The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(9)

Neil nodded, a smile of anticipation curling his mouth. “This is the chance we’ve been waiting for.”

MacLeod explained. “John of Lorn has put out the call to his barons and knights. Your brothers will answer. Go with them. Find out what the MacDougalls are planning, how many men they have, and who will join them. They’re getting messengers past our men and I want you to stop them. We want to keep them as isolated as possible until the truce expires. I have Hawk watching the seaways, but I need you on the land.”

It was land that Arthur knew well. Argyll was Campbell land. He’d been born at Innis Chonnel, a castle in the middle of Loch Awe, and had lived there until the MacDougalls had stolen it.

Arthur felt a rush of pure anticipation course through him. This was the moment he’d been waiting for for a long time. Fourteen years, to be exact. Since the moment John of Lorn had treacherously stabbed his father right before his eyes. Arthur hadn’t seen it coming. It was the only time his senses had failed him.

Even if Neil hadn’t asked it, even if Bruce hadn’t offered him lands and the promise of a rich bride to fight on his side, Arthur would have joined Bruce for the chance to destroy John of Lorn and the MacDougalls.

Blood for blood was the Highland way. He wouldn’t fail his brother the way he had his father.

Mistaking the source of his silence as objection, MacLeod continued. “With your knowledge of the terrain, there is no one better suited for the job. You’ve spent over two years establishing your false allegiance for just this type of mission. Lorn might not like having Campbells around, but with the feud ended by Edward and your brother Dugald reconciled to him some time ago, he has no reason to think you are anything other than what you seem.”

“Hell, Lorn’s uncle fights with us,” Bruce added, referring to Duncan MacDougall of Dunollie. “Divided families are something he knows well enough.”

“John of Lorn doesn’t know what you saw, brother,” Neil said quietly, referring to Arthur’s witnessing of their father’s death. “Do what you always do. Lie low and observe. For someone so big,” he said with a fond smile, recalling that it hadn’t always been that way, “you’re amazingly adept at going unnoticed. Stay out of Lorn’s way. And have care—he might be suspicious initially, so don’t turn your back on him.”

He knew that better than anyone. But Arthur didn’t need to be convinced. Any resistance he might have had to infiltrating the household of the enemy had vanished at the mention of Lorn.

“Well?” Bruce said.

Arthur met his gaze, a slow, deadly smile spreading across his face. “How soon can I leave?”

He’d see John of Lorn destroyed and enjoy every bloody moment of it.

Nothing was going to stand in his way.

Two

Dunstaffnage Castle, Lorn, June 11, 1308

Less than three weeks after the meeting with the king near the standing stone, Arthur Campbell was here. In the belly of the beast, the den of the lion, the lair of the devil: Dunstaffnage Castle, the formidable stronghold of Clan MacDougall.

Gathered in the Great Hall with the other knights and men-at-arms who’d answered the call, awaiting their turn before the dais, Arthur tried not to think about the importance of what was to come. If there was a time that John of Lorn would focus his attention on him, this would be it.

He scanned the room with his usual intensity, taking note of all the the potential ways in and out. Not that escape would be likely. If Lorn learned what he was about, Arthur would be hard pressed to make it out of there alive. But instinct was also habit—it was better to be prepared. For anything.

Taking in the details of the room, he had to admit he was impressed. The castle was one of the finest he’d ever seen. Built about eighty years ago, Dunstaffnage was strategically situated on a small promontory of land where the Firth of Lorn met the southern shore of Loch Etive, thus guarding a key western seaward approach into Scotland. Constructed on a base of rock, the massive lime-coated walls extended about fifty feet up from the ground, with round towers on three of the four corners. The largest of these towers, next to the Great Hall, served as the donjon, housing the lord’s private chambers.

The design and architecture of the castle reflected the power of the man who’d built it. Still part of Norway at the time it of its construction, its builder, Duncan, son of Dugald, son of the mighty Somerled, had been invested with the title of ri Innse Gall, King of the Isles. A title the MacDougalls still took to heart.

The castle did indeed befit a king. The Great Hall took up the entire first floor of the eastern range, spanning about one hundred feet by thirty feet. The wood-beamed ceilings had to be at least fifty feet at the highest point. Intricately carved wooden paneling fit for the nave of a church adorned the eastern entrance wall, while the others were plastered and decorated with colorful banners and fine tapestries.

A massive fireplace on the inner long wall of the castle provided heat, and two double lancet windows on the opposite outer wall allowed for an unusual amount of natural light. Trestle tables and benches lined the main floor of the room, and a dais had been erected at the end of the room opposite the entrance. In the middle of the massive wooden table that spanned its length was a large wooden throne.

Though Alexander MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, the chief and head of Clan MacDougall, still occupied that chair, it was the cold-hearted bastard seated to his right who wielded its power. Alexander MacDougall was an old man—at least seventy by Arthur’s reckoning; years ago, he’d delegated his authority to his eldest son and heir, John, Lord of Lorn.