She knew he was right. But no matter what Magnus had said—or whatever his feelings—she’d been wrong to marry William when she loved another man. She would always love Magnus. Whether he wanted her or not.
William deserved a wife who would love him. A woman who would come to his bed without thinking of another. She would never be able to give him that.
She just hoped that some day her family would be able to forgive her.
Galloway Forest, Two Nights Later
“Any questions?” Tor MacLeod scanned the blackened faces of the men circled around him in the darkness. The ash—like the dark nasal helms and armor—helped them blend into the night. “I don’t need to tell you how important this is. If you don’t know exactly what you are supposed to do, now is the time to speak up. There isn’t any room for mistakes.”
“Hell, if there was room for mistakes, I’d think I was in the wrong place,” Erik MacSorley quipped. The brash seafarer could always be counted on to lighten the mood. The more danger, the more jokes. He’d been making jests all night.
The Highland Guard had been formed for the most dangerous, seemingly impossible missions. The rescue of the king’s brother was going to test those limits. Fifteen hundred English soldiers stood between them and Edward Bruce. With the addition of James Douglas’s men, their forces would number about fifty. Daunting odds for even Scotland’s most elite team of warriors. But they were at their best when the odds were against them. They never considered failure. The belief that they would be victorious under any situation is what made them succeed.
MacLeod, the leader of the Highland Guard, usually ignored MacSorley. That he didn’t perhaps more than anything underscored the severity of the situation. “Aye, well, try not to abduct any lasses this time, Hawk.”
MacSorley smiled at the reference to the “mistake” that had led to his absconding with Lady Elyne de Burgh from her home in Ireland last year. “I don’t know, Raider could use a wife. With his surly disposition it might be the only way he finds one.”
“Sod off, Hawk,” Robbie Boyd replied. “Maybe I’ll just take yours? The poor lass must be tired of you by now. God knows we are.” Boyd’s exaggerated weary sigh elicited quite a few laughs and murmurs of agreement, succeeding in dissipating some of the tension.
“Be ready, then,” MacLeod said. “We leave in an hour.”
Dismissed, Magnus started to break away like the others, but MacLeod stopped him. “Saint. Templar. Hold back a minute.” He waited for the rest of the men to leave before he turned to Magnus and Gordon, the steely gaze that missed nothing flickering back and forth between them. “Is there anything I should be worried about?”
Magnus straightened, not needing to look at Gordon to know he did the same. “Nay, Chief,” he said, Gordon’s voice echoing his.
Tor MacLeod was lauded as the fiercest warrior in the Highlands, and right now he looked it. He scrutinized the two men with withering intensity. Few men gave Magnus pause, but the leader of the Highland Guard was one of them. They all had a little bit of Viking in them, but MacLeod had more than most. “Discord is poison in an army. Whatever is going on between you two, put it aside.”
MacLeod walked away, not waiting for them to respond. He didn’t need to; they understood what was at stake.
From the moment MacRuairi entered the boathouse with word of Edward Bruce’s crisis in Galloway, the only thing that mattered was the mission. He and Gordon were too experienced as warriors to let personal matters interfere with the job Bruce sent them to do. Their lives, and the lives of their Highland Guard brethren, depended on it.
But the tension was there, lingering under the surface, waiting but not forgotten. The fact that MacLeod had picked up on it shamed them both.
Gordon looked as grim as Magnus felt. “Come,” he said. “We’d best get something to eat. I’ve a feeling we’re going to need all our strength for the night ahead.”
“Not to mention a few miracles,” Magnus said dryly.
Gordon laughed, and for the first time since Magnus arrived at Dunstaffnage for the wedding, the knot of tension twisting in his gut dissipated. He’d already lost Helen; he’d be damned if he lost his friend, too.
