The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  The threat—and the only hope for an English victory—was eradicated.

  The final blow came when Bruce brought forward his own archers, who sent a hail of arrows down on the rear of the enemy. The English resistance crumbled, and the army was in full retreat.

  The melee became a bloodbath as the very ground that had constrained the English forces hampered their escape. The Bannock Burn, which stood in their way, became a giant burial pit as it filled to the top with bodies of men and horses. The Scots took to plunder—not only the bodies of the dead but the rich baggage train that Edward had laboriously brought with them.

  And it seemed the biggest prize of all just might be in Bruce’s reach. Surprised by the aggressiveness of the Scot attack, and the inability of his cavalry to penetrate, King Edward had been caught unawares. Only thanks to the insistence of Pembroke and the famed Gascon knight Sir Giles d’Argentan was he forced from the battlefield, Despenser and de Beaumont fleeing alongside him.

  Douglas was sent after them.

  But with or without a royal hostage, Robert the Bruce had his great victory on the battlefield. The one that would finally ensure Scotland’s independence and give God’s validation to his claim to the throne.

  Along the boggy carse of the battlefield, the grass and peaty pols now turned red with blood as the English fled and the Scots put down the last pockets of resistance, a great cheer went up. It was the cheer of a country that had fought for eighteen years for this moment—since Edward I of England had decimated Berwick in 1296, provoking the risings of William Wallace and Andrew Murray a year later. Scotland had its freedom.

  Alex, who’d fought during the battle alongside his former compatriots but had hardly been welcomed, joined in, but perhaps without the enthusiasm of back slaps, happy embraces, and arm pumping.

  He stood apart with his men who had joined Bruce at the start of the battle as he’d planned and started to take inventory of their injuries—his own would wait—when he sensed a familiar shadow move up behind him.

  He stiffened—defensively—and turned.

  “You saved my life,” Boyd said, his expression stony. “I owe you my thanks.”

  Alex shook his head. “You don’t owe me shite. Forget about it.”

  Boyd stood there staring at him, almost as if he knew what Alex was thinking. He didn’t want gratitude, but forgiveness was about the last thing he could ever expect from his former partner.

  “What made you decide to come back? Not that it wasn’t impeccably timed, riding into the rescue at the last minute. Bruce was ready to call for the retreat when you arrived with your information and persuaded him to fight.”

  “Does it really matter?”

  Boyd held his stare and shrugged. “I guess not.”

  He started to walk away, and Alex felt the anger rise up inside him. “You were right, is that what you want to hear? I judged you for things that I shouldn’t have. I tried to straddle both sides of the line, but just like you said, I had to choose. So I did. This is where I belong.”

  Boyd paused and looked at him as if he were an idiot. “It took you two years to figure that out?”

  “Aye, well I was busy trying to do some good. And I guess you aren’t the only one who is hardheaded and can hold a grudge.”

  Boyd’s mouth might have actually quirked. “You always were too much of a damned idealist.”

  “Someone needed to be.”

  Alex said it mostly to himself, so he was surprised when Boyd responded.

  “Aye, you’re right.” He looked like he was about to walk away again, but then he hesitated. “You weren’t the only one who was wrong. I owe you an apology.” Alex was stunned. Surely hell had frozen over? “I never gave you a fair chance—even after you deserved one. And you were right to do what you did for Rosalin. Defending her honor and trying to stop me from burning down her home.” He made a pained face. “I was blinded by rage, and if you hadn’t helped me see . . . she never would have forgiven me.”

  Alex felt his face heat. “Aye, well maybe not as right about defending her honor as I thought.”

  It took Boyd a minute to figure out what he meant, but he’d obviously been told of Alex’s relationship with Joan—at least some of it. “Bloody hell.” He shook his head. “I’d be tempted to gloat, but I almost feel sorry for you. You better hope MacRuairi never finds out.”

