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the boundary of the woods. As he stood, watching the flames, going over in his mind what he had seen of the English camp, Fionn settled down beside him, his great head resting on outstretched paws. One by one, Robert’s commanders joined him there.
    His brother, Edward, was first, with Neil Campbell and Christopher Seton. Neil, who had discarded the peasant disguise and was back in his mail and surcoat, took the goblet of wine offered by Patrick. The knotted scar on Neil’s cheek was highlighted by the yellow bloom of the fire; an ugly legacy from the skirmish outside Glasgow a year ago, which had seen the capture of William Wallace. Robert knew deeper scars of that battle lay below the surface, the knight blaming himself for not saving Wallace, in whose company he had found a home and a purpose after the loss of his lands to the MacDougall lords of Argyll. Christopher Seton declined the proffered wine. There was a time when the amiable Yorkshireman would have brought cheer to any gathering, but that fateful night five months ago in Dumfries had wrought its darkness in him and he remained sombre and unspeaking as he crouched beside Neil, his fair hair hanging in his eyes as he stared into the flames.
    Gilbert de la Hay arrived, taking a slab of bread and a bowl of the meat stew Patrick was dishing out. At his side was Malcolm, Earl of Lennox, a full foot shorter, wearing a black velvet cloak over his surcoat which showed his livery: a red saltire and four roses on white. Malcolm’s handsome face was pensive as he accepted the wine, his eyes on Robert. Following them were Earl John of Atholl and his son David. Robert at once felt fortified by his brother-in-law’s presence. John, a good friend of his grandfather’s, had become one of his most trusted companions. The older man exuded a reassuring authority that Robert had grown to welcome more and more these turbulent past months. Privately, he envied David having such a man for a father.
    James Douglas emerged from the shadows beyond the pool of firelight, his hair crow-black against his white skin, strangely untouched by the summer sun. James, who had lost his lands and his father to the English, had recently turned twenty-one. The softness of youth had all but faded from his face, his features hardening into those of a determined, intense young man. With him was Niall Bruce, the youngest of Robert’s four brothers, as tall and dark as James yet lighter in manner, with a smile for his brother as he approached. Robert frowned, seeing a third figure behind them – a sandy-haired youth with narrow-set eyes. His nephew, Thomas Randolph, hadn’t been invited to the council. Robert thought to dismiss him, but stopped himself. Thomas, who had recently inherited his father’s lands in Roxburgh, had brought a good number of men to his company. He didn’t have to like the youth, but he ought to give him a chance to prove himself. Besides, he had promised his half-sister, Margaret, he would look after her son on the campaign.
    As these young squires sat by the fire, Thomas looking around self-importantly, the last men arrived – James Stewart, Simon Fraser and Alexander Seton. Alexander took the goblet that was handed to him, without thanks. Not meeting Robert’s eye, the lord from East Lothian stood apart from the others.
    Robert surveyed the thirteen men, whose faces were bruised by the firelight. There were notable absences in the form of his brothers, Thomas and Alexander, and the bishops of St Andrews and Glasgow, but in the main those here present were, through trust, need or circumstance, his closest advisers. Together they formed a disparate council: great magnates like John of Atholl and James Stewart who had served King Alexander and remembered well the days of peace before the war with England, and hard-bitten warriors like Neil Campbell, Simon Fraser and Gilbert de la Hay, who had cultivated reputations for violence under William Wallace and been lords of the