Celtic Peril (Celtic Storm Book 6)

by Ria Cantrell

  Tom nodded. Caleb was right. Here in this time, the vital life force of his beautiful Jenna was strong. Here she was not just a memory of a girl long dead. Here she waited to be loved.

  ~

  Chapter Thirty-Seven ~

  Michael de la Pole was in a full rage by the time he had gotten onto his horse and rode out through the open gates of the castle. He was tired of biding his time, but he had to wait just a bit longer for the perfect opportunity to strike down the king. There were so many of those distasteful Scottish curs hanging about, it would be easy to pin the king’s murder on any one of them. It was not a matter of if it would happen, but when and the pick of suspects would be like a side board filled with treats to choose from. Right now, though, he wanted to vent his anger to the one who had dared to question him in front of his stupid squire.

  De la Pole did not know who that filthy clansman was, but he was going to find out. He had interfered where he should not have and de la Pole wanted to teach him a lesson in minding his own business.

  When he had gotten to the stables, his lazy squire was nowhere to be found, but his horse had been readied for him. The simpering dolt probably had gone off to hide, knowing he was going to feel the sting of punishment for the stranger’s interference. Later, de la Pole thought. There would be time enough to expend his anger on the boy. Now, he needed to find the king before meeting at the arranged time with his informant. He had been flanked by that gargantuan Norse savage and his guard so closely, de la Pole was not certain they let the imbecilic king wipe his own arse. It was difficult to get the king alone for even a moment, but de la Pole could wait.

  He rode out past the small village that bordered the keep. The peasants seemed well cared-for and content. Fools! There was nothing like contented subjects when trouble was afoot. They tend to become so complacent that by the time the dust cleared, they would not know what had hit them. How he wished he could put his hand to the torch as their idyllic little world came crashing down around them. All in good time! When the murder of the king was pinned on this clan, they would all wish for death rather than face what de la Pole fantasized for them. He was not stupid enough to think that even in their placid and peaceful lives that they did not harbor hatred for the English King. Mayhap, their disdain for all things English was even greater than his own disgust with the boy king that had no place on the English throne.

  De la Pole kept his eyes open. Nay, t’would not be easy to persuade one of these to do his deed. He needed to find someone who would seek to ruin the people of this clan, but who? He knew these Scots could barely keep from killing each other but he also knew that clan loyalty ran deep. He needed to find out who would wish to destroy the MacCollum name. He sought to meet his informant to seek the information of such a man, or even band of men, for he cared not.

  As the paved road ended and de la Pole found himself on the crude rutted dirt path, he knew that he would go undetected in these wild hills and his clandestine meeting would not be questioned. There were indeed benefits to being in an untamed land ruled by savages.

  The rarely traveled thoroughfare was lined with trees that blotted the sun from the sky. It was a perfect place to meet his man as he had planned. He came upon the clearing past a patch of trees as he was instructed and he waited, ever cautious of ambush. After all, this type of man was not one who dealt in honorable ventures. Instead of dismounting his ride, de la Pole sat stiffly upon his horse and watched for any approaching highwaymen. He listened intently for sounds of hoof beats or snapping twigs that would alert him to being set upon. His head turned from side to side as he scanned the darkened woods for signs of company.

  Quietly, almost without any warning, a man dressed in black leather trews and mantled with the same, silently slipped out from behind a large alder tree. Michael de la Pole was impressed with the stealth of his informant and he watched the man cross his arms over his chest, waiting for de la Pole to dismount.

  “Did you come alone?”

  “Of course. T’was what we agreed upon, was it not? I’ve no wish to be detected any more than you.”

  Warily looking over his shoulder, de la Pole finally stepped down off of the horse and faced the man. “What have you learned?”

  “Tsk, tsk, sir. I believe I was promised compensation for my news.”

  The hooded man held out his palm for the payment de la Pole had prearranged.

  “How do I know you will not take my coins and run?”

  With a dramatic flourish, the man answered, “Do you see any horses? You could outrun me in a thrice.”

  That was true. Even if the man had a horse hidden among the trees, there was no way he would be able to get to it before de la Pole could run him down.

  “Very well.” Michael de la Pole plunked several coins into the man’s hand and as he tossed one skillfully in the air, he pocketed the rest. He continued to flip the coin above his head as he spoke, “Now then,” he began. “This clan is very well respected throughout the Highlands.”

  “This is not news, idiot. Tell me something I do not already know.”

  Again he “tsked” at de la Pole’s arrogant impatience.

  “But they are not without their enemies. Aye, they have strong allies in the MacDougal and MacKay clans, but they have those who seek to ruin them as well. There has been a long standing feud with the Campbells, but they are dispersed and no one has seen hide nor hair of the only living male heir in nearly twenty years. The female heir is married to the Wolf of the Highlands and so the betrayal will not come from Campbells.”

  De la Pole circled the man who was leaning casually against the alder tree and through gritted teeth, he said, “Cease telling me of those who cannot help my cause.”

  He almost could not contain the rising anger that had surfaced just before he sought out the informant. For this he had paid good coin and risked being seen leaving the keep? The notion fueled the burning ire that was getting harder to contain. The hooded man was too smug for his own good. He had no idea who he was toying with. He heard the man chuckle and de la Pole thought he was about to explode.

