Methven. Dal Righ. The deaths and capture of his friends. The separation from his wife. The storm. Maybe they weren’t God’s vengeance after all, but his test.
And the spider was his messenger.
He noticed the seafarer stirring a few feet away and called him over. “You were right,” he said, motioning above him.
It took Hawk a moment to realize what Bruce meant, but when he saw the web he grinned. “Ah, she did it. A good lesson in perseverance, wouldn’t you say?”
Bruce nodded thoughtfully. “I would indeed. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, and try again. Words to live by.”
And something he’d forgotten.
He didn’t know whether it was the spider or the dawn of a new day, but it didn’t matter. The black hopelessness of yesterday was behind him, and he felt reinvigorated for the fight ahead. No matter how many times Edward knocked him down, while there was breath in his body Robert Bruce would go on fighting.
King Hood or nay, he was the rightful king of Scotland and would take back his kingdom.
“You have a plan, sire?” Hawk asked, sensing the change in him.
Bruce nodded. “I do indeed.” He paused and gave the brash seafarer the kind of bold proclamation he would appreciate: “To win.”
Hawk grinned. “Now you sound like a Highlander.”
Bruce would bide his time. For the next few months, he would disappear into the mist and get lost among the hundreds of isles along the western seaboard, gathering his forces to try again. And again.
Until he succeeded.
Chapter One
Rathlin Sound, off the north coast of Ireland
_Candlemas, February 2, 1307
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Erik MacSorley never could resist a challenge, even an unspoken one. One glimpse of the fishing boat being pursued by the English galley and he knew tonight would be no different.
What he should do was ignore it and continue on his mission, slipping undetected past the English patrol ship on his way to Dunluce Castle to meet with the Irish mercenaries.
But what fun would there be in that?
After over four months of hiding and hopping from island to island with nothing more than a brief foray to the mainland to collect Bruce’s rents and the occasional reconnaissance mission, Erik and his men deserved a wee bit of excitement.
He’d been as good as a monk at Lent (except for the lasses, but Erik sure as hell hadn’t taken a vow of chastity when he joined Bruce’s Highland Guard), staying out of trouble and exercising unnatural restraint the few times he’d been called to action since the storm and their escape from Dunaverty. But with Devil’s Point practically in pissing distance, a high tide, and a strong wind at his back, it was too tempting an opportunity to let go by.
At nine and twenty, Erik had yet to meet a wind he could not harness, a man who could best him on or in the water, a boat he could not outmaneuver, or, he thought with a devilish grin, a woman who could resist him.
Tonight would be no different. The heavy mist made it a perfect night for a race, especially since he could navigate the treacherous coast of Antrim blind.
They’d just skirted around the northwest corner of Rathlin Island, on their way south to Dunluce Castle on the northern coast of Ireland, when they caught sight of the English patrol boat near Ballentoy Head. Ever since the English had taken Dunaverty Castle earlier this month and realized Bruce had fled Scotland, the enemy fleet had increased their patrols in the North Channel hunting the fugitive king.
But Erik didn’t like seeing a patrol boat this close to his destination. The best way to ensure the English didn’t interfere with his plans was to put them someplace they couldn’t give him any trouble. Besides, from the looks of it, the fishermen could use a little help.
English bastards. The treacherous murder of MacLeod’s clansmen was still fresh in his mind. And they calledhima pirate.
He gave the order to raise the sail.
