The Raider_A Highland Guard Novel

Two





Despite her brother’s warning, Rosalin never dreamed it would be this bad.

Only three miles separated Berwick-upon-Tweed from Norham, but the moment they left the outskirts of the great burgh, they might as well have entered a different world.

The bucolic countryside she remembered from when she’d passed through Berwick on her journey south from Kildrummy Castle was nearly unrecognizable. Every tree, every blade of grass, every building bore the black-charred scar of razing. But it wasn’t only the land that had been devastated, it was the people as well. She could see the fear on the peasants’ grim, forlorn faces as they gazed up from their work to watch the large party of knights, ladies, and men-at-arms ride by.


It broke her heart. “My God, who did this?”

She didn’t realize she’d spoken her thoughts aloud until her thirteen-year-old nephew Roger, who was riding beside her, answered. “King Hood himself. The usurper led his men through here last September. He started with the Earl of Dunbar’s lands, then came over the Cheviot Hills into Northumberland, raiding and harrying as far south as Harbottle and Holystone for nearly two weeks between the feast of the Nativity of Mary and St. Cissa’s Day, before scurrying back into his brigand’s foxhole.”

Rosalin had heard about Robert Bruce’s raids while she was at court at Whitehall last summer not long after King Edward returned to London. Cumberland had suffered a similar fate the month before, she recalled. But she’d never imagined…this.



Cliff had been safe at Brougham at the time with Lady Maud, so Rosalin hadn’t sought out every detail as she usually did. She didn’t want to take the chance of hearing his name.

“These poor people,” she said. “Was there no one to defend them?”

Roger’s mouth hardened, and her heart squeezed. He looked so like Cliff had at that age: tall and golden-haired, the lean build of youth already hinting at the formidable knight he would become. Also like Cliff, Roger was stubborn, determined, and fiercely proud, with a hefty dose of confidence. He had that air of invincibility seen in most young men who were training for knighthood but had yet to see battle.

“Most of the garrison at Berwick and Norham had left with King Edward the month before. No one expected Bruce to invade—or do it so quickly. Father had yet to be appointed governor of the castle.”

Roger was too politic to criticize Cliff’s predecessor, Sir John Spark, but Meg wasn’t. “Don’t worry, Aunt,” Meg said, turning around to look up at her. “The cursed rebels won’t show their vile faces around here again. Not with Father in charge.”

Roger and Rosalin exchanged a look, trying not to laugh. But obviously he wasn’t the only one to have inherited Cliff’s pride.

Roger leaned over and ruffled his sister’s hair fondly. “You’ve the right of it, brat. Father has the area well defended. Bruce wouldn’t dare attack. Hell, I’d wager even the Black Douglas and the Devil’s Enforcer Boyd would turn tail and run before facing Father’s men.”

Rosalin’s heart slammed against her ribs at the mention of his name. It wasn’t an infrequent occurrence, as the name of Bruce’s ruthless enforcer seemed to be mentioned nearly as often as Robert Bruce, Bruce’s phantoms, or the Black Douglas.



Everyone had heard of Robbie Boyd. He was one of the most hated, reviled, and feared men in England.

The familiar guilt rose inside her, twisting her stomach in knots. She hadn’t known…she hadn’t realized that the man she was releasing was Robbie Boyd. Even at that time, he’d already made a name for himself, having fought alongside William Wallace in the early days of the war. It was said that Wallace trusted him so implicitly, he left Boyd in charge of his army in his stead, even though Boyd was not yet twenty years old at the time.

Setting one of Wallace’s key commanders free was bad enough, but in the intervening six years it had become so much worse. While fighting for Bruce, Boyd’s reputation had grown to prodigious proportions. Even far from the war in London they spoke of him with a strange mixture of terror, awe, and revulsion.

Unknowingly, she had helped free one of Scotland’s most notorious rebels. Every story she heard—and there were a lot of them—weighed on her, making her question whether what she’d done was right.

At first, she hadn’t second-guessed herself. The man she’d watched for weeks couldn’t be as black-hearted as they said. There was good in him—he had a noble heart—she was certain of it. But over the years, as the stories took on a more sinister cast, her certainty wavered. Had her attraction to him blinded her to the truth? Had the star-filled gaze of a young girl in the throes of her first infatuation made her see things that weren’t there?

