Draco: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Immortal Highland Centurions Book 3) Page 2

  And then, without a backward glance, he turned and left the chapel.

  166 years later …

  I

  THE DRAGON

  Dunnottar

  Scotland

  Summer, 1301 AD

  DRACO HATED KIRKS.

  Even sitting there, surrounded by others, the place made his skin crawl. He suffered Holy Rude in Stirling only because he never had to linger in the kirk itself.

  Dunnottar chapel smelled of damp stone and fatty tallow—odors that made Draco’s belly churn. Several decades had passed since he’d been freed from his stone prison beneath the floor of Saint Margaret’s Chapel. Long enough for the memories of that ordeal to fade somewhat. And yet the smells brought everything back.

  It was an irony that today celebrated Saint Margaret—a further reminder of that vile prison and the smothering darkness.

  It seemed as if the memories would forever torment him.

  Pressure built in Draco’s chest, and he closed his eyes, trying to still the mounting panic.

  “Draco … is something amiss?”

  Maximus’s whisper jolted him back into the present.

  Eyes flicking open, Draco glanced at where his friend sat next to him upon the low wooden bench, with his wife, Heather, at his side. They were both watching him, brows furrowed, as Father Finlay droned on from the pulpit.

  “Merciful God. Ye gave the holy Queen Margaret of Scotland great love for the poor.”

  Draco shook his head, favoring them both with a tight smile. “I’m fine,” he whispered back. “I just find this tedious.”

  “Behave,” Maximus replied, mouth twitching.

  A few yards away, dressed in black robes, his prayer book held out before him, the chaplain of Dunnottar halted his reading a moment and flashed them a scowl. Then, clearing his throat, he continued his prayer. “Dearest Lord … lend yer ear to the intercessions of this holy woman and help us to live after her example so that yer goodness and mercy become visible in today’s world.”

  Bitterness flooded Draco’s mouth.

  Goodness and mercy.

  He’d seen little of those things in the long years of his life. Indeed, the woman, as saintly and kind as she was reputed to have been, was the grandmother of Henry, Earl of Northumberland.

  A man who buried others alive.

  Draco’s only solace was that Henry had sickened and died at the age of thirty-seven, around seventeen years after he’d entombed his enemy under the floor of Saint Margaret’s.

  Shifting uncomfortably on the hard bench, Draco cast his gaze around the rectangular-shaped chapel. High windows let in honeyed sunlight, which pooled on the stone floor—stone that still bore the charred marks of a fire five years earlier.

  A fire that had incinerated the trapped English garrison.

  Draco’s attention shifted to the man responsible for the massacre.

  William Wallace sat at the front of the congregation, large hands clasped together in prayer. During the past two years in which Draco had been part of the freedom fighter’s band of loyal warriors, he’d been surprised to discover that Wallace was a pious man.

  However, that hadn’t prevented him from setting fire to a chapel full of soldiers.

  Draco’s jaw clenched. Pity he didn’t burn it to the ground.

  Draco worshipped Mithras, Lord of the Light. Barely a day passed when he didn’t visit the tiny temple Cassian had built. Hidden away at the back of the dungeons, the mithraeum felt like the last remaining link to his old life. It reminded him that he hailed from a warm land far to the south, from a time before the Christian God held sway.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Draco suffered through more of the chaplain’s sermon. He had nothing against Father Finlay; he appeared a kind enough man. However, it was agony being inside this chapel. The walls felt as if they were closing in on him.

  The darkness, the madness, clawed at the fringes of his mind.

  Draco broke out into a cold sweat. I have to get out of here.

  Mercifully, Father Finlay concluded his sermon, and those seated upon the rows of benches beneath the altar rose to their feet and slowly filed out of the chapel.

  Draco was the first to venture out onto the steps. He descended them two at a time, sucking in lungfuls of air. Warm sun bathed his face, and the sound of industry—the clang of metal being forged, and the shouts of men upon the walls—greeted him.

  Dunnottar was readying itself for war.