They walked back to camp to join the others, reviewing the details of the daring plan to rescue the king’s proud, headstrong, and at times reckless brother. Edward Bruce was not a favorite among the Highland Guard, but he was the king’s trusted lieutenant in the troublesome south and, significantly, his sole remaining brother. Edward’s death or capture would be a personal blow to a king who’d already suffered too many since the war began: three brothers executed in less than a year; a wife, two sisters, and a daughter imprisoned in England—one of those sisters in a cage.
If they had to get through fifteen hundred Englishmen to save Edward Bruce’s damnable hide, they would do so. Airson an Leòmhann. For the Lion. The symbol of Scotland’s kingship and the battle cry of the Highland Guard.
For the past two days, the eleven members of the Highland Guard had worked together with one purpose in mind: reaching Edward in time to avert disaster. They’d sailed as far south as Ayr, then headed east on horseback into the wild and untamed forests and hills of Galloway.
Although the war in the north had been won, the war in the south waged on. The English controlled the borders, with large garrisons occupying all the major castles, and in Galloway—the ancient Celtic province in the isolated southwest of Scotland—pockets of rebellion flared by those loyal to the exiled King John Balliol and his kinsman, the powerful clan chief Dugald MacDowell.
Operating from his headquarters in the vast and impenetrable forests, Edward Bruce had spent most of the last six months putting down those rebellions with a vengeance, especially toward the MacDowells, who were responsible for the deaths of two of the Bruce brothers in the disastrous landing at Loch Ryan the year before.
Young James Douglas, dispossessed by the English of his lands in nearby Douglasdale, had made a name for himself in Edward Bruce’s army, his black hair and fearsome reputation earning him the epitaph of the “Black Douglas.”
Most of the members of the Highland Guard had spent some time in Galloway over the past six months with Edward Bruce—especially Boyd, Seton, MacLean, and Lamont, who had ties to the area. Magnus himself had left the area only a few days ago to attend the wedding. But this was the first time the entire Guard had been called into Edward’s service.
The situation warranted it. According to the messenger who’d arrived from Douglas, Edward Bruce had received word that his nemesis Dugald MacDowell had returned to Galloway from exile in England. He’d gone after him with a small force while Douglas was on a raid.
When Douglas returned and discovered Edward gone, he’d followed him, only to to find fifteen hundred Englishmen blocking his way. Edward had been lured from the forest into a trap and had been forced to take refuge at Threave Castle, which he’d wrested from the English only a few months before.
The ancient stronghold of the Lords of Galloway, most recently held by Dugald MacDowell, was located on an islet in the middle of the River Dee, connected to the grassy marshland by a rocky causeway. The castle should have been highly defensible. But like William Wallace before him, Bruce’s strategy was to scorch the earth behind him, leaving nothing for his enemy to use, including destroying castles and befouling the wells. That meant Edward Bruce was defending himself from a burned-out shell of rock with no fresh water.
The English army, according to Arthur Campbell, the Highland Guard’s vaunted scout, was laying siege on the eastern banks of the river. But without fresh water, the siege would not last long. An assault by sea would make it even shorter.
Two hours before dawn, Magnus and the rest of the Highland Guard gathered with Douglas’s men around MacLeod. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“Aye,” the men replied.
MacLeod nodded. “Then let’s give the bards something to sing about.”
They left the cover of the forest, riding hard
for the castle. Timing was everything. They needed to be in position at the flank of the English army right as dawn was breaking. While Edward Bruce and his army distracted the enemy from the front, the Highland Guard and the rest of Douglas’s men would mount a surprise attack from behind.
Eoin MacLean, or Striker as he was called, was the master of the bold strategies and daring tactics for which the Highland Guard had become known. But this plan was bold and daring even for him.
MacLean’s plan was calculated for maximum impact, taking advantage of the light and mist to mount a quick, fierce surprise attack to unsettle the enemy, to take away the advantage of superior numbers, weaponry, and armor, and most of all, instill fear in the enemy heart. It had worked before—albeit never with so few against so many.
