by Tarah Scott
Time passed with excruciating slowness.
It was fair difficult to simply lurk in the forest, listening to the angry sounds of war. And it seemed forever before the last bit of orange finally sank below the horizon to allow Julian to leave the cover of the woods.
Mingling with the English soldiers without rousing suspicion was easy enough. As Le Marin, he had learned long ago to act with confidence. Few ever possessed the courage to question him.
And gaining entry into Albany’s tent was absurdly simple. The young lad posted as guard nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to allow Julian to pass, pulling back the lamb’s wool door-hanging.
“Aye, what is it?” Albany grunted, running his thick fingers through his red hair.
The treacherous prince sat alone behind a wide table graced with tallow candles that flickered fitfully in their silver candlesticks. The ground was covered with sheepskins and rugs, and nearby was a comfortable bed covered in fur.
As annoyed as he was, Julian quite enjoyed the look of abject astonishment on Albany’s face.
“Julian!” The man cleared his throat in confusion. “What brings ye here?”
Throwing Cameron’s parchment onto the table, Julian replied, “’Tis a missive from Cameron.”
Albany stared at it a moment, rubbing his thumb and forefingers together in a nervous, circular motion.
“Well?” Julian prompted impatiently.
Taking a deep breath, Albany broke the wax seal and slowly began to read. But with each passing moment, a smug smile grew to spread across his face.
Inwardly, Julian heaved a breath of relief that Cameron’s plan appeared to be working. With the smell of smoke and death in the air, heaven knew that they would need it to.
“Aye, ‘tis as it should be!” Albany laughed outright in pleasure. “Even Cameron himself wants me as king now, eh? Let’s have wine to celebrate! Aye, and bring Douglas here at once!”
With a negligent wave of his hand, he pointed to the flask of wine and a goblet at the far end of the table.
Julian eyed the man in disgust.
The man had just burnt good Scottish villages. He’d not serve him a goblet of wine nor play his messenger lad. Aye, he had to get away, before he was tempted to tie the man up and deliver him to the newly-made homeless villagers for a bit of true Scottish justice.
Turning upon his heel, he strode through the tent door and quit the place.
* * *
Julian spent the remainder of the night lurking in the shadows and learning more than he wished to know of Gloucester’s doings. And the following dawn saw him riding hard to Burg Muir, bearing the tidings that while half of the English army ravaged the borderlands by burning castles and farms, the other half would soon advance to Edinburgh itself to place Albany upon the Scottish throne.
Several leagues from Channelkirk, he heard the rattle of drums and the wailing of pipes long before he saw them and a smile split his tired face.
It was more than a mile later that he rounded a bend in the road to see a great many horsemen bearing down upon him from the north with the banners of the House of Stewart unfurling in the wind.
Cameron had moved the clans.
12
the hanging
As the last rays of the sun fell across the land, Julian leaned against an ancient spreading oak, his gray eyes sweeping over the vast numbers of horsemen and foot soldiers setting up camp between the parish kirk at Lauder and the old village bridge.
He was exhausted and beyond weary of the entire situation. Or mayhap it was more than just this particular situation. Could it be that he was weary of political intrigue altogether and simply retiring to Castle Huntly wouldn’t be so dull a prospect after all.
Aye, if he had a lively lass there with him, one with stunning hazel eyes, it might be a delightful adventure!
A light touch on his arm caused him to jump and instinctively reach for the knife safely tucked in his belt.
“Stand down, lad!” Cameron’s easy laugh filled the evening air. “And where was your mind? ‘Tis quite unlike ye to allow me to startle ye so!” His brow was raised in mild curiosity as his keen eyes swept Julian from head to toe.
Julian grunted. He wasn’t about to admit what he’d been thinking. Instead, he pointed to several Scottish nobles some distance away. The men were agitatedly waving their hands and exchanging heated words. “What has them so angered?” he asked.
Cameron followed his gaze and then expelled his breath in unmasked contempt. “’Tis James. The daft fool sought to make Thomas Cochrane the captain of the cannoneers. Aye, I told him ‘twas best to remain in Edinburgh, but there are rumors both the king and Thomas are on their way.”
