by Jayne Castel
Cassian had come here looking for some escape, but The Golden Lion wouldn’t provide it.
If anything, the ale just darkened his mood further.
All he could think about now was the hurt in Aila’s smoke-grey eyes. The look on her face still tormented him. She’d actually flinched. He hadn’t wanted to be hurtful, or to wound her, but he’d been desperate.
Whenever he trod gently, he just got himself deeper into trouble.
In order to drive the reality of the situation home, he’d had to be brutal—but he still regretted hurting her.
“I take it you’re not about to bandy words again, De Keith?”
Edward’s greeting made anger coil in David’s belly. The English king’s arrogance had goaded him from the moment he’d walked into the Great Hall three days earlier. Since then, the two of them had played a game—one that Longshanks was slowly winning.
But David De Keith was about to turn the tables on him.
“No, Your Highness,” he replied in French, meeting the king’s eye. “That’s why I wanted to see you alone. It isn’t easy for a proud Scot to humble himself before an Englishman. I’d rather not have an audience when I do this.”
Edward’s gaze glinted.
He thinks he’s beaten me.
De Keith’s jaw clenched at the victory he saw in the king’s piercing blue eyes.
David had begun to realize his limitations of late. For years, he’d chafed at the fact that he’d been born the younger brother—that Robert was laird and he wasn’t. When Robert had been taken by the English, David had seized the opportunity presented to him. Finally, he led the De Keith clan. Yet that responsibility came at a price.
As laird, he had to manage the likes of Wallace, a man he didn’t trust in the slightest. And then there was Shaw Irvine, who broke truces and intended to lay siege to Dunnottar. But the worst of it was having to deal with Edward Longshanks.
The hate that boiled within him whenever the English king drew near made it hard to hide his true feelings.
Robert always said I’d make a poor diplomat. David fought the urge to scowl at the thought. Aye, but I’ll be the man to end Longshanks’ life.
No, he wasn’t a diplomat. He’d been born to do greater deeds. He’d show them all.
Edward shifted his gaze from David’s momentarily as he glanced up at the darkening sky. “Hurry up then,” he murmured. “Let’s get this over with. Kneel before me, man, and pledge your troth.”
De Keith bowed his head, feigning submission.
Heart pounding now, he stepped forward and lowered himself on one knee. But as he did so, his right hand strayed to the back of his boot and the dirk he’d hidden there.
XXIV
STORM UNLEASHED
CASSIAN CLIMBED THE slope toward the walls of Stirling Castle. The biting wind gusted into him, bringing with it droplets of cold rain. Bowing his head, he grimaced. It was easy to forget that it was summer when the weather changed like this.
Keen to get indoors, Cassian increased his pace. The Bull-Slayer take him, he’d consumed enough ale tonight to bring most men to their knees, yet his gait was still steady. The curse was working against him, keeping his mind clear and his senses sharp even when he sought oblivion.
Before him loomed the great stone archway that led into the outer-bailey. Shadowed figures, hunched in their cloaks, their faces obscured by helms, watched him approach.
The English guards didn’t greet him, and he ignored them. However, no one blocked his path either, for they’d seen him depart earlier. They all knew he was a member of the De Keith party.
The outer-bailey was deserted. The worsening weather had driven folk indoors.
Cassian crossed the courtyard, passed the stables and storage buildings, and entered the inner-bailey through another archway. The keep rose before him, its solid walls leached of color against a leaden sky.
A storm was about to unleash itself upon them.
Even so, Cassian didn’t feel like re-entering the keep just now. He might accidentally see Aila; it was best if he kept a low profile for the next few days.
Coward. He grimaced at the thought. He was—but if he’d listened to the voice of reason that had counselled him wisely ever since his departure from Dunnottar, he wouldn’t be in this situation.
Despite the buffeting wind, he’d hopefully find refuge in the walled garden to the north-west of the keep. He wasn’t ready to see anyone at present, and the garden had given him some solace earlier that day.
