by Emma Prince
He paused once they were a few feet into the tunnel to close the entrance behind them, then a moment later, a spark flashed in the darkness. Logan struck his flint stones together again, briefly illuminating the dripping, mossy tunnel. On the third strike, a torch on the ground at his feet caught and flared to life.
As yellow light flooded the tunnel, Mairin let a shuddering exhale go. The tunnel was long enough that she couldn’t see where it ended, but at least they now stood in a safe little halo of light.
“Follow me,” Logan said, carrying the torch past them and heading deeper into the tunnel.
“How did ye get here, brother?” Mairin asked, hurrying after him. “And how did ye ken Pontefract’s dungeon had a secret passageway? And why on earth—”
“Easy, Little Bird,” Logan said, sweeping her with his gaze over his shoulder. “I have a few questions of my own first. Are ye hurt?”
She must look a fright, her hair and clothes disheveled, her face tear-streaked, and a dagger clutched in her white-knuckled grip. But despite the nightmare she’d just survived, she was unharmed. “Nay.”
“I tried to find a way to keep the two of ye from being put in the dungeon, but there were too many eyes and ears before, and I couldnae risk drawing attention to myself.”
Realization slammed into Mairin’s sternum. “Ye were at Boroughbridge, werenae ye? Riding beside Harclay himself. I knew I recognized ye.”
“Aye,” Logan confirmed. “I was there.”
“What?” Niall breathed, catching Logan by the arm and drawing him to a halt. “You fought with Harclay? In the name of King Edward?”
“There is much to explain.”
“Start now,” Niall ground out.
Logan lifted a russet brow at Niall’s flat order, but Mairin didn’t miss the distinct light of respect in his steel-gray eyes.
“After ye departed the training camp on yer mission, I returned to Scone to apprise the Bruce. I was still uneasy at the idea of sending ye into the clutches of a man like Lancaster, Little Bird, either as a spy or a bodyguard. Nor was I pleased that yer safety was in the hands of English here—no offense, lad, but there it is.”
Niall’s mouth tightened at that, but he nodded for Logan to continue.
“The King confided his larger plot to me, which…let’s just say I was even less pleased and more convinced than before that the both of ye were headed into danger.”
“And what was his grand scheme?” Mairin asked.
“It is too complicated to explain now—hell, I’m no’ even sure I understand all of it, even still. Besides, we shouldnae dally overlong here. Suffice it to say that I couldnae persuade the Bruce to allow me to join ye at Lancaster’s side, but he sent me to Harclay to serve as an...advisor.”
Mairin was stunned into silence for a long moment.
“That was how I kenned about this passageway,” Logan continued when both Niall and Mairin stared in shock at him. “Harclay fostered with Lancaster here at Pontefract when they were both young. Harclay kenned all the ins and outs of this keep, for at one time he and Lancaster were quite close. Hell, Lancaster was the one who knighted Harclay many years past.”
“And…and Harclay told you about this secret tunnel,” Niall said slowly, clearly struggling as much as Mairin to understand all that Logan was saying.
“Aye, for he was bound to ensure, at the Bruce’s order, that no harm befell either of ye. He couldnae stand up for ye publicly, for it would reveal too much, but he could allow me to set ye free under cover of darkness.”
“Then Harclay is in league with the Bruce too?” Mairin managed at last, still feeling five steps behind.
“As I said, it is too complicated to untangle now,” Logan replied, jerking his chin at the passageway ahead. “I willnae be able to breathe easy until we are out of this blasted tomb. Just ken that ye can return to Scotland now. Yer mission is over.”
“Aye,” Niall said grimly. “We failed.”
Logan shook his head. “Nay, ye didnae.”
Niall’s brows dropped. “No doubt you know that Lancaster is to be given a traitor’s death tomorrow morn. His rebellion is in shambles. All those who conspired with him will likely be drawn and quartered alongside him.”
Logan sighed impatiently. “The Bruce will clarify all. I’m to take ye to Scone after Lancaster’s execution.”
