The Viper (9 page)

Four

Strathtummel, Atholl, Late July, 1306

"Never" came four months later.

With all that had gone wrong--and so much had gone wrong--Bella could never have dreamed it would come to this. Fleeing for their lives like ... outlaws. King Hood, the English called Robert. It was painfully true.

She gazed at her terrified cousin Margaret's big blue eyes, wide in her pale face. "You're sure, Margaret? The queen said we are to leave the king and the rest of the army?"

Margaret nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "She told me to gather our things. We'll depart within the hour."

The fear in her cousin's face was palpable. Not for the first time, Bella regretted taking Margaret as her attendant. The timid, sweet lass wasn't suited for this.

No one
was suited for this.

Over the past month they'd seen more war, death, and blood than she wanted to see in a lifetime.

The fragile support Robert had built in the months after the coronation while Edward mobilized his forces to march against the "rebels" had collapsed after the devastating defeat at Methven. In agreeing to meet the English at Methven, Robert had been looking for vindication. Instead he'd met trickery, when Aymer de Valence set aside the rules of chivalry and attacked before the agreed-upon time for battle.

The gamble for the decisive victory that would establish Robert's kingship had failed miserably and disastrously. The king's remaining supporters had been sent reeling, forced to take refuge in the hills of Atholl while trying to recover and rally more men to his banner.

But few heeded the call. Before Methven, Robert's support had been tenuous at best. More than half the country had aligned against him with her husband and many other powerful nobles. After Methven, even those sympathetic to Bruce were too scared to stand against Edward's fury and the promise of retribution. Simon Fraser's capture and subsequent execution in a hideous manner similar to Wallace's reminded them all of the consequences.

Bella, Queen Elizabeth, Robert's daughter Marjory by his first wife, and two of his sisters, Christina and Mary, had been forced to take refuge along with them. For the past month they'd been living off the land like outlaws, in hastily constructed huts surrounded by a simple wooden palisade in the woods near the banks of Loch Trummel, sheltered by Duncan the Stout, the Chief of Clan Donnachaidh.

Yesterday, with the hunt closing in from the English in the east, Robert had tried to push westward. But he'd found his path blocked at Dal Righ by John MacDougall, Lord of Lorn, and one thousand of his clansmen. With the few hundred of his remaining men, the king had fought them back, barely escaping with his life. One of Lorn's men had him in his grasp, literally ripping the cloak from Robert's shoulders, taking his brooch along with it.

Now, even their temporary shelter couldn't protect them. They were fleeing again.

Thank God, Joan wasn't here. MacRuairi had been right: This was no place for her daughter.

It turned out he'd been right about a number of things. She'd vastly underestimated King Edward's fury at his rebellious "subjects." The full force of his hammer had come down upon them. Even she had a price upon her head.

And now, the infamous "dragon banner" had been raised. The flag promised no mercy for the rebels. They could be killed without trial and raped with impunity.

She smothered a shiver of fear and turned back to consoling her cousin, pushing aside thoughts of Lachlan MacRuairi. She'd heard little of the brigand since the coronation--not that she'd been listening for word of him. With the way the war had been going, the opportunistic pirate had probably changed sides already.

She clenched her jaw. The only thing she should be thinking about was getting to safety so that she could find a way to get her daughter back. Four months seemed an eternity. But at least Joan hadn't been forced to marry. Bella's "treason" had taken care of that threat.

She stroked her cousin's hair, as the terrified girl wept on her shoulder.

"What will become of us?" Margaret sobbed. "How will we make it to Kildrummy with only a handful of men to protect us?"

Bella didn't say anything. What could she say, when she didn't know? The king sending the women away with only a small band of knights to protect them sounded terrifying to her as well.

Her cousin lifted her head, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. "I've never even heard of the man who will be leading us. Lachlan Mac ... Mac--"

Bella stiffened. "MacRuairi?"

Her cousin nodded furiously. "That's it--do you know him?"

Her mouth fell in a grim line. "He was one of the men who brought me from Balvenie."

In the months of frustration and forced separation from her daughter--her husband had dared her to try to come and fetch her--Bella had told her cousin most of what had happened. The heartbreak hadn't lessened; it had only grown worse as each day of their separation passed. She dared not ask herself when she would see her daughter again; the answer was too painful to contemplate.

But at least Joan knew Bella had not intentionally left her behind. A few weeks after the coronation, Robert told her that a message had been taken to her daughter. He wouldn't tell her the details but assured her Joan had been told everything. Bella had been touched by the king's thoughtfulness.

Margaret gasped. "The one who lied to you about Joan?"

She nodded, and her cousin looked appropriately horrorstruck.

Bella couldn't believe it either. Not only was the king sending them away, he was entrusting his family to a man who made no qualms about being loyal only to his purse. MacRuairi's untrustworthiness wasn't her only objection. After their last meeting, she didn't want to have to rely on him again for her safety--or for anything, for that matter. And perhaps most significantly, she didn't like her own reaction to him.

Lachlan MacRuairi made her uneasy.

"Don't worry, cousin, I'll speak to Robert and get to the bottom of this. There must be some mistake."

Leaving Margaret with the task of gathering their meager belongings, Bella went in search of the king.

He wasn't at the King's Hall--how the army had taken to referring to the royal hut. After Queen Elizabeth confirmed Margaret's story, she directed Bella to the banks of the loch where what was left of the king's army camped.

Bella hurried to the loch. But the sight that met her only increased her anxiousness. What was left of the army was in disarray. Perhaps only two hundred men remained, many of them wounded and bleeding, some with limbs barely attached, lying on the ground where they'd collapsed or been dumped after yesterday's retreat.

