Page 1 of Christmas with a Highlander (Renegade Scots)
Northern Scotland
Revolt had its own scent. It was one of burning wood and flesh, fetid wounds and rancid sweat, and it lay heavy in the air. Robert the Bruce, Earl of Carrick, smelled it with every breath he took.
“Rebellion surrounds us,” Laird Niall Campbell said, pride ringing in his voice.
Bright-orange flames leaped into the sky from the destroyed guard towers that flanked the raised drawbridge to Andrew Moray’s castle, which Robert had been commanded to invade. Commanded. The word reverberated in his head, making his temples throb. He glanced to his friend who sat mounted beside him. Perspiration trickled down Robert’s back beneath his battle armor, and the moans of captured men reached his ears. Gut-hollowing guilt choked him. “We’re on the wrong side of the fight,” he said low, acknowledging out loud what they both knew.
Niall hitched a bushy red eyebrow as hope alighted in his eyes. “Dunnae tease me, Robbie,” he whispered, ever careful, though they were far enough away from Richard Og de Burgh that the King of England’s man would not be able to hear them. “Dunnae say such a thing unless ye are ready to disregard yer father’s dictate.”
“I’m ready,” Robert replied, meaning it. The desire to follow his heart and defy his father, who demanded blind obedience to a plan that no longer had worth, had been building for months. Now, in this moment, it felt as if it would cleave him in two, it beat so strongly within him.
The time is not yet ripe to act , his father kept claiming. It was, and it had to be, now. Today. He could not take up arms against his own countrymen. He could no longer submit to his father’s foolish order to remain aligned with King Edward in hope of gaining the Scottish throne, which had been stolen from their family by the usurper John Balliol.
“I’m a Scot, for Christ’s sake,” he muttered.
“Have nae I been reminding ye of that verra fact for nigh a year?” Niall’s hand lay on the hilt of his sword, revealing the danger of what they were about to do.
“Ye have, my friend, ye have,” Robert said, his mind swiftly turning. His father should now rightfully be King of Scots, but instead Robert sat here ordered by the ever-reaching King of England to destroy a stronghold in the land he loved, while his father seemed perfectly content to stay in England amid the comfort of the Bruces’ plush English holdings rather than venture back to the wilds of Scotland to rise against King Edward and risk losing everything. Robert could no longer deny the truth—his father lacked the iron will to do what was right.
War meant blood, strife, and possibly death, but subjugation to an English king was a different sort of death, one of the spirit. He could not live that way. “We’ll no longer be safe if we rise against Edward this day,” he said, accepting it, but wanting to give Niall, who was married and had a daughter, one last chance to change his mind and keep his submission to Edward intact.
Niall snorted. “I thrive on danger.”
God knew that was true enough. Niall had always been right there with Robert at the front of every battle, even on the day the Scot’s daughter had been born. Still…
“We will be hunted,” Robert added.
“Let them try to catch us,” Niall said with a smirk. “The devil English king will nae stop until he sits on the throne of Scotland. He will kill all who continue to rebel, and that includes our people. I’d rather be hunted than aligned with King Edward.”
“We will be outlaws, enemies of Edward.”
“Shut up, Robbie,” Niall growled, using the nickname only those close to him dared use. “Quit trying to dissuade me. Ye need me.”
“I do, but yer wife and yer daughter—”
“My wife will dance a jig when she hears we’ve taken up arms with our countrymen. Dunnae fash yerself. Tell me what ye want me to do.”
Robert contemplated that very question. He needed to be canny and proceed in the best way to protect his men. The wind blew from the west, sending billows of white smoke and heat toward them and de Burgh—the king’s closest friend and advisor—who was mounted on his steed, some thirty paces ahead of them. De Burgh looked away, but Robert faced the wind. He, too, would suffer every hardship he demanded his men to endure, and most of the men who had ridden here on his command were in the path of the smoke. It burned his throat, nose, and eyes, making breathing nearly impossible.
Death by fire would be an awful way to die.
Robert swiped a gloved hand across his watering eyes and focused on the falconry building that stood vulnerable behind them. It was on the wrong side of the moat—the land unprotected by the drawbridge. Counting, his gaze moved over the captured Scots lined up in front of the outbuilding by de Burgh’s men. Twenty of the Scot rebel Andrew Moray’s men would die this day on de Burgh’s command, unless the Moray warriors lowered their drawbridge and sent their laird, a leader of the Scottish uprising against Edward, out. Robert could not allow their deaths or Moray’s.
