Chapter Three

The buzz of the distant crowd gathered around London Bridge hummed in Grant’s ears as he and Ross crouched behind some trees in the woods. He skimmed the throng of people, looking for guards surrounding a prisoner. For two days, Grant and Ross had tracked Simon from where they’d left him in Scotland to here, and the last English knight they had come upon and coerced into giving them information told them that Simon had been taken to London to be tried as a traitor.

They had to hurry, to get to Simon before it was too late. But time was Grant’s enemy. It had always been his enemy. He’d not had enough time to rescue his mother, nor enough time to say goodbye to his father. He could not let time best him again.

Where the devil was Simon?

Grant rose slightly from his crouched position to get a better view, but Ross’s hand came to Grant’s shoulder and pulled him back down. Ross motioned to two Englishmen walking nearby, whom Grant had not noticed in his distracted state.

He nodded to Ross in understanding. As the two strangers drew closer, he and Ross both moved backward, deeper into the underbrush.

“I always said Simon Fraser was a spy for the damned Scots,” one man said.

Was. The word hit Grant in the gut, making him wince. The distinct sound of someone relieving himself filled the momentary lapse in conversation.

“Well, King Edward having the MacDougalls behead the traitor should send a message to any Scots thinking to rise against our king.” The man had the gall to chuckle.

Grant fisted his hands in the cold dirt as his stomach twisted. His head pounded, and the ground seemed to tilt underneath him for moment. Ross’s hand came to his shoulder again, gripping him. Grant could not even acknowledge his friend. He had to direct all his concentration to not rising to kill the men urinating in front of him. Such an act would not only get himself killed but get Ross killed, too, surrounded as they were by the English.

Dead. The word was heavy, final, and suffocating. Disbelief stopped the world around him. Simon could not be dead. But as the men departed, Grant forced himself to rise until he could see the crowd once more. English knights were marching toward the end of London Bridge with the MacDougalls by their side. At the front of the line was Laird MacDougall and fisted in his right hand was Simon’s head.

Grant leaned to the right and retched, then fell to the ground to press his forehead into the cold dirt. It was not Simon. It was not Simon . He kept repeating the mantra, but the truth of what he’d seen hammered at him. He gulped in deep breaths and pushed his hands against the soil to shove back to his feet. Ross’s hand came to his arm, but Grant shoved him off.

“Dunnae look,” Ross said in a pained whisper.

Grant felt as if he might retch again, but he swallowed until the feeling faded, and then he peered out from their cover and stared at his brother’s decapitated head now impaled on a spike on London Bridge. Bile rose from his stomach, burning his throat, but he did not turn his gaze. He looked so that he would never forget what the MacDougalls and the English had done. He looked so that he would never again forget that time was not his friend. He looked so that he would remember how he had failed his brother. He would need the image to carry him through the battle, he was certain.

Rage coursed through his veins. He was going to hunt down the MacDougall laird and everyone who had aided him in killing Simon. He was going to behead them, just as they had beheaded Simon.

The treachery of the MacDougalls singed Grant’s soul so that he felt it wither under the blaze of his fierce hatred. Many Scots had betrayed their homeland since the war with the King of England had started. Men had betrayed Scotland out of fear for their lives, their homes, the well-being of their wives and children. Those men he could never trust again, but he could understand their decisions. He could even forgive the weakness. But the MacDougalls had betrayed Scotland, had betrayed the sworn oath of allegiance to Simon as the laird of the Fraser clan, because of their greed and consuming thirst for power.

“What do ye want to do?” Ross asked.

Grant just continued to stare at his brother’s head. His face was gray, his mouth hung open, and his eyes bulged. Grant’s throat tightened with the need to scream—for the loss of his brother, for the fact that he had died alone, for not returning in time to save him.

Finally, he inhaled the putrid London air and turned to Ross. Their eyes locked. “I want to kill Laird MacDougall, his son, and all the men who aided in murdering my brother,” Grant said. “I want to hunt them down and put their heads on spikes along the trail to my home so any who dare to cross a Fraser again will ken the revenge that will be exacted upon them. Any man who dares to kill a Fraser will die in the very manner they inflicted.”

Ross nodded. “Bruce would surely agree with this.”

“Ye should return to Bruce,” Grant said, thinking of the fledgling king, who at this moment was fleeing toward the Atholl mountains to find more forces and gather support.

“Nay,” Ross said, setting a hand on Grant’s shoulder and squeezing it. “Ye heard the king yerself. He ordered me to aid ye in ensuring Simon made it back to Scotland alive, and we failed. The king would wish me to aid ye in taking vengeance upon the MacDougalls.”

Grant opened his mouth to protest, but Ross’s words were true. Bruce had ordered it, as well as insisted that Thomas and Allisdair make their way to the safety of the Fraser holding instead of accompanying Grant and Ross to aid Simon. The young boys had sputtered their protests about being sent away, but they had obeyed with a look of warning from Bruce. He was a truly good man and king. He strove to put Scotland and its people above himself always, which was why many nobles did not like him. He put more stock in ruling for the common people than the lairds. That was the heart of why the MacDougalls had turned against Bruce when he’d seized his rightful throne and killed John Comyn—the man who had tried to murder Bruce to gain a throne that was not his.

