The Arrow: A Highland Guard Novel (The Highland Guard) (43 page)

She was no less stunned than when he’d come to her tower room a few moments ago and told her that Bruce and his army were on the move. “They are giving up?”

Sir William nodded. “It appears so. We will follow them,
of course, to make sure this is not another of Bruce’s tricks. But with what little progress Bruce has made since he and his army arrived, I’m not surprised. He’ll not want to waste the time and provisions it will take to starve us out. He’ll find an easier target—though not one that is as important.”

In the two weeks of her captivity, Cate had grown to admire the gruff old warrior—as well as feel sorry for him. He was a former Scottish patriot who now found himself through circumstance, family allegiances, and vows of fealty in the unfortunate position of fighting against his countrymen.

Like many early patriots, Sir William Oliphant had been taken prisoner by the English after the disastrous battle of Dunbar and eventually released. Also like many of his fellow patriots, he’d broken his promise to Edward of England and “rebelled” again to join Wallace in his uprisings.

Sir William had earned hero status among the Scots when he’d held Stirling Castle with only a few dozen men against Edward of England and the might of his infamous siege engines—War Wolf, the Ram, and the Vicar—for over three months. Ironically, as the old warrior had pointed out to her, it was Bruce who’d been fighting alongside the English at that time.

King Edward repaid Sir William’s broken promise with one of his own, when Sir William surrendered Stirling under favorable terms only to see himself stripped naked, paraded around with his men for the amusement of the English, and then imprisoned in the Tower of London for four years. Released under
mainprise
with the promise to fight for the new King Edward II, he’d been given command of Perth earlier this year, after the king’s favorite, Piers Gaveston, the Earl of Cornwall, had returned to England only to be executed shortly thereafter.

With no love of Bruce, who Sir William viewed at times
with grudging admiration for what he’d achieved and at others as little better than a usurping murderer (first for taking the crown from the ineffectual but anointed King John of Scotland, and then for killing the king’s kinsman—and probable heir to the crown—John “The Red” Comyn before the high altar of Greyfriars), Sir William found himself fighting alongside his former English enemies.

But it was clear the old warrior—probably ten years her father’s senior—resented the English “nursemaids,” as he called them, from De Bohun, who’d been sent to watch over him and ensure he was not tempted to switch sides. The Fitzwarrens—father and son—in particular, he could not abide.

In that they were of one mind. Cate had barely been able to hide her hatred of the man who’d raped and killed her mother the one time she’d been brought before him, shortly after arriving at the castle. Had “Sir” Reginald Fitzwarren not been armored and surrounded by a half-dozen men-at-arms, she might have been tempted to draw her dagger. She was tempted—more tempted than she should have been, given the circumstances—but she wasn’t going to prove Gregor right by doing something foolish. She would bide her time and wait for a better opportunity.

But one had yet to arise, and she knew she was running out of time. The negotiations for her release had already dragged on longer than she’d anticipated.

For that she had Sir William to thank. He, and not the Fitzwarrens—much to their fury—had taken charge of her imprisonment and the negotiations for her release. He’d also seen that she was given a small, sparsely furnished, but relatively comfortable chamber in the tower, and taken charge of her “interrogation.” A fact that she’d been glad of when she stumbled through an explanation of how she’d come to live with the MacGregors of Roro. Realizing she could hardly mention her connection to Lochmaben for fear Fitzwarren might recognize her—she
already thought he’d looked at her too long that first meeting—she’d claimed to be the orphaned daughter of one of Gregor’s father’s guardsmen.

On learning that she hadn’t left Roro since she’d arrived, and that Gregor rarely returned home—and when he did, it was alone—Sir William dismissed her as a possible source for any useful information about the Phantoms. Despite his kindness to her, the old warrior, like the majority of his sex, thought women of little importance and hardly likely to be confided in about something so important.

Fitzwarren had been furious and mentioned the skills she’d demonstrated on being captured, arguing that she must have been trained by the Phantoms. Cate had vigorously denied it, truthfully claiming that John had been responsible for teaching her how to defend herself against cowardly Englishmen who thought raping women made them men.

She’d held the captain’s eye a little too long, her words a bit too pointed, and Fitzwarren’s gaze had narrowed.

Sir William had been amused both by her show of spirit toward the English captain and by the idea of a lass learning warfare. He made the young Fitzwarren seem foolish and incompetent when he tried to explain how he and his men had had a difficult time capturing her, and how “a wee lassie” had clobbered one of the men on the head with the hilt of her sword and nearly taken off the leg of another.

Though Sir William was obviously busy with the defense of the city, he seemed to have taken a liking to her and ensured that she was fed, given suitable clothing (a gown), and allowed out once a day to walk with a guard around the yard. It was far more freedom than she would have been given if the Fitzwarrens had been charged with her keep, and it bothered her that she would eventually be forced to take advantage of it.

Mistaking the source of her distress, Sir William took her hand in his big paws—he reminded her of a bear with his hefty frame and graying whiskers. “You have nothing to fear, lass. Your betrothed has not deserted you. Bruce might be in retreat, but MacGregor has promised to surrender himself on Saturday at dusk.”

“Saturday?” she echoed. That was only three days away!

He nodded. “I believe he has returned for a few days to Roro to put his estate in order.”

Cate paled. “Do you mean to kill him then?”

The old warrior’s expression hardened with distaste. Cate knew that he did not approve of using a woman to force a surrender—no matter how important the prisoner. “Not me, but I will not lie to you, lass. King Edward has been chomping at the bit to get hold of one of Bruce’s Phantoms, but once MacGregor gives him what he wants, Edward will not have a reason to keep him around—indeed, he’ll have many reasons not to.”