  Alex grimaced. “I intend to make it right as soon as possible.” If she’ll have me back. He looked around. “Where is MacRuairi?”

  “He, MacSorley, Campbell, and MacGregor went with Douglas.” He frowned. “Someone else was looking for him. Young Ross was around here a while ago with bad news—at least that’s how he looked. I wonder what it was about?”

  They found out soon enough. Bruce and his captains had returned to their camp in the New Park, and Alex, after seeing to his men and his wound—which was deeper than he thought—followed. Now that the war had been won, he was anxious to find Joan. Had she left Berwick? He hoped Bruce would know where she’d gone.

  The moment he entered the tent he knew something was wrong. Bruce didn’t look like a man who’d just achieved one of the greatest military victories in history. He looked upset and worried. Alex’s instincts flared when he noticed the pitying looks being sent in his direction by Sutherland, MacKay, and even Boyd.

  Joan.

  He steeled himself. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  The room fell to a dead silence as if no one wanted to answer him. Finally, Bruce motioned to MacLeod. “Let him see it.”

  Alex read the short missive dated June 19 that had finally found its way to John Ross, the Earl of Ross’s youngest son. Each word felt like a sword in the gut.

  Cousin imprisoned. I fear they mean to make her disappear. Send help. With all my love, Margaret.

  Somehow Alex remained standing, but it felt as if every ounce of blood had been sucked from his body. His stomach lurched sideways and his head swam.

  How could this have happened?

  He turned on Bruce. “You were supposed to protect her! I thought you had men watching her.”

  “We did,” the king said. “Something must have happened.”

  “Damned right something happened!” Alex said, furious. “You put her in danger and you screwed up.”

  “I’m sending a team to get her,” Bruce said. “She’ll be all right.”

  He didn’t know who Bruce was trying to convince, Alex or himself.

  Alex didn’t need to ask what team he meant. He turned to MacLeod. “I’m going.”

  Chief’s expression didn’t flicker. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

  Assuming it was because of his former place in the Guard, Alex clenched his jaw. “Do you need to see me crawl through the mud and beg your forgiveness? Because if that’s what it takes, I’ll do it—I’ll do whatever it takes, damn it, but I’m going.”

  MacLeod’s only reaction was a slight lifting of one brow. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing it,” Boyd quipped.

  “Sod off, Raider,” Alex shot back to him, not taking his eyes off MacLeod.

  “Are you sure you can stay rational about this? I don’t want any more rogue operators like MacRuairi when Bella was taken.”

  “I’m not like MacRuairi.”

  It turned out Alex was wrong about that, too.

  24

  AFTER ELEVEN DAYS in the hellish dark depths of Berwick’s pit prison, Joan was beginning to lose hope.

  They will come. Lachlan would search for her to the ends of the earth. But how long would it take for him to realize she’d been taken? And what if he couldn’t come? What if he and the rest of the Highland Guard were fleeing for their lives right now?

  Don’t, she told herself. Don’t think like that. They will come.

  But what if it takes two years? God in heaven, how had her mother done it? Joan’s appreciation for her mother’s strength after what she’d endured at
the hands of her English captors increased immeasurably. It also helped keep her from crawling into a ball of despair and giving up. Joan had the blood of one of Scotland’s greatest heroes running through her veins; she would not let her down. She would not fall into a fit of despair and hopelessness. She would stay strong.

  But it was hard.

  Down here in the darkness and cold, with barely any food and only the tantalizing trickle of water that seeped through the rock walls when it rained, she wasn’t sure whether they meant to freeze or slowly starve her to death. Perhaps they meant to do both.

  And then there were the rats. God, how she hated the rats. The vicious, sneaky, vile creatures that waited until she was at her weakest to sink their sharp teeth into her. She’d fashioned weapons out of old bones—she tried not to think too much about those—and gathered rocks to build a defensive wall around her when she slept. It didn’t keep all of them back, but it slowed them down.

