“I am Father John, lad,” he introduced himself quietly, and then his gaze flitted to the king lying on the bed.
Lad. How easy it was to forget that she must still play the part of a lad. Clearing her throat, she stepped back and nodded at the king. “His Majesty is in need of your aid.”
“Then I shall do what I can,” the man responded with a dip of his cleft chin.
Brushing past her, he moved to kneel next to the bed, and first making the sign of the cross, he then placed a gentle hand upon the monarch’s shoulder.
The king’s eyes opened at once and upon seeing the priest, he gasped. “Father, I am certain to die this day. I would confess straightway so that my sins do not follow me.”
“Aye, my son,” the priest acknowledged kindly. “Tell me, how were ye wounded?”
The king swallowed and replied weakly, “I was knocked from the back of my horse and crushed by the weight of mine own armor.”
The young priest was silent a moment.
For the briefest of moments, Merry could have sworn she saw an expression of outright contempt sweep across his face.
But then he spoke, and his voice was only kind, comforting. “Your wounds do not appear so grievous that ye might not yet recover from them, my son.”
The king took strength in his words. “Aye, then there is hope still?” He seized on the words desperately but then grasped at the holy man’s robe and demanded all the same, “But I would still confess my sins. I would be prepared and not die unshriven, father. The prophecy says that I shall die.”
“We all shall die,” the priest answered quietly. “Ye shouldna hold to the Black Arts, my son. They are the pathway to the devil.”
Merry crossed herself and stepped to the door, suddenly ashamed to be eavesdropping upon the confession of a king.
But she’d scarcely taken a step toward the door when the priest rose to his feet.
And then a flash caught her eye.
Whirling, she saw a dagger in the man’s hand and even as she watched, he viciously plunged the weapon directly into the king’s chest as he lay unresisting upon the bed.
The king made a strangled, gargling sound.
And then the priest raised his hand again. And again. And yet again, he attacked the king with the dagger, almost as if to assure himself that he was truly dead.
Merry could only watch, rooted to the spot by her own shock.
And then with the dagger still in his hand, the man turned toward Merry.
Chapter Fifteen – I’m Not Saved Yet
Having caught up with Julian, Ewan rode beside him through the hamlet of Milltown in pursuit of the king. They had lost and found his trail several times, and it appeared they were losing his trail yet again when Julian paused on the banks of the Bannockburn and pointed.
“There, by the mill. ‘Tis that not the king’s horse?” he asked in a weary tone.
Brushing his hair tiredly back from his eyes, Ewan followed Julian’s gaze to see the king’s gray charger idly nibbling tufts of grass growing aside the burn. The afternoon sunlight glinted off what appeared to be discarded armor nearby.
They had just exchanged puzzled looks when screams issued from the vicinity of the mill.
At once, they wheeled their mounts and charged for the mill.
A middle-aged woman and two lads ran toward the mill’s cottage as the door opened and a tall youth stumbled out, falling to his knees upon the ground.
Behind him stood a priest in a blood-spattered robe, and he held a bloodied dagger in his hand.
And then the lad lifted his head, and both Ewan and Julian gasped in unison.
It was Merry.
Leaping from their horses, they were at her side in an instant.
Ewan reached the man first, knocking the dagger out of his hand and shoving him back against the cottage wall as Julian pulled Merry to safety.
Grasping the priest roughly by the throat, Ewan stood there a moment, breathing heavily. He then kicked the man’s dagger out of his reach.
Turning to Julian and Merry, he lifted a brow in silent question.
“She’s unharmed,” Julian answered, but his gaze had locked upon the man in Ewan’s grasp. “Borthwick?” he asked, astonished.
Turning back, Ewan’s eyes widened in surprise as he realized he knew the young man.
And then Merry’s shocked voice came in short gasps, “’Tis the king. He slew the king. The king is dead!”
It was so astonishing that no one moved.
Even Borthwick.
And then the miller’s wife ran into the cottage and began to scream as Julian followed. Dragging Borthwick in after him, Ewan ducked under the low door to see for himself.
