The time was not yet ripe to act, his father kept claiming. It was, and it had to be, now. Today. He could not take up arms against his own countrymen. He could no longer submit to his father’s foolish order to remain aligned with King Edward in hope of gaining the Scottish throne, which had been stolen from their family by the usurper John Balliol.
“I’m a Scot, for Christ’s sake,” he muttered.
“Have nae I been reminding ye of that verra fact for nigh a year?” Niall’s hand lay on the hilt of his sword revealing the danger of what they were about to do.
“Ye have, my friend, ye have,” Robert said, his mind swiftly turning. His father should now rightfully be King of Scots, but instead Robert sat here ordered by the ever reaching King of England to destroy a stronghold in the land he loved, while his father seemed perfectly content to stay in England amid the comfort of the Bruces’ plush English holdings rather than venture back to the wilds of Scotland to rise against King Edward and risk losing everything. Robert could no longer deny the truth—his father lacked the iron will to do what was right.
War meant blood, strife, and possibly death, but subjugation to an English king was a different sort of death, one of the spirit. He could not live that way. “We’ll no longer be safe if we rise against Edward this day,” he said, accepting it, but wanting to give Niall, who was married and had a daughter, one last chance to change his mind and keep his submission to Edward intact.
Niall snorted. “I thrive on danger.”
God knew that was true enough. Niall had always been right there with Robert at the front of every battle, even on the day the Scot’s daughter had been born. Still…
“We will be hunted,” Robert added.
“Let them try to catch us,” Niall said with a smirk. “The devil English king will nae stop until he sits on the throne of Scotland. He will kill all who continue to rebel, and that includes our people. I’d rather be hunted than aligned with King Edward.”
“We will be outlaws, enemies of Edward.”
“Shut up, Robbie,” Niall growled using the nickname only those close to him dared use. “Quit trying to dissuade me. Ye need me.”
“I do, but yer wife and yer daughter—”
“My wife will dance a jig when she hears we’ve taken up arms with our countrymen. Dunnae fash yerself. Tell me what ye want me to do.”
Robert slid his teeth back and forth, contemplating that very question. He needed to be canny and proceed in the best way to protect his men. The wind blew from the west, sending billows of white smoke and heat toward them and de Burgh—the king’s closest friend and advisor—who was mounted on his steed, some thirty paces ahead of them. De Burgh looked away, but Robert faced the wind. He, too, would suffer every hardship he demanded his men to endure, and most of the men who had ridden here on his command were in the path of the smoke. It burned his throat, nose, and eyes, making breathing nearly impossible.
Death by fire would be an awful way to die.
Robert swiped a gloved hand across his watering eyes and focused on the falconry building that stood vulnerable behind them. It was on the wrong side of the moat—the land unprotected by the drawbridge. Counting, his gaze moved over the captured Scots lined up in front of the outbuilding by de Burgh’s men. Twenty of the Scot rebel Andrew Moray’s men would die this day on de Burgh’s command, unless the Moray warriors lowered their drawbridge and sent their lord, a leader of the Scottish uprising against Edward, out. Robert could not allow their deaths or Moray’s.
“Andrew Moray!” De Burgh bellowed toward the castle, which was separated from them by the moat alone. The powerful Irish noble’s accent sounded especially thick with anger. “Lower your drawbridge and surrender, or we’ll burn your men alive.”
Robert’s hands tightened reflexively on his reins as the captured men moaned their protest, only to be silenced by the swords upon their chests, no doubt pricking flesh in warning. There was no more time to ponder. He had to act. These men would not lower the drawbridge.
De Burgh was a fool to think he could ride here from England and command these Scots. They hated Edward for his attempt to put himself on a throne he had no right to occupy. “Ride to the head of my men,” he said to Niall, “and wait for my signal. If I can avoid bloodshed I will.”
“Och,” Niall said, “blood will be shed this day, but it will nae be Scot’s blood.”
“We can nae guarantee that, Niall,” Robert replied.
Niall nodded. “I ken,” he said, his shoulders sagging a bit. “Try to prevent a battle then,” he relented, “but I feel in my bones it’s imminent.”
Robert felt it too, but he had a responsibility to do all he could to protect his vassals. “Go to the men,” he urged.
With a nod, Niall turned his horse from Robert and headed down the hill toward Robert’s vassals. Three hundred and fifty of his men who were loyal to him stood mixed with three hundred and fifty of the king’s men. Robert clicked his heels against his steed’s side and closed the distance between himself and de Burgh who flicked his gaze at Robert and then yelled toward the castle, “You do not have long to decide!”
“De Burgh,” Robert growled, “ye can nae burn alive innocent men. They follow Moray’s orders.”
De Burgh jerked his head toward Robert. “Innocent?” he snarled. “These Scots rebel against Edward, their liege lord. They deserve their fate.”
“Edward is nae their liege lord,” Robert said through clenched teeth. “John Balliol was their king.” The words sliding from his tongue were bitter but true.
“They should be glad to see such a weak king as Balliol driven from the throne,” de Burgh retorted.
“Edward’s plan all along, I’m certain,” Robert snapped.
De Burgh flashed a smile. “Your people are the ones who appointed Edward to choose the next king of Scotland, all those years ago, if you recall. And he saw Balliol as the man with the best claim to the throne.”
