by Amy Jarecki
“What?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Just my imagination getting the better of me.”
***
Weakened by two days with little to eat or drink, Bran followed the procession into the courtroom, barely able to raise his hands. The manacles had worn strips through his skin. With every step, they jostled against his raw flesh.
The courtroom was hot and crowded and stank of captives who had gone far too long without bathing, as the prisoners were processed into a large hall, its walls richly inlaid with wooden paneling. At the far end, the magistrate sat at a long bench with a council of men wearing black robes topped with white ruffs.
Malcolm filed in front of him. “The lambs being led to the slaughter.”
Bran gritted his teeth. “Death beats another three days in hell.”
“Word is Lord Ross was released yesterday. He’s not among the faces here.”
Bran tossed his head to scatter the hair away from his eyes. “Left ye here to hang with me, did he?”
“Aye, the bastard. And after all I did for him.”
Surrounded by pikemen, the prisoners stood while the council frowned down at them from behind the dark maple bench. Bran scanned the public, standing, crammed into the hall. Like vultures, they waited for the spectacle to begin.
As his gaze shifted, he hoped to find one familiar face, though he knew Enya wouldn’t be there, especially not since her father had been released. The same jeering faces he’d seen when they forced him to parade in shame through the streets of Glasgow now glared at him.
They hailed the first prisoner to the platform, called him by name. Bran wondered if they were going to pass sentence upon each individual. He got his answer when they called the next and the next.
It was a sham. Each man stood in chains, head bowed, while the magistrate read a list of charges against him. The worst part was the chilling sentence. At dawn on the morrow, you will be hung by the neck until dead. The timeline extended a day after the fifth man. The gallows must only hold five. Such a pity they were forced to draw it out.
They ushered each man out the side door once his sentence passed, some crying, others pleading for leniency.
The tower bell tolled eleven times. Bran had stood in the hall for three hours. Malcolm received his sentence to hang. Ross’s former captain of the guard uttered not a word, and the sentries led him away as they had the others.
“Bran of Raasay,” a sentry bellowed.
To the taunts and jeers of the crowd, Bran shuffled awkwardly in his leg irons and climbed the two steps to the platform.
The magistrate pounded the bench with a wooden gavel. “Order. Order, I say.” When the noise ebbed, he peered down the length of his nose. “I have a sworn statement from the Honorable Lord Ross revealing you were personally responsible for the queen’s escape at Langside.”
Bran clenched his fists and jerked them against the chains. Ross had betrayed him? He’d done it to save his own neck, no doubt—the spineless codfish. “I wasna the only—”
“Silence!” The magistrate glared. “You have been found guilty of treason against the Kingdom of Scotland in the highest order. You are hereby sentenced to be hung in chains. At dawn on the morrow, alive, you will be gibbeted in an iron cage until your bones are picked clean by ravens.”
Blood surged through Bran’s veins. He wanted his hands around Fisher’s scrawny neck. Lurching forward, he reached out as sentries seized his arms.
“Bran,” Enya’s disembodied voice called above the crowd.
He wrenched his head around. Where was she? Bran planted his feet and used his weight to fight against his captors’ grasp. A horde of soldiers swarmed toward him, but he saw her. One last time, her lovely face lit up his heart. Enya.
The sharp point of a pike stabbed into his shoulder. “Get moving, you bloody bastard.”
***
Putting the distaste of his incarceration behind him, Lord Ross opted to ride out on a hunt after breaking his fast. Accompanied by Robert, a morning in the saddle chasing red deer was what he needed to clear his head.
In time, all the ugliness would be forgotten. Word came Claud Hamilton had fled to England. Curses. It looked like Ross would need to find another match for his wayward daughter. A thorn in his side, she was.
Movement ahead snapped his mind to the task at hand.
“Three does and a young buck,” Robert whispered.
Ross raised his musket to his shoulder. He had one shot. If it missed, the chase would be on. Hell, the chase would be on even if he hit his mark. The deer grazed in the green meadow beyond the trees. He lined a doe up in his sights. She raised her head, sniffing the air. She’d sense him if he hesitated. He pulled the trigger and the gun blasted. The deer dropped.
