by Jayne Castel
“WELCOME TO STIRLING, De Keith. I’m glad to see at least one of you has the courage to come before me.”
Edward of England’s deep voice echoed across the Great Hall, breaking the tense hush that had settled when David De Keith entered.
The king spoke French, the tongue favored by the English ruling classes.
Cassian walked at his laird’s side, while Gavina and Elizabeth brought up the rear of their small party. A crowd of Edward’s retainers drew aside, letting them approach the dais, where Edward sat upon a huge wooden chair.
It had been a long while since Cassian had actually been inside Stirling Castle—the last time was a couple of centuries earlier when the now mighty keep had been little more than a round-tower. This great stone hall with wooden rafters was certainly a magnificent structure.
However, Cassian’s attention didn’t linger upon his surroundings for long. Instead, it shifted to the man who’d just welcomed them.
He was face-to-face with Edward Plantagenet himself.
Despite his advancing years, the king appeared hale and strong. He looked to be in his early sixties and bore an impressive mane of greying blond hair that flowed over his broad shoulders. A golden, gem-studded crown sat upon his head. He was dressed as a warrior king, in a blood-red surcoat, with a glittering hauberk underneath. A longsword hung at his hip. The man commanded the room.
Even seated, Cassian could see Edward was a tall man. He stretched his long legs out before him and crossed them at the ankle.
Cassian bit back a wry smile. Longshanks, indeed.
Watching the English king closely, Cassian understood why Edward of England caused the Scots so much bother. He wore an aura of authority, and as he drew nearer still, Cassian saw the man’s ice-blue gaze was flinty when it rested upon David De Keith. A drooping left eyelid marred his even-featured face.
A few feet behind Edward stood another imposing figure: a big man with a hawkish nose. The warrior was clad in chainmail and sported a luxurious red beard.
Cassian needed no formal introduction to know that this was John ‘The Red’ Comyn, Baron of Badenoch—Steward of Scotland. The man hadn’t earned his nickname because of his fiery temper or high coloring, but because of his mane of red hair.
Comyn watched the newcomers halt before the dais without a flicker of emotion on his face. His gaze, when it settled upon De Keith, was guarded. Of course, the Scottish baron had been in control of Stirling before the English attack a month earlier, but wasn’t able to hold the castle and township.
It appeared that the baron, who’d become ‘Guardian of the Realm’ after the forced abdication of his uncle King John Balliol five years earlier, had already bent the knee to Edward.
He wouldn’t be standing here if he hadn’t.
“You are the first laird of the north to come to me,” Edward continued, still in French. Cassian noted that he spoke with a slight lisp, although it didn’t diminish the strength of his voice. “I’m pleased to see that the laird of Dunnottar is a reasonable man at least.”
Cassian cast a glance at where David De Keith had halted next to him. The laird wore a stony expression.
Cassian tensed. They’d already discussed how important it was that the English king thought he’d come in good faith. David had to make a show of subservience. De Keith would need to bend the knee, even if he never intended to honor the gesture. Otherwise, Lady Elizabeth was never going to get her husband back, and Wallace wasn’t going to receive the news he so desperately wanted. It would also ensure they could leave Stirling and return home unmolested.
De Keith needed to favor Edward with one of his charming smiles.
Moments passed, and De Keith eventually managed a tight-lipped grimace—however, he didn’t kneel as was expected.
The uncomfortable silence drew out, before Edward’s greying brows knitted together. Yet he didn’t speak. He waited his guest out.
Eventually, David De Keith cleared his throat. A nerve flickered under one eye as he dipped his chin. “Je suis ici pour l'Ecosse,” he replied in French, his voice unnaturally rough and his words halting.
I’m here for Scotland. Cassian smiled at this. Good … he’s finally playing the game.
“And I hope to do what is in its best interests,” De Keith concluded.
Edward’s gaze narrowed further before he pushed himself up off his chair, looming over them. He was an imposing sight in his chainmail and crown. He then favored the laird with a cool smile. “That’s pleasing to hear, De Keith.”
The De Keiths banqueted with the English king that evening in the Great Hall.
