The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(2)

King Edward of England had ordered the Scottish lords to appear in Irvine on July 7. The question was whether they would march the five miles to Irvine to submit to the English or march to do battle with them.

Sir William Douglas, Lord of Douglas, had already joined Wallace and was trying to recruit his kinsmen, Stewart, Menteith, and Robert Bruce, the young Earl of Carrick to do the same. Sir James was inclined to join the fight; it was the others who would need convincing that following the rebellion of a man who wasn’t even a knight, against the most powerful king in Christendom, made sense.

With any luck, Ewen would be marching off to his first battle in a few days. He couldn’t wait. Like every other young warrior around this table, he dreamed of greatness, of distinguishing himself on the battlefield. Then maybe everyone would stop talking about his “wild” father and the wolves he’d fought, the ships he’d nearly run aground in some half-crazed race around the Isles, or the bride he’d stolen from his own chief.

His father’s voice stopped him cold. “When it’s complete, my castle will be the greatest stronghold in all of damned Cowal—no disrespect, Stewart.”

Oh God, not the castle. This time, Ewen couldn’t prevent the heat from crawling up his face.

“Where are you going to find the gold?” one of the men laughed. “Under your pillow?”

It was well known that Fynlay couldn’t hold a coin longer than it took to gamble it away. It was also well known that his infamous castle had stood half-built for sixteen years, ever since the day Ewen’s mother had died in childbirth, when Ewen was barely a year old.

Ewen had had enough. He couldn’t listen to his father any longer. He pushed back from the trestle table and stood.

“Where are you going?” one of his friends asked. “The feast is just getting started. They’ll be coming around with Sir James’s special whisky soon.”

“Don’t bother, Robby,” another of the lads said. “You know Lamont—he doesn’t believe in fun. He’s probably off to polish Sir James’s armor or sharpen his blade or stare at the dirt looking for tracks for a few hours.”

He was right. But Ewen was used to their jesting about how seriously he took his duties, so it didn’t bother him.

“You might try staring at dirt a little longer, Thom,” Robby said. “From what I hear you couldn’t find a fish in a barrel.”

The others laughed, and Ewen used the opportunity to escape.

A blast of cool, wet air hit him the moment he stepped outside the Hall. It had been raining most of the day, and though it was only late afternoon, the skies were near dark against the backdrop of the magnificent new stone keep perched high on the castle motte. Like Stewart’s castle of Rothesay on the Isle of Bute in Cowal, his Dundonald Castle in Ayrshire was one of the most impressive strongholds in Scotland, reflecting the importance of the Stewarts to the crown.

Making his way down the hill to the castle bailey, Ewen stopped first at the armory to check Sir James’s armor and weapons, and then, having seen to them, went to the stables to make sure his favorite mount had been exercised. It had, so he pulled a bale of grass over and sat to, as Thom had said, stare at dirt.

It was a game he’d played since he was a boy whenever he needed to get away, to see how many tracks he could find or details he could pick up. In the stable, he liked to see if he could match the tracks with the horses.

“What do you see?”

He turned, surprised to see Sir James in the doorway. The sky was dark behind him, casting him in the shadows. Tall and lean, his dark red hair starting to streak with gray, the hereditary High Steward of Scotland exuded nobility and authority. He was a knight, and as all knights he was good with a sword, but Stewart’s true brilliance was as a leader. He was a man whom other men would willingly follow into war—and, if necessary death.

Immediately, Ewen jumped to his feet. How long had he been in here? “I’m sorry, my lord. Were you looking for me? Is the meeting over? What has been decided?”

The older man shook his head and sat on the bale, motioning for him to sit beside him. “Nothing, I’m afraid. I grew tired of the squabbling and decided I needed a breath of fresh air. I assume you needed the same?”

Ewen bowed his head and concentrated on a long piece of dried grass, not wanting him to see his shame.

“You’re looking at the tracks?” Sir James asked.

Ewen nodded, pointing to the hoofprints in the dirt. “I’m trying to find distinguishing marks.”

“I hear you bested all my knights at a tracking challenge yesterday. Good work, lad. Keep this up, and you’ll be the best tracker in the Highlands.”

Sir James’s praise meant everything to him, and Ewen was pretty sure it showed. He swelled with pride, not knowing what to say. Unlike Fynlay, words didn’t come easily for him.

The silence stretched for a few moments.

“You are not your father, son,” Sir James said.

Son. If only it were true! Sir James was everything Fynlay was not: honorable, disciplined, controlled, and thoughtful.

“I hate him,” Ewen blurted fiercely, instantly ashamed of the childish sentiment and yet unable to take it back.

One of the best things about Sir James was that he didn’t condescend to any of his men—no matter how young. He considered what Ewen said. “I wish you could have known him when he was young. He was different then. Before your mother died and the drink took over.”