  Draco stopped at the foot of the steps and waited for the others to catch him up. His gaze flicked to the smith’s forge. They’d brought in two young blacksmiths from Stonehaven to replace Blair Galbraith.

  The man had just upped one day and left, without a word to anyone.

  Draco wasn’t surprised. After his brother’s disappearance in late spring, the man had turned bitter and vengeful. He’d grown to hate Dunnottar and everyone in it.

  “It’s time for the noon meal,” Cassian announced, approaching Draco. Captain of Dunnottar Guard, Cassian wore a mail shirt and heavy leather braies. The big man with close-cropped brown hair flashed Draco a smile. “Lady Gavina wants us all to join her in the hall today.”

  Cassian was always smiling these days.

  He and Maximus were like two grinning idiots.

  Draco knew he was being uncharitable, but the lack of care Maximus and Cassian were taking—both wedding mortal women when the curse was still upon the three of them—astounded him.

  Was he the only sane one among them?

  “Always thinking of your belly,” Maximus called out from behind them. He had an arm around Heather, and was steering her toward the postern door and the stairs that would take them all up to the upper ward.

  “I’m not hungry,” Draco muttered.

  “All the same … the Wallace will want you at his side,” Cassian replied, still smiling. “Come on.” With that, his friend turned to where Aila, Cassian’s sweet-faced bride, hurried up to them after a brief discussion with her mistress. Despite her marriage to Cassian, Aila had remained maid to the Lady of Dunnottar.

  The lady herself was now descending the steps.

  Gavina De Keith held herself like a queen, one hand holding up her long skirts as she daintily picked her way down. The sun glinted off her hair—locks so pale they were almost white—and bathed her milky skin. Even dressed in mourning black, the woman shone like a torch in a misty winter’s dusk.

  She was a beauty. There was no denying it. Yet the sight of Lady De Keith made Draco grind his teeth. There was something about the woman that roused his ire. Sheltered, spoiled, and superior—she looked at him like he was something she wouldn’t deign to scrape off one of her fine silk slippers.

  They’d had very little to do with each other in the time Draco had been at Dunnottar, yet every exchange made Draco’s jaw clench.

  The lady didn’t bother to hide her disdain for him.

  Likewise, he went out of his way to be boorish whenever they interacted.

  The party made their way inside to the long hall, where servants were placing platters of spit-roasted hogget alongside wheels of tangy sheep’s cheese, boiled carrots, and large loaves of oaten bread.

  Once again, Draco found himself observing Lady Gavina, while she took her seat upon the laird’s chair. It was a huge carven seat made of oak that swamped her tiny frame. Nonetheless, she sat upon it as proudly as a queen.

  Noting the straightness of her back, the way she held her chin high, Draco felt a stubborn jolt of respect for the lady. She hadn’t been laird of Dunnottar long, yet she’d taken easily to the role. Not only that, but the folk here evidently preferred Gavina to her late husband.

  The day before, the Wallace—never one to hold back his opinion—had told Gavina so. “Ye are loved here, My Lady,” he’d rumbled, holding his cup of wine up to her in a toast. “The folk of Dunnottar favor ye far more than they ever did David.”

  It dawned on Draco then that he was staring at De Keith’s widow. Irrita
ted at this realization, Draco shifted his attention from Lady Gavina to where a steaming platter of hogget sat before him. The greasy odor of the meat made him feel faintly nauseated.

  It was a fine meal, yet Draco hadn’t lied to his friends earlier. He had little appetite. Seated at the Wallace’s side, he watched as the big man piled his platter with roast meat.

  William Wallace had a big enough appetite for both of them.

  Draco drew in a slow breath as he tried to regain his equilibrium. It wasn’t just being forced to spend time in the chapel, and endure the memories it roused, that had closed his stomach—but also their most recent discovery.

  They’d solved another part of the riddle that Pict witch had given them all those years earlier.

  They’d learned the identity of the ‘Dragon’.

  Cassian was now convinced Draco was part of all of this. His name did mean ‘dragon’ in Latin, but Draco found the theory far-fetched to say the least.

