Leaving about a hundred men in the forest nearby—the bulk of the army had remained at Dundee Castle, which was taken by Bruce the previous winter, to maintain the illusion of a retreat and not alert the English spies—the small party of warriors approached the north end of the city where the castle was located. There were several gates into the city, including the Red Brig Port, Turret Brig Port, Southgate Port, and Spey Port, but their plan was to cross the lade near the castle, scale the wall, and open the small gate at Curfew Row to admit the rest of the army and take the garrison by surprise. Once the castle fell, the city would be theirs.
It was well after midnight when the score of warriors approached the icy black waters of the lade, carrying only the rope ladders fashioned by Douglas that they’d used for the first time at Berwick and very light weaponry. Not coincidentally, it was a moonless night and the skies were dark as pitch. With the soot and seal grease blackening their faces, the men were hard-pressed to recognize the man standing next to them. For the soldiers standing watch on the rampart they would be nearly impossible to see. Hearing them was unlikely, as even from outside the wall the sounds of revelry were unmistakable. Apparently, the garrison and townsfolk were celebrating their victory. A bit prematurely—not that Gregor was going to complain, particularly if it meant the soldiers were not keeping good watch.
Bruce was the first man in the water, much to the shock of a French knight who’d recently joined Douglas’s retinue and was unused to seeing a king lead his men from the front. Chief followed closely, with Gregor immediately behind him.
Murky, and cold enough to freeze your bollocks off, the lade was about twenty yards of oozy, smelly, slimy hell. At times the water was high enough to nearly reach their mouths, and, given the pungent scents coming from it, Gregor was glad it didn’t.
When they finally reached the far side of the lade, they had to crawl on their bellies up a bank of mud and rock at the foot of the wall. Once the others had made it across, the two Island chieftain cousins, MacSorley and MacRuairi, began tossing the grappling hooks of the rope ladders.
No one spoke. They didn’t need to. They all knew their roles. Any necessary communication was done by hand signals.
Chief had won one small victory before they’d left. Bruce would not be the first man up the ladder; MacRuairi would go ahead of him. Gregor would be the first man up the second ladder to take his position along the wall.
Slowly—silently—no more than two men on the ladder at one time, they started to climb. MacRuairi was about five feet from the top, with the king a few steps behind him, when disaster struck. The rope on one side of their ladder snapped near the top. Both men barely managed to grab hold of the remaining side of rope as the boards under their feet dropped sideways, and they went careening into the wall—which was a hell of a lot better than landing on the rocky bank about twenty feet below.
The clatter of wood and metal against stone was enough to attract the attention of even the most lax of guards. From below, Chief whispered, “Arrow, on your right.”
Over halfway up the second ladder, Gregor didn’t have time to think. A soldier on one of the turrets had stopped to investigate. He was about twenty yards away, looking in their direction—a faint blur of a target in the darkness. Wedged against the wall with only his feet for balance, Gregor let go his grip on the ladder, notched an arrow, and sent it careening into the darkness in seconds. The shot was more prayerful than realistic, and given that one wrong move would have him careening backward off the ladder, one of the most difficult he’d ever attempted. But there was no way in hell he was going to let this attack fail. Before the soldier could shout out a warning to the rest of the watch, he fell harmlessly to the ground.
MacRuairi had managed to pull himself to the top. The king was still hanging from the broken ladder with the men in position below to catch him if necessary. But Bruce didn’t fall. Like MacRuairi, he climbed the broken ladder up and over the wall. Thanks to Gregor, disaster had been averted.
With Chief cursing the whole time, in the kind of valiant act that earned Bruce the heart of the people and the admiration of his men, the king led the small party of warriors in a surprise attack. Though Gregor wanted nothing more than to go in search of Cate, he held his position at the wall overlooking the bailey to ensure that no one was able to alert the rest of the garrison before the castle could be taken and the gate opened.
Gregor didn’t have to notch another arrow. The garrison was woefully unprepared, and Bruce’s men met little resistance. Within the space of a half-hour the castle and city were theirs, and Robert the Bruce had added one more improbable feat in an improbable reign that was quickly becoming legend.
But Gregor wasn’t ready to celebrate yet. Unable to wait a moment longer, he turned to Campbell. “I’m going to find Cate.”
“I’ll go with you.”
He nodded. “We’ll check the guard towers first.”
They had just started down the stairs of the rampart when Gregor heard a shout. Recognizing the voice as Bruce’s, he turned to the bailey below. In one glance, Gregor took in the situation and cursed. Bloody hell, one of the English soldiers was using a woman as a shield, and Bruce—who never could forget his knightly roots—was going to go to her damned rescue and get himself killed!
Not hesitating, Gregor notched his arrow, raised his bow into position, and drew back his hand. It wasn’t a difficult shot. The bailey was lit with torches and the soldier was only about twenty yards away. As soon as the woman got out of the way …
His gaze flickered back to the woman, and his stomach dropped. Bloody hell. It wasn’t just any woman; it was Cate.
