The Ghost Read online

  It wasn’t the retreats, low morale, or uncomfortable night that had convinced Alex what he had to do—no matter what the risk—it was the utter ineptitude of the English leadership. The army was unorganized and hampered by a ridiculously long train of supplies that stretched for twenty leagues—Despenser had even brought furniture, for Christ’s sake, for the earldom of Moray that the king had promised him. Furthermore, King Edward had no real battle plan (arrogantly believing that Bruce would retreat or be no match for the “superior” English troops—despite recent proof to the contrary), and he’d not only failed to put an end to the squabbling among his commanders, he’d actually made it worse by fueling the bad blood between Gloucester and Hereford by appointing them joint commanders, leaving the important vanguard of the army without clear directive.

  What chance did the English have to end this war when no one was in charge, the commanders were at each other’s throats, and the king wouldn’t listen to reason? And even if the English did manage to end it, could Alex count on Edward to protect the Scots in the Borders? Or would they just exchange one kind of suffering for another?

  Alex listened in disbelief as Edward humiliated the very nephew he’d foolishly favored with co-command of the vanguard—young Gloucester—and ignored his sound advice.

  “We have arrived in time to relieve the siege,” Gloucester pointed out. “There is no need to force the Scots into a confrontation tomorrow. The men are tired after marching for a week. The carts and infantry are still straggling in. Let us rest a day, get the men organized, find better ground for our troops, and wait and see what Bruce will do.”

  “And give him a chance to slink back into his fox hole?” King Edward demanded furiously. “Are you a fool, nephew, or merely a coward?”

  The word fell like the slap of a gauntlet. Gloucester’s face turned nearly purple with anger.

  Hereford, his enemy who’d been forced into joint leadership with Edward’s favorite nephew, smirked.

  And that is how it went in that crowded, hot, and pungent tent, teeming with angry and disheartened knights in battle-scuffed mail: fractious discord made wider by the king, and any effort to urge caution met with scorn and derision.

  If Edward had troubled himself to walk around the camp through the boggy ground and look at the disarray and exhaustion of his army, he would have seen the truth. But like the unfortunate Sir Henry de Bohun, he was so caught up in the perceived glory of defeating Bruce and the Scots in a pitched battle that he would not heed caution. With nearly eighteen thousand men—three times as many as Bruce—Edward would not conceive of anything other than an English victory. If Bruce could be persuaded into taking the field, that is.

  At least on that they agreed. Bruce needed to take the field. And if Alex wanted an end to this war—the right end—he knew what he had to do.

  “It’s not too late.”

  He sure as hell hoped she was right.

  Despite it being close to midnight, the sky was not yet completely dark as Alex crept through the shadows, winding his way through the tents and fitfully sleeping soldiers. The English were on alert, half expecting a middle-of-the-night attack by Bruce. Still, Alex was stopped by sentries only once.

  “I carry a message from the earl”—Pembroke, Alex meant—“to my men guarding the carts.” The carts that were on the other side of the Bannock Burn.

  They let him go.

  It was partially true. When Alex arrived at the carts, he explained to his men what he planned to do and told them to be ready when the time came.

  If the time came.

  Though there were signs that Bruce might be considering doing what he’d avoided for eight years—meeting the English in pitched battle—Alex knew that prudence and caution would be urging the king to take the small victories he’d won today and slip back into the mist, leaving the fight for another day. Alex intended, however, to convince him to stay and fight.

  So far Bruce had surprised him, and Alex wondered whether Bruce, too, wanted to fight. Was he looking for a definitive end to the war? Had he grown tired of the cat-and-mouse game they’d been playing?

  The fact that Bruce had let the English army march unmolested this far—a complete change of tactics from the previous English invasion—and had stayed in the area to face them today, suggested that he might.

  But Alex knew that if he did not act, there was every chance the Scots would leave the forest of the New Park by morning.

  He couldn’t let that happen. He knew with every fiber of his being that this was the chance Bruce had to defeat the English and end the war. So he swallowed his pride—knowing he would have to do so many times before the night was over—removed the surcoat that identified him as a knight, and told himself that even if he felt like a dog slinking back with its tail between its legs, he would do whatever it took. In this case, the ends definitely justified the means.

  As he slipped through the English perimeter and headed toward the New Park, he entered the eerily quiet buffer of land between the two armies. After stumbling into a pit carefully hidden beneath leaves and branches and nearly becoming impaled on one of the wooden stakes at the bottom, he was more careful about where he stepped. But the honeycomb-like defensive pits dug by Bruce’s men were one more indication that Bruce might want to fight.

  Each step Alex took closer to the Scot camp he knew well could be his last. If one of their scouts didn’t put an arrow through him first, he knew Boyd and MacRuairi would be fighting for the honor of doing so with a blade. But if he was going to die, damn it, it wasn’t going to be fighting behind Edward Plantagenet’s banner.

  Joan was right; he had to take a chance.

  He held his hands up in the universal signal of surrender as he approached, but that didn’t stop the arrow that whizzed right by his ear—too perfectly directed to be a mistake.

  Alex stopped and cursed. There was only one man skilled enough to make a shot like that. Of course Bruce had his best men on watch tonight; it was Alex’s bad luck that he’d run into one he knew too well. “I’m here to see the king, MacGregor.”

  Two men stepped out from behind the trees. He didn’t need to see their nasal helm–covered faces to recognize the shadows of Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor and Arthur “Ranger” Campbell.

  Alex swore again. Christ, not one but two of his former brethren.

  “I think your king is in that big fancy pavilion there on the other side of that burn,” MacGregor quipped.

  What had he expected, open arms? He’d known it would be like this. They wouldn’t make this easy. No, they would make him pay for his betrayal—he knew that. And he would take it, damn it, until he convinced the king.

  Alex gritted his teeth and said patiently, “I have important information that Bruce will want to hear.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Campbell said. “And perhaps an assassin’s dagger as well?”

  Alex knew they had no cause to trust him—and every reason not to—but still, the accusation stung. Gritting his teeth some more, he removed his sword, dagger, and even his eating knife, and held them out. “Check me if you wish, but this is all of them.”

  Both men came forward. MacGregor took the weapons and Campbell, after a cursory search, stood back. “He’s clean.”

  “This better be good, Seton,” MacGregor said. “Make one false move and it won’t just be my arrow that strikes you.”

  Alex understood. They would all be vying for that honor.

  They took him to the king. Just outside the royal tent, which was about a third of the size of Edward’s and not half as fine, Alex passed by a handful of tied-up men whom he recognized; they were some of the more important English soldiers who’d been taken prisoner by Randolph today.

  “Seton,” Sir Thomas Gray said with obvious relief. “You’re a sight for weary eyes. Did the king send you to negotiate our ransom already?”

  Alex answered with a shake of his head. They would find out the truth soon enough.

  After ent