  Especially since, if that was the case, Draco needed to find himself a wife.

  The riddle had mocked them for over a thousand years now. Just five lines, and yet their meaning had remained frustratingly elusive. Once more, the lines whispered in his mind.

  When the Broom-star crosses the sky,

  And the Hammer strikes the fort

  Upon the Shelving Slope.

  When the White Hawk and the Dragon wed,

  Only then will the curse be broke.

  They knew now that the Broom-star was the fiery star that reappeared in the sky every seventy-five years or so, and that the Hammer referred to Edward Longshanks, ‘The Hammer of the Scots’. The fort upon the Shelving Slope was the old name for Dunnottar—which just left the identity of the White Hawk and the Dragon to solve.

  Ridiculous. Draco helped himself to some bread and cheese before holding his pewter goblet up for a passing servant to fill. Desperation has made Cassian draw a long bow indeed.

  He glanced right then, at where Cassian was serving Aila some roast hogget. Cassian gazed down at his wife with such love that Draco felt a sting of embarrassment for him.

  Where was his reserve, his caution?

  Shifting his attention across the table, Draco watched Maximus and Heather laugh together, before she playfully slapped her husband’s arm, grey-green eyes gleaming.

  What is it about these De Keith sisters? Draco’s lips thinned. Heather and Aila had indeed bewitched his friends. Despite all the pain both men had suffered in the past, they were still willing to throw themselves into the breach once more.

  Idiots.

  Draco took a deep gulp of wine. It was sloe—full-bodied yet with a sharp tang.

  “Try not to look too miserable,” Cassian interrupted his brooding. Draco had thought his friend was too distracted by the winsome Aila to notice him, but he glanced up to see Cassian had fixed him with that level look he’d come to know well over the centuries. “The sun is shining, and we have only one thing left to solve in the riddle.”

  Cassian had uttered this last line in Latin, lest anyone should overhear them.

  Not that there was any risk of that. Men and women now filled the narrow hall, their voices echoing off the stone. The wide windows, which looked both north and south, had been opened, allowing the rumble of surf against the rocks below and the cry of gulls to enter.

  “You make it sound so easy,” Draco growled. “I just need to find a White Hawk, and then we’ll fly off into the sunset together.” Draco muttered a curse before taking another gulp of wine. “I don’t want to wed anyone.”

  Cassian’s gaze widened. “You’ve been in a foul mood ever since I shared the news with you,” he observed. “Don’t you want to break the curse?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then why the sour face?”

  “Because I don’t share your optimism. We’ve always known what my name means … but suddenly you think I’m part of the riddle.”

  “Aila pointed out we’ve been so focused on looking elsewhere that we ignored what was right beneath our noses,” Cassian replied with a rueful smile. “And my gut tells me she’s right.”

  And, if the lass told you the moon was made of sheep’s curd, you’d believe her, Draco thought. However, he didn’t share the words. They were too bitter, even for him.

  II

  THE LADY OF DUNNOTTAR

  THE CHAIR WAS too big for her.

  Made of oak with roebuck heads carved into the arm-rests, it had been crafted for a man; Gavina felt like an errant child perched in it. She was barely sitting high enough to eat her meal, although she resisted the urge to call for a cushion to be brought.

  Such a request was hardly dignified.

  Gavina cast a glance left at where her sister-by-marriage, Lady Elizabeth, sat. The lady looked so pale and tense these days. Since their return from Stirling, she feared for her husband’s life. Robert De Keith, the true laird of the De Keiths, was currently residing in an English prison. If Robert never returned, his son would one day become laird—but since wee Robbie De Keith was only three summers old, that wasn’t going to happen for a while yet.

  At present, Gavina ruled here, and she would have to get used to being dwarfed by her seat.

  Even so, she was surprised by how easily she’d stepped into her new role. For years, she’d waited in her husband’s shadow. Yet David had shown no interest in the more mundane tasks involved in running the keep. Gavina was already used to working closely with Donnan, Dunnottar’s steward, when it came to ordering supplies for the castle and organizing servants.