Cate recognized the man coming toward them an instant before Fitzwarren did. Most of his face was hidden behind a helm, and his skin seemed to have been darkened with something, but the arrogant swagger and aura of confidence and authority were the same as they’d been the last time she’d seen the handsome young Earl of Carrick ambling away from their small cottage fifteen years ago.
For fifteen years she thought she’d hated him. But all it took was one look—one moment when their eyes met—for her to realize that no matter what her father had done, she would not be the instrument used to destroy him. Instinctively she knew that was exactly what Fitzwarren would try to do.
Frustration and rage tangled inside her. By all that was holy, it never should have come to this. She’d been ready. All day she’d been waiting in her chamber for someone to come so she could put her plan into motion. She would have had plenty of time to find Fitzwarren and exact her vengeance before attempting to escape the city.
She’d even had a backup plan. If escape proved impossible, she’d intended to take sanctuary in a church. Sir William’s honor as a knight would not let him violate it—as the Earl of Ross had done when taking Bruce’s queen, sister, daughter, and the Countess of Buchan—or trick Gregor into surrendering without having her as leverage.
But her anxious pacing all day had been for naught. For the first time since her imprisonment, no one had come to take her on her walk or even to bring her food. From the sounds of revelry outside, they were too busy celebrating.
Of all the days to be forgotten! She’d banged her fists on the door, cried out, and pleaded for someone to come for her until her voice was hoarse. She’d almost given up hope when the door had finally opened—well after midnight—and the very man she’d hoped to find came bursting in.
Shocked to see the elder Fitzwarren standing there, it took her a moment to react.
“You didn’t think I would forget you, did you?” He laughed cruelly. “It took me a while to remember Bruce’s whore and her mongrel.” Frozen with shock that he knew who she was, Cate gasped as he stepped toward her. For a moment she was the young girl in the cottage again, seeing her mother raped and then murdered by this evil man. “Did you climb out of your tomb? I should have let them fill it with water as they wanted. But I thought it would be more fun for you to starve.” He shrugged
indifferently. “I knew there was something about you that was familiar, but it wasn’t until one of the serving maids proved a little resistant tonight that it came back to me. I never forget a screaming woman I’ve fucked, especially one as pretty as your mother. You look like her. Who the hell would have guessed the scrawny whelp would grow so fair? Bruce had good taste in whores, I’ll give him that.”
Cate cried out like a wounded animal. “She wasn’t a whore, you murdering bastard!” Hatred for the man who’d killed her mother and thought to taunt her with the memory of it consumed her. The shock of his recognition—and the realization that he knew who she was—fell away, and her only thought was to kill. She forgot her training and let emotion lead.
But in a horrifying repeat of the past, her effort with the knife proved just as unsuccessful as it had with the hoe. Fitzwarren saw the knife a fraction of a second too early. Before she could sink it through the mail into his gut, he slapped her hand away. The tip of the knife caught on a bit of mail before falling harmlessly to the ground.
She hadn’t killed him, but she’d pricked him—surprised him—and given herself that second she needed to get away. Yet she couldn’t just let him go. He had to pay. He had to. She couldn’t have come this close only to fail.
She reached for the knife on the ground. It was a mistake—a huge one. Fitzwarren kicked the dagger away and brought his knee up hard against her chin, momentarily stunning her. Her head swam as the ground swayed under her feet. She recovered, but not fast enough.
“You stupid bitch!” He hauled her up against him, wrapping one arm around her neck, cutting off her breath before she had a chance to tuck her chin. “If I didn’t need you, you’d be dead for that. But my men and I are getting out of here.”
He dragged her outside, still squeezing her neck with enough force to cut off her breath. She grabbed his arm and pulled, fighting for air, but his steel-clad arm was unrelenting. The last thing she remembered was thinking that the chain mail digging into her throat hurt.
When she came to, they were in the courtyard. Fitzwarren was dragging her in front of him like a shield with one arm around her, pinning her arms to her sides, and the other digging the sharp tip of a dagger into her back. Men were moving all around them. She recognized the younger Fitzwarren and some of the other English soldiers gathered in one corner.
It took her a moment to realize that the castle was being attacked and that the English and Sir William’s men were surrendering.
That was when she recognized the man striding toward them as her father.
“Let the woman go.” The deep voice penetrated the depths of her memory.
“Not so fast,” Fitzwarren said. “Where is your leader?” Suddenly, he stiffened with recognition. An evil chuckle rumbled out of his chest. “Well, how do you like that. Today must be my lucky day. Well met, Sir Robert—it’s been a long time, but I seem to have found something of yours.”
Fitzwarren jerked her toward the torchlight, causing the knife to dig into her back. She cried out in pain as the blade penetrated her flesh. Blood oozed down her back.
Her eyes met her father’s, and she could see the realization dawn. “Caty Cat?” He sounded as stunned as he looked. His face seemed to have drained of all color behind the black smudges. Oblivious to the danger, he took a step toward her, his eyes never leaving her face. “My God, Catherine, is that you?”
He reached for her.
Oh God, no! Cate felt the dagger leave her back and sensed what was about to happen. Fitzwarren was going to plunge the blade into her father’s chest, which he’d left open and vulnerable by reaching for her.