MacDougall was supporting King Edward over Bruce not because MacDougall was related by marriage to Comyn, but because the man wanted all the power and land in the Highlands, and he could not have that if Bruce became king. Bruce would rule Scotland fairly and give power and lands equally, not just to the rich.

Grant stared toward the now-dispersing crowd as he tried to focus enough to consider what to do. It was hard, so very hard. Disbelief pounded relentlessly at him and sorrow muddled his thoughts. His insides tightened into a hard ball.

“Grant, words are nae enough to tell ye my sorrow.”

The pain in Ross’s voice cut through Grant’s haze. “Dunnae be sorry.” He took one long last look at his brother’s head before he faced Ross and formed a plan even as he spoke. “Be like a shadow. We will capture the MacDougall and take him to my home for his reckoning. I am certain Aros will follow once he kens we have his father. Are ye with me? It will be dangerous.”

“Fear of danger is for the weak,” Ross said, quoting words Simon had taught them both. Grant turned his head when his eyes watered, blinked several times, and faced Ross once more. The time to grieve would have to come later. Now was the time for vengeance.

Grant focused his gaze on the men who had departed the bridge and come near the woods to urinate. They stood not so very far from the woods and were set far enough away from the bridge that Grant and Ross could likely relieve them of their clothing without drawing notice. “We must become Englishmen and move through the darkness to take my enemy.”

“ Our enemy,” Ross corrected. “We are brothers in our fight for Scotland’s freedom.”

Grant answered by motioning to the two English knights. They were laughing and talking like fools, heedless of the dangers that awaited them. “They kinnae make a sound,” Grant warned.

Ross grinned, his teeth flashing white in the rapidly growing darkness. “Mine will nae,” he vowed, his tone ominous. And then, as if in mutual, unspoken agreement, Grant and Ross moved through the shadows, careful to keep to the edge of the woods, until the two knights were within arm’s reach. The thuds of their dagger hilts meeting the knights’ skulls blended into the night and the not-too-distant sounds coming from the taverns beyond the bridge. Before the knights even fell fully to the ground, Grant and Ross were dragging the men back into the edge of the woods that faced London Bridge.

Grant wiped his hands on his braies as he and Ross stood over the knights. “We’ll don their clothing.”

Ross nodded, already reaching to undress his captive. “God’s bones,” he swore under his breath. “I heartily wish there was another course. Seeing an Englishman naked turns my stomach.”

“Aye,” Grant agreed. He peeled off his own plaid and braies to don the armor of the knight he’d just disrobed. “They smell like dead fish.”

“They look like fish, too, scrawny as they are,” Ross said, facing Grant as he tugged on the last of the knight’s armor.

Grant raised his bow and arrow to ensure he could maneuver well in the armor. He’d be able to kill a man, and that was all he needed to know. “Can ye shoot and swing?” he asked Ross.

Ross scowled at him and quickly bound the two knights’ hands and feet, and stuffed cloth in their mouths. “That’s like inquiring if I can please a wench. Dunnae ask such foolish questions.”

Grant shoved his clothing into the sporran attached to his horse, Tintreach. “Tintreach, quiet,” he instructed his beloved destrier before he gave a yank on the rope to make sure the beast was secure. The stallion dipped his head as if in understanding, to which Grant reluctantly smiled. It felt wrong to experience even a fleeting hint of lightness with Simon’s death weighing so heavily on him. He patted the horse, which had been a gift from his father years before and had been with him through more battles than he could even remember. “I’ll return.” To Ross, he said, “Are ye ready?”

“Since the day I first walked,” Ross assured him.

With that, they stepped out from the woods and moved toward the bridge.

There were commoners and knights alike crossing the bridge from both directions. Grant walked among the English, his footfalls on the wooden bridge thudding in time with his heart. When he got to the spike that held Simon’s head, Grant’s progress faltered and his grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger.

“Grant,” Ross hissed low in his ear. “Dunnae be foolish. If ye act now, we’ll nae make it out alive.”

“It’s quite a sight, is it not?” came a nasally voice from behind Grant.

He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached and then slowly turned toward the voice. Ice-blue eyes stared levelly at him. Grant inclined his head to the blond-haired man, who looked to be a nobleman based on the rich cloth of his cape and his neatly shaved face. The man was built like a warrior, but his armor gleamed in the glow of the torches and the moonlight above them. His armor appeared unmarred, as if it had never been worn in battle.

The man motioned to Simon’s head. “Clearly, I speak of the decapitated Scot, Laird Simon Fraser,” the stranger said, exasperation tingeing his tone. Then he chuckled, and it took every ounce of restraint Grant possessed not to plunge his sword into the Englishman’s heart. “I suppose I should say the former laird. He is quite dead now.”

“Yes,” Grant answered, taking on the English accent his brother had made him practice nightly since they’d been reunited. Simon had insisted it might one day save Grant’s life, and it appeared today might be that day.

“Did you happen to see the beheading?” the man asked. “I myself was detained and missed it.”