Cassian altered his direction, steering himself toward the rose entwined archway that separated the inner-bailey and the garden beyond.
He’d just stepped through it when a sight in the heart of the space, below where the Kelpie’s head reared skyward, made him halt.
Two men were fighting.
And not two soldiers or servants—but Edward of England and Laird David De Keith.
For an instant, Cassian merely stared, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.
De Keith had just drawn a dirk. He slashed it wildly at Edward’s throat, the thin blade flashing in the gloaming.
Edward ducked back, just barely avoiding being cut across the windpipe. He moved fast, despite that he was much older than his opponent, his red surcoat billowing in the wind.
Cassian remained frozen, his gaze riveted on the two men.
He’d witnessed a lot of fights over the centuries, and he knew that there was nothing he could do. By the time he reached them, it would be over.
De Keith wielded the blade savagely, but without precision. His wild slashing would be his undoing. Both men wore chainmail, so there were few vulnerable spots to attack—but to have any chance of success, accuracy was required.
As he watched, Edward retaliated.
The English king ducked again, caught De Keith by the wrist, and twisted hard. The laird cursed and released the dirk.
Edward moved with breathtaking swiftness then, revealing himself for the warrior he was. He scooped up the dagger, grabbed De Keith by the hair, and yanked his head back—and then he drove the blade into his throat.
One heartbeat passed, and then another.
Edward withdrew the dirk blade and stabbed De Keith once more. A choking sound drifted across the garden, blending with the whistling wind. The laird fell to his knees, mouth gaping, eyes bulging.
A chill swept over Cassian.
Idiot … what has De Keith done?
The thought brought Cassian out of his reverie. Swiveling on his heel, he turned and sprinted back across the inner-bailey toward the keep.
Aila was having difficulty focusing.
She sat in the guests’ solar, along with Lady Gavina, Lady Elizabeth, and Jean, while the wind battered at the closed shutters. A draft managed to claw its way into the chamber. It feathered across Aila’s face and made the fire in the hearth gutter.
Across the solar, she could hear the soft cadence of the ladies’ voices. However, she paid no attention to their conversation.
Instead she stared down at the hem she was mending. It felt as if she were moving through porridge this evening.
Once the storm of hurt and anger had spent itself, once the tears had burned themselves dry, Aila felt like a husk. She’d gone blindly about her duties for the rest of the day. Supper was approaching, yet she had no desire to go down to the kitchen and join the other servants. She hadn’t eaten anything since dawn; her belly was a hard knot of misery. The thought of forcing food down made her feel sick.
She longed for Lady Gavina to dismiss her for the rest of the evening, to see to her own needs for once. Instead, Aila wished to return to her tiny chamber, curl up on her bed, and pretend the world didn’t exist.
The ache in her chest was almost unbearable, and every time she relived those moments in the alcove, bile crept up her throat.
She felt such an utter pudding-head.
I should never have taken Fyfa’s advice. Aila swallowed hard at how eagerly she’d listened
to the steward’s wife. She’d been furious at Fyfa earlier, yet now that anger turned upon herself.
Aye, Fyfa had advised her, but it was Aila who’d presented herself at Cassian’s door, who’d blindly followed the words of someone she hardly knew.
Such had been her desperation.
Aila’s throat constricted as shame washed over her.
Ma and Da can never find out.
Iona De Keith had strong views on how women should behave. Heather had once roused her fury when she’d run off with Iain Galbraith, but Iona also kept a judgmental eye on other women residing within the stronghold.
There had been a tragic incident involving a maid at Dunnottar around four years earlier. The lass had fallen in love with one of the Guard—a callous man who’d used her and then refused to wed her. She’d been so distraught afterward that she’d thrown herself off the walls and died upon the jagged rocks below the fortress.
After the lass’s shocking death, Iona had made a comment that Aila had never forgotten. “No man is worth killing yerself over,” she’d sniffed. “A woman who believes in her own worth would never let herself be treated that way in the first place.”
