Gordon laughed, and for the first time since Magnus arrived at Dunstaffnage for the wedding, the knot of tension twisting in his gut dissipated. He’d already lost Helen; he’d be damned if he lost his friend, too.
They walked back to camp to join the others, reviewing the details of the daring plan to rescue the king’s proud, headstrong, and at times reckless brother. Edward Bruce was not a favorite among the Highland Guard, but he was the king’s trusted lieutenant in the troublesome south and, significantly, his sole remaining brother. Edward’s death or capture would be a personal blow to a king who’d already suffered too many since the war began: three brothers executed in less than a year; a wife, two sisters, and a daughter imprisoned in England—one of those sisters in a cage.
If they had to get through fifteen hundred Englishmen to save Edward Bruce’s damnable hide, they would do so.Airson an Leòmhann. For the Lion. The symbol of Scotland’s kingship and the battle cry of the Highland Guard.
For the past two days, the eleven members of the Highland Guard had worked together with one purpose in mind: reaching Edward in time to avert disaster. They’d sailed as far south as Ayr, then headed east on horseback into the wild and untamed forests and hills of Galloway.
Although the war in the north had been won, the war in the south waged on. The English controlled the borders, with large garrisons occupying all the major castles, and in Galloway—the ancient Celtic province in the isolated southwest of Scotland—pockets of rebellion flared by those loyal to the exiled King John Balliol and his kinsman, the powerful clan chief Dugald MacDowell.
Operating from his headquarters in the vast and impenetrable forests, Edward Bruce had spent most of the last six months putting down those rebellions with a vengeance, especially toward the MacDowells, who were responsible for the deaths of two of the Bruce brothers in the disastrous landing at Loch Ryan the year before.
Young James Douglas, dispossessed by the English of his lands in nearby Douglasdale, had made a name for himself in Edward Bruce’s army, his black hair and fearsome reputation earning him the epitaph of the “Black Douglas.”
Most of the members of the Highland Guard had spent some time in Galloway over the past six months with Edward Bruce—especially Boyd, Seton, MacLean, and Lamont, who had ties to the area. Magnus himself had left the area only a few days ago to attend the wedding. But this was the first time the entire Guard had been called into Edward’s service.
The situation warranted it. According to the messenger who’d arrived from Douglas, Edward Bruce had received word that his nemesis Dugald MacDowell had returned to Galloway from exile in England. He’d gone after him with a small force while Douglas was on a raid.
When Douglas returned and discovered Edward gone, he’d followed him, only to to find fifteen hundred Englishmen blocking his way. Edward had been lured from the forest into a trap and had been forced to take refuge at Threave Castle, which he’d wrested from the English only a few months before.
The ancient stronghold of the Lords of Galloway, most recently held by Dugald MacDowell, was located on an islet in the middle of the River Dee, connected to the grassy marshland by a rocky causeway. The castle should have been highly defensible. But like William Wallace before him, Bruce’s strategy was to scorch the earth behind him, leaving nothing for his enemy to use, including destroying castles and befouling the wells. That meant Edward Bruce was defending himself from a burned-out shell of rock with no fresh water.
The English army, according to Arthur Campbell, the Highland Guard’s vaunted scout, was laying siege on the eastern banks of the river. But without fresh water, the siege would not last long. An assault by sea would make it even shorter.
Two hours before dawn, Magnus and the rest of the Highland Guard gathered with Douglas’s men around MacLeod. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“Aye,” the men replied.
MacLeod nodded. “Then let’s give the bards something to sing about.”
They left the cover of the forest, riding hard for the castle. Timing was everything. They needed to be in position at the flank of the English army right as dawn was breaking. While Edward Bruce and his army distracted the enemy from the front, the Highland Guard and the rest of Douglas’s men would mount a surprise attack from behind.
Eoin MacLean, or Striker as he was called, was the master of the bold strategies and daring tactics for which the Highland Guard had become known. But this plan was bold and daring even for him.
MacLean’s plan was calculated for maximum impact, taking advantage of the light and mist to mount a quick, fierce surprise attack to unsettle the enemy, to take away the advantage of superior numbers, weaponry, and armor, and most of all, instill fear in the enemy heart. It had worked before—albeit never with so few against so many.
In the cloak of heavy mist that blanketed the valley of the River Dee, the black-helmed, dark-cloaked members of the Highland Guard would appear out of the misty dawn suddenly and undetected, their numbers shrouded, like the phantom band of marauders some proclaimed them to be. In the ensuing chaos and panic, they hoped to create enough of a break for Edward and his men to escape.
They followed the river south for about an hour before reaching a small woodland in a bend on the northern bank just opposite the island. From here, MacSorley and MacRuairi would make use of their water skills by swimming across the murky black waters of the river to sneak into Edward Bruce’s camp and prepare them for the plan. Assuming they could sneak past Edward’s guards first.
“Wait for the signal,” MacLeod said.
“Aye, Chief,” MacSorley said, and then turned to Gregor MacGregor with a grin. “Just make sure you don’t miss.” The famed archer would light a fiery arrow to send over the causeway when it was clear.
“I’ll aim for your head,” MacGregor said. “That’s a big target.”
MacSorley smiled. “If you want a big target, aim for my cock.”
The men laughed.
“This smells like shite,” MacRuairi said, smearing the black seal grease over his naked skin. They’d bundled their armor and weapons in a pack to keep them dry when they crossed the river. The seal grease would not only help them blend into the darkness, it protected them from the cold December waters.
“You’ll be grateful for it in a few minutes.” MacSorley grinned. “The water will freeze your bollocks off.”
“Which shouldn’t be a problem for you anymore,” MacRuairi said dryly.
“Damn, cousin, was that a joke?” MacSorley shook his head. “It does snow in hell.”
MacRuairi muttered something under his breath as he finished applying the grease.
