The words hung in the room, adding to the already thick air. Several of the men shifted in their seats, uncomfortable with any olive branch offered by the weak king, while others smiled, proud of the Scots’ success.
“So our work over the past summer had netted results, and the foppish king now quakes in fear of the Scots drum that beats to the north. None too soon, I might add,” Laird MacMillan announced. Heads nodded in agreement, followed by grumbles.
“I’d nay say as much,” Torin’s deep voice resonated in the cramped chambers. “I dinna trust an Englishman as far as I can throw him.”
“’Tis no’ saying much,” his Laird, Declan, countered with a sharp grin. “Ye could throw a man rather far, ye ken.”
The grumbling became low guffaws at the giant Torin’s expense, and the man reveled in it. James glanced around the chambers, taking the measure of the men and the value they put on the missive. James, for one, had no faith in the message at all. Too often, the English have reached out, only to turn on the Scots at the last minute. This could readily be the same.
The Bruce waved his hand to garner the men’s attention. “Aye, I tend to agree with Torin. I want to move cautiously. Yet, we have struck hard into the heart of the English encroachment in Scotland, and with how weak the new king seems to be, I’d err on the side that they desire to settle this once and for all. To control Scotland was Longshanks’ great desire, no’ necessarily his son’s, after all.”
The men grunted and nodded in agreement. What man didn’t prefer to lay his sword to the side and sleep in his own bed with his wife? James thought. They were tired — tired of battle, tired of the English, tired of death. An opportunity to end all that? Even James was enticed. He spun his sword again.
“Douglas?” the king interrupted his reverie.
James flicked his gaze over his shoulder to Shabib who nodded enigmatically. Shabib would follow James’s lead, as he had thus far. Had any man had a companion as loyal as Shabib? James returned his eyes to the Bruce.
Mayhap a man had.
“What do ye think of this missive?” Robert asked.
James stopped spinning his sword, and gripping the worn hilt in a steady grip, he flipped it up, admiring the weapon that had kept him and those he loved alive to this day.
“Aye, it could be the boy-king wants to end his father’s war. That he’s taken full measure of his recent losses and desires for it to end. But we dinna know what his advisers, some of whom also served his father, have whispered in his ear.” He dropped his sword tip to the stone floor again. “I think as long as we take every precaution, set the time and place, come well prepared for a sneak attack, then we should at least listen to what the emissary has to say.”
The Bruce stared at James, as if weighing his captain’s words. From the look on the other men’s faces, James spoke what the others were thinking, and the Bruce took note of this. He nodded slowly.
“Aye, I believe we are all in agreement. I’ll respond to this missive, and perchance, by the time the leaves change, this war might be at an end.”
At the eventide meal, the Bruce introduced James, Declan, Torin, and the rest of his advisers to the Lairds and chieftains who had arrived over the past several days. The keep and nearby crofts were filled to bursting with men and their kin eager to join the Bruce in the Scots victorious army.
Of the new arrivals, it wasn’t the MacMillan laird or his men who drew James’s attention, rather ‘twas the dark-eyed lass wrapped in a burgundy cape standing shyly with the two other women who’d arrived with the MacMillans. Full, ebony curls escaped from her hood and danced in the setting light of day.
It wasn’t so much what the woman looked like, but what she didn’t look like. The MacMillans were a fair bunch, mostly blonde and tawny hair, light eyes, and pasty skin. This lass with darker hair and shifting, nervous eyes stood out under James’s astute assessment.
More importantly, James didn’t miss the change in Shabib’s stance when the woman appeared outside with the rest of her kin. He stood straighter and patted his cobalt blue robe, brushing away any lingering mud or dust. James struggled to stop the grin that formed on his lips. Shabib didn’t know James watched him.
Like James, Shabib had been without family, a solitary man with a haunted soul, for too long. James raised an eyebrow at his friend. If the Black Douglas found a lass to give him the solace he needed, body and soul, then so might his mysterious companion. And after all the ribbing he’d received from Shabib about his marriage, James wasn’t going to pass on his own opportunity for a tease. He leaned over to Shabib’s stiff form.
“Och, the dark-haired lass seems a bit unnerved. Ye thinks she kens my name? I should introduce her to the Black Douglas. How fast do ye thinks she will run in the opposite direction?”
Then James took a wide step in the woman’s direction. Shabib stayed him with a long-fingered hand.
“Do not cause the woman any more fretfulness. Can you not see she is petrified? She is as a lost doe, trying to find her way in a strange wood.”
James bit the inside of his lip, trying to hide the smile that threatened to burst forth. “Such poesy from so hard a man. I did no’ think ye had it in ye, old friend. Is there something about this lass that I should know?”
Shabib’s face hardened, his lips pursed in irritation at James’s tease.
“Nothing like that,” Shabib grumbled. “I’d say the same of any frightened looking woman in your presence.”
“Och, would ye now?” James’s eyebrow rose high on his forehead, and he barked out a rough laugh, drawing the attention of several nearby men. James merely laughed harder as Shabib’s jaw clenched. “I did no’ see ye doing that for any other lass arriving at the keep. Ye did no’ such thing for Tosia. In fact, ye threw that lass at me, convincing her into the arms of the Black Douglas.”
“She was already claimed for ye by the king . . .” Shabib protested weakly, his voice trailing off. James clapped a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder, knocking Shabib forward.
“As much as I needed a woman to keep me from losing myself to a life of violence and vengeance, so ye need one too. I’ll inquire if the lass is attached or betrothed. Robert will no’ pass up the opportunity to play matchmaker again.”
James strode off. Shabib grasped for James’s plaid, trying to yank the man back, only to have the wool escape his grip.
