The Ranger (3 page)

Even Edward Plantagenet was better than having a Bruce on the throne.

And it was Bruce’s death that she prayed for now. Ever since word had arrived that in the middle of his campaign north he’d taken to his sickbed with a mysterious illness, she’d prayed for the ailment to claim him. For nature to vanquish their enemy. Of course, it was a terrible sin to pray for a man’s death.
Any
man’s death. Even a murderous scourge like Robert Bruce. The nuns at the abbey would be horrified.

But she didn’t care. Not if it meant the end to this bloody, godforsaken war. The war that already had claimed her brother and fiancé, and had taken its toll not only on her aging grandfather, Alexander MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, but also on his son—her father, John MacDougall, Lord of Lorn.

Her father had barely recovered from the most recent bout of chest pains. She didn’t know how much more he could take. Bruce’s recent success had only made it worse. Her father hated to lose.

It was hard to believe that a little over a year ago “King Hood” had been on the run with only a handful of supporters, his cause all but lost. But the fugitive king had returned and, thanks in large part to the death of Edward I of England, resurrected his bid for Scotland’s throne.

So sinful or not, she prayed for the death of their enemy. She would gladly do the penance for her wicked thoughts if it meant protecting her father and clan from the man who would see them destroyed.

Besides, as the nuns had told her countless times before, she’d never been destined for the life of a nun anyway. She sang too much. Laughed too much. And most importantly, had never been as devoted to God as she was to her family.

Anna studied her father’s face, gauging it for any reaction, as he tore open the missive and read. In his anxiousness, he hadn’t even bothered to call for his clerk. She’d been fortunate to find him alone in his solar, having just finished a council with his men. Her mother, usually found anxiously fussing at his side, had gone to the garden to oversee the picking of herbs for a new tincture suggested by the priest to help clear the bogginess from her father’s lungs.

She could tell right away that the news was not good. A dangerous flush reddened his well-lined face, his eyes grew bright as if with fever, and his mouth fell in a thin white line. It was a look that struck fear in the hearts of the most hardened of warriors, but in Anna it only provoked concern. She knew the loving father beneath the gruff warrior’s exterior.

She clutched the arm of the thronelike chair upon which he sat, the carving biting into her palm. “What is it, Father? What’s happened?”

His gaze lifted to hers. She felt a flash of fear, seeing the rising anger. Her father’s apoplectic rage had always been a terrifying sight—rivaling the infamous Angevin temper of the Plantagenet kings of England—but never more so than after his attack. Anger is what had caused the pains in his arm and chest last time. Pains that had frozen him, cut off his breath, and put him in bed for nearly two months.

He crumpled the parchment in a ball in his fist. “Buchan has fled. The Comyns have been defeated.”

She blinked. It took her a moment to comprehend what he’d said as it seemed impossible. John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan—kinsman to John Comyn the murdered Lord of Badenoch—was one of the most powerful men in Scotland.

“But how?” she asked. “Bruce was hovering near death.”

Her father had always encouraged his children to ask questions. He deplored ignorance, even in women, which was why he’d insisted that all his daughters be educated at the convent. But seeing his face flame and body stiffen with rage, she almost wished her question back.

“Even from his sickbed the scourge manages miracles,” he said disgustedly. “The people already think him some kind of hero—like the bloody second coming of Arthur and Camelot. Buchan had the bastard pinned near Inverurie, but his men faltered when they saw ‘The Bruce’ at the head of the army.” He slammed his fist down on the table beside him, sending wine sloshing from his goblet. “The Comyns ran like cowards at the sight of a sick man being carried into battle. They fled from a damned invalid!”

His face turned so red that the veins in his temples started to bulge.

Fear clutched her chest. Not because she feared his anger, but because of the danger to his health. She fought back the tears that sprang to her eyes. Her fiercely proud father would see her tears as a sign that she thought him weak. He was a powerful warrior, not a man who needed to be coddled.

But this war was killing him as surely as a slow poison. If she could just get him through this trouble with Bruce, everything would be all right. Why couldn’t the false king have just succumbed to illness the way he was supposed to? This would all be over.