As always, Cassian accompanied his laird, keeping one step behind him when they re-entered the hall to find it a very different space than earlier that day.
Long tables had been carried in, and flickering torches illuminated the cavernous chamber, bathing the pitted stone walls in warmth. A huge hearth burned at one end of the hall, casting a red-gold glow over the faces of Edward, John Comyn, and the king’s retainers as they all took their places at the king’s table on the dais.
De Keith was to join them.
“Keep yer eyes open, Captain,” David muttered to Cassian. He spoke in Gaelic. “We’ve truly walked into the adder’s nest here.” The laird’s gaze settled upon the platters of roast meats and steamed greens the servants were placing upon the long table. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to poison us.”
“Poison isn’t kingly,” Cassian replied, keeping his voice low. “If Edward wanted you dead, he’d likely just run you through with his sword.”
De Keith cast Cassian a frown. He’d been making a statement; he hadn’t wanted to be contradicted.
“De Keith!” Edward beckoned to David, motioning to his left side. Comyn ‘The Red’ sat to his right, his expression as inscrutable as earlier. “Come and sit with me this eve … so we may speak.”
De Keith did as bid, although Cassian noted he now wore a pained look. Those seated upon the dais spread out in a row upon the long table, flanking Edward and facing those seated below. Lady Gavina followed her husband up onto the dais and took a seat to his left. As always, De Keith ignored her.
Cassian sat down between the laird’s wife and Lady Elizabeth. Both women looked lovely this eve clad in their best kirtles and surcoats, their hair woven into elaborate twists and braids upon their heads.
Aila will have been busy this afternoon, Cassian thought, imagining the young woman’s face creased in concentration as she worked on her mistress’s hair.
Cassian tensed. What was he doing thinking about Lady Gavina’s maid? He hadn’t seen her since they’d ridden into the castle, for she’d been tucked away in the guest apartments. But all of a sudden, a vision of her sweet face, her large grey eyes staring up at him as she favored him with an eager smile, arose before him.
Irritated at how easily a few days in the woman’s company had affected him, Cassian shoved the vision of Aila De Keith aside.
A couple of yards away from the king’s table, a harpist set himself up near the hearth. He then began to play a melancholy tune. It wasn’t one that Cassian recognized, but it was pretty nonetheless: a haunting English melody.
Cassian’s attention went to where two burly servants carried a great platter—a huge roast swan, burnished gold with butter—up onto the dais and set it down before the king.
Edward flashed De Keith a wolf’s smile. “To celebrate new allies.”
Even though he wasn’t seated next to him, Cassian felt the laird’s tension. He really was useless at keeping his emotions hidden—a poor diplomat indeed. Cassian felt for the pugio at his hip out of habit, tensing when he discovered the dagger wasn’t there.
He’d forgotten already that he’d agreed to come to the banquet unarmed.
Cassian didn’t like being in here without a weapon to hand, or without any of his men at his back. Now that they were in Stirling, the rest of the De Keith escort were lying low. They wouldn’t be needed again until the
laird departed.
“Wine?” Edward asked, motioning to a passing servant.
“Aye.” De Keith held up his garnet-studded silver goblet to be filled.
Cassian’s heart sank. Once De Keith started drinking, he didn’t know when to stop.
Edward smiled once more. “I think you’ll enjoy this … it comes from my favorite vineyard in France.”
The servants filled up everyone’s goblets, Cassian’s included. He took a sip of the rich red wine and was immediately transported back to his homeland, to the spicy red wines of Brigantium. He hadn’t tasted wine like this in many long years. The lairds and chieftains he’d served over the years occasionally imported wine from the continent, but he rarely got to drink any of it.
“So, De Keith,” Edward spoke once more as he watched a servant slice up the swan. He then held out his platter to be filled. “How are things farther north?”
It was a loaded question, and deliberately so. Cassian cut a quick glance to his laird, noticing the way De Keith pinched his lips together.
Lady Gavina cleared her throat. “Things are peaceful in the North, Your Highness,” she said in fluent French, “and we wish for them to remain so.”
