Cassian: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Immortal Highland Centurions Book 2)

by Jayne Castel

  The laird’s face twisted at these last words, reminding Cassian of just how much contempt he held his wife in. The relationship between them was wintry these days; Cassian rarely observed De Keith show Lady Gavina any warmth on the many occasions he’d seen them together. But, ever since Shaw Irvine’s threat, he treated her with open scorn.

  “Ye are like a dog with a bone,” William Wallace spoke up once more. He was watching the laird with a faint look of distaste upon his rugged features. “Not only that, but many men would be happy to have Lady Gavina as their wife … ye are a fool to treat her as yer enemy.”

  De Keith drew himself up at that, slamming the now empty cup upon the mantelpiece. His brown eyes gleamed as he stared Wallace down.

  Cassian tensed. Ever since the Wallace’s arrival, the relationship between these two men had been strained.

  Unlike his elder brother, Robert, David didn’t welcome the freedom fighter’s presence at Dunnottar. He’d never said as much, yet displeasure had been written all over his face on the day Wallace and his men turned up. David De Keith was adept at wearing a mask, but he hadn’t fooled Cassian—and Cassian wagered that William Wallace wasn’t fooled either.

  At De Keith’s aggressive behavior, Draco took a step forward, his right hand straying to the dirk that hung at his side. However, he didn’t draw it. Cassian’s gaze narrowed at his friend’s gesture. If things spiraled out of control here, he and Draco might have to fight each other, for he would have to protect his laird.

  Reluctantly, Cassian’s hand strayed to the hilt of his own blade.

  David De Keith ignored them both.

  “I’ll thank ye for not passing comment on matters on which ye are ignorant,” De Keith growled, a nerve flickering under one eye. “The state of my marriage has nothing to do with ye.”

  Wallace’s mouth flattened, although a moment later, he waved the comment away as if it and De Keith’s anger held little importance to him. “The fact remains that Irvine and his ‘Battle Hammer’ shouldn’t be yer focus, De Keith. Instead, Edward perches like a carrion crow in Stirling Castle … and we need to know what his next move will be.”

  De Keith sneered. “If we wait, we shall see soon enough.”

  Wallace stared him down. “Edward is a cunning bastard … we need to be one step ahead of him. And that’s why ye need to go to Stirling, under the guise of swearing fealty. Ye need to gain his trust … and discover how he plans to take the Highlands. If we know what he intends, we can decide how best to defend ourselves … or even rally the clans for an attack.”

  A taut silence settled over the solar. It was a large, airy space dominated by a great hearth with a stag’s head mounted over it. A heavy claidheamh-mòr—a great Scottish broadsword that had belonged to De Keith’s father—hung upon the pitted stone wall opposite the fire place. Beneath the sword was a banner that bore the De Keith clan’s crest—a roebuck’s head.

  “I’m not leaving Dunnottar,” De Keith bit out finally.

  “Ye are afraid,” William Wallace accused, his temper fraying now. “Admit it, man. Irvine is merely an excuse. The truth is that the thought of leaving these sheltering walls makes ye shit yer braies.”

  De Keith’s face reddened. “Careful, Wallace,” he ground out, a vein now pulsing upon his temple. “Sometimes I think ye forget ye are a guest here.”

  “And sometimes I think ye forget that I liberated this castle for ye,” Wallace shot back, his own voice harsh. “If it wasn’t for me, ye’d already be kneeling at Edward’s feet.”

  V

  HOPE

  CASSIAN STEPPED OUT of the keep into the lower ward and heaved in a deep breath of salt-laced air.

  Draco turned to him, a grim smile upon his lips. “Well … that was entertaining.”

  Cassian pulled a face. There had been a few moments when he’d thought the argument between De Keith and Wallace would escalate into a fist fight, one that he and Draco would have to break up. However, De Keith had eventually terminated the meeting by storming from the chamber. “Is that disappointment I hear in your voice?”

  Draco’s smile widened to a grin. “I like a good brawl … and you and I haven’t drawn knives against each other in a long while.”

  Cassian snorted. It had to be six centuries at least.

