by Jayne Castel
Although it was thanks to men like him that the people of this land had cloaks to warm them during the bitter winter months.
The cart bumped over a particularly deep pothole, jolting Heather off her perch. Swallowing a cry, she grabbed hold of the edge of the cart and hauled herself back into position.
Then, she swung a dark look in Maximus’s direction.
The highland pony he sat upon appeared strong enough to take both of them on its back, yet her traveling companion had made it clear he’d ride alone.
If she’d had any illusions about what last night meant to him, they were shattered by now.
Just as well then that Heather was a practical woman.
When she’d slipped from the sleeping tavern and crept into the stables to find him, she hadn’t done so with a fluttering heart. She wasn’t infatuated with the man. Instead, her belly had felt as if a troupe of brownies danced inside her because of the choice she’d made. She didn’t like sneaking out of The Bogside like a thief. She didn’t like leaving without saying goodbye.
Aonghus and Morag hadn’t been particularly warm to her, yet they’d given her a job and a safe haven. And she was fond of their shy daughter, Alana.
Heather had imagined the day she’d leave the tavern, she’d walk out of there in daylight with her head held high, off to pastures new.
Instead, she’d held her breath and prayed that the floorboards didn’t creak too loudly as she made her way downstairs and crept out into the stable yard through the scullery door.
They’ll be furious with me.
Aye, her employers would—but as she’d sat alone in her dreary bed-chamber and contemplated the sum of her life so far, Heather had known it was time to go.
And she was grateful that Maximus had agreed to let her travel as far as Stirling with him.
Her gaze settled upon his broad shoulders, lingering there.
He sat up straight and tense, his gaze scanning the road ahead. She noted that he often cast glances behind him, as if he expected them to be followed.
She appreciated his vigilance, although she couldn’t see why he was being so jumpy. Did he expect Cory to ride after them?
Heather stilled at the thought, a chill feathering down her spine. Surely, Cory wouldn’t bother? But as she dwelled upon it, she realized he might. A Galbraith never forgot a slight.
It’s just as well I’m traveling with Maximus, she thought. Having seen how he handled himself in a fight, she felt reassured.
She continued to observe her traveling companion. His present focus on their surroundings allowed her to do so without being caught.
Damn him, but the man was even more attractive in daylight. She liked the way his ink-black hair curled at the nape of his neck, his proud profile, and the sun-kissed color of his skin. Now that she knew he’d been a warrior in the past, she could see it. He carried himself like the guards at Dunnottar. A watchful, coiled tension emanated from his tall, lean body.
Like a wolf ready to spring.
Heather’s breathing caught, a strange sensation quivering within her belly. Suddenly, she was back on that narrow bed, naked and spread wide for him as he crawled over her—his gaze black in the firelight, his face a picture of feral lust.
Swallowing, Heather dropped her gaze to where her fingers clenched around the side of the cart.
It was best she didn’t let herself relive those moments. They were too raw, too intense—and they made her want for things she shouldn’t. It was clear that he hadn’t been pleased to see her at dawn. Maximus hadn’t wanted to take things further than one torrid night. She’d sensed his discomfort when she’d appeared in the stables, but he was mistaken. She wasn’t looking for anything but a traveling companion.
Even so, his chill welcome had stung.
Heather’s mouth compressed, and she mentally shrugged off the lingering hurt.
Best that she focused on getting to Stirling and then finding passage north to Dunnottar.
The man who rode before her may have saved her from Cory, yet she knew instinctively that spending too much time with him was hazardous. She had a poor history when it came to her choice of men, and she didn’t trust her judgement at all.
Maximus was little more than a stranger.
And so, she kept her mouth shut, holding back the torrent of questions that built up inside her.
Their last conversation had made his reluctance to converse with her clear, and although Heather hated long silences, she forced herself to bite her tongue. As such, it was a long ride to Stirling over swiftly rising hills and through thick forest.
