny, a sharp contrast to the apocalyptic storms of the day before.
It took a moment for the sleep to clear and for his gaze to focus. He looked at the rocks above his head and swore.
Well, I’ll be damned.
Spanning about a twelve-inch space between two rocks was the most magnificent web he’d ever seen. The intricate threads of silk glistened and sparkled in the sunlight like a magnificent crown of thinly woven diamonds.
She’d done it. The little spider had built her web.
He smiled, for a moment sharing in her triumph.
Methven. Dal Righ. The deaths and capture of his friends. The separation from his wife. The storm. Maybe they weren’t God’s vengeance after all, but his test.
And the spider was his messenger.
He noticed the seafarer stirring a few feet away and called him over. “You were right,” he said, motioning above him.
It took Hawk a moment to realize what Bruce meant, but when he saw the web he grinned. “Ah, she did it. A good lesson in perseverance, wouldn’t you say?”
Bruce nodded thoughtfully. “I would indeed. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, and try again. Words to live by.”
And something he’d forgotten.
He didn’t know whether it was the spider or the dawn of a new day, but it didn’t matter. The black hopelessness of yesterday was behind him, and he felt reinvigorated for the fight ahead. No matter how many times Edward knocked him down, while there was breath in his body Robert Bruce would go on fighting.
King Hood or nay, he was the rightful king of Scotland and would take back his kingdom.
“You have a plan, sire?” Hawk asked, sensing the change in him.
Bruce nodded. “I do indeed.” He paused and gave the brash seafarer the kind of bold proclamation he would appreciate: “To win.”
Hawk grinned. “Now you sound like a Highlander.”
Bruce would bide his time. For the next few months, he would disappear into the mist and get lost among the hundreds of isles along the western seaboard, gathering his forces to try again. And again.
Until he succeeded.
One
Rathlin Sound, off the north coast of Ireland
Candlemas, February 2, 1307
Erik MacSorley never could resist a challenge, even an unspoken one. One glimpse of the fishing boat being pursued by the English galley and he knew tonight would be no different.
What he should do was ignore it and continue on his mission, slipping undetected past the English patrol ship on his way to Dunluce Castle to meet with the Irish mercenaries.
But what fun would there be in that?
After over four months of hiding and hopping from island to island with nothing more than a brief foray to the mainland to collect Bruce’s rents and the occasional reconnaissance mission, Erik and his men deserved a wee bit of excitement.
He’d been as good as a monk at Lent (except for the lasses, but Erik sure as hell hadn’t taken a vow of chastity when he joined Bruce’s Highland Guard), staying out of trouble and exercising unnatural restraint the few times he’d been called to action since the storm and their escape from Dunaverty. But with Devil’s Point practically in pissing distance, a high tide, and a strong wind at his back, it was too tempting an opportunity to let go by.
At nine and twenty, Erik had yet to meet a wind he could not harness, a man who could best him on or in the water, a boat he could not outmaneuver, or, he thought with a devilish grin, a woman who could resist him.
Tonight would be no different. The heavy mist made it a perfect night for a race, especially since he could navigate the treacherous coast of Antrim blind.
They’d just skirted around the northwest corner of Rathlin Island, on their way south to Dunluce Castle on the northern coast of Ireland, when they caught sight of the English patrol boat near Ballentoy Head. Ever since the English had taken Dunaverty Castle earlier this month and realized Bruce had fled Scotland, the enemy fleet had increased their patrols in the North Channel hunting the fugitive king.
But Erik didn’t like seeing a patrol boat this close to his destination. The best way to ensure the English didn’t interfere with his plans was to put them someplace they couldn’t give him any trouble. Besides, from the looks of it, the fishermen could use a little help.
English bastards. The treacherous murder of MacLeod’s clansmen was still fresh in his mind. And they called him a pirate.
He gave the order to raise the sail.
“What are you doing?” Sir Thomas Randolph sputtered in a hushed voice. “They’ll see us.”
Erik sighed and shook his head. Bruce owed him. Acting nursemaid to the king’s pompous nephew was not what he’d signed up for. The king might have to add a castle or two to the land in Kintyre he’d promised to restore to him when Bruce reclaimed his crown and kicked Edward Longshanks back to England.
Randolph was so steeped in the code of chivalry and his knightly “duties” that he made Alex Seton—the sole knight (and Englishman) among the elite Highland Guard—seem lax. After two months of “training” Randolph, Erik had new respect for Seton’s partner Robbie Boyd. Erik had heard enough about rules and honor to last him a bloody lifetime. Randolph was beginning to wear on even his notoriously easygoing nature.
Erik arched a brow with exaggerated laziness. “That’s rather the point if we’re going to draw them away.”
