Draco: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Immortal Highland Centurions Book 3)

by Jayne Castel

  However, after five days of laying siege to Dunnottar, he’d had enough.

  They’d torn chunks off the castle’s massive curtain walls and blackened its towers with fire, yet the heavy gates remained intact.

  Impatience seethed within Edward, and he started to pace before the entrance to his tent. Age hadn’t granted him forbearance it seemed—if anything, his advancing years made him even more restless. His chainmail clinked, his longsword’s scabbard banging against his thigh with every stride. He longed to draw the blade and sink it into Wallace’s neck. The outlaw had evaded him for too long, had whipped the Scots up into a patriotic frenzy.

  He had to be dealt with.

  Dusk was settling around them, painting the sky with ribbons of purple and gold. It was a warm evening, following a hot day. The air reeked of smoke and death. He’d seen a number of men fall on the walls, and one or two topple off it. But Dunnottar still wasn’t his.

  “This is taking too long,” he snarled. “Stirling can’t remain with just a garrison to defend it … I need to get back there.”

  It was true. While his focus was on Dunnottar, Lord knew what the likes of Comyn would get up to. The baron had pledged fealty to Edward, but he didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust any of them.

  Foolishly, he’d thought they’d have breached the gates of Dunnottar by now. The castle would fall eventually, but he didn’t have the patience to wait the bastards out.

  He wanted William Wallace now.

  “Your Highness … men approach from the north!”

  The shout made Edward cease his pacing. Swiveling on his heel, he fixed Hugh De Burgh with a gimlet stare. “Scots coming to Dunnottar’s aid?”

  The knight’s lantern jaw tensed. “We’ll deal with this, sire.”

  Edward glared back at him, his temper still simmering. “See that you do.”

  “They’re carrying a white banner, sire.” The man who’d shouted the news now elbowed his way through the crowd toward the king. “They’re here for a parley.”

  Edward went still at this, his frustration momentarily forgotten as he considered what it might mean. His allies were few this far north, and his son was busy keeping hold of the south-west—he wouldn’t be riding to his aid.

  “Well then,” he said, motioning for Hugh to follow him as he turned and cut north through the crowd, his long legs eating up the ground. “Let’s see what they have to say.”

  A heavyset man with a bald head and a short white-blond beard came forward to talk to Edward. He led a force of around one hundred men. Many of them, including their leader, wore sashes of bright green and blue.

  The plaids of the clans of Scotland were many, and Edward only knew the most prominent of them—these colors and the design were new to him.

  Swinging down from his horse, the leader swaggered toward Edward, chainmail jangling and leather creaking. He had a pugnacious face and bright-blue eyes that gleamed as they met Edward’s gaze.

  Edward watched the man approach, impressed by his arrogance. Even surrounded by his warriors, the Scot was greatly outnumbered. But either the fact had escaped him, or he didn’t seem to care.

  “Edward of England, I take it?” the man greeted him in French.

  Edward inclined his head. He stood before this Scot in a glittering hauberk, wearing a blood-red surcoat, and with a crown atop his coifed head. He was hardly a squire and wasn’t about to dignify this cur with an answer.

  “And you are?” he asked after a pause.

  The Scot grinned. “Shaw Irvine, clan-chief and laird of Drum Castle … at your service.”

  “My service?” The Irvines were a neighboring clan, Edward knew that much. “You aren’t here to aid your neighbors?”

  Shaw Irvine’s grin slipped, his gaze narrowing. “The De Keiths are no friends of mine,” he replied. “Long have I waited for a chance to strike them where it hurts.”

  Edward cocked an eyebrow. “Are you offering to fight alongside us … the hated English?”

  Irvine snorted. “If it gets me what I want, aye.”

  “And what is it you want?”

  Shaw Irvine gave him a sly look. “I have watched this siege unfold from a distance. Despite your numbers, you are having trouble taking Dunnottar.”

  Edward scowled, his temper rising. If this fool didn’t answer him directly, he was going to lose his head.

  “The De Keith stronghold is a challenge to take,” Irvine continued, his gaze never leaving Edward’s, “but I have a weapon that will smash down the gates.”

