by Jayne Castel
“And it’ll do us all fine, Jean,” Lady Elizabeth replied. “Frankly, after a day in the saddle, all I want to do is stretch out on my furs and sleep.”
Lowering herself into a cross-legged position a few feet back from the crackling brazier, Aila took a bite of bannock and boiled egg. She was ravenous.
Across from her, Gavina buttered a wedge of bannock for herself, her gaze flicking to where Elizabeth sat next to her, peeling an egg.
Watching the two ladies, Aila noted—not for the first time—how different they were. Gavina had an ethereal, delicate quality to her—the effect enhanced by her white-blonde hair. The lady’s skin looked almost translucent in the brazier’s glow. In contrast, Elizabeth possessed an earthy beauty. Disheveled dark blonde hair framed a strong-featured face, curling over her shoulders in a wild mane.
“I’m glad ye are with us, Liz,” Gavina said after a pause. “I intend to make sure David presses Edward about Robert … but it’ll be much easier with ye present.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I’m relieved the Wallace managed to convince David to go in the end.”
“Aye, although I think William was glad of our assistance,” Gavina replied. Her lips thinned then. “David can be bull-headed.”
Elizabeth’s mouth lifted at the corners. “Aye, but so is the Wallace. He’s a clever man … Robert thought highly of him.”
“Thought?” Gavina chided her. “Ye must not talk as if yer husband is dead.”
Indeed, the laird had received word just three months earlier that Robert was still alive and residing in an English dungeon. The missive had deliberately avoided telling them exactly where. The English had captured him just over a year earlier during a skirmish near the River Cree on the Scottish-English border.
Elizabeth’s dark-blue gaze shadowed. “How much longer will they hold him?”
Gavina clearly had no answer for that, although her face tensed in sympathy. All at Dunnottar knew how close Robert and Elizabeth were. Their son, Robbie, was now three, and Elizabeth clearly worried he would never know his father.
“I miss him so much it hurts to breathe,” Elizabeth said finally, breaking the awkward silence. She stopped peeling the egg and lowered it to her lap. “What if I never see him again?”
Gavina reached out then, placing a hand over her friend’s. She didn’t assure her that he would return—for none of them could make such a promise.
Aila dropped her gaze to her own supper. Elizabeth’s pain was palpable, but that was what happened when you gave someone your heart. However, the risk was worth it in her opinion. Elizabeth and Robert’s marriage stood out in stark contrast to Gavina and David’s.
When I wed, it will be for love, Aila vowed, cutting herself a piece of cheese.
Her stomach fluttered at her resolution. The conversation with Cassian earlier had emboldened her. He was warming to her; she could sense it.
The four women ate in silence, letting the roar of the storm outdoors dominate, before Jean passed around a skin of ale. Meanwhile, the brazier had started to warm the interior of the tent, despite the drafts caused by the buffeting wind. The odor of damp wool and peat smoke caught in Aila’s throat and made her cough.
Eventually, Lady Gavina gave a delicate yawn and shifted back from the brazier. She settled down upon the fur Jean had rolled out for her.
“Shall I help ye undress, My Lady?” Aila asked, brushing crumbs off her skirts and rising to her feet.
Gavina shook her head. “I won’t bother tonight,” she replied. “Not in this weather.”
“Neither will I,” Lady Elizabeth added. “But can ye comb out my hair, Jean? It feels like a rat’s nest tonight.”
Aila and Jean went through their usual nightly routine of brushing out their mistresses’ long hair. Once that was done, they retired to their own furs on the opposite side of the brazier, near the flap that led outdoors. A chill draft clawed at Aila there, and she was grateful to wrap herself in her still-damp cloak to ward it off.
Lying side-by-side, the two maids huddled under their cloaks.
“Isn’t this exciting,” Jean murmured, her voice muffled by the screaming wind. “I’ve never been away from De Keith lands before.”
