The Ranger (18 page)

Knowing MacSorley wouldn’t stop needling his kinsman until they came to blows, Arthur changed the subject. “Why did you need to see me? I assume it must be important to risk meeting like this.”

To preserve Arthur’s cover, the king had taken great precautions. Meetings were arranged only on an as needed basis, by leaving coded messages at one of the numerous stone monuments that littered the countryside, such as the stone circle where they’d gathered tonight. King Robert relished the connection with Scotland’s ancient past, and the mystical stones seemed a fitting allusion for his secret guard of the greatest warriors in Scotland.

Most communications were by messenger—only rarely did Arthur risk meeting with his fellow guardsmen. After infiltrating the MacDougalls, it had become even more difficult. He’d lost much of the freedom of movement he’d enjoyed working on his own. Tonight, he’d had to sneak out of Duntrune Castle in the middle of the night and hope to hell no one discovered he’d gone.

MacSorley sobered. “Aye, we received word last week that you’d come south. I’m glad you saw our message.”

Arthur tried to check the monuments as often as he could. When he’d seen the three smaller stones arranged in a triangle in the center, he’d known: it was the code to come as soon as possible. It was the same message he’d left at the cave north of Dunollie Castle before he’d gone south. With its access to the sea, the cave was the safest place for Bruce’s men to venture and only a few miles south of Dunstaffnage. “I assume since you knew where to leave it that you received mine?”

MacSorley nodded. “We were surprised to hear you’d left Dunstaffnage.”

Arthur schooled his features, not betraying the hint of guilt that crept up his consciousness. He hadn’t forgotten his mission, damn it. He’d just needed to get away.

“It couldn’t be avoided,” he said, offering no further explanation. “Lorn fears that Angus Og is up to something. I’ve accompanied his son Ewen to see what we can find out.”

“My cousin is always up to something,” MacSorley said about the powerful MacDonald chief. “He’s mobilizing his fleet for the battle against the MacDougalls.”

“I thought as much.” The attack against the MacDougalls from the sea would be every bit as important as the attack from land. Bruce would press Lorn from both directions. It was one of the reasons that MacSorley’s skills were so valued. He would be the one to lead the attack by sea.

“Lorn is well informed,” MacRuairi said.

Arthur grimaced. “Aye, he is. But I’ve been unable to find out how he’s doing it. There have been no strange churchmen about, nor have I seen any messengers.”

MacSorley smiled. “That’s why we sent for you. I intercepted one of Edward’s messengers on his way north with a message for Lorn. It’s one Lorn has been waiting for, though not the news he hoped for.” He grinned. “King Edward has declined Lorn’s request to send additional men north. And thanks to my cousin here, we know where the messenger was heading.”

Arthur didn’t need to ask how MacRuairi had got him to talk. MacRuairi always got them to talk.

“Ardchattan Priory,” MacRuairi said.

Arthur felt a tingle of excitement. The priory was close to Dunstaffnage, right in the heart of Lorn. This was it: the chance they’d been waiting for.

“So they are using churchmen,” Arthur said. It was as he’d suspected.

“So it seems,” MacSorley agreed. “All you need to do is keep an eye on the church and see who comes to pick it up. As one of Lorn’s knights, your presence, should you be discovered, won’t be remarked upon. How soon will you be able to get away?”

“I’ll leave in the morning.”

“You will be able to explain your sudden need to return to the castle?” MacRuairi asked.

“Someone needs to report back to Lorn. I’ll volunteer to go.”

With his mission clear, Arthur was anxious to be on his way, but he took a few minutes to catch up on the other guardsmen.

MacSorley and MacRuairi were the only two members of the Highland Guard in the west, watching the seas. MacKay, Gordon, and MacGregor were in the north, keeping the roads clear of messengers and wreaking havoc on Ross for what he’d done to the women, and the rest of the team were in the east with the king.

Robert “Raider” Boyd and his partner, Alex “Dragon” Seton, had returned recently from a successful mission in the southwest, with Sir James Douglas and Sir Edward Bruce, the king’s sole remaining brother. King Robert had lost three brothers in one year—two at the hands of MacDowell, the man they’d sent scurrying from Galloway. Seton, too, had lost a brother.

