What chance did the English have to end this war when no one was in charge, the commanders were at each other’s throats, and the king wouldn’t listen to reason? And even if the English did manage to end it, could Alex count on Edward to protect the Scots in the Borders? Or would they just exchange one kind of suffering for another?

Alex listened in disbelief as Edward humiliated the very nephew he’d foolishly favored with co-command of the vanguard—young Gloucester—and ignored his sound advice.

“We have arrived in time to relieve the siege,” Gloucester pointed out. “There is no need to force the Scots into a confrontation tomorrow. The men are tired after marching for a week. The carts and infantry are still straggling in. Let us rest a day, get the men organized, find better ground for our troops, and wait and see what Bruce will do.”

“And give him a chance to slink back into his fox hole?” King Edward demanded furiously. “Are you a fool, nephew, or merely a coward?”

The word fell like the slap of a gauntlet. Gloucester’s face turned nearly purple with anger.

Hereford, his enemy who’d been forced into joint leadership with Edward’s favorite nephew, smirked.

And that is how it went in that crowded, hot, and pungent tent, teeming with angry and disheartened knights in battle-scuffed mail: fractious discord made wider by the king, and any effort to urge caution met with scorn and derision.

If Edward had troubled himself to walk around the camp through the boggy ground and look at the disarray and exhaustion of his army, he would have seen the truth. But like the unfortunate Sir Henry de Bohun, he was so caught up in the perceived glory of defeating Bruce and the Scots in a pitched battle that he would not heed caution. With nearly eighteen thousand men—three times as many as Bruce—Edward would not conceive of anything other than an English victory. If Bruce could be persuaded into taking the field, that is.

At least on that they agreed. Bruce needed to take the field. And if Alex wanted an end to this war—the right end—he knew what he had to do.

“It’s not too late.”

He sure as hell hoped she was right.

Despite it being close to midnight, the sky was not yet completely dark as Alex crept through the shadows, winding his way through the tents and fitfully sleeping soldiers. The English were on alert, half expecting a middle-of-the-night attack by Bruce. Still, Alex was stopped by sentries only once.

“I carry a message from the earl”—Pembroke, Alex meant—“to my men guarding the carts.” The carts that were on the other side of the Bannock Burn.

They let him go.