“Excellent shot, Father.” Robert loaded his bow and took off at a gallop with Ross on his heels. He could smell the fear on the air as they made chase, the deer scattering for the shelter of the forest.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ross saw movement. His mind clicked. Maisey? He reined his horse to a sliding stop. “Robert. Come.”
Enya’s saddled mare grazed beside one of his stock geldings.
“Did you see your sister this morning?”
“I thought she was still locked in her chamber.”
“As did I.” He kicked his heels against his stallion’s sides. “Boars ballocks, we must ride to Glasgow. When I find the twit, she will spend the rest of her life on Iona.”
“If she’s still alive.” Robert’s grave tone twisted around Lord Ross’s spine like the chilling knell of a funeral bell.
***
Enya tried to push through to Bran before the sentries muscled him out of the courtroom. He started struggling when she called out his name, and then they skewered his shoulder with a pike. She only wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.
Hung in chains? An unimaginable death. Enya clutched Heather’s arm. “We must find a way to free him.”
“But how? There are hundreds of sentries guarding the gaol.” Heather’s shoulders dropped. “I’ve no idea where we’ll find the next meal. We cannot go much longer.”
Enya’s stomach growled at the mention of food. With her bow and arrows lost, there was little hope of killing a rabbit. Besides, one didn’t hunt in the middle of town. “We can set a snare in the wood this eve.”
“Except it’s crawling with thieves.”
Enya followed the crowd. “Have you a better idea?”
Heather struggled to keep up. “I’m thinking on it. Oh, Enya, if we could only return to Halkhead and ask forgiveness.”
Enya pushed through the big double doors to the street. “That’s the one thing I will not consider.”
She saw it again, the ginger hair, but this time the man sporting it was in full view. Enya tugged on Heather’s arm. “Come.”
Dressed in red plaid, the likeness was uncanny. It had to be Laird MacLeod. Had he come for the trial? Enya hurried after him—heading for the docks. He walked beside a man wearing a blue and green plaid. After turning the corner, he headed straight toward a moored galley. Enya broke into a run.
“Slow down,” Heather hollered, but Enya couldn’t stop.
Nearly out of breath, she raced up behind him. “Laird MacLeod. May I have a word?”
The man turned and eyed her. She hadn’t noticed before, but his features were quite striking—crystal-blue eyes, a bold nose that pointed to full lips. “Miss Enya Ross, is it?”
“Aye.” Enya sucked in a deep breath. “You must help me free Bran.”
His gazed slipped to her dirty gown. “What the blazes happened to you?”
Heather huffed up beside her. “We were attacked by thieves in the night. Haven’t had a morsel to eat or drink all day.”
Calum’s jaw dropped. “You brought the healer?”
Enya grasped her nursemaid’s arm. “If you may recall, Heather is my maid.”
Understanding washed over his face. “Ah.”
&nb
sp; Enya pressed on. “We need to formulate a plan, and fast.”
Calum stroked his neatly cropped beard. “A plan, yes. We, no. Ye should take Mistress Heather and go home to yer father afore ye end up in serious trouble.”
He stepped onto the gangway but Enya lunged forward and caught his arm. “Please. You must help us. Bran told me about Lady Anne—how she was from English nobility, how you fought for her. If anyone can understand, ’tis you.”
Calum stopped and glanced at the blue-plaid man, who looked to the skies and shook his head. “Bloody hell, Calum, do ye always have to mistake yerself for Robin Hood?”
Calum’s mouth twisted in a devilish grin. “Me quartermaster isna too happy ’bout the prospect of having a woman aboard.”
“Women.” Enya dragged Heather along. “Please. We shan’t be any trouble.”
“To that, I beg to differ.” He beckoned her with a wave of his hand. “Come aboard and put some food in yer belly. The least I can do is feed ye.” He turned to his quartermaster. “John, go muster up some oatcakes and bully beef.”
Enya hurried behind him. “Thank you, m’laird. Your kindness shall be rewarded.”
