The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(2)

But not for long.

The storm came at them again with all it had. Wave after wave like high, steep cliffs that threatened to capsize them with every crashing swell, violent winds that battered the sails and swirled the seas, and heavy sheets of rain that filled the hull faster than they could bail. His heart plummeted with each creak and crack as the violent seas battered the wooden ship, making him wonder whether this would be the wave that broke them apart and put him out of his misery.

I never should have done it. I never should have gone up against the might of England and its powerful king. In the real world, David didn’t beat Goliath. In the real world, David got crushed.

Or ended up dead at the bottom of a stormy sea.

But the Highlander wasn’t ready to concede defeat. He stood confidently at the helm, just as unrelenting as the storm, never once giving any indication that he would not get them out of this. Yet it was a contest of wills he could not hope to win. The strength of nature was too much, even for the half-Gael, half-Norse descendant of the greatest pirates the world had ever seen: the Vikings.

Bruce heard a bloodcurdling crack, an instant before the seafarer’s voice rang out, “Watch out … !”

But it was too late.

He glanced up just in time to see part of the mast barreling toward him.

Bruce opened his eyes to darkness. For a moment, he thought he was in hell. All he could see above his head was a wall of jagged black stones, glistening with dampness. A sound to the left drew his attention. Turning, pain exploded in his head like a hail of knife-edged stars.

When his vision cleared, he could see movement. Men—his men—were trudging up the rocky shore, collapsing at the arched entrance of what appeared to be a sea-cave.

Not dead after all.

He didn’t know whether to be grateful. A watery death might be preferable to the one Edward had in store for him if he caught up to them.

This is what it had come to. His kingdom had been reduced to the dank, black hall of a sea-cave.

A movement a few inches above his head told him that he might find even his claim to this wretched kingdom contested. A big, black spider lurked on the wall above him. She seemed to be making a futile attempt to jump from one rocky ledge to another, but unable to grip the slick surface, she slid off and dangled by a single silken thread, swaying helplessly back and forth in the wind. Over and over she tried to build her web and failed, doomed to failure.

He knew the feeling.

He’d thought it couldn’t get any worse than two devastating defeats on the battlefield, seeing his friends and supporters captured, being forced to separate from his wife, and fleeing his kingdom in disgrace. He should have known better. Nature had nearly succeeded in wielding the final death blow where the English army had failed.

But once again he’d cheated the devil his due, this time thanks to the death-defying seafaring skills of MacSorley. Like the spider, these Highlanders didn’t know when to give up.

But he did.

He was finished. The sea might have spared them for now, but his cause was lost, and with it, Scotland’s chance for freedom from the yoke of English tyranny.

If he’d listened to the counsel of his guard at Methven, it might have been different. But stubbornly holding to his knightly code of chivalry, Bruce had ignored their advice and agreed to Sir Aymer de Valence’s promise to wait until morning to start the battle. The treacherous English commander had broken his word and attacked in the middle of the night. They’d been routed. Many of his greatest supporters and friends had been killed or captured.

Chivalry was truly dead. Never again would Bruce forget it. The old style of war was gone. His halfhearted embrace of the pirate warfare practiced by the Highlanders when he’d formed his guard had been a mistake. Had he fully embraced it and ignored the knightly code, Methven would not have happened.

The spider tried again. This time she nearly succeeded in spanning the gap between the rocks with her silken thread, but was denied victory at the last moment by a sudden gust of wind. Bruce sighed with disappointment, strangely caught up with the spider’s hopeless efforts.

Perhaps because they resonated.

Even after the disaster of Methven, Bruce still held out hope. Then he’d met the MacDougalls at Dail Righ and suffered another devastating loss. In the hunt that followed, he’d been forced to separate from his wife, daughter, sisters, and the Countess of Buchan—the woman who’d bravely crowned him not six months before.

He’d sent the women north with his youngest brother, Nigel, under the protection of half his prized Highland Guard, hoping to meet up with them soon. But he and the rest of the army had been forced to flee south.

The women would be safe, he told himself. God help them if Edward caught them. The dragon banner made even women outlaws, giving their captors free rein to rape. The men would be executed without trial.

After Dail Righ, Bruce had taken to the hills and heather, evading capture by MacDougall thanks to Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor, another of his Highland Guard, who’d led him across Lennox to the safety of Kintyre and Dunaverty Castle.

But it had been only a temporary reprieve. Three days ago the English army had arrived to lay siege to the castle, and MacSorley had barely gotten them out of there alive.

So many failures. Too many failures.

The spider had climbed back up the strand and appeared to be getting ready to make yet another attempt. Bruce felt a surge of irrational anger and for a moment wanted to smash it with his fist.