Edward of England's treatment of Wallace two years prior was meant to make an example of the rebellious Scot, but instead his heavy hand had created a martyr. No man deserved such a death, and Bryan's hatred of all things English intensified with the memory of William's fate. His stomach took a sickening turn as he relived that day in London. With a shudder, he brought himself back to the present, fighting for courage, fighting for the belief that ultimately, right would prevail.
THEY ALL CONTINUED TO STARE into the fire, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally Douglas put their greatest fear into words when he said, “Will Bruce surrender, then?”
“I don't know. A lesser man certainly would.” Bryan wished he could offer more hope, but how could any man recover from such unthinkable horror?
“A time like this makes me glad I have no wife or kin to be used so shamefully,” James Douglas said.
Bryan glanced at his companions, whose faces registered varying degrees of dismay at this admission.
“Sorry, lads.” Red-faced, Douglas apologized. “I shall pray for the safety of your loved ones.”
Bryan nodded. “No need for apology, James. You echo our own fears. And though I sympathize with the others, I share your sentiment.” With everything in him, Bryan swore never to allow himself to be vulnerable to such matters of the heart, nor to be shaken from his devotion to king and country. Head bowed, heart shattered by his own grief and that of his king's, Bryan made a solemn vow.
I will not take a wife until Scotland is free.
Stunned by the intensity of his oath, Bryan hesitated before looking up.
“We must do something,” Edward muttered. “We can't just sit here and let the lassies suffer.”
A murmur of assent echoed Bryan's longing, yet he knew there was little to be done. Bruce had but a half dozen accoutered knights, little money, and few mounted troops beyond those the lady had just brought. Bryan could not foresee a time when Scotland would be able to match the heavy cavalry or siege machinery of the English forces. And this helplessness must surely be agonizing for the king.
“For now the only thing we can do is evade capture ourselves,” Bryan told them. “And we'll be hard pressed to stay out of Edward of England's grasp. Our people are so cowed by his atrocities they dare not lift a hand to help us.”
“Aye, and we've a price on our heads to encourage treachery,” Douglas reminded them.
Bryan poked a stick at the fire. No one spoke for several minutes.
“I fear our king has lost heart,” someone said. Those words echoed Bryan's trepidation, and no one spoke into the silence that followed.
AFTER A TIME, Robert walked out of the depths of the cave and joined them at the mouth, his face haggard from the time spent in solitude, no doubt wrestling with private demons. He accepted the seat Bryan offered.
The king waved aside the men's assurances and offers of sympathy with brusque words of gratitude. For a moment, Bruce's gaze held his, and Bryan saw a spark of life had returned to this incredible man's spirit. The pain was still there, but determination had settled around him like a well-worn plaid.
“We will fight,” Robert said with quiet resolve.
“Of course we will,” his brother said.
“We feared you would lose heart,” Douglas ventured.
“Aye, I came close, very close,” Robert answered. His voice grew stronger. “But an amazing sight came to me as I stared at the wall this past hour. I watched one of God's tiny creatures, a spider weaving its web, and for a while I forgot my misery.”
Every man focused on the king as he continued. “The spider tried to attach its thread to a rock below the web. Seven times it launched into the air and missed, then climbed back up to begin the process again. On the eighth try, it succeeded. God seems far away at a time like this, but if we persevere, he will reward us. Just as he rewarded the spider.”
Bryan wasn't so sure God was close at hand but marveled at the way this renowned warrior could captivate the attention of men as diverse as these. The sheer force of his will and his ability to articulate his vision for their future had garnered their loyalty and devotion in the first place. Now, from the ashes of his own despair, he wove a tale, no doubt strengthening his resolve as he replenished theirs.
Edward Bruce stood. “We can be ready to ride at first light.”
“We must be patient, brother.”
Edward scowled and Robert said, “I do not doubt your willingness to fight. And though our cause is just, the English have superior weapons and numbers. We cannot best them unless we play to our strengths. We must ambush the enemy, raid in the dark of night, raze captured fortresses.”