  “Do you?” Edward drew in a steadying breath in an attempt to manage his quickening temper. “Even if the gates have been strengthened with iron bars?”

  A smirk twisted Shaw Irvine’s face. Then, he nodded.

  Edward clenched his jaw. These Scots really were a traitorous lot. Although Irvine hadn’t yet admitted it, Edward could plainly see that this greedy laird was aching to get his hands on Dunnottar Castle. “And what is this weapon?”

  Irvine flashed him another grin, before motioning to the men behind him to draw aside. A deep rumble filled the dusk air. Edward squinted in the gloaming, and then his gaze settled upon a great battering ram that slowly moved toward him. Built of wood and iron, it rolled in on a massive wagon that groaned and creaked under the sheer weight of the siege weapon.

  Edward’s breathing quickened at the sight of it. This battering ram dwarfed all others he’d ever seen. The ram itself—a great oaken trunk tipped in iron—swung by ropes from a wooden scaffold. Tarred hide and planks of wood created a sturdy roof that would protect the weapon and the men operating it from being bombarded from above during an attack.

  Irvine was now grinning like a loon, his chest swelling with obvious pride. “This is my ‘Battle Hammer’ … a weapon I designed myself. It took three months to build.”

  “Impressive,” Edward replied, careful to keep his expression neutral. “But why should I care?”

  The laird’s grin slipped. “Without my help, it could be another two weeks before you take Dunnottar.” His voice rose as he continued. “You need my Battle Hammer.”

  “But I repeat, what do you get out of this?” Edward folded his arms across his chest then, staring the Scot down. Indeed, he required this siege weapon. But at the same time, he didn’t trust this weasel. He wanted Shaw Irvine to spell out his terms.

  “I wish to rule Dunnottar and De Keith lands,” Shaw Irvine eventually admitted. His throat bobbed then, as Edward frowned. “As your steward … of course.”

  “Of course,” Edward murmured. He stared at Irvine a few moments longer, letting the man sweat. Meanwhile, he pondered what the laird had just said.

  Eventually, Shaw Irvine’s face grew tense, a muscle working in his bearded jaw. Perhaps it was dawning on him that he’d led his men straight into the wolf’s den. The Battle Hammer wouldn’t save him from Edward’s wrath if he decided Irvine was no use to him.

  But luckily for the laird, Edward did require his assistance. In other circumstances, he wouldn’t have bothered allying himself with such a venal individual—but he was impatient for this siege to end. Scotland was wearing upon him. He just wanted Wallace dead; with the Scottish spirit crushed, he could return to London and his lovely young wife.

  “I take it you know the reason I’m laying siege to Dunnottar?” Edward asked after a pause.

  “Aye,” Irvine replied warily, as if suspecting he was walking into a trap. “David De Keith tried to slit your throat. You are taking vengeance upon his clan … as is your right.”

  “Yes,” Edward answered with a harsh smile. “But I’m also here for William Wallace.”

  Irvine’s blue eyes drew wide. His surprise was unfeigned; this really was news to him. “The Wallace is here?” His gaze cut left at where Dunnottar’s bulk rose against the darkening sky.

  “He is … the De Keiths have been sheltering him for the past couple of months, it seems.” Edward stepped forward then, towering over the shorter, broader Scot
. “Very well, Irvine,” he murmured. “Help me take Dunnottar, and you will rule as my steward. All I want is Wallace’s head.”

  “Do you want to take bets on how many more days it’ll be before Edward manages to take Dunnottar?” Draco broke the heavy silence at the table. “Although, at his current pace, summer will be over before he manages.”

  Cassian and Maximus glanced up from their cups of wine. Neither man smiled at his joke. The pair usually enjoyed a bit of dark banter, but not tonight.

  The three of them sat alone at the captain’s table in the guard’s mess. Supper had come and gone. The men of this keep, exhausted from five days of fighting, were elsewhere—sleeping, drinking, or taking their watch on the walls. The Wallace was heading the watch tonight. Not for the first time, Draco was impressed by the man’s fortitude. William Wallace wasn’t immortal, but he had the strength and resilience of ten men. None of the warriors he led dared flag under his command.

  “I’d rather not,” Cassian mumbled, before raising the cup to his lips and taking a deep draft.