“Neither have I,” Aila admitted, glancing up at where water was dripping down from the smoke hole. She edged away from it. “I hope the weather improves though … I was looking forward to the journey, but not in driving rain.”
“It’s Stirling I can’t wait to see,” Jean whispered back. “I can’t believe the English king is actually there … I wonder if he sports a devil’s tail as folk say.”
Aila snorted at the ridiculous notion. However, Jean was right about one thing: Edward Longshanks didn’t belong in Scotland. She hated the thought of him taking Stirling Castle as his own. Lady Gavina had told her the laird would be expected to swear fealty to Edward—something else that made her tense.
“My sister’s been to Stirling,” Aila admitted, keen to turn the conversation away from the loathsome Edward. “She says it’s a jewel … with the River Forth sparkling in the sun on bright days and the castle rising like a sentinel above it … the brooch that holds Scotland together.” Pride tightened in Aila’s breast as she said the words.
“And the castle is said to be even bigger than Dunnottar,” Jean replied. “I can’t wait to explore it.”
Aila smiled. She too was looking forward to that. She wondered how long they would remain in Stirling, and whether Lady Elizabeth would be able to soften Edward into releasing her husband. Would Edward reveal his plans now that he’d taken Stirling?
The reminder of the English occupation years earlier made Aila’s pride subside, a nervous flutter replacing it.
She rolled away from Jean, terminating the conversation. What a couple of twittering fools they were, treating this journey like a longed-for jaunt. It was a foolish approach to take.
Especially with so much at stake.
XII
JOURNEY’S END
“YOU’RE TOO TENSE, Aila.”
Dusty side-stepped and tossed her head, chafing against the third rein that kept her leashed to Cassian’s courser. Aila tightened her reins, yet the mare just fought harder. This horse really was too much for her. If anything, the palfrey had become even more hot-headed during the journey south.
She shot Cassian a pained look. In contrast to her rigid posture, he appeared to have been born in the saddle. The stallion he rode, a powerful animal that intimidated Aila somewhat, seemed docile under his firm hand.
“The mare senses your fear,” he continued. “Loosen your hold on the reins. The mare isn’t going to bolt with me leashing her.”
“I’m not afraid,” Aila lied, although she relaxed her death-grip on the reins—a relief, for her fingers had stiffened into claws.
Dusty immediately stopped fighting the bit.
“You don’t control a horse when you climb upon its back,” Cassian added, catching her eye. “You enter into an agreement with it.”
Aila frowned. She’d never heard riding described like that. “I don’t think Dusty wants a partnership,” she muttered as the mare gave a playful buck.
Cassian’s lips curved, and Aila’s pulse quickened. His smiles really were devastating.
“Try breathing deeply and slowly … and use your thighs to restrain her,” he replied,
Reluctantly, Aila did as bid. It wasn’t easy to steady her breathing, especially with his gaze upon her. It thrilled her to be able to exchange a few words with him like this. To her delight, Cassian had sought her out the morning after the storm and suggested that she rode with him again. He’d seen that she was still struggling to control her palfrey, and seemed concerned that Dusty might throw her. Although it was embarrassing—since the other women handled their horses without problems—Aila had also been secretly delighted.
Three more days of travel had passed since that first stormy night—many hours of riding side-by-side.
Aila was self-consc
ious at having her riding criticized. Nonetheless, his advice worked. As soon as she engaged her thigh muscles, and took a few slow, deep breaths, Dusty quietened a little. The dun snorted and lowered her head.
“See,” Cassian said, not without an edge of masculine smugness in his voice. “Trust her.”
Aila resisted an indelicate snort. Dusty had already proved herself untrustworthy. “Do horses really sense our moods?” she asked, keen to keep the conversation moving between them.
He nodded. “All animals do. Dogs sense if you fear them or not too.” He paused then. “How often have you visited Dusty in her stall over the years?”
Aila glanced away, embarrassed. “Never,” she admitted.
She could feel his smile upon her. “Well then … maybe while we are in Stirling you might want to start doing so. You might find your relationship changes for the better on the journey home.”
