The Ranger

by Monica McCarty

  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.”

  Near Inverurie, Aberdeenshire

  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.<
br />
  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.

  Neil, his eldest brother, was nearly twenty-four years Arthur’s senior, and in many ways like a father to him. Even though Arthur now towered over his older brother by nearly half a foot, he would always look up to him. If there was anyone responsible for who he was today, it was Neil. He’d picked Arthur up out of the mud as a boy more times than he could remember when his other brothers were trying to make a warrior of him. Neil was the one who’d encouraged Arthur to hone his skills, not to bury them. To be proud of the abilities that had made everyone else in his family uncomfortable.

  He owed his brother more than he could ever repay. But he’d never stop trying.

  MacLeod came forward to greet him, grasping his hand and forearm in the same manner that his brother had. “I’ve not had a chance to thank you for what you did,” he said, his expression strangely intense. “Without your intervention my wife—” He stopped. “I am in your debt.”

  Arthur nodded. Two years before, right before Bruce had made his bid for the crown, Arthur had prevented MacLeod’s wife from being killed. He’d been in the right place at the right time, only recently “kicked out” of the guard.

  “I hear congratulations are in order, Chief,” Arthur said using the war name given to him to protect his identity.

  The stone-faced captain of the Highland Guard broke out into a rare smile. “Aye,” he said. “I have a daughter. Beatrix, named after her aunt.”

  Neil laughed. “I don’t think he held her for a week—he was afraid of breaking her.”

  Tor scowled at him, but didn’t argue.

  The third man stepped forward. Shorter than the other two, he was still an impressive figure. Wide-shouldered, with the thick, heavy muscles of a warrior despite the recent illness that had taken its toll on his health, he wore a full suit of mail and a gold tabard emblazoned with the red rampant lion beneath his dark cloak. Even if the rough-cut features and dark pointed beard were not visible beneath his steel bascinet, Arthur would know him by the majestic aura that surrounded him.

  He dropped to his knee and bowed his head before King Robert Bruce. “Sire,” he said.

  The king acknowledged his fealty with a nod. “Rise, Sir Arthur.” He came forward to grasp his forearm with a shake. “So that I may thank you for the service you have done us at Inverurie. Without your information we wouldn’t have mounted an immediate counterattack. You were right. Buchan and his forces were ill-prepared and collapsed with barely a nudge.”

  Arthur scanned the king’s face, seeing the gray pallor and lines of strain. MacLeod had surreptitiously come up beside the king, subtly giving him support, but Arthur was surprised to see the king walking at all. He suspected there were men waiting not far away to help carry him back to camp. “You are well, my lord?”

  Bruce nodded. “Our victory against Comyn has been a far better cure than any tinctures the priests have cooked up. I am much improved.”

  “The king insisted on thanking you himself,” MacLeod said, a note of censure in his tone.

  But the king didn’t seem to mind. “Your brother and Chief are as protective as two old crones.”

  MacLeod led the king to a low rock for him to sit on, and said unrepentantly, “It’s my job.”

  The king looked as if he might argue, but realized the futility and turned to Arthur. “That is why we are here,” he said. “I have a new job for you.”

  This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. “You wish for me to rejoin the Guard,” he finished.

  There was an awkward pause.

  The king frowned; obviously it wasn’t what he’d been about to say. “Nay, not yet. Your skills have proved too valuable working for the other side. But we’ve been made aware of a new opportunity.”

  New opportunity. He wasn’t returning to the Guard. If Arthur felt any disappointment at the king’s news, he didn’t admit it.

  It was better if he stayed on his own. He’d never been comfortable in groups anyway. He liked the freedom of making his own decisions. Not having to explain himself or account for himself to anyone. As a knight in his brother Dugald’s household, he could pretty much come and go as he pleased.

  As was the case for many families in Scotland, the Campbells had been split apart by the war. Arthur’s brothers Neil, Donald, and Duncan were for Bruce, but his brothers Dugald and Gillespie were aligned with the Earl of Ross and England.

  The division in his family had made placing him in the enemy camp that much easier.

  “What kind of opportunity?” he asked.

  “To infiltrate the very heart of the enemy.”

  Infiltrate. That meant getting close. Something Arthur tried to avoid. It was why he’d never attached himself to a noble as most knights did. “I work better alone, my lord.” On the outside. Where he could blend in and stay in the background. Where he could go unnoticed.

  Neil, who knew him well, smiled. “I don’t think you’ll mind this time.”

  Arthur’s gaze snapped to his brother’s. The satisfaction he read there made him realize what this meant.

  “Lorn?” The single word fell with the force of a smith’s hammer.

  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, refer
ring 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.