Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) by N. Gemini Sasson

in by ones and twos. Not even the priest seemed to notice that the women and children had been left at home that day.
    I slipped my fingers beneath my cloak and wrapped them around the length of steel pressed against my ribs. Dickson glanced at me. As I brought my sword out, I gave the cry:
    “Douglas! A Douglas!”
    The soldier who had spat at me spun about, already reaching across his torso. He grasped the hilt of his weapon, drew it halfway and grunted as I plunged my blade deep in his belly. Blood gushed from the hole. His fingers fell away from his sword. He crumpled forward, clutching my blade.
    “I gave you a sporting chance,” I said with a grin. “I could have run you through from behind without ever having said a word.”
    I shoved my sword deeper and twisted, then spat in his face. His eyes rolled up into his head. With a jerk, I heaved my weapon free and he fell to the floor in a lifeless heap.
    One less Englishman in the world.
     
     
    Carrick, 1307
    I returned to our camp with more than twenty men, our horses laden with the spoils from Douglas Castle.
    From the back of the bone-thin nag I had used to pull the cart, I lifted a clanking sack and heaved it to the ground. I untied it, reached inside and drew out a short sword and a mail coif. Torquil and Cuthbert were handing out other treasures to the cheers and adulation of everyone.
    “And what did you do then?” Boyd asked.
    I flipped a coin in the air, then tossed it to Boyd. “Not only did we have ourselves a fine feast, but they left both their treasury and their armory unguarded.”
    “Perhaps they knew you were coming, good James,” Robert said, “and wished to express their generosity.”
    “I should like to think. Unfortunately, though, Clifford was not there.” My mouth twitched with a smile. “But at least he has no castle to govern now. And as long as they keep coming and trying to steal my home, I’ll keep reminding them that Englishmen are not welcome there.”
    “A Douglas!” one of the men bellowed. Soon it was an uproarious chant. I grasped handful after handful of coins from the ground and flung them in sweeping arcs until the mound was gone.
    “So tell,” Edward said, as he weighed a sword in his hands, dug at the nicks in the blade with his fingernail, then dropped it at his feet, “what ruin did you inflict that left your men in such a giddy air?”
    I fingered the last coin. “I will allow our faithful Cuthbert to relay the tale.”
    “Well, Cuthbert?” Edward slammed his foot down on the blade just as Cuthbert reached for it. “What wondrous feat did your good and noble knight perform?”
    Cuthbert shrank away. He studied his feet. “Burnt it. Every last timber. Every sack of grain. Piled all the dead bodies on top of the corn in the cellar, hacked open the wine casks and set it all ablaze. Gone. Like that.” He fluttered his hands above his head and blew a short burst of air between his lips. Slowly then, he bent to reach again for the sword. “And we poisoned the well with salt. Stuffed it with dead horses, too.”
    “One less fortress to be of any use to us. Not as if we needed it.” Edward withdrew his foot. “We’re doing quite splendidly in our cozy little cavern. A castle is always in need of such repair. So many tedious, daily tasks – tables to be set, beds to be made. The bother of it all.”
    Cuthbert nabbed the sword and ducked away from Edward. Then he hobbled off, flailing his prize in broad, swooshing arcs before him as he battled an imaginary foe.
    “One less for the English, as well,” Robert added as he stepped through the celebratory crowd.
    “Oh, come, brother.” Edward threw his hands wide. “Are we to go about destroying our own? I fail to see the wisdom in such vengeful folly.”
    “We all might learn a lesson from James.” Robert tilted his head thoughtfully. “Unorthodox, that I’ll grant you. But we cannot battle Longshanks on Longshanks’ terms. We must make our own.”
    Had