by Carmen Caine
Ahead, the black, rocky crags of Edinburgh drew steadily closer until finally, he arrived. Drawing rein, he paused to wipe his brow under the shadow of the castle, high on the hill.
The past few weeks had been tiring ones.
But his task was almost over.
Urging his beleaguered horse up the Royal Mile, he wove his way through the crowds, threading past prancing horses and children chasing carts filled with produce for the next day’s market. More than once, he narrowly sidestepped the contents of a chamber pot being tossed from above.
And then he was riding through the castle gates.
Sending word to Cameron, he retired quickly to his chamber to change his travel-stained clothing. He’d scarcely changed his shirt when he heard a knock on the door.
A young page bowed low in respect. “My lord, the Earl of Lennox, wishes ye to join him at once in the king’s privy chamber, my lord,” the lad’s shrill voice piped ceremoniously.
With a crisp nod, Julian grabbed the betrothal contract from his belongings and sprinted down the steps towards the royal apartments.
He heard the outraged voices long before he entered the king's privy chamber.
And ducking his head through the doorway, he spied Thomas Cochrane posturing like a rooster before a dozen disgruntled nobles. The king’s favorite was a brown-haired, young man with a sleek trimmed beard and a pale, sickly complexion. Dressed sumptuously in fine green velvets and wearing a thick gold chain about his neck, he stood before a splendidly framed portrait of none other than himself, hanging on the king’s wall.
Rumors swirled around him, rumors that he was the king’s lover. It was the only way his ascent from a low-born mason to the king’s right-hand man made sense to the angry nobles gathered before him.
"The black money must be recalled!" one loud voice rose above the others. "Your Majesty, the people are suffering! They refuse to sell their goods for Cochrane's Plack!"
A short distance away, King James III sat in a carved chair, oblivious to the heated arguments surrounding him. The monarch was a prematurely aging man with a pallid face and heavy-lidded eyes. His pale red hair clung to his forehead in thin, wispy strings. And his thoughts were clearly elsewhere as he stared unseeing into the distance, toying absently with a gold-handled spoon. A platter of cured venison and sweetmeats on the table before him lay untouched.
Julian suppressed a snort.
Aye, the man would be the ruin of them all with his incessant pampering of favorites. Instead of governing his country, he spent the entirety of his time showering them with endless banquets and useless fripperies.
And then Thomas Cochrane stepped forward and raised his fist, rage staining his narrow cheeks as his nasal voice rose. “’Tis the law that they must accept my coin as they would any other!”
Voices burst out indignantly but then fell silent as Cameron pushed his way forward to tower over his cousin, the king.
The king swallowed visibly.
Cameron cut an imposing figure as he warned his cousin in a soft, chilling tone, “Your refusal to listen will prove dangerous to your grasp of power, James.”
“And who are ye to utter such threats?” Thomas interrupted with a huff. Picking up his goblet, he stepped close to wag it in Cameron’s face. “Dare ye address a king in such a manner?”
Cameron merely raised a cool brow, and the voice in which he replied was one of calm command. “Dinna interrupt me again, Thomas! Have a care. Your day of reckoning is near. Mar’s title doesna befit the likes of ye. It will not wear for long.”
Thomas started violently and licked his lips. “Are ye threatening me?” he mumbled in a choked voice. “I’ll have ye banished from court!”
But Cameron had already turned away from him to clasp the king’s shoulder, and he gave it a little shake. “James, ‘tis time to wake from this madness! Listen to your people and ban the Cochrane Plack!”
The king turned his head to the side and drew his lips in an obstinate line as Thomas gasped in outrage.
"By the heavens above, ‘tis only on the day I am hanged that the new coins shall be called in and not a day afore!" Thomas vowed, raising his fist once again.
The chamber erupted into angry shouts, and it was then that Cameron caught sight of Julian still standing in the doorway.
Waving his hand, Julian quit the place and stepped into the antechamber to wait.
It didn’t take Cameron long to join him. Nor did it take long to give him the betrothal contract and to divulge the tidings that Albany was en route with Richard of Gloucester, leading an army into the heart of Scotland.