A quick glance was enough.
“He’s dead,” Julian confirmed in a shocked tone, looking up from the bed. And then his fair features darkened, and striding to Borthwick, he spoke in a deep-pitched voice. “Ye rode under my banner. Ye knew well that the king’s blood was not to be spilt!”
“Aye,” Ewan rasped, glancing through the window to see Merry still crouched in the stable yard, pale and stunned, and with her hands clasped tightly over her mouth. “And would ye have the blood of an innocent lady upon your hands as well?”
“Lady?” Borthwick repeated, taken aback.
Ewan scowled and nodded his firm jaw in Merry’s direction. “The lad,” he corrected. “Did ye plan on slaying him because he witnessed your crime?”
“Nay,” the man replied quickly.
But it was a little too quickly for Ewan’s taste.
“I would see this traitor hung,” Ewan growled, his blue eyes locked with Julian’s.
“Traitor? Nay!” Borthwick’s face flushed red. “’Tis not so. I merely followed the order of the Earl of Angus. Speak to the man yourself if ye dinna believe me! This morn he pulled a handful of us aside and swore that Cameron himself had promised a princely reward to the man who would bring him the king’s head.”
“Lies!” Ewan spat, shoving the man back.
Borthwick fell to his knees. “I swear it, my lord!”
“Then we’ll ask Archibald, aye?” Julian inserted softly. “Even now, the man comes.”
And indeed it was so. Archibald, the Earl of Angus approached the mill on horseback with a few others trailing behind him.
And as they’d dismounted and had begun to speak heatedly of Borthwick and his illicit charter amidst the miller’s wife’s hysterical wailing, Ewan wiped the grime from his face and stepped outside to kneel next to Merry. He was exhausted, and he was far beyond astonished to find her there, but he was right glad that she was.
“’Tis done, lass,” he said gently, laying a comforting hand upon her shoulder.
She swallowed. Her face was still white, and her eyes filled with horror. “I saw him, Ewan,” she whispered numbly. “He just … he just…” she choked. “I couldn’t stop him. I didna know he was …”
“Dinna think on it,” he said. Gathering her closer into a one-armed hug, he rested his forehead against hers. “’Tis done. The man met his fate. There was naught ye could do, lass.”
“I should have stopped him,” she said, reaching up to grip his fingers tightly. “I thought he was a strange priest from the start—”
“Nay,” he said, cutting her short. And then rising to his feet, he pulled her up beside him. Placing a hand upon each of her shoulders, he ordered, “Look at me, lass. The king’s death is not on your hands. The man brought about his own fate by his own foolishness. If ye had even tried to stop Borthwick, even now ye’d be lying dead upon the floor along with the king, and what is the good in that? That man’s evil doing is not your concern, lass.”
She was shaking, but she seemed to be listening.
“Nay, ye are supposed to live, Merry,” he continued in a gentler tone. “’Tis me ye have to finish saving, lass. You’re a remedy for my heart, and I need ye with me. I’m not saved yet.”
She drew in a long breath, and then she looked
at him, as if noticing he were truly there for the first time.
“Ewan, are ye well? Have ye been hurt?” she gasped, searching his face.
And then she was running her hands along his bristled jaw, over his chest and thighs, clearly searching for wounds until he caged her within his arms and crushed her close to him.
“Am I dreaming?” she asked in a harsh whisper. “Are ye really here afore me, hale and hearty?”
“Aye, but mayhap I’m the one who is dreaming. I left ye in Cambuskenneth, did I not?” he asked teasingly. And then suddenly aware of just how much he was covered in other men’s blood, he let her go and pushed her away. “Ach, lass. I dinna want ye to see me like this. I’m fair unpresentable, and—”
But she only snorted and her brown eyes flashed. “I dinna smell so lovely in these stolen clothing myself, Ewan MacLean,” she said in a wavering voice.
And then grabbing onto him, she buried her face into his chest, and her shoulders began to shake as her breaths came in long, ragged gasps. It took him a moment to realize that she was weeping in long horrible sobs.
