by Cathy MacRae
“Have ye been summoned as well?” the young man asked.
“Summoned? Nae. I merely wish to hear the day’s orders,” Alex replied, breaking free of the allure of the king’s ransom in jewels. “Have ye the king’s ear, then?”
“Och, I attend the king in a minor capacity whilst he is in Ayrshire, which he was—earlier, I mean.” The man grinned, making him look even younger than his apparent age. “Piers de Curry,” he added, extending a hand. “Sir Piers.”
Alex gripped the young man’s forearm briefly. Though he appeared a courtier, following at the king’s heels, there was nothing soft about the muscle beneath the fabric of his leine. Sir Piers had obviously earned his title honestly.
“Alex MacLean, Chief of Clan MacLean.”
Piers’s eyes widened. “Sea trade? I have heard of ye.”
Alex hid his pause. “Aye. I hope the king speaks kindly of me.”
“Actually, His Majesty speaks verra highly of ye,” Piers replied solemnly. “I would be honored if ye had time to give me a tour of yer ship.”
Alex halted at the entrance to the king’s tent with a nod to the guards who acknowledged them without challenge. “’Twould be my honor, but we should mayhap discuss this after we hear the king’s plans.” With a pleasant smile, he motioned for Piers to enter first. Polite, perhaps, but he had become aware of a noise not unlike an angry beehive just beyond the flaps, and Piers was, after all, the king’s man.
Guards on the inside of the doorway stood at attention, half-straining to hear what the king and his counselors argued so vehemently over, half-straining to be the first out the door should calamity strike. Alex couldn’t say he blamed them. The king in a royal fit was a daunting sight.
King Alexander strode back and forth, eyebrows furrowed together and lips pursed tight in an unhappy expression, his heavy velvet robe flapping behind him in the breeze of his stomping passage. Two commanders Alex recognized from introductions a day earlier leaned over the king’s desk, shoulders squared, fists braced on the smooth worktop, resoluteness etched in their posture. A third reclined in a padded chair, a forefinger tapping his chin in a thoughtful gesture.
At Alex’s and Piers’s entrance, the king whirled, jabbing a finger at Alex.
“What do ye have to say about this?” he shouted.
Taken aback, Alex bowed deeply before replying calmly. “If Your Majesty could enlighten me?”
The king huffed and threw himself into the massive chair behind the desk, his face flushed, moisture beading on his forehead. He motioned Alex to approach. Piers followed on his heels. Both bowed deeply, though the king took little notice, such was his agitation.
“I am prepared to send forces against MacDougall,” King Alexander began with a scowl at the other three men who carefully averted their gazes. “And yet, last night, I had a dream.”
Something stirred in Alex’s chest, a flicker of unease, or perhaps a chill of premonition. He said nothing, and impressed, noted young Piers kept silent as well.
“I was visited by three men,” the king began. His voice trailed off thoughtfully. After a moment, he shook his head. “One was dressed in royal robes.” His gaze drifted to Piers who appeared the most elegantly-clad man in the receiving tent. “But verra stern, with a ruddy complexion. The second, a slender man, was verra engaging and majestic. The last was of verra great stature and his features were distorted.”
A small groan came from some man in the room and the king glanced up sharply. No one moved or offered apology. Clearing his throat, the king continued.
“Each inquired if I intended to invade the Isles.” Blustering, as if seeking approval for or defense of his intended actions, King Alexander rose from his chair and resumed pacing. “Of course, I replied I had every intention of doing so. ’Tis past time to subject the Isles to Scotland’s rule.”
The king strode about in silence, his head thrust forward belligerently, a frown etched on his face. After several moments, Alex ventured his question.
“What was their response, Sire?”
King Alexander whipped about, his face leached white. “They bade me turn back. Insisted no other measure would turn to my advantage.” Sudden color flooded his cheeks. “Blasted dream!” He waved an arm at his commanders. “Blasted advisors! Ye fall apart at the least set-back.”