  Next to him, Maximus scowled. “Neither would I,” he growled. “And I don’t know why you’re looking so cheerful. Even if it takes Longshanks a while to scale the walls … once he does, it’s the beginning of the end.” He paused there, a deep groove etching between his eyebrows. “The end for everyone inside this keep … except us.”

  Draco put down the piece of wood he’d been whittling and reached for his own cup of wine. It had been another exhausting day. Abandoning the battering ram, Edward’s men had tried to put up ladders against the walls. The defenders had managed to repel them—but they’d lost over a dozen men doing so.

  “You could send Heather and Aila away,” Draco pointed out. “There’s De Keith’s boat. It only takes two … but that would be enough. You could meet up with your wives later … after all this is over.”

  Cassian muttered a curse under his breath. “Don’t you think we have already thought of that?” he ground out. “They both refused.”

  “Heather slapped me when I suggested it,” Maximus added, his fingers tightening around the cup of wine he held. “Our wives are loyal, Draco. They won’t abandon their parents … or their people.” His mouth twisted then. “And I wouldn’t either in their place.”

  Draco returned to his whittling. It was the same piece of rosewood he’d started a couple of weeks ago. He’d thought the figurine was going to be a siren, a beguiling mermaid. But instead, a woman’s figure with legs emerged. She had a neat, yet lush body, with long hair tumbling down her back.

  Draco’s throat tightened. The woman reminded him of someone.

  His wife.

  He’d kept his distance from Gavina over the past days. He hadn’t returned to her bed since their first night together—their only night together. That morning, after leaving her bed as the first glimmers of dawn sparkled over the sea, he’d tested the curse once more by cutting his thumb. And as always, it healed swiftly.

  Bitterness had flooded his mouth then. He’d done as the riddle commanded. If he was the Dragon and Gavina was the White Hawk, the two of them had done their part by wedding. He’d bedded her twice—that should have been enough.

  But it wasn’t.

  “I don’t understand it,” Cassian growled out, reaching for the jug to refill his cup. “Why hasn’t the curse broken?”

  “The riddle was a ruse,” Maximus replied. His voice was weary, almost as if he could barely bring himself to speak. Draco watched the Roman, his chest constricting at the despair he saw there. He’d really hoped that by wedding Gavina he’d spare both Cassian and Maximus this pain.

  Cassian’s features tightened. “So, the bandruì was just playing with us?”

  Maximus stared back at him. “I think so.”

  “But I don’t understand. Everything fell into place. Why tell us about the Broom-star, the fort upon the Shelving Slope, and the Hammer of the Scots … if it’s all a lie?”

  Maximus didn’t reply.

  Draco drew in a deep breath and shrugged. The gesture belied the ache in his chest. “She was a vindictive bitch … We should have never trusted her word. We were fools … hopeful ones, but fools nonetheless.”

  His friends stared back at him, their gazes desolate. And suddenly, for the first time in a long while, Draco wished he’d tempered his words.

  XXIII

  SEEKING ANSWERS

  THE WOMEN WORKED in silence. It had been a number of days since they’d gathered together like this to weave, spin, and sew. But as night had fallen and the siege had halted once more—if only for a few short hours—they’d all sought solace in familiar activities.

  Gavina sat at her loom, using a wooden beater to push down weft threads she’d just woven. She was weaving the De Keith pennant now, a splash of turquoise and blue fluttering from the top of the keep.

  A sense of doom settled over her as she worked. When Longshanks took this fortress, the De Keith flag would be torn down and the Plantagenet banner raised in its place.

  A few feet away, Elizabeth wound wool for the tapestry onto a wooden spindle. And seated opposite each other near the gently flickering hearth, Heather and Aila both hunched over clothing they were mending: their husbands’ lèines and braies that had gotten a severe beating during the siege so far.

  Gavina passed the shuttle through the loom once more. She worked mindlessly, without thinking or caring, for her thoughts were elsewhere this evening.

  She’d met with Cassian and the Wallace earlier in the evening, and they’d given her a full report on the day’s siege. The attack grew evermore furious. Edward’s archers were relentless, as were his catapults. The English were determined to get men up over the curtain wall, although the defenders had managed to repel their ladders thus far.