"Sweet Mary!" Cameron swore, his dark eyes smoldering. Beckoning to a nearby guard, he dipped his dark head and, in a lethally calm tone, issued a series of orders.
Julian nodded in satisfaction and gave a loud, long yawn, knowing that Cameron would see done what needed to be done.
“I’ve already warned the clans to ride at a moment’s notice. We’ve heard rumors afore, but have not had the proof of Albany’s betrayal nor an inkling of the numbers,” Cameron said grimly and then weighed Julian with a measuring look. “Ye look fair dead on your feet, lad. Get ye off to rest. Ye’ll be no good to me like this.”
“I’m rested enough,” Julian said with a tired grin, but then his mood darkened. “Aye, there’s something else ye should know, Cameron.” There was no good way to say it other than to say it quickly. “’Tis Archibald Douglas. He’s joined Albany.”
Cameron merely stared at him. Years of court intrigue had rendered him a master of masking emotions, and he betrayed no hint of surprise. “Are ye sure, lad?” he asked finally.
“Aye, as sure as I can be,” Julian grunted in reply.
“I would speak with him first,” Cameron murmured, and then laying his arm about Julian’s shoulders, he guided him out of the room. “Let’s see ye fed and rested. I’ll be needing ye in a few days. I’ll not see a drop of Scottish blood spilled over greed! We’ll outwit Albany and avert this war.”
"It shouldna be hard," Julian said with chuckle. "Albany could never outthink ye, Cameron, even when ye were lads."
"Albany, mayhap not,” Cameron countered, “But the Duke of Gloucester is a highly able and ruthless man.”
Entering Edinburgh’s hall, Cameron chose the nearest table and waved for a serving maid as Julian sat down heavily and stretched out his long legs. Eyeing the various nobles conversing in the hall, he shook his head in silent disgust.
“And?” Cameron’s dark eyes fell upon him, twinkling with amusement.
Julian nodded his chin at the men surrounding them. “'Tis right glad I am that I've no dealings with any in this nest of vipers,” he said. “I’d wager over half are likely plotting this very moment to behead both James and Albany. Ach, and how many plots are directed against ye, do ye think?”
With a laugh, Cameron glanced around the hall before sitting on the edge of the table and resting an elegant boot on the wooden bench. “Come now, Julian,” he said with a sardonic twist of his lip. "What would this place be without a good plot a-brewing? ‘Twould be dull."
“Julian! Lord Julian Gray!” a feminine voice giggled from behind.
Raising a brow, Julian turned to see a fair-haired lass with milky white skin and bright green eyes smiling down at him. Aye, not long ago he’d played with the notion of courting her, at least for a few weeks. But looking at her now, he couldn’t recall why he’d found her so interesting.
With a polite but plainly disinterested nod, he faced Cameron once more to prod, “And will the clans come to defend James, do ye think? Are there enough loyal to even raise a sufficient army?”
Cameron’s dark eyes flicked to the lass in mild curiosity, but he replied to Julian’s question easily enough. “No matter how angry they are with James, they’re of no mind to let the King of England interfere. They’ll come, lad. They’ll come for the queen and the young prince, if naught else.”
“My Lord Gray!” another woman’s sof
t voice interrupted.
This time, it was a particularly comely serving maid setting down a platter of meat and a large mug of ale before him.
“Is there aught else I can do for ye?” she asked in a low voice, flipping a black braid over her shoulder and lowering exceptionally long lashes over a pair of stunning blue eyes. “I’d be more than pleased, my lord.”
Julian’s gray eyes swept her from head to toe. Aye, he knew quite well she sought an invitation to his bed, but oddly enough, he didn’t find the prospect tempting.
“No, I thank ye, lass,” he replied, and dismissing her with a nod the same as before, swiveled back to Cameron. “And when do ye think the clans will gather?”
Cameron folded his arms and tapped a long finger as his eyes narrowed in speculation. “Who is she, lad?” he asked, his voice rife with amusement.
Julian raised a puzzled brow. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the lass had already disappeared, but then Cameron’s deep laugh rang through the hall, and Julian looked back at him in surprise.
