Neil, his eldest brother, was nearly twenty-four years Arthur’s senior, and in many ways like a father to him. Even though Arthur now towered over his older brother by nearly half a foot, he would always look up to him. If there was anyone responsible for who he was today, it was Neil. He’d picked Arthur up out of the mud as a boy more times than he could remember when his other brothers were trying to make a warrior of him. Neil was the one who’d encouraged Arthur to hone his skills, not to bury them. To be proud of the abilities that had made everyone else in his family uncomfortable.
He owed his brother more than he could ever repay. But he’d never stop trying.
MacLeod came forward to greet him, grasping his hand and forearm in the same manner that his brother had. “I’ve not had a chance to thank you for what you did,” he said, his expression strangely intense. “Without your intervention my wife—” He stopped. “I am in your debt.”
Arthur nodded. Two years before, right before Bruce had made his bid for the crown, Arthur had prevented MacLeod’s wife from being killed. He’d been in the right place at the right time, only recently “kicked out” of the guard.
“I hear congratulations are in order, Chief,” Arthur said using the war name given to him to protect his identity.
The stone-faced captain of the Highland Guard broke out into a rare smile. “Aye,” he said. “I have a daughter. Beatrix, named after her aunt.”
Neil laughed. “I don’t think he held her for a week—he was afraid of breaking her.”
Tor scowled at him, but didn’t argue.
The third man stepped forward. Shorter than the other two, he was still an impressive figure. Wide-shouldered, with the thick, heavy muscles of a warrior despite the recent illness that had taken its toll on his health, he wore a full suit of mail and a gold tabard emblazoned with the red rampant lion beneath his dark cloak. Even if the rough-cut features and dark pointed beard were not visible beneath his steel bascinet, Arthur would know him by the majestic aura that surrounded him.
He dropped to his knee and bowed his head before King Robert Bruce. “Sire,” he said.
The king acknowledged his fealty with a nod. “Rise, Sir Arthur.” He came forward to grasp his forearm with a shake. “So that I may thank you for the service you have done us at Inverurie. Without your information we wouldn’t have mounted an immediate counterattack. You were right. Buchan and his forces were ill-prepared and collapsed with barely a nudge.”
Arthur scanned the king’s face, seeing the gray pallor and lines of strain. MacLeod had surreptitiously come up beside the king, subtly giving him support, but Arthur was surprised to see the king walking at all. He suspected there were men waiting not far away to help carry him back to camp. “You are well, my lord?”
Bruce nodded. “Our victory against Comyn has been a far better cure than any tinctures the priests have cooked up. I am much improved.”
“The king insisted on thanking you himself,” MacLeod said, a note of censure in his tone.
But the king didn’t seem to mind. “Your brother and Chief are as protective as two old crones.”
MacLeod led the king to a low rock for him to sit on, and said unrepentantly, “It’s my job.”
The king looked as if he might argue, but realized the futility and turned to Arthur. “That is why we are here,” he said. “I have a new job for you.”
This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. “You wish for me to rejoin the Guard,” he finished.
There was an awkward pause.
The king frowned; obviously it wasn’t what he’d been about to say. “Nay, not yet. Your skills have proved too valuable working for the other side. But we’ve been made aware of a new opportunity.”
New opportunity
. He wasn’t returning to the Guard. If Arthur felt any disappointment at the king’s news, he didn’t admit it.
It was better if he stayed on his own. He’d never been comfortable in groups anyway. He liked the freedom of making his own decisions. Not having to explain himself or account for himself to anyone. As a knight in his brother Dugald’s household, he could pretty much come and go as he pleased.
As was the case for many families in Scotland, the Campbells had been split apart by the war. Arthur’s brothers Neil, Donald, and Duncan were for Bruce, but his brothers Dugald and Gillespie were aligned with the Earl of Ross and England.
The division in his family had made placing him in the enemy camp that much easier.
“What kind of opportunity?” he asked.
“To infiltrate the very heart of the enemy.”
Infiltrate. That meant getting close. Something Arthur tried to avoid. It was why he’d never attached himself to a noble as most knights did. “I work better alone, my lord.” On the outside. Where he could blend in and stay in the background. Where he could go unnoticed.