“Sire, this is scarcely a set-back,” one of the commanders blustered.
“Bah! Ye arenae soldier material! Frightened lasses, the lot of ye. I asked for advice, and I get naught but a stampede for the nearest door.” He again addressed Alex. “What say ye?”
Alex contemplated his sovereign for a moment, then studied the carpet at his feet. A costly tapestry, easily the work of years, bunched beneath his boots. Stories of visions unheeded flashed through his memory. Cautionary tales of thwarting a king shoved to the forefront of his mind.
“Sire,” he began. “If I may be so bold as to point out, ye sailed with me yester eve, and we both viewed Dunstaffnage. The site is well-chosen, the walls thick and high. Though I have nae doubt ye can take the castle, I believe the cost will be high.”
King Alexander stared at Alex a long, nerve-wracking moment. Silence crackled in the room, tension heating Alex’s blood.
Suddenly, the king snapped his fingers. “Piers, attend me.”
Striding angrily between his advisors and guards, the king stalked from the tent. Tossing a wide-eyed look and faint shoulder shrug to Alex, Piers followed at the king’s heels.
The tent’s flaps billowed in the king’s wake. Tension thickened within the room as the remaining men eyed each other cautiously. One of the commanders broke free of his stance at the king’s desk.
“I am nae weak-willed doom-sayer,” he informed the small group. “But if I were attended by saints Olave, Magnus and Columba—”
“The king said naught of their names,” Alex interrupted.
“Did ye nae listen to him?” the second commander asked. “Royally robed, stern and red of face—it couldnae be other than St. Olave!”
“And St. Magnus was a slender man, verra majestic,” the first added.
“Do ye call the third man St. Columba because of his great size, then?” the man in the chair drawled. He rose, brushing the hem of his leine straight before gathering his cloak. “I cannae say I concur with the appropriation of these particular saints in the king’s dream, but I dinnae doubt he has had severe reservations—which haunted him yester eve.” He lowered his voice. “Reservations and a high fever.”
Personally, Alex considered lingering doubts after viewing the massive MacDougall stronghold the most likely cause of the king’s dream, though it was never prudent to discount Divine Providence when such a battle loomed before them. But the first two commanders had resumed muttering between themselves and clearly had no desire to take up arms before such a show in the form of not one, but three venerated saints. Their opinions could hardly be swayed.
“Care for a bit of fresh air?” the third commander asked, wry humor in the tilt of one brow. “Clearly ye are as yet undecided what to make of the king’s dream, and I would hear yer thoughts.”
Alex cast another glance at the others, deep in fevered discussion, and nodded. They exited the tent into midmorning sun, the camp abuzz, no doubt from the king’s stormy departure only a few moments earlier. Alex glanced quickly about and finally spied the king, Piers a half-stride behind his shoulder, two more men—likely aides-de-camp—stomping across the grass just beyond the perimeter of the camp. Four soldiers flanked them at a discrete distance.
“What do ye know of Dunstaffnage Castle?” Alex’s companion asked.
“’Tis a monstrosity of coarse rubble with sandstone dressing built directly onto the bedrock,” Alex replied.
“No possibility of tunneling beneath?”
Alex shook his head.
“Scaling the walls?”
“Nearly sixty feet in height most places,” Alex replied in a thoughtful manner.
His c
ompanion opened his mouth, but a cry spread through the camp like a lit match to oil, interrupting their desultory conversation.
“The king! The king!”
Alex surged forward, shoving men aside without heed to rank or privilege. Within moments, he arrived on the edge of camp. The king’s guards hurried, four-square, carrying a prone figure in their midst. Piers led the group of aides swarming in the king’s wake.
A path opened before the guards as they bore the king to his tent. Necks strained to catch a glimpse of the proceedings. Voices raised in speculation and misinformation.
Alex formed into the procession next to Piers. The man’s face bore not a trace of color, and though he stared fixedly at the ground, he stumbled over each rock and clod.
