by Rowan Keats
Even this.
But letting him go was going to hurt far more than she’d imagined. She could already feel the ache in her heart, and he was not gone yet.
She sucked in a shaky breath.
But before that, she had to stop him from repeating the mistake he’d made down by the loch. Yes, he was grieving. Yes, his family deserved justice. But justice would not be served if he confronted the man alone.
They reached the end of the tunnel, and Wulf shoved open the door. It opened on a rocky shore, just below the docks. As it was noon, the tide was out, and they were able to walk up the beach to the path leading into the town.
When they were once again on even ground, Wulf turned to her. He lifted her hand and stared at her curled fingers. “You paid an unbearable price to pull me from the fire, and my regrets are legion.”
“I merely did what I had to do.”
He shook his head. “You did far more. I owe you everything, lass. My health, my freedom, and my very life. Were it not for you, I would not be standing here on the brink of avenging my kin. You’ve done so much for me,” he said, kissing the tip of each finger. “I cannot ask more. Pay Bran to accompany you back to Dunstoras. From here I must go alone.”
“No,” she argued. “Alone is the choice that lost you four months of your life.”
He gave her a half smile. “Is that how you see it?”
“Do not repeat the error of that night. Come back to Dunstoras with me. Tell the laird what you know. Together you can defeat this man, no matter how powerful he is.”
His gaze met hers. “The man in black is William Dunkeld, the king’s brother.”
She had guessed as much from Wulf’s earlier comment about failed opportunity. She nodded. “Not an easy man to accuse.”
“Especially if you are an outlaw and an escapee from Edinburgh dungeon,” he agreed. His face darkened. “But I must see justice done.”
“How? He commands an entire garrison of the king’s guards, and you are but one man. And any hope of proving his duplicity is gone. I was unable to save the Book of Arms.”
Wulf’s gaze turned to the burned shell of the fishmonger’s shop. Then, without a word, he marched in that direction.
She grabbed his hand, trying to halt him, but failing. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer, just continued to walk. When he reached the ruins, he began digging through the rubble, unconcerned that several people had taken note of his actions.
“Are you mad?” she asked. “Dunkeld has set the constable on us. We should not be here.”
He tossed aside a roof beam and several half-burned planks of flooring. Working swiftly, he soon uncovered the remains of the fallen staircase. Morag pointed to the spot where she’d made the difficult decision to release the book. A blackened heap was all that remained of the fishmonger’s mattress, but Morag could see several sticks of wood that had once been a table.
Wulf kicked aside a sheaf of burned thatch and found what was left of the book—the heavy leather binding had not been completely destroyed, but the bubbled black sheets between turned to ash the instant his fingers touched them.
Their last hope of connecting William Dunkeld to the murders was gone. All they had now were Wulf’s memories—which would never gain credence while Aiden MacCurran stood accused of the crimes.
Having found what he sought, he turned to leave, but his boot caught a corner of the burned table and it tipped.
Wulf froze, and Morag wondered what he’d seen.
A moment later, she knew. He bent and pulled something from beneath the table. A carved horse. She had saved the box from the fire, but one of the toys must have fallen loose. His hand trembled, just barely, and then he shoved the carved figure into the front of his lèine.
His face was calm—suspiciously so. There was no sign that he’d been disturbed, but she knew the toy had rocked him. He left the shop and strode into the street without a word.
Morag followed him, but there was a distance between them she couldn’t bridge. He looked at her, but didn’t really see her—his memories had pulled him to another place and time.
“Send a message to Bran,” he said. “He’ll see you home.”
Even though her previous pleas had not swayed him, Morag tried one more time. “You are not ready. You have not eaten in two days.”
His gaze turned west, in the direction of Edinburgh. “I’m more ready than you think. This day has been waiting for me.”
Morag wanted to say more, but she held her tongue. He was not hers anymore. He belonged to the memory of Elen and Hugh. There was only one thing he was forgetting.