She didn’t want to think so, but the certainty she’d once known had long since faded.

Her only consolation was that her brother never suspected her role in the infamous prisoner’s escape. Boyd had kept his word—on both counts. He made it appear as if his men had overpowered the soldiers and then freed him, and he hadn’t killed any of her brother’s men. Ironically, that had become the part that troubled her brother the most: why had one of the most fierce, ruthless warriors in Scotland not killed men when he had the chance? Especially after Boyd’s forbearance in killing had not been rewarded before. Her brother didn’t like inconsistencies or mysteries, and for years she’d lived in fear that he would discover her part in the escape.



Hunting Boyd down had become personal for Cliff. That he had once held one of Bruce’s fiercest brigands and let him slip through his fingers was the one stain on an otherwise unblemished military career.

Cliff would be furious if he ever learned the truth. And worse, he would be disappointed—something she couldn’t bear to contemplate. Her brother was the one constant in her life, and his approval—his love—meant everything to her. He could never learn what she’d done.

“I hope they try,” Meg said. “Then Father will slay them and take their heads and stick them on the gate, and everyone will see them as they pass into the castle and know that Father is the greatest knight in England. Nay,” she turned around so Rosalin could see her fierce little face, “in Christendom.”

Roger laughed and ruffled her hair again before riding forward to join his friends. Rosalin hoped that would be the end of it, but unfortunately the men proceeded to recount some of the more horrific stories and deeds attributed to the Black Douglas and Robbie Boyd. The story of what had become known as the Douglas larder was the worst. All those men killed, tossed in the tower, and then burned? She shivered.

How could a man with the boyish nickname of Robbie do such horrible things? It couldn’t be true.

Eventually she had to ask Roger to stop—he was upsetting his sister—but in truth it was she that he was upsetting. Meg, who had been devouring every word, protested, but Rosalin distracted her by letting her hold the reins for a while and teaching her how to make the small movements of her hands to steer the horse.



It took less than a half hour to reach the village. While Rosalin and Meg and the two attendants who’d accompanied them were left to explore the many stalls of the fair lined up along the high street of the village, Roger and the rest of her brother’s men rode up the hill to the castle to meet with the commander of the garrison, presumably to discuss what they always discussed: war and Robert Bruce.

It was a chilly morning, and as the day drew on, it became even colder as the gray skies descended around them. Though she and Meg both wore hooded cloaks, Rosalin decided to purchase a couple of extra wool plaids for the ride back to Berwick.

Cognizant of the time approaching for them to meet Roger and the other soldiers, she quickly picked two weaves in soft blues, greens, and grays. She had just finished bundling them both up when she heard a strange shout.

Normally, she wouldn’t have paid it any mind—fairs were often loud and boisterous—but something about it sent an icy chill trickling down her spine.


Meg must have sensed something unusual as well. “What was that?”

They were standing at the far end of the high street, near where they were supposed to meet Roger, and it was difficult to see through the crowds and stalls to the other end of the village where the sound had come from. “I don’t know, sweeting. Probably nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. No sooner had she spoken than more cries rang out. In an instant, the already chaotic and crowded fair broke out into utter pandemonium.



She grabbed the arm of a woman who was running past her. “What is happening?” she asked.

The woman’s face was white with fear. “An attack, m’lady. The rebels are raiding the fair!”

Stunned, Rosalin immediately released her arm and the woman disappeared in the sea of people who’d flooded the street and were pouring toward them. It couldn’t be an attack. Not in the middle of the day. Not in Norham. Not even the Scots would dare flout her brother’s authority like that.

But they had—were. Oh God, what was she going to do?

She froze, having never been so scared in her life. A shout of “fire!” only added to the fear.

Suddenly, she felt a sharp tug on her hand. “Aunt Rosalin?”

Gazing down into the small, trying-not-to-look-frightened but obviously terrified face of her niece, Rosalin’s head instantly cleared. She schooled her features, showing none of the fear she felt inside. Meg needed her. “There is nothing to worry about, sweeting, the bad men won’t hurt—”

She stopped. Her mouth gaped. Dear God in heaven. Behind the sea of moving people, she caught her first glimpse of the invaders and everything she’d been about to say—everything she thought she knew about warriors, knights, and soldiers—fizzled out like a torch dunked in water.

