The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(9)

Boyd looked at him sharply, not missing the implied criticism. Seton often bemoaned the “damned-if-they-do, damned-if-they-don’t” situation of the people who lived so near England. But everyone had to make a choice: for England or for Scotland; there was no straddling both sides of the line. Seton still didn’t understand that he couldn’t live in both worlds.

“Damnation.” Douglas swore in frustration. “The king is counting on that grain and cattle. What the hell is he supposed to feed his men?”

The Bruce and a good portion of his army (and the Highland Guard when they weren’t on other missions) had been laying siege to Dundee Castle for the past three months. With Edward in London and the threat of war abated, Bruce’s focus had shifted to clearing the entrenched English garrisons from Scotland’s castles.

It was the only way the war could truly be won. All the victories and momentum of the past few years wouldn’t mean shite if the English continued to occupy their castles.

And they were making progress. Linlithgow had fallen after the raids last year, and Dundee was close. But all of it would soon come to a quick end if Robbie didn’t do his job. The king was without funds, and with the required hundred days of free feudal service of many of the soldiers nearly up, if the siege were to continue, they had to find coin to pay the men and food to feed them.

It wasn’t much of an overstatement to say that the future of the war rested on Robbie’s shoulders. And if the path to victory depended on securing protective truces from the English barons who’d raided Scotland for years, he was damned glad to do it.

“The king will have his food,” Robbie said flatly. And his damned truce with Clifford.

Douglas guessed what he meant, a slow smile spreading over his dark visage. Seton did as well, but his reaction was to clench his jaw as if he wanted to argue but knew it would do no good. Maybe he’d learned something the past seven years after all.

Clifford had thrown down the gauntlet, and Robbie sure as hell wasn’t going to let it go unanswered.

Murdock, however, didn’t understand. “But how? There is nothing left and they will only come again. You have to do something.”

Robbie leveled his gaze on the farmer. “I intend to.”

“What?” the farmer asked.

He would fight fire with fire, and strike in a place his enemy could not ignore. Something rare appeared on his face when the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Take it back.”

Berwick Castle, English Marches, One Week Later

“It isn’t fair, Aunt Rosie-lin.”

Rosalin looked down at the small, upturned face, at the cherubic features twisted with hurt, disappointment, and disbelief, and felt her insides melt.

Cliff’s seven-year-old daughter, Margaret, had come bursting into Rosalin’s solar almost in tears a few moments ago. Rosalin tried not to show her shock at her niece’s attire. The poor thing was fighting so hard not to cry, she didn’t want to push her over the edge.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she patted the space beside her. “Come sit, Margaret, and tell me what has happened.”

Sensing that she’d found a pair of sympathetic ears, Margaret did as she bid, hopping up and settling in on the fluffy feather mattress next to her.

“It’s Meg,” she corrected, wrinkling her nose with distaste. “No one but Father calls me Margaret.”

Rosalin’s mouth twisted, trying not to smile. Instead, she nodded solemnly. “Forgive me, Meg.”

The little girl rewarded her with a tremulous smile, and Rosalin melted a little more.

“That’s all right,” Meg assured her, patting her hand as if their ages were reversed. “You only just got here, and you haven’t seen me since I was little.”

Rosalin pretended to cough.

Meg’s tiny, delicately arched brows drew together over an equally tiny nose. “Are you sickly?”

Rosalin couldn’t hide that smile. “Nay, Meg. I’m perfectly hale.”

The little girl studied her. “Good. Andrew is always coughing, and he isn’t allowed to play outside. He’s no fun.”

Rosalin felt a sharp stab in her chest but tried not to let her fear show. Cliff’s three-year-old son Andrew had always been frail. Though no one spoke of it, he was not expected to see beyond his childhood.

Glad that the little girl was no longer close to tears, even if she couldn’t say the same, Rosalin asked, “So why don’t you tell me why you are wearing breeches and a lad’s surcoat?”

Meg looked down as if she’d forgotten. “John said I’d get in the way.”

Rosalin didn’t follow. “In the way…?”

Meg gave her a little frown of impatience, as if she hadn’t been paying proper attention. “Of riding lessons. Father gave John a horse for his saint’s day last week, and today he begins his training with Roger and Simon. It isn’t fair. John is two years younger than I am. I want to train like a knight, too. He can barely pick up the wooden sword Father gave him. How’s he supposed to kill bloody Scots if he can’t lift a sword?” Rosalin coughed again and made a note to tell Cliff to have care of his language around Meg. “He shouldn’t have told Father when I borrowed it. No one likes a tale-teller.”

Rosalin was having a hard time keeping up, so she just nodded.