The stench was horrible. She covered her mouth to try not to retch. She should be used to it. But the scent of blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids simmering together in a sickly mess was something she didn't think she'd ever get used to.

Men were rushing everywhere. Tearing down tents. Packing their belongings. They didn't notice her. Or if they did, they were too busy to care. The army was disbanding, fleeing for their lives. Sweet Mary, how could this have happened?

Finally, she caught sight of Edward Bruce. She didn't much like Robert's younger brother. Quick-tempered, volatile, and arrogant, Sir Edward was nearly his brother's equal on the battlefield, but he lacked Robert's gallantry and natural chivalry.

"The king," she asked. "Where is he? I must speak with him."

Edward's eyes slid over her. Though the hard, ebony-like gaze betrayed nothing, she sensed the crude thoughts. "He's busy. What do you need? Perhaps I can give it to you?"

Her eyes narrowed, hearing the suggestion in his words if not his tone. She knew what was being said. The vicious lies started by her husband as a basis for setting her aside had spread even through their own camp. That Edward Bruce would even hint at Buchan's lies infuriated her. He should know better.

"I need
the king
," she said in a tone that suggested a substitute--especially a younger brother--would not do. She knew how sensitive Edward was to comparisons to his royal brother. "It's
important
."

He gave her a scathing look; her jab had struck. "He's over there." He pointed to a circle of men standing apart from the rest near the shieling that was housing the king's precious few war horses. "But I'd wait until he's done."

The king looked to be in an important meeting. She recognized some of Robert's most trusted knights: Sir Neil Campbell, Sir James Douglas, the Earl of Atholl, and a few others, including William Gordon and Magnus MacKay.

Though the sight of the last two men always pleased her, and she'd enjoyed speaking to them when their paths had crossed over the past few months, something about their place in the king's army confused her. For ordinary men-at-arms, they seemed to keep unusually important company.

She often saw them with a few other men, including one who seemed unusually close in the king's confidence: a West Highland chieftain from the Isle of Skye named Tor MacLeod.

Something about these men stood out. Not just their impressive size and strength--Highlanders were a tall, muscular lot--but the command and air of authority that surrounded them.

They ate with the other regular men-at-arms, barracked with them, and fought beside them, but then they would disappear for days, even weeks, on end without explanation. It was odd.

She followed Edward's advice. Fortunately, she didn't have long to wait. The meeting broke up a few minutes later, and the men started to disperse. All except for one.

She felt a strange shock reverberate through her. Her heart pounded hard in her chest. Lachlan MacRuairi hadn't changed in the months since she'd seen him last. If anything, he only looked more disreputable. His hair was longer, his jaw more stubbled, his black leather
cotun
dustier and stained with blood, and he appeared to have added a few weapons to the armory already strapped to his back.

His face, too, looked leaner and harder.

But if anything, it only added to his dangerous appeal.

Her mouth pursed with annoyance. Obviously, some things hadn't changed. The brigand was still a handsome devil who exuded some kind of base masculine virility. And if the erratic race of her heart meant anything, she still noticed it.

She needed to put a stop to this. Set-aside wife or not, her inexplicable attraction to Lachlan MacRuairi was wrong. She'd had enough trouble in her life; she didn't need any more from a notorious pirate bastard who looked at her as if all she was good for was what she could do to pleasure him. And she knew exactly how to do that. She'd been instructed well.

She crossed the clearing, weaving through the chaos, and approached the shieling from the side. Unsure whether to interrupt, she hoped to catch Robert's attention, but the two men were too busy arguing to notice her hovering nearby. She didn't mean to listen, but they weren't exactly keeping their voices low.

"Find someone else," Lachlan bit out. "Put Douglas or Atholl in charge. I'll serve you better in the west with Hawk."

Bella frowned, wondering who this Hawk was, until she realized what he was saying. Then, were the situation not so dire, she would have smiled. MacRuairi was doing the objecting for her. He didn't want to lead them.

"I decide how you should serve me, not you. Are you refusing my orders?"

Bella stilled, watching Lachlan's reaction to the king's challenge. His jaw clenched so hard his mouth turned white, and his eyes sparked with defiance. He held very still. Almost too still. Like a coiled snake ready to strike.

She could hear the grudging tightness in his voice when he replied. "Nay, I'm not refusing. I'm asking you to reconsider. This isn't what I signed up for."

What, duty and responsibility? She shouldn't be surprised. A man who ignored his own clan was hardly a leader.

But as menacing as MacRuairi could be, Robert Bruce was one of the greatest knights in Christendom and not a man to back down from anyone--even a mean, overly muscular cutthroat. "This is exactly what you signed up for. Why do you think I want you in charge?"

The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Bella could practically feel the tension crackling between them.

Finally, Lachlan nodded. "I'll ready the horses."

Bella watched in frustration as he ducked into the shieling. It would have been nice if he could have convinced Robert, but it was going to be up to her to make him see reason.

The king started walking toward her and was so distracted that he might have walked right by her had she not stopped him.

"Sire, a word if you please."

He glanced up and saw her. The hint of a smile attempted to break through the mask of strain. Her heart clenched with sadness, seeing the change that had come over him.

Robert Bruce looked like a man who'd suffered defeat. Who'd nearly been killed--twice. Who'd seen countless friends die at his side. He looked like a man who was being hunted and knew there was no safe place left to hide.

Bella felt the tears gather in the back of her throat. As long as she lived, she'd never thought to see such dejection on Robert Bruce's face.