The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(2)

In that one instant Bruce wavered. He was, after all, only a man. Not yet a king, though the crown belonged to him. It was in that knowledge, in the belief that permeated every fiber of his being, that Robert Bruce found the courage and resolve. He, not Edward, was the rightful King of Scotland. The realm needed him.

He would take up Wallace’s torch of freedom, no matter what the cost.

“Nay. I’ve not changed my mind,” he said, the steely determination in his voice giving no hint to the moment of hesitation.

Five months ago, he and Lamberton had entered into a secret bond—an alliance against all rivals, including not only the most powerful man in Christendom, Edward Plantagenet, but other Scottish claimants to the throne as well. Getting rid of Edward would be only half the battle; uniting his countrymen under his banner would be just as difficult. It was the deep factions and blood feuds within Scotland that had enabled Edward to get a foothold in the country in the first place.

Having Lamberton on his side was key to any hope of success. Despite his relative youth—Lamberton was a year younger than Bruce’s one and thirty—the Bishop of St. Andrews was head of the wealthiest see, and one of the most important and respected men in Scotland. Even Edward recognized this, having recently appointed him joint Guardian of Scotland.

“Good,” Lamberton said, not bothering to hide his relief. “We must be ready.”

“Has the king’s health worsened?” Bruce couldn’t keep the hope from his voice.

“Nay. He’s risen from the dead once again. A miracle provided courtesy of Wallace’s capture, no doubt.”

Bruce sighed. He supposed it was too much to hope that Edward would be accommodating enough to die in his sickbed. The Prince of Wales did not have the shrewdness or the iron will of his sire. “Then what are we readying for?”

“Wallace’s death will ignite the flame of rebellion once again,” Lamberton said. “We need to make sure the fire spreads in our direction.”

Hatred, far beyond what he felt for Edward, surged through Bruce’s veins. “Have you heard rumors? Is Comyn planning something?” John “the Red” Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, was his greatest enemy and chief rival claimant for the crown.

Lamberton shrugged. “I’ve heard no rumors, but it would be wise to anticipate.”

Bruce squeezed his cup until the edges of the carved pewter bit into his hand. Aye, it wasn’t a question of if his enemy would strike but when.

They talked for a while longer, going over who could be counted on to rise for Bruce’s standard, as well as who could not. Edward’s reign of terror the past few years had not been without success. It would not be easy to persuade Scotland to lift their pikes and spears against the far superior English forces with their heavy mounted knights in full armor.

Farmers and fishermen against the flowers of chivalry. Was it madness to think they stood a chance? Wallace had tried, but look where it had gotten him. His head on a pike and his body cut into quarters and sent to all corners of England. Bruce’s heart sank with the despair of it all—not only at the loss of a great man’s life but also the desperate situation of his country.

But he could learn from Wallace’s mistakes. Wallace had proved that the English were vulnerable to nontraditional warfare. To pirate tactics. Bruce shuddered, the idea still not sitting well.

He stood and paced back and forth before the fire, trying to come to terms with what he was about to suggest. It went against everything he believed in. But they needed to find a way to even the odds. Finally, he stopped and turned back to his friend, who was watching him silently from the bench. “We cannot win,” he said, frustrated by the undeniable truth. “Not in a pitched battle, army to army. The English forces are larger, more organized, and far better equipped.”

Lamberton nodded in agreement. It was nothing they both didn’t know already.

“We must change the way we approach this war,” Bruce ventured. “No more pitched battles or long sieges, no more cavalry meeting cavalry. We must find ways to turn their strength against them.” The bishop was eyeing him intently. “We must fight our war under our conditions.”

“You speak of pirate tactics?” Lamberton said. He cocked a brow in surprise. “’Tis not the way of a knight.”

Lamberton’s reaction was understandable. Bruce could hardly believe he was suggesting it himself. He was one of the greatest knights in Christendom, and chivalry permeated every fiber of his being. To fight like a pirate went against everything he believed in: rules, standards, codes. “If we fight like knights we will lose,” Bruce said resolutely. “Army against army, the English are too powerful. But Wallace showed how victory might be possible—by applying pirate tactics to land.”

“Wallace failed,” Lamberton pointed out.

“But we shall have something Wallace did not.” Bruce paused, removing a folded piece of parchment from his sporran.

Lamberton took it and scanned the list of roughly a dozen names. “What is this?”

“My secret army.”

Lamberton lifted a brow, wondering whether Bruce was jesting. “Of a dozen men?” He scanned the list again. “And from what I can tell only a solitary knight among them?”

“I already have knights; what I don’t have is men who know how to fight like pirates.”