by Emma Prince
Chapter Twenty-Six
Domnall slid from Fern’s back, careful that his boots didn’t crunch the fallen leaves that littered the ground.
“Stay mounted,” he said to Ailsa. “If aught goes sideways, ride like hell to Stalcaire Tower. If I can, I’ll meet ye there.”
“I will not need to,” she replied in a whisper. Still, her dark eyes were wide and her hands tight on the reins of her mare.
They’d arrived on the banks of the River Tay several hours before nightfall. Domnall had wanted to ensure that they would not be sprung upon if for some reason his communications with Archibald Douglas had been compromised and a trap waited for them.
As darkness had fallen, they’d waited in the trees a stone’s throw from the bridge where they were to meet Douglas. Naught had been amiss, though Domnall’s instincts were strung tighter than a bow. He hated to have Ailsa so close to potential danger, but nor had he wanted to leave her alone while he made the exchange with Douglas.
Then again, even if he’d ordered her to stay away, he doubted she would have complied. He was discovering that Lowland lasses could be as stubborn and willful as Highland ones, much to his combined chagrin and gratification.
Nay, she’d insisted on going with him. It was her brother being turned over, as she’d argued.
What was more, her fiancé was putting himself in danger to do so. Ailsa had decided she wanted to wait until they reached Stalcaire to wed so that Nolan and the others could witness the happy event. She would not sit twiddling her thumbs in some inn or other and risk losing him before they were officially wed. Besides, she wanted to help by watching Domnall’s back.
So she’d come along, riding the innkeeper’s mare. As promised, they’d returned to the village to give back the man’s horse, but Ailsa had preferred the animal to her brother’s larger stallion, so they’d offered the innkeeper the stallion instead. It was a more than fair trade—Ailsa got to keep the gentler horse, and the innkeeper took possession of a far more valuable animal.
It had meant Murray had been tied belly-down to the back of Fern’s saddle, much to both of their displeasure. But Murray was possibly even more afraid of Fern than he was of Domnall, which kept him from trying aught.
A flicker of movement on the opposite bank of the river snapped Domnall to attention. Out of the shadowy tree line emerged a half-dozen mounted men. He squinted through the darkness, but he could detect no clan colors or other identifying garb amongst the men.
They dismounted and strode toward the stone bridge spanning the river nearby. Five of the men fell in behind their apparent leader. His white-slashed beard and hair glowed in the weak light from the sliver of moon overhead.
Douglas.
Domnall had only met the man once, before he’d been appointed Guardian of Scotland. Several Lairds from the Highlands had traveled to Scone to discuss unification of the country under the young King David II not long after the passing of Robert the Bruce.
Douglas’s hair had been more black than white then. Though he’d spoken on behalf of Lowland interests at that meeting, Domnall had been struck by the man’s even temperament, intelligence, and plain-spoken candor.
Douglas and his men came to a halt before stepping onto the bridge. Domnall scanned the night-dark surroundings, but he saw no other movements and no indication of a trap.
He pulled Murray down from Fern’s back. The horse gave an irritated snort, which caused Murray to jerk back in Domnall’s hold. The man was bound from knees to neck, however, and wouldn’t have made it far without toppling over if Domnall had removed his steadying hand.
Murray said something, but the words were muffled by the gag Domnall had stuffed in his mouth. Paying Murray no heed, he gave Ailsa a reassuring nod. Then he stepped from the shelter of the trees, pulling Murray along behind him.
The men behind Douglas tensed and reached for their swords when Domnall emerged, but Douglas held up a staying hand, watching closely as Domnall and Murray approached. Just as the others had done, Domnall halted on his side of the bridge.
Douglas was the first to move. He stepped out onto the stones, letting his men fall in behind him. Domnall advanced cautiously, forced to move slowly due to Murray’s small, shuffling steps.
By silent agreement, they stopped at the middle of the bridge, two strides separating them.