  But even worse than the rats was not knowing what was going on outside of her prison. The only face she saw was that of the guard as he tossed down the occasional crust of dried bread or scrap of meat. But he didn’t speak to her, and he certainly didn’t tell her what they meant to do with her, or what news there was of the battle.

  Had the English made it to Stirling in time to relieve the siege? Had Bruce waited for them? Were her friends alive? And most painfully of all, what had become of Alex? Had he ever looked back? Had he regretted the way they’d parted, as she did? Would he come looking for her or had he already put aside in his heart the woman who’d betrayed him?

  For one horrible moment when they’d confronted her with her bracelet and accused her of being the spy, she actually thought Alex had done his duty and turned her in. Had he followed her and intercepted the bracelet before it reached Lachlan? Was that how he’d lured Lachlan into meeting him?

  But Alice’s tears and sobbing apologies had quickly pulled that knife from her heart. Alex hadn’t betrayed her, Alice had. Her cousin had managed to convey that much before Joan had been taken away. Why she’d done it, Joan didn’t know, but she’d obviously come to regret it. Unfortunately, not before the damage had been done.

  Despenser had been only too pleased to follow up on Alice’s suspicions. It was he who’d had Joan followed. It was he who’d had the church and every churchman inside thoroughly searched until they’d found the bracelet in the offertory.

  They didn’t know what it meant at first. But after the failed trap, Despenser had taken the bracelet out to show Sir Henry when Sir Adam Gordon happened to walk by. Without realizing the import, he’d caught sight of the lion emblem with the spiderweb and mentioned his nephew had one just like it on his arm, but without the roses.

  Joan’s fate had been sealed.

  Despenser and Sir Henry accused her of being not only the spy, but one of Bruce’s Phantoms, and had tried to beat the names of her fellow “traitors” out of her. Despenser had even threatened to have another cage built for her—just like her traitorous mother. She hadn’t been able to completely hide her fear. But, fortunately, though her cuts and bruises had mostly healed—although her ribs still hurt—neither the promised torturer nor cage had appeared.

  Indeed, since the second day—after which she assumed the army had left for Scotland—no one had appeared except for the solitary guard.

  Did anyone else even know she was here? Would the men Lachlan had watching her realize something had happened?

  The questions—and fears they produced—plagued her, even more so than the hunger. She wanted to get out. She wanted to find Alex and beg him to forgive her. She wanted to see her mother again, meet her siblings, and see the verdant hillsides and valleys of the land where she’d been born. She wanted to go home to Scotland.

  She wanted a future.

  Joan had always known what she risked, but it wasn’t until she lay in that dark, wretched pit that she realized how much she didn’t want to be a ghost. She wanted to live.

  She had to do something. She had to think of a plan.

  When the trapdoor opened above her a few hours later, Joan was ready. Silently, she thanked Lachlan for giving her the idea.

  She didn’t wait for her eyes to adjust from the darkness; as soon as the head appeared above her, she threw the rock with everything she had. She’d always had a strong throwing arm, and her aim was true.

  It was only when she heard the ding of metal and the deep Scottish voice say “ouch” that she stopped and focused.

  Gradually the nasal helm came into view. The feeling of relief that crashed over her was indescribable. They’d come for her. They’d found her.

  Though she’d seen the face beneath the helm only a few times, she recognized the fierce warrior well enough. “I’m sorry about that, Chief.”

  “I suppose she got that from you,” he said to someone next to him. “Bloody hell, no wonder you let me go first.” She heard another voice, but he told him to shut up and wait. He looked back down at her. “Are you all right, lass?”

  “I am now. Or will be in a few minutes.”

  “Where is she, damn it?”

  Joan gasped, recognizing the voice. A moment later a second face appeared beside MacLeod’s. Alex? But how?

  My God.

  “I thought I told you to wait outside with the others until I brought her up,” MacLeod said angrily.

