The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(3)

“Highlanders,” Lamberton said; no doubt some of the names on the list suddenly made sense. “What better place to find a pirate than the Norse-blooded Highlanders of the Western Isles.”

“Exactly,” Bruce said. “The number of men is reflective of the fighting style—quick, bold attacks of small teams, using stealth and surprise to strike terror in the enemy.”

“But why secret?”

“Fear can be a powerful weapon, and mystery will only increase the fear in the heart of the enemy. Are they real or are they myth? It also makes them harder to stop if you don’t know who you are looking for.”

Lamberton studied the parchment again, tapping his chin with his finger while Bruce waited. The bishop’s opinion mattered to him greatly and would be a harbinger of opinions to come. But Bruce did not delude himself; convincing his companions in arms—his knightly brethren—wouldn’t be easy. Finally, Lamberton said, “I must admit, it’s an intriguing idea.”

Seeing he was not fully convinced, Bruce added, “There’s more. It’s not just a band of pirates. What you have before you are the names of the greatest warriors in Scotland in each area of warfare—from weaponry, to seafaring, to reconnaissance, extraction, and infiltration. Just think: Whatever we need, whatever seemingly impossible mission we face, I will have the very best men at my disposal. Imagine what these men can do alone and then imagine them together.”

Lamberton’s eyes lit up and he smiled, the deviousness of the expression at odds with his youthful countenance and priestly vestments. “It’s visionary.” He looked at Bruce with admiration. “A revolutionary idea for a revolution.”

“Precisely.” Bruce smiled, pleased by his friend’s reaction. Handpicking the best warriors to fight in a small team without family or feudal connection—well, nothing like it had ever been done before. There was more than one pair of enemies on the list. But if it could be accomplished … the possibilities were staggering.

“It won’t be easy,” Lamberton said, reading his mind. “Uniting these men will be near impossible.”

“Much like uniting Scotland under my banner?”

Lamberton tipped his head, conceding the point. Neither would be easy, but they couldn’t let the odds stop them. “Who will command this secret army?”

Bruce slid his finger to the name at the top. “Who else, but the man heralded as the greatest warrior in the Western Isles: Tormod MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod. No one can best him in a sword fight. Like Wallace, he’s a man of impressive stature who wields a two-handed great sword. ’Tis said he once defeated a score of men who tried to trap him by circling around him.”

One corner of the bishop’s mouth curved. “Exaggerated?”

“No doubt,” Bruce agreed, returning the wry smile. “But myth can be every bit as powerful as truth. Bards already sing MacLeod’s praises, comparing him to Finn MacCool. Like the legendary Irish hero, he’s revered not only for his own fighting ability, but for those of his men.”

The prelate’s gaze snapped to his. There was no greater hero in Gaeldom than Finn MacCool, the leader of the legendary band of warriors known as the Fianna. A powerful comparison indeed.

Bruce grinned, pleased that his friend had seen the value of the connection. “Aye, MacLeod’s made a fortune training men to fight as gallowglass mercenaries in Ireland.”

“So he can be bought?”

“Perhaps.” Bruce shrugged with a frown. “You know the Island chiefs. Unpredictable at best, outright hostile at worst.” Subjects of the Scottish crown for only a few decades, the stubborn Island chiefs still thought of themselves as independent rulers, “sea kings” who ruled over a vast, isolated territory. The lack of fealty riled Bruce but unlike his predecessors, he knew that to defeat the English and win a crown he needed the support of the Highlands and the Isles. The western seaboard was key not only for access but also for trade and supplies. Bruce stroked his chin, the dark hairs of his short beard extending to a fine point. “I will just have to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

Lamberton looked skeptical. “Are you sure that is wise, my lord? These clan chiefs do not take to being forced.”

Bruce grinned. “I have no intention of forcing him. I won’t need to. Money, land, a beautiful woman—every man has his price. We just have to find out what his is.”

Lamberton nodded, though he still didn’t look convinced. “Then you are resolved?”

Bruce paused. Could he completely abandon the knightly ideals of the past to wage a new kind of war—one antithetical to everything he’d learned since boyhood?

To win, he could. In any event, he needed to be ready. And there was no doubt in his mind that with such an army he’d be better prepared. “I am. Bringing these men together won’t be easy, but do whatever you must to see it done. I may have need of them sooner than we wish.”

Lamberton met his gaze, both men sobered by the long road that stretched out before them. A road shrouded in the mist with an uncertain end.

A chill swept through him.

“The clouds are gathering, my lord.”

“Aye,” Bruce agreed grimly. They’d reached the point of no return. He thought of Caesar’s words before starting his civil war against Pompey and said, “Alea iacta est.”