The Knight (Highland Guard #7.5)(2)
Despite his bow to chivalry today, James knew that the king’s strategy was sound: The only way to defeat the larger numbered, superiorly trained and outfitted English was to wage a secret war of ambuscade and surprise attacks, avoiding the pitched battle of army versus army. Admittedly it was not a very chivalrous way of thinking for a newly minted knight who’d yet to even don his spurs.
James was honored—and flattered—by the king’s faith in him, but still he didn’t hesitate. He shook his head. “Nay, Sire. I shall serve you best in the south.”
As his lieutenant. Where the people would speak his name—his enemies in fear, his countrymen with love and admiration.
Anonymity was not for him, for the Highland Guard was a secret band of warriors, its members’ identities shrouded to all but a few.
“Aye, well, just remember that,” the king said with a grin. “’Tis a Bruce who sits upon the throne not a Douglas.”
James just smiled, accustomed to the king’s prodding. It was not unwarranted. James had made no secret of his ambition. Ambition would see the lands of Douglasdale stolen from his father by the English restored, and the name of Douglas—like Wallace and Bruce—revered and remembered for generations.
Fear. Force. Intimidation. Those were the weapons that would win the war and ensure his place in history.
The English king would rue the day he’d tossed James’s father in prison and left him to die like an animal. James would show the English and their king the same mercy shown to his father—none.
As hundreds of years before, when the villagers along the western seaboard had cried out in fear “the Vikings are coming,” the English strongholds in the Borders would reverberate with panicked screams of “the Black Douglas!”
Sir James Douglas was coming, and God help anyone who tried to stand in his way.
CHAPTER ONE
Douglas, South Lanarkshire, Scotland, February 1311
Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye,
Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye,
The Black Douglas shall not get ye.
—Sir Walter Scott, Tales of a Grandfather
James was coming home! Joanna Dicson waited anxiously beside the big rock atop Pagie Hill. Spread out below her, clustered on the banks of the river, was the village of Douglas. To the north on the far side of the riverbank, she could make out the towers of Douglas Castle—or, as the English who now garrisoned the castle called it, “the dangerous castle of Douglas.” To the west were her father’s lands of Hazelside, and to the east…
To the east was James!
Her smile fell. At least she thought he would be coming from the East. Although James waged his campaign against the English from a base in the forests west of Selkirk, she’d heard rumors of his being in the North recently with King Robert the Bruce as a member of his personal guard. He was so important now, and she was so proud of him. But it had been so long since she’d seen him—nearly three months since James had last returned to his ancestral stronghold to harry the English who held his castle—she couldn’t be certain of his whereabouts.
When her father had told her James was rumored to be in the area, she’d raced up the hill to the place they’d always met, knowing he would look for her there as soon as he arrived. Tears of happiness blurred her vision. She couldn’t wait to see him. They had so much to talk about. Her heart swelled with emotion. He was going to be so happy.
How long had she been waiting? An hour, maybe two? It would be midday soon.
The snap of a twig behind her made her heart jump. She spun around excitedly. Finally! “You’re—”
Here. Except he wasn’t. It wasn’t James. The rush of emotion that had surged through her so suddenly came crashing down.
The man who approached shook his head in mock chagrin. “Sorry to disappoint you, Jo. It’s just me.” One corner of his mouth curved in a wry smile. “Good thing I’m not one of those English soldiers of yours; the look of disappointment on your face would have plunged a dirk right through my heart.”
Joanna felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “They aren’t my English soldiers, Thommy. You know I do nothing to encourage them.”
The man she’d known since childhood, who was closer to her than any brother, looked at her with amusement twinkling in his dark blue gaze. “Lass, just standing there you encourage them. Who’d have thought such a funny-looking thing would turn out to be one of the prettiest lasses in Lanarkshire?”
“Funny looking?” She feigned outrage but couldn’t help laughing, knowing it was true. Her too-big eyes and mouth had looked awkward on a small face. “You’re one to talk. I don’t think I saw you without soot on your face for the first dozen years of your life.” She gave him a playful shove, and then frowned when he didn’t budge an inch. Already one of the tallest men in the village, Thom was on his way to being one of the strongest—not surprising since his father was the village blacksmith. She gave his chest another poke. “Good gracious, Thommy, you’re about as hard as one of those cliffs you are always climbing. If you grow any bigger, you might find yourself holding a sword and not a hammer.”
A shadow crossed his face. “Actually, that’s why I came to find you.”
Her brows drew together. “How did you find me?”
He shrugged. “Douglas is coming; where else would you be?”