“Ach!” Julian made a sound of disgust. “We’ve no time to let fools parade on the battlefield in fine velvets when we’ve the English to fight!”
“Aye, I fear the king willna listen,” Cameron murmured grimly. “I cannot guarantee his safety should he come here with Thomas.”
“Then I almost wish he would come,” Julian admitted dryly.
“Nay, Julian,” the Earl of Lennox disagreed with an elegant shake of his head. “Scotland cannot yet withstand a civil war. You know this.”
“Aye, I know,” Julian replied, somewhat chastened. And then he added truthfully enough, “I wish for peace. I’m weary of these turbulent times. Ach, I would this was already over.”
At that, Cameron heaved a sigh. “Soon enough, lad.”
And then one of the agitated nobles drew his sword and began shouting at the others.
“If ye’ll excuse me, lad? It seems I’ve a matter to settle,” Cameron said, nodding at the man with his chin. And then clapping Julian’s shoulder in farewell, he set off in the man’s direction.
Shaking his head, Julian heaved himself off of the tree and returned to where he’d staked Ewan’s black charger out to graze. ‘Twas time to return the beast and to use it as an excuse to ask Ewan if he’d heard word of Liselle.
Liselle. He’d been fretting far too much over the lass of late, and dreaming of her too.
Scowling a little at himself, he grabbed the horse’s halter and headed back to camp in search of the MacLeans.
They weren’t difficult to find.
He had only to listen for the loudest band of men singing raucous drinking songs around their evening campfire. And because of the sheer number of clans gathered upon the field, it was quite a feat that they still sang the loudest.
Chuckling, he stepped around a half-drawn tent to come upon Ewan standing apart from the others.
Julian paused and eyed his cousin.
The young man’s feet were braced wide apart, and his arms were folded tightly across his broad chest as his unseeing gaze locked upon the horizon. Again, the sadness was etched upon his handsome face, plain for all to see.
Julian frowned, wondering what burden his young cousin carried, but it was fair impossible to escape the lad’s eagle sense for long. Almost immediately, Ewan’s fair head turned his way, and he raised an arm in silent greeting.
Stepping forward, Julian hailed him warmly and held out the reins. “I’ve come with your horse, cousin. ’Tis a fine animal, and I’m sore tempted to steal him from ye.” As he said the jest, a brief vision of Liselle fled across his mind, but he quickly pushed it aside.
Ewan gave the horse a fond slap on the flanks and replied mildly, “I think ye still have need of him, aye? Your gray mare has yet to be found.”
Julian clenched his jaw.
“I’m sure the lass is safe, cousin,” Ewan reassured. “Ye should—”
“Ach, her safety is not my concern,” Julian grated roughly.
It was a lie.
They both knew it.
And then the resounding cry of “A MacLeod! A MacLeod!” split the air.
Thrusting the reins back into Julian’s hands, Ewan urged, “Take the lad, cousin, and return him only when ye’ve need of him no longer.” Tilting his head in the direc
tion of the commotion, he added, “I’ve words that must be said to Ruan, so I’ll leave ye to your thoughts.”
Julian grimly watched his young cousin thread his way through the crowd to where the dark-haired Ruan MacLeod, Laird of Dunvegan, waved a strong arm in greeting.
Turning away, Julian passed a hand over his face.
Liselle was clearly capable of handling herself. Aye, the lass leapt through windows. Most assuredly, she could ride across the heath upon the back of his sure-footed gray mare.
He had no cause to worry.
Shaking his head, he’d just made up his mind to greet Ruan MacLeod himself when he heard a familiar laugh.
Instantly alert, he scanned the sea of faces about him and spied a burly form and a glimpse of red hair flashing from under a black cloak.
Shoving the horse’s reins into the hands of a nearby MacLean, Julian slipped through the crowd and fell into step behind the cloaked man. Aye, he’d recognize him anywhere. Stepping forward, he tore the man’s hood from his head, and grabbing him about the throat to half-choke him, hissed into his ear, "Might I have a word with ye, traitor?"
Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, looked back at him, gasping, as his eyes bulged in surprise.
"I'd wager your presence here is as rotten as it smells!" Julian growled, making little effort to disguise his disgust. “You’re no better than Albany! Ye both should hang from yonder bridge along with any man who conspired with ye to burn the villages of good honest folk!”
He twisted his hand tighter around the man’s thick neck.
“Hold!” The Red Douglas wheezed, clawing at Julian’s hands. “I come at Cameron’s bidding, by way of tidings that ye delivered with your own hand!”
Julian searched his eyes before shoving him back roughly. “Then I’ll personally deliver ye to the man,” he said, his voice sharp-edged and hard. “I’ll not have your ilk wandering about here unescorted!”
Catching his balance, Douglas nodded and straightened his collar, feeling his neck as if to make certain it was still in one piece. “Aye, then, lead on,” he replied with an uncustomary meekness.
With a curt nod, Julian motioned for the man to precede him, but they had scarcely taken two steps when the sound of a horn split the air.
At once, the voices in the camp fell into muted whispers as all eyes riveted upon a party of men approaching in great state.
Four trumpeters with golden horns bearing the royal crest marched before two elaborately dressed men on horses. And they were in turn followed by several hundred soldiers, all on foot, clad in white livery, and armed with gleaming battle axes.
The two horsemen were the king and his favorite, Thomas Cochrane.
Julian’s lip curled in disgust.
King James rode a splendid roan with crimson ribbons plaited in its mane. Swathed in a fine ermine-trimmed mantle and wearing boots adorned with silver braid, the monarch looked frail and nervous as he surveyed the clans gathered before him.
But, at his side, the long-faced Thomas Cochrane sat proud, and with a smug smile, swept aside his black-velvet cloak bedecked with precious stones to reveal a silver hunting horn overlaid with gold.
“Aye, James and Thomas bring three hundred while Cameron can summon fifty thousand,” Douglas growled at Julian’s side.
“And just whom are we here to fight?” Julian spat in reply. “I think ye just might know the army, intimately!”
Douglas’ jaw clamped. “You may not understand it, lad, but what I’ve done is for the good of Scotland herself!”
“Burning her villages is for the good of her, aye?” Julian rejoined sarcastically. Nodding toward Thomas Cochrane, he added, “There are other ways to fight the likes of him.”
They watched Thomas dismount and smooth his trimmed, sleek beard. And then his nasal voice could be heard giving the soldiers orders to raise the king’s tent alongside his own.
Still hushed, the Scottish army of clans watched as Thomas’ silken tent was brought forth and raised with cords entwined with silk and gold. And as a matching tent for the king was raised—only slightly larger than Thomas’ own—another small party of silk-clad men arrived.
Julian turned away in disgust as he recognized the king’s other favorites. Among them were his rumored former lovers, the English musician, Roger, and Torfifan the fencing-master. Clearly, these men cared only for pomp and prestige and nothing for the suffering of the honest folk whom they’d plundered to dress themselves in such finery.
“Aye, let’s speak with Cameron,” Douglas muttered at his side.
But, as they made their way to Cameron, rumors began to circle amongst the gathered men, rumors that the king had placed Thomas Cochrane in charge of the cannons after all. And by the time they found Cameron standing before the Lauder Kirk, an old stone building covered in vines, he was surrounded by furious nobles.
“The king was to stay in Edinburgh!” one of them was shouting.
“Along with the treacherous vermin crawling around him!” cursed another.
Catching ahold of Cameron’s arm, Douglas demanded, “Can this be true? Has the king truly placed a mere mason in command of the artillery?” He was so outraged that he’d apparently forgotten his own treachery.
Raising a cool brow, Cameron pointed toward the stone kirk. “Let us gather within to discuss these matters, for the defense of our country is at stake.”
His calm order had the desired effect, and falling silent, the men obediently filed into the building.
Joining them, Julian cast a backward glance to where James and Thomas spoke with Roger and Torfifan. ‘Twas hard to fathom. Even now, the king surrounded himself with lowborn favorites and focused more on matters of love than the protection of his own country.