She had to calm him. Instead of using tears and pleas, she took his hand and forced a teasing smile to her face. “You’d better not let Mother hear you talk like that around me. You know she blames you for my ‘unmaidenly’ vocabulary.” For a moment she feared her words had not penetrated, but slowly the haze of anger started to dissipate. When he finally looked at her as if he really saw her, she added innocently, “Perhaps I should I call for her?”

He let out a sharp bark of laughter, muddled by the heaviness in his lungs. “Don’t you dare. She’ll force another one of those revolting potions down my throat. Lord knows your mother means well, but she would drive a saint to perdition with her constant worrying.” He shook his head, giving her a fond look that told her he knew exactly what she had done. “You’ve nothing to fear, you know. I’m perfectly hale.” His eyes narrowed. “But you are a shrewd lass, Annie-love. More like me than any of the others. Haven’t I always told you so?”

Anna dimpled with pleasure at the compliment. “Yes, Father.”

He continued as if she hadn’t responded. “Since the day you toddled into my solar with your thumb in your mouth, took one look at the battle map, and moved our men to the perfect place to attack.”

She laughed, having no memory of the day but having heard the story many times before. “I thought the carved figures were toys,” she said.

“Ah, but your instincts were pure.” He sighed. “But I fear it will not be so simple this time. Buchan writes that he will seek refuge in England. With the Comyns defeated, the usurper will turn to us.”

Us?
She swallowed hard. Dread settled over her. “But what about the truce?”

Months ago, when Bruce had first started his march north, he’d turned his eye briefly to battling the men of Argyll, threatening them by land and by sea. Her father, ill and undermanned, had agreed to a truce—as had the Earl of Ross to their north. She’d hoped the truce would mean an end to the fighting.

“It expires on the Ides of August. The day after, we can expect to see the fiend at our gate. He’s chased off the MacDowells in Galloway, and with the Comyns gone ...” Her father frowned his disgust again.

Sensing a return of his anger, she reminded him, “The Earl of Buchan has never been a good battle commander. You’ve said so many times before. King Hood would not have been so lucky against you, which is no doubt why he sought a truce in the first place. Dal Righ is still too fresh in his memory.”

Her father fingered the chunky silver brooch he wore at his neck. The large oval crystal surrounded by tiny pearls was a talisman of just how close he’d come to capturing the fugitive king. They’d had Bruce in their grasp—literally—the brooch coming off in the struggle.

She could tell by the hint of a smile around his mouth that her words had pleased him. “You’re right, but our previous victory will not stop him this time. We’re all that’s left between him and the crown.”

“But what of the Earl of Ross?” she said. “Surely, he will fight with us?”

Her father’s mouth tightened. “Ross cannot be counted on. He will be reluctant to leave his lands unprotected. But I will try to persuade him that we must join forces to defeat King Hood once and for all.”

There was nothing reproachful in her father’s manner, but Anna felt a twinge of guilt nonetheless. Persuading Ross might have been made easier if she’d accepted the proposal of his son Hugh last year.

“I will call my barons and knights and send word to Edward requesting aid. He is not half the king that his father was, but perhaps Comyn’s defeat will finally force him to see the imperative of sending more men north.”

But he didn’t sound hopeful. Anna knew as well as her father not to expect much help from Edward II. The new English king had too many troubles of his own to worry about Scotland. Though English soldiers were still garrisoned in many key castles around Scotland—especially along the borders—Edward had recalled many of his commanders, including Aymer de Valence, the new Earl of Pembroke.

She bit her lip. “And if help does not arrive?”

She knew better than to ask her father whether he would submit. He would see them all dead before he kneeled to a Bruce. “To Conquer or Die.” The MacDougall motto lived strong in her father.

Despite the warmth of the solar, she shivered.

“Then I shall defeat the bastard alone. I nearly had him at Dal Righ—coming damned near to killing him in the process. This time I intend to finish the job.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “By the end of summer, Robert Bruce’s head will be on my gate with vultures plucking at his eyes.”