Every protective instinct in her body flared. This was all her fault. She should have escaped when she had the chance, and now her father …
Stop him. I have to stop him.
The moment Fitzwarren released his hold, she reacted. This time, she remembered her training. Just as she’d done with Gregor on the practice yard, she bent forward a little bit and threw her head back into Fitzwarren’s jaw with all her strength. The mail of his coif blunted the blow, but it gave her an opening long enough to twist out of his hold.
He grunted in pain and swore, but let her go. His attention was still focused on her father, who had just moved within arm’s length.
Cate caught the glimmer of the silvery blade in the torchlight as Fitzwarren swung the dagger around toward the king. Her dagger. The one that penetrated mail.
He was bringing it forward, intending to thrust it deep into the king’s gut, when she screamed, “No!”
She knew what to do. Gregor had taught her well. He’d pounded it into her that one day on the practice yard until the movements had become almost second nature. With both hands she grabbed the wrist holding the knife, twisted Fitzwarren’s hand back, and plunged the dagger into his own chest.
She saw the surprise in his eyes for only a second before her body jerked forward with a loud, sickly thump. Pain caused her to stiffen with as much shock as Fitzwarren, as they both collapsed to the ground.
Get away. That was what he’d taught her. That was what he expected her to do. As soon as Cate was free, she was supposed to run away.
The moment Cate slammed her head back, extracting herself from the soldier’s hold, Gregor was ready. He saw the knife coming toward the king and reacted, letting loose the arrow that would save the king’s life. But as his fingers released—too late to call it back—he was distracted by a movement.
By Cate.
Gregor cried out in tortured horror as Cate lurched forward into the path of his arrow.
Too late he anticipated what she was about to do. It was what he would have done. She had the instinct of a fighter, and he’d taught her too well.
He wanted to shout for her to get out of the way, but it was too late. It felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest and burned before his eyes as he waited for the inevitable.
Miss. God, please miss.
But his prayer was only partially answered. The arrow meant for the soldier—the one that should have struck him right between the eyes—found Cate’s back as she leapt forward to wrest the knife from the soldier’s hand.
He was already racing toward them when he heard the sickening thud, her pained gasp, and then the king’s cry. An instant later Cate crumpled to the ground, and he wanted to die.
Any pride he might have felt that the soldier she’d struck—and from the looks of it, killed—had followed a similar path was lost in the fear that had turned his blood to ice.
He pushed people out of the way mindlessly as he raced toward her. Let her be all right. Please, let her be all right. I couldn’t have …
Refusing to think the words, Gregor stumbled forward through the crowd that had gathered around the king, who inexplicably had fallen to his knees and was holding Cate draped across his lap.
Her head was back, her face bloodless, her eyes closed; she looked …
Gregor made a harsh choking sound, “Cate!”
He would have reached for her, but Bruce stopped him. “Cate?” The king’s eyes flared with a kind of rage Gregor had never seen before as he looked at him. “By the rood, stay away from her!”
Gregor stared at him in shock, not understanding. “But that’s my—”
“Do you know what you’ve done?” The king cut him off. “You’ve shot my daughter!”
It took a few minutes for the words to resonate. When they did, Gregor staggered back as if struck by a powerful blow.
Daughter? It couldn’t be.
He must have spoken his thoughts aloud. Bruce pinned him with another deadly gaze. “Do you not think I know my own child? You told me she was dead. All this time, I thought my sweet little Catherine was dead.” Bruce held her to him, stroking her dark hair. Cate’s dark hair.
Gregor’s eyes flickered back and forth between the pair, his stomach twisting as he saw the similarities that had only teased the edges of his consciousness before. The same dark eyes and hair,
the same mulish pursed mouth and determined jaw.
He heard Campbell mutter a curse beside him. “Damn it, I knew there was something familiar about her.”
Suddenly, Gregor realized what that meant. He seethed with anger against the man he’d always admired. “You bastard, you left her. How could you do that to her?”
Robert the Bruce shot him a glare of warning, reminding him with that one look that he addressed a king. “Not willingly, but I do not owe the man who told me she was dead an explanation.”
Gregor didn’t have the opportunity to respond. The king was finished with him. Bruce lifted Cate’s limp body and started shouting orders to find him a bed in the castle and the best physician in the city.
Feeling as if his heart was being wrenched out of his body, Gregor watched helplessly as the man he’d thought like a father to him carried away the woman he loved and might have killed.
Nay, not helpless. There was something he could do. Gregor looked around for MacKay, finding the big Highlander in the bailey with the other members of the Highland Guard. He could tell by their concerned expressions that they’d heard at least some of the exchange with the king. But he didn’t care. Not right now. There was only one thing that mattered now. “Where’s Angel?” he asked. “I need her.”
If anyone could save Cate it was Helen MacKay. She’d given Gregor his life back once, and now he would ask her for something far more important: to give him back Cate’s.
Twenty-five
Gregor’s arrow hadn’t killed her, but the fever nearly had. Were it not for the pretty redheaded healer who’d arrived a few days after Cate was shot, she might never have woken from the delirium to which she’d succumbed.
The Arrow Page 33
