The Knight (Highland Guard #7.5)
Monica McCarty
FOREWORD
The year of our lord thirteen hundred eleven. For five long years, Robert the Bruce fought for his right to sit upon the throne of Scotland. But ever since his defeat at the hands of the English in 1306, which saw him fleeing from his kingdom an outlaw, many abandoned the hope that he would succeed. However, Bruce waged a triumphant comeback, first defeating the English at Glen Fruin and Loudoun Hill, and then the Scottish lords who stood against him in civil war.
After a short reprieve from warfare, Bruce solidified his hold on his country north of the River Tay. The battle then turned south: to the troublesome Marches, to the castles still occupied by the enemy, and to the English king who invaded Scotland in the summer of 1310.
But the second Edward of England was nothing like his “Hammer of the Scots” father, and the English campaign failed when Bruce and his men refused to take the field against him, instead waging his “secret warfare” of surprise attacks and ambuscade to harry the enemy. Edward II was forced to retreat to the English Marches for the winter to lick his wounds and plan the march north again in the spring.
But there was no rest for the Bruce and his men. While preparing for Edward’s second invasion, they set about ousting the English occupiers from some of Scotland’s key castles. The Bruce might not have had the terrifying siege engines the English did to take a castle, but he had something just as destructive: men like James Douglas, whose cunning, skill, and ferocity would become legend.
PROLOGUE
Pass of Brander, August 14, 1308
“Arise, Sir James.”
A fierce surge of satisfaction rushed through him. The stench of battle had never smelled so sweet. As the king lifted the sword from his shoulder, James Douglas, the dispossessed Lord of Douglas, rose from the boggy ground along the narrow Pass of Brander a knight.
The steep rocky hills of Ben Cruachan loomed behind him, casting dark shadows over the valley floor. Bodies of friend and foe alike littered the ground and hillsides. Fortunately, there were far more of the enemy. Robert the Bruce had won a great victory here today against the MacDougalls of Lorn, and James’s role in the battle had earned him a knighthood.
Bruce was one step closer to reclaiming his throne, and James was one step closer to reclaiming his patrimony. As Bruce’s fortunes rose and fell, so too would his. They’d been bound together, liege and liegeman, since that fateful day nearly two and a half years ago when the then nineteen-year-old James had waylaid Bruce on the way to his coronation and sworn his fealty. A fateful decision that might have seemed shortsighted—especially six months later when the king and his followers had been forced into exile—but had begun to reap its rewards.
James lifted his bloody sword in the air, and a great cheer rang out among the battle-weary warriors who’d gathered to stand witness to this sacred bastion of chivalry. It was the greatest day of his young career as a warrior. He wished Jo was here to see it. She more than anyone knew how important this was to him.
Bruce grasped his forearm and gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Well, Sir James, what say you now? You have your knighthood. Later than you wished, perhaps, but earning your spurs on a field of battle makes for a better story than a ceremony.”
James returned his smile, his lanky, nearly six-and-a-half-foot frame towering over the warrior king. At two and twenty, his knighthood had come later than he would have liked, but there hadn’t been much time for ceremonies in the past eighteen months as the king fought to retake his kingdom. “I’d say I keep good company, Sire.” Bruce had been knighted on a battlefield, also by a king, albeit—ironically—an English one. “I’m honored,” he said with a bow of his head.
“You earned it, lad,” the king replied, with another firm slap. “Campbell said you and your archers were invaluable in ensuring our surprise attack was not discovered. ‘Cunning in strategy and ruthless in execution’ were his words. High praise indeed.” He grinned, shaking his head. “I should have liked to see the expression on the MacDougalls’ faces when you and the others appeared from the rocks above them.”
One side of James’s mouth curved, remembering. “I don’t think they were expecting us.”
“I’d wager not. Next time they lie in wait, perhaps they will learn to look above.”
“Or climb higher,” James said.
The king laughed. “Aye. You’ve the right of it.” The MacDougalls had lay in wait from the hillside above the narrow pass, intending to ambush Bruce and his army as they marched toward Dunstaffnage Castle. Instead, thanks to information gleaned from the scout Arthur Campbell, Bruce’s men had climbed above them, ambushing the ambushers. “With results like that, there’s no telling how high you will climb.”
James smiled, the king’s play on words amusing him.
After some of the men had come forward to offer their congratulations, the king pulled him aside again. “You’re making quite a name for yourself, lad, are you sure you won’t reconsider?”
The king had offered James a place in his elite guard. The secret group of phantom warriors that Bruce called the Highland Guard had already become legend. Feared and reviled as Satan’s spawn by their enemies, they were hailed and lauded as gods and heroes by those loyal to Bruce. They were the best of the best in each discipline of warfare, an elite group of warriors handpicked by the king to wage a new kind of war. A war of surprise, ferocity, and fear. A Highland war.