Neil, who knew him well, smiled. “I don’t think you’ll mind this time.”
Arthur’s gaze snapped to his brother’s. The satisfaction he read there made him realize what this meant.
“Lorn?” The single word fell with the force of a smith’s hammer.
Neil nodded, a smile of anticipation curling his mouth. “This is the chance we’ve been waiting for.”
MacLeod explained. “John of Lorn has put out the call to his barons and knights. Your brothers will answer. Go with them. Find out what the MacDougalls are planning, how many men they have, and who will join them. They’re getting messengers past our men and I want you to stop them. We want to keep them as isolated as possible until the truce expires. I have Hawk watching the seaways, but I need you on the land.”
It was land that Arthur knew well. Argyll was Campbell land. He’d been born at Innis Chonnel, a castle in the middle of Loch Awe, and had lived there until the MacDougalls had stolen it.
Arthur felt a rush of pure anticipation course through him. This was the moment he’d been waiting for for a long time. Fourteen years, to be exact. Since the moment John of Lorn had treacherously stabbed his father right before his eyes. Arthur hadn’t seen it coming. It was the only time his senses had failed him.
Even if Neil hadn’t asked it, even if Bruce hadn’t offered him lands and the promise of a rich bride to fight on his side, Arthur would have joined Bruce for the chance to destroy John of Lorn and the MacDougalls.
Blood for blood was the Highland way. He wouldn’t fail his brother the way he had his father.
Mistaking the source of his silence as objection, MacLeod continued. “With your knowledge of the terrain, there is no one better suited for the job. You’ve spent over two years establishing your false allegiance for just this type of mission. Lorn might not like having Campbells around, but with the feud ended by Edward and your brother Dugald reconciled to him some time ago, he has no reason to think you are anything other than what you seem.”
“Hell, Lorn’s uncle fights with us,” Bruce added, referring to Duncan MacDougall of Dunollie. “Divided families are something he knows well enough.”
“John of Lorn doesn’t know what you saw, brother,” Neil said quietly, referring to Arthur’s witnessing of their father’s death. “Do what you always do. Lie low and observe. For someone so big,” he said with a fond smile, recalling that it hadn’t always been that way, “you’re amazingly adept at going unnoticed. Stay out of Lorn’s way. And have care—he might be suspicious initially, so don’t turn your back on him.”
He knew that better than anyone. But Arthur didn’t need to be convinced. Any resistance he might have had to infiltrating the household of the enemy had vanished at the mention of Lorn.
“Well?” Bruce said.
Arthur met his gaze, a slow, deadly smile spreading across his face. “How soon can I leave?”
He’d see John of Lorn destroyed and enjoy every bloody moment of it.
Nothing was going to stand in his way.
Less than three weeks after the meeting with the king near the standing stone, Arthur Campbell was here. In the belly of the beast, the den of the lion, the lair of the devil: Dunstaffnage Castle, the formidable stronghold of Clan MacDougall.
Gathered in the Great Hall with the other knights and men-at-arms who’d answered the call, awaiting their turn before the dais, Arthur tried not to think about the importance of what was to come. If there was a time that John of Lorn would focus his attention on him, this would be it.
He scanned the room with his usual intensity, taking note of all the the potential ways in and out. Not that escape would be likely. If Lorn learned what he was about, Arthur would be hard pressed to make it out of there alive. But instinct was also habit—it was better to be prepared. For anything.
Taking in the details of the room, he had to admit he was impressed. The castle was one of the finest he’d ever seen. Built about eighty years ago, Dunstaffnage was strategically situated on a small promontory of land where the Firth of Lorn met the southern shore of Loch Etive, thus guarding a key western seaward approach into Scotland. Constructed on a base of rock, the massive lime-coated walls extended about fifty feet up from the ground, with round towers on three of the four corners. The largest of these towers, next to the Great Hall, served as the donjon, housing the lord’s private chambers.
The design and architecture of the castle reflected the power of the man who’d built it. Still part of Norway at the time it of its construction, its builder, Duncan, son of Dugald, son of the mighty Somerled, had been invested with the title of
ri Innse Gall
, King of the Isles. A title the MacDougalls still took to heart.