  “Speak, fool. I grow weary of your games.”

  “Such impatience, de la Pole. T’will not gain for your cause, either. Now then,” the man said pocketing the final coin and rubbing the stubble on his chin as if searching his memory. He finally said, “There is a clan who would be happy to see to the demise of MacCollum. They are known as the MacKenzie. They also have a long history of bloodshed between them. I have heard their laird just died and the ascending heir, the son, is a hot-headed man. Not unlike you, de la Pole. His brother was killed by a MacKay, which is as good as a MacCollum, I suppose. The recent alliance between MacKay and MacCollum is quite strong even though it is rather new. It is said that the son, Rory, known as the Highland Wolf and the traitorous host of your king secured the alliance and they are like one clan.”

  “How do you know so much about them?”

  “Ha, I do not come lightly by my trade. I have ingratiated myself with both sides to garner the most profitable information. I know the MacKay signed the agreement and sealed it with his blood, as did the Wolf, for that is how these savages close their pacts. That English traitor, Brandham, only recently bartered goods and supplies with MacKay before the king arrived at his door.”

  De la Pole eyed the man. It seemed he hated the Scots as much as he did, but yet he lived among them. He spoke like an Englishman, but he was privy to treaties between powerful clans.

  “How can I meet with the MacKenzie?”

  “How indeed.”

  “Better yet, mayhap we can make it look as if the MacKay betrayed the MacCollum.”

  The man shook his head. “T’will never happen. No one will believe it. While their peace is recent, they were never enemies. They were both powerful clans in their own right and now doubled with the MacDougal, they are unstoppable. Only the MacKenzie are near enough to cause trouble.”

  “But if the MacKay does the deed, the M
acCollum will be named for it as well.”

  “What deed would that be, de la Pole?”

  “T’is no concern of yours. Can you get me an audience with the MacKenzie?”

  “No. I have no contacts within MacKenzie walls.”

  De la Pole practically threw down his sword in a fit of rage. “Why the hell do you tell me these things if there is naught I can do from the information you have given. To me it is just useless gossip. You have wasted my time.”

  “Have I?” The dark clothed man enjoyed toying with de la Pole plying him with useless information while he planned his coup de gras!

  The man slipped behind the tree momentarily and came out bearing a parcel wrapped in woven sackcloth.

  “For a few more coins, I can give you something better than a meeting with MacKenzie.”

  “You think that a sack of rags would earn you more coins?”

  “These are no mere sack of rags, de la Pole. They are the colors of the MacCollum. T’is their clan plaid. Have a look.”

  De la Pole stepped closer, but the man held out his hand again. “Your sign of trust, de la Pole.”

  Michael de la Pole dug into his pouch and procured a few more gold coins. This time, the man pocketed them immediately and he opened the tied sackcloth to reveal the woven wool that the barbarians donned. It was just the thing to bring his ruse to life. It was almost as good as getting a MacKenzie to do his dirty work. As he fingered the fabric, he feigned stupidity. “Just what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Oh come now. We both know you do not pretend to hide your disgust for that weakling in rule of England. Though you do not say what you wish to do, it is clear to me that you need a scapegoat to do your deed. Who better than to lay blame at the feet of these dogs. I too have wanted to see their demise for a long time.”

  “But you are a Scot, are you not? Though your speech is civilized, I thought you were one of them.”

  “Not all of us born in these lands are true to them. I have lived these past twenty or so years in England. I have forsaken all ties to the Highlands many years ago when Campbell fell to MacCollum. I am not without disdain for them.”

  “Interesting. If I cared enough about your pitiful life, I would wonder what had happened to turn you, but as it is, your life matters not to me.”

  “Careful, de la Pole. I know many people who can aid or deter you, in both the Scottish and English camps. I have made my living on my cunning. You would be wise to tread lightly when casting your remarks to me.”

  “I care not for why you hate the MacCollum, or for that matter any of these other Scottish scum, McManus. I care not why, when you speak of the one who married the Wolf, that your eyes grew harder and colder. It is easy to see that she was the reason for your break with your country. I, too, am not without skills in this game. I did not become the king’s chancellor because I am without my own cunning.”

  Jerome McManus eyed the greasy shyte before him and thought upon his words. He had lived on both sides of the borders and made enemies and allies upon both English and Scottish soil. He had culled his hatred for Rory MacCollum and his whore for many years. They had taken everything from him. They had seen to the demise of Campbell and for all he knew, were responsible for the disappearance of Derek, the rightful heir of Campbell keep.

  Derek’s brother Roderick lay rotting in his grave by the MacDougal’s hand, who had protected the Wolf. Roderick had promised Jerome his sister, Gabrielle, but that all had deteriorated upon the ruin of Campbell. After he had kidnapped Gabrielle from the MacCollum clutches and delivered her to her brother, he had been vowed his rightful reward with the harlot, only the Wolf was not easily thwarted. He should have disposed of that doddering old fool, Caleb MacCollum, when he had the chance. He had practically handed Brielle Campbell over to him on a platter.