“Andrew Moray!” de Burgh bellowed toward the castle, which was separated from them by the moat alone. The powerful Irish noble’s accent sounded especially thick with anger. “Lower your drawbridge and surrender, or we’ll burn your men alive.”
Robert’s hands tightened reflexively on his reins as the captured men moaned their protest, only to be silenced by the swords upon their chests, no doubt pricking flesh in warning. There was no more time to ponder. He had to act. These men would not lower the drawbridge.
De Burgh was a fool to think he could ride here from England and command these Scots. They hated Edward for his attempt to put himself on a throne he had no right to occupy. “Ride to the head of my men,” he said to Niall, “and wait for my signal. If I can avoid bloodshed I will.”
“Och,” Niall said, “blood will be shed this day, but it will nae be Scot’s blood.”
“We can nae guarantee that, Niall,” Robert replied.
Niall nodded. “I ken,” he said, his shoulders sagging a bit. “Try to prevent a battle then,” he relented, “but I feel in my bones it’s imminent.”
Robert felt it, too, but he had a responsibility to do all he could to protect his vassals. “Go to the men,” he urged.
With a nod, Niall turned his horse from Robert and headed down the hill toward Robert’s vassals. Three hundred and fifty of his men who were loyal to him stood mixed with three hundred and fifty of the king’s men. Robert clicked his heels against his steed’s side and closed the distance between himself and de Burgh, who flicked his gaze at Robert and then yelled toward the castle, “You do not have long to decide!”
“De Burgh,” Robert growled, “ye can nae burn alive innocent men. They follow Moray’s orders.”
De Burgh jerked his head toward Robert. “Innocent?” he snarled. “These Scots rebel against Edward, their liege lord. They deserve their fate.”
“Edward is nae their liege lord,” Robert said through clenched teeth. “John Balliol was their king.” The words sliding from his tongue were bitter but true.
“They should be glad to see such a weak king as Balliol driven from the throne,” de Burgh retorted.
“Edward’s plan all along, I’m certain,” Robert snapped.
De Burgh flashed a smile. “Your people are the ones who appointed Edward to choose the next king of Scotland, all those years ago, if you recall. And he saw Balliol as the man with the best claim to the throne.”
“He saw Balliol’s weakness, and my grandfather’s strength, and that’s why Edward chose Balliol,” Robert growled.
“You sound as if you wish to rebel,” de Burgh said, smirking. “Where is your father, then?” De Burgh made a show of twisting around on his horse as if searching for Robert’s father before facing Robert once more. His lips curled back in a taunting smile. “Ah yes, your father does not have the fortitude to rule Scotland. If he did, he would have risen in rebellion with the people who would fight against Edward in Balliol’s name. Fall in line with me, Bruce,” de Burgh threatened. “You have no other choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” he spat out, finding the hilt of his sword and flicking his gaze toward Niall and Robert’s vassals some one hundred yards behind them. Robert looked to de Burgh once more and motioned toward the captured men. “Release them.”
“You insolent, foolish pup!” de Burgh growled, spittle flying from his mouth. “Stand down! Moray!” de Burgh roared. “I give you to the count of ten before I order my guards to fill the outbuilding with your men, and we can all watch them burn.”
A window at the front of the castle banged open, and a woman—Lady Moray, Robert realized—appeared. “My husband is nae here, so we kinnae send him out.”
De Burgh snorted. “She expects us to believe Moray did not come here to gather more men?”
“Perhaps he did nae,” Robert said, seeing a chance to prevent bloodshed. “Moray rebels by the renegade William Wallace’s side, and Wallace’s men keep to the woods. Perhaps Moray went there first.”
“I don’t believe it,” de Burgh snapped. To Lady Moray, he shouted, “Lower your bridge. I will see for myself if you speak the truth.”
“Nay, ye Irish scum! Ye simper and cater to the English king!” Lady Moray bellowed.
Robert’s fingers curled tighter around the cool iron of his sword. There would be war today, after all. Lady Moray had just shot an arrow of barbed words at a man who wore his pride like a cloak.
De Burgh’s face turned purple. “Burn them!” he cried, his voice trembling with rage. The two guards standing near the door rushed to open it, and as they did, de Burgh flicked his hand to a slight guard who held the torch. “Set the fire when the door is closed.”
