by Jayne Castel
Edward’s vision dimmed. When he finally spoke, his voice came out thick, choked. “No … we pack up this morning and ride for Stirling. Ready the men.”
The knight gave a brisk nod, his lantern jaw bunching.
“You can’t abandon the attack!” Shaw Irvine stepped into Edward’s field of vision, his face as red as raw liver. “You started the siege, and you must finish it.”
Edward’s gaze fixed upon the laird. “Excuse me?”
A few feet away, Hugh cast Irvine a warning look. Edward had lowered his voice, and all those who’d weathered the king’s blistering temper knew what that meant.
But not Irvine. He too had a temper. “But we made an agreement.”
“The devil take your agreement. We’re leaving.”
“Half my men are dead!” Irvine bellowed, spittle flying. “I can’t take Dunnottar alone.” He halted there, panting as he sought to contain his fury. “Leave me a hundred soldiers, and I’ll finish the job you don’t have the guts to—.”
Edward’s fist shot out then, driving into Shaw Irvine’s nose.
Bone and sinew crunched under his knuckles. The laird reeled back, sprawling onto the trampled grass, blood streaming from his nose.
“I’ll not waste one more English life on this fortress,” Edward growled. “You want Dunnottar? Take it yourself.”
Gavina had stayed at Draco’s side overnight, perched upon a low stool. Toward the end of the night, she kept dropping off—and eventually her fatigue had been so great that she’d lain down on the floor next to his pallet. However, the hard flagstones had been unforgiving.
Draco’s sweat-slicked face had grown increasingly pale. After they’d removed the arrows, he’d fallen into a strange fever, one that he hadn’t yet awoken from. Elizabeth’s quick actions had helped staunch the bleeding. His midsection was now bound up.
But the dawn couldn’t come soon enough. She hated to see him suffer.
Rubbing her gritty eyes, Gavina glanced up at the high, narrow window above them. Outdoors the sky was starting to lighten. The castle was still eerily quiet—as it was every morning before the siege resumed. The silence was like an indrawn breath, waiting and watchful.
Any moment now, Draco would heal.
Gavina’s breathing quickened. And when he did, she would tell him what lay in her heart. She’d climbed onto the wall yesterday, fully intending to speak to him. However, fate had intervened.
As she watched Draco, watched his body wage its own battle, she wondered how this had actually come to pass. How had this proud, aggravating Moor managed to steal her heart?
The soft pad of footfalls behind her made Gavina turn on her stool.
Elizabeth approached, a mug of something in her hands. “Mutton broth,” she said, handing Gavina the mug. “It’s a bit weak, but it’s hot at least.”
“Thanks, Liz.” Gavina took the broth with a grateful smile. She hadn’t eaten since the morning before, and despite her protesting belly, she had little appetite now. Nonetheless, the hot broth soothed her.
Elizabeth drew nearer, the light of a nearby cresset illuminating the tired yet resolute lines of her face. “Not long now,” she murmured.
Gavina sighed. “Aye … I wish it were dawn already. I hate to see him like this.”
A heartbeat passed before Elizabeth met her eye, a quizzical look upon her face. “Ye wed Vulcan for a purpose … but I didn’t think ye actually cared about him?”
Gavina favored her with a weak smile. “I didn’t … not initially. But things are different now.”
Elizabeth gave her a long, searching look. “Clearly.”
Together the two women waited by Draco’s bedside, watching as the sky outside lightened from indigo to pale blue. Strangely, the thunder of battle didn’t resume outdoors.
But even stranger still, Draco Vulcan didn’t wake from his fever.
XXXIV
FADING
“DO MY EYES deceive me?”
“No … they’re leaving.”
Maximus stared west, at where the huge army had packed up. It then lifted up off the cliff-top and rumbled south, the clang of iron and thunder of horses’ hooves shattering the balmy morning air. “But why?”
“I have no idea.”
Maximus tore his gaze from the retreating army, fixing his attention upon the man who stood at his side. In the bright light, Cassian looked tired—exhausted even. Maximus had never seen him appear so weary. Had the siege taken such a toll upon them all?