  Aye, he would have his revenge. It may have taken two decades, but Jerome McManus would have his day. Now, all he needed to do was play the game till the end and keep his wits about him. The king’s lackey was not a stupid man. In fact, he was quite a worthy adversary and it would be interesting to match wits with him. With a mock bow of acquiescence, Jerome said, “You are right, my lord. I should have realized your skills. Now then, perhaps you would tell me your plans and we can see who will be your henchman.”

  McManus had been Roderick Campbell’s henchman long ago and it would be easy to fall into the role again for the right amount of coin. He was not a young man any longer and he had waited many years for this day, but he was still strong and he could still do things under the cover of darkness.

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Come, now de la Pole. You do not meet me here in secret to plan a surprise party for your king, now do you? I think he is as worthless a ruler as any of them. I have no love for the man.”

  “Nay, but you have no love for any country or kin, it seems.”

  “Ahh, but I do. I was promised something long ago that was taken from me. While my master was madder than a loon, I served him well. I would serve him again, if he was still living. I seek another master who will reward me well.”

  De la Pole laughed and said, “You are an old man. What could you do for me?”

  “Do not underestimate me, Michael. There are many that no longer breathe air because of my hand. And yet, here I am, still breathing and unpunished for my deeds. Believe me, I have honed my skills well over time.”

  De la Pole had wanted to finish the man right now, before he returned to the keep, for he did not like to leave a trail that would point to him, but as he pondered the words of Jerome McManus, he knew that he would be a useful tool in his quest to end the king’s life and to pin the deed on the Scots. Any Scot would do, but what better blame than to bring down these MacCollum dogs. If Jerome McManus bore ill-will toward them, all the better. He would not have to foster hatred in McManus for it already was there. Hatred, especially the kind that simmered over time, was the best poison to keep the conscience at bay.

  De la Pole put aside his desire to leave McManus’ body at the side of road as carrion to feast upon. It would be to his benefit to use the man as his assassin. His end could wait until the deed was done. After all, the less who knew of his own hand in the plot, the better. While he would have liked to do the deed himself, de la Pole thought it more beneficial to let an assassin do his dirty work for him. Yes, de la Pole’s hands would remain bloodless with the crime. The plot was brilliant.

  ~

  Chapter Thirty-Eight ~

  Tom thought about what Caleb MacCollum had said to him. Something inside him, told him that the old man was right but Tom was not sure he was ready to face such implications. He sadly denied what had been pulling at his heart for longer than he dared to think about. How many times had he seen her in his dreams? Ever since he had been locked in that storage closet, Tom realized that for as long as he could remember, she was a recurring figure in his dreams. He had kept them locked where memories hid sometimes. It certainly explained his boyhood crush on Kiera, for she looked so much like Jenna. Only, now as he pondered Caleb’s words and searched his mind for the instances of dreams long forgotten, Tom knew it was never Kiera. It had always been Jenna. But how was that possible?

  It was as if she called to him from a past he had no business being tied to. You are tied to it. Morag is your mother. You are more a part of the past than of the future. Tom was certain he did not like that thought. He was happy in the world and life he had made for himself. He loved the attention from the fan-girls, who enjoyed his dulcet voice when he toured with Celtic Storm. He loved his parents, who had raised him in place of the woman from this precarious time. They would be devastated if he were to not return. Still, something pulled at him to stay; even more than the pull of his roots. That something was really a “someone”. That someone was Jenna. Oh, God, I’m a fool. There is no good that can come from pursuing a relationship with that girl. Perhaps, he should try to get home as soon as he could and forget the whole lot o
f it.

  Tom hung his head. He knew he could not just leave. Not now. For one thing, he had to warn someone or do something to stop de la Pole from assassinating the king. And the other thing was that when he had thought about returning home, knowing that Jenna would be long gone in life, he could barely breathe from the weight of it. It was all he could do to not bawl his eyes out in front of the powerful laird of the MacCollum clan.

  He felt like an idiot. His eyes actually welled up at the thought. It had not been missed by the old man. This man had gotten to be his age because he must have been a very formidable warrior his entire life. That meant that he was good at reading people. He was also a leader of a clan who depended upon his guidance. Tom had felt the heavy paw of the man clap him across his back at his embarrassing little show and he had said, “Ye’ll know what to do when ye’ listen to yer’ heart, lad. But dunna’ wait too long. Opportunities have a way of bein’ short lived.” And then the man had walked away, leaving Tom to thoughts that should not be pondered.

  Tom tried to clear his mind and he decided to try to find out more about de la Pole. Perhaps he would be able to happen upon the monster’s squire again. He had last seen the youth heading out toward the stables, but de la Pole had long gone, and Tom hoped it was not to meet the king. The lady Bronwyn had said that her son and that big blond Viking had been sent along to guard the king. Tom had not gotten to speak much to either of them, but his own encounter with each of them had assured him that the king was probably in good hands at the moment.

  Tom left the quiet study and ventured out into the noise filled hall. It was just what he needed to drown out the sound of his thoughts. Maybe he would have some of that ale after all to drown out what the sound could not.