The castle did indeed befit a king. The Great Hall took up the entire first floor of the eastern range, spanning about one hundred feet by thirty feet. The wood-beamed ceilings had to be at least fifty feet at the highest point. Intricately carved wooden paneling fit for the nave of a church adorned the eastern entrance wall, while the others were plastered and decorated with colorful banners and fine tapestries.
A massive fireplace on the inner long wall of the castle provided heat, and two double lancet windows on the opposite outer wall allowed for an unusual amount of natural light. Trestle tables and benches lined the main floor of the room, and a dais had been erected at the end of the room opposite the entrance. In the middle of the massive wooden table that spanned its length was a large wooden throne.
Though Alexander MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, the chief and head of Clan MacDougall, still occupied that chair, it was the cold-hearted bastard seated to his right who wielded its power. Alexander MacDougall was an old man—at least seventy by Arthur’s reckoning; years ago, he’d delegated his authority to his eldest son and heir, John, Lord of Lorn.
This was the closest Arthur had been to the man who’d killed his father in years, and the intense hatred that gripped him surprised him. He wasn’t used to such fierce emotion, but his chest burned with it.
He’d been waiting so many years for this moment, he thought it might be anticlimactic. It wasn’t. If anything, he was surprised by how anxious he was to see it done. It would be easy—and damned tempting—to surprise him with a dirk in his back. But unlike his enemy, he would kill him face-to-face. On a battlefield.
And killing Lorn wasn’t part of his mission. Yet.
His enemy had aged, he realized. Gray now streaked his dark hair and the lines that marked his face had started to sag. Arthur had heard rumors of an illness and wondered if there might be some truth to them. But the eyes were the same. Cold and calculating. The eyes of a despot who would stop at nothing to win.
Afraid of what he might unconsciously reveal, or that MacDougall would somehow be able to sense the threat, Arthur forced his gaze away from the dais.
He had to be careful.
Damned
careful to give nothing away. If he was discovered, Arthur knew the best he could hope for was a quick death. The worst was a long one.
But he wasn’t overly concerned. There were at least a score of knights and five times that many men-at-arms who’d answered Lorn’s call. He wouldn’t be noticed. Neil was right; he was good at fading into the background and not drawing attention to himself.
Though he wished he could say the same for his brother. He winced as Dugald let out a loud bellow of laughter, cuffing his squire in the jaw with the back of his hand. Blood dripped from his lip.
Arthur felt a twinge of sympathy for the lad, having been on the bad side of his brother’s fist more times than he could count when he was a youth. But sympathy wouldn’t do the lad any good. Not if he wanted to be a warrior. It was part of the lad’s training, intended to toughen him up. Eventually he would learn to stop reacting. Not feeling would take longer.
“What lass is going to notice a whelp like you with me around?” Dugald laughed.
The squire blushed hotly, and Arthur felt even sorrier for him. The lad was going to be miserable until he learned to control his emotions. Dugald would hone in on that weakness until it was pounded out of him. Like their father, being a warrior—a fierce warrior—was all that was important to him. Except for the lasses.
Dugald might be an overbearing braggart at times, but it was not without cause. Though not quite as tall as Arthur, his brother was powerfully built and undeniably a formidable warrior. He was also reputed to be the most handsome of the six brothers and took to his role with relish.
“I didn’t think they’d look at me,” the squire said, his deep red face matching the color of his hair. “I just wondered if they’d be as fair as they are reputed to be.”
“Who?” Arthur said.
“St. Columba’s bones, little brother.” For a moment, Dugald looked as if he wanted to cuff Arthur, too. But Arthur wasn’t a lad anymore. He would fight back. Though he’d been careful to keep his skills hidden—initially as a means of self-preservation, and now to not have those skills used against his compatriots—he wondered if Dugald sensed that the balance of power had shifted between them. He pushed him, but only so far. “Where have you been living? In a cave with King Hood?” Dugald laughed even louder, drawing a few eyes in their direction. “Lorn’s daughters are reputed to be rare beauties—particularly the middle one, the fair Lady Mary.”