After a couple of weeks being around Felton, Alex had new respect for Kenneth Sutherland’s ability to contain his well-known temper. Felton had been Sutherland’s nemesis when he’d returned to the English fold as a spy a few years ago, and Alex didn’t know how Sutherland hadn’t ended up killing him. Alex would like nothing more than to do so right now. But then he would have to use his right hand. His arm was fine, but he wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

This time not only were his teeth gritted, but his fists were clenched around his reins as well. “I take orders from the earl. I wasn’t aware he’d put you in charge.”

“He hasn’t,” Pembroke said with an admonishing glance at Felton. “I shall lead.” In addition to Felton and the knights he’d mentioned, Pembroke added a few others, and then turned to Alex. “Felton was right. We need someone to protect the carts, and until your arm is strong enough you are the obvious choice. Stay here, and I’ll send for you if you and your men are needed.”

Had Felton not been the one to suggest it, Alex might have been glad not to have to face his former friends just yet. Hell, he was glad—Felton or not. He’d hoped to never be in this position.

A few moments later, the bulk of the army rode off, leaving Alex, the dozen men he’d brought with him from his estates in East Lothian, and the fifty or so servants and skilled laborers who accompanied the army, from the stable lads who tended the horses, to the smiths and their apprentices who repaired the armor and shoed the horses. The “small army” as it was called was a vital part of any conventional force, but it also complicated the process and prevented them from moving quickly. By contrast, the small strike forces that Bruce employed weren’t hampered by all the added weight and logistics. That was part of what had made them so successful.

The first clash of battle sounded like a thunderclap; it filtered through the cold evening air as if it were a hundred feet away rather than a half-mile or so. The roar of the attack, the shouts of surprise, the clatter of steel . . . the cries of death. It was fast and furious. Or at least it should have been with nearly two hundred men to forty. But after about five minutes something changed. There was a shift in the sounds of the battle that told him something had happened. A short while later, he found out what.

One of Pembroke’s men-at-arms came racing back. “Take what you can and make for the castle. The Scots are on their way.”

Alex swore. “What happened?”