Chapter 1
Battle of Alnwick 1093
If Rob didnae know better, he might have believed the battle around them had conjured up the storm—that the clash of steel had brought lightning, that the rain dripping frae their faces supplanted fear’s cauld sweat. The thunderclaps that grumbled overhead echoed in the rumble of their sturdy mounts’ iron shoes, pounding hooves showering divots of yesterday’s frost-hardened ground behind them as if to bury the dead.
Surrounding him, warriors—Scots and Norman—scattered in disarray frae the killing field, as if it were lightning blasts that had littered the torn wasteland with the wounded and dying. Deep in his bones, his every instinct yelled a harsh reminder that for Scotland a crueller storm was yet to come.
King Malcolm was dead, aye, and his son Edward alongside him.
During this, the second bluidy battle he had fought at Alnwick, an ambush contrived by Robert de Mowbray had made an end to the King and his heir, and that tragedy changed everything.
He steered away frae the killing field all that remained of the small fighting force he had brought with him frae Cragenlaw, providentially all on horseback. The wee group numbered nae more than himself and two housecarls as well as Nhaimeth, but then they weren’t supposed to be an army—merely young men feeling their oats. Now it was up to Rob to get them away frae the place where walls of steel and flesh had collided. To his mind this wasnae an act of cowardice, but a gamble that would allow them to stand and fight another day—a day with hope of success.
The time was past for wondering what difference he might have made if he had actually found the temerity to seek out the King, to speak of his premonition. Temerity, aye, for Malcolm Canmore had been King and Rob merely the son of a chieftain.
A bastard son at that.
The truth of it pinched deep in his gut. Nae matter if he had he screwed up the nerve to speak, the King who had ruled Scotland wisely for longer than Rob had lived would still be dead at the hands of a Norman knight under De Mowbray’s command.
Such a notion had never entered his mind more than a year past—the summer of 1092 when Rob had screwed up his courage and ventured into Northumbria alone, crossing the border in secret. He glanced up through the rain that dripped frae his helm and into his eyes. That time, it had been full summer when the greening of the forest canopy provided good cover, especially for a man whose presence wasnae likely to be welcomed back.
He had told nae one. Quietly, furtively, he had travelled woodland trails—remembered frae his childhood—hidden ways that wended in and around Wolfsdale lands as he sought a chance glimpse of the bonnie Melinda. Why, he couldn’t explain, not even if tortured. The need, the hunger came frae deep inside and drove him to take risks the McArthur would have dismissed with a shake of his head. Rob had said naught to his father or Nhaimeth, though both had looked askance at him when he returned to Cragenlaw.
How could he explain when he didn’t know himself?
And he didn’t try, aware that the word love would spill frae their lips. Rob shook his head, a reaction he couldn’t help, aware they would have been mistaken. He remembered love, had felt it split his heart asunder. That emotion hadn’t felt intense, crazed. His love for Lhilidh had been sweet, tender, without the lust Melinda fired in his loins.
He had been almost thankful that summer when nae sighting came his way. He still didn’t know whether she was alive or dead and could almost wish for the latter rather than to discover her wed to another. Months had passed—more than two summers now—giving Rob the opportunity to believe he had matured, to recognise the arrogance that had made him consider that losing her to another man would be a fate worse than death.
Mayhap that’s why he had hadn’t deigned to ask around, for he could have, might have spoken to many who recognised him as a whelp from his grandfather the auld Wolf’s time, might have remembered him as the lad who fled with his mother. Aye, he might have inquired if not for an instinct that warned—be wary. Truth be told, he hadn’t wished to be the unwitting cause of danger to auld acquaintances. Nor for putting temptation in the way of anyone willing to give him up to the Norman, to La Mont, for a few coins. Not that he could find it in his heart to blame anyone who did. He could see for himself that their lives were hard, harder under the new baron than the auld. He knew that despite his conflicted upbringing, he had been luckier than most others in Wolfsdale.