David cut his wife an irritated look, yet she ignored him.
King Edward’s gaze shifted for the first time to Lady Gavina. He watched her for a moment—it was a penetrating gaze, yet there wasn’t any lechery in it. He merely looked taken aback. Meanwhile, David De Keith’s cheeks flushed.
“I don’t wish to fight the Highland clans, Lady Gavina,” Edward replied, his expression hooding. “If they pledge fealty to me, they shall find I’m a fair and just ruler.”
De Keith snorted, causing the king’s attention to swivel to him. “De Keith?”
“The clan-chiefs of the North are a stubborn lot, Longshanks,” the laird pointed out coolly. “They aren’t as reasonable as me. Good luck getting any of them to kneel to ye.”
The table went silent. Some of the king’s retainers seated nearest exchanged scowls.
Cassian sucked in a deep breath. Great … we’ve only just arrived, and the idiot is going to get himself thrown in Stirling dungeon for insulting the English king.
Next to De Keith, Edward picked up his goblet and took a measured sip. “Longshanks … now that’s a name few men have the balls to say to my face,” he replied after a long pause. His voice was low, but it carried across the quiet hall.
De Keith shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his bearded jaw tightening.
“However, I do have another name,” Edward continued smoothly. “One that’s become very popular over the border.” The English king held up his goblet then to De Keith, a smile gracing his lips. “Malleus Scotorum: the Hammer of the Scots.”
XIV
THE HAMMER OF THE SCOTS
THE HAMMER OF the Scots.
Edward’s voice echoed over and over in Cassian’s head.
The banquet had finally ended, and the Great Hall emptied out. He was accompanying De Keith, his wife, and sister-by-marriage back to their apartments inside the keep. Outdoors, a slender crescent moon had appeared in the darkening sky. The air against their skin was fresh after the smoky interior of the Great Hall.
But Cassian found it difficult to concentrate on anything except that name.
It’s not Irvine’s ‘Battle Hammer’. Certainty barreled into Cassian. The Hammer that will strike the fort upon the Shelving Slope is Edward. He’s going to attack Dunnottar.
Cassian’s pulse accelerated, sweat beading on his skin.
An aggressive neighbor was one thing, but the King of England with his massive army was another.
How could we get it so wrong? I need to get word to Maximus and Draco.
Cassian would go to the mithraeum and ask one of the guardians to deliver an urgent message to his friends. However, since the Kirk of the Holy Rude would be locked up for the night, he’d need to wait till dawn to do so.
“Loose-lipped woman,” De Keith snarled at his wife as she followed him up the stairs into the keep. “Never interrupt when men are speaking.”
“I was only trying to help ye, David,” Lady Gavina replied. Her voice was soft, with a pleading note to it. “Edward is a dangerous man … can ye not see it?”
“English dog,” David spat out the words. “I know how to deal with him.”
“By insulting him?”
De Keith turned so quickly that his wife stumbled in an effort not to collide with him. Grabbing hold of her shoulders, he shook her hard. “Folk will have called that bastard worse.”
Cassian drew close. He’d never seen the laird manhandle his wife before, but he wouldn’t stand by if De Keith got any rougher.
“But, David … ye must play the game,” Lady Elizabeth spoke up, her voice low. She halted beside them. The lady’s face was pale, her eyes dark with anger as she faced him. “We must convince Edward to release Robert.”
“I tire of women telling me what to do,” David countered, not bothering to keep his tone low. His fingers dug into his wife’s shoulders. Gavina winced and tried to pull away, yet her husband held her fast. “And if the pair of ye don’t mind yer tongues, I’ll leave ye behind when I meet Longshanks again.”
“De Keith.” Cassian stepped close then, invading his laird’s personal space. “Release your wife … and let us go inside. This is not a conversation you should be having out here.”
David De Keith cast him a scowl, hesitating a moment. But Cassian’s own stare bored into him. Realizing that he was indeed on the verge of making an ugly scene, the laird reluctantly let go of Lady Gavina and stepped back from her.
