The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(46)

They’d already said their farewells when Arthur remembered. “Here,” he said, taking out the map that he’d finished a few days ago. “It’s for the king.”

MacSorley held it up to get a better look at it in the moonlight. “Damn, this is good. The king will be pleased. He’ll need it for the march west. I’ll send a messenger right away.”

Arthur nodded. “And I’ll send word as soon as I have something.”

“Airson an Leòmhann,” MacSorley said.

For the Lion. The symbol of Scotland’s kingship and the battle cry of the Highland Guard.

Arthur repeated the words and slid into the shadows, not knowing when or if he would see them again. In war, nothing was certain.

Arthur was in place less than twenty-four hours later. From his position behind a grassy knoll to the east of the priory, he had a clear vantage of the approaches to both the cross-shaped stone church and the square cloister that housed the monks to the south.

Established by Duncan MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, about seventy-five years earlier, Ardchattan Priory was one of only three Valliscaulian monasteries in Scotland. He didn’t know much about the rare order of monks, except that they reputedly followed a strict code.

Just six miles to the east of Dunstaffnage on the north side of Loch Etive, Ardchattan was the perfect place from which to route messages—especially since the prior was a MacDougall. It was one of the first places he’d focused on upon arriving a month earlier. But although he’d kept it under surveillance for a few days, except for a couple of women from the village, the monks had very few visitors.

Now, with the trap set, all he had to do was wait and he would finally have some answers. Answers that would put him that much closer to fulfilling his mission for King Robert and seeing John of Lorn pay for what he’d done to his father.

Fourteen years was a long time, but he still remembered it as if it were yesterday. At twelve, he’d been desperate to impress the man who seemed like a king to him.

He could still remember the way the sun had caught his father’s mail in a halo of silvery light as Cailean Mor, the Great Colin, gathered his guardsmen in the barmkin of Innis Chonnel Castle, readying for battle.

He’d looked down at the son who most of the time he tried to ignore. “He’s too small; he’ll only get himself killed.”

Arthur started to say something in his own defense, but Neil cut him off with a glance. “Let him come, Father—he’s old enough.”

Arthur felt his father’s gaze fall on him and tried not to shuffle under the weight of his scrutiny, but in all of his twelve years he’d never felt so lacking. Small for his size. Skinny. Weak. And on top of it, unnatural.

I’m not a freak. But in his father’s eyes, that’s what he saw.

“He can barely lift a sword,” his father said.

The shame in his voice cut like a knife. Arthur could see what he was thinking: How could this odd, puny whelp of a lad be of my blood? Blood that had forged some of the fiercest, toughest warriors in all the Highlands. Campbells were born warriors.

Except for him.

“I’ll watch over him,” Neil said, putting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Besides, maybe he can be of help.”

His father frowned, not liking the reminder of Arthur’s strange abilities, but nodded. The hint of possibility in his gaze gave Arthur hope. “Just make sure he doesn’t get in the way.”

Arthur had been so excited, he’d barely been able to contain himself. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe he’d finally be able to prove to his father that his skills could be of use, as Neil said.

But it didn’t work out that way. He was too nervous. Too excited. Pressing too hard and wanting it too much. And too damned emotional. His senses weren’t responding the way they usually did.

They were nearing the border of Campbell and MacDougall territory, having just passed the eastern edge of Loch Avich approaching the string of Lorn—the old route through the hills of Lorn used by drovers and pilgrims on their way to Iona. He and Neil had ridden ahead with the scout, anticipating a surprise attack by their enemies along the narrow pass.

They rode over a ford in a small burn and stopped near Loch na Sreinge. “Do you feel anything yet?” Neil asked.

Arthur shook his head, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest and sweat beading on his brow as he tried to force his senses to sharpen. But it was his first battle, and now that the excitement had worn off, fear and anxiety had invaded. “Nay.”

Then they heard it. Behind them, not fifty yards away on the other side of the forested hillside. The sounds of an attack.

Neil swore and ordered him behind a tree. “Stay here. Don’t move until I come for you.”

To his horror, Arthur’s eyes filled with tears, only adding to his self-loathing. How could he have failed? How could he not have sensed them? This was all his fault. He’d been given a chance to prove himself—to show his skills—and instead he’d let the one person who believed in him down. “I’m sorry, Neil.”

His brother gave him an encouraging smile. “It’s not your fault, lad. This was only your first time out. It’ll be better next time.”

His brother’s faith in him only made it worse.

He wanted to go after them, but his father was right, he would only get in the way.