“Then we are to stay until tomorrow?” Mairin asked, more confused now than she was before Logan had begun to explain things.
“Aye,” Logan replied. “The Bruce wants no doubt that Lancaster has been eliminated for good.”
A hundred more questions swirled through Mairin’s mind. Hadn’t the Bruce entered an alliance with Lancaster, even if only to advance some mysterious larger scheme of his? Why was he now so eager to be assured of Lancaster’s demise? And what of Harclay? The warden had fought in the name of Edward against the rebels, but was he truly in league with the Bruce as well?
Yet all she could do was trail after Logan, huddling close to remain in the light cast by his torch. Until they faced the Bruce, it seemed they were to remain in the dark.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dawn broke in a soft pink glow the next morning.
Niall hunched deep into his cloak, blowing frosty breaths into his hands. But he didn’t hunker behind his hood and lift his hands to his face only because of the cold.
Logan had insisted that they stay close enough to the crowd gathered for Lancaster’s execution to see it clearly with their own eyes, yet they couldn’t be recognized by any of the soldiers who milled about on the little rise above the village. So Niall, Mairin, and Logan all stood huddled in their cloaks, their hoods drawn, at the very edge of the crowd.
They didn’t have to wait long. The castle gates groaned open, and a ripple of murmurs traveled through the crowd of villagers. In the rough-spun garments of a peasant, Lancaster emerged from the gates. He was led by two soldiers up the low hill just beyond the village.
Behind him, King Edward rode a pure white stallion through the gates, his purple robes draped elaborately over the horse’s flanks in a show of his wealth and power. Several more nobles, including Andrew Harclay, Archbishop Melton, and others Niall didn’t recognize rode after the King.
Cheers went up at the sight of the King. The villagers no doubt viewed him as a savior of sorts for arriving shortly after Lancaster had attempted to fire their homes. The crowd fell in behind the King and his nobles, trudging up the snowy hillside to view the spectacle that awaited them.
Logan held them on the outskirts of those gathered. Even still, Niall recognized the faces of several of the village men who’d fought fires with him less than a sennight ago. They all stared with hard eyes at Lancaster as he mounted the hill. He even glimpsed Flora, the bawdy house madam, who now wore open contempt on her features for Lancaster.
The lad who’d worked at the Bee and Flower’s stables darted through the crowd until he was at the front. He bent and scooped up a handful of snow, then compacted it into a tight ball. He hurled the ball at Lancaster, to the chuckles and cheers of the villagers.
“Traitor!” someone shouted, and others took up the jeer.
“Now he shall have the reward he’s so long deserved,” another villager muttered, nodding with his neighbours. Lancaster had harmed so many, even his own people, that Niall doubted if a single soul in the crowd held any sympathy for the man.
The taunts and hisses died down as the King dismounted next to Lancaster and raised a hand to the gathered villagers.
Edward began by praising Harclay for his loyalty and declaring that he would be elevated from warden to Earl of Carlisle. Niall forced himself to listen without glancing at Mairin. They were both eager for an explanation of Harclay and the Bruce’s relationship. It seemed that for now, Edward was unaware of it, whatever it was.
The King then launched into a list of Lancaster’s offenses and crimes, going back several years. When he reached Lancaster’s treason in colluding with
Robert the Bruce and raising an army against his King, the crowd broke into boos once more.
“For these debased and treasonous crimes,” the King boomed, turning to Lancaster, “I declare you a traitor to King and country. Your lands and titles shall be stripped, and you will be sent to hell this morn.”
The villagers cheered again, but Edward held up his hand once more. “But since you are indeed of my blood, Cousin, I have decided out of the mercy and goodness of my heart that you will be spared the long and painful death of drawing and quartering.”
Besides a few surprised gasps, the crowd fell silent at that. Niall held his breath, watching the King. Edward was clearly enjoying drawing this out.
“Instead,” Edward continued, a little smile playing on his lips. “You shall be granted the death of common thieves and murderers—a beheading with a dull blade.”
