The Arrow

by Monica McCarty

  The castle had been partially destroyed by floods about a hundred years ago but rebuilt by King William the Lion. Less than ten years ago, the city had been fortified with stone walls, towers, and gates by Edward of England after he’d taken the city during Wallace’s rebellions.

  The wall was how she’d guessed that they’d reached their destination, as the party of riders drew up on the crest of the last hill. She’d never seen anything like it. The massive stone fortification that surrounded the city shimmered like golden alabaster in the dawn’s first light. Surrounded on three sides by a lade—the wet ditch was the town’s only previous defense—the east side butted up against the natural defense of the Tay. Seeing those daunting walls—and knowing that she would soon be imprisoned behind them—gave her a moment’s pause.

  Cate looked at the men who were sitting on their horses discussing something among themselves, paying her little mind, and glanced over her shoulder at the wide expanse of forest just beyond the next hill. If she were going to try to escape, this would be her last chance. But she couldn’t. Not with the opportunity for vengeance so close at hand.

  The weapon hidden under her cloak at her side bolstered her courage. The soldiers hadn’t searched her—probably figuring one weapon was unusual enough on a woman. She had to hope they didn’t conduct a more thorough search when they arrived. She did not deceive herself. Her chances at success or escape were not good, but they were even less without the element of surprise the dagger would give her.

  She knew she had to act quickly. No matter what he’d done, Cate would not allow Gregor to give himself up for her. Not if she could help it. She was counting on her father to force caution upon him. Even though Gregor thought she’d betrayed him, she did not doubt he would come charging through those gates as soon as he was able. As her “guardian,” he would feel responsible for her. But Robert the Bruce wouldn’t allow one of his most important warriors to give himself up to the English for a woman. Bruce might have let her down as a father, but she could not deny that some of those same qualities made him a good king. Ruthless decisions—not emotional ones—were what had placed the crown upon his head, and thus far had kept it there.

  Unless she was mistaken about the identity of the army of men taking position on the far side of the river, Gregor wouldn’t be able to avoid him. From the looks of it—and what seemed to be concerning the soldiers who’d taken her—Robert the Bruce had arrived at Perth to begin his siege. Along with Berwick, Roxburgh, Edinburgh, and Stirling, Perth—or St. John’s town, as it was also known—was one of the key castles left for Bruce to take back from the English. What must be especially galling to Bruce was that Perth Castle—like Stirling Castle—was being held by a Scotsman, Sir William Oliphant, and defended by a garrison comprised of mostly Scots.

  The knowledge that her father was so close brought an unexpected pang to her chest. Even after all these years, she wanted to know one thing: why. Why had he left her like that? Was it because of his new bride? He’d married his first wife, Isabel of Mar, shortly after he’d left. Had she demanded he stop seeing the woman who’d fathered one of his “bastards,” or had he merely tired of his Cate and her mother?

  She turned away from the army of men beyond the gates. She would never know; as she wasn’t marrying Gregor, she no longer had to face the prospect of seeing her father again. It had been so long, he probably wouldn’t even have recognized her. She wondered if she would have recognized him. The handsome young earl was now a man of nearly two score and a king. Yet somehow she knew she would know him. He’d loomed so large in her past. But that was where he belonged: in her past. Along with Gregor. Her mouth tightened with residual anger and bitterness that not even her exhaustion could erase.

  One of the men, a young soldier by the name of Gibbon, who had taken pity on her over the last day and a half of their journey, handed her a skin of water. Cate was a competent rider, but to prevent Gregor from catching up to them they had ridden over forty miles with only brief stops along the way. She could barely sit on her horse, she was so tired.

  “How will we get in?” she asked, noting the closed gates. “I assume those are the king’s men on the other side of river opposite the drawbridge?”

  “Aye, King Hood has begun his siege earlier than we expected. We won’t be able to use the red gate near the bridge or we’ll run the risk of encountering some of his men. But he hasn’t had a chance to position his men around the city yet, so we can use one of the other gates. They’ll admit us when they see the banner.”