“But damn it, Hawk, what if they catch us?” Randolph said, calling Erik by his nom de guerre—his war name.
When on a mission, war names were used to protect the identities of the Highland Guard, but as a seafarer Erik had no choice but to involve others. He needed men to man the oars, and with the other members of the Highland Guard scattered, he’d turned to his own MacSorley clansmen. The handful of men who’d accompanied Erik on this secret mission were his most trusted kinsmen and members of his personal retinue. They would protect his identity to the death.
Thus far, the infamous “Hawk” sail had not been connected with the rumors spreading across the countryside of Bruce’s phantom army, but he knew that could change at any moment.
The oarsmen in hearing di
stance of Randolph laughed outright at the absurdity.
“I haven’t lost a race in …” Erik turned questioningly to his second-in-command, Domnall, who shrugged.
“Hell if I know, Captain.”
“See there,” Erik said to Randolph with an easy grin. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“But what about the silver?” the young knight said stubbornly. “We can’t risk the English getting their hands on it.”
The coin—fifty pounds’ worth—they carried was needed to secure the mercenaries. Small scouting parties had collected it over the winter months from Bruce’s rents in Scotland. The nighttime forays had only added to the growing rumors of Bruce’s phantom guard. MacSorley and some of the other guardsmen had been able to slip in and out of Scotland undetected thanks to key intelligence leaked from the enemy camp. Erik suspected he knew the source.
Bruce hoped to triple the size of his fighting force with mercenaries. Without the additional men, the king wouldn’t be able to mount the attack on the English garrisons occupying Scotland’s castles and take back his kingdom.
It was Erik’s job to get them there. With the time of the attack approaching, Bruce was counting on him to secure the mercenaries and get them past the English fleet to Arran in time for the attack scheduled for the fifteenth—less than two weeks away.
“Relax, Tommy, lad,” Erik said, knowing full well that the nobleman with the sword firmly wedged up his arse would only be antagonized further by the admonition. “You sound like an old woman. The only thing they’ll catch is our wake.”
Randolph’s mouth pursed so tightly his lips turned white, in stark contrast to his flushed face. “It’s Thomas,” he growled, “Sir Thomas, as you bloody well know. Our orders were to secure the mercenaries and arrange for them to join my uncle, without alerting the English patrols of our presence.”
It wasn’t quite that simple, but only a handful of people knew the entire plan, and Randolph wasn’t one of them. They weren’t arranging to have the mercenaries meet Bruce, they only were arranging the next meeting.
It was safer that way. For Bruce to have any chance against the formidable English army, it was imperative that they have surprise on their side.
After years of serving as a gallowglass mercenary in Ireland, Erik knew that it was wise to be cautious with information. Coin was the only loyalty most mercenaries honored, and the McQuillans were a rough lot—to put it mildly.
The king would not trust them with details of their plan until he had to, including both the location of the rendezvous and when and where they planned to attack. Erik would meet the Irish two nights before the attack, and then personally escort them to Rathlin to rendezvous with Bruce to assemble the army. The next night Erik would lead the entire fleet to Isle of Arran, where Bruce planned to launch the northern attack on the Scottish mainland set for the 15th of February.
The timing was imperative. The king had divided his forces for a two-pronged attack. Bruce would attack at Turnberry, while his brothers led a second attack on the same day in the south at Galloway.
With the timing so tight, and since they could travel only at night, there was no margin for error.
“I don’t want any surprises, Tommy. This way we’ll make sure of it.”
Nothing would interfere with his mission, but they could have a little fun doing it.
“It’s reckless,” Randolph protested angrily.
Erik shook his head. The lad really was hopeless. “Now, Tommy, don’t go throwing around words you don’t understand. You wouldn’t know reckless if it came up and bit you in the arse. It’s reckless only if there is a chance they’ll catch us, which—as you’ve already heard—they won’t.”
His men hoisted the square sail. The heavy wool fibers of the cloth coated with animal fat unfurled with a loud snap in the wind, revealing the fearsome black sea hawk on a white-and-gold striped background. The sight never ceased to send a surge of excitement pumping through his veins.
A few moments later he heard a cry go up across the water. Erik turned to his disapproving companion with an unrepentant grin. “Looks like it’s too late, lad. They’ve spotted us.” He took the two guide ropes in his hands, braced himself for the gust of wind, and shouted to his men, “Let’s give the English dogs something other than their tails to chase. To Benbane, lads.”
The men laughed at the jest. To an Englishman, “tail” was a hated slur. Bloody cowards.
The sail filled with wind, and the birlinn started to fly, soaring over the waves like a bird in flight, giving proof to the Hawk’s namesake emblazoned on the sail and carved into the prow of his boat.