“I doubt that,” John mumbled from behind.
Enya followed Calum up the gangway, her mind racing with questions. “How did you know Bran had been captured?”
He stepped aboard the galley. “Ruairi’s henchman sailed to Raasay.”
He offered Enya a hand and she caught sight of Rewan coiling a rope. “Weren’t you in the battle at Langside?”
Rewan held the rope between his hands with a crooked grin as if he’d been smitten. “Aye, and I hightailed it to Raasay as soon as I saw the soldiers seize Bran.”
Enya fanned her face. “Oh, thank heavens.”
Calum led them below decks to a tiny room with a round table and four chairs. “Apologies for the cramped space. A larger ship canna sail up the Clyde.”
“’Tis no problem.”
John set a trencher of food on the table. Enya’s mouth watered as she reached for a piece of bully beef.
“’Tis an answer to prayer that you’re here.”
“Aye, well, the greater question is what are ye doing in Glasgow without a guard?”
Enya started from the beginning. Heather cringed as Enya explained how her relationship with Bran blossomed, how they were caught, and his visit during her stay in Paisley Abbey.
Oddly, Calum listened with no outward sign of surprise. “And yer father. I expected to see him standing on the trial platform. What happened to him?”
“I negotiated release for him and my brother with Mr. Fisher. I tried to do the same for Bran, but he would hear none of it.”
“Of course the lad had to play the hero for the queen.”
Enya nodded. “It seems as though he did.” John placed a tankard of ale in front of her and she guzzled greedily. “My, that’s good.” She swiped her hand across her mouth and looked at Calum expectantly. “Please tell me you have a plan.”
“Aye, I do.”
“And?”
Calum scratched his head. “I dunna like the odds of the king’s men and yer father chasing after us.”
“I can help. Bran told me you used to put him in the crow’s nest with a bow and arrow.” Enya pointed to her chest. “I can do that.”
Calum arched a brow, giving him the look of a pirate. “What else did me henchman tell ye?”
“H-he would fight beside you to the death.”
Calum grinned. “That’s me boy.”
“Please. Allow me to help. Station me with a longbow anywhere and I’ll see to your safety.”
Heather slid her hand atop Calum’s. “She’s very skilled, m’laird. Better than her brother.”
Enya smoothed her hands over her unkempt hair. “As good as Sir Bran.”
“Aye?” Calum’s eyes popped and then narrowed. “Ye must swear fealty to Clan MacLeod.”
“Of course. I’d pledge my life if it means saving Bran.”
“Very well. We will take him under cover of darkness. I want as little bloodshed as possible. If we wait until daylight, no doubt Scotland will declare war on Raasay and we’ll all be fleeing for our lives.” Calum lifted his tankard. “If ye’re as good as ye say, we’ll post ye on the gallows.”
Enya’s hand slid to her neck. “The gallows?”
“’Twill give ye the best vantage point, and I’m planning to moor the galley directly beneath it.” He waggled his eyebrows. “No one will suspect us so close to the hangman’s noose.”
Enya pictured it in her mind. The plan made sense. “I cannot believe you are so cunning.”
“If ye’d prefer no’, I had thought to post Rewan there, but it would be a blessing to have his sword beside me.”
“No. I want to help.”
Calum turned to Heather. “Ye’d better stay below, mistress.”
“I’ll be here to tend any wounds.” She crossed herself. “Heaven help us.”
***
Lord Ross took Robert and half a dozen men on the ride to Glasgow. He wanted to take a full army, but he could not leave the manse unprotected, and he’d lost over half his guard in the fighting at Langside.
It was late afternoon when their horses clomped across the bridge. “There are only a few inns. Let’s start there. Lie low, men. For Mr. Fisher most assuredly still has a taste for blood.”
He pushed through the door of the George Inn, renowned for its unsavory clientele, with rooms above and a bar filled with boisterous, distasteful men drinking ale at wooden tables while loose women flitted about. Ross sincerely hoped his daughter had the sense to stay away from this place.
He walked up to the barman and leaned across to be heard. “Has a young lass with auburn tresses let a room?”
