by Jayne Castel
“Draco?” Heather went still. “The other immortal … ye are all here now?”
“We are.”
Heather’s breathing quickened. Excitement fluttered up under her ribcage, momentarily making her forget her own problems. “Then there might be a chance … that the curse will be broken?”
The hint of a smile upon Maximus’s lips faded, and his gaze remained shadowed. “Every coming of the Broom-star there is a chance,” he reminded her. “But until we unravel that riddle, a chance is all we have.”
Maximus stepped closer to her and lifted a hand, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw. His touch robbed her of breath, and she willed him to lean in close, to kiss her again, to ravage her mouth with his. But he didn’t. “You’re in danger here, Heather,” he murmured. “From now on, until the Wallace and his men leave this castle, you need to keep a watch over your shoulder.”
Heather drew in an unsteady breath. It was hard to concentrate when his touch left a shiver of pleasure in its wake. His closeness was intoxicating, yet she felt the reserve in him now.
Her husband’s presence had made him wary of her. Even if she had no intention of reuniting with Iain, she wasn’t a widow. And soon all within the castle would know it.
Her throat ached when she thought about what this would do to her parents. “I will,” she whispered.
XXXI
DISTRACTION
“THIS IS IT … we are so close to breaking the curse I can almost taste it,” Cassian announced in Latin. He then held his cup of wine aloft. “Let’s toast to the fort upon the Shelving Slope.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Draco replied. He flashed Cassian a grin and picked up his cup before glancing over at Maximus. “Are you going to join us, Max?”
Maximus glanced up from where he’d been gazing down sightlessly at his untouched wine. He picked up the cup and forced a smile. “To breaking the curse.”
The three of them lifted their cups to their lips and took a sip. They sat in the guard’s mess hall. Since supper had just ended, there weren’t many guards in here: just a few men drinking and playing dice and knucklebones at the long tables.
“That’s quite a scowl you’re wearing,” Cassian noted, setting his cup down before him. “I thought you’d be happy about this development … it’s only taken us a thousand years to get this far.”
Maximus snorted. “You know I’m pleased we’ve finally managed to solve two lines of the riddle,” he replied. “It’s just I’ve got other things on my mind tonight.”
“Did something happen during your shift?” Cassian asked.
Maximus shook his head. “No … but afterward I paid Heather a visit.” He lifted his cup to his lips and took another gulp of wine. “She has some … troubles.” Maximus tensed as he finished speaking. He didn’t like leaving Heather unprotected, for Iain was likely to try to corner her again if given the opportunity.
Damn those Galbraiths. Everywhere he turned, there was one of them ready to complicate his life. Maximus had thought Heather would be safe here within Dunnottar’s sheltering walls. But she wouldn’t be—not while that man resided here.
“Heather?” Draco spoke up for the first time, his voice an amused drawl. “What’s this … has the cool-headed Maximus lost his head over a woman?”
Maximus cast his friend a jaundiced look, yet didn’t dignify the comment with a response. Draco was deliberately baiting him.
“What troubles?” Cassian asked. His tone was light, although his brow was now furrowed. As captain here, he liked to be kept informed.
“Her husband has risen from the dead it seems,” Maximus replied, meeting Draco’s eye. “He arrived here with you.”
Draco inclined his head. “Does he have a name?”
“Iain Galbraith.”
The slight narrowing of Draco’s gaze told Maximus all he needed to know.
“Galbraith … there’s a smith here by the same name,” Cassian spoke up.
“They’re brothers,” Maximus replied, wondering how much about Heather he should reveal. “Heather and Iain met here a few years back … before he returned to his home near Stirling and took her with him. He then joined the cause, and when he never returned, everyone believed him dead.”
“Galbraith’s a hot-head,” Draco said finally, “but loyal to the cause. The man accompanied the Wallace to France. He might have had good reasons for not getting in touch with his wife.”