Grant swallowed the rage clawing to get out of him. His fingertips throbbed where he clutched his dagger. “No, Lord…?”

“De Beauchamp,” the man replied, flourishing his hand and offering a mock bow. “I’m Guy de Beauchamp. You may call me Lord de Beauchamp.”

How typical of the English to be so pompous that they don’t bother learning to whom they are speaking to ensure it is not an enemy. De Beauchamp waved a hand at Ross. “It that your man gaping at me?”

Grant stole a glance over his shoulder at Ross, who was, indeed, gaping. “Yes, my lord. He’s mute. Fool got his tongue cut out by a Scot.” Ross’s lips pressed together in distaste at Grant’s lie.

“That is quite foolish. Scots are cunning liars, though. No doubt they took your friend unaware.”

“Indeed,” Grant responded simply. The less he spoke the better. His English accent was passable but not perfect.

“Well, I’m headed to the tavern to hear the details from the MacDougall’s own mouth. The king may trust the Scot, but I personally trust no Scot ever. They’ve proven in my personal experience to be treacherous.” Grant grunted in return, hoping that would suffice, which apparently it did, the fool Englishman. De Beauchamp moved in front of Grant and motioned him to follow.

Grant fell in step behind the English lord and met Ross’s gaze. Stay to the shadows, Grant mouthed, exhaling with relief at Ross’s nod. MacDougall and Aros would both recognize Grant and Ross, so it would not do for the men to see them.

Men lined up outside of Straton Tavern, waiting to enter the establishment. But as de Beauchamp neared the doors, the men hastily moved out of the way. Grant stayed close enough to the man to enter the tavern on his heels but not so close that Grant and Ross could not fade away once inside. The throng of men filling the pub made it easy enough to lose de Beauchamp, and the thick smoke from the fires and poor lighting aided their task.

Grant swept his gaze over the crowd as he weaved in and out of knights swigging ale and singing bawdy tunes, searching for MacDougall and his warriors. It did not take long to spot the laird. He was an unusually tall man, standing a good head above almost all others in the crowd. MacDougall stood face-to-face with another man whom Grant did not recognize, but by the rich cloth of his robes, which carried the symbol of a serpent rising out of fire, and the heavy gold rings upon his fingers, Grant assumed he was another English nobleman. And when de Beauchamp stopped beside the two men and they all exchanged greetings, it seemed Grant’s assumption was correct.

The man with the serpent crest waved yet another man over, but this stranger was assuredly not a nobleman. He wore a simple wool robe and no jewelry. After brief introductions, Grant watched the man take a deep breath, and to Grant’s surprise, he began to sing. Grant caught the faint notes in the air, though at first, he could not make out all the words.

“Stay here,” he instructed Ross. “I’m going to move closer to figure out what story the bard is telling.”

Ross nodded, and Grant edged closer along the wall, careful to stay behind the men who had started to gather around the bard, MacDougall, de Beauchamp, and the man standing with them.

“Never had I seen such a sight as a novice who could fight,” the bard sang. “ Graceful as a doe was she who felled the pompous knight, as pretty as you please, and all with a look that would render a man helpless when her violet eyes were upon you.”

“Bard, where is it ye saw this novice?” MacDougall demanded, interrupting the song.

“At market in Hawick-upon-Tweed. She is a frequent visitor there from the Sisters of Saint Cecilia Convent.”

Grant frowned. Why the devil did MacDougall care about a novice about whom a bard sang?

“And ye’re certain of her eyes?” MacDougall demanded.

“Yes, my lord.”

“By God!” MacDougall exclaimed and then burst out into hearty laughter. “Aros!” he boomed, and Grant’s one-time friend, whom he had once trained with, strode up to his father. “Son.” MacDougall clapped Aros on the shoulder. “Take all but five of our men and ride to Hawick-upon-Tweed. Bring the novice the bard sang of to our stronghold.”

“Father, is she—”

“Shut yer trap,” MacDougall thundered, to which Aros considerably reddened but nodded.

This was perfect. There was no way for Ross and Grant to take both men when they had their warriors with them, but they could concentrate on MacDougall. When Aros returned, he’d learn that Grant had taken his father to Dithorn Castle, Grant’s stronghold in the Highlands. Aros would attempt to rescue him, the fool. Everyone knew Dithorn was virtually impenetrable. But Aros was just cocksure enough to ignore that fact. He’d join his father in death.

Aros gave a nod to his father, and with a shrill whistle, the man departed, along with a good portion of the men who had surrounded MacDougall. Grant smiled to himself. Aros was like his father. They both thought themselves invincible, but they would soon discover just how wrong they were.

As the laird exchanged words with the bard and de Beauchamp, Grant moved back along the wall the way he had come and found Ross. “We’ll await MacDougall outside and take him unawares.”

Ross arched an eyebrow at Grant. “What of his son and their warriors? They far outnumber us.”

Grant quickly told Ross of MacDougall’s instructions to Aros. Ross gave a long, hearty chuckle. “I do so love how foolish some men are.”

“Aye,” Grant agreed, feeling a grim smile stretch his lips. “Come. Let us get in place to capture our quarry.”