  “Wallace was deliberately baiting him,” Draco continued as the two men made their way down the steps into the lower ward. It was a breezy afternoon, and a zephyr of straw and dust danced across the cobbled expanse in front of them. Around them, the hammering of iron echoed off stone, while the walls above bristled with helmeted figures, their spears outlined against the sky. Dunnottar was readying itself for war. “And De Keith fell for it. Wallace cares nothing for the laird’s supercilious wife.”

  Cassian raised an eyebrow. It seemed De Keith’s wife hadn’t impressed Draco; few women appeared to these days.

  “You could be right,” he admitted, remembering how—upon the laird’s exit—Wallace had turned to Draco and flashed him a wolfish smile.

  The fact that De Keith hadn’t yet agreed to go to Stirling didn’t appear to bother him. Wallace wasn’t going to let this subject drop.

  Massaging a tense muscle in his shoulder, Cassian turned left and headed for the southern gateway, which led out of the fort and down the cliff face to the dungeons. Wordlessly, Draco fell into step next to him. They greeted the guards at the gate before taking the stairs that had been etched into the rock.

  What a strange morning it had been. First, he’d stumbled upon Dunnottar’s smith aggressing Lady Gavina’s maid. And then he’d been summoned to the laird’s solar to watch Wallace toy with De Keith. It was a relief to get out of the stifling keep and away from all its tensions for a short while.

  Cassian led the way down to the dungeons, moving carefully on the narrow steps. It was a steep drop to where waves crashed against sharp rocks below. The afternoon sun bathed his face, and a brisk sea breeze ruffled his short hair. The sweet scent of summer was in the air, although Cassian frowned at the realization.

  “The Broom-star has graced the heavens for well over a moon now.” He then cast Draco a look over his shoulder. “The most it has ever remained in the night sky is three months … time is running out.”

  Draco scowled. “Just one more line. Can’t Mithras grant us that?”

  The Bull-slayer has no power over a Pictish curse.

  Not voicing his thoughts aloud, Cassian turned his attention back to the perilously steep steps. The fleeting pleasure that the sun and wind on his face brought him faded. His thoughts had become obsessive of late; he could think of little except solving the riddle.

  Mortality beckoned like a siren in the distance. They were so close now; he could feel it in the marrow of his bones.

  I’ll join you soon, Lilla.

  An ache rose under his breast bone at the thought of his long-lost love. For many years, every memory of Lilla felt like a dirk to the heart. However, these days the sensation had changed. Now it was a dull ache—a pain that gentled with each passing year.

  I’m forgetting her.

  Cassian’s chest tightened then, and he inhaled sharply. Guilt. It weighed upon him whenever he admitted that three hundred years after Lilla’s death, he no longer felt the pain of her loss so keenly.

  When he’d confided in Maximus, his friend had told him that the change was inevitable. Such intensity of grief couldn’t stay the same with the passing of the years. Cassian had gotten angry at the time, yet secretly he knew Maximus spoke the truth.

  He wanted to hold on to Lilla forever. Yet he wasn’t able to.

  The stairs led down to a stone arch—the entrance to Dunnottar’s dungeons. Greeting another set of guards there, Cassian entered the dank tunnel beyond. He and Draco walked past the cells, breathing shallowly as the stench of unwashed bodies and unemptied chamber pots greeted them.

  They didn’t halt at the cells, but took the passageway at the back of the wide, vaulted tunnel. The pair passed by
a small, cave-like alcove that Cassian had turned into a mithraeum. The scent of incense and the warm glow of torchlight greeted Cassian. They continued down the passage and pushed open the door to the second chamber.

  A tall, lean man with close-cropped dark hair sat at a table piled high with leather volumes. He was reading by candlelight.

  Maximus glanced up when they entered, his peat-dark gaze sweeping over Cassian and Draco’s faces. “How did it go?”

  Cassian winced. “You missed a fiery argument.”

  “So, will De Keith make the trip to Stirling?”

  “He hasn’t agreed yet … but Wallace thinks he’s cracking,” Draco replied with a smirk. “William will keep pushing until he gets what he wants.”

  Maximus nodded, his proud features tensing. He was keen for Cassian to lead the laird’s escort to Stirling. They’d almost worked their way through all the histories in De Keith’s library—but Stirling Castle would have more. And just maybe, one of them would have the answer they sought.

