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Tosia might have had a measure of pity for her brother, if several of the kitchen and house maids hadn’t made it their intent to ply Tavish with adoring attention. If it wasn’t Chrissy with buttery treats from the ovens, then ‘twas Grace sewing up Tavish’s tunic and braies to fit Tavish’s burgeoning form to perfection.
She leaned against the side of the stairway, watching as the lassies scrambled for a hint of consideration from Tavish. Tosia was pleased that her brother was coming into his own, finding his place with James and the king’s men. Yet at the same time, the sight made her stomach tighten in a hard knot. He didn’t need her anymore, and she’d miss the adoring brother he’d been.
A form came up behind her, pressing his hard body against her back. She leaned into the comfort of James’s chest as he bent to whisper into her ear.
“The king will wait no longer to settle his vengeance against the MacDoualls. I will explain to your brother why he’s not attending me. He shall be disheartened but understanding. Please know that while our charge on the MacDoualls is in retribution for the king’s brothers, my sword will also lay waste in retribution for the injury to your brother.”
She shouldn’t have found comfort in his violent words, but she did. Knowing that James would slay the men who’d harmed her brother sent a wave of warmth through her, tinged with a new, icy concern. Tosia spun into his arm, her face upturned.
“And ye. I have confidence that ye will do as ye say, but I dinna desire to see ye harmed. I would have ye return to my arms.”
That reluctant tug of a smile sparked on his face. Without answering, he lowered his head and nipped his teeth on her lip before claiming her in a lusty kiss.
Then he released her, gave a courteous bow, and entered the small servant chambers off the kitchens where Tavish reclined on a low pile of furs and tartans. The doting maids rushed from the room as if the hounds of hell themselves had entered.
“Milord,” Tavish’s lighthearted face grew serious at James’s approach. He lifted up on his arms as if to rise from the bed. James waved him back.
“Stay. Ye are no’ well enough to rise yet. And as such, ye will take this news with grace. The king has decided we can wait no longer to quash the MacDoualls. We ride tonight to learn what we can and prepare our attack.”
“But I must go wi’ ye! I’m your squire!” he squeaked out, and Tosia giggled behind her hand from the kitchen where she eavesdropped.
“Nay. A knight does no’ permit one who is injured to come to more harm, which is what would happen if ye came with. Ye can barely stand. Know that we will have our retribution, both for the king’s brothers and for ye, and when we next ride against the English and their allies, ye will be more than prepared to ride with us.”
Tavish’s mouth pulled into an irritated frown, but he nodded at James, acknowledging the command of his lord.
James turned and left the cramped quarters. When he passed Tosia in the kitchen, she gave him a grateful smile. He didn’t stop but reached out and caressed her hand with his finger as he strode past.
A violent demon on the outside, but an adoring husband where none might see.
None but her.
Shabib emerged from the darkness like a spirit, a dark ghost in an even darker night. His deep blue robes were black in the shadows, and James started when he approached. The back of his head smacked against the tree trunk, and he sucked in his breath and rubbed the sore spot.
“It saves me from smacking you to pay attention, James,” Shabib intoned as the other men surrounded him.
“Och, ye fiend. What did ye learn? Anything of use?”
Shabib bowed, whether it was in assent or mockery, James couldn’t guess. The Moor was nothing if not mysterious. And he had an astute ear of overhearing conversation, which was why James tasked him with observing the MacDoualls from the shadows.
“The MacDoualls are within. They depart on the morn to meet with Richard MacCann from clan MacCann, and from their tone, it involves the English. And there is more, something you might find very interesting.”
James straightened and stared down Shabib, waiting for the man to speak. Why did he always speak in such riddles?
“Shabib?” James asked with an edge to the word. James thought he saw a glint on Shabib’s teeth when the man smiled.
“Your king had wondered if the Hammer of the Scots English liege was in stout enough health to try to invade Scotland once again?” James nodded, his teeth on edge. What had Shabib learned of Longshanks? “The king is dead. His health finally expired, and now his son has very recently been crowned King Edward the Second.”
James stilled, his breathing shallow as his mind tried to process Shabib’s news. The Hammer was dead? The old king had finally died? He didn’t yet know what type of king the son would be, but James, as well as most of Robert’s inner circle, knew the son to be a weakish fop.
“Let us find Robert. He will want to strike at the MacDouall’s on the morrow, after they are well away from the keep.”
“And news of the old king?”
James did something he rarely did ever. He smiled.
“We will save that best news for last.”
In the moonlight, the king’s face shone bright enough for all the men to see by.
“Truly? Ye heard them say that the Hammer is dead? That his son now reigns?”