In the cloak of heavy mist that blanketed the valley of the River Dee, the black-helmed, dark-cloaked members of the Highland Guard would appear out of the misty dawn suddenly and undetected, their numbers shrouded, like the phantom band of marauders some proclaimed them to be. In the ensuing chaos and panic, they hoped to create enough of a break for Edward and his men to escape.
They followed the river south for about an hour before reaching a small woodland in a bend on the northern bank just opposite the island. From here, MacSorley and MacRuairi would make use of their water skills by swimming across the murky black waters of the river to sneak into Edward Bruce’s camp and prepare them for the plan. Assuming they could sneak past Edward’s guards first.
“Wait for the signal,” MacLeod said.
“Aye, Chief,” MacSorley said, and then turned to Gregor MacGregor with a grin. “Just make sure you don’t miss.” The famed archer would light a fiery arrow to send over the causeway when it was clear.
“I’ll aim for your head,” MacGregor said. “That’s a big target.”
MacSorley smiled. “If you want a big target, aim for my cock.”
The men laughed.
“This smells like shite,” MacRuairi said, smearing the black seal grease over his naked skin. They’d bundled their armor and weapons in a pack to keep them dry when they crossed the river. The seal grease would not only help them blend into the darkness, it protected them from the cold December waters.
“You’ll be grateful for it in a few minutes.” MacSorley grinned. “The water will freeze your bollocks off.”
“Which shouldn’t be a problem for you anymore,” MacRuairi said dryly.
“Damn, cousin, was that a joke?” MacSorley shook his head. “It does snow in hell.”
MacRuairi muttered something under his breath as he finished applying the grease.
When it was time to go, MacLeod gave a few further instructions before giving their traditional parting: “Bàs roimh Gèill.” Death before surrender. To Highlander warriors there was no other choice. They would succeed or die trying. Death held no fear for them. To Highlanders there was no greater glory than dying on a battlefield.
Leaving the two warriors to their icy swim, the rest of the party rode east, skirting the sleeping English army camped along the eastern bank of the river to block the causeway. When they reached a small wooded hill—the site of an ancient ring fort—MacLeod gave the signal to stop. From here they would launch their attack.
Stretched out between them and the river-bound castle lay a wide expanse of boggy marshland, the ground hardened and grasses browned by the cold breath of winter. Though darkness and mist shrouded the English army from view, their presence—sleeping or nay—was evident in the sounds and smells that carried through the night. Piss and shite from fifteen hundred men left its mark.
The enemy was close. No more than a furlong away. But every man there knew the importance of silence. For their plan to have any chance of succeeding, they must have surprise on their side.
For nearly a half-hour no one said a word as they waited for dawn to break and MacLeod to give the signal. Like a horse chomping at the bit, Magnus could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his blood surging as every instinct clamored to begin.
At last it came. When the first rays of dawn pierced the darkness, MacLeod raised his hand and motioned forward. Magnus and the other members of the Highland Guard took their positions in the front and slowly made their way downhill, using the thick curtain of mist to shield their approach.
The English were rousing. Magnus could hear the sounds of voices, punctuated by the clamor of mail and men moving about. He felt the familiar dead calm come over him. His mind cleared, his pulse slowed, and everything seemed to move at half the speed of normal.
MacLeod signaled for them to stop. Again they waited. More anxiously this time, as every minute the cold light of day strengthened all around them. Worse—disastrously worse—the mist that had seemed so thick only moments before, the mist that could be counted on to stay till midmorning, started to lift. The shield that would hide their presence and their numbers was about to disappear. In a few minutes they would be exposed.
Their dangerous plan had been shot to hell. They were about to become target practice for thousands of English soldiers.
Magnus could see from the look exchanged by MacLeod and MacLean that they were thinking the same thing: how much longer could they wait to see whether MacSorley and MacRuairi had succeeded?
Finally, they heard the surprised shouts from the English as Edward Bruce’s army began to fire arrows on them, engaging them from the front.
