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of pine cones splintering under the hooves of his grey palfrey, Ghost. The trees that cloaked the hill thinned to the right where the land fell sharply into the valley cut by the River Almond. Beyond, in the distance, the mountains of Breadalbane were stark against the wine-dark sky.
    While he had been spying on Perth, the greater part of his army had spread out among the trees on the other side of the ridge. Almost one thousand strong, they were a diverse assembly of drovers, shepherds, farmers and tradesmen armed with spears and clubs, young squires girded with keen-bladed swords and archers from Selkirk Forest in green woollen hukes. There were also a number of Highlanders bearing long-handled axes and clad in their customary short tunics, their bare legs covered with bites from insects that came as a plague on the midsummer winds. Among these commoners were some of the highest-born men of the realm, garbed in surcoats and mail, surrounded by retinues of knights and servants. Many rested on the grass, helms and shields beside them. The amber glow of torches highlighted their faces, full of question and expectation as their king rode in, his gold mantle cascading over the rump of his horse, emblazoned with the red lion of Scotland.
    Ordering John of Atholl to summon the rest of his commanders to a war council, Robert urged Ghost into a clearing where Nes was overseeing two servants erecting a tent. A small campfire was burning and an iron pot had been strung up over it. The rich smell of meat mingled with the tang of smoke and pine sap.
    ‘I had Patrick make camp, sire,’ Nes said, taking the palfrey’s reins. Although recently knighted, Nes had been Robert’s squire for years before that and the gesture was automatic.
    The tent was small, with room for just one man, but it was shelter enough on a balmy night like this. Buckets, blankets and other supplies had been stacked on the ground, removed from the pack-horses. The raid on Galloway had called for the army to travel light from Aberdeen, forgoing carts and wagons. Robert didn’t even have the royal standard with him, only his old banner that displayed the Carrick arms. The standard, the only item of Scottish regalia hidden from King Edward after the first conquest, had been presented before his coronation by Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow, but after the ceremony, he had asked the bishop to keep it safe until his reign was secured.
    This simple forest camp wasn’t much fit for a king, but there was comfort in its familiarity. In the early years of the war Robert had spent more nights with moss and bracken for a bed than silk and feathers.
    Feeling something brush his leg, he looked down to see his hound had come to greet him. Fionn, the last of Uathach’s brood, named after the Irish warrior whose legends he had learned in the hall of his foster-father in Antrim, was tall, almost at his hip, with a coarse grey coat. A fearsome hunter who could bring down a fully grown buck, Fionn wore a thick leather collar studded with spikes. Robert ruffled his ears.
    Nes handed Ghost’s reins to one of the grooms, who led the palfrey away, avoiding Hunter, cropping the grass nearby. As Robert’s gaze moved over the muscular rump of his warhorse he realised the leather bag Hunter had carried since the coronation was gone. He looked to the pile of gear outside the tent. It wasn’t there. ‘Nes, where is my pack?’
    ‘In your tent. Safe, my lord.’
    Robert’s concern dissipated slowly. ‘Have Patrick bring wine and food for me and my men.’
    As the order to make camp went round, the army fanned out across the ridge. Men gathered wood and hacked at the undergrowth to clear pitches for blankets. As Robert crossed to the fire his servants had set, he worried for a moment whether the smoke would be seen from Perth, but the town was miles away and the high point of the ridge and the dense cover of trees shrouded them from enemy eyes. Scouts had already been sent to patrol