“Steady,” Alex murmured, clapping a hand to Piers’s shoulder.
Piers shot him a grateful look, and Alex noted again the youth of the man evident in the wide-eyed uncertainty.
He reminds me of myself. Alex’s grim thought brought no humor with it. Life had once been carefree, dancing easily to his cocky tune. All too soon reality had raised its harsh head, and it appeared Piers was feeling the bitter sting.
The guards bore the king inside his tent and the flaps closed behind them, blocking further passage. Alex grabbed Piers’s arm and dragged him aside.
“What happened?”
The young man gulped several times and scuffed a boot in the dirt. His chest heaved like a set of bellows as he sucked in air, and after a few moments, he settled enough to speak.
“He simply collapsed.”
“Collapsed? There wasnae arrow, stone, other projectile?”
Piers shook his head. Alex stared at him narrowly. “Ye are certain?”
“They will find nothing,” Piers declared, raising his upturned palms waist-high in supplication. “His Majesty stomped about for a bit, blustering about dreams making twittering lasses of perfectly braw men. I stood to one side, out of his way—as did the others—and, he fell.”
“Fell?”
“Collapsed, dropped,” Piers sighed, exhaling the shock on a long breath. “He dinnae trip over a grass clod or turn his ankle on a loose stone. He simply fell to the ground and dinnae move again.”
Alex rubbed the back of his neck. The king’s healer would soon determine if an assassination had been attempted—or, God forbid, accomplished.
“Come. Let us grab a bite to eat. ’Tis likely to be a long day.”
Alex led an unresisting Piers to a nearby campfire and appropriated a trencher of warmed-over oatcakes and cider. They settled against a pair of large stones and ate, though Alex hardly tasted the food or drink.
“Ye believe ’twill be long before we know—something?” Piers ventured through a mouthful of bannocks.
Alex nodded. “If the king has taken to his bed, we will hear something soon enough. After that, who knows? We will likely not be disbanded until the king agrees, though after a bit, ’twill become difficult to continue feeding this many soldiers. “Tis my hope he will either recover quickly or be removed to Ayr for further treatment. Either course will settle our options—one way or another.”
Around them, men shouted and grumbled, proclaiming brusquely of their intent to roust the MacDougalls from Dunstaffnage Castle and avenge their king. Tempers ran high, and fights broke out from time-to-time, which Alex and Piers observed but carefully avoided.
As the sun dipped lower, Alex stood atop a hillock, observing the sun’s descent. A cry behind him startled his gloomy thoughts of time spent waiting to hear word of their next move. As the words caught his ears, he stiffened, then returned at a run to the camp.
“The king is dead!”
CHAPTER 21
Hanna nodded her thanks to the messenger who returned a small bow before leaving her alone to read Alex’s missive.
I cannot go into detail here, but it will be common knowledge soon enough that the king is dead.
Dead? Numb with shock, Hanna sank onto the bench behind her, the noise of the hall fading away.
How? Had there been a battle? Alex!
She quickly scanned the remainder of the note.
I am well, though compelled to return to Scone for the crowning of his son as king. Poor lad is but eight summers, and certain to be bewildered by the loss of his father. I dinnae envy him the life ahead of false flattery and intrigue.
This means I will be at least a month returning to ye. We will dock in the Bishopric of Glasgow and move overland to Scone, returning by the same route. It is a long journey, but one that must be made.
Do ye think of me, Hanna? Do ye remember our night together—the feel of your skin on mine? The shuddering collapse as ye reach as far as ye can and splinter into a thousand fragments of passion? Though these past few days have been difficult, I endure sleepless nights with yer memory. I cannot wait to be in your arms, see your sweet face.
Give Gillian a hug and kiss from me. Let Edan know he is still in charge in my absence, and why.
Alex
Hanna’s fingertips brushed the missive, then drifted to her lips as though the parchment conveyed Alex’s touch to her.
