Page 128 of The Hawk
Now that Hawk had returned—married, and from the satisfied grin on his face, back to himself—only one of the elite warriors was missing. Not missing, he corrected, planted like a seed deep in the heart of his enemy, ready to take root when the time had come.
Bruce motioned the man forward.
“For you, sire.” He bowed, handing him the piece of parchment. “From Burgh-on-Sands.”
Bruce frowned, wondering if this was the news they’d been waiting for. Edward had mustered his men in Carlisle a few days ago and was reported to have raised himself from his sickbed once more to lead the march on Bruce.
He opened the missive, scanned the three words, and fell back in his chair.
“What is it?” MacLeod asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Bruce gazed at him in stunned disbelief. “Perhaps I have. But this is a ghost I’m happy to see.” He looked around the room, elation slowly building inside him to replace the shock. “He’s dead.” He laughed, it finally sinking in that his old nemesis was gone. “Send out the word to ring every church bell from coast to coast. King Edward has gone to the bloody devil!”
The men exploded in triumphant cheers. They would not show pity for the man in death who’d shown so little mercy to them in life. The self-styled “Hammer of the Scots” had gone to hell where he belonged, taking his dreaded dragon banner along with him.
He knew that with Edward Plantagenet’s death, the tide had turned once more from England back to Scotland. To the enemies within. Instead of Edward, Bruce would be facing his own countrymen across the battlefield: the murderous MacDowells in the south who’d killed his brothers, and his old enemies in the north, the Comyns and the MacDougalls.
He smiled. The seed he’d planted was about to take root.
