PROLOGUE: INTO EXILE
Berwick Upon Tweed
The English/Scottish Border
July 1333
FLAMES LICKED HIGH into the night sky.
Craeg’s chest burned as he stared at the walls of Berwick Castle, rising to the south, half a mile away. Fire consumed the fortress that crowned the rocky headland above the River Tweed. Even from this distance, he could hear its hungry roar, the crack and groan of collapsing timbers. Smoke billowed into the summer darkness, blotting out the stars.
The summer night air was warm, but the wind off the Tweed carried the acrid stench of smoke and something far worse—the bitter reek of defeat. Berwick Upon Tweed had shifted between Scottish and English hands a few times over the years. The Scots had clung onto it for over a decade. But tonight, everything changed.
Tonight, they’d failed. Andrew Murray was captured, and the Scottish resistance scattered. And now, David—the rightful King of Scots, though he was barely nine years old—was fleeing for his life with his child bride.
Craeg’s jaw clenched. This was no way for a king to leave his kingdom. But he’d given Murray his word.If Berwick Castle falls, get the king to safety.
“Move!” Ailean’s shout cut through his thoughts. His friend wheeled his horse about, his long auburn hair flying around him. “They’ll be after us.”
On Craeg’s other side, Greig was already spurring his mount forward.
They’d halted briefly, on their flight north—but his companions were right. They couldn’t linger here.
Craeg dug his heels into his own horse’s flanks, glancing over at their charges as he did so. They traveled alongside him, both seated astride fast coursers. The young king—if he could even be called that yet—clung to his horse’s mane, his face pale in the firelight. Beside him, Joanna rode with her head held high. A brave lass, although she couldn’t be more than twelve years old. A child queen fleeing into exile.
Craeg’s gut hardened.
Get them to Dumbarton. Get them to France. Let them live to reclaim Scotland another day.
He urged his courser into a canter, and the small party thundered north along the coast road. Behind them, Berwick lit up the southern sky like a beacon.
Craeg kept his eyes forward, searching the road ahead for any sign of English soldiers. His hand never strayed far from his sword hilt.
“Did ye see Murray go down?” Ailean panted, his horse surging alongside Craeg’s. His face was streaked with blood—not his own, Craeg hoped. Ailean fought as he lived: with reckless abandon.
“I saw,” Craeg shouted back, his lungs burning. His chest clenched at the memory. “Three men dragged him from his horse.”
“We should have—”
“We had our orders,” Craeg cut him off harshly, even as the wind tore the words from his mouth. “Protect the king.”
Ailean’s jaw worked, but he didn’t argue. They both knew Andrew Murray would have wanted it this way. The Guardian of Scotland had bought them time with his capture, perhaps with his life. That sacrifice couldn’t be wasted on foolish heroics.
Behind them, hoofbeats thundered. The English? Craeg twisted in his saddle but couldn’t see anything in the darkness.
“How far to Dumbarton?” Young David’s voice cracked—thin and raw over the drum of hooves.
“At least six days’ hard riding, Yer Grace,” Craeg shouted to ensure the lad heard him. “Maybe more if we must take to the hills.”
“It won’t come to that!” Greig’s mount was foaming at the mouth as he drew up alongside Craeg. “The Macleans have friends between here and Glasgow! Safe passage!”
Craeg bit back a retort. Now wasn’t the time to remind Greig that ‘safe passage’ meant little when half the Scottish nobility had bent the knee to Balliol and his English puppeteers. They might soon discover that they had fewer ‘friends’ than they believed in the Lowlands.
They rode through the night, pushing the horses as hard as they dared. The coast road took them past sleeping villages and dark fields where summer crops grew tall. In daylight, there would be life and industry here—farmers tending their barley and oats, fishermen hauling nets from the sea, children playing in the long twilight of a Scottish summer.
But at this hour, the world slumbered.
As dawn broke, pink and gold over the eastern horizon, Craeg finally allowed them to slow. The horses were lathered and blowing hard.