Harsh words, yet years later they mocked Aila.
She too was a foolish woman. She’d woven a fantasy about Dunnottar’s handsome captain, built him up into someone he wasn’t. She’d taken every kind word, every smile as evidence that he felt the same way as her, ignoring the facts that were plain to everyone else.
No wonder Heather tried to warn me.
Aila swallowed hard, remembering the concern that clouded her sister’s eyes on the day they’d departed Dunnottar.
She didn’t want to go back there. She just wanted to hide away from the rest of the world. Forever.
The door to the solar crashed open then, jerking Aila into the present.
Cassian strode inside.
Her heart lurched. For a brief instant, she cringed in her seat, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her.
But then she saw his face. He was out of breath, although his expression was steely.
“Captain?” Lady Gavina greeted him coolly. “Why are ye—”
“Your husband has just tried to kill Edward,” Cassian cut her off. “I saw them in the walled garden. The king wrested the dirk off him and stabbed him in the throat with it.”
A strangled cry filled the solar. But it was not Lady Gavina who had made the horrified sound, but Jean.
Aila’s gaze jerked to her. The maid’s face had turned the color of milk. Eyes glittering, she reached up and clutched her throat. “No!”
In an instant, everyone in the room knew Jean’s secret.
Across the solar, Lady Gavina’s face paled. “David,” she breathed. “The Lord have mercy on us all … what have ye done?”
“We’re trapped in here.” Lady Elizabeth lurched to her feet, the wool she’d been winding onto a spindle tumbling to the ground. Her voice rose as panic seized her. “Edward will have us all hanged for treason.”
The shock of Cassian’s news settled over Aila, puncturing the fog of misery that had cloaked her all day.
At that moment, her unhappiness ceased to matter.
Lady Elizabeth was right. De Keith had just tried to assassinate the English king, and Edward would be out for blood.
Aila jumped to her feet, her pulse thundering in her ears. “We have to run … before he sends his guards to fetch us.”
Cassian swiveled to her, scowling. “We’d never get through the gate.”
Aila shook her head. “There’s another way … a secret way … out of the castle. Fyfa showed it to me the other evening. It’s a door in the wall in the Nether Bailey. Edward doesn’t know about it.”
Aila had been nervous as she followed Fyfa down the wall walk that first evening in Stirling. At first, she hadn’t been able to see anything but the long-shadowed expanse of wall. But halfway down, Fyfa showed her a wild growth of gorse that grew up against it. The sweet scent of its flowers had drifted over the women. Edging around its prickly branches, Fyfa had gingerly pushed them aside to reveal a small wooden door. “It’s a secret way out,” she’d whispered. “Some of the Scots who reside here know of it … but Longshanks doesn’t.”
“Why didn’t ye use it when Stirling came under attack?” Aila had asked. Fascinated, she’d resisted the urge to open the door and see where it led.
Fyfa had snorted. “My husband is a Comyn … they don’t run from the English.”
“But he’s ruled by them now.”
“Aye … but since the English have taken Stirling before and then lost it, all we have to do is wait,” Fyfa had replied with a confidence that awed Aila. “Longshanks will never keep hold of this place … just as he will never break the Scottish spirit.”
The discovery had been so exciting that Aila hadn’t been able to keep it to herself. Jean’s eyes had gone as wide as moons when she’d heard the tale the following morning. Yet now, at the mention of the secret door, the maid wore an odd, almost guilty look.
Aila was just about to question her about it when Cassian cut in. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’ve seen it. The door is hidden behind a gorse bush part way along the wall.”
Cassian stared at her. His expression was difficult to fathom, although his eyes gleamed. He was already planning ahead.
Breaking eye contact with Aila, Cassian turned back to the other occupants in the solar. “Follow me. Quickly!”
“Wait … but shouldn’t we fetch our cloaks and belongings?” Lady Gavina asked, her voice shaky.