Shabib bowed his head. “Yes, milord. The milquetoast son is now King Edward the Second.”
Bruce’s dark eyes caught James’s, and he threw back his head, a burst of laughter exploding up from his chest.
“Och, the Lord is good. This is a sign for Scotland, ‘Tis surely. God must bless our endeavor for a free Scotland, for why else did he send Longshanks to his death?”
“The weak king, he will still wager a war if for nothing else than to try to claim greatness on his father’s back,” James reminded him.
The Bruce flapped a dismissive hand. “True. And we are weary of war. But the lad is no’ the commander his father was, and he will need time to regroup. We will take advantage of the change in power, decimate these MacDoualls, and then reclaim the lowlands before heading north. We yet have a war ahead of us, only now ‘tis one I have no doubt we can win.”
“Och, ye had doubts before?” Declan MacCollough asked.
The Bruce nodded his head — honesty was one of his more esteemed character traits. “Aye. I have confidence we shall cut a swath through these English, yet I’m a man just as ye. I’ve had many doubts over the past winter. Now, with ye men leading my army and the Hammer of the Scots dead and cold, most of those doubts have fled.”
The king’s positive attitude was infectious, spreading amongst the men as readily as a summer breeze.
“Now, I believe Douglas had his plan for us. What has your black heart designed for the attack on the morn?”
With that, the elated attitudes of the men dissipated, replaced by extreme focus on James as he drew in the dirt with a stick under the flickering light of a low torch.
By daybreak, the Bruce, James, and their men gathered at the edge of the wood, waiting for their moment. The mood was familiar to James, but now that summer was high upon them, instead of a misty, damp gloom emerging with the sun, brilliant yellows burst forth onto the land. The shadows of the trees lay long on the grass, like gray carpets leading the men to their undertaking.
James lifted his left hand and waved. Two groups of men behind him, Shabib and Thomas included, broke off and crept to the north and south to surround the stronghold and ride in when the MacDoualls focused on what they believed to be a single eastern attack.
The strategy worked a brilliantly as they had hoped, and many men fell to their swords. James’s own sword drank the blood of the MacDoualls as a parched land drank water, and his ears were deaf to the dying cries of his enemies. He grimaced as another spurt of blood crossed his stained tunic, another testament to the Scots reclaiming their freedom.
But as they worked their way through the inner bailey, James’s spirits dropped. Not enough men were present, and Laird Dungal MacDouall was nowhere to be found. An old man they’d spared shared what he knew under threat of a slit throat by Thomas, whose hand held the man’s neck at his mercy.
“Nay, Laird Dungal departed two days past! For the MacCanns!” The old man gasped, the blade at his neck drawing a thin line of blood.
The Bruce cursed in a low voice and turned in a rush. He thrashed at the hay cart by the gate as he stormed out, roaring his curses replacing his hushed tone.
Shabib’s eyes cut to James, who shrugged. Then his stony glare returned to the man who held no compunctions of sharing his clan’s secrets. James gave a quick nod of his head, and with an easy swipe of his arm, Thomas ended the old man’s treasonous misery.
James directed Thomas and the rest of the men to secure the keep before he and Shabib rejoined the king. His helm-covered head was bowed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Ye spied on the keep and no’ a one said that Dungal was no’ here?”
Shabib shook his head, his own gaze focused on his folded arm. “Nay, milord,” his deep voice intoned. “Perchance it explains why the men imbibed as heavily as they did. The cat was away so the mice did play.”
The reasoning made perfect sense, and mayhap the death of King Edward was why the Laird left early. The Bruce lifted his face. His brow was furrowed as if an ache thrummed behind his eyes. James understood that sensation well — he’d experienced something similar upon watching his own home burn.
“Shall we ride for the MacCanns? Find the bastard Dungal there?”
Robert stared into the distance, his eyes glazed in thought.
“I do. I want to ride for that fool and make him weep blood at my feet. Yet my vengeance must again wait. We have a larger need to take the lowlands from the grip of the English, and we can take advantage of the weak king’s distractions. If we come upon Dungal along the way, the mores the better. But for now, we return to Auchinleck and plan our next round of attacks.” The Bruce twisted where he stood to study James with his deep, sullen eyes. “I would have the lowlands returned to my control before the leaves change.”
James held the King’s gaze, trying not to notice how deep the lines ran from his eyes, how sallow his skin, the shadows haunting his cheeks. As he adjusted his sword and walked back toward the woods with several other men, a disconcerting notion crossed James’s mind — if this war killed the Hammer of the Scots, how long would their own king last before this war destroyed him?