  The men rode under De Bohun’s arms. She guessed they were not knights but ordinary men-at-arms, although from what she’d caught of their conversation, it was obvious that young Fitzwarren hoped to be made a knight as reward for capturing one of Bruce’s Phantoms.

  “We are fortunate that we arrived when we did,” Gibbon said with a kind smile. “Or we might have had a more difficult time making it back inside.”

  “I would think inside would be the last place you should want to go with a siege about to start.”

  He laughed. “Normally you would be right. But this won’t last long. Look at that wall. King Hood doesn’t have the siege engines to bring it down, and we are ready for his trickery. The city has fresh water and stores enough for six months. But it won’t take nearly that long. Mark my words, King Hood will pack his carts and slink back into his foxhole soon enough.”

  Cate couldn’t have realized how prophetic his words would prove to be.

  Two weeks after riding into camp, Gregor stood before the King of Scotland looking very unlike one of the most elite warriors in Scotland—and even less like the most handsome. He’d slept little in the days since Cate had been taken, and every moment that he was awake he was tormented by thoughts of what was happening to her. He looked as horrible and on edge as he felt.

  He was done being patient—no matter who was asking it of him. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  The king eyed him from behind the long table that had been set up in his pavilion. The tent was sparsely decorated for a royal lodging—even a temporary one—but Bruce was more warrior than king. It was one of the things Gregor and his fellow Guardsmen most admired about him. The tent itself was a colorful scarlet and gold, reflecting the royal arms, but inside they stood on rushes, not expensive carpets from the East, and in addition to the table there was only a chair, a bench, a bed, and a painted wooden screen for privacy where the king might wash and change. After living on the run for so many years, the king had learned to travel light, unlike his English counterparts, who seemed to campaign with endless carts carrying furnishings and the royal plate.

  “I understand what you are going through better than anyone, Arrow. Do you not think I would like to ride into England and free my wife and daughter if I could? But I will not let you go like a lamb to the slaughter. I need you too much. Nor will I risk the others.”

  Gregor tried to bite back his frustration, but the king’s refusal to let him attempt a rescue—or exchange himself for Cate—was driving him past the edge of reason. He’d never felt sorry for MacRuairi before, but the past week had given him an inkling of what the famed mercenary pirate–turned–loyal Guardsman must have gone through for two years. God forbid Cate was being kept in a cage like MacRuairi’s now wife had been for part of her imprisonment. Isabella MacDuff was free (as was the king’s young sister Mary), but Bruce’s queen and heir were still being held in English convents. Gregor also understood the king’s fear of Gregor breaking under English torture, but Angel—Helen MacKay—could give him something to ensure that didn’t happen. Monkshood or another poisonous plant would ensure the safety of the others, if it came to that.

  Gregor turned back to the king and tried to use what rationality he had left to argue his point. “But Cate isn’t in England—she’s here in Scotland, in one of our castles. And they weren’t threatening to kill your wife and daughter.” His voice broke, and he looked at the king with hot, dry eyes behind a face that
had to be as haggard-looking as he felt. “They said they would kill her by the end of the week if I don’t surrender. I won’t let that happen.”

  Over the past two weeks, Gregor had exchanged a series of missives with Sir William Oliphant, the former Scot hero who was now keeper of the castle for the English and governor of Perth. But after Cate had been brought out on the battlements yesterday to prove that she was alive and in good health, Gregor had nothing more with which to delay. The sight of her—even from a distance—had nearly brought him to his knees with relief, but it had also instilled a new urgency in him.

  “I won’t ask you to. I’m only asking that you be patient for a few more days. That is all we will need to be inside the castle, if my plan goes as I hope. Nor do I believe Oliphant will sanction the killing of a lass—no matter what the English would like.”

  Given how unsuccessful their limited siege weaponry had been so far against the city walls, Gregor thought the king optimistic about their chances—to say the least. But they’d succeeded against far worse odds too many times for him to completely dismiss the king’s words. Nor would he wager Cate’s life on Sir William’s honor as a knight. “How do you intend to do that?”