She would have made the sign of the cross if she thought it would protect her. But nothing could protect her from these men.

Brigands. Pirates. Barbarians. She’d thought the names for the Scot warriors an exaggeration. But they weren’t. The raiders looked nothing like the gleaming mail-clad English knights with their colorful surcoats and banners. They wore darkened helms and crude black leather warcoats, some riveted with bits of steel. A few wore mail coifs, but those, too, were blackened. But most terrifying of all were the weapons that seemed strapped to every inch of their massive chests. She’d never seen so many poleaxes, swords, hammers, and spears in her life.



If the knights were figures of faerie tales, the Scots were creatures of nightmares. They looked rough, violent, and utterly deadly. No wonder the Scot raiders had been compared to the Vikings. The terror her ancestors must have felt watching the longboats approach their shores must be the same her countrymen felt now seeing the wild Scots ride across the border.

She could see only a handful of them, but it was enough. All thoughts of getting out of the way or hiding fell to the wayside.

“We have to get to the castle,” she said to Meg and the terrified servants. Behind the castle walls they would be protected. Norham Castle was one of the most impenetrable strongholds in the Borders, nearly as impenetrable as Berwick Castle. “We’ll be safe there,” she assured the wide-eyed little girl. “With Roger and the rest of the men.”

Unfortunately, Roger wasn’t in the castle.

No sooner had Rosalin grabbed Meg’s hand and plunged into the crowd, the two attendants following, than she heard the fierce pounding of hooves ahead of her.

Oh God, no, please don’t let it be…

But her prayer wasn’t answered. In the blur of knights and men-at-arms riding past them, she caught sight of her nephew near the rear of the party. They must have been already approaching to meet her and Meg when they realized what was happening.

How many of Cliff’s men had accompanied them? She hadn’t counted earlier. Twenty? Maybe a few more?

Against how many of the enemy? She didn’t know; she just prayed it would be enough.

The crash of steel on steel was deafening—and much closer than she’d anticipated. A few women in the crowd let out terrified shrieks. One of the serving women started to cry behind her. The smoke was thickening, turning the skies to night.



Rosalin glanced down the street and not forty feet away, her brother’s men were exchanging blows of their swords with the attackers. She heaved a sigh of relief, seeing that the Scots were outnumbered by about two to one. And thankfully, Roger, at the rear, was nowhere near the fighting.

But her relief didn’t last long. Within an instant, two of her brother’s household knights fell beneath the enemies’ swords. She cried out in horror. Some of her brother’s fiercest champions had just been cut down like butter.

She forced her gaze away. Though she desperately wanted to watch and make sure Roger was all right, she had to get Meg to safety.

Rosalin tried to forge through the crowd that had slowed as people turned to watch—as she had—the unfolding battle happening just a short distance away. A few voices rang out around her, offering encouraging words, if a bit colorfully, to the English soldiers. She forced herself not to look as she concentrated on getting Meg to safety.

Meg, however, was still watching. They’d just reached the place where the road funneled into the village and headed up the hill to the castle when she let out a cry and tried to pull away.

Rosalin turned around. “What is it, Meg? What’s wrong?”

The little girl pointed toward the village. “The brigand has Roger.”

Rosalin’s heart dropped like a stone. Through the swarm of people still trying to fight their way out of the village, through the dust of battle, through the black smoke and flames now engulfing the village, she could see that Meg spoke true. Roger had been unhorsed, and he was being held up by the scruff of his neck like a pup by one of the rebels.





An eye for an eye. Clifford was going to lose his mind.

Robbie smiled from behind the cold steel of his darkened helm as he watched one of Northern England’s most important villages go up in flames. He felt nothing but satisfaction for a job well done. Pity had been burned out of him a long time ago.

Maybe it had been his sister’s rape, or his brother’s execution, or the miles and miles of Scottish scorched earth he’d seen left in the wake of an English army, the bodies of people who’d dared to disagree with their English overlords, torn apart by horses, the heads of his friends on gates, or any of the other countless atrocities he’d witnessed since the first, when he’d seen his father’s burned body hanging from the rafters. But somewhere in the past fifteen years, his hatred for all things English was complete.