Then, with a muttered curse, De Keith swiveled on his heel and stormed into the keep.
“This castle has its secrets, let me tell ye … I’ve lived here a few years now, but I still hear tales that surprise me.” The young woman leaned close to Aila, her blue eyes widening and an impish smile curving her lips. “Would ye like a tour?”
Aila hesitated. She’d just finished helping Lady Gavina prepare for bed. Her mistress had been subdued tonight, but when Aila asked if anything was amiss, she’d denied it.
She imagined the banquet with Edward had been a tense affair. Aila had gently inquired as to what the English king was like, and Lady Gavina had given her a weary look. “No worse than I expected … at least he behaved better than my husband this eve.”
The comment had intrigued Aila, but since Gavina refused to elaborate on it, she’d emerged from the lady’s chamber frustrated. She had a small room next door to her mistress’s and was expected to retire to it.
But despite the long day, Aila didn’t feel tired. Despite that the sight of all those hauberk-clad English warriors frightened her, she didn’t want to lock herself away. Curiosity overcame nervousness. She longed to explore the keep a little. And so, she’d made her way down to the kitchens: a huge cavernous space carved out in the cellar of the keep, where four large hearths glowed and the air was fragrant with the scent of freshly baked bread.
It was there she’d met Fyfa—the wife of Stirling Castle’s steward—and the pair of them were just finishing a supper of warm currant buns smeared with rich butter. Rarely had Aila tasted anything so delicious.
Sensing Aila’s reluctance to accept her offer, Fyfa rose to her feet, tossed her dark-auburn hair back off her shoulders, and brushed the crumbs from her skirts. “Come on … Hume lets me go wherever I like in the castle … and it’s bonny at night.”
Aila still hesitated. “Is it safe?”
“Of course … this is still our castle. Longshanks is merely an unwelcome guest.”
Impressed by Fyfa’s fiery response, Aila stood up. She had to stop being so timid. Lady Gavina would be fast asleep now and wouldn’t need her till dawn. What would a stroll around the castle hurt? Especially since she’d be with the steward’s wife.
They alighted the stairs from the kitchens and left the keep, emerging into the torch-lit inner-bailey beyond. It was a l
ovely night out; the air was cool yet still, and the sky above was a clear swath of sparkling stars. A sickle moon rode high above them, a silver horseshoe against the inky blanket of night.
Aila breathed in the scent of wood smoke, her edginess ebbing. Woodland surrounded Stirling, so the folk here didn’t need to rely on peat to warm their homes. A smile stretched across her face. “It’s beautiful out here.”
Fyfa shot her a bright smile. “Aye … the keep and its bailey are grand enough, but they aren’t what I love most about this place. Follow me.”
And with that, the woman picked up her skirts and led Aila away from the keep. They crossed the inner-bailey, past where guards lurked in long shadows. However, Fyfa didn’t appear remotely cowed. Instead, she waved to the English soldiers, called out a cheery ‘Bonsoir’, and continued on her way.
“Aren’t ye nervous?” Aila asked, hurrying after her. “These men aren’t Scots … they can’t be trusted.”
Fyfa snorted. “No man, Scot or English can be trusted. But fret not … they know I’m Hume Comyn’s wife … they’ll dare not cause us any bother.”
The woman, although no older than twenty-five winters, spoke with such authority that Aila found herself believing her. Fyfa led her out of the bailey and through a large walled garden. Burning torches lined the pathways. The scent of lavender and rosemary enveloped them in here, their slippered feet crunching upon the pebbled path. The two women approached a statue at the heart of the garden: the rearing head of a horse. The statue was a fearsome sight, for it was made of a pale sandstone that glowed in the moonlight.
Fyfa paused before it. “It’s a kelpie,” she murmured, her gaze resting upon the creature’s wild face. “Hume’s grand-da sculpted it.”
“It’s magnificent,” Aila breathed.
The steward’s wife shot her an answering smile. “Come … this way.”
Fyfa continued on, skirting the statue and heading toward the northern edge of the garden, where steps led up to a high wall. Fyfa scaled them, and Aila followed her.