“Have Raider and Dragon finally figured out they are fighting on the same side?” Arthur asked. The ill-fated pairing between Seton, an English knight, and Boyd, the man who hated all things English, had been one of the biggest hurdles in the early days of the Guard.

“It’s gotten worse.” MacSorley frowned, so Arthur knew it had to be serious. “Dragon has changed since the death of his brother. He’s angrier, and most of that anger is directed at Raider.” The smile returned to his face. “But there is some good news. Guess who they brought back with them, captured near Caerlaverock Castle in Galloway?”

“Who?” Arthur asked.

“My old companion, Sir Thomas Randolph.”

Arthur swore, not hiding his surprise. “What did the king do?”

The news that his young nephew had gone over to the English the year before had been a bitter blow to the king who was attempting to regain his kingdom. Switching sides was regrettably all too common—King Robert had done it himself many times in the early years of the war—but Randolph’s defection had come at a particularly difficult time for the king. At the very lowest point in his struggle.

MacSorley shook his head in disgust. “He forgave him. Too easily, in my opinion. Especially after the pup had the nerve to criticize his uncle for not fighting like a knight but like a pirate.”

“Apparently Hawk failed to make an impression on him,” MacRuairi said dryly.

“Perhaps so,” MacSorley said. “But I’ll get another chance. The king has vowed to send him to me again for training.”

Arthur lifted a brow. “Why do I have a feeling the young knight will have his punishment after all?”

MacSorley shrugged not so innocently. “I’ll make a Highlander out of the lad yet.” He gave Arthur an amused look. “I hope you haven’t forgotten,
Sir
Arthur. You’re looking very fine in your knight’s garb.”

The jest hit a little too close to the truth. “Sod off, Hawk. Care for a demonstration?”

MacSorley chuckled. “Perhaps another time. My wife would have my bollocks if the messenger comes and I am not there. And you should get back to Duntrune Castle before they discover you’re gone.”

They’d already said their farewells when Arthur remembered. “Here,” he said, taking out the map that he’d finished a few days ago. “It’s for the king.”

MacSorley held it up to get a better look at it in the moonlight. “Damn, this is good. The king will be pleased. He’ll need it for the march west. I’ll send a messenger right away.”

Arthur nodded. “And I’ll send word as soon as I have something.”

“
Airson an Leòmhann,
” MacSorley said.

For the Lion. The symbol of Scotland’s kingship and the battle cry of the Highland Guard.

Arthur repeated the words and slid into the shadows, not knowing when or if he would see them again. In war, nothing was certain.

Arthur was in place less than twenty-four hours later. From his position behind a grassy knoll to the east of the priory, he had a clear vantage of the approaches to both the cross-shaped stone church and the square cloister that housed the monks to the south.

Established by Duncan MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, about seventy-five years earlier, Ardchattan Priory was one of only three Valliscaulian monasteries in Scotland. He didn’t know much about the rare order of monks, except that they reputedly followed a strict code.

Just six miles to the east of Dunstaffnage on the north side of Loch Etive, Ardchattan was the perfect place from which to route messages—especially since the prior was a MacDougall. It was one of the first places he’d focused on upon arriving a month earlier. But although he’d kept it under surveillance for a few days, except for a couple of women from the village, the monks had very few visitors.

Now, with the trap set, all he had to do was wait and he would finally have some answers. Answers that would put him that much closer to fulfilling his mission for King Robert and seeing John of Lorn pay for what he’d done to his father.

Fourteen years was a long time, but he still remembered it as if it were yesterday. At twelve, he’d been desperate to impress the man who seemed like a king to him.

He could still remember the way the sun had caught his father’s mail in a halo of silvery light as Cailean Mor, the Great Colin, gathered his guardsmen in the
barmkin
of Innis Chonnel Castle, readying for battle.

He’d looked down at the son who most of the time he tried to ignore. “He’s too small; he’ll only get himself killed.”

Arthur started to say something in his own defense, but Neil cut him off with a glance. “Let him come, Father—he’s old enough.”

Arthur felt his father’s gaze fall on him and tried not to shuffle under the weight of his scrutiny, but in all of his twelve years he’d never felt so lacking. Small for his size. Skinny. Weak. And on top of it, unnatural.