  Alex let out a string of curse words that would have done a pirate proud, and in no uncertain terms told MacLeod exactly what he thought about that. If Joan wasn’t already in deep shock, she would have been—she’d never heard Alex speak like that to anyone, let alone the fierce chief of the Highland Guard.

  “God, you even sound like him,” MacLeod said. “I knew you weren’t going to be reasonable.”

  Apparently Alex was done with talking. A rope was thrown down, and in what seemed like a heartbeat he was pulling her into his arms with a groan of relief. “God, I was so scared. I thought I’d lost you.”

  Still half in disbelief that he was really there—with her brethren, no less—she collapsed in his arms. Her strength had given out.

  “God, sweetheart, forgive me. Please, forgive me. God, what did they do to you? You are so thin.”

  She looked up in the semidarkness at the handsome face that had always seemed like a beacon in the night. “You’re here. It’s really you. But I don’t understand.”

  He smiled. “Aye, it’s really me. I’ll explain everything once we get you away from here.”

  He swung her up in his arms like a bairn and carried her to the rope. He made a loop for her to sit in. Doing her best not to wince against the pain in her ribs, she held on tightly as MacLeod and Lachlan—she could make out her stepfather now—pulled her up.

  Both men took one look at her and swore.

  She touched her face self-consciously. Apparently her cuts and bruises weren’t as healed as she thought. “Is it that bad?”

  “Who beat you?” Lachlan demanded.

  From the shivery tone of his voice she could guess why he was asking.

  Alex had come up behind her. His expression darkened to something decidedly terrifying when he took in her appearance. “He’s mine, MacRuairi. I’m going to tear the bastard to pieces.”

  MacLeod swore again. “Neither of you are going to do anything right now. We have to get out of here. They aren’t far behind us.”

  Joan didn’t know who “they” were, but there was not time for questions as she was led out of the guardroom—past the dead guard—and into the courtyard where the rest of the Guard were waiting for them. No one said anything as they slid through the moonlight to the rear postern. She was surprised to see so few people around—the castle seemed almost deserted. Where were all the guards?

  Suddenly a hooded figure appeared by the door. Joan recognized her instantly. “Margaret!”

  She rushed toward her and the two cousins embraced.

  “I don’t understand,” Joan said. “How did you—”


  “Alex will explain everything,” her cousin said. “But you have to hurry. The guards will be back soon.”

  She held a big iron key ring (how had she gotten that?) and carefully unlocked the iron yett. Knowing her cousin was somehow responsible for all of this, she gave her another hug. “Thank you,” she said.

  Margaret nodded, tears in her eyes. “I hope we will meet again . . . soon.”

  Joan knew she was thinking also of John Ross. If there was any justice in this world, Margaret would find her happiness. “As do I.”

  An eventless few minutes later, Joan was lifted up onto a horse, sharing the saddle with Alex, and they rode away from the giant shadow of the formidable castle.

  After eight years, Joan was finally going home.

  Most of Joan’s questions would have to wait, but what Alex had managed to convey while they rode away was enough to keep her mind reeling.

  She couldn’t believe it. Not only had Bruce won his great battlefield victory, but Alex had been a part of it. He’d gone back. Her faith in him had been rewarded, after all.

  But apparently, despite his timely changing of sides, not all was well between Alex and his former brethren, as she discovered when they stopped not long after leaving the lights of the burgh behind them.

  First it was an argument between Alex and Tor MacLeod, upon which she’d been called to intercede, when Alex—after learning that it was Despenser’s man who’d beaten her—announced that he intended to stay and wait for him while the others took Joan to safety. In this case, he had the support of her stepfather, who said he would join him.

  When Tor objected to their plan, Alex told him in stinging and not very pleasant terms that he no longer answered to him, and that he—Tor—could take his opinion and do something with it that was physically impossible.

  Only Robbie Boyd’s intervention with Tor, and Joan’s plea with Alex that she needed him with her, prevented a physical confrontation between the two men.