  But now, she was in charge of the more important decisions as well.

  Cutting off a piece of hogget with her eating knife, Gavina took a small bite and chewed slowly, her gaze traveling around the laird’s table—where she, her kin, and important retainers and guests sat.

  Ever since his arrival, William Wallace had joined them at the laird’s table. And as always, his right-hand sat with him.

  Draco Vulcan.

  Gavina’s gaze rested upon the Moor, taking in his haughty features, tightly-curled, short black hair, and hooded gaze.

  If the man wasn’t so unpleasant, she’d have found him attractive. As it was, on the few occasions they’d interacted, Vulcan had proved himself to have the manners of a goat.

  There had been that incident at Beltaine recently, when he’d dared reprimand her for asking Cassian to dance with Aila. The lass had been sick with love for Dunnottar’s handsome captain, and Gavina had only been doing her part to bring them together. However, Vulcan had scolded her like she’d been a misbehaving bairn.

  Although, now that she knew the three men’s secret, she understood his reticence to her match-making. Cassian had possessed a valid reason for keeping his heart walled off.

  She’d never forget that moment, a few weeks earlier, when she’d witnessed Cassian Gaius stab himself in the heart in that oak glade. He should have died instantly, yet he’d held on, and then as the sun rose, the light filtering through the trees, he’d miraculously healed before their eyes.

  She didn’t like it, didn’t understand it—but the foreigners seated at this table were all immortal.

  Honestly, despite that Gavina didn’t begrudge Aila or Heather their happiness, she worried for both women.

  If the curse isn’t broken, they will both have to leave Dunnottar eventually … or folk will notice their husbands never seem to age.

  Aye, she shared Draco’s misgivings, yet all the same, the Moor had overstepped.

  There had also been the occurrence on the journey home from Stirling—an incident that had cemented her dislike toward him. Draco and his men had come to their rescue, saving them from a group of King Edward’s men who’d hunted them down.

  One of the English soldiers—a youth barely old enough to grow whiskers—had thrown down his weapons, fallen to his knees, and begged for mercy. But Draco Vulcan had shown him none, and had killed the lad in cold blood.

  And when Gavina confron
ted him about it, he’d dismissed her rudely.

  Gavina’s jaw tightened at the memory of how his mouth had twisted with scorn.

  It was only out of respect for the Wallace that she suffered the man to sit at her table.

  “No word from Edward yet.” Elizabeth spoke up, intruding upon Gavina’s introspection. “I wonder what game he’s playing.”

  Gavina frowned. Like Elizabeth and everyone else in the keep, she’d been on tenterhooks of late, waiting for the English king to turn his attention north.

  John Comyn, the current Guardian of the Realm, who’d been forced to surrender Stirling, had assured them that The Hammer of the Scots didn’t plan to attack the northern strongholds as yet. But her husband’s assassination attempt would most likely have changed Edward’s plans.

  I can’t believe David would do something so stupid.

  David De Keith had gone to Stirling under the pretense of bending the knee to the English king. He was supposed to play along, feign loyalty, and gather details about Edward’s plans, as well as lobby for the release of his brother from captivity.

  Instead, he’d organized a private meeting with Edward, during which he’d pulled a dirk on him, and had his own throat cut for his trouble. His brother was likely to never see daylight again.

  Gavina shared Elizabeth’s worries. Although she’d had no part in her husband’s actions, for David had never shared his plans with her, Gavina could not help but feel a sense of responsibility for the whole mess. It now was up to her to defend this stronghold should Longshanks seek reckoning upon them.

  “Perhaps he won’t attack us,” Gavina replied after a pause, injecting a hopeful note into her voice. “After all, he’s busy keeping the south under his control.”

  “He’ll attack,” Elizabeth replied wearily. “Longshanks is well known for his vengeful nature.” Her throat bobbed then. “I wonder if he’s ordered Robert’s execution yet.”