Anna ignored the twinge of discomfort. She hated when her father talked like that. It made him seem cruel and ruthless, not the father she adored.

She gazed up at him, seeing the firm resolve set on his grizzled features, and did not doubt him for a moment. Her father was one of the greatest warriors and military commanders in Scotland. Fate might be moving against them, but John of Lorn would stop it.

Maybe an end to the war was in sight after all. The uncertainty, the death, the destruction, the deceit—it would all be over. The poison that was killing her father would be gone. Her family would be safe. She would marry and have a home and children of her own. Everything would be blissfully
normal
.

She couldn’t let herself contemplate the alternative. But sometimes it felt as if she were trying to hold back a waterfall with a sieve or swimming against a whirlpool that was determined to drag them all under: her parents, her sisters and brothers, her little nephews and nieces.

She couldn’t let that happen. Whatever it took, she would protect her family. “What can I do?”

Her father smiled, giving her an indulgent pinch on the cheek. “You’re a good lass, Annie-love. What say you of a visit to my cousin the Bishop?”

She nodded and started to get to her feet.

“And Anna,” he paused, giving her an amused look as she picked up her basket. “Don’t forget the tarts.” He laughed. “You know how fond he is of them.”

A full moon hung over the ancient stone monument, but gauzy plumes of smoke from the nearby fires filtered the light in a ghostly haze. Victory tasted acrid on Arthur’s tongue and burned the back of his throat. It was near midnight, but the distant sounds of revelry and rampant destruction still filled the smoky night air. Bruce had taken William Wallace’s lessons to heart, scorching the earth, leaving nothing in his wake that could be used by his enemies. Comyn had been chased from Scotland, but the harrying of Buchan would not be over for some time.

The single shard of granite in the clearing seemed to point to the heavens at an angle that could only be purposeful. To what purpose he could only guess. Too many years had passed and the intent of the mystical druid stones had been lost. But as the stones were often placed in isolated locations, they served as convenient meeting places.

Arthur watched the clearing from the shadows of the circle of trees that surrounded it, uncharacteristically impatient for the men to appear. He hoped this was finally the end of the deception. He was tired of living a lie. After years of pretending, sometimes it was hard to remember what side he was on.

Other than across the battlefield, this would be the first time he’d seen the man he’d been fighting for in nearly two and a half years—since the day he’d been forced to leave his training as a member of the Highland Guard to “join” the enemy. The fact that the king was risking meeting with him in person was what made him think his days as a spy might be at an end.

Arthur had done his job well, providing key information before the battle at Inverurie that had enabled Bruce and his men to defeat the Earl of Buchan and send him scurrying to England with his tail between his legs. With the Comyns defeated, Arthur hoped to take his place among the other members of the Highland Guard—they were the best of the best, an elite band of warriors handpicked by Bruce for their skills in each discipline of warfare.

He stilled, his gaze shooting to a break in the trees to the right. The faint scurry of a rabbit or squirrel was the first sound to signal their arrival. Being attuned to the smallest details, the slightest observations, were what set him apart. Soundlessly, he cut a diagonal path through the trees, coming up on them from behind.

Once he confirmed their identity, he identified himself by the hoot of an owl.

The three men spun around, swords drawn, obviously startled.

His brother Neil was the first to recover. “God’s bones, even better than I thought! We’re still at least fifty paces from the clearing.” He turned and grinned at the tall, fearsome-looking man beside him. “You owe me a shilling.”

Tor MacLeod, the captain of the Highland Guard, made a sharp sound of disgust, murmuring a few choice words.

Neil ignored him and strode forward to greet Arthur, not bothering to hide his pleasure. “You’ve gotten even better, brother.” At Arthur’s questioning glance toward MacLeod, Neil explained, “I bet that stubborn barbarian over there that you would find us before we reached the clearing—no matter how quiet we were. You’ve put a nick in that steely Highland pride of his.”

Arthur had to bite back a smile. Tor MacLeod was the greatest warrior in the Highlands and Western Isles; his pride didn’t get nicked. But clearly Arthur had impressed his captain—and his brother.