Shouts erupted from the captured warriors, and Robert’s blood rushed through his veins and roared in his ears. His life was about to change forever. But his honor would remain intact. He would rise in rebellion, not for Balliol to be returned to the throne as king, but for the people of Scotland to keep their freedom. He could worry of nothing else now.
The terrified shouts of Moray’s men as they were locked in the falconry pierced the roar of blood in his ears. “Tell yer men to halt,” Robert yelled to de Burgh. “Do so now and take yer leave from Moray’s land, or I’ll kill ye.” His heart beat like a drum.
De Burgh bared his teeth. “You have misplaced your loyalty, Bruce.”
Robert flicked his gaze past de Burgh, over the rocky ground that separated the two of them from the warriors in the distance, to Niall. He raised his right hand and swiveled it round, giving the signal to rebel.
Niall smiled, a flash of white against his sun-bronzed skin. He raised his own hand and returned the signal. They would live or die this day, but they would do it with honor.
Tension vibrated through every part of Robert’s body as he yelled, “To arms for Scotland!”
All at once, the hissing, scraping, sliding, and singing of seven hundred blades filled the air, and the clashing of steel sounded in the distance. A woman’s scream ripped through the noise, shocking Robert by how close it was. De Burgh swung his sword at Robert, but Robert parlayed the blow and unseated de Burgh with one move. With no time to waste, he turned his horse toward the outbuilding, and he gaped at the scene before him. The squire who held the torch was running from de Burgh’s guards and toward Robert. The young man suddenly swerved toward the moat and threw the torch toward it. The bright flame disappeared into the water, and Robert raced to save the man who would likely be killed for his actions.
Robert met the guards halfway to the squire, who was now running back toward him. He parried a blow from the left, then the right, and caught a glimpse of Niall riding fast toward him.
“Release the trapped men!” he yelled to the Campbell, but de Burgh’s warriors descended on his friend, now engaged in a battle for his life.
Behind Robert, the loud grating of the drawbridge being lowered stilled all motion for a moment. God’s teeth! Surely, Lady Moray was not lowering it in surrender. Within a breath, the thundering of hundreds of horses’ hooves against the wooden bridge set a buzz in the air that vibrated into Robert’s very bones.
When he glanced around for the squire, he saw nothing but English knights heading toward him. He raised his sword in defense of an oncoming hit, knocked the blade out of the knight’s hand, and nudged his mount out of the way of another Englishman. It turned him directly toward the bridge where Lady Moray herself came riding out, her red hair billowing behind her as she led her husband’s warriors in a charge. They appeared to number almost two hundred, not near enough that they could have withstood an attack from the combined forces of the Bruce men and the English garrison, but they had more than enough to overcome the English if the lady intended to join forces with Robert. But did she?
As she rode, she shouted, “Free our men. Free our men! Someone free our men!”
Robert swept his gaze back to the outbuilding, and the breath was snatched from his chest. The young squire had somehow managed to get to the outbuilding. Niall was there, as well, along with six more of Robert’s men. They held the English guards back, but one broke free and raised his sword to strike down the squire as he stepped toward the door and seemed to be opening it. Robert ripped his dagger from its sheath and flung it with all his might toward the knight. The dagger pierced the man’s hand as he was bringing his sword down and he dropped his weapon. The squire, who’d turned toward his attacker, eyes wide with fear, twisted back around to the door and slung it open. Moray’s men poured out, weaponless.
Robert unhooked his shield from his saddle, and then dismounted amid the chaos, his sword in one hand and his shield in the other. He raced toward the stumbling Moray men and the squire, parrying blows as he went. When he reached the boy, a call to fire at the lad and the Moray men went out from de Burgh. Cursing, Robert looked to his right to find that a line of knights had covered the distance from the scrimmage below to the castle, and they were lined up to shoot. Robert shoved the boy behind him, as a volley of arrows flew through the air. They clanked against his shield.
“Again!” de Burgh shouted, clearly not caring if he struck down his own men.
Robert moved to shield the boy once more, but the squire stepped out from behind Robert and ripped off his helmet. Long blond hair tumbled out over his—no, her —shoulders. Robert could do no more than stare in shock at de Burgh’s daughter, Elizabeth de Burgh. Her clear blue gaze met his for a brief moment.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” came de Burgh’s frantic call.