They stopped briefly at noon, sharing some bread and cheese by a gurgling creek. Few words passed between them, just practicalities about the road and when they would reach their destination. Then, as soon as they’d eaten and slaked their thirst from a skin of ale, Maximus vaulted onto Luchag’s broad back and they resumed their journey.
And as they traveled, Maximus scanned their surroundings and cast regular glances over his shoulder.
“Ye look nervous,” Heather finally commented, unable to hold her tongue any longer. “Are ye looking out for Cory?”
His dark gaze shifted to her, and he nodded. “You’re vulnerable out here.”
“And ye aren’t?”
With a snort, he turned away, making it clear he wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation. Heather took the hint, and they lapsed into silence once more.
Eventually, as the afternoon shadows started to lengthen, the cart bumped over a series of ruts and crested the last hill before the trees drew back and a wide strath stretched before them.
Despite her aching posterior and cramped hands, Heather caught her breath.
Ahead, its castle perched upon a crag above a huddle of grey stone houses, with a backdrop of snow-capped mountains behind it, was Stirling.
XI
THE GATEWAY
THE CART RUMBLED across the wide stone bridge spanning the River Forth, and Heather craned her neck to gaze upon the fortress perched on the volcanic outcrop above.
She hadn’t been here since the town had been liberated. She and Iain had passed through Stirling five years earlier when the English had controlled it. A year afterward, the Wallace and his men had freed Stirling from the English yoke.
Now that they’d almost reached their destination, Maximus picked up his pace. He urged his pony into a fast trot across the bridge, the small cart bouncing along behind it.
“Ye’d never know a battle took place on this bridge,” Heather called out, raising her voice to be heard over the thumping of the cart wheels.
Maximus glanced back at her, his gaze sweeping over the glittering water. The tide was up, and boats bobbed against the jetty at Riverside. Heather caught a glimmer of impatience in his expression.
“They say whoever holds Stirling holds Scotland,” he called back. “William Wallace and Andrew Moray knew what they were doing when they chose to face the English here.”
Heather nodded. Her lungs expanded, pride swelling within her. Indeed, Stirling was the gateway between the Lowlands and the Highlands—and was known as the brooch that clasped the two areas together. “Never again will those bastards rule us,” she muttered.
Maximus snorted, turning from her. “Never is a long time,” he replied. “You know that the English are raiding north of the border again?”
Heather frowned. “Aye … filthy devil-spawn. Why don’t they keep to their own lands? England truly must be a vile place.”
To her irritation, Maximus merely shrugged. “Edward’s not finished with Scotland it seems.” His gaze faced forward now. Impatience bristled off his broad shoulders, and Heather wondered at his mood. Was he eager to visit the furrier before they shut up shop for the day?
His reminder about the hated Edward Longshanks soured her mood. Dunnottar too had been occupied by the English when she left it with Iain. She remembered how those English soldiers had strutted about the castle like lairds, how they’
d leered at her from the battlements. Fortunately, the Wallace had crushed them not long after her departure. Now the fortress was under Scottish rule once more—and she wanted it to stay that way.
“The Wallace will rally more Scots to his side and defeat them,” she announced after a pause.
“William Wallace has disappeared, and Andrew Moray is dead,” Maximus replied, his tone distracted. “Some say Wallace is in France, trying to gather support for the Scottish cause.”
Heather frowned. She wondered if he cared at all for the plight of her people. However, she couldn’t see his expression, for he was still turned away from her, focusing on the end of the bridge that neared and the cobbled way that led up the hill into town.
“Where to now?” she asked, aware that she didn’t have the slightest idea what to do now that they’d arrived in Stirling.
“There’s a good guesthouse in the upper town,” he replied briskly. “The Golden Lion is a safe place for a lady to lodge for the night.”
Heather swallowed a wry laugh. A lady.