  Perhaps sensing Gregor’s doubt, the king leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms smugly. “By retreating.”

  Cate could hear the cheering of the soldiers the moment she exited the tower.

  Sir William Oliphant, the former Scottish commander who’d fought alongside Wallace, and the man now tasked with holding the city of Perth for the English king, walked beside her on the parapet. When he reached the place where he’d brought her the day before—to prove her good health to Gregor—he stopped and let her see for herself why the men were celebrating.

  She was no less stunned than when he’d come to her tower room a few moments ago and told her that Bruce and his army were on the move. “They are giving up?”

  Sir William nodded. “It appears so. We will follow them, of course, to make sure this is not another of Bruce’s tricks. But with what little progress Bruce has made since he and his army arrived, I’m not surprised. He’ll not want to waste the time and provisions it will take to starve us out. He’ll find an easier target—though not one that is as important.”

  In the two weeks of her captivity, Cate had grown to admire the gruff old warrior—as well as feel sorry for him. He was a former Scottish patriot who now found himself through circumstance, family allegiances, and vows of fealty in the unfortunate position of fighting against his countrymen.

  Like many early patriots, Sir William Oliphant had been taken prisoner by the English after the disastrous battle of Dunbar and eventually released. Also like many of his fellow patriots, he’d broken his promise to Edward of England and “rebelled” again to join Wallace in his uprisings.

  Sir William had earned hero status among the Scots when he’d held Stirling Castle with only a few dozen men against Edward of England and the might of his infamous siege engines—War Wolf, the Ram, and the Vicar—for over three months. Ironically, as the old warrior had pointed out to her, it was Bruce who’d been fighting alongside the English at that time.

  King Edward repaid Sir William’s broken promise with one of his own, when Sir William surrendered Stirling under favorable terms only to see himself stripped naked, paraded around with his men for the amusement of the English, and then imprisoned in the Tower of London for four years. Released under mainprise with the promise to fight for the new King Edward II, he’d been given command of Perth earlier this year, after the king’s favorite, Piers Gaveston, the Earl of Cornwall, had returned to England only to be executed shortly thereafter.

  With no love of Bruce, who Sir William viewed at times with grudging admiration for what he’d achieved and at others as little better than a usurping murderer (first for taking the crown from the ineffectual but anointed King John of Scotland, and then for killing the king’s kinsman—and probable heir to the crown—John “The Red” Comyn before the high altar of Greyfriars), Sir William found himself fighting alongside his former English enemies.

  But it was clear the old warrior—probably ten years her father’s senior—resented the English “nursemaids,” as he called them, from De Bohun, who’d been sent to watch over him and ensure he was not tempted to switch sides. The Fitzwarrens—father and son—in particular, he could not abide.

  In that they were of one mind. Cate had barely been able to hide her hatred of the man who’d raped and killed her mother the one time she’d been brought before him, shortly after arriving at the castle. Had “Sir” Reginald Fitzwarren not been armored and surrounded by a half-dozen men-at-arms, she might have been tempted to draw her dagger. She was tempted—more tempted than she should have been, given the circumstances—but she wasn’t going to prove Gregor right by doing something foolish. She would bide her time and wait for a better opportunity.

  But one had yet to arise, and she knew she was running out of time. The negotiations for her release had already dragged on longer than she’d anticipated.

  For that she had Sir William to thank. He, and not the Fitzwarrens—much to their fury—had taken charge of her imprisonment and the negotiations for her release. He’d also seen that she was given a small, sparsely furnished, but relatively comfortable chamber in the tower, and taken charge of her “interrogation.” A fact that she’d been glad of when she stumbled through an explanation of how she’d come to live with the MacGregors of Roro. Realizing she could hardly mention her connection to Lochmaben for fear Fitzwarren might recognize her—she already thought he’d looked at her too long that first meeting—she’d claimed to be the orphaned daughter of one of Gregor’s father’s guardsmen.