“Jamie is also waiting for you,” she reminded him.
His gaze dropped. “Aye.”
“Don’t do anything foolish, Wulf MacCurran. Else you’ll lose my respect.”
He nodded. And then he was gone.
Chapter 15
Holyrood Abbey was an impressive structure. Wulf entered through the twin-tower front and walked down the aisled nave toward the far left bay. The high-vaulted ceiling, glorious stone arches, and fluted pillars nearly stole his breath away—it truly did seem as though God must have had a hand in building such a monument.
In the hours between sext and vespers, only a handful of worshipers were inside the abbey, most on their knees near the Chapel Royal. Wulf sought out the hooded figure near the choir.
“I must thank you for meeting me,” Wulf said in a low voice.
His father-in-law did not raise his bowed head. To all onlookers he continued to pray. “How could I deny you? If you have truly found the man who murdered my daughter, then I am honor-bound to aid you.”
“My memories have returned. I saw his face.”
The old man nodded. “Tell me what you need.”
“I cannot enter the burgh,” Wulf said. “But I must know the instant this man leaves the city gates.”
“Some men never leave the burgh.”
“This man will,” Wulf assured him. “He is William Dunkeld, brother to the king.”
Elen’s father was silent. He did not caution Wulf on the difficulties of reaching Dunkeld or try to convince him it was unnecessary, and for that Wulf was grateful.
“Can you help me?” Wulf asked.
“Aye,” the old man replied. “A jeweler must cultivate a variety of relationships to acquire the stones he needs. I know a reliable man who can report on Dunkeld’s travels.”
“Excellent,” Wulf said. He told the old man how to get word to him and then stood for a moment in quiet companionship. As the old man turned to depart, Wulf said, “On our wedding day, I planted a sapling yew in the garden of Dunstoras keep. Elen could see it from the window of our chamber, and together we watched it grow from a thin switch to a deeply rooted tree.”
The old man lifted his eyes to Wulf’s face.
“That yew still stands,” Wulf said. “Healthy and strong. Elen’s sons climbed its branches, and so will her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Long after you and I are but dust in the sod, it will stand.”
Tears sprang to the old man’s eyes and he put a thin hand on Wulf’s sleeve. “May your aim be forever true, lad.”
Then he hobbled away.
* * *
Dunkeld strode across the great hall, kicking a sleeping hound too slow to clear his path. As the dog yipped and ran off, Dunkeld flung a curse to its sorry parentage.
“Devil-whelped cur!” he snarled.
Several gillies scurried out of his way, no doubt fearing a similar fate as the dog. Dunkeld snatched a candle from a wall sconce and stomped up the stairs to his rooms.
“Fetch me some wine,” he ordered his valet when he entered. The fool bobbed his head and rushed off.
Dunkeld plunked the candle on the table and spread the rolled parchment wide. He’d already read the missive twice, but he read it again. MacCurran had escaped the constable of Leith. The wretched cur was a bloody ghost. And now he was wandering free. He could be anyw
here.
He pushed away from the table in disgust, allowing the parchment to curl up with a snap. How many times must he gather the man in his grasp, only to see him slip between his fingers? He ought to be long dead. Instead, the man tormented him.
Pacing the floor in front of the fire, Dunkeld struggled to tame his rage. An angry man did not think well. He was capable of crushing MacCurran, but to do so he had to find the man’s weakness.
His valet returned with the wine.
Dunkeld snatched it from his hands and barked, “Get out!”
Downing the contents of the cup in a single long swallow, he barely tasted the wine. But it sang through his veins and warmed the cold lump in his belly.
The woman was his only hope.
If he could find her, he could gain the advantage.
Sadly, the last time he’d seen her, she’d been with MacCurran, and if she remained so, his cause was lost. But he’d found her once at the weavers’ guild house. The head of the guild was her father. Wasn’t it possible she might return there?