  The answer to who the White Hawk and the Dragon were.

  Cassian was in two minds about making such a trip. Although he shared his friend’s eagerness to get his hands on more histories, he was reluctant to leave Dunnottar with Irvine’s threat of attack looming over the fortress and what it might mean for the riddle. He didn’t want the three of them to be separated when the attack happened.

  Cassian’s attention shifted to the heavy book that lay open before Maximus. “Nothing?”

  A crease formed between Maximus’s dark brows, and he shook his head. His gaze remained upon Cassian then, his frown deepening. “Heather tells me you had a run in with Blair Galbraith today.”

  “What’s this?” Draco turned to Cassian, his smirk fading. “You didn’t say anything earlier.”

  Cassian shrugged. “I didn’t get the chance before the meeting. Galbraith cornered Aila De Keith on a stairwell.”

  Draco’s mouth pursed. Like Cassian and Maximus, he wasn’t fond of Dunnottar’s smithy.

  Remembering the scene on the stairwell, Cassian frowned. Aila De Keith was a sweet-natured, yet innocent, woman. After Galbraith’s departure, she’d stared up at him as if he were her brave Lancelot. The intensity in her luminous grey eyes had made Cassian uncomfortable.

  “He was trying to take his revenge on me … and Heather,” Maximus spoke up once more. “It seems his cousin’s body has been discovered.”

  This news didn’t surprise Cassian; he’d lied to Aila when he’d said the first thing he’d heard was the slap she’d given Galbraith in the stairwell. He’d also heard about the discovery of Cory Galbraith and his men’s bodies.

  “You knew this would happen sooner or later,” Draco pointed out, his tone dry.

  Maximus scowled. “Yes, but I don’t want the Galbraith laird causing problems for the De Keiths … or for us … not when we’re so close to solving the riddle.”

  Cassian moved to the table, lowering himself onto the bench seat opposite Maximus. He suddenly felt bone weary—not so much physically, but in his soul. He saw that Draco wore a frown now. All three of them were desperate.

  Freedom was tantalizingly close.

  “Any more news from Shaw Irvine?” Maximus broke the heavy silence in the alcove that had become their study over the past month. “Is he readying for an attack?”

  Cassian shook his head. As soon as they’d discovered that the Irvine laird wielded the ‘Battle Hammer’, he’d paid a man he knew well to act as their spy at Drum Castle, the Irvine stronghold. It had been a few weeks, but Cassian’s man hadn’t sent word that anything was afoot. “Not yet … but as soon as he does, we’ll know.”

  Maximus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table while he massaged his temples. “Each discovery we make feels like pure chance. Even after all this time, that witch is still playing with us.”

  Draco grunted his agreement, while Cassian sighed deeply.

  Indeed, that long-dead bandruì wielded the power of life and death over them. She was their mistress, and had been since that fateful day after the Ninth fell.

  Cassian felt a dropping sensation in his gut, and a chill washed over him. What if all of this was nonsense? What if they solved the last line and nothing changed?

  The witch’s riddle suddenly played through Cassian’s mind, as it often did, taunting him:

  When the Broom-star crosses the sky,

  And the Hammer strikes the fort

  Upon the Shelving Slope.

  When the White Hawk and the Dragon wed,

  Only then will the curse be broke.

  For years, he’d feared the riddle would get the better of them. For centuries, they’d only managed to decipher the first line. The ‘Broom-star’ was the fire-tailed comet that appeared in the night sky every seventy-five years. The fort upon the Shelving Slope referred to the old name for Dunnottar.

  And they now knew that Shaw Irvine’s ‘Battle Hammer’ was to strike the fort.

  Cassian clenched his jaw so hard that pain lanced through his ears. No, he couldn’t let himself despair, couldn’t let himself believe that the bandruì was simply toying with them.

  He had to believe that the curse could be broken.

  His attention returned to Maximus. Out of the three of them, he had the most to live for. Ever since meeting Heather, something had changed in the Roman. After centuries as a loner who didn’t ally himself with anything or anyone, not only had he recently wed the woman he loved, but like Draco, he’d also willingly joined William Wallace in his cause. These days there was a spark in him that had been missing for so long, and seeing it pleased Cassian.

