The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(112)

Suddenly, Kenneth’s question last night came back to her. What would she have done, had she been asked? Listening to her son, she knew the answer. She would have stood behind Bruce. She’d believed in Robert as much as Atholl had. That belief was buried under years of fear and making do, but it was still there. Atholl should have protected them better, he should have given her a say in her future, but she could not fault him for his allegiance to Bruce.

“My sister was married to that ‘usurper,’ David. Robert is a great man—one of the greatest knights in Christendom,” she added, knowing what was likely to impress him. “I should like you to meet him. I think you would like him.”

“I will meet him. Across a battlefield.”

“He would like to have you back in Scotland.”

He frowned. “How do you know this?”

“He told me when I was there.”

“I will be. When we win.”

Mary knew she had to tread carefully. But it was his life at stake; he deserved some say in it. “You aren’t English, you know that, don’t you, Davey? You are a Scottish earl. You belong in Scotland. Wouldn’t you like to go home? To see the lands of your ancestors?”

He looked at her as if she’d just uttered treason, which perhaps she had. “Why are you saying this, Mother?”

She paused, debating how much to tell him. In the end, she decided she’d said enough. Why was she pressing her son for an answer, when she didn’t even know her own?

She smiled. “Don’t pay me any mind. I’m in a maudlin mood.”

He stared at her for a long moment and nodded.

Standing, he walked over to the window. “That’s strange.”

“What?”

“Sir John is approaching with at least two dozen men.”

Mary’s heart dropped. It’s probably nothing, she told herself. But every instinct told her otherwise.

Twenty-five

Kenneth followed Clifford’s party for hours. He’d expected them to take the road southwest along the border to Jedburgh, but instead they took a path due west toward the town of Biggar, skirting the dangerous Selkirk Forest, which was controlled by Bruce’s men under the command of Sir James Douglas.

Where the hell were they going? Continuing on this road up the Clydesdale would take them to Bothwell Castle, just south of Glasgow. He stilled. Bothwell Castle, where the English garrison could easily be supplied by Clifford’s border castles of Carlisle and Caerlaverock.

His senses hummed. He was on to something; he knew it. What if the reason there didn’t seem to be enough supplies going north to Edinburgh was because that wasn’t the path they were going to take? What if this was the path? What if Bothwell, Rutherglen, and Renfrew were the English-held castles that would keep the English army supplied and protected on their Scottish campaign?

It felt right, but how was he going to prove it? All he had was his gut to go on.

But Clifford wasn’t accommodating enough to hand him conclusive proof today. When the small party turned around near midday to return to the castle, Kenneth followed. The ride to seemingly nowhere only served to further convince him that it had been a scouting mission in advance of the army.

But he needed proof, damn it. Was it too much to ask for a nice, colorfully drawn map to fall into his hands? If only spying were that easy.

It was nearing dusk by the time Clifford’s party rode through the gate of Berwick Castle. Kenneth waited a short while before following.

He was expecting to have to do some explaining for his absence, but as he neared the gate, he wondered if it was going to take a lot more than that.

He heard the call go up when the men who were keeping watch from the battlements above sighted him. Was it his imagination, or had the air suddenly become more charged? Were the men at the gate nervous? They seemed to purposefully not meet his gaze, and more than one hand was gripping the hilt of a sword. He was beginning to get a bad feeling—a very bad feeling—about this.

Had Mary betrayed him? For one horrible moment, he wondered. But he quickly pushed the thought aside. She wouldn’t. No matter how angry, he refused to believe she’d condemn him to the same fate as Atholl.

But it was clear something was wrong. The moment he rode through the gate, he could feel the men moving into position behind him.

He swore. Catching sight of Percy coming down the stairs of the Great Hall, he knew from the cold fury on the knight’s face that he was in trouble. Whether it was his unexplained absence, Felton giving him up for illegal fighting, or something else, he wasn’t going to stay and find out.

His time in the English camp was over, and he liked his chances of getting out now with only a handful of men behind him better than he did from a pit prison.

He could be completely wrong, but if he’d learned anything in this long war, it was that when in doubt, trust your senses. Sometimes they were the only things that kept you alive.

He didn’t hesitate. Swinging his mount around, he plunged through the men who’d come around to block his exit. The sudden move caught them by surprise, but one man managed to get his sword up in time to take a good swing at him. Kenneth yanked the sword from the scabbard at his back and managed to save his leg—and more importantly, his horse—from the soldier’s blade.

With a fierce cry, he landed another blow at one of the men guarding the portcullis to his right. Reacting quickly, he fended off a blow from the man at his left. He could hear the shouts behind him to lower the gate, to not let him escape, but it was too late. Lowering his head to the neck of his mount, he tore out the gate. He tried not to think about the arrows that were going to start raining on him from above—