“Laird MacAyre. I’m glad to see ye—alive.”
Domnall lifted a brow. “And I’m glad to be alive.”
That seemed to conclude the small talk between them. Douglas shifted his gaze to Murray, sweeping the man with a scowl.
“This is the traitor?”
“Aye. He moved within the loyalist army, pretending to be an ally, but he was the one to signal the crossing for Balliol’s army.”
Douglas nodded, then made a sharp gesture with his hand. His men sprang into motion, snatching Murray and dragging him off the bridge toward their waiting horses.
“There will be a trial, of course, but word of a traitor in the loyalist army spread nigh as fast as news of that terrible night at Dupplin Moor,” Douglas commented. “I trust yer word in this, as I ken ye were there.”
Their business appeared to be resolved, but Douglas lingered until he was alone with Domnall.
“Ye were right to use underhanded means to reach me,” he said quietly. “Scone has been crawling with Balliol’s men.”
Domnall tipped his head.
He’d ended up having Ailsa write a missive to Douglas’s daughter, who was of an age with her and resided at Scone Palace with her father.
Ostensibly, the missive had regarded the question of appropriate fabrics for an imaginary visit to court Ailsa was planning. From one unwed noblewoman to another, it was a perfectly reasonable query, and the letter would raise no alarm. But tucked within the outer parchment had been a smaller folded missive directed toward Douglas himself.
“And now?” Domnall asked. “I trust ye’ve acted with every precaution in coming here. If Balliol caught wind that ye were working against him—”
Douglas shook his head curtly. “He and his army departed Scone a fortnight past. They are headed for the Lowlands. Hoping for a more…favorable atmosphere, I’d reckon.”
Beneath his salt-and-pepper beard, Douglas’s teeth flashed in a wolfish grin.
At Domnall’s curious silence, Douglas added, “There are still many loyalists at Scone. The Pretender found that Parliament was less than eager to help him expand his power. Balliol now retreats to the Lowlands in hopes of garnering more support. He thinks he can strongarm Parliament if the Lowlands fall in line behind him. I aim to prove him wrong on both fronts.”
“And what of the loyalists? What will Parliament do in the meantime?”
Douglas rolled his shoulders away from his barrel chest. “For now, we feign indecision. With two Kings, it is unclear what is best for the country—or so we told Balliol. Meanwhile, we loyalists can breathe easier without Balliol in our midst—and begin plotting a counteroffensive. We will bide our time until a credible challenge can be mounted against the usurper.”
Domnall pursed his lips. “I may be able to help with that.”
“Oh?”
“A few Highlanders and I…we mean to toss Balliol on his arse and restore Scotland to its rightful King. Bringing Murray to justice was just the beginning.”
Douglas stroked his beard, his grizzled features thoughtful. “Highlanders, eh? Ye lot are like a bull with a bee up its arse when crossed, I’ve noticed—angry and unstoppable. Keep me informed. As long as I am Guardian, ye have an ally at Scone.”
Douglas extended his hand across the space between them. With a nod of respect, Domnall clasped forearms with the man, returning his crushing shake.
With that, Douglas spun on his heels and strode off the bridge to where his men waited with Murray. Domnall watched them ride out, until they were swallowed by the night-dark forest beyond the river.
Turning, he hurried to where Ailsa waited in the trees
. She sat, nervously fiddling with her mare’s reins.
“How did it go? What did Douglas say? Do you trust him to see that Andrew faces justice for his crimes?”
“Easy, lass.” Domnall quickly relayed his exchange with Douglas, ending with the man’s words about being an ally.
Ailsa exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “That is good.”
“Ailsa…” Domnall moved to her side, wrapping a soothing hand around her ankle. “I hope ye ken that yer feelings toward yer brother can be…complicated. Ye willnae offend me, nor would I think any less of ye if ye grieved the loss of him in yer life.”