Aila looked his way once more. Indeed, he was smiling. “How is it ye know so much about horses?”
He shrugged. “I just do … some folk have an affinity for the beasts.” He reached down and slapped his courser’s muscular neck. “Rogue doesn’t mind me, do you lad?”
Aila smiled, her embarrassment fading. It was strange to finally speak at length to this man. He was different to how she’d imagined. Not as gruff, more philosophical. He had a warmth that drew her in, made her want more.
The real Cassian was even better than her romantic imaginings, although she wished she weren’t so easily flustered by his presence.
“We are lucky to have ye at Dunnottar, Captain,” she said, forcing herself to conquer shyness and hold his gaze. “Ye are good with both men and beasts it seems.”
The words were clumsy and came out all wrong. Heat flowered across Aila’s chest, and she cursed her gaucheness. However, Cassian didn’t seem to mind. Continuing to hold her eye steadily, he smiled once more.
You shouldn’t encourage her. Cassian’s smile faded as he turned his attention back to the road before them. They were heading down the final incline toward Stirling. The castle reared up to their right, its dove-grey walls outlined against a windy blue sky. This can’t go anywhere.
Maybe not, but Aila had proved charming company during the journey. He’d been irritated when she’d appeared at his shoulder upon her prancing palfrey that first day, but despite everything, he enjoyed talking to her.
Cassian rarely had long talks with women these days.
He lived in a male-dominated world and took most of his meals in the mess hall. During suppers with the laird, he sometimes exchanged a few words with Lady Elizabeth or Lady Gavina, but the conversation was usually short and formal.
During the journey, Aila had occasionally batted her eyelids or favored him with a longing look, as if she’d studied rules about how to woo a man and kept reminding herself. It was oddly endearing to see her make such an effort, but most of the time, she was just herself—and that was how he liked her. Although she initially appeared timid, she actually had quite a bit to say for herself.
She was full of curiosity about him—too curious.
The journey was almost over, and Cassian was relieved about that. However, there was a tiny part of him—a part he dismissed—that was sorry he and Aila would no longer have an opportunity to talk.
Their conversations reminded him of how lonely he sometimes felt. The sensation—a hollow ache in his chest—usually visited him as he lay upon his bed trying to get off to sleep at night.
Cassian tensed his jaw as the feeling surfaced once more. It was just as well the journey was ending. Such thoughts weren’t doing him any good.
“The castle is lovely,” Aila breathed, her wide grey eyes on the keep perched high upon a rocky crag. The collection of thatch roofs of the town below tumbled down the hillside to where the River Forth sparkled in the noon sun. “Heather told me Stirling was beautiful … but her descriptions didn’t do it justice.”
Cassian’s gaze followed hers, although his attention focused more on where a blockade of men and horses barred their way into the town. They didn’t have to cross the river as they were approaching from the north-east—yet it seemed the English were patrolling all ways in.
“There’s no place quite like it,” he replied, his attention shifting to the high curtain walls. How many times had he visited Stirling over the years? Too many to count—and yet the sight of that great keep standing guard over the River Forth, a wall of mountains at its back, never failed to make him catch his breath. He remembered the fort that had been here during his early years in Caledonia—the Romans had even occupied it for a time—before the Picts built a stone broch upon the crag.
It was around that time, long before the people of this land worshipped the Christian God, that Cassian, Maximus, and Draco had carved a temple to Mithras out of the rock.
Cassian reached forward and unclipped the lead from Dusty’s bridle. “It’s best you fall back now, Aila,” he said, his manner brisk. Now that they were approaching the wolf’s lair, he couldn’t afford any distractions. “Rejoin Lady Gavina. The De Keith will need to announce himself.”
Aila nodded and drew her palfrey up, waiting to one side while the column rode by. Dusty tossed her head. The mare didn’t appreciate being made to wait, but Cassian noted that Aila held the horse in check better than she had earlier that day.