  Warmth replaced the chill in his chest. These two men were his family. The loner and the rebel were the brothers he’d never had in his old life, for he’d been an orphan.

  Cassian looked to Draco then and saw that his face was marred by a fierce scowl. Unlike Maximus, who’d joined the Scottish cause because he wanted to be part of something bigger than himself—as he loved a Scottish woman, and her fight was his fight—Cassian suspected Draco had joined for other reasons.

  For a long while now, the Moor had sought oblivion, violence, and destruction. The wait at Dunnottar made Draco restless and irritable. Just two days earlier, he’d gotten into a fist fight in the mess hall with one of Cassian’s men. Draco was a leashed wolf.

  Draco spoke little of the woman he’d once loved. All Cassian knew was that she’d met a violent end, and Draco was part of the war band that wreaked vengeance upon their enemies afterward. The raid was vicious and bloody—and Draco had been a different man ever since. His moods were more mercurial these days, and his behavior more brooding and reckless.

  Cassian suspected Draco had done things that haunted him still.

  Looking away from his friends, Cassian’s gaze fixed on his clasped hands upon the table before him. It almost looked as if he was praying. However, none of them followed the Christian God, but Mithras, the Great Bull-slayer. Cassian prayed morning and night to Mithras in the hope that the Lord of Light might guide his way.

  VI

  THE BELTAINE BANQUET

  “LOOK AT YE, lass.” Donnan De Keith greeted his younger daughter with a wide smile. “I’ve rarely seen such a bonny sight.”

  “Da, ye are embarrassing me.” Aila ducked her head as warmth rose to her cheeks. She wasn’t used to being the center of attention, and for a few moments regretted letting Lady Gavina fuss over her all afternoon.

  “Stand up straight, Aila,” her mother chastised. “Do that lovely kirtle and surcoat proud. Lady Gavina has shown ye a great kindness … I hope ye thanked her properly?”

  “Of course I have, Ma.” Aila squared her shoulders, even though her embarrassment morphed into irritation. She hated it when her mother spoke to her as if she were twelve. Smoothing out the skirt of the surcoat she wore over a crimson kirtle, she marveled at the fineness of the silk. She’d never worn anything so lovely.

  Frankly, she felt like a fraud for
doing so.

  She wasn’t a lady; surely, folk would look at her askance tonight at the banquet.

  They were waiting outside Dunnottar’s hall, in a wide gallery, while servants made the finishing touches within. It was growing late in the day; the last rays of the setting sun streamed in through the arched windows behind them, the sunlight sparkling off the North Sea beyond.

  The scent of wood smoke wafted in, and despite her nervousness, Aila smiled. De Keith might have forbidden his wife from lighting the Beltaine bonfire on one of the hills west of the castle, but that didn’t stop the locals from burning their own fires.

  A flash of green caught Aila’s eye then, and she spied her sister approaching. Heather’s arm was linked through that of a lean, swarthy man. She wore a lovely pine-green kirtle and had woven spring flowers through her thick brown hair. Maximus, as always, was broodingly handsome at her side.

  Not for the first time, envy stabbed Aila at the sight of them.

  One would have to be blind not to see just how madly in love these two were. Heather had literally glowed ever since their wedding. Upon her return to Dunnottar, Aila’s sister had become Lady Gavina’s companion, a role she’d continued even after her union with Maximus. She visited Gavina every afternoon, working alongside the lady at her loom.

  Aila knew that Heather longed for her and Maximus to have their own household one day, preferably in Stonehaven. She wondered how long it would be until her sister’s womb quickened. Strangely, whenever Aila or her mother had brought up the subject of bairns, Heather had gone quiet.

  “Mother Mary, what a vision,” Heather greeted her sister. “Where did ye get that gown?”

  “Lady Gavina loaned it to me,” Aila replied stiffly. She hadn’t forgotten their argument earlier, or forgiven her sister for her lack of support.

  Sensing her distance, the warm smile on Heather’s face ebbed a little. Her lips parted as she readied herself to say something else.