“Marshal Gordon is correct.”
Bran stared at Aiden MacCurran with a raised eyebrow. Support from an unlikely quarter.
“The longbow is a weapon to be feared,” said the clan chief. “In the right hands, it could cripple our defenses. I know this because I have several longbow archers among my men.” Aiden signaled to one of his men, who jogged forward and placed a five-foot bow in his hand. “It takes skill to draw a weapon of this size, but once mastered a longbow can send an arrow clear over the castle wall at five hundred paces. Or it can pierce and kill a man hiding behind a shield... or a wooden door.”
One of his men held up his targe, and Aiden launched an arrow at it. The arrowhead drove deeply into the leather-bound wood, ending its journey halfway through the wooden plank.
Stewart and Dougal stared in disbelief.
“But that is not the only argument in favor of Marshal Gordon’s plan,” Aiden said. “The English encampment lies at the bottom of a great slate bowl, with rock on all sides. Their position is well hidden, and the rocks provide a measure of protection, but they also trap the Englishmen. If we can approach unnoticed and surround them, their greater numbers will not impede us.”
Bran sat back in his chair.
Exactly.
Stewart’s eyes narrowed. “So you support a preemptive strike? Even though we have no clear indication that the English are planning an attack on Clackmannan?”
Wulf, who had been silent throughout the discussion, stepped away from the wall. “Englishmen gathering in strength a stone’s throw from the manor giving respite to our queen must be seen as an act of aggression. She is soon to give birth to a new king of Scotland. We can tolerate no risk.”
“Slaying two hundred Englishmen will start a war,” Stewart said pointedly.
“The war began when they killed two guards tasked with protecting our queen,” Bran said. “We were not the first to draw blood.”
Stewart shook his head. “You are convinced that King Edward has a hand in this affair,” he said. “But I do not agree.”
“Whether he is or is not matters naught,” Bran said. “We cannot allow a band of brigands, be they English or Scottish or Norse, to threaten the queen.”
Around the table, heads nodded.
“We will give them opportunity to surrender, should that be their choice,” Bran added. “I have no interest in slaying men who do not pose a threat.”
Stewart eyed him across the table.
“Fine,” he said. “But success or failure, Gordon, the responsibility for this decision rests with you.”
His pronouncement lay heavily on Bran’s shoulders. Was he mad to lead these men into battle when the royal steward contested his decision? He was no seasoned warrior—he was a thief. While he was confident his reasoning was sound, he lacked the benefit of experience to guide his hand. And although it was reassuring to have the MacCurrans stand behind him, they had only recently regained their reputation. Wild Highlanders who had once carried a price on their heads were perhaps not the best judge of character.
But he was committed now.
Bran stood up.
“Let us prepare. We march north within the hour.”
***
Although it was risky during daylight hours, Caitrina took advantage of the somber mood that had settled over the manor and slipped into Bran’s room.
He stood beside the bed, clad only in his braies, staring at the clothing laid out before him. When the door opened, he glanced up. “You should not be here.”
Caitrina drew up her courage, faced him square, and spoke quickly. “I know I played you false by reaching out to the MacCurrans. My regrets are legion, believe me, but I do not wish our last words before a battle to be bitter ones.”
“I cannot condone your actions—”
“Nor would I expect you to,” she said.
“But in the end,” he said slowly, “I acknowledge that you did the right thing.”
She blinked. “You do?”