Dunkeld closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
A good king ruled with equal parts patience and ruthlessness—the ability to wait out his enemy combined with the courage to do whatever was necessary to win the day. He was that man. Those qualities had taken him this far, and if he but held the faith, they would gain him the crown.
He pictured himself seated on the throne, a jeweled crown upon his brow, and he smiled.
To the guild house, then.
* * *
By the time Morag traveled to Edinburgh from Leith and forded the line at the gate, it was dark. Her feet aching and her heart heavy, she flopped down on a pile of old burlap sacks.
The more she thought about returning to Dunstoras, the tighter her chest became. What was left for her there? If she could not weave, how would she make her way? And without Wulf, how could she live at the bothy? Every corner of the little house held memories of him now. She would be constantly reminded of the time she’d had with him—a bittersweet memory she wasn’t sure she could endure.
Perhaps it would be better to remain in Edinburgh, at least for a time. Until the ache of Wulf’s loss was more bearable. Her father had a powerful position in the burgh—and he’d already proven he could provide a measure of safety, even against Dunkeld. Surely if pressed he could find work her curled fingers could conquer?
Morag pushed to her feet, refusing to let her maudlin thoughts gain purchase. She was a capable woman. She would make her way, just as she’d always done. Curled fingers or no.
She trudged wearily to the guild house door and knocked, but no one answered. It was the supper hour and most people had gone home.
“Are ye seeking Master Parlan?” a passing lad asked.
Morag nodded.
The boy pointed down the street. “He lives in Gordon’s Close. Perhaps he’ll see you there.”
Morag thanked the lad and stared down the street. Safety with Parlan would come at a price. Thus far, she’d kept her relationship with her father as distant as possible. Visiting him in his home would invite a more personal connection—while under his roof, she would be hard-pressed to deny his questions about her mother or the past. Was she ready for that?
Morag sighed. Perhaps she was.
Although her feet protested, the soles throbbing, she set off down the lane. She would need a place to bide the night as well. A guild master would surely possess a hearth large enough to accommodate a guest.
With the aid of another passerby, she found herself in front of a pleasant little bothy with a neatly thatched roof and two shuttered windows. There was a small herb garden in the front, freshly tended and beginning to sprout new growths of thyme and rosemary. Morag tried to picture her father on his knees in the dirt, and failed.
Clearly she did not know the man well.
She rapped on the blue-painted door.
A moment later, the portal swung open, and Morag found herself staring at a slim lass of ten or twelve years. The girl wore a simple but finely crafted gown and stitched leather boots that put Morag’s rough footwear to shame. She smiled a pretty smile. “Aye?”
Suddenly uncertain, Morag glanced over the girl’s head into the bothy. A number of people were seated around the blazing hearth, soup bowls in hand. One of them she recognized as Parlan’s apprentice, Douglas. “Is Master Parlan within?”
The girl nodded and spun around. “Da! A woman to speak with ye.”
Morag froze. Da.
This was his daughter. Why hadn’t she considered that? Her father had not only begun a new career in Edinburgh, he’d started a new family. She stared at the spill of long dark hair falling down the young lass’s back and swallowed a sour mouthful of spit. He had never returned to Dunstoras because he’d had no need. He had all he needed here—a new loom, a new wife, and a new daughter.
Her gaze lifted to the lad seated by the fire.
Better yet, he now had a son. A lad he could teach his craft to. A lad who would surely become a skilled weaver, because he would have a father to guide him every day, to share all the secrets of fine-cloth making. A lad who wouldn’t have to peer at old notes and pray he’d correctly interpreted the ingredients that made the colorful dyes her father was famed for. A lad who wouldn’t be forced to use trial and error to discover the art of pattern making, wasting yards of wool in the process.
Morag turned away from the open door and strode off.
A lad who wouldn’t stare down the lane for hours, wondering whether his da would ever come home.
“Morag!”