She was the daughter of a steward, a man who was second cousin to the De Keith laird, and although she wasn’t exactly a commoner, she wasn’t of the ruling class either.
She wondered if Maximus was making fun of her, especially after what had transpired between them. However, his tone wasn’t snide.
“And where will ye stay?” she asked.
“I’m sure The Golden Lion has enough rooms to accommodate both of us.” His voice held a guarded edge that warned her from asking anything else. But his reply made their relationship clear: they’d shared a bed yesterday, but they wouldn’t tonight.
Heat crept up Heather’s neck, embarrassment rising within her.
Not that I want that either, she reminded herself hastily. Last night had been foolish and reckless. Letting lust getting the better of her had indeed been a mistake—one she wouldn’t repeat.
The Golden Lion was a sturdy building made of grey stone, with yellow shuttered windows. Nestled into a lane in the upper town, the establishment sat under the shadow of the castle.
And as Maximus had predicted, the inn-keeper had rooms available—although they were the last two.
“There’s a monthly market at Riverside,” the man told them as he led the way up creaking stairs to the top floor. “Town’s full of traders, farmers, and merchants … and soldiers.” The inn-keeper paused and glanced over his shoulder, his expression clouding. “Word has it that we’ll be raising arms against the English again soon.”
“I knew they were raiding farther south of here … but are they pushing north already?” Maximus asked.
The inn-keeper’s mouth thinned. “Aye … the bastards didn’t like the beating we dealt them last time.”
“Who’s Steward of the Realm these days?” Heather spoke up. Scotland had no king presently, and she wondered who’d taken up the role of guardian.
“John Comyn,” the man replied, turning from them and continuing up the stairs. “Let’s hope he’s got the spine to defend Stirling when the English arrive.”
Heather digested this news, tension rising within her. The peace after the last attacks had been so brief. It was just as well she was returning to Dunnottar, for it was likely the lowlands would be overrun soon.
When they reached the landing, Heather called out to the inn-keeper once more. “Is the market still running?” She carried little coin on her, and what she had she’d need for the journey north. However, it had been a long while since she’d attended a decent-sized market. After the inn-keeper’s somber news, she needed something to distract her, to brighten up the afternoon.
“Aye, lass … although ye want to hurry, for they pack up at dusk.”
“Take care, if you’re going down to Riverside alone,” Maximus murmured when they were alone once more. He’d pressed a silver penny into the inn-keeper’s hand and put an order in for supper later. They now stood at the end of a narrow hallway, the doors to their bed-chambers facing each other. “Rowdy types frequent such places. Plus, folk might come to Stirling looking for you.”
Heather snorted. “I’ll be careful.” On one level, she appreciated his concern for her welfare, yet she was starting to find it overbearing. “Don’t worry, I can handle myself.”
Maximus favored her with an incredulous look that made her irritation rise. And then, to her surprise, he unbuckled a knife from around his leg and handed it to her. “This one has a thin blade,” he said, his gaze snaring hers. “But it’ll do some damage nonetheless. Carry it on you till you reach Dunnottar.”
Heather took the knife and fastened it to her belt. She didn’t know how to respond. She wanted to be irritated, but it was a kind, protective gesture. Iain hadn’t ever bothered after her safety like this man did.
“Thank ye,” she said, feeling uncharacteristically shy. “So, I take it ye won’t be joining me at market?”
Maximus shook his head. “I have business in town.” He stepped back from Heather and favored her with a quick smile. “I’ll see you back here for supper.”
Leaving The Golden Lion, Maximus descended the tangle of cobbled streets to the lower town. Upon his back, he carried two sacks of his finest pelts. A sunny day had stretched out into a golden afternoon. Stirling really was glorious, sparkling in the spring sunshine. The warmth of the sun on his face—welcome after so many months of bone-numbing cold—made Maximus’s spirits rise.