“Not the serving lass, ye fool,” Cameron explained with a chuckle. “I speak of the one who has captured your heart! Ye havena looked at a single lass since sitting, and ye’ve turned down two offers to warm your bed. ‘Tis most unlike ye, lad!”
Julian opened his lips to protest, but the words stuck in his throat as he heard Liselle’s sultry voice play through his mind. No man looks at another woman whilst in my company, Lord Gray.
“I must meet this astonishing woman!” Cameron was laughing outright as he slapped his knee with his palm.
Strangely bothered, Julian rose abruptly to his feet. “Ach, I dinna know what ye speak of! I’m overly tired, Cameron. That is all.”
“Aye, then.” Cameron graciously inclined his head, but it was obvious that he didn’t believe a word of it. “Rest. Ye’ll likely be riding in a few days. Sleep while ye may.”
With a curt nod, Julian snagged the platter and escaped to his chamber, scowling as he walked and reassured himself that there wasn’t a lass alive that could ensnare him!
He had been riding for weeks.
Cameron had merely mistook his exhaustion for something else.
Aye, he was just overly tired.
After devouring his meal and avoiding all thoughts of Liselle, he stretched out on his bed, one booted foot falling onto the floor. For a time, he absently flipped the bone-handled stiletto between his fingers, but Cameron’s words wouldn’t leave his head.
Rising from the bed, he paced for a time.
He wasn’t ensnared. He didn’t love Liselle.
Aye, he found her fascinating, but what man wouldn’t find such a bonny creature captivating? And what man wouldn’t find her lips preferable to others? Clearly, there was no comparison.
‘Twas quite unfair to the other lasses, but ‘twas how it was.
And then, annoyed to find himself thinking of her yet again, he swore under his breath, and grabbing a bottle of wine and a length of gray cord, propped himself on the window ledge to weave a few Turk’s head knots.
But he’d scarcely swallowed more than a few mouthfuls of wine before exhaustion overcame him. And tossing the knots to the side, he threw himself face down upon the bed and drifted off to sleep.
He’d slept through the remainder of the afternoon, night, and into the next morning before the plaintive wail of war-pipes roused him.
The clans were readying for battle.
Heaving himself from bed, he glanced out the window at the men moving about in the castle courtyard below. Aye, Cameron would be successful in outwitting Albany.
Julian stretched and gave a loud, long yawn.
Cameron didn’t need him for a day or two, perhaps now was a good time to see Dolfin safe. The old man would have made it to Channelkirk by now.
Making up his mind, he dressed and began packing his belongings to ride yet again.
It was a good day for travel; there was not a single cloud in the sky. And even though the warmth of the morning sun promised an unusually hot day, he much preferred to ride in the heat than to swim through the rain.
Coiling the Saluzzo’s leather belt, he placed it and the bone-handled stiletto into his sporran, and for a moment, stared down at his plaids.
Should he bring an extra plaid and cloak? Surely, the old man had assumed a disguise already? But ‘twas strange that he hadn’t in Fotheringhay, especially since he knew he was being followed. Such carelessness was quite unlike the old salt spy. Snagging the extra plaid and cloak as a precaution, Julian added his new collection of Turk’s head knots to the bundle and left his chamber.
He found Cameron in the hall speaking with various chieftains, and after securing the earl’s assurance that he could indeed be spared for day or two, Julian saddled his favorite gray mare and thundered down the Royal Mile.
He would reach Channelkirk by noon, escort the old man safely to Cambuskenneth Abbey, and mayhap along the way learn more about the Saluzzi and Vindictam.
Leaving Edinburgh behind him, Julian galloped down the King’s Road, flying south over the heath towards the parish of Channelkirk. The day grew warmer with each passing hour as he flew across endless fields of bracken and fern, and seas of early-blooming purple heather and saffron-colored moor grasses. And by the time the Lammermuir Hills swelled on the horizon, both he and his mare were sweating.