She heard her father call her name but she didn’t stop. What a fool she’d been to think there might be a place for her here. Her home was in Dunstoras. The memories might be bittersweet, but they were memories of her own making. She wouldn’t choke over them like she was choking right now.
“Morag!”
She picked up her pace, her walk becoming a run.
And then, because her day hadn’t yet thrown her every challenge it could, the heavy clouds in the sky finally gave up the rain they’d been threatening for hours. Fat drops to begin with, then a steady stream. By the time Morag passed the guild house, she was soaked to the skin.
Water ran down her face in rivulets, only half of which were rain.
It had been a long time since Morag had let herself weep. The occasional tear, aye. Those were common enough. But great racking sobs that burned her throat and clogged her nose? Not since her mother died.
Perhaps that was why she didn’t see William Dunkeld until it was too late.
* * *
“Sire, it would be most unwise to travel,” de Keith said, as the king strode down the corridor, his chief advisers following in his wake. “The weather has turned quite foul.”
“And there are still issues to settle with the earls,” the Earl of Buchan added.
King Alexander spun around to face them, his expression angry and determined. “I go to Kinghorn today. There will be no further delays. Do you understand?”
Dunkeld smiled. His brother could be quite stubborn when the mood struck him. And when it came to his queen, the mood struck him often.
“I will not be absent for my lady’s celebration,” the king said, continuing down the hall to his rooms. “Ready my horse.”
“As you wish, sire,” de Keith said. He bowed and departed.
Dunkeld and Buchan followed Alexander into his private rooms, where the valets de chambre were waiting with the royal wardrober. As his attendants prepared him for the ride to Kinghorn, the king addressed the Earl of Buchan, the justiciar. “Meet with the earls. Explain my need to depart and invite them to wait upon my return, at my hospitality.”
“But their desire is to formally announce Yolande’s child as the new heir. Why not simply make that proclamation?”
Alexander waited until his red tunic was replaced by a pale blue one with gold thread running through it. “Until the child is born the
re will be no proclamation. The maid Margaret will remain my heir until that time.”
Buchan frowned. “But, sire, you know the earls are unhappy that your heir resides on foreign soil. Especially Norse soil.”
“They must learn to be patient,” Alexander said. “In a matter of months Yolande will deliver me a son, and this bickering over nothing will be seen as a waste of time. There are more important matters to attend to.”
“Aye, sire,” Buchan said, bowing.
“Now go,” the king said. “Keep them busy while I ride out of the gate.”
The justiciar left the room, and Dunkeld stepped into the light. “The weather is truly hellish, brother. The storm has swept across the city like a biblical torrent, and may very well plague you all the way to Kinghorn.”
Alexander shrugged. “So be it. A little rain will not damage the king of Scotland.”
“I did not receive notice that you would be leaving this eve,” Dunkeld said, plucking a candied plum from the bowl on the table.
“There was no need,” the king said. “I am not taking a full complement of guards. Just my four gardes du corps.”
Dunkeld raised a brow. “Is that wise?”
“’Tis a short journey,” the king said, “over friendly territory. There’s no need for a show of arms.”
“But you are the king,” Dunkeld pointed out dryly.
Alexander chuckled. “If you feel strongly that I need more protection, you may accompany me.”
It was the invitation Dunkeld had been angling for, and he grabbed at it. “It would be my honor to accompany you, sire. If you would allow me, I would beg a moment to collect a unique gift for Her Grace’s birthday celebration.”
“A moment,” the king granted. “But not much longer. I must be away.”
Dunkeld bowed deeply and left the room.
Such an opportunity might never come again. A stormy night, only a handful of guards, and a rocky trail overland to Kinghorn. It had been his intent to poison the queen first, and watch the horror on his brother’s face as he realized he was once again without male issue. But slaying a king was a difficult business. Alexander had testers to ensure his food wasn’t tampered with, and now that de Lourdes was dead, it would be impossible to poison another object like the necklace.