I’m not a freak
. But in his father’s eyes, that’s what he saw.

“He can barely lift a sword,” his father said.

The shame in his voice cut like a knife. Arthur could see what he was thinking:
How could this odd, puny whelp of a lad be of my blood?
Blood that had forged some of the fiercest, toughest warriors in all the Highlands. Campbells were born warriors.

Except for him.

“I’ll watch over him,” Neil said, putting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Besides, maybe he can be of help.”

His father frowned, not liking the reminder of Arthur’s strange abilities, but nodded. The hint of possibility in his gaze gave Arthur hope. “Just make sure he doesn’t get in the way.”

Arthur had been so excited, he’d barely been able to contain himself. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe he’d finally be able to prove to his father that his skills could be of use, as Neil said.

But it didn’t work out that way. He was too nervous. Too excited. Pressing too hard and wanting it too much. And too damned emotional. His senses weren’t responding the way they usually did.

They were nearing the border of Campbell and MacDougall territory, having just passed the eastern edge of Loch Avich approaching the string of Lorn—the old route through the hills of Lorn used by drovers and pilgrims on their way to Iona. He and Neil had ridden ahead with the scout, anticipating a surprise attack by their enemies along the narrow pass.

They rode over a ford in a small burn and stopped near Loch na Sreinge. “Do you feel anything yet?” Neil asked.

Arthur shook his head, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest and sweat beading on his brow as he tried to force his senses to sharpen. But it was his first battle, and now that the excitement had worn off, fear and anxiety had invaded. “Nay.”

Then they heard it. Behind them, not fifty yards away on the other side of the forested hillside. The sounds of an attack.

Neil swore and ordered him behind a tree. “Stay here. Don’t move until I come for you.”

To his horror, Arthur’s eyes filled with tears, only adding to his self-loathing. How could he have failed? How could he not have sensed them? This was all his fault. He’d been given a chance to prove himself—to show his skills—and instead he’d let the one person who believed in him down. “I’m sorry, Neil.”

His brother gave him an encouraging smile. “It’s not your fault, lad. This was only your first time out. It’ll be better next time.”

His brother’s faith in him only made it worse.

He wanted to go after them, but his father was right, he would only get in the way.

It seemed like hours before the sounds of battle began to fade, and still Neil hadn’t come for him. Fearing that something might have happened to his brother, Arthur couldn’t wait any longer. He carefully crept through the trees, making his way toward the battle.

Suddenly, he came to a stop. The senses that had so deserted him flared to life.

The clash of steel on steel seemed to be all around him—indiscernible, but something made him turn to the left. He felt a flash of panic and started to run toward the sound. His sword dragged through the leaves and dirt, and he struggled not to stumble as he wound through the trees and scrambled up a small rise, taking refuge behind a large boulder.

Then he saw them. Two men, a short distance from the rest, hidden from view by the bend of the hillside, were waging a fierce sword battle at the base of a small waterfall. It was his father and a man he’d seen only once before from a distance: their enemy, John MacDougall, Lord of Lorn, the MacDougall chief’s son.

Arthur held his breath, watching as the two men, both in the prime of manhood, exchanged blow after powerful blow. When it seemed it couldn’t go on much longer, his father swung his sword with both hands over his head and sent it crashing down on his opponent. Arthur nearly cried out with relief, seeing Lorn sent to his knees by the force of the blow, his sword ripped from his hands.

Arthur’s blood froze with fear. He knew he was about to see his first death on the battlefield. He wanted to shield his eyes, but he found himself unable to turn away. It was as if he knew that something important was about to happen.

The sun flashed off Lorn’s steel helm. His father lifted his sword. But instead of a death knell, he rested the point on Lorn’s neck.

The men were too far away. The waterfall should have drowned out their voices. He shouldn’t be able to hear them. But he could.

“The battle is over,” his father said. “Call off your men; the Campbells have won the day.” Arthur glanced at the other side of the bend, near the ford in the burn, and saw that his father spoke true. The bodies of their enemy littered the grass along the bank of the burn, turning the stream red with blood. “Surrender,” his father ordered, “and I will let you live.”