Glancing over his shoulder, Cassian watched the laird urge his courser up the column so he rode directly behind him.
“Ready, De Keith?” Cassian greeted him. “Your welcome party awaits.”
The laird wore a strained expression, his gaze narrow as it settled upon the big chainmailed men who barred their path. “How dare they prevent me from entering Stirling,” he growled. “This is our land.”
Cassian tensed at his laird’s aggression. As the younger brother, David De Keith had little experience with diplomacy. His brother had known how to treat with his enemies, but it occurred to Cassian then that David’s fiery temper could work against him here.
Cassian’s mouth thinned. Sending De Keith to Stirling was like throwing a wasp nest into the midst of a banquet. He hoped the Wallace hadn’t made an error in insisting De Keith make this visit. Wallace wanted the Balliol family back on the Scottish throne—but his dedication to the cause made him blinkered at times.
“Remember … you’re here to bend the knee,” he warned his laird. “Try not to let your disdain for the English show too plainly upon your face.”
De Keith muttered a curse under his breath at this, while Cassian urged Rogue forward. Two of the chainmailed English warriors walked out to meet them.
De Keith is in danger here. Cassian schooled his features into an expressionless mask. As are all of us, if he doesn’t do as he promised.
Clattering up the hill, Aila craned her neck to stare at the towering walls of the castle above her. Excitement fluttered up into her throat, and her pulse quickened.
The rumors were true: Stirling Castle was much grander than Dunnottar. The way in, up a wide road, was definitely more impressive. However, her belly tensed, her excitement dimming, when she caught sight of the two flags flying from one of the keep’s towers. The first was white with a red cross—England’s Saint George’s cross—while the second flag bore three golden rampant lions against a crimson background—the Plantagenet banner of Edward’s family.
Aila’s mouth pursed, anger dousing the wonder that had consumed her upon riding into Stirling.
The arrogance.
Now that they’d been admitted to Stirling, an escort of English soldiers led the way up the hill. Tension rippled through the company. Lady Elizabeth’s pretty face was set in rigid lines, while Lady Gavina had gone quiet and pale. Even Jean, who usually had plenty to say for herself, had lapsed into silence, her gaze wide as she took in her surroundings.
The streets were quieter than Aila had imagined. Heather had spoken of the Riverside market, but there were no stalls along the banks of the Forth today. When her sist
er had passed through Stirling just over a month earlier, the town had apparently been full of Scotsmen, warriors from the lowland clans who’d rallied to Stirling to help defend it.
But there was no sign of those men now.
Aila swallowed, the fine hair on the back of her arms prickling as she realized most of them were likely dead.
What few folk they spied on the way up the hill peered out from windows and shadowed doorways. Their gazes were fearful, and their faces rigid with distrust.
Finally, the De Keith party thundered through a great stone arch and into a wide outer-bailey. Low buildings—which likely housed the stables, byres, storehouses, and an armory—lined the cobbled space.
More English soldiers awaited them here. The tension within Aila bloomed into panic at the sight of them. Suddenly, Stirling lost its sparkle.
It was impossible to ignore that the English ruled this town and its mighty fortress.
She still remembered what it was like at Dunnottar during the English occupation: how she, her sister, and her mother had feared to wander the keep. She’d also worried for her father’s life, for as castle steward, Donnan De Keith posed a threat to English authority. They’d even thrown him in the dungeon for a spell, after first taking the castle, until they could be assured that he wouldn’t make trouble.
The English dressed as Aila remembered: many in long hauberks—mail shirts—and chainmail chausses, or stockings. Some of the warriors had pulled up their coifs—hoods made of chainmail. It was a look that she found intimidating.
English and Scot eyed each other warily as De Keith and his followers filled the outer-bailey.
Aila drew up her palfrey and glanced to where Lady Gavina had halted next to her. Meeting Aila’s eye, the lady gave her a wary look. “Keep yer wits about ye here, Aila,” she warned.
XIII
I’M HERE FOR SCOTLAND