Chapter One
Cumberland, England
Summer
The Year of Our Lord 1320
In a quietcorner in Storey Tavern, Commander Torin Gray of the Scot’s army surveyed the men around him from beneath his black hood. He’d been coming here for the last pair of nights looking for the same thing: border guards from Carlisle Castle enjoying the night off.
Having practically grown up in taverns, Torin knew that if one wanted to find someone or something, the best place to look was in the local drinking spot.
He’d wait, no matter how long it took. They would come for a drink, or to forget the dreaded monotony of patrolling relatively peaceful borders every day or night, waiting for something to happen, growing fat and lazy when nothing ever did. Some wine or whisky, mayhap a willing lass to soothe their weary souls.
He knew where to find them. He’d prepared to wait. He needed them to help him gain entrance into England’s last mighty stronghold.
He looked into his cup, at the ale he hadn’t touched. He wasn’t here to forget anything. He remembered the English soldier who had lifted his weeping mother and carried her away after another had jammed his blade into Torin’s father and killed him. He could no longer remember faces, but he never wanted to forget what the English had done to his family.
He flicked his gaze to a table across the room, where five men sat drinking together. He’d been watching them all evening. They were thieves, possibly reivers—a more organized alliance of lawless raiders who lived along the borders. Torin could spot a thief anywhere, since he had once been one—and sometimes still was.
These five were rude and unruly. Perfect for what he had planned.
After another quarter of an hour, the tavern door swung open and, at last, his prey swept inside with the cool night breeze. There were three of them. They wore the red and blue pattern of the English king on their tabards, and swords tucked into scabbards at their sides. Their lids drooped over tired eyes as they pushed their way around other patrons and sat at a small table near the hearth.
Torin lifted his finger to the serving girl when he caught her eye. She smiled and sauntered over.
“A drink for my friend there.” He pointed her in the direction of one of the thieves and slipped an extra coin into her palm.
Her smile remained as she stared into his shadowy eyes, but then he looked away and she went about her task. Torin waited while she brought the drink over to the man he’d pointed out.
The patron turned to acknowledge him. Before he had the chance to turn back to his friends, Torin waved him over and hoped the thief would come. He couldn’t take the chance of the guards seeing him at the table withallthe thieves. They would not remember one.
“What is your name and what do you want?” the hulking thief asked a moment later, standing over Torin’s table.
“Torin Gray,” he told him. “I’m lookin’ fer work.” He didn’t usually sound like a Scot when he spoke to the English, but he didn’t want to be trusted by this particular man.
The thief stared down at him with deep-set, suspicious brown eyes. “Remove your hood. Let me see your face in the light.”
Torin did as he was bid, pushing back his hood and releasing a mop of chestnut curls shot through with streaks of gold. He wasn’t afraid anyone would recognize him. Very few knew he was one of the Bruce’s most lethal weapons.
“What kind of work?” the thief asked when he was satisfied Torin wasn’t someone he knew.
Torin let his grin shine as he slipped his gaze to the soldiers. “I saw their purses. They are fat. Their sharp swords and swift horses would be highly desired among the reivers.”
The thief narrowed his eyes on the soldiers and then turned back to Torin. “So? What has that to do with me?”
“Ye are a thief,” Torin said boldly. “Are ye not?” He held up his hands when the man reached for a knife in his belt. “Easy, Brother. I’m a thief as well. But I canna take three of them down on my own.”
The man laughed at his proposal, just as Torin had suspected he would. “There are five of us, Scot. What do we need you for?”
Torin blinked in surprise, as if he hadn’t thought of that. “But ’twas I who told ye aboot their heavy purses.”
“You are a fool, but then most Scots are, and not a very good thief.” The man laughed until his gaze fell to a brooch clasped on Torin’s léine, beneath his cloak. “What is this?” he asked, growing serious and leaning forward to push the edge of the cloak aside. “A bug?”
Torin’s blood went cold. He dipped his chin and looked up from beneath his dark brows. “Take yer hand away before I remove it fer ye,” he warned on a deadly whisper.
The thief smiled at him. “If you do anything to stop me, I will cry out to the guards that a filthy Scot sought to rob them and I tried to stop you. My cousins will vouch for me.”
Torin was going to kill him, him and all his cousins. He hadn’t planned on killing thieves, but he was going to.