He let her cry for a time, resting his chin upon the top of her head while he watched Borthwick’s hands being tied with rope and then several of Archibald’s men led him away.
Ewan raised a brow.
Archibald would most likely see the man freed afore the king’s body had even left the cottage. And when Julian passed by him a short time later, he sent him a knowing glance. Clearly, he thought the same thing.
Then Ewan spied a flash of MacLeod plaid from the corner of his eye.
And Ruan’s voice asked grimly, “Are the both of ye unharmed?”
Ewan tensed to hear the man but glanced down at himself first. He suffered cuts in various places, and his arm burned in pain, but he was still standing, and that is what mattered the most after battle.
Hearing her brother’s voice, Merry lifted her red-swollen eyes and wiped them with the back of her arm. The gesture tore Ewan’s heart, and not caring if Ruan approved of him or no, he caught her chin with his thumb and forced her eyes to meet his.
“’Tis healing to weep, lass,” he said with a gentle smile. “But soon, your eyes will weep no more, I swear it. This too, as all things, will end.”
She nodded, the corner of her lip tremulously lifting into a smile.
Leaning over, he planted a kiss upon her forehead and then clenching his jaw, turned to face Ruan.
He’d expected to see a look of anger upon the man’s face, but instead, his face was impassive, betraying nothing.
And then yet more of the prince’s men arrived, and as plans were made to bear the king’s body back to Cambuskenneth, Ruan looped his arm around Merry’s shoulder and insisted she return with him at once to the abbey.
Lacing his hand through hers to kiss her fingertips, Ewan seated her safely upon Diabhul’s back, quickly sidestepping the stallion as he reached back for a quick nip. And then she was gone, riding away at her brother’s side.
The place seemed desolate after she left, but Ewan stayed with Julian and the others until a fine litter was brought, and the king’s ermine-trimmed cloak, recovered, was laid upon the deceased monarch. Then in a solemn procession, they filed away from the mill, heading silently to the abbey.
Halfway there, Cameron galloped to join them along with a shaken prince.
The prince didn’t speak as he maneuvered his horse to keep pace next to his father’s litter, but Cameron urged his mount between Julian and Ewan’s to speak in a low voice.
“Already, Archibald has lost Borthwick,” he informed them grimly. “He claims the man attacked his guards and escaped on horseback.”
“Aye, with Archibald’s money and blessing.” Julian heaved a sigh. “We’ll never see the man again, I’ll warrant.”
Ewan clenched his jaw. He’d suspected as much.
Bowing his head, he let the remainder of their words wash over him, and instead, focused on thoughts of home.
He hadn’t been to Mull in quite some time, longer than he cared to admit.
He missed the mountains, the lochs, and the barking of the selkies as they stretched out on the rocky islands. He closed his eyes. It had been years since he stood on the moors, watching the piercing winds lift the banks of fog as they rolled over the waves.
And then, there were his parents, especially his father. He’d not seen the old man in a disgraceful long while.
Aye, ‘twas time to return.
The evening sun hovered on the horizon when they finally rode through Cambuskenneth’s gate. The monks were there with bowed heads to receive the king’s body, and it was with great respect that they carried him into the church, to lay him down in front of the alter.
The prince followed, pale and stoic.
He said nothing as he stood before his father’s body wrapped in the fine ermine-trimmed mantle. And then slowly, he crossed himself and knelt, his lips moving in silent prayer.
Ewan stayed for only a short time before he moved to wait outside for the others to join him. He was exhausted. The pain in his arm had subsided to a dull ache, proving not to be caused by cuts but a deep bruise and most likely a torn muscle. It would heal with resting.
It was time for the day to end. He was ready.
Merry and Ruan were nowhere to be seen, and he wondered where they’d gone, but then thoughts of Ruan made him wonder what he could do to prove his worth to the man in order to win Merry’s hand.
He glanced down at his blood-spattered clothes, the blood now brown, dried, and caked. ‘Twas the last time he’d wear such clothes, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be rid of them as soon as he could.