That revived the mob. They cheered and clapped even louder at the prospect of Lancaster’s blood being spilled.
Lancaster was not permitted to say a word, either in his defense or in protest of his sentence. The soldiers holding him forced him to his knees there in the snow. A black-cloaked figure approached, brandishing a long sword. A wooden block was positioned under Lancaster’s head. The blade lifted, glinting in the rising sun.
Mairin turned away then, burying her face in Niall’s chest. He drew her close, lowering his mouth into her hair. Like the others, he too held no sympathy for Lancaster, but he wouldn’t revel in more bloodshed after all the lives that had been lost in this ill-fated civil war.
Only Logan watched on, his eyes steely gray and unflinching.
When it was done, the crowd roared their approval. As their glee at last began to die down, Edward launched into another speech about the other guilty leaders of the rebellion he and his men had hunted down. Most, he declared, would not be given the same leniency as Lancaster. Badlesmere, Audley, de Mortimer, Clifford, and more would be drawn and quartered like the traitors they were.
Logan turned to them then. “That was all I needed to see. Let us return to Scotland.”
Never had Niall wanted anything more.
Still, his chest tightened with worry as they gathered the horses Logan had procured for them and set out from Pontefract. Hopefully, they would have more clarity from the Bruce on the tangled details of his elaborate plot.
But the Bruce would want answers, too. Answers about why Niall and Mairin weren’t with Lancaster when he’d encountered Harclay’s army, and how the Earl had been captured and executed when their express assignment had been to keep him alive.
Which meant they would not only answer to the Bruce, but likely bear his punishment as well.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mairin twined her hands in her skirts, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
She, Niall, and Logan waited before the doors leading to the great hall at Scone Palace. She’d been here before, yet never to face the King’s judgement.
On the journey to Scone, she and Niall had agreed that they would withhold naught from the King, who would no doubt want a full account of their mission. Though it meant opening themselves to his displeasure—and possibly a punishment for their failure—if they had any hope of proving their loyalty and faithfulness to him and his cause, only honesty would do.
Niall’s warm hand on her back drew her attention from her worried thoughts. Gently, he cupped her cheek and eased her tortured lip from between her teeth.
“No matter what happens,” he murmured, his vibrant blue eyes holding her. “I’m here with you. We’ll face this together, aye?”
Beside them, Logan cleared his throat loudly, shooting daggers at Niall with his eyes.
“So much for yer pledge to keep yer hands off my wee sister, eh, English?” he practically growled.
Mairin rolled her eyes. It would have been impossible to keep their love a secret on the sennight-long journey from Pontefract to Scone. So they’d told Logan of their feelings, much to her overprotective brother’s aggravation.
“I like Niall’s hands on me, brother,” she retorted, just to get a rise out of him.
Logan’s face darkened like a storm cloud, but before he could snap a response, the doors to the great hall were pulled open by two guards and they were ushered in.
Mairin’s mirth vanished instantly. She strode stiffly into the hall, Niall and Logan flanking her.
Distantly, she noted how different this great hall was from Lancaster’s. While the Earl had used his hall to display his wealth and power, coating anything he could in gold, jewels, and silk, the King of Scotland’s palace was far more modest.
Wooden trestle tables and benches had been moved to the walls to give the King space to hold meetings. Clean rushes covered the floors, scented with dried herbs. The walls bore several tapestries depicting Scotland’s history and victories in battle. Torches cast the space in a comfortable glow without wasting hundreds of expensive beeswax candles.
Mairin took in the hall with one glance, but a heartbeat later, her gaze darted to the dais on the back wall. The King sat in a simple wooden chair behind a long table, several pieces of parchment spread before him.
His russet and gray head was bowed as he pored over the sheaves of parchment, apparently unaware of their entrance. His brow was deeply creased in concentration, his shoulders hunched beneath his simple tunic and the length of plaid thrown over one side.
One of the guards cleared his throat. “Logan Mackenzie, Mairin Mackenzie, and Niall Beaumore, sire.”