Her velvet eyes softened as she stared down at him. “Thank you,” she murmured. “In truth…in truth I did not know Andrew. And after what he did…” She swallowed, shaking her head. “Nay, I will not miss him, nor mourn him. The idea of having a brother, though…that loss may take some time.”
“Ye have all the time ye need,” he replied, his voice gentle. “I hope ye’ll allow me one detour before we head for Stalcaire Tower, though.”
She cocked her head in curiosity. “Oh? What is that?”
Domnall shifted to Fern’s side, giving the animal a stroke on the nose before swinging into the saddle. Fern gave a placid snuffle in response.
“Ye’ll see.”
Epilogue
Ailsa marveled at the stunning expanse surrounding them as they rode.
The dense trees had given way to an undulating, rocky terrain. The hillsides were painted in golds and umbers as winter encroached on autumn. Beyond the gilded hills rose the snowcapped Cairngorms, looking like sleeping giants beneath the steely gray sky.
Though she’d lived in Scotland her whole life, she’d seen very little of her country. With her sheltered upbringing, she’d mainly been confined to Tullibardine and its surrounding lands, and more recently Stalcaire Tower.
No longer, however. Wherever Domnall was taking her, it was a thrill to ride through this majestic landscape. And soon enough, she would see the Highlands for the first time as well.
Home. Domnall’s home, and hers now, too. It might take some time to adjust to the idea of being a Highlander, but she was more than ready for the endeavor.
“Have ye ever seen Old Blair’s Stone, lass?” Domnall asked, turning in his saddle.
She chuckled. “I haven’t seen anything.”
“Well, we can change that—starting here.”
He led them toward a thicket of pines standing atop one of the many sloping hillsides surrounding them. Pulling Fern to a halt, he dismounted, then helped her down. He secured both horses’ reins to a branch, lingering to give Fern an extra stroke down his neck.
Though he’d agreed with her that Fern would make an excellent warhorse, he’d become far gentler with the animal than he’d been before the events at Saorsa Falls. She often caught him patting Fern and murmuring words of affection and encouragement.
And Fern had blossomed under such loving attention. Although he’d always been placid with her, now the horse was downright smitten with Domnall. It made her heart swell to see the change in both of them.
Taking her hand, Domnall led her through the trees, ducking and weaving around the densely crowded branches. Abruptly, the trees fell away. A little grass clearing sat in the middle of the thicket, a single slab of stone rising from its center.
“Is this…”
“Old Blair’s Stone, aye.”
He released her hand and she approached, awestruck. The stone was rectangular, wider than the span of her arms and thicker than her spread hand. It stood at least twice her height, thrusting up into the sky as if it could reach the ancient gods above.
She circled it slowly, inspecting the intricate carvings on its surface. An elaborate cross was etched on one side, a clear nod to their ancestors’ conversion to Christianity. But on the other side were far more pagan images. She could make out a bear, a deer, and several symbols that didn’t mean a thing to her, yet clearly expressed something holy to the ancients who’d once called this land home.
“It is magnificent,” she breathed, staring up at the stone.
She glanced at him. He’d removed a sheet of parchment that had been tucked into his tunic and now moved to stand beside her. To her surprise, he unfolded the parchment and handed it to her to read.
Murray has been dealt with, it began. He is in Archibald Douglas’s custody, on trial for treason. I believe we can trust Douglas to see justice done—and he may prove a friend and ally. Balliol has moved out of Scone and to the Lowlands. I have returned to the west to await word of our next move.
MacAyre
She extended it back to him, and he refolded it. Then he knelt at the base of the stone and took hold of the rock. She watched in astonishment as he wiggled a chunk of stone about the size of a fist loose. She’d thought the rock was smooth and seamless, but apparently it was broken there.
Ailsa was even more astounded when Domnall reached into the gap and pulled out two other pieces of parchment that had been wedged inside. He opened the first and scanned it quickly.
“MacLeod is in the north,” he said, his gaze flicking over the missive. “He says he’s gathering an army to stand against Balliol, but…” He frowned. “…But that he has run into a ‘setback.’ I dinnae ken what that means.”