Then as the last rays of sun turned the abbey a warm golden hue, Cameron and Julian stepped out from the chapel with the pale young prince between them.
Quickly, Cameron recounted the events that had transpired to cause the king’s death, but noticeably he avoided details of Borthwick’s name and escape.
Ewan supposed it wise. ‘Twould likely start another war.
And then for the first time, the prince spoke. “And so it ends like so many stories before it. I am a son who has killed his own father for a crown,” he whispered.
“Nay, my king,” Cameron responded in a voice of strength. “The king’s blood is not on your hands. He died at the hands of a traitor.”
“Nay.” The prince shook his head, and his lips twisted as he strove to contain his grief. “He died only because I rose against him. Had I stayed his faithful son, then even now he would be dining in yon castle.” He tilted his head toward Stirling rising above them in the distance.
“There is no denying this is a tragic end,” Cameron said grimly. He bowed his head and murmured. “Dinna forget that he was my cousin, your majesty. As wee lads, we sailed the River Forth and spent many a day in laughter. Nevertheless, as much as it pains me to speak ill of one crossed over, Scotland did suffer by him. And we greatly need a wise and prudent king now—a king who is unwavering and just. The people have had enough suffering.”
The prince fell silent for a moment, and then whispered, “Aye, the duty of a king. But as a son, I must pay the price, Cameron.”
Cameron reached over and clasped his young cousin’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “Then let the abbot guide ye on penance to ease your guilt if ye must,” he suggested in a deep voice.
The prince lifted his head, seizing the word. “Penance,” he repeated.
“But there is much we must do to secure the peace of the realm,” Cameron continued. “The clans of the north must be dispersed home. We must secure your crown, your majesty, and—”
“Penance,” the prince interrupted him with another whisper. “Never has a race of kings been more unfortunate than that of the Stewarts.”
“Aye,” Cameron agreed hesitantly, exchanging a concerned look with Julian.
“Then see to it that an iron cilice is made for me at once, Cameron,” the young prince ordered, his voice growing stronge
r with each word. “And I will forever wear the heavy collar to remind me that I have sinned and that I must humbly seek penance for my soul, even though ‘twas all for the sake of Scotland.”
And then, the young prince turned upon his heel and strode away.
A hushed silence fell, finally to be broken by Julian’s quiet voice. “A meek king,” he murmured. “Dare I hope that such a man grows into a great king?”
“Aye,” Cameron said, allowing himself a rare smile. “I have such hope myself, Julian.”
They stayed as they were for a moment, until the scrape of boots against stone caused them to turn and to see Archibald Douglas.
“Ach, I fear that one James will be just as bad as the other,” the redheaded Earl spat in greeting.
As Cameron and Julian stepped forward to take the man to task, Ewan used the opportunity to escape.
He had no desire to hear more. He was done with men and their games of power.
Aye, he would clean himself first, and then he would find Merry. But he’d scarcely stepped around the tower before soft hands slipped around his waist from behind, and he felt her head press against his back.
“I’m never letting ye go again, ye daft fool,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his shoulders.
A slow smile curved his lips. Sliding his hands over hers, he unlocked them and turned to study her face in the gathering darkness.
She’d changed once again into the fine gown, and upon seeing just her face, the weariness that had threatened to consume him seemed to lift all at once.
His gaze roved over her in an intimate caress.
Ach, he wanted to kiss her, but he’d not hold her yet. Not with his blood-encrusted clothing and the sweat of battle still rank upon him.
“Will ye kiss me, Ewan MacLean?” she demanded then, her brown eyes inviting.
Slowly, he lowered his head to deliver the merest brush of his lips against her cheek.
But then he heard Ruan’s hard voice behind him.
“And I thought I told ye ‘twould be years afore I’d let ye kiss my wee sister, Ewan MacLean!” The man’s voice was harsh.
“Years?” Merry burst in outrage, stepping aside to face her brother in shock.
The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) Page 24
