The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(103)

Keep him safe.

A knock on the door interrupted the mournful silence. The captain of her father’s guard came in, followed by a man she’d seen only once at court a long time ago but whom she knew well by reputation: Sir Aymer de Valence, King Edward’s commander in Scotland and the soon-to-be Earl of Pembroke when his mother, who was reputed to be very ill, passed.

It was Sir Aymer’s treachery at the Battle of Methven that had driven a stake in the heart of Bruce’s rebellion, when he’d agreed to wait until dawn to war but then attacked at night.

Her father and Ralph were obviously surprised by his arrival.

Sir Aymer hadn’t taken the time to remove his helmet or cloak, but he did so now, handing them to a squire who’d come up behind him.

He didn’t even give the ladies time to withdraw, but smiled as if he had the most wonderful news. “I just received word. We finally have a chance to end this once and for all. King Hood is back. Bruce has attacked Percy at Turnberry.”

Sir Henry Percy had been given Bruce’s forfeited earldom of Carrick—and his castle at Turnberry.

She said a silent prayer of thanks. If Bruce had attacked, it must mean that Erik had made it in time. The wave of relief was short-lived. Only by the greatest restraint did she stop herself from rushing forward at the news, demanding to be told the outcome.

Ralph did it for her. “And?”

De Valence frowned. “Percy sent for reinforcements; that is all we know. But the initial report was that Bruce had only a few hundred men. Percy will get him.”

Ellie’s heart clenched, her fear for Erik all-consuming. She could only pray the famed knight was wrong.

Erik hid in the dark cover of the trees, watching the old church and waiting for the signal. He hoped to hell nothing went wrong this time.

Not like at Turnberry.

Bruce’s first foray into Scotland had been a success, but just barely. At first everything went as planned. While Bruce and the rest of the force waited at Kingscross on Arran for the signal, the four members of the Highland Guard—himself, MacLeod, MacGregor, and Boyd—had sailed to Alisa Craig, a small island a few miles off the Carrick coast. From there they swam to Turnberry to prepare for the battle and ensure a trap wasn’t waiting for them.

It was exactly the type of mission the Highland Guard had been designed for: getting in and out of dangerous situations by unconventional methods without being seen—with emphasis on the dangerous situations.

Once they’d scouted the area and determined the best strategy of attack, they were to light a fire on the hill opposite the castle to signal for the rest of Bruce’s army to attack.

But Erik had taken only a few steps on the beach before disaster struck. Chief swore and pointed to the hill in the darkness. In the black of night, the orange flames of the fire blared like a beacon—or, in this case, a signal.

Someone had lit a bloody fire, and safe or not, Bruce and his army were on their way.

Without the time for reconnaissance, Bruce hadn’t been able to take the castle as planned, but they’d achieved a small victory by attacking and plundering the English soldiers camping in the nearby village. Lord Henry Percy, the usurper of Bruce’s earldom, and his garrison of Englishmen were forced to lock themselves in the castle to avoid defeat at the hand of Bruce’s four hundred men. Bloody cowards.

But Bruce’s forces had been lucky. Damn lucky.

For a man who’d lived his life expecting nothing less, Erik hadn’t celebrated their good fortune. He no longer took good fortune as his due. Nothing went right lately.

It had all started in that cave.

He forced his thoughts away from Ulster’s daughter—it was better if he thought of her like that—by sheer brute strength, and concentrated on the task at hand.

In the week since Turnberry, Bruce and his men had taken to the heather, seeking refuge in the hills and forests of Carrick and avoiding capture by constantly changing their position. Their plan was to raise and harry the English with small raiding parties until they could recruit more men to Bruce’s cause.

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.”