He looked up at her and gave her a wry smile. “I have every faith that Gregor MacLeod will defeat any obstacle in his path, though. Ye’ll understand when ye meet him. Ye’ll meet all of the Horsemen someday, I hope.”
Dropping his gaze, he glanced at the second missive. “MacKinnon is lying low in the east.” He nodded thoughtfully before continuing. “He says he has a distant family connection by marriage to Douglas, and that he will go to Scone when it is safe. If Artair could influence Douglas to act against Balliol…”
“Mayhap he will see your missive and know that Balliol has left Scone and Douglas is open to the loyalist cause.”
She felt herself warm at his approving look.
“Aye, indeed. I cannae ken for certain when he and Gregor left these missives. It could have been a fortnight or more—and it may be a while before they see my note. None of us can risk coming here too often, nor moving about Scotland in the open as long as we are wanted men.”
He crouched again, fishing in the gap in the rock once more. But he straightened empty-handed, a frown on his face. “No word from MacNeal,” he said.
He refolded all the missives and tucked them into the nook in the stone. Then he fitted the extra bit of rock back into place, once again making the standing stone appear seamless and whole.
Straightening, he took both her hands in his and lifted them to his lips. Despite the chill to the November air, warmth rushed over her skin.
“Now, my love, I am all yers until duty calls me back into the fray.”
“Oh aye?” she said coyly, flashing him a grin. “And what if I want you longer than that?”
He feigned consideration. “Hmm. Well, I suppose we’ll have to drive Balliol out of Scotland with all haste, then, so that ye may have me as long as ye like.”
“I like the sound of that,” she said, her smile widening.
But when he pulled her into his arms and kissed her with such fierce abandon that he stole her breath away, she knew that no amount of time would be enough.
Happily, they had forever.
The End
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Author’s Note
As always, it is one of my great joys in writing historical romance to combine a fictional romantic storyline with real historical details. Plus, it’s such a treat to share not only a thrilling, passionate, and emotional love story with you, lovely readers, but to give you a glimpse at my research into the history surrounding this book as well.
While I did fictionalize some elements surrounding
Edward Balliol, much of the context included in this book is drawn from the historical record.
Edward’s father, John Balliol, was briefly King of Scotland from 1292 through 1296. Before then, Scotland was in an upheaval where several claimants to the throne put their names forward for the position of King.
John Balliol was selected by England’s King Edward I, who aimed to make Scotland a vassal of England rather than treat it as a sovereign country. Balliol was little more than England’s puppet, and was deposed by Scottish parliament. This initiated the first wave of the Scottish Wars of Independence.
Scotland coalesced behind Robert the Bruce to fight against English rule. After many battles and over two dozen years of conflict, Scotland finally entered into a truce with England, asserting its sovereignty. Yet those familiar with Scotland’s history know that peace is always short-lived.
Robert the Bruce’s death in 1329 weakened Scotland’s position, for Robert’s heir, David, was only five years old. The country was run by regents, the Guardians of Scotland, until David could come of age. But John Balliol’s son, Edward Balliol, saw an opportunity to assert his own (albeit weak) claim to the throne.
Edward Balliol appealed to England’s King Edward III (so many Edwards, I know!) for support, knowing that the English King sought a way to control Scotland, just as his father and grandfather before him had. Balliol would be little more than a puppet to Edward, like his father John, but a King nonetheless.
Edward III agreed to back his claim, giving Balliol shelter, money, supplies, and men as he geared up to attack the country he aimed to rule.
Some Scots also supported Balliol, specifically those who had stood against Robert the Bruce’s reign. They were called the Disinherited, for the Bruce had stripped them of their lands and titles for failing to support him. The Disinherited wanted to see the Bruce’s heir removed from the throne and Balliol, who promised to return their lands in exchange for their support, inserted in his place.
