The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(12)

Roger’s mouth hardened, and her heart squeezed. He looked so like Cliff had at that age: tall and golden-haired, the lean build of youth already hinting at the formidable knight he would become. Also like Cliff, Roger was stubborn, determined, and fiercely proud, with a hefty dose of confidence. He had that air of invincibility seen in most young men who were training for knighthood but had yet to see battle.

“Most of the garrison at Berwick and Norham had left with King Edward the month before. No one expected Bruce to invade—or do it so quickly. Father had yet to be appointed governor of the castle.”

Roger was too politic to criticize Cliff’s predecessor, Sir John Spark, but Meg wasn’t. “Don’t worry, Aunt,” Meg said, turning around to look up at her. “The cursed rebels won’t show their vile faces around here again. Not with Father in charge.”

Roger and Rosalin exchanged a look, trying not to laugh. But obviously he wasn’t the only one to have inherited Cliff’s pride.

Roger leaned over and ruffled his sister’s hair fondly. “You’ve the right of it, brat. Father has the area well defended. Bruce wouldn’t dare attack. Hell, I’d wager even the Black Douglas and the Devil’s Enforcer Boyd would turn tail and run before facing Father’s men.”

Rosalin’s heart slammed against her ribs at the mention of his name. It wasn’t an infrequent occurrence, as the name of Bruce’s ruthless enforcer seemed to be mentioned nearly as often as Robert Bruce, Bruce’s phantoms, or the Black Douglas.

Everyone had heard of Robbie Boyd. He was one of the most hated, reviled, and feared men in England.

The familiar guilt rose inside her, twisting her stomach in knots. She hadn’t known…she hadn’t realized that the man she was releasing was Robbie Boyd. Even at that time, he’d already made a name for himself, having fought alongside William Wallace in the early days of the war. It was said that Wallace trusted him so implicitly, he left Boyd in charge of his army in his stead, even though Boyd was not yet twenty years old at the time.

Setting one of Wallace’s key commanders free was bad enough, but in the intervening six years it had become so much worse. While fighting for Bruce, Boyd’s reputation had grown to prodigious proportions. Even far from the war in London they spoke of him with a strange mixture of terror, awe, and revulsion.

Unknowingly, she had helped free one of Scotland’s most notorious rebels. Every story she heard—and there were a lot of them—weighed on her, making her question whether what she’d done was right.

At first, she hadn’t second-guessed herself. The man she’d watched for weeks couldn’t be as black-hearted as they said. There was good in him—he had a noble heart—she was certain of it. But over the years, as the stories took on a more sinister cast, her certainty wavered. Had her attraction to him blinded her to the truth? Had the star-filled gaze of a young girl in the throes of her first infatuation made her see things that weren’t there?

She didn’t want to think so, but the certainty she’d once known had long since faded.

Her only consolation was that her brother never suspected her role in the infamous prisoner’s escape. Boyd had kept his word—on both counts. He made it appear as if his men had overpowered the soldiers and then freed him, and he hadn’t killed any of her brother’s men. Ironically, that had become the part that troubled her brother the most: why had one of the most fierce, ruthless warriors in Scotland not killed men when he had the chance? Especially after Boyd’s forbearance in killing had not been rewarded before. Her brother didn’t like inconsistencies or mysteries, and for years she’d lived in fear that he would discover her part in the escape.

Hunting Boyd down had become personal for Cliff. That he had once held one of Bruce’s fiercest brigands and let him slip through his fingers was the one stain on an otherwise unblemished military career.

Cliff would be furious if he ever learned the truth. And worse, he would be disappointed—something she couldn’t bear to contemplate. Her brother was the one constant in her life, and his approval—his love—meant everything to her. He could never learn what she’d done.

“I hope they try,” Meg said. “Then Father will slay them and take their heads and stick them on the gate, and everyone will see them as they pass into the castle and know that Father is the greatest knight in England. Nay,” she turned around so Rosalin could see her fierce little face, “in Christendom.”

Roger laughed and ruffled her hair again before riding forward to join his friends. Rosalin hoped that would be the end of it, but unfortunately the men proceeded to recount some of the more horrific stories and deeds attributed to the Black Douglas and Robbie Boyd. The story of what had become known as the Douglas larder was the worst. All those men killed, tossed in the tower, and then burned? She shivered.

How could a man with the boyish nickname of Robbie do such horrible things? It couldn’t be true.

Eventually she had to ask Roger to stop—he was upsetting his sister—but in truth it was she that he was upsetting. Meg, who had been devouring every word, protested, but Rosalin distracted her by letting her hold the reins for a while and teaching her how to make the small movements of her hands to steer the horse.

It took less than a half hour to reach the village. While Rosalin and Meg and the two attendants who’d accompanied them were left to explore the many stalls of the fair lined up along the high street of the village, Roger and the rest of her brother’s men rode up the hill to the castle to meet with the commander of the garrison, presumably to discuss what they always discussed: war and Robert Bruce.