Maybe it had, for his body still ached this morning—a deep bone ache that cut to the marrow. He felt so weary, he could have slept for a fortnight.
His aches and exhaustion surprised him.
It’s just relief hitting me, he told himself. We’ve all been living on our nerves for too long.
“Craven bastards, look at them run!” Wallace strode up to the wall, his face creased in a fierce scowl as he glared out at the dark bulk of horses, helmets, and spears that moved away from the fortress. “They couldn’t stomach a good fight.”
Maximus frowned. He wasn’t sure that was the reason for the retreat.
Even with the ‘Battle Hammer’ destroyed, Edward still had the advantage.
“Longshanks isn’t the type to run from a fight,” Cassian spoke up then, echoing Maximus’s own thoughts. “He’ll have a reason for leaving so suddenly … and it won’t be because he’s tired of laying siege to this castle.”
The Wallace’s dark gaze swung around, pinning Cassian. “So why then?”
Cassian shrugged, his own attention returning to beyond the walls. Maximus did likewise, focusing upon the blackened ruins of the siege weapon below. “I’d wager that things have soured between Edward and Shaw,” he murmured.
“With any luck, one of them is dead,” Cassian replied.
“I wanted to be the man to end Shaw Irvine’s life,” Wallace muttered, “right before I slammed my dirk into Longshanks’s belly.” Bitter disappointment laced the outlaw’s voice. He’d remained at Dunnottar, not only to defend the fortress, but in order to have his reckoning with Edward of England.
But the English king was now riding away.
“Something must have drawn his eye,” Cassian murmured, watching the last of the red and gold Plantagenet banners flapping in the morning breeze. “I’d say he’s returning to Stirling.”
“You think the castle is under attack?” Maximus asked.
Cassian turned to him, running a tired hand over his face. “Maybe.”
William Wallace said nothing at that—instead, his gaze remained focused upon the retreating English army. An army that had been so close to taking them.
“Maximus … Cassian … ye are needed in the infirmary.”
Hearing Heather’s voice, Maximus swiveled around to find his wife standing behind them. Her eyes widened when she realized what the men on the wall had all been staring at.
The retreating enemy.
“What?” she gasped, rushing forward. “Why?”
“Yer guess is as good as ours, lass,” the Wallace grumbled.
“What’s this about the infirmary?” Maximus cut in.
Heather jolted, her attention snapping back to her husband. Her throat bobbed. “It’s Draco … he’s dying.”
“His wounds haven’t healed … see for yerselves.” Elizabeth drew back the bloodied bandages and allowed Maximus and Cassian to draw close to the pallet. Sunshine filtered into the crowded infirmary, pooling on the bed where Draco lay.
Following the centurions’ gazes, Gavina looked upon the twin arrow holes. They were swollen, red, and weeping.
The dawn had long risen, and with it those terrible wounds should have vanished.
But they hadn’t—and Draco hadn’t yet awoken. A worrying pallor lay upon his skin, and his breathing was shallow, labored.
Elizabeth straightened up from examining Draco’s wounds. “He’s fading.”
Fading.
Gavina’s throat closed, an ache rising
deep in her chest.
“So, it’s broken then.” Maximus’s voice was soft, awed, his peat-brown eyes glittering. “We can all die.”
Elizabeth nodded. “It seems so.”
“I thought I felt different this morning,” Cassian murmured. He too hadn’t taken his gaze from Draco. “My limbs are heavy … I feel … old.”
Hysterical laughter bubbled up within Gavina, yet she forced it down. They’d wanted this for so long, and yet neither Cassian nor Maximus looked overjoyed right now.
Next to Cassian, Aila placed an arm around his waist and squeezed tight. “That’s because ye are, my love,” she whispered. Her attention shifted to Gavina then, realization dawning. “This means the pair of ye are …” Her voice trailed off there.
Gavina’s hands fisted at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. “Aye,” she whispered. “It does.”
