The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel Read online

  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