  On learning that she hadn’t left Roro since she’d arrived, and that Gregor rarely returned home—and when he did, it was alone—Sir William dismissed her as a possible source for any useful information about the Phantoms. Despite his kindness to her, the old warrior, like the majority of his sex, thought women of little importance and hardly likely to be confided in about something so important.

  Fitzwarren had been furious and mentioned the skills she’d demonstrated on being captured, arguing that she must have been trained by the Phantoms. Cate had vigorously denied it, truthfully claiming that John had been responsible for teaching her how to defend herself against cowardly Englishmen who thought raping women made them men.

  She’d held the captain’s eye a little too long, her words a bit too pointed, and Fitzwarren’s gaze had narrowed.

  Sir William had been amused both by her show of spirit toward the English captain and by the idea of a lass learning warfare. He made the young Fitzwarren seem foolish and incompetent when he tried to explain how he and his men had had a difficult time capturing her, and how “a wee lassie” had clobbered one of the men on the head with the hilt of her sword and nearly taken off the leg of another.

  Though Sir William was obviously busy with the defense of the city, he seemed to have taken a liking to her and ensured that she was fed, given suitable clothing (a gown), and allowed out once a day to walk with a guard around the yard. It was far more freedom than she would have been given if the Fitzwarrens had been charged with her keep, and it bothered her that she would eventually be forced to take advantage of it.

  Mistaking the source of her distress, Sir William took her hand in his big paws—he reminded her of a bear with his hefty frame and graying whiskers. “You have nothing to fear, lass. Your betrothed has not deserted you. Bruce might be in retreat, but MacGregor has promised to surrender himself on Saturday at dusk.”

  “Saturday?” she echoed. That was only three days away!

  He nodded. “I believe he has returned for a few days to Roro to put his estate in order.”

  Cate paled. “Do you mean to kill him then?”

  The old warrior’s expression hardened with distaste. Cate knew that he did not approve of using a woman to force a surrender—no matter how important the prisoner. “N
ot me, but I will not lie to you, lass. King Edward has been chomping at the bit to get hold of one of Bruce’s Phantoms, but once MacGregor gives him what he wants, Edward will not have a reason to keep him around—indeed, he’ll have many reasons not to.”

  Cate chilled, telling herself it would not come to that. But she knew she could not wait much longer. She must act before Saturday.

  Yet as she stood beside Sir William on the battlements and watched her father’s men prepare to leave, she also knew that something did not feel right. Robert the Bruce would not give up so easily. She would need to be ready for anything.

  Sir William was obviously pondering the same thing. “As glad as I am to see him go, I have the feeling this is not the last we will be seeing of Robert Bruce.”

  Twenty-four

  The wait was agonizing. Finally, two nights after they’d “given up” the siege and marched away from Perth, Gregor, most of the rest of the Highland Guard, Douglas and a handful of his men, and the king himself were on their way back to Perth.

  It was Bruce’s stubborn insistence on joining them—rather than wait nearby with a larger force for when they opened the gates—that had nearly caused them to abandon the plan altogether. Gregor thought Chief was going to burst a blood vessel in his temple, he’d been so furious. But the king would not be dissuaded, even by the fearsome Island chief. It was his plan, and he was going, Bruce had insisted. This was how legends were made, he’d added, ignoring Chief’s rejoinder that it was also how fools were killed and thrones lost.

  Not many men could get away with calling the King of Scotland a fool, but Tor MacLeod, the Chief of the Highland Guard, was one of them. Bruce had just laughed and told Chief that was why he was going along—to ensure that he wasn’t.

  Gregor took his turn along with the others in trying to talk sense into the king, but he would not be dissuaded. If they wanted a king who would be content to wait someplace where he could be “protected” while they fought for his crown for him, they could have Edward II. Bruce was a warrior, and he would lead his men into battle, even if it meant his cause died with him. God would protect him—and if not, the Highland Guard would. It was hard to argue with that logic, even if it was blasphemous.