She couldn’t believe it. Despite that he’d told her he wasn’t capable of it, Draco loved her too.
Gavina’s vision blurred. Life was cruel indeed.
They moved Draco up to Gavina’s bed-chamber, where he would be more comfortable. Although Maximus and Cassian were as careful as possible, their friend groaned every time the litter jolted.
Draco was in a strange state—halfway between waking and sleeping. He didn’t appear to notice his surroundings, yet he was clearly suffering.
No one spoke when Maximus and Cassian eventually got Draco onto the bed. Instead, they merely stood over him, their brows furrowed, their faces strained.
“I can’t believe it,” Maximus finally muttered. “All these years the bastard chased death … and now it’s standing over him with its scythe.”
“Yesterday on the wall … do you think he knew?” Cassian asked.
Standing behind them, Gavina tensed. She hoped not—the thought that Draco might deliberately throw himself into the sights of Edward’s archers made her belly churn.
Surely, loving her wasn’t so terrible?
“I don’t think he did,” Maximus answered with a sigh. “He was just doing what he always does … playing the idiot.”
The centurions eventually left the bed-chamber, exhaustion and worry etched upon their faces. The breaking of the curse had made both men weary; they needed to sleep, needed to come to terms with how their bodies had changed.
Breaking the curse should have been a moment of great relief—and Maximus and Cassian would soon be able to celebrate with their wives—but Draco’s grave injuries had soured everything.
Watching them go, Gavina realized that these three were far more than just friends. They’d weathered the centuries together. They were closer than brothers.
Alone in the bed-chamber with Draco, Gavina approached the bed. His leathers were sweat-stained and dirty. He needed to be undressed and washed, and then she’d tend his wounds. She carried a small basket with some healing herbs Elizabeth had managed to salvage for her.
Setting down the basket on the bedside table, Gavina moved to Draco. She pulled off his boots and started to unlace the ties on his braies.
Draco groaned in his sleep, his long dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. The sheen of sweat upon his skin worried her. If the wounds soured, he would surely die, for he was in a weakened state after losing so much blood.
A soft knock on the door behind her sounded, and a moment later, Aila entered carrying a large bowl of warm water, and clean cloths.
Aila’s shadowed gaze took in Draco’s prostrate form. She then placed the bowl and cloths down on the table and drew close to the bed. “Can I help ye, My Lady?” she asked.
Gavina shook her head. “Not at present … but thank ye, Aila. I shall tend to my husband.”
My husband.
Aye, he was hers, body and soul.
Six long years she’d been wed to David De Keith, but he’d never once touched her heart or eased the ache of loneliness inside her. If anything, he’d made her feel more alone. But Draco Vulcan had truly seen her.
He was the last man she’d have thought to fall in love with—but the heart knew what it wanted. What a terrible irony that he was now dying.
Tears blurred her vision then, obscuring Aila’s pained face. Gavina felt them escape, scalding her cheeks. Heaving in a shaky breath, she placed a hand on Draco’s naked chest, over the fluttering beat of his heart. “I won’t leave his side.”
XXXV
TOO LATE
DRACO AWOKE TO pain.
It felt as if a beast were tearing at the left side of his body, rending his flesh with its deep fangs. Yet, when his eyes fluttered open, he saw that he was alone upon a large bed.
A wave of nausea washed over him, and Draco attempted to swallow it down. “Water,” he croaked.
“Ye are awake!” Gavina’s lovely face hove into view. She was pale, her blue eyes red-rimmed and hollowed, yet he’d never seen a lovelier sight.
“Water,” he repeated, desperate now. His tongue felt too big to fit in his mouth.
Great Lord of Light—he felt terrible.
“Of course.” Gavina disappeared from view before reappearing with a wooden cup. “Take small sips,” she instructed. “In case ye choke.”
Draco did as bid. She’d propped him up on pillows, which made drinking easier. But despite the solace of sweet boiled water upon his tongue and throat, the agony in his torso was almost unbearable.