“Take a cloak and nothing else,” he replied curtly. “If we’re going to make it out of Stirling Castle, we have to go now.”
XXV
THE WAY OUT
THE FOUR WOMEN followed Cassian down the hallway. He didn’t lead them back to the main stairwell, past the guards, but instead in the opposite direction—to a service stairwell used by servants that led down to the kitchens.
The same one that Comyn had taken when he’d met with them.
Now that Cassian knew of the secret way out of the castle, he moved with purpose down the dimly lit steps. They were perilously narrow, yet he didn’t slow his pace.
Edward would be summoning his guards. There was a real risk they wouldn’t even make it to the Nether Bailey before they were caught.
Cassian was focused now. Nothing else mattered but getting these women safely away from Stirling. They would have to leave the other men of their escort, and their horses, behind. But there was no time to warn the warriors, and horses would only hamper their escape.
The kitchens were busy, a cacophony of shouting cooks making final preparations for supper. Servants hurried to and fro, carrying tureens of stew and baskets of bread.
A couple of them noticed the party that appeared from the service stairwell.
One of the cooks nearest the stairs—a big man with a florid face and a harassed expression—scowled. “What are ye lot doing down here?”
“Just passing through,” Cassian replied, ushering the women ahead of him across the floor to an archway. “And if you have any love for your fellow Scots, you’ll forget you ever saw us.”
The cook’s expression tightened, his mouth thinning. A moment later, he gave a reluctant nod and turned away, before bellowing across the kitchen. “Fergus! Stop yer idling!”
“Where does this passage go?” Lady Gavina whispered to Cassian when he joined them.
He flashed her a grim smile. “To the eastern side of the inner-bailey, a short walk to our destination.”
“We’ll never make it!” Jean’s voice echoed shrilly against the surrounding stone.
“Lower yer voice, Jean!” Lady Elizabeth snapped. She then turned to Cassian. “She has a point though, Captain … we’ll not reach the door without being spotted.”
“We won’t,” Cassian agreed, drawing his sword. The dull scrape of steel filled the cramped tunnel. The light of the nearby cressets gleamed
against the pointed, double-edged blade and its bronze handle. The women’s gazes settled upon the blade, and then Lady Elizabeth’s brow furrowed.
Cassian’s mouth lifted at the corners as he suppressed a smile. They’d expected him to carry a claidheamh-mòr—a great Scottish broadsword, not this shorter, thinner blade. He wielded a gladius hispaniensis—a Spanish sword made of folded Toledo steel. The weapon had been with him for many long centuries.
Noting the doubt upon the women’s faces, Cassian flashed them all a tight smile. “Fear not … a blade like this is ideal for fighting your way out of a castle.”
And it was. His gladius had been forged for use on the battlefield at close quarters, to cut and thrust with while holding a shield in the opposite hand. He never went into a swordfight without it.
Cassian led the way toward the heavy wooden door that would take them into the inner-bailey. “Keep a few yards behind me till we reach the door,” he instructed. “I’ll likely need to clear a path for us.”
He glanced over his shoulder then, his gaze finding Aila’s.
Her round face was pale in the dimly lit tunnel, her grey eyes huge and dark. And yet she wore a resolute, determined expression that he welcomed.
Aila De Keith was brave. He just hoped the other women had the same mettle, for tonight, they would be hunted prey. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but these women’s lives were his responsibility.
“Where exactly is the door?” Cassian asked after a pause.
“On the southern side of the Nether Bailey.” Her voice was low and steady, giving him further reassurance that she wasn’t going to panic the moment they stepped outside. In contrast, Jean was ashen-faced and trembling beside her. “Look for the gorse bush.”
Cassian nodded before turning away. He moved to the door and threw it open, leading them out into the night.
Aila pulled up the hood of her cloak and bent her head against the icy onslaught of rain and wind. It was dark outdoors now, and the few pitch torches that still burned on the walls hissed and smoked.