Drawing his lips in a line of disgust, Julian ducked into the kirk and closed the wide wooden doors behind him.
As soon as the heavy doors shut, the nobles burst into heated conversation.
For the most part, Julian ignored them, he was fair exhausted.
Propping his booted feet upon a pew, he leaned back and closed his eyes for a time, but as the minutes passed, their repetitive bickering grated on his nerves.
At a sudden lull in the debate, he gave a dry laugh. “Ach, the lot of ye are like the mice in The Tale of the Mice and Cat!” he observed in a derisive tone. “Aye, and the king is nothing but a royal mouse manipulated by the cat, played, of course, by Thomas Cochrane!”
Several of the nobles drew back in insult, but Cameron asked calmly, “And what tale is this, Julian?”
Slowly, Julian sat up to dangle his arms over the back of the pew. “’Tis the one of the mice who met in secret to plan how they would defend themselves against their great enemy, the cat.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Cameron smile as the rest of the lords waited for him to continue.
“Aye, they could never win against the beastie,” Julian continued, thinking the gathered lords before him did indeed have much in common with mice. “The cat prowled so quietly on its paws that once they knew ‘twas there, they’d no time left to run away. Finally, they agreed a bell must be hung upon the cat’s neck to warn them sooner of its approach.”
“And?” Douglas pressed when Julian paused again.
“They failed, and all were eventually killed,” Julian replied sarcastically. “But only because they couldna ever find a mouse courageous enough to fasten the bell.”
There was a stilted silence.
And then Douglas leapt to his feet, and pulling his sword from its sheath, roared, “Aye, I’ll bell the cat!”
Several nobles cheered enthusiastically. Julian rolled his eyes. How could the man forget his own treason so quickly?
But then the massive doors of the kirk creaked open.
“Who goes there?” Cameron called out as they all leaned back to look.
“’Tis I, the Earl of Mar,” came Thomas Cochrane’s nasal reply. Kicking one of the doors back in a gesture of great authority
, he stepped inside the kirk.
He’d taken the time to change his clothing and now donned a blue-feathered hat and mantle of crimson satin embroidered with pearls enough for a king. And about his neck, he once again wore the broad gold chain that some claimed was a lover’s gift from James himself.
In less than an instant, Douglas had seized the man, and reaching over, he ripped the gold chain off of Thomas’ neck. “A rope will become yer neck better, ye fool!”
“What is this?!” Thomas’ mouth, at first smiling, suddenly twisted, and his eyes blazed in anger.
“Ye’ve saved us the trouble of seeking ye!” Douglas cried, shoving him forward into the circle of nobles. And snatching the silver hunting horn hanging from the man’s belt, he added, “Ye’ve been the hunter of mischief long enough!"
But Thomas was not easily intimidated. He brushed his sleeves and peered at the men in astonishment. “What cause have ye to subject me to such rough usage? Is this a jest?"
And then Cameron rose slowly to his feet, and the others fell silent.
“This is in good earnest,” Cameron answered in a low voice, and his face was fierce and stern. “Your time is at an end. Now, ye shall receive the reward for your misdeeds. Aye, and ye’ll pay for spilling the blood of Mar and for the pain ye’ve caused many, among them, my own wee Kate.”
At the mention of her name, Thomas paled, and a flicker of genuine fear entered his eyes. Falling down on his knees before Cameron, he raised a pleading hand, and his voice took on a wheedling tone. “Save me! Ye are a kind, just lord! I see that now! Forgive—”
But Cameron cut him short in an even, deadly tone. “Ye are little but a thief, murderer, and traitor. And I’ll see your name erased from history!” Raising an elegant hand, he ordered, “Bind the man! He’ll be taken to Edinburgh to stand trial for his crimes against the people. They have suffered enough in order to fit him into robes made for kings.”
“Aye,” the nobles muttered in agreement.
“Nay! Let us finish this now!” Douglas disagreed with a shout.
The bitterly angry tone in his voice made Julian suddenly wary.