I spend too long alone in the wilderness, he thought ruefully. I should make more trips to town. Indeed, it felt good to be amongst folk again. Women in green and blue kirtles, woolen shawls about their shoulders, walked by, some of them favoring Maximus with an appreciative look. Children’s laughter echoed off the stone walls, and there were burly men everywhere, their deep voices booming through the streets. Many of them carried weapons—heavy broad-swords strapped to their hips. These were the soldiers the inn-keeper had warned them of.
Maximus observed the men with interest, taking in the plaid of their sashes: Bruce, Eskine, Boyd, Stewart, and Comyn. They were mostly lowland clans, proud warriors determined never to bend the knee to King Edward of England.
Maximus’s mouth thinned as a strange sensation stirred within him. He wasn’t Scottish, yet he felt their pride—their savage resolve made the hair on the back of his arms prickle.
He wished he had something to live for, something to defend.
The aroma of roasting mutton distracted him then, wafting out from kitchens. And somewhere in the lower town, he caught the mournful wail of a highland pipe drifting across the waters of the Forth.
Maximus’s mouth relaxed, and his lips curved into a faint smile. The sound of Scotland.
He had an odd relationship with this land. At first, he’d hated it. The bandruí had cursed him to remain here for eternity, and he’d rebelled. He’d even tried to leave a year or two after the cursing, to ride south over the border, where Emperor Hadrian was just beginning to build his Great Wall.
But his horse had bucked him off before bolting into the hills—and when Maximus had tried to continue south on foot, his feet refused to obey him.
He literally couldn’t leave these lands. It was as the bandruí had said.
With the passing of the years, his hatred had softened to a simmering dislike. Then, finally there had come a day when he’d breathed in the scent of damp, peaty earth and flowering heather, looked up into the wild sky, and realized that despite that he’d never chosen to stay here, Scotland had somehow gotten into his blood.
But he’d never be Scottish—not in his heart, where it really mattered. He’d never be able to don a clan sash and feel the sense of belonging the warriors who filled the streets of Stirling did.
The knowledge saddened him.
The furrier Maximus always visited here was just off a square in the lower town. The merchant greeted him eagerly, his eyes shining when he dug his fingers into the thick, snowy ermine. Even so, the man haggled.
Sometime later, Maximus
emerged from the shop, unburdened by his sacks of pelts, but with his coin purse considerably heavier.
Out in the alleyway, he could hear the cries of the vendors at the market at Riverside below. Maximus paused a moment, listening. He didn’t like the idea of Heather wandering down there alone, even with a knife at her waist. She was a spirited, plucky woman—but she seemed to have a knack for getting herself into trouble. If he didn’t have pressing business elsewhere, Maximus might have gone down to check on her. Instead, he turned left and retraced his steps to the upper town.
Quickening his stride, Maximus scowled.
Stop fussing over her, man.
Heather wasn’t his concern.
He hadn’t come to Stirling just to offload his furs, but for news. He had to pay a visit to a special place: somewhere he always visited when he came to this town.
Increasing his speed further, Maximus stalked back up the hill.
High in the upper town, just below the craggy outcrop where the castle perched, sat Holy Rude. The grey stone kirk with its steep slate roof had sat on this spot for nearly three hundred years—but Maximus had been visiting this site for a while longer than that.
Entering the church, Maximus slowed his step, taking in the imposing columns that lined the nave, the sweeping arches between them, and the soaring wooden ceiling above. His booted feet whispered on the floor, just audible over the sound of monks chanting, and he inhaled the fatty odor of tallow blended with the heavy scent of incense.
He wasn’t of this faith, yet every time he entered Holy Rude, a sense of peace settled over him. The kirk was a welcoming place. A few robed figures knelt near the altar, their chants a haunting melody.
Maximus ignored them, heading instead for the shrine of Saint John the Baptist.
A painting of the saint himself, preaching in the wilderness, rose above a bank of guttering candles. Maximus placed a penny in the iron box before them and lit a candle—as he always did when he entered the kirk.