He let out a groan between clenched teeth. “The fiery pits of Hades,” he finally grunted. “How far off is dawn?”
He’d suffered many injuries over the years, some of them horrific. But never had he looked forward to the new day like now.
Mortality be damned, he just wanted the pain to stop.
But Gavina now wore an odd expression on her face, her cornflower-blue eyes clouded.
“What?”
“Three dawns have come and gone since ye were injured, Draco,” she said softly. “But ye have remained close to death. The curse is broken.”
Draco stared up at her, shock distracting him momentarily from the fiery pain that pulsed down his left-hand side. It rose and fell like lapping waves. It was hard to bear, but Gavina’s news made the agony ebb just a little.
“You mean … all three of us are mortal?”
She nodded.
“And the English … surely they’ve broken through the gates by now?”
“Maximus and Cassian destroyed the ‘Battle Hammer’ on the afternoon ye took those arrows. The following morning, the English packed up and left. Word has just reached us that Comyn and Bruce have taken back Stirling … Edward’s gone off to deal with them.”
Draco let out the breath he’d been holding—slowly, for it hurt to breathe.
No wonder he felt as if he was on death’s door.
He was.
A sickening realization filtered through him, chilling his limbs and making the pain return with such force that he groaned. “I’m done for … aren’t I?”
Gavina’s throat bobbed. She didn’t need to answer him; he could see the truth in her eyes. He glanced down at his bandaged torso, at the dark stains that seeped through the linen.
“Yer wounds have soured,” she whispered. “I’m doing my best to tend them … to heal ye … but nothing I try does any good.”
The pain, the vulnerability in her voice, cut him deeply. It hurt as much as his body did, to see the grief in this woman’s eyes, to hear the quiver in her voice.
Reaching out, he entwined his fingers through hers upon the coverlet. “If the curse is broken,” he gasped out the words, “you know what that means … about us?”
“Aye,” she whispered.
His fingers tightened around hers. “I’m a fool, Gavina. I should have been honest with myself … I would have been if I wasn’t so bull-headed.” He heaved in a pained breath. Mithras, it hurt to talk. He could feel darkness pulling at the edges of his vision, drawing him down, yet he resisted.
He wanted to remain awake a while, to gaze upon his wife.
/> Draco’s throat thickened, a pain rising under his breastbone that had nothing to do with the festering arrow wounds.
There was no numbness in his chest now. Instead, he felt everything.
Gavina’s mouth trembled. “Dolt,” she whispered. “Why did ye have to go and throw yerself in the path of those arrows?”
He drew in a shallow breath, fighting the pain. “It wasn’t deliberate … I was defending the wall … but I was careless … I’ve gotten too used to being invincible.”
As he stared up at her, Draco saw tears escape Gavina’s glittering eyes and trickle down her cheeks. Her fingers clenched around his. “I love ye, Draco,” she whispered, “so much that it hurts to breathe.”
“You are the best thing to ever come into my life,” he whispered back, his voice cracking. “I never knew true joy … till I met you.” She was right, they had left it too late. All these years, he’d sought the oblivion of death, had dreamed of breaking the curse so that he could finally let nature take its course. But now that he perched on the brink while death’s cold hands reached for him, Draco didn’t want to die.
He desperately wanted to live.
Maximus and Cassian came to see him, and he saw from the somber expressions they wore, their guarded gazes, that things were indeed dire.
“I’m not a corpse yet,” he greeted them, attempting a wan smile and failing. “You don’t have to both look so tragic.”
Maximus snorted, attempting a tight smile of his own. “Half-dead and you still manage to be aggravating. Some things never change.”
Next to him, Cassian’s hazel eyes guttered, his throat bobbing. His friend, whom Draco had never seen weep, looked on the verge of breaking down.
“Sit by my side,” Draco rasped, patting the coverlet next to him. He was so weak that it was an effort to do even that. Agony pulsed in time with his heartbeat, but while he hurt, he was still alive—and before he died, he had things to say to these two.