“France, eh?” Cassian murmured, pouring himself more wine. “And I take it you joined him and availed yourself of fine food, drink, and women?”
Draco pulled a face, letting Cassian know he didn’t think much of his joke. The curse was the same for all three of them: none could cross beyond Scotland’s borders, either by land or sea. “I made my excuses and gathered men in the Highlands before waiting for him at Inverness.” Draco swirled the wine in his cup. “And how about you, Cassian?” he asked, expertly steering the conversation away from himself. “Been at Dunnottar long?”
“I arrived shortly after Wallace liberated it from the English,” Cassian replied.
Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “You rose through the ranks quickly.”
Cassian snorted. “As did you, I imagine.”
Listening to the banter between his friends, Maximus felt a stab of envy.
There it was again. Cassian and Draco had the focus he lacked. Neither of them hailed from this land, yet they’d taken Scotland into their souls in a way he never had. Cassian had proudly served a number of clan-chiefs over the years, as he did De Keith now. Draco was a Moor, a soldier of Hispania who’d been drafted into the Ninth legion. Yet these days, he followed William Wallace and had taken on the Scottish cause.
Of course, Maximus had once believed in a cause. He’d once lived for the glory of Rome. As pilus prior of the first cohort of the Ninth, he’d led his men proudly into Caledonia. But their destruction had turned his pride to ashes. He’d always secretly carried some of the blame for the death of the eight hundred men under his command.
Maybe it was time to let it go.
He’d missed Cassian and Draco. The years passed slowly between the rare times they met up. Yet there was never any need to ‘pretend’ when he spent time with these two.
“Maximus’s friend Heather knows about us,” Cassian said then. “It seems she saw him heal from a mortal wound on the way north.”
Draco’s shoulders tensed at this news. His lean frame stiffened. “Can she keep a secret?” he asked, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “The last thing we need is the folk of Dunnottar coming after us with pitch-forks. I suffered a lynching fifty years ago … it hurt, and I don’t relish the idea of being stoned again either.”
Maximus frowned. “Heather can be trusted,” he replied, his own tone sharpening.
Silence fell between the three of them then, a little of the easy camaraderie at the table slipping. Draco was scowling, and Cassian had a veiled, watchful expression that warned Maximus he wasn’t convinced.
Eventually, Maximus decided he needed to smooth things between them. “Do you think this is it?” he asked, his gaze shifting from Cassian’s face to Draco’s. “This will be the last time we gather under the Broom-star?”
“Is that hope I hear in your voice?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you’d given up years ago.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” Maximus countered. “Before you arrived, we were about to take bets whether we’d see you this cycle.”
Draco snorted, but refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he flashed Cassian a conspirator’s grin. “I think our friend has found something to live for … he’s in love.”
Maximus pulled a face. “Arse.”
Draco smirked, although Cassian was now watching Maximus with a penetrating look that made him tense. He stroked his chin, his attention never straying from Maximus. “Draco has a point. You do seem … different these days. Last time we met, you barely raised a smile.”
Max
imus shrugged, schooling his face into an aloof expression both of them knew well. It was a warning to leave this topic alone. They had a point though—he did feel different these days. The change had been recent; he knew the exact moment the shield of ice around his heart had started to thaw.
The day he’d met Heather De Keith.
She’s still married, a small voice within warned him. Keep away from her.
The Great Bull-Slayer strike him down, he wanted that woman. That was why he’d gone looking for her this evening. He literally couldn’t keep his distance from Heather. He knew he wasn’t good for her, that he couldn’t give her the things she desired, but he’d sought her out nonetheless.
But Iain Galbraith’s presence at Dunnottar dumped a bucket of icy water over his ardor. For a few moments, he’d worried that she’d lied to him all along, but when he’d stared into her eyes, he realized she was telling the truth.
Not that it mattered. He had no wish to draw attention to himself here, or to bring trouble down upon him or his friends. Too much was at stake, and he couldn’t afford to get sidetracked.