MacSorley and MacRuairi had done it! They had their distraction. As the English rushed to get into position, the Highland Guard attacked. But without the mist to hide them, they had to rely on the one thing that they had left: terror.
With a battle cry to chill the blood of any mortal man, they drove into the flank of the English army with a savage ferocity, cutting down everything in their path. The startled cries reverberated through the icy morning. Before the English could mount a defense, the Highland Guard, with Douglas’s men behind them, had turned around to charge again. They sent the knights reeling and bored through the foot soldiers like a stake, splintering the carefully positioned army into chaos. The English army had broken.
Christ, MacLean’s plan had worked! Magnus felt a jolt of victory surge through him, as he saw the causeway left unprotected.
MacLeod shouted to MacGregor to light the signal, and a moment later an arrow shot across the sky in a flaming arch.
As soon as the English started to scatter, the Highland Guard moved into position near the causeway, creating a line of defense for Edward Bruce’s men to leave the island, while Douglas and his men kept up the terrifying assaults on the fleeing English.
But something was wrong. Bruce’s men weren’t coming.
He heard Gordon shout beside him. “The river!”
In between thrusts and blows, Magnus glanced toward the castle.
Ah hell. The mist that had shrouded their attack had also shrouded another: The sea assault they feared had arrived. Three—nay, four—English galleys were approaching the sea-gate, raining a stream of arrows down on any man who tried to venture out of the castle gate. In a few minutes English soldiers would be pouring off those galleys, able to block any attempt by Edward Bruce to escape. There was the added danger of the fleeing English soldiers realizing what was happening and turning around. Fear would no longer obscure their smaller numbers.
“Chief!” Gordon shouted. “Over there.”
MacLeod had seen the same thing they had. “Go,” he said to Magnus and Gordon, understanding the unspoken request. “Take Ranger and Arrow with you.”
They didn’t hesitate. The four men shot across the causeway, heading for the castle, situated on the far side of the islet.
The boats had already started to pull into the jetty under the partially dismantled sea-gate. Ironically, Edward Bruce’s slighting of the castle a few months ago left him in the position of being unable to defend his position.
But as the sea-gate was located on the far side of the castle, the English arrows were now out of range of t
he causeway, giving them a small chance of escape. MacRuairi and MacSorley had realized the same thing. Magnus could see them ahead, ordering Edward’s army to run.
The burned-out shell of the castle loomed in front of them. Most of the wooden outer buildings had been burned to the ground, including large sections of the wooden palisade that surrounded the bailey. Only part of the stone tower remained.
The English started to pour into the bailey from the sea-gate, stalling the efforts of MacRuairi and MacSorley to get Edward’s men out.
“The tower,” Gordon said. “The wall will block them.”
Magnus took one look and understood. If Gordon placed his powder under one of the partially destroyed walls, it would crumble right into the path of the English. Even if it didn’t block them entirely, it would give MacSorley and MacRuairi added time to clear all of the men from the island trap.
Magnus nodded, and quickly told Campbell and MacGregor what they intended to do while Gordon removed an ember from one of the braziers and used it to light a torch.
“The vaults!” Gordon shouted above the din of battle, as they fought their way past a few of the invading Englishmen.
They raced into the cool, damp stairwell. Without its roof, the stone had been left open to the elements, and the stairs were damp and slippery with moss as they made their way into the vaults.
Magnus didn’t need to ask what Gordon intended. It was nothing they hadn’t done many times before. They’d worked for so long together, they communicated without speaking.
Gordon headed for the far wall that was directly under the precariously perched tower wall. “It may take more than one,” he said, removing a few small sacks from a leather bag he wore slung across his shoulder. He handed four of them to Magnus. “We don’t have much time, so fire them all at once. At the arch,” he said, pointing Magnus to the side nearer the stairwell. He used the torch to light two small candles he’d removed from his bag for such occasions. “I’ll tell you when.”
Gordon went to the far side of the wall, packing his bags along the arch near the top of the wall. Magnus did the same on his.