So, the king of Scotland is dead. She scanned the parchment again, but Alex had included no details. No information on whether King Alexander had died in battle or of another cause. She drifted slowly to the stairwell, eyes drinking in the details he had provided. How could that night affect her so? And Alex as well, if his words were any indication. Lazy tendrils of passion flowed through her at the memories his missive invoked.
She halted at the edge of the room as someone called her name. Placing the parchment against her breast, she waited for Edan’s approach.
“Have ye heard from Alex?” he asked. Nearly a sennight had passed without word, and he shared Hanna’s worry. Though certain bad news would have traveled quickly, there could be many reasons there had been no report—few of them good.
“Aye.” Hanna motioned him to an empty corner of the room. “The king is dead.”
Edan’s eyes widened, and he sucked in a hissing breath. “Shite!” He gestured for the parchment, but Hanna shook her head.
“’Tis all he says about it, except he is on his way to Scone to see to the coronation of the new king.” Her cheeks heated. “The rest is mine alone.”
Edan’s eyebrows jerked up in surprise. “As ye will.”
“He says to tell ye ’twill likely be a month before his return, and for ye to continue in his absence.”
“The trip to Scone from here isnae easy,” Edan mused, rubbing his chin. “I wonder if they’ll sail to Glasgow and go overland from there.”
“Aye. He said he would leave the Porpoise in Glasgow.”
“Och, then we will simply settle in and await his return.” Edan’s smile eased Hanna’s fears a small degree. “Dinnae fash. He will be all the more anxious to be home after his lengthy absence.”
Hanna watched Edan’s retreating back, musing over her reaction to Alex’s final words. He clearly had every intention of furthering their relationship once he returned to Morvern. Despite—or perhaps because of—her strong feelings for the MacLean Laird, she could not allow that to happen.
* * *
Alex shifted his weight to ease the abuse to his buttocks from the bony back of the horse he’d procured in Glasgow as it bumped its way over the muddy road to Scone. Following the king’s procession left them to manage the mired trails as best they could. His plaide draped over his head, keeping out most of the rain, but the constant drizzle sent rivulets of water dripping off the edge of the heavy fabric to pool in his lap. He pulled the wool closer and thought of Hanna and the night before he’d boarded the Porpoise.
What is yer favorite memory of yer daughter? He didn’t know why he wanted to know about Hanna’s daughter. Perhaps it was because he had one himself, and Hanna’s stories, hesitant at first, seemed to bring them closer together.
She was but four summers and fascinated with the plants growing in the garden. She wa
nted so much to help, and I showed her the difference between the herbs and weeds. I found her early one morn with my sewing scissors, snipping all the tops off the weeds. She said it was faster and not as messy as pulling them up by their roots.
Hanna’s eyes had softened and she’d sighed as she leaned her head against his shoulder.
Signy. Her name meant New Victory, and it suited her. She seemed to accomplish something new every day. Such a busy child. So much like your Gillian.
His nag stumbled, jerking Alex from his thoughts. Words rumbled back through the ranks, heralding their arrival.
Scone!
The King is dead!
Long live the King!
* * *
Alex slept deeply, rousing only when the rumbling of his stomach was out-distanced by the need to relieve his bladder. He crept from his narrow bed in the abbey’s tiny room. After he made use of the chamber pot, he dressed and stalked the corridors until he found Piers and his men sitting at the entrance to the abbey.
“Food,” he commanded. “I don’t care where we find it, but ’tis first on our schedule this morn.”
One of his men pulled a packet of dried beef and bannocks from his sporran. “’Twill be all ye get this morn,” he said. “The town is overrun with people and short on supplies. None expected this.”
Alex ruefully accepted the morsel of meat and a handful of oatcakes. Someone else passed him a water flask and he settled down to eat.
“The young king will be crowned on the morrow,” Piers mentioned. “There is to be a banquet tonight for the gathered lords to mark the passing of the king. The celebration on the morrow will be more festive—in honor of the new.”
“Poor lad,” added a soldier. “He’s not old enough to take on the ambitions of Walter Comyn.”
