The Chief (Highland Guard #1)

The Chief (Highland Guard #1)
Monica McCarty




FOREWORD

The year of our Lord thirteen hundred and five. After nine years of bloody war, Scotland is firmly in English hands. Edward Plantagenet, the most ruthless and powerful man in Christendom, sits upon the throne, and William Wallace, Scotland’s great freedom fighter, lies in an English prison. All is seemingly lost, the voices of rebellion crushed by the mighty “Hammer of the Scots.”

But in her darkest hour, the torch of Scotland’s freedom will be lit once more. Against nearly insurmountable odds, Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick and Lord of Annandale, will make his bid for the throne.

But he will not do so alone.

Lost in the mists of time, forgotten by all but a few, is the legend of a secret band of elite warriors handpicked by Bruce from the darkest corners of the Highlands and Western Isles to form the deadliest fighting force the world has ever seen.

In a time when the veil between life and death is a mere shadow, Bruce’s Highland Guard will stop at nothing but freedom from English rule.

These are the stories of the men who answered freedom’s call, and in the process, helped forge a nation.

Prologue

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember’d;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother;

— William Shakespeare, King Henry V , Act 4, Scene III

Lochmaben Castle,

Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland,

August 28, 1305

”William Wallace is dead.”

For a moment, Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, Lord of Annandale, and one-time joint Guardian of Scotland, couldn’t speak. Though death had been inevitable for Wallace since his capture a few weeks ago, expectation did not lessen the crushing blow of finality. The hope that the brave-hearted Wallace had lit in his heart—in the heart of every Scotsman who chaffed under the yoke of English tyranny—flickered.

Scotland’s champion was dead. The torch would pass to him—if he chose to take it. ’Twas a heavy burden and, as Wallace’s death had proved, a deadly one. He had everything to lose.

Bruce forced back the errant thoughts and acknowledged the prelate’s pronouncement with a grim nod. He motioned for his friend to sit on the wooden bench and warm himself by the fire. William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews, was drenched to the skin and looked ready to collapse from exhaustion, as if he had been the one to ride day and night from London with the news himself.

Bruce poured a cup of dark red wine from the flagon on the side table and sat beside him. “Here, drink this. You look as if you need it.”

They both did.

Lamberton accepted it with a murmur of thanks and took a long drink. Bruce did the same, but the pungent fruitiness of the wine soured in his mouth.

Lowering his voice, he steeled himself for the rest. “How?”

Lamberton’s gaze darted back and forth. With his round, boyish face and cold, reddened nose, he had the look of a hare sensing danger. And a plump one at that. But Bruce did not let the prelate’s unthreatening appearance fool him, for behind the inauspicious mask lurked a mind as nimble, shrewd, and cunning as King Edward’s himself. “Is it safe?” the bishop asked.

Bruce nodded. “Aye.” Lamberton was wise to be wary. They were alone in his private chamber, but Lochmaben Castle belonged to Edward now, and Bruce was being watched. The King of England might call him friend, but he did not trust him. Edward might be a tyrant, but he was a shrewd one. “No one can hear us,” he assured the bishop. “I’ve made certain of it. Tell me.”

Lamberton’s dark eyes met his, and the starkness reflected there augured the horror of what was to come. “He suffered a traitor’s death.”

Bruce flinched. Then suffered Wallace had. His jaw clenched, and he nodded for the other man to continue.

“They dragged him behind a horse through the streets of London for three miles, to Smithfield Elms. He was hanged, drawn, and quartered, but not before they chopped off his manhood, eviscerated his bowels, and burned them before his eyes. His head sits on a pike atop London Bridge.”

Bruce’s eyes burned with rage. “Pride has made Edward a fool.”

Lamberton looked around again, but the only movement was the flickering shadows of the candlelight playing across the tapestry-lined stone walls. His fear was understandable: Men had been sent to the tower for uttering less. When soldiers did not come bursting through the door, however, he relaxed. “Aye. Edward’s vengeance has made a powerful martyr. Wallace’s ghost will haunt him far more than the man did. ’Tis not like Edward to make such a mistake.”

“He’s a Plantagenet.”

Lamberton nodded. It was explanation enough. England’s royal family was well known for their terrifying fits of apoplectic temper. Bruce had been on the wrong side of that temper more than once. Thus far he’d managed to survive, but he knew the next time he would not be so fortunate.

Reading his thoughts, Lamberton asked, “You haven’t changed your mind?”

The expectation in his gaze weighed down on Bruce with paralyzing force. All that he had to lose flashed before him: his lands, his titles, his life. He thought of Wallace’s unimaginable suffering. The pain must have been excruciating, the axe that took his head a welcome blow. If Bruce proceeded in this course, there was every likelihood that he would share the same fate.