The chit’s eyes, bluer than any Robert had ever beheld, widened with what appeared to be shock. Had she thought her father may not save her?
She turned to Robert. “Thank you for your aid, my lord.” The words tumbled from her mouth in a rush, and then to Robert’s surprise, she dashed, as graceful as a deer fleeing a predator, past him and toward her father.
Robert stood dumbfounded for a moment at the young chit he’d seen at court but had never met. One of his men lunged toward her, and Robert shouted, “Leave her!”
She raced through the melee, surprisingly agile and quick, and she managed to reach her father unscathed. At once, she was snatched up by the hand she stretched toward her father and slung on the back of the destrier he had mounted once again.
Lady Moray and her husband’s warriors came into the fray of the battle that was now moving ever closer. English arrows flew toward them. She raised a hand as she raced forward, and Robert looked to the rampart of the castle, relieved to see four dozen or so bowmen. Within a breath, more arrows soared through the air, but this time toward the knights lined up to shoot at her. As she reached Robert, he said, “My lady, I would stand in defense of yer home if ye will allow me to.”
She arched her eyebrows over glittering gray eyes. “It’s about time a Bruce came to his senses,” she said with a nod. “I’ll fight alongside ye, for this day ye have saved many Moray lives.”
Robert glanced around at the already fallen men from both sides and made a decision. “De Burgh!” he bellowed, before any more casualties came to pass. “The Moray men fight with me. Stand down and leave, or be prepared to die.”
De Burgh twisted his mount toward Robert while calling an order to his men to hold, and Robert did the same to his and Lady Moray’s men. De Burgh was an astute man. He had to see he was outnumbered and that the best option would be to flee as Robert had graciously offered to allow.
“I name you traitor, Bruce, and I’ll inform King Edward of your treachery.”
“I can nae be a traitor to a man I do nae call king!” Robert reminded de Burgh. A roar of approval arose from his men and the Moray men alike.
A command to his men to depart was the answer from de Burgh, and the English garrison quickly complied, taking their mounts and turning to ride out. As Robert watched them leave, Elizabeth de Burgh twisted in the saddle, her unwavering gaze meeting his.
Beside him, Lady Moray spoke. “That girl forever has my debt. I pray the punishment for her deeds this day is not too grave.”
Robert nodded. Elizabeth de Burgh had mettle, that much was certain. It would remain to be seen if it was beaten out of her after today.
“What will ye do now?” Lady Moray asked.
Robert thought briefly of his father ensconced in Durham at one of their English manors. He would need to send a messenger to give his father fair warning of what had occurred this day. What he did with that information was on his head.
“My lord?” Lady Moray said.
He caught the lady’s inquisitive gaze. “I’ll send word to my father of my actions—”
“Honorable actions,” she said, reaching out and squeezing his forearm.
He inclined his head in gratitude, certain his father would not feel the same. Swallowing a sudden swell of emotion for the rift he had placed between himself and his father this day, he said, “Then I’ll ride to Hugh Eglinton’s castle. I’ve received word that the nobility leading the rebellion have been given safe haven there to meet and plan, and amongst the party is also William Wallace.”
Lady Moray’s eyebrows arched. She bit her lip for a moment then spoke. “Ye ken many of those men fight in the name of Balliol. They fight for his return to the throne.”
“Aye,” Robert replied. “But Balliol abdicated and I have heard that the Comyns”—saying the name of his family’s bitter enemies, who years before had used their great power to put their cousin Balliol on the throne instead of Robert’s grandfather, always made Robert’s throat tighten—“are imprisoned by Edward. I go to fight for Scotland, as I did this day.”
She nodded. “I pray for ye that it will be enough to see ye well.”
“I’ll gladly take yer prayers,” he replied, sensing deep within that he would need them.
“I’ll send a messenger ahead of ye with word of yer deeds for me to my husband who is at Eglinton Castle,” she revealed with a secretive smile. “That way, ye are more likely to keep yer head when ye approach the Scots. Many think ye a traitor.”
“I know it well,” Robert said, “but I will face it and prove them wrong. Do nae risk yer man.”