Cassian and Draco’s comments made him wary. He’d be a fool to get involved, especially since Heather’s situation was complicated. As lovely as she was, he needed to keep his distance from her now.
Cassian cleared his throat then, breaking the tension. “Enough distractions … we need to get to work if we’re ever going to solve the rest of the curse.” He pushed aside his cup of wine and rose to his feet. “Follow me … I have something to show you both.”
Maximus followed his friends down the narrow, twisting steps beyond the curtain walls—the steps leading to Dunnottar’s dungeons. He wasn’t sure why Cassian was leading him and Draco there, but it appeared he had a plan.
The wind buffeted them, the scream of gulls and the boom of surf against the rocks loud now they were outside the castle’s sheltering walls. Maximus breathed in the scent of salt and seaweed, and enjoyed the warmth of the setting sun on his face. After months of bleak weather, the sun finally had some force to it—although it was nothing like the searing summer heat of his homeland.
He made his way down the cliff face, trying to ignore the precipitous drop to his right. Of course, he’d survive a fall to the jagged rocks below. Even so, heights had always made his belly lurch.
Dunnottar’s dungeons had been dug into the cliff. A wide stone archway greeted the trio when they stepped into an entrance way. Beyond it, yet more steps led up into a dark tunnel.
Four men stood guard in the entrance. They snapped to attention upon spying Cassian.
“Evening, Captain!” One of them greeted him.
“Good eve, Bard,” Cassian replied. “Are the prisoners behaving themselves?”
“Like lambs, Captain,” another guard replied earnestly.
“Good to hear.”
Maximus and Draco exchanged wry smiles at this. They’d already noticed the camaraderie that Cassian had with his men. He walked the thin line between friendship and respect easily. After once leading a huge cohort of soldiers, Maximus knew that inspiring such loyalty was much harder than it looked. The Wallace had managed, yet many leaders failed.
Taking a torch from the guard nearest, Cassian led the way into the damp, dark tunnel beyond. Low stone arches stretched overhead, barely high enough for a tall man to walk under without stooping. Maximus breathed in damp, musty air before the stench of unwashed bodies and unemptied chamber pots made him screw his nose up. He took smaller, shallower breaths then, in an attempt to keep the unsavory odors at bay.
They passed a handful of cells carved out of the stone. Around half of them were occupied. Prisoners in ragged clothing, beards covering their faces, watched them pass. Their gazes glinted from the shadowed recesses of their cells.
“What are these men’s crimes?” Draco asked, deliberately keeping his voice low.
“Two of them are cattle rustlers, due to be hanged on the walls within a day or two,” Cassian informed him. “The other three are men who personally crossed David De Keith.”
Draco raised a questioning eyebrow before shifting to Latin. “The man makes enemies? He seems pretty ineffectual to me.”
Cassian huffed a laugh. “Don’t be fooled. He’s got a vindictive streak the folk here have grown wary of,” he replied in the same tongue. “De Keith is an adder sleeping in the grass … underestimate the man at your peril.”
They’d reached the back of the dungeon now, where Cassian led the way down a narrow conduit. Both Maximus and Draco had fallen silent as they digested these words. They followed Cassian toward the end of the narrow passage, passing a chamber on the way. It was more like a large alcove, but the moment Maximus’s gaze swept over the interior—taking in the twin stone benches lining the space, the carven wooden effigy of a bull upon a stone altar, and the faint scent of incense—something within him unknotted.
It was a simply furnished space. Two flaming torches replaced the usual statues of torchbearers—yet the purpose of this place was unmistakable.
“You’ve built a mithraeum here,” Maximus murmured.
XXXII
SEARCHING FOR THE KEY
CASSIAN SMILED IN response. “This used to be a store area … but I decided to repurpose it. Feel free to use the shrine whenever you want.”