Cate chilled, telling herself it would not come to that. But she knew she could not wait much longer. She must act before Saturday.

Yet as she stood beside Sir William on the battlements and watched her father’s men prepare to leave, she also knew that something did not feel right. Robert the Bruce would not give up so easily. She would need to be ready for anything.

Sir William was obviously pondering the same thing. “As glad as I am to see him go, I have the feeling this is not the last we will be seeing of Robert Bruce.”

Twenty-four
 

The wait was agonizing. Finally, two nights after they’d “given up” the siege and marched away from Perth, Gregor, most of the rest of the Highland Guard, Douglas and a handful of his men, and the king himself were on their way back to Perth.

It was Bruce’s stubborn insistence on joining them—rather than wait nearby with a larger force for when they opened the gates—that had nearly caused them to abandon the plan altogether. Gregor thought Chief was going to burst a blood vessel in his temple, he’d been so furious. But the king would not be dissuaded, even by the fearsome Island chief. It was his plan, and he was going, Bruce had insisted. This was how legends were made, he’d added, ignoring Chief’s rejoinder that it was also how fools were killed and thrones lost.

Not many men could get away with calling the King of Scotland a fool, but Tor MacLeod, the Chief of the Highland Guard, was one of them. Bruce had just laughed and told Chief that was why he was going along—to ensure that he wasn’t.

Gregor took his turn along with the others in trying to talk sense into the king, but he would not be dissuaded. If they wanted a king who would be content to wait someplace where he could be “protected” while they fought for his crown for him, they could have Edward II. Bruce was a warrior, and he would lead his men into battle, even if it
meant his cause died with him. God would protect him—and if not, the Highland Guard would. It was hard to argue with that logic, even if it was blasphemous.

Leaving about a hundred men in the forest nearby—the bulk of the army had remained at Dundee Castle, which was taken by Bruce the previous winter, to maintain the illusion of a retreat and not alert the English spies—the small party of warriors approached the north end of the city where the castle was located. There were several gates into the city, including the Red Brig Port, Turret Brig Port, Southgate Port, and Spey Port, but their plan was to cross the
lade
near the castle, scale the wall, and open the small gate at Curfew Row to admit the rest of the army and take the garrison by surprise. Once the castle fell, the city would be theirs.

It was well after midnight when the score of warriors approached the icy black waters of the
lade
, carrying only the rope ladders fashioned by Douglas that they’d used for the first time at Berwick and very light weaponry. Not coincidentally, it was a moonless night and the skies were dark as pitch. With the soot and seal grease blackening their faces, the men were hard-pressed to recognize the man standing next to them. For the soldiers standing watch on the rampart they would be nearly impossible to see. Hearing them was unlikely, as even from outside the wall the sounds of revelry were unmistakable. Apparently, the garrison and townsfolk were celebrating their victory. A bit prematurely—not that Gregor was going to complain, particularly if it meant the soldiers were not keeping good watch.

Bruce was the first man in the water, much to the shock of a French knight who’d recently joined Douglas’s retinue and was unused to seeing a king lead his men from the front. Chief followed closely, with Gregor immediately behind him.

Murky, and cold enough to freeze your bollocks off, the
lade
was about twenty yards of oozy, smelly, slimy hell. At times the water was high enough to nearly reach their mouths, and, given the pungent scents coming from it, Gregor was glad it didn’t.

When they finally reached the far side of the
lade
, they had to crawl on their bellies up a bank of mud and rock at the foot of the wall. Once the others had made it across, the two Island chieftain cousins, MacSorley and MacRuairi, began tossing the grappling hooks of the rope ladders.

No one spoke. They didn’t need to. They all knew their roles. Any necessary communication was done by hand signals.

Chief had won one small victory before they’d left. Bruce would
not
be the first man up the ladder; MacRuairi would go ahead of him. Gregor would be the first man up the second ladder to take his position along the wall.

Slowly—silently—no more than two men on the ladder at one time, they started to climb. MacRuairi was about five feet from the top, with the king a few steps behind him, when disaster struck. The rope on one side of their ladder snapped near the top. Both men barely managed to grab hold of the remaining side of rope as the boards under their feet dropped sideways, and they went careening into the wall—which was a hell of a lot better than landing on the rocky bank about twenty feet below.

The clatter of wood and metal against stone was enough to attract the attention of even the most lax of guards. From below, Chief whispered, “Arrow, on your right.”

Over halfway up the second ladder, Gregor didn’t have time to think. A soldier on one of the turrets had stopped to investigate. He was about twenty yards away, looking in their direction—a faint blur of a target in the darkness. Wedged against the wall with only his feet for balance, Gregor let go his grip on the ladder, notched an arrow, and sent it careening into the darkness in seconds. The shot was more prayerful than realistic, and given that one
wrong move would have him careening backward off the ladder, one of the most difficult he’d ever attempted. But there was no way in hell he was going to let this attack fail. Before the soldier could shout out a warning to the rest of the watch, he fell harmlessly to the ground.

MacRuairi had managed to pull himself to the top. The king was still hanging from the broken ladder with the men in position below to catch him if necessary. But Bruce didn’t fall. Like MacRuairi, he climbed the broken ladder up and over the wall. Thanks to Gregor, disaster had been averted.

With Chief cursing the whole time, in the kind of valiant act that earned Bruce the heart of the people and the admiration of his men, the king led the small party of warriors in a surprise attack. Though Gregor wanted nothing more than to go in search of Cate, he held his position at the wall overlooking the bailey to ensure that no one was able to alert the rest of the garrison before the castle could be taken and the gate opened.