The faster they flew, the faster the blood surged through Erik’s veins. His muscles strained, pumping with raw energy, holding the boat at a sharp angle to the water. The wind ripped through his hair, sprayed his face, and filled his lungs like an elixir. The rush was incredible. Elemental. Freedom in its most pure form.
He felt alive and knew that he’d been born for this.
For the next few minutes the men were silent as Erik maneuvered the boat into position, heading straight for Benbane Head, the northernmost point of Antrim. His clansmen knew him well enough to know what he had planned. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken advantage of a high tide and treacherous rocks.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he could see that his ploy had worked. The English patrol had forgotten all about the fishermen and were giving chase.
“Faster,” Randolph shouted above the roar of the wind. “They’re gaining on us.”
The lad certainly knew how to put a damper on a good time. But grudgingly, Erik had to admit that the English galley was closer than he’d expected. The captain had some skill—and some luck. The Englishman had taken advantage of a gust of wind stronger than the one Erik had tapped into, and was augmenting their speed with his oarsmen. Erik’s oars were silent. He would need them later.
A little English luck didn’t worry him overmuch—even a blind squirrel found an acorn once in a while.
“That’s the idea, Tommy. I want them close enough to lead them into the rocks.”
Devil’s Point was a promontory that jutted out like a rocky finger from the coastline just west of Benbane Head on the far north coast of Ireland. At high tide, the rocky reef would be invisible until it was too late. The trick would be to get the English between him and land, so it wasn’t his boat that was torn apart by the jagged rocks. At the last minute Erik would let them catch up and then turn sharply west, holding course just past the edge of the rock while leading the English right to the Devil.
It was just the kind of deft maneuvering that he could do in his sleep.
“Rocks?” Randolph said, his voice taking on a frantic edge. “But how can you see anything in this mist?”
Erik sighed. If the lad didn’t learn to relax, his heart was going to give out before he reached three and twenty. “I can see all I need to. Have a little faith, my fearless young knight.”
The dramatic high cliffs of the headland came into view ahead of them. On a clear day the majestic dark walls topped with emerald green hillsides took your breath away, but tonight the looming shadows looked menacing and haunting.
He looked back over his shoulder and cocked an eyebrow, a hint of admiration coming into his gaze. The English dog wasn’t half-bad. In fact, he was good enough to throw off Erik’s timing. Running parallel to the shore wasn’t going to work; he was going to have to lead them straight in and turn—directly into the wind—at the last minute.
The English captain might be good …
But Erik was better.
A broad smile curved his mouth. This was going to be more fun than he’d anticipated.
With his cousin Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi in the north with the women, and Tor “Chief” MacLeod land-bound as personal bodyguard to the king, it had been some time since Erik had tasted any real competition. About the last place he expected to find it was with an Englishman.
It was too dark and misty to see the precise edge of the shoreline, but Erik knew they were getting close. He could feel it. Blood pumped faster through his veins as he anticipated the danger of the next few moments. If anything went wrong, or if he were off at all in his calculations, the English wouldn’t be the only ones swimming to shore.
He turned to Domnall, who manned the rudder fixed at the stern. “Now!” he ordered the tack from port to starboard. “Come about and let’s send these English bastards straight to the Devil.”
The men responded with an enthusiastic roar.
Moments later the sail fluttered and the boat jerked hard to the starboard side: Devil’s Point straight ahead.
He heard the hard snap of the sail behind him as the English followed suit, managing the sudden tack with ease.
The English were right behind them, nearing firing range of their longbows.
Almost time …
“Stop in the name of Edward, by the Grace of God, King of England!” a voice from behind shouted in English.
“I serve no king but Bruce,” Erik replied in Gaelic. “Airson an Leomhann!” He shouted the battle cry of the Highland Guard: For the Lion.
The cacophony of voices behind him suggested that someone understood what he said. “Traitors!” a shout rose up.
But Erik paid them no mind, his attention completely focused on the narrow stretch of black sea visible ahead of him.
The air on the boat was thick with tension. Not much farther now. A few hundred feet. He eyed the cliffs on the shore to his left, looking for the jagged peak that marked his reference point, but the blinding mist made it difficult to see.
Blind, he reminded himself.
His men squirmed a little anxiously in their seats, hands ready at the oars, anticipating his order.
“What’s happening?” Randolph asked in a high voice, reading the tension.
“Steady, lads,” Erik said, ignoring the knight. “Almost there …”
Erik’s heart pounded in his chest, strong and steady. Now came the true test of nerves. God, he loved this! Every instinct flared at the oncoming danger, clamoring to turn, but he didn’t flinch. Not yet …