The Bruce’s head snapped up then, his dark, keen eyes fixing on them. He nodded to the guard, who bowed and quietly exited the hall, leaving the four of them alone.
Mairin’s nerves hitched as the Bruce assessed them for a moment.
“Welcome back to Scotland,” he said, setting aside one of the papers he held. “I am eager to hear what news ye bring.”
A brief but laden silence filled the hall for a heartbeat. “Where would you like us to start, sire?” Niall asked.
The Bruce lifted one russet eyebrow. “From the beginning, of course. I received yer missives, which were quite useful in giving me a sense of the largest events on yer mission, but I’d prefer a full report.”
Niall’s throat bobbed, but his voice was steady as he related their relatively uneventful journey into England and their arrival at Pontefract. He described the mood amongst Lancaster and his nobles as they waited for more forces to join their cause, and Lancaster’s portrayal of his alliance with the Bruce.
The Bruce stroked his red and gray beard as he listened, his eyes glittering with some private pleasure at the mention of their alliance. Mairin longed to ask for an explanation of just what he’d been about, joining with a man like Lancaster, but it wasn’t her place, and she didn’t wish to interrupt Niall’s report.
Niall continued, mentioning how they’d stowed the messenger pigeons in a nearby cave, and how they’d carefully rationed their missives to the King.
“And Lancaster and the others never grew suspicious of ye?” the Bruce interrupted. “They didnae question why ye kept leaving the castle?”
Niall cleared his throat, shooting a glance at Mairin. “We…led them to believe that we were slipping away on private trysts.”
Logan grunted at that and shifted on his feet. The Bruce lifted an amused eyebrow, but waved Niall on.
With another clearing of his throat, Niall continued. He related the arrival of Badlesmere and Damory, their departure from Pontefract, and the uneasy mood amongst the soldiers when they reached the River Trent.
When he described Lancaster’s utter miscalculation and mismanagement of the battle at Burton Bridge, the Bruce leaned forward in his chair with interest. The King had the mind of a strategist, and he no doubt found the moves and countermoves of the rebels and Edward’s army fascinating even apart from their political implications.
Niall’s voice drew taut when he spoke of Lancaster’s order to fire the town of Burton after his defeat. The Bruce
and Logan both muttered curses in response, clearly displeased with the use of innocents as pawns in Lancaster’s civil war.
“We thought to intercede,” Niall said, his voice still tight. He worked his jaw for a moment before continuing. “But as our mission was to stay by Lancaster’s side and ensure that he and his rebellion were kept alive, we…we did not intervene.”
The Bruce’s dark gaze fixed on first Niall and then Mairin, scrutinizing them for several long seconds. She had no idea what he searched for, but after a moment, he nodded for Niall to go on.
Niall quickly relayed their grueling journey back to Pontefract, and Badlesmere and Hereford’s efforts to convince Lancaster to abandon the castle for his stronghold in the north.
“He thought to gain your support at Dunstanburgh, sire,” Niall said.
Again, the Bruce’s eyes glinted with keen intelligence, but he made no comment.
“But he didnae make it to Dunstanburgh,” he said instead, his voice deceptively level.
“Nay, sire,” Niall murmured, dropping his head. “When we came upon him, he’d only made it to Boroughbridge before encountering Harclay’s army.”
Mairin’s heart leapt into her throat. It was time to confess their failure.
“When ye came upon him?” the Bruce asked, his brow creasing with a frown. “I thought ye said that ye’d remained by his side at all times.”
“It was my fault, sire,” Mairin blurted, taking a step forward.
“Mairin, nay, it wasn’t—”
The Bruce lifted a hand to silence Niall’s objection. “What do ye mean, Mairin?”
“When Lancaster decided to depart for Dunstanburgh, he also ordered that Pontefract’s village be fired. I went to the village to stop the man who would have burned it—Bruin. But when I laid eyes on him…” She swallowed hard. “I recognized him. He was one of the men from the Order of the Shadow who’d held me captive for all those years.”