The only times he’d ever had to wonder where his next meal would come from had been on their wandering trek north from Wolfsdale while he and Morag tried to put his uncle off their scent. At eleven years old, he had embarked on a journey that took months, lasted long days and nights as they crossed and re-crossed the country in an effort to ensure anyone following lost their trail, well aware that if Doughall caught up with them they would be slaughtered.
That lad was long gone, changed by years of training by the McArthur. He was big; he was strong, tall, broad shouldered, a skilled swordsman, well able to tend to his own defence with nae need to jeopardise the lives of friends. And so he had kept his presence secret, living in the cave where his mother had nursed the young Euan McArthur back to health.
The cave where his conception had taken place all yon years ago. A lifetime.
His lifetime.
Lightning flashed, bright white against the lumbering grey clouds bringing the gloaming far too soon, followed by a scream that made him turn in time to see a Norman knight fall to the ground, his horse under him, both killed by a bolt frae the sky. That he had been following them appeared obvious now. They had been lucky. Some might say the gods were on their side, those who still worshiped the auld gods, and in this district there were those who would have said his grandfather was one of them.
Rob cared not. He had been sent a warning and would accept it nae matter which deity had sent it to him. “We need to shelter under cover, else we’ll likely go the same way as that poor bugger. Best put an effort into preventing our hides and our horses sizzling on the hoof. Follow me and quick about it.”
Easier said than achieved. Rob’s mount led the way into the premature night, riding over unstable, sucking mud that layered their mounts’ hooves. Aye, they were an insignificant wee band of men moving through the gloaming, away frae the battleground with an innate wariness, instinct bred frae the vicious ambush that had ended their King’s days and a keen wish to avoid the same mistake. Almost certainly, the next few hours would be the most dangerous. A glance over his shoulder was enough to ascertain the others’ unflinching presence, and with a signal of Rob’s hand, a lift of one finger, his clansmen formed a single row.
A light touch on the reins and the tightening grip of Rob’s knees brought Gun-eagal to a halt and surprising heartfelt groans frae his men, as once more he held up a mail covered arm, forgetting his earlier warning about lightning bolts. He stared ahead where the ground fell away, sleek and slippery, and a straggling path wound almost invisible amongst the trees. If they kept their mounts treading carefully, they should soon reach the place he remembered in his mind’s eye afore full dark.
Dragging in a breath damp with rain and scented with moss and lichen, he salvaged his earlier hopes that survival was still possible. He knew very well what kind of hell they had so far avoided—Normans hunting out stray Scots, putting them to the sword afore moving on to another poor soul. He refused to countenance such an outcome to this venture. Clenching his jaw, he ground his back teeth so hard the noise echoed inside his skull. He and his wee band of warriors would have the chance they deserved, on that he was determined—an outcome made possible simply because they were so few in number.
The others remained as silent as he—close-mouthed, not so much deep in thought as wary, alert, awaiting direction. Rob faced forward, concentrating on the view between his mount’s ears, putting the memory of his followers’ grim miens aside, aware that at the heart of it they were all his responsibility—a truth that firmed Rob’s resolve. Only he heard the tinge of irony in the sigh he huffed out through his nose into the rain as if trying to breath under water.
Ironic, as if he had any other choice but to lead them into the hidden valley, to the cave he had camped in last year and to safety.
The first summer after he was held ransom he had returned, bided his time, ever watchful yet frustrated by his failure to ascertain Melinda’s whereabouts and health. As the number of days he had allowed to complete his task dwindled, the road north beckoned him back to Scotland afore his parents and friends came in search of him. He needed to be more than watchful today if he were to fulfil what the McArthur saw as his only son’s destiny—a leader of men—yet even frae this distance he felt his father’s long shadow.
