The sun hit his face as he reached the western ramparts, but it did little to ease the frustration coiling in his gut. He gripped the stone parapet, knuckles white, and stared out over his lands.
Fields ready for harvest. Sheep and cattle grazing on green hills. Smoke rising from chimneys in Lochbuie village.
Peaceful and prosperous. Exactly what a chieftain should want.
It made him want to punch something.
Aye, Greig and Ailean were making history. They were once again proving themselves warriors, and he was proving himself as what? An adequate steward? This wasn’t what he’d trained for. He’d spent years honing his skill with a blade. He’d escorted the king to safety, for Christ’s sake. When he’d stepped into this role, he’d told himself he’d accept his fate—there were far worse ones, after all—but he was struggling.
“Maclean.” A young man with curly black hair and earnest green eyes approached. Nathair Black, newly appointed Captain of the Moy Guard, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
Craeg forced himself to soften his expression. “Nat. Anything to report?”
“All is well.” Nat paused, then added with barely concealed pride, “I’ve implemented the new rotation schedule as ye suggested. The men seem to prefer it.”
“Well done.” The words came out clipped, and Craeg checked himself. None of this was his captain’s fault.
Nat’s gaze searched his face. “Busy morning?”
Craeg snorted. “Fishing boat dispute.”
“Ah. Dougal’s been complaining about that wee creel boat for days.” Nat moved beside him at the wall, his expression turning serious. “At least yer problems are confined to Moy. My brother writes that things are reaching boiling point on the mainland.”
Every muscle in Craeg’s body went taut. “Rory’s with Murray?”
“Aye.” Pride and envy warred in Nat’s voice—envy that Craeg felt like a knife between his ribs. “Word is that Murray’s still holding Dumbarton Castle … using it as his base. He’s convinced he can drive Balliol back across the border by winter if enough clans rally to the cause.”
“And are they rallying?” Longing clenched once more deep in Craeg’s chest.
“Some.” Nat’s mouth twisted. “Others are hedging their bets. Ye can’t blame them. Balliol’s weak, but there’s English steel behind him. Going against Edward means risking everything.”
Craeg’s jaw worked. Aye, he understood their dilemma. Edward the Third was young—barely two and twenty—but already more dangerous than his weak father had ever been. This king was shrewd. Ambitious and ruthless.
The kind of enemy that required brutal men to defeat him.
“It’s frustrating,” he bit out, fingers clenching around the rampart’s edge. “Being stuck here while others fight.”
“I suppose we are helping … in our own way,” Nat said, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Watching over our clan, growing food … training warriors. It’s all important work.”
Important … but tedious and safe.“Aye,” he said flatly. “That’s the spirit.”
Their gazes met. “At least ye’ve already earned yerself some glory,” Nat offered. “Escorting the king to safety. That’s more than most of us will ever do.”
Craeg harrumphed. He’d had that.
“What was it like?” Nat asked, gaze glinting with curiosity.
“Risky. We were looking over our shoulders all the way to Dumbarton. Hearts pounding … thinking that every sound could be the enemy.” His hands flexed, remembering the weight of his sword, the thunder of hoofbeats, the sharp clarity of mortal danger. “But I felt … alive.”
“The English never caught up with ye?”
Craeg shook his head, even as restlessness clawed at him again. “A day after we left Berwick, we discovered a band following us … but once we left the road, we lost the bastards.” He flashed his captain a hard grin then, remembering the winding path Greig had led them on. The clan-chief’s son was a skilled tracker and hunter and knew just how to throw their pursuers off the scent. “Noone knows how to disappear into the heather like we Scots.”
A few furlongs west of Lochbuie village …
The birlinn’s keel scraped against the shingle beach with a grinding rasp.
Leaping from the bow, Archie Macquarie splashed through the shallow water, rope in hand. Behind him, four warriors followed, their boots crunching on the stones. The single-masted galley rocked gently in the waves, its dark hull slick with seawater.