As though to ensure his message was clear, Robert searched each man's face. “Like the spider who fits his web to the space it finds itself in, we will learn ways to fight that take advantage of terrain and circumstances. I will never give up until Scotland is free of this tyrant's rule. No matter the cost, I will pay it, until we are free men once more.”
Relief flooded Bryan. He would rather die himself than give in to a man as cruel and despicable as Edward of England.
But offering one's own life was not the same as sacrificing your loved ones. Robert the Bruce had picked up the gauntlet after Wallace's death, struggling to unite the Scottish nobility and common men against the might of England. And his family had paid an unholy price. 'Twas a lesson Bryan would not soon forget. And although Bruce's reminder of God's faithfulness lightened Bryan's burden somewhat, his faith that God was on Scotland's side had been badly shaken.
The death of his brother and capture of his women might have crushed another man. But Robert the Bruce was not just any man. In his veins ran the royal blood of the Celtic House of Canmore, and he was determined to rule the land he loved. As long as their king held fast to his faith, Bryan knew he and this ragged band of loyal men would follow Bruce through the very gates of Satan's lair, if need be.
For freedom.
February 1308
The Hills of Carrick
CEALLACH KNELT BEFORE his foster brother, the king of Scotland, not on the marble of a stately palace but on the dirt floor of a small stone cottage in the hills where they'd lived together as children. No trappings of office surrounded the royal personage, for Robert's clothing was nearly as threadbare as Ceallach's own.
The months of hard travel, of hiding and fear, of physical pain, threatened to overcome Ceallach. He knew that Bruce had also known treachery, deceit, and physical deprivation this past year, and knowing that had given Ceallach hope that Robert would understand. Raising his head, he prayed his eyes would not betray his desperation. Robert was his only chance for anything resembling a normal life.
Robert rested a hand on his shoulder. “Rise, Marcus ofâ”
“Nay, sire.” Glancing at the three men standing nearby, Ceallach pulled Bruce close to whisper, “Please, Your Majesty. I go by the name of Ceallach.” It had been fifteen years since they had seen each other and just two months since Ceallach and five others had escaped from prison in France. Despite their injuries, they had made their way here through the wintry countryside. Bruce studied him a moment before saying, “I understand. Rise then, Ceallach.” Ceallach stood as the king motioned to the others. They moved to the other end of the cottage, giving the king privacy. All except a tall, black-haired youth who stood still and scowled. Despite the scowl, the boy looked familiar.
“'Tis all right, Bryan. You can go,” Robert said quietly. The boy nodded and moved off, but kept himself and his sword at the ready. Ceallach stared at the boy and then at the king. Despite the difference in coloring the boy had the same straight, narrow nose, the same slanted, Celtic eyes, and the natural grace of movement that had made Bruce one of the most accomplished knights in Christendom.
Ceallach returned his gaze to his foster brother. “You are married, then?”
“Twice, but never to the boy's mother.”
Ceallach found his voice. “Does he know?”
“Aye, of course. But we do not speak of it.”
Ceallach glanced at the youth once again. “You are proud of him.”
“I am.”
Ceallach nodded.
“What, no sermon, brother? No reproof, no rebuke for my sin?”
Even if he weren't desperate for Robert's sanctuary, he would not have lectured his foster brother on sin. Ceallach's own lessons on the subject had been both painful and permanent. “We all fall short of the glory of God, Robert.”
“You also? With your holy vows?”
“Even the holiest of vows can't save you from sin or suffering, Robert. Especially suffering.”
Robert's expression became one of compassion. “We must talk of it.”
Ceallach wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to talk about his recent ordeal. “Aye, but 'tis a long story, best saved for another day.”
Robert laid his hand on Ceallach's shoulder. “All right. How can I help you?”
Ceallach managed not to flinch from the touchâhe simply moved away so Robert had to remove his hand. “I think we can help each other, my laird. I have need of sanctuary. You have need of weapons and money.”
“You were among those Phillip of France arrested?”
“Aye. You may as well know that my comrades and I are wanted men. No ruler in all of Europe will give us sanctuary for fear of excommunication.” They had managed to evade capture thus far by staying aboard the ship that carried them from France. When they had recovered their health they'd walked for nearly ten days to Bruce's camp.