And no one epitomized England for him more than Robert Clifford. Sir Robert Clifford, he amended. Clifford was just one more English bastard in a long line who wore his knighthood like a cloak of hypocrisy, as if he could hide the injustice of tyranny behind a shimmering shield of chivalry.

It wasn’t just the opportunistic attempt to conquer their land and usurp the throne of a sovereign nation—although that was enough. Never far from Robbie’s mind was the friend who’d lost his life under Clifford’s command. Thomas Keith, his kinsman and boyhood companion, had escaped from Kildrummy prison only to die two days later. For Thomas, their rescue had come too late. The beating that he’d suffered at the hand of Clifford’s soldier had proved too much.


Robbie frowned as another memory struck. He supposed there was one exception to his hatred of all things English. He could still remember his shock at looking up from that hellish pit where he’d thought to spend his last night and realizing that not only was his savior a woman, she was also English. He had assumed their guardian angel (what his men had taken to calling the person bringing them food) was one of the Scottish serving lasses who’d remained at the castle when it was taken.



Another memory followed. This one of the softest, sweetest lips he’d ever tasted. Lips that had been completely wrong for him to taste in the first place. Thanks to the cloak and the darkness he’d seen her face only in shadows, but if the lass had been eighteen, he’d drink the swill the English called brandy for a week.

Even after six years, he still couldn’t say why he’d done it. Maybe because she was so young and innocent, and he’d been living in hell for so long. Maybe because he’d realized why she’d helped him and had been unexpectedly touched. It wasn’t the first time a young lass had thought herself enamored, but it sure as hell had been the most opportune. He’d wanted to thank her. He still did. But after all these years of trying to find out who she was, he almost wondered whether he’d imagined her.

Strange that he still thought of her at all, especially when the memory invoked thoughts of what had been some of the darkest days of his life.

Thanks to Clifford.

But Robbie would bring the English baron to heel in the end, of that he was damned sure. The arrogant bastard wasn’t going to be able to ignore this. Such a bold attack right in the heart of his “realm” was a direct affront to Clifford’s authority and would prove to him there was nothing they wouldn’t dare. It would bring him to the table. He’d sign the damned truce and pay the two thousand pounds just like all the others.

Carrying off an attack of such magnitude in the shadow of one of the largest English garrisons in the Borders was a daring proposition even for one of the elite members of the Highland Guard. But Robbie had planned everything down to the smallest detail. He always did. It was part of why Bruce’s war had been so successful. They’d learned from Wallace’s successes and not only built on them but improved them. The terrifying, wild “pirate” raids of which the English accused them had become extremely disciplined and well-organized professionally waged attacks.



And so far everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned. Well, except for the soldiers. But his men were dealing with the unexpected resistance. Quite quickly, it appeared—even though they were out-manned by at least two to one.

He smiled again. This might not be a mission dangerous enough for the Highland Guard, but the men Robbie had brought with him were his own, and he’d taught them well.

Though tempted to join the fun himself, he was in charge and had to stand back and make sure nothing went wrong.

With one eye on the battle taking place down the street, he watched while two of his men loaded the grain, goods, and coin that would fund the king’s army for the next few months onto the sumpter horses they’d brought for that purpose. With the exception of a few chickens, they didn’t bother with the livestock. It would only slow them down, and unlike their typical raids conducted well away from any castle, for this they were going to need to disappear fast.

He stiffened as Seton, who’d been overseeing the men setting the fires, approached. From his angry stride, Robbie guessed what he was going to say.

“I thought you said no one would be hurt.”

Robbie clenched his jaw. “I gave the same orders as the king: no one is to be hurt unless they resist. It’s a mercy, I’ll point out, not often returned by your English countrymen. But as you can see,” he pointed to the soldiers, “they are resisting.”



Seton’s face was hidden behind his helm, but Robbie saw his eyes narrow at the word countrymen. Though raised in Scotland, Seton had been born in England, where most of his family’s lands were, and Robbie never let him forget it.