“I owe ye,” she whispered fiercely. “Ye saved my men. I will pay my debt by hopefully saving yer life when ye approach Eglinton. Grant!” Lady Moray bellowed and within a breath a young Scottish warrior appeared. Lady Moray smiled at the young man mounted beside her. “Grant rides like the wind. He should reach the castle before yer large gathering of vassals.” Robert inclined his head at her words. To Grant, she said, “Ride to yer laird. Take word of Bruce’s actions here today, and tell my husband, Bruce is our friend.”
“I will, my lady,” the warrior said, before turning his horse and galloping away. They watched him in silence for a moment before Lady Moray spoke again. “Dunnae tarry, Bruce. Scotland needs yer fighting strength. Ride hard.”
“I vow it!” he swore, turned from Lady Moray, and gave the signal for his men to follow suit. Niall brought his horse beside Robert’s and together they led the men away from Moray’s castle. As they did, Robert felt Niall’s steady gaze upon him. “What is it?” Robert finally asked.
“Please tell me this means we dunnae ever have to go back to the English court and pretend to admire the English king nor like English food.”
Robert chuckled, some of the tension unknotting from his shoulders. “God willing. Niall, I will ride to Eglinton with my men to join the rebellion. Are ye certain ye wish to ride with me? What of yer clan, yer wife, yer daughter?”
“My clan is secure under my brother’s care in my absence. As for my wife and daughter, it is thanks to ye that my daughter is alive. Dunnae think I’ve ever forgotten, nor has Calissa, how ye saved our Brianna when those English knights captured her. She is safe at home with her mother now, and I will stay with ye and fight for our land and to free our people.”
“If ye ride with me, ye may ride to yer death,” Robert said, his tone grave.
“I’ve ridden next to ye since we were young and trained together at the Earl of Mar’s castle, Robbie. If I’m to ride to my death, there is nae anyone I’d rather be beside, but I think we ride to freedom. Let us see it together, aye?”
“Aye,” Robert agreed. There would be no changing Niall’s mind, and Robert both appreciated his friend’s loyalty and feared for him. But Niall’s decision was set, and there were no arguments left to be made, so Robert urged his steed into a gallop to which his men matched their pace.
They rode relentlessly through the remains of the day, over hard terrain, under the baking sun, and into the early evening hours. When he finally spotted Eglinton Castle in the distance, he ordered the party to halt and turned to Niall. “I’ll venture up alone,” he announced, determined to protect Niall should the other Scottish nobility greet them with swords and wish to fight, despite Lady Moray sending word. Many saw them as traitors, thanks to his father’s orders to continue obeying Edward even when the Scottish nobility started to rebel against his rule, and Robert was not convinced Lady Moray’s words would have much effect on those who distrusted him.
“The devil ye will,” Niall replied, his tone hard. “I’m nae going to linger back here with the men and let ye get all the glory. I’ll go with ye, thank ye. All those who dared to call us traitors will ken the part I played in striking against de Burgh and, therefore, the English king.”
Robert opened his mouth to argue and then promptly shut it. It would do no good. “Ye’re as stubborn as a goat,” he grumbled instead. “And I do nae have time to mince words with ye. Come along.”
Niall chuckled as they moved their horses down the path that wound up to the castle gates. As they rode, Niall said, “It’s heartening to see that ye have finally learned I’m the stronger of the two of us.”
“If ye think I’d ever believe that,” Robert teased, “ye must have hit yer head.”
“Name yerself,” a guard bellowed, interrupting their banter as they approached the gate.
“Robert the Bruce.”
“Laird Niall Campbell,” Niall added.
“The turncoat arrives,” the guard hissed.
It was as Robert had expected. He whipped his sword up to the man’s throat. “I’m nae a turncoat. My family did nae support Balliol, but that does nae mean I will nae fight for Scotland against Edward.”
“Come along, then,” the guard relented in a begrudging tone. “The others will decide if ye should keep yer head.”
“Everyone always wants my head,” Robert said lightheartedly, “yet it still sits upon my shoulders.”
Niall chuckled, and the guard glared at the two of them. He guided them up the stone steps, past more guards, and into the torchlit castle. Silence blanketed much of the estate at such a late hour, but muffled voices drifted from down a dark corridor. A flicker of light flamed at the end. The guard stopped and motioned toward it. “The leaders of the rebellion are in the great hall discussing strategy.”
Robert nodded, and he and Niall fell into step behind the guard once more. As they made their way down the corridor, the voices coming from the great hall grew louder and more distinct.