Pausing to water his horse, Julian wiped the sweat from his brow and greeted a few carts as they creaked past him on the road. Mounting once again, he cantered down the King’s Road at a brisk pace, but as he neared the old village of Channelkirk, the occasional cart had turned into a steady stream of wagons, all of them jolting towards the highlands.
Clearly, tidings of the English army’s approach had spread quickly.
Trotting down the village’s cobblestoned streets, Julian reined his horse before the only inn, The Golden Cockerel, a wattle-walled establishment with a mud-thatched roof and a stack of peat bricks by the door. And after seeing his mare watered once again, he tethered her to the post and ducked under the low doorway to acquire a refreshing drink for himself.
The common room was uncomfortably warm and heavy with the sweet smell of burning peat. An old woman with missing front teeth sat on a three-legged stool and was stirring the contents of an iron pot suspended over the fire. While, across the room at a small counter, a middle-aged balding innkeeper stood chatting with an elderly man who was quaffing a mug of ale.
There was no immediate sign of Dolfin.
"Aye, as if the king's black coins are nae enough sorrow to heap upon our heads!" The innkeeper clucked. "Now we have Albany bringing the English down upon us!"
“Aye,” the elderly man grunted.
Stepping up to the counter, Julian tossed a coin and wordlessly pointed to a mug of ale.
“Aye, my lord, and what have ye heard of the English?” the innkeeper asked, sliding a full mug across to him.
“The English?” Julian repeated, taking his mug and moving to a nearby table to stretch out his long legs. He downed half his brew with a hearty swig and wiped his mouth before replying, “I’ve heard thousands are marching.”
The innkeeper’s eyes lit with a morbid thrill. “Vermin!” he said in a tone of vindication and snapped his fingers under the nose of the elderly man. “I told ye! They’re coming just like rats!”
“Aye,” the man grunted in response before downing some more ale.
Finding the scene strangely amusing, Julian suppressed a grin, but then turned his thoughts to the matter at hand.
Had Dolfin arrived yet? The man would usually leave Julian a sign.
Tapping his finger on the table, Julian cast a careful eye about the place. He didn’t spot anything unusual until he spied a small bowl heaped with salt resting conspicuously on the windowsill. Raising a curious brow, he rose to inspect it.
“Ach, dinna touch it, lad!” the old woman near the fire suddenly spoke.
“And what is it for, my good woman?�
� Julian asked, nodding his chin at the small wooden bowl of salt.
“’Tis to ward off the nasty Spirit of the Hunchback, lad!” she replied with a huff as though astonished at his ignorance.
Julian grinned with relief. So, Dolfin had arrived. The bowl of salt was clearly a sign as well as a tale left by the old man. It was true of every Venetian he’d ever met that they were fair distrustful of hunchbacks.
The innkeeper rolled his eyes and sent Julian a rueful smile. “Ach, ye’ll have to forgive my wee auld mother, lad. She listens to too many a traveler’s tale!”
“He said ‘twas not a tale!” the woman hissed at her son. “Not a tale! Not at all!”
The innkeeper shrugged and began to wipe the top of the counter with a rag.
“He?” Julian pressed softly.
“Ach, some auld merchant’s been filling her head with wild fancies,” the man explained, sending his mother an exasperated look.
She scowled at her son and made a whistling sound between her two missing teeth before she shook a trembling finger at Julian. “A wandering spirit is naught to make light of! Ye can ask him yourself, lad!”
“Aye, mayhap I will.” Julian laughed lightly. “Do ye expect this tale-spinner to return soon?”
“He’s looking after his horse in the stables, lad,” the woman answered and turned back to her pot to taste a spoonful of stew. Smacking her lips, she added, “He’ll be back soon enough!”
“Aye, then,” Julian agreed with a thoughtful smile. It would be amusing to surprise Dolfin. His mentor had surprised him many a time over the years. “I shall see to my own horse as well.”
Rising from the table, he finished off his ale and then ducked outside. Adjusting his eyes to the brightness of the sun, he took a step towards the post where he’d tethered his mare and promptly cursed under his breath.
The mare wasn’t there.
Someone had stolen his horse.
Chapter Nine – Blue Fingertips
Julian let loose a string of curses.