Bruce snorted. “I may be a king, but at the moment 'tis in name only. Very little of Scotland is under my dominion.” He smiled ruefully. “And since the pope has seen fit to excommunicate me, you are hoping I'll ignore the bounty on your heads.”
“If you can.”
Though he'd known of Robert's disfavor with Rome, Ceallach had no idea the war with England proceeded so poorly. As for his own difficulties with the pontiff, Ceallach feared the reaction of the others in the room if they should realize his former occupation. He prayed no one would make the connection between Ceallach the warrior and Marcus of Kintyre, late of the now disbanded Templar Knights.
Still unsure of his welcome, he said, “There are six of usâ trained in the Saracen ways of war. We have access to money and weapons in return for your protection.”
Bruce grinned and it was as if the years fell away. “'Tis good to see you again, brother, after all these years. I would clasp you close in friendship if it wouldn't arouse suspicion. But it seems we both have a price on our heads and a need to conceal our whereabouts.”
“Aye, we've much in common, then.” Ceallach allowed a brief smile.
“I trust you, Ceallach, but I need to know how you found me.”
“You have no need to fear, I've not betrayed you.” Ceallach paused. “Nor will I betray those who helped me.”
Robert nodded in understanding.
Ceallach had nothing to lose. Either Robert accepted him and gave him refuge, or Ceallach's life would end here in the wilds of Carrick. No sense mincing words. “I have no home, Robert. I am not safe in any country in all of Europe, save possibly for Scotland. All I held dear was stripped from me, and I'm lucky I escaped with my life.”
Robert's expression became bleak, and suddenly, Ceallach feared Robert would banish him, since his presence would only increase Edward's desire to destroy Bruce. Hoping to forestall such a concern, Ceallach confessed. “I would pledge myself to your cause, Robert.”
“You would fight for Scotland's freedom?”
“I am a warrior. 'Tis the only life I know.”
“This is no holy war, Ceallach, fought to uphold the Church.”
Ceallach laughed. “No war is holy, Robert. To think otherwise is a fool's game, and I'm done with being a fool.”
“But you and your companions would fight for freedom?”
“If that is your cause, then, yes. We would do so willingly, because we have no home, no country, not even a church to pray in.”
“Nowhere else to turn.” A gleam came into Robert's eye. “Then join with me. We shall be free men once more.”
Ceallach the Warrior, weary, desperate, at his strength's end, wiped tears from his eyes and followed his king into the night.
He would live to fight again.
For freedom.
Year of Our Lord 1312
T
HE PERFUME OF HER MOTHER'S ROSE GARDEN surrounded Kathryn de Lindsay as she strolled on the arm of Lord Rodney Carleton on a late summer afternoon. As they approached the secluded bench near a bubbling fountain, Rodney steered her toward the seat and Kathryn allowed it. They sat down side by side and Rodney tried to draw her into his arms. Mindful of proprieties, she held back as a proper young maid should.
“Come, Kathryn. Surely I've made my intentions clear to you by now. I mean you no harm, only good.” Rodney looked at her with such longing in his gaze. He loved her, but she wasn't sure how she felt about him. Perhaps if they kissed again?
He bent his face to kiss her, and the touch was gentle, beguiling. Surely these strange fluttering feelings were a sign that she was in love, truly in love. She didn't resist when the kiss became demanding and the fluttering. . . . She pulled back in haste.
“My lord, we must stop.”
“Ah, then you do feel something for me, sweeting?”
“Aye.” But what did she feel? How did a woman know when she was in love? Was it the pleasure of looking at her lover's face and form? Rodney's handsome face and blue eyes were framed by deep auburn curls. And his body was that of the renowned swordsman he wasâlithe and strong. A most pleasing sight.
How did one avoid the temptation promised in a man's kisses? If only her mother were still alive to guide her in this business of being courted. Sir Rodney was but one of several men, young and not so young, who had paid court recently to the Earl of Homelea's only child, the future Countess of Homelea.