Robert "Raider" Boyd and his partner, Alex "Dragon" Seton, had returned recently from a successful mission in the southwest, with Sir James Douglas and Sir Edward Bruce, the king's sole remaining brother. King Robert had lost three brothers in one year--two at the hands of MacDowell, the man they'd sent scurrying from Galloway. Seton, too, had lost a brother.
"Have Raider and Dragon finally figured out they are fighting on the same side?" Arthur asked. The ill-fated pairing between Seton, an English knight, and Boyd, the man who hated all things English, had been one of the biggest hurdles in the early days of the Guard.
"It's gotten worse." MacSorley frowned, so Arthur knew it had to be serious. "Dragon has changed since the death of his brother. He's angrier, and most of that anger is directed at Raider." The smile returned to his face. "But there is some good news. Guess who they brought back with them, captured near Caerlaverock Castle in Galloway?"
"Who?" Arthur asked.
"My old companion, Sir Thomas Randolph."
Arthur swore, not hiding his surprise. "What did the king do?"
The news that his young nephew had gone over to the English the year before had been a bitter blow to the king who was attempting to regain his kingdom. Switching sides was regrettably all too common--King Robert had done it himself many times in the early years of the war--but Randolph's defection had come at a particularly difficult time for the king. At the very lowest point in his struggle.
MacSorley shook his head in disgust. "He forgave him. Too easily, in my opinion. Especially after the pup had the nerve to criticize his uncle for not fighting like a knight but like a pirate."
"Apparently Hawk failed to make an impression on him," MacRuairi said dryly.
"Perhaps so," MacSorley said. "But I'll get another chance. The king has vowed to send him to me again for training."
Arthur lifted a brow. "Why do I have a feeling the young knight will have his punishment after all?"
MacSorley shrugged not so innocently. "I'll make a Highlander out of the lad yet." He gave Arthur an amused look. "I hope you haven't forgotten,SirArthur. You're looking very fine in your knight's garb."
The jest hit a little too close to the truth. "Sod off, Hawk. Care for a demonstration?"
MacSorley chuckled. "Perhaps another time. My wife would have my bollocks if the messenger comes and I am not there. And you should get back to Duntrune Castle before they discover you're gone."
They'd already said their farewells when Arthur remembered. "Here," he said, taking out the map that he'd finished a few days ago. "It's for the king."
MacSorley held it up to get a better look at it in the moonlight. "Damn, this is good. The king will be pleased. He'll need it for the march west. I'll send a messenger right away."
Arthur nodded. "And I'll send word as soon as I have something."
"Airson an Leomhann," MacSorley said.
For the Lion. The symbol of Scotland's kingship and the battle cry of the Highland Guard.
Arthur repeated the words and slid into the shadows, not knowing when or if he would see them again. In war, nothing was certain.
Arthur was in place less than twenty-four hours later. From his position behind a grassy knoll to the east of the priory, he had a clear vantage of the approaches to both the cross-shaped stone church and the square cloister that housed the monks to the south.
Established by Duncan MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, about seventy-five years earlier, Ardchattan Priory was one of only three Valliscaulian monasteries in Scotland. He didn't know much about the rare order of monks, except that they reputedly followed a strict code.
Just six miles to the east of Dunstaffnage on the north side of Loch Etive, Ardchattan was the perfect place from which to route messages--especially since the prior was a MacDougall. It was one of the first places he'd focused on upon arriving a month earlier. But although he'd kept it under surveillance for a few days, except for a couple of women from the village, the monks had very few visitors.
Now, with the trap set, all he had to do was wait and he would finally have some answers. Answers that would put him that much closer to fulfilling his mission for King Robert and seeing John of Lorn pay for what he'd done to his father.
Fourteen years was a long time, but he still remembered it as if it were yesterday. At twelve, he'd been desperate to impress the man who seemed like a king to him.
He could still remember the way the sun had caught his father's mail in a halo of silvery light as Cailean Mor, the Great Colin, gathered his guardsmen in thebarmkinof Innis Chonnel Castle, readying for battle.
He'd looked down at the son who most of the time he tried to ignore. "He's too small; he'll only get himself killed."
Arthur started to say something in his own defense, but Neil cut him off with a glance. "Let him come, Father--he's old enough."
Arthur felt his father's gaze fall on him and tried not to shuffle under the weight of his scrutiny, but in all of his twelve years he'd never felt so lacking. Small for his size. Skinny. Weak. And on top of it, unnatural.
I'm not a freak. But in his father's eyes, that's what he saw.