  Dunnottar was feeling the strain. Around three hundred warriors and guards had defended the fortress when the siege began nearly a week earlier, and now just one hundred and eighty remained. The dead had been laid out in the chapel, where Father Finlay shrouded the corpses ready for burial.

  Gavina’s throat tightened further. The men defending Dunnottar were doing an admirable job, but they could not hold out forever.

  Her attention settled upon the sisters. “Will ye both not reconsider taking the boat?” she spoke up, shattering the silence.

  Heather’s shoulders tensed, her narrowed gaze snapping to Gavina. “I’ve already made it clear to Maximus,” she replied, her voice clipped, “but I thought ye understood My Lady. We will not abandon our kin. Ever.”

  Gavina sighed. She understood that—on a rational level. But she was desperate now. She needed to be able to save at least two souls in this fortress.

  Her attention swiveled to Elizabeth. Relations between the two women had been strained ever since her union with Draco. However, there had been no more talk of Gavina stepping down as laird for the moment. The situation here was too dire for politics. Gavina and Elizabeth needed to be united right now. Even so, there was reserve in Elizabeth’s midnight-blue eyes as she met Gavina’s gaze.

  “Liz … ye and Robbie could take the boat, Gavina tried once more. “That way, when Robert is eventually released, ye can go to him. Ye can start anew. Ye can even take back Dunnottar together.”

  Elizabeth stared at her. A nerve flickered on her cheek, a sign of the severe strain her sister-by-marriage was under at present. “I can’t do that, Gavina,” she whispered, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her. It was rare to see Elizabeth, whom Gavina had always looked up to as being the stronger of the two of them, look so broken. But she knew the reason why. The offer tempted Elizabeth, but she couldn’t accept it. “I could never live with myself if I betrayed my people,” she whispered. “And if Robert still lives, he wouldn’t want that either.”

  Anger twisted Gavina’s belly then, taking her by surprise. She was sick of everyone being so noble, so proud—so brave. Couldn’t just one person here save themselves? If David had been alive, he’d have been the
first person into that boat. “So, ye shall die by the English sword?” she demanded. “We’ll all martyr ourselves?”

  “Ye could go, My Lady,” Aila said softly, speaking up for the first time. The young woman’s face was pale, her smoke-grey eyes red-rimmed.

  Gavina’s mouth thinned. “The Lady of Dunnottar does not abandon her people, Aila,” she replied. “Or those she loves.”

  Aila stared back at her, eyes glittering with unshed tears. Her throat bobbed then. “Well then,” she replied huskily. “It looks as if we’ll all face the end together.”

  “Have ye seen Draco?” Heather spoke up then, splintering the tension.

  The sound of the warrior’s name fell heavily in the women’s solar, and Gavina sucked in a sharp breath. “No,” she replied flatly. “Not for days.”

  Since their wedding night, he’d stayed away. Clearly, once it became evident that the curse hadn’t broken, he had no use for her. And despite that Gavina told herself she didn’t care, it was difficult not to feel hurt by his behavior.

  “The riddle can’t be wrong,” Aila spoke up once more, her voice as brittle as her face. “Everything else has been true … this must be too.”

  “Not if the Dragon and the White Hawk refer to other people … or something else entirely,” Heather reminded her sister. “I’d say we made a mistake. Draco and Gavina aren’t part of the curse like we thought.”

  Another silence fell in the solar. Gavina turned once more to the tapestry, her fingers tightening around the beater she still held. The urge to throw open the window and cast the tapestry and all her weaving tools out of it surged within her.

  Useless woman’s work. What does it matter now?

  “Ye don’t think ye have all given up hope too soon?” Elizabeth’s soft voice intruded then.

  Gavina turned to her. “Too soon? Ye never wanted me to take part in all of this. Ye never believed it.”

  Elizabeth snorted. “Ye forget I was there in the clearing that dawn … I saw Cassian stab himself in the heart and live. I might not want to believe it, but I know my own eyes didn’t lie to me.” Her gaze swept around the solar, taking in the strained faces of her companions. “Ye are all letting despair get the better of ye. At this rate, gloom will take us all before Longshanks gets his hands on us.”