Maximus intended to. He was on edge this eve—still coming to terms with the fact that Heather wasn’t actually a widow, and that her bully of a husband wanted her back.
Of course, Maximus had his leontocephaline for when he wanted to say a prayer. Draco had carved the lion-headed figurine out of marble for him many centuries earlier, and it had been his constant companion over the years. But perhaps the sanctuary of the mithraeum, and more prayer to the Bull-slayer, would help focus his thoughts.
“Follow me,” Cassian continued on a few steps farther, to a where a wooden door blocked their way. Opening it, he led them into what appeared to be a tiny study. A table lined with low wooden benches dominated the space. A stack of leather-bound books sat upon it. Leaves of parchment lay scattered across the table, and a pot of ink sat next to a cup holding a collection of quills.
“What have you been doing in here?” Draco asked, his obsidian gaze sweeping the cramped chamber.
“Searching for answers,” Cassian replied, closing the door behind them. He lit the sconces upon the wall with his torch before lodging it into a bracket. Warm light now flooded the cramped space.
“And these books?” Maximus moved to the table and picked up the volume at the top of the stack. “A History of the Kings of Alba,” he read aloud. “Where did you get this?”
Cassian’s mouth quirked. “I borrowed them from the laird’s library.”
Maximus glanced up. “Without asking first, I take it?”
“Fortunately, he’s not much of a reader … Lady Elizabeth or Lady Gavina are more likely to notice there are books missing.”
Draco frowned. “And if they do?”
“I doubt they’d suspect me … how many soldiers do you know who can read?”
He had a point. Out of the three of them, only Maximus had been able to read and write in Latin centuries earlier. But over the years, they’d all learned the various dialects and tongues of this land.
How else could they ever break the curse?
Maximus traced his fingertips over the cover of the book, a shiver rippling down his spine. These histories were incredibly valuable to them.
“Only two lines left to decipher,” he said softly, voicing his thoughts aloud. “Surely, one of these volumes holds the key?”
“I’ve just started on this pile,” Cassian admitted with a rueful smile. “But it’ll be much faster with you two helping me.”
Draco nodded. He drew close to the table, his gaze still searching the chamber. “I don’t suppose you’ve got some ale? I guess we’ll be spending a bit of time in here.”
“There’s a barrel in the corner, and some cups … pour each of us a drink. Even Ma
ximus. He can suffer ale instead of wine for a change.”
Maximus snorted at this, yet didn’t protest. Like Draco, he was eager to get started, eager to help Cassian trawl through the stories in these books. Somewhere, there had to be a mention of ‘the Hammer’ and its significance to this fortress. Or maybe they would find out what the ‘White Hawk’ and the ‘Dragon’ actually referred to.
“You’ve done well, Cass,” he said, taking a seat at the table. “I know it feels like we’ve still got so far to go … but we’ll get there.”
Cassian smiled in response. Then, as Draco got up to pour them all some ale, he lowered himself onto a bench opposite Maximus and reached for the next book on the top of the stack. “That damn riddle won’t beat us this time,” he vowed, determination lighting in his hazel eyes.
“I can’t believe ye actually hit him.” Aila’s hushed voice was full of awe. She was sat up in bed, the covers tucked up under her chin, watching her sister with wide eyes. “Didn’t it hurt yer hand?”
“Like the devil,” Heather replied, drawing a brush through her hair. She then glanced down at where her knuckles were reddened. She’d barely noticed at the time, for fury had pulsed through her like a stoked ember. However, when she’d gone upstairs, her hand had started to ache. Heather flexed her fingers. It still did.
The ache reminded her of the mess she’d made of things. Maximus would keep his distance from her now, while Iain was likely to approach her again at some stage. Queasiness churned in her belly. She felt cornered, hunted, when all she wanted was a peaceful life.
Meanwhile, her sister continued to stare at her with that probing, slightly-hurt look she remembered well from when they’d been bairns. The look Aila gave her when her elder sister kept secrets.