“That sounds like Queen Mary, and word has it she’s fled to England.”
“I’m speaking of my daughter, Enya Ross.”
“No ladies here.” His eyes strayed to Ross’s ermine bonnet and badge, which signified his noble status. “M’lord, is it?”
Ross eyed him with haughty contempt. “Have you rooms available?”
“Aye.”
“I’ll pay for the night’s accommodation for myself and my son. Can my men bed down in your stable?”
“Two shillings for the room and five pence for the stable.”
Ross untied the pouch from his belt. “You drive a hard bargain.”
The barman shrugged. “’Tis the going rate—same as Mule Deer Inn down the road.”
Ross tossed his money on the bar. “Thank you, friend.” He added a shilling. “A pint of ale for me and each of my men as well.”
Ross found an empty table and led Robert to it. “Keep your eyes open.” The ale was welcome after an afternoon of hard riding. “I think we should pay a visit to the tolbooth. See if she’s been there.”
Robert shuddered. “You think it’s wise to show our faces so soon after our release?”
“Have you a better idea?” A bow slung across a patron’s chair caught Ross’s eye. There was only one bow like that on earth, and he’d carved it himself. He shoved his chair back and crossed the floor. The man, who sported a thick beard and an unshaven neck, turned to him with a hateful glint in his eye.
“May I have a look at your bow?”
The man slid his hand over the pommel of his dirk. “And why should it interest you?”
“I collect such artifacts.” Ross leaned down to inspect it. No question, this was the one he’d carved for Enya. His eyes shot to Robert in silent warning. “The craftsmanship is exquisite.”
The man took a gander at Ross’s well-tailored attire. “I might be persuaded to sell it for the right price.”
Ross slipped the bow off the chair, taking inventory of the man’s four mates as Robert and the guard surrounded their table. He checked the inside shaft and ran his thumb over his initials—JR. In one swift move, he unsheathed his dirk and held it against the man’s hairy neck. “I’m only going to
ask you once, and you’d better speak quick, for my knife is sharp and itching for blood. Where did you find this?”
Ross’s guard drew their swords as chairs scraped against the floorboards and the table of men prepared for a fight.
“I found it last night.”
“Where?”
“On the Glasgow Road just before the bridge.”
“And where is the young lady it belonged to?”
A bead of sweat dribbled down the man’s temple as he made eye contact with an ugly blighter across the table—who nodded his head.
“Once we realized it was a lass, we left her and the old woman in the trees. We didn’t do nothing to her, I swear.”
Ross looked at his men. “Take these thieves to the tolbooth. Robert, come with me.”
***
Her belly full, Enya pulled a plaid over her head and climbed onto the galley deck. She cast her gaze to the sky. She hummed Griffon’s lullaby, not too loudly, as she didn’t want to draw attention to herself in the busy dockyard. Had her father noticed her missing? Surely he had, but would he come looking for her? Probably. He might even be searching the streets of Glasgow at this very moment.
Enya fa-la-la’d a bit louder. Clouds still loomed above, but they weren’t as ominous as the night before. Why she had to mount her escape in a thunderstorm, she had no idea. She sneezed. Queen’s knees, the last thing she needed was to catch a cold.
She slid her hand in her pocket and pulled out Bran’s archer figurine. Where was the panel she embroidered? Did Bran still have it? She doubted he would. But the figurine gave her hope. He’d fashioned it with his hands. Enya held it up to the sky and sang the words with the pronunciation she’d heard Bran use. Though she didn’t know the meaning, she prayed the bird would come.
Calum slipped beside her. “Ye’re searching for Griffon?”
“Aye.”
“If he’s no’ hereabouts, he’s most likely headed back to Raasay.”
Enya rubbed her thumb across the warm wood. “I hope so. Bran loves that bird.”
“They’re kindred spirits.” Calum pointed to the archer. “Did Bran whittle that?”
Enya opened her palm and stared at it. “’Tis all I have to remind me of him.”
Calum wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Dunna worry. He’s a fighter if I ever saw one. We’ll get him out.”