But they’d been partners for too long for Seton to be so easily baited. “I told you this was a bad idea. It’s too dangerous. But Clifford tweaked your pride, so now you have to tweak his. Even if we all end up swinging from the gibbet.”

Robbie’s jaw clenched even harder. He was well aware of Seton’s feelings on the matter. What had started out as an ill-fated partnership between them in the Highland Guard had never materialized into anything else, despite their leader Tor “Chief” MacLeod’s intent. They’d learned to tolerate each other, work together, and rely on each other when they had to, but they would never see eye to eye.

If anything, the tension between them had gotten worse since their unfortunate pairing in the early days of the war. Seton’s dissatisfaction with how they were winning this war had been growing for some time. But if they’d played knights the way Seton wanted, they’d still be outlaws “lost” in the damned Isles.

“This isn’t about pride,” Robbie said, annoyed in spite of his vow not to let Seton get to him. “I’m doing my job. Bruce needs the food and the truce. If you have a problem, take it up with the king.”

“I intend to.”

The two men faced off against each other, as had happened too many damned times to count. Finally, Seton stepped back—as had also happened too many times to count. Seton might have been born in England, but being raised in Scotland had given him some sense. He knew better than to challenge Robbie. His reputation had been well earned.



Seton shook his head, gazing at all the destruction around him. “Where the hell is the justice in this?”

The question hadn’t been directed at him, but he answered anyway. “An eye for an eye—that’s the only justice the English understand. Looking for anything else only makes you naive.”

“Better naive than dead.” Seton held Robbie’s gaze. “Or as good as dead.”

Robbie’s eyes narrowed. What the hell did he mean by that?

Before he could ask, Seton said, “We have what we need. We should go in case any more of Clifford’s men are about.”

It took Robbie a moment to realize what Seton meant, but when he looked back down the street at the soldiers his men were battling, he recognized what he hadn’t noticed before: the arms of some of Clifford’s household knights.

God’s bones, this was even better than he could have hoped for! A raid right in the heart of Clifford’s dominion and defeating a force of his men?

He smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be leaving soon enough. The men are almost done.”

He instructed the two men loading the horses to finish up, helping to fasten the last sacks himself.

Seton had left to gather the rest of the men, when one of Robbie’s men came racing toward him. Despite the helm, Robbie recognized him instantly from his slight build. Malcolm Stewart, a distant kinsmen of his, might be only seventeen, and half the size of most of the men around him, but he fought with the heart of a lion.

“Captain,” he said anxiously. “We have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Sir Alexander has Clifford’s son.”

Robbie stilled. In the din of the battle taking place all around him, he thought he hadn’t heard him right. “What did you say?”




“Lord Fraser has Clifford’s son.”

Robbie muttered a curse as if it were a prayer. He couldn’t believe it. Was it possible? Could fortune have shined on him so brightly? “What the hell is the problem? Take him!”

Having Clifford’s son as a hostage would leave the English commander no choice. Clifford would have to accede to their demands.

Robbie couldn’t have planned for anything more perfect.

“That’s not the problem. The problem is the lady, Captain. She won’t let go of the boy and Sir Alexander doesn’t want to hurt her.”

As much as he liked MacLeod’s young brother by marriage, Alexander Fraser was a knight and like his English counterparts, chivalrous to a fault.

Robbie scanned the battle. Not seeing them, he realized that they must be away from the main part of the army. “Take me to them.”

But they’d taken only a few steps before Robbie heard a sound that told him their fortune had just changed.

“The gate!” Seton shouted in warning.

Robbie swore. “I see it.”

The English garrison had apparently decided to leave the comfort and protection of their stone walls and come to their countrymen’s aid, probably because of the lad.

Robbie and his men had overstayed their welcome. But he had no intention of leaving the boy behind. He could see him now—and the plaid-cloaked problem. The woman had her back to him, but she was clutching the boy, trying to pull him away from an obviously uncomfortable Fraser, who was doing his best to try to detach her from the boy without being too rough and equally obviously having a difficult time of it.

The woman was tenacious; Robbie would give her that. She wouldn’t let go. He’d recalled a few of the sort at the Highland Games.



He swore again, glancing at the hill. The soldiers from the castle were closing in quickly.

His mouth fell in a hard line. They didn’t have time for this. He would take care of the problem himself.