The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel Read online

  But it wasn’t working out like that. Few men had joined since Turnberry. The Scots needed more than a small, moral victory to risk King Edward’s wrath.

  Since Turnberry, they’d been trying to get word of the southern prong of the attack at Galloway led by Bruce’s two brothers, but their constantly changing positions made it difficult for anyone to find them—even friends.

  Yet with the help of a sympathetic priest, that was about to change.

  The signal wasn’t a fire this time, but the hoot of an owl. When it came, Erik stepped out of the darkness and strode cautiously down the hillside to the valley below, where the old church stood. It was no more than a twenty-by-twenty single-story stone building with a thatched roof, but it had served as the local place of worship for centuries—and perhaps even beyond that.

  From behind an ancient-looking stone cross came a familiar form. A man Erik hadn’t seen in over a year since he’d left the Isle of Skye after failing the final challenge to become a member of the Highland Guard.

  But the truth had been more complicated than that.

  Erik stepped forward and for the first time in a week felt the pull of a smile. He extended his hand, and they grasped forearms in a hard shake. “It’s good to see you, Ranger,” he said, using the war name Bruce had given him. “It’s been some time. I hope you’ve been working on your spear-catching since last we met.”

  Arthur Campbell let out a bark of laughter at the reference to the challenge he’d “failed.”

  Since that alleged failure, Erik had learned that it had all been a ruse to place Campbell in the enemy camp. Only Chief had known. Thinking their former friend had betrayed them, the other members of the Highland Guard were enraged to learn that they’d been deceived. It wouldn’t happen again; Chief had made damn sure of that.

  Much of their intelligence these past few months had come from Campbell.

  “Bugger off, MacSorl—”

  Erik shook him off. “Hawk,” he said.

  Campbell nodded in understanding. He’d left before they’d decided to use war names.

  “Different name, same shite,” Campbell said with a mocking smile. The famed scout looked around, making sure they were alone. “Come,” he said. “I’ve someone who is anxious to see you.”

  “What about the news—”

  Campbell sobered. “He’ll tell you himself.”

  Erik followed him across the yard toward the church, noting the fine mail and tabard beneath the dark cloak. “I heard Edward made you a knight after Methven. You sure look the part.”

  But under all that armor, Campbell bore the same lion rampant mark as the rest of them.

  Campbell grimaced. “For feeding him misinformation—not that it helped.”

  “You did what you could. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”

  Campbell made a sharp sound to suggest that was a huge understatement and opened the door.

  They stepped inside. Erik felt as if he’d walked into a crypt. Cold and quiet, the air had a musty smell and an unusual stillness—as if that door hadn’t been opened for a long time. There was a small altar on a raised platform at the far end and a line of old wooden benches below. To the right was a tomb—probably the final resting place of one of the original priests.

  A moment after the door closed behind them, a shadow emerged from behind the tomb.

  Little moonlight streamed through the solitary window, and it took a moment for Erik’s eyes to adjust. The man pushed back the hood of his cloak and Erik swore. Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi. His cousin and fellow member of the Highland Guard.

  Erik stepped forward and embraced him, even though (or perhaps because) he knew it would make his cousin uncomfortable. Lachlan MacRuairi was a coldhearted bastard—stealthy and deadly as the snake who’d given him his war name of Viper—but it was damned good to see him.

  “What are you doing here?” Erik asked. “We thought you’d be gracing the Norse court with that sunny disposition of yours.”

  MacRuairi’s face slipped out of the shadows and right away Erik knew something was wrong. There was an almost wild, frenzied look in his normally flat eyes.

  Erik’s flash of humor departed as quickly as it had come. “Where’s the queen?” he said. His cousin had been placed in charge of the queen, Bruce’s sisters and young daughter, and the Countess of Buchan when they’d been forced to separate after the battle of Dal Righ.

  MacRuairi’s eyes blazed with an unholy light. Erik knew what he was going to say even before he said it. “Taken. We were betrayed by the Earl of Ross before we could reach the safety of Norway.”

  His cousin gave a quick recitation of the events that led up to the ladies’ capture and then of Ross’s violation of sanctuary.

  By some twist of fate—MacRuairi refused to elaborate—he’d escaped capture. But the two other members of the Highland Guard who were in the party, William “Templar” Gordon and Magnus “Saint” MacKay, had not been so fortunate.

  MacRuairi had been trying to rescue them ever since. Gordon and MacKay were being held in a dungeon at Urquhart Castle under the watch of Alexander Comyn. They’d escaped immediate execution only because they’d been mistaken for ordinary guardsmen. But the women … Erik felt sick when he heard what had befallen them.

  A cage? Dear God.

  Bruce would be mad with grief.

  His thoughts went to Ellie, and this time he let them hold for a moment. He’d done the right thing. She needed to be kept far away from this madness.

  “We need to do something,” MacRuairi said. Erik could finally understand the source of the frantic look in his eye. He was desperate to rescue his friends and companions.

  “I’ll take you to the king.”

  “I’m afraid there is more bad news,” Campbell said. Erik steeled himself, but it wasn’t enough. “The attack in the south failed. They were betrayed. The MacDowells knew they were coming and slaughtered almost the entire fleet. A few men escaped.”

  A few out of nearly seven hundred men and eighteen galleys?

  Erik felt a pit of despair settle in his stomach. “The king’s brothers?” he asked dully.

  Campbell shook his head grimly. “Beheaded a few days ago in Carlisle.”

  Three of Bruce’s brothers executed in as many months.

  Would it never end? The small glimmer of hope they’d gained after the attack at Turnberry had been cruelly snuffed out. Crushed by the man who called himself the Hammer of the Scots.

  “Striker and Hunter?”

  “I don’t know,” Campbell said. Suddenly he stiffened, getting that eerie far-off look in his eye.

  “What is it?” Erik asked.

  “I’m not certain.” Campbell went to the window to investigate. “Horses,” he said.

  “Were you followed?” Erik asked.

  Campbell gave him a scathing look as if to say he should know better. “You’d best get out of here. I’ll take care of it.” When Erik started to argue, he added, “I can’t be seen with you.”

  Erik nodded. He was right. Campbell’s subterfuge had to be protected. Moments later, Erik and his cousin slipped out of the church and disappeared into the shadows.

  Twenty-two

  St. Gunioc Day, April 13, 1307

  Ellie stood gazing out the tower window of Ayr Castle, waiting for a ship that would never come.

  It was a clear spring day, giving her a perfect vantage of the shimmering blue seas of the Firth of Clyde. The Isle of Arran loomed in the distance, and beyond that—a tiny speck on the horizon—she swore she could see the rocky cliffs of Spoon.

  A sharp pang knifed through her chest, a longing that almost two months had yet to dull.

  She needed to accept the truth. If he’d wanted to come for her, he would have done so by now.

  When she’d heard of Bruce’s victory at Turnberry, a tiny ember of foolish girl’s hope had kindled inside her. Hope that he was hurting as much as she was. Hope that distance and time would make him realize the