Carrying off an attack of such magnitude in the shadow of one of the largest English garrisons in the Borders was a daring proposition even for one of the elite members of the Highland Guard. But Robbie had planned everything down to the smallest detail. He always did. It was part of why Bruce’s war had been so successful. They’d learned from Wallace’s successes and not only built on them but improved them. The terrifying, wild “pirate” raids of which the English accused them had become extremely disciplined and well-organized professionally waged attacks.
And so far everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned. Well, except for the soldiers. But his men were dealing with the unexpected resistance. Quite quickly, it appeared—even though they were out-manned by at least two to one.
He smiled again. This might not be a mission dangerous enough for the Highland Guard, but the men Robbie had brought with him were his own, and he’d taught them well.
Though tempted to join the fun himself, he was in charge and had to stand back and make sure nothing went wrong.
With one eye on the battle taking place down the street, he watched while two of his men loaded the grain, goods, and coin that would fund the king’s army for the next few months onto the sumpter horses they’d brought for that purpose. With the exception of a few chickens, they didn’t bother with the livestock. It would only slow them down, and unlike their typical raids conducted well away from any castle, for this they were going to need to disappear fast.
He stiffened as Seton, who’d been overseeing the men setting the fires, approached. From his angry stride, Robbie guessed what he was going to say.
“I thought you said no one would be hurt.”
Robbie clenched his jaw. “I gave the same orders as the king: no one is to be hurt unless they resist. It’s a mercy, I’ll point out, not often returned by your English countrymen. But as you can see,” he pointed to the soldiers, “they are resisting.”
Seton’s face was hidden behind his helm, but Robbie saw his eyes narrow at the wordcountrymen. Though raised in Scotland, Seton had been born in England, where most of his family’s lands were, and Robbie never let him forget it.
But they’d been partners for too long for Seton to be so easily baited. “I told you this was a bad idea. It’s too dangerous. But Clifford tweaked your pride, so now you have to tweak his. Even if we all end up swinging from the gibbet.”
Robbie’s jaw clenched even harder. He was well aware of Seton’s feelings on the matter. What had started out as an ill-fated partnership between them in the Highland Guard had never materialized into anything else, despite their leader Tor “Chief” MacLeod’s intent. They’d learned to tolerate each other, work together, and rely on each other when they had to, but they would never see eye to eye.
If anything, the tension between them had gotten worse since their unfortunate pairing in the early days of the war. Seton’s dissatisfaction with how they were winning this war had been growing for some time. But if they’d played knights the way Seton wanted, they’d still be outlaws “lost” in the damned Isles.
“This isn’t about pride,” Robbie said, annoyed in spite of his vow not to let Seton get to him. “I’m doing my job. Bruce needs the food and the truce. If you have a problem, take it up with the king.”
“I intend to.”
The two men faced off against each other, as had happened too many damned times to count. Finally, Seton stepped back—as had also happened too many times to count. Seton might have been born in England, but being raised in Scotland had given him some sense. He knew better than to challenge Robbie. His reputation had been well earned.
Seton shook his head, gazing at all the destruction around him. “Where the hell is the justice in this?”
The question hadn’t been directed at him, but he answered anyway. “An eye for an eye—that’s the only justice the English understand. Looking for anything else only makes you naive.”
“Better naive than dead.” Seton held Robbie’s gaze. “Or as good as dead.”
Robbie’s eyes narrowed.What the hell did he mean by that?
Before he could ask, Seton said, “We have what we need. We should go in case any more of Clifford’s men are about.”
It took Robbie a moment to realize what Seton meant, but when he looked back down the street at the soldiers his men were battling, he recognized what he hadn’t noticed before: the arms of some of Clifford’s household knights.
God’s bones, this was even better than he could have hoped for! A raid right in the heart of Clifford’s dominionanddefeating a force of his men?
He smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be leaving soon enough. The men are almost done.”
He instructed the two men loading the horses to finish up, helping to fasten the last sacks himself.
Seton had left to gather the rest of the men, when one of Robbie’s men came racing toward him. Despite the helm, Robbie recognized him instantly from his slight build. Malcolm Stewart, a distant kinsmen of his, might be only seventeen, and half the size of most of the men around him, but he fought with the heart of a lion.
“Captain,” he said anxiously. “We have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Sir Alexander has Clifford’s son.”
Robbie stilled. In the din of the battle taking place all around him, he thought he hadn’t heard him right. “What did you say?”
“Lord Fraser has Clifford’s son.”