Gingerly Rob nudged his mount betwixt an ancient oak and an ash and onto the crest of a slick slope. Acorns dug into the mud under Gun-eagal’s hooves, while bunches of red berries slapped at Rob’s helm. He pushed them aside, cleared his view with a thrust of his armoured glove. During last year’s summer, travelling this route, the path had been sheltered in shades of green, leafy and secret. Now it was less so, the date being November thirteenth—an omen mayhap; but for a few days it would be a place to catch their breaths, something they hadn’t been able to do since setting out frae Edinburgh with King Malcolm’s troops for Alnwick and the Norman cur whau had deceived them.
Autumn’s end was nigh, and winter’s coming was already celebrated with icy rain and cutting winds that snapped at the remnants of red and gold still clinging to the branches. Brisk, the fresh breeze at their backs sounded as if getting into practice for the snarls it would let loose come December. Those winds Rob did remember. They would prowl the rounded hills separating Lothian frae the place of his birth, howling loudly. He had a fancy that when he wasnae too distracted to pay attention, the noises would sound like his grandfather’s ghost. What else when the auld man had been named the Wolf of Wolfsdale?
While they had first galloped eastward hoping to put a guid distance betwixt them and the battlefield, Rob had been struck by the unwelcome notion that the true motive for his ambivalence over approaching the king had been innate caution. Easy now to decide he should have listened more closely to the sense of foreboding that prickled the back of his neck every step of the way into Northumbria. However, he had ignored it, and on his own account. For once, Rob hadn’t made any mention of his premonition to Nhaimeth, hadn’t wanted to worry his wee friend. He’d have said, ‘hardly surprising’ since Rob’s last venture over the border had led to his capture and ransom. He hadn’t mentioned to his friend last summer’s secret journey to Wolfsdale, too embarrassed at the time to be thought lovesick—daft mayhap.
For much the same reason, he had kept his presentment to himself. Aye, both that and the suspicion that it could well be his own death he felt creeping up behind him. With hindsight it seemed he had been wise to keep his own council. Naught Rob could have said would have prepared the King for the treachery of a trusted friend. De Mowbray had planned the ambush and carried out the plot, as if the Scots were naught but bairns, still wet behind the ears and in need of a guid slapping. God’s teeth, one would have thought he would actually be glad he hadn’t made any mention of the unease that had sat on his shoulders all the way to Alnwick.
The voice at the back of his mind had been kept to himself, even frae Nhaimeth, a friend he trusted with his life. Nae, what held him back was his unwillingness to become known as a naysayer.
Aye, silent, just as he kept his tongue still once more, when his every sense yelled that disaster was about to befall his beloved Scotland. A tragedy, and with it a lesson Rob wouldn’t soon forget. The Scots who’d stood with Malcolm Canmore would want retribution and they would take it out on the Borders.
On Melinda.
He hadn’t forgotten her—only his death could achieve that—and mayhap not even then, if the heaven she believed in was true. Although he must admit he would rather meet her again in the flesh than watch over her in some spirit form. In the past year he had become beset with doubts. Had his lone journey been about Melinda, or the fact that her father now presided over Wolfsdale, over Farquhar lands handed down in the family for centuries. Land that rightly belonged to his uncle Gavyn Farquhar—now a Highland chieftain—a warrior who, upon his marriage to Kathryn Comlyn, King Malcolm had ceded a mountain stronghold.
A stronghold built far too close to the late king’s brother Donald Bane’s territory for Rob’s liking. Sides were bound to be taken, quarrels revived that would affect both his family and his friends. Rob could see nae way of preventing the catastrophe likely to set the whole of Scotland afire, what with two of the king’s surviving sons still held in London and Donald Bane in the Highlands awaiting any excuse to grab the crown. Frae everything Rob had seen this day, the opportunity Donald Bane had been praying for had happened, thanks to De Mowbray. He who had set the trap and Morel, the bluidy Norman the King had been deceived into regarding as a friend and who took his life with the thrust of a lance.
God help them all when the country took sides, for Rob had nae notion which one he would end up on. The eerie sound of a hunting horn put an end to his speculation.
Christ’s teeth, he knew it meant a hunt and that he and his men were the prey.