Chapter 21
Gellir shivered under the trees in the pouring rain, miserable in his drenched cloak.
At least the people he loved were safe and warm. By now, Hew would have taken Carenza to her lover. His clan were likely still at Darragh. And Merraid…
He pulled out the prize he’d tucked into his leine.
Merraid’s braid. He closed his eyes and brushed her hair against his lips, inhaling the floral scent, enjoying the silken texture, remembering her sunny countenance, her dancing eyes, her summery smile.
The thought of her was enough to warm him in the midst of the storm.
Then he tucked his treasure away and opened his eyes. Through the punishing drops, he glimpsed a dim light in the dark distance.
Shelter?
With fingers made clumsy by the cold, he opened his leather purse and dug out two coins. It was all he had left from yesterday. Little work could be had in such foul weather. But it was enough to purchase an ale, a bit of pottage, and, if he ate slowly, an hour or two of respite from the rain.
He left the trees, scowling against the hammering of the storm as he trudged through the muck and mire.
Luck was with him. An alestake protruded from the cottage, announcing the availability of freshly brewed ale, though the sign’s wreath of ivy had fallen into the mud.
He stomped the grime from his boots and pushed open the door.
The blast of warmth from the cheery fire, the scent of hearty fare, and the pair of travelers huddled over cups of foamy ale made him sigh with relief.
He nodded in greeting and hung up his cloak and sword. A toothless old wench pulled out a three-legged stool for him at the wee table.
“Ye’ll be wantin’ pottage, no doubt,” she said. “’Tis cold as the grave tonight.” Before he could answer, she added, “And a hefty cup o’ ale as well.” She turned away, calling over her shoulder. “And ye won’t want to venture out again till morn, I’m sure.”
He opened his mouth to ask how much she’d be charging for all that.
“Don’t bother,” one of the travelers said. “She won’t take nay for an answer.”
“Aye,” the other agreed. “A right captain o’ the guard she is.”
Gellir settled onto the free stool.
“I’m Walter,” the first man said, wiping his hand on his thick black beard before extending it.
Gellir shook his hand. It was thick and callused, and beneath his woolen sleeve, Gellir glimpsed the dull silver of chain mail.
“You’re a warrior,” he said.
“That I am,” Walter said, “as is my friend here.”
“Robert,” the second man chimed in, offering his hand. He nodded his shaggy blond head toward Gellir’s sword. “And unless ye’ve pilfered that weapon from a passin’ knight, ye’re a fightin’ man as well.”
“Aye,” Gellir said. “I’m…John.”
“’Tis a bonnie blade, John,” Walter said.
“It serves me well.”
“It’s earned ye a place to sleep tonight,” Robert said with a wink.
Gellir frowned, confused.
Walter confided, “Methinks the old wench doesn’t mind havin’ a few well-armed lodgers to look after the place.”
“Ah.”
The old woman set a trencher of steaming pottage and a cup brimming with ale before him.
Gellir dug in eagerly. A crumb of horsebread and a wedge of hard cheese had been his only sustenance today. So the humble meal was as welcome as a royal feast.
“Where are ye headed?” Walter asked.
“East,” Gellir said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. But wandering aimlessly around the countryside seemed like a suspicious reply. “And you?”
“On our way home from Perth.”
“What did you do there?” Gellir asked, stabbing a morsel of mutton with his knife.
Robert drew himself up proudly. “We marched with the king’s guard.”
“The king’s guard?” Gellir frowned. “In Toulouse?”
“Nay,” Walter said. “Malcolm landed in Scotland a fortnight ago.” He arched a brow and added pointedly, “He needed extra defense for the journey to Perth.”
“He’s in Perth?”
“Aye,” Robert said, shaking his head. “But we didn’t stick around.”
The two men exchanged meaningful glances.
Gellir stopped with his knife halfway to his mouth. “Why not?”
Walter scanned the corners of the cottage with suspicion, even though there were only the three of them. Then he whispered, “There’s rumors of an uprisin’.”
Gellir returned his knife to the trencher. “What kind of uprising?” he whispered back.
The old woman came in to poke at the fire, and they fell silent.
“Woolens are in there,” she said, wagging a finger toward an oak chest, “and I’ll thank ye to bank the fire ere ye bed down, aye?”
“O’ course,” Robert said. When she was gone again, he murmured, “A handful of earls are plottin’ to lay siege.”
“Because of Toulouse?” Gellir guessed. “Because of Malcolm’s alliance with Henry?”
“Right,” Walter said.
Gellir bit out an oath.
“Some o’ them lost a good deal o’ land to the Sassenachs,” Robert muttered.
“So I can’t say I blame them,” Walter added.
Robert declined to comment further, taking a swig of ale instead.
Gellir rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “Earls against the king. ’Twill divide Scotland.”
“Pah!” Walter said. “No more than giving half o’ her to the English will.”
“What are their demands?” Gellir asked.
“They want their lands back, I wager,” Robert said.
“Aye,” said Walter.
Gellir took a thoughtful sip of his ale. That was a coil. He understood the earls’ discontent. He even concurred with their demands. Like Rivenloch, some of their lands had belonged to the clans from the time of the Vikings and before.
But Gellir was a vassal to the king. He’d sworn an oath of loyalty to Malcolm.
His brow furrowed as he remembered the other oath he’d sworn. The one he’d broken. The one to wed Lady Carenza. That sin stained his soul like rust on chain mail.
Still, a warrior didn’t toss away his armor simply because it was tarnished. It was up to him to repair it, polish it, and set it to rights so it could be useful again.
Was this his chance to redeem himself? To prove to King Malcolm the undying loyalty of the Rivenloch clan? If he challenged these earls in the name of the king, would it erase his past dishonor?
The effort might cost him his life. It seemed inevitable, considering he’d be brandishing his blade against several powerful earls.
But if his life was the price of his clan’s honor, he would gladly pay it.
An hour later, as he bedded down in the rushes before the banked fire, he felt alive for the first time in days. He had purpose now. He was going to defend his king.
Perhaps he wasn’t destiny’s foe after all.
Perhaps fate had smiled on him.
“Something’s not right,” Adam murmured. His warm breath added fog to the frosty morning mist.
Merraid huddled beside him in the hawthorn near Perth Castle.
They couldn’t get too close. The motte-and-bailey castle was surrounded by a wide treeless expanse.
Though such a keep was fortified by a courtyard wall, a deep ditch, and a wooden palisade, the cleared land made it easy for guards to spot attackers long before they drew near.
But at the moment, the grassy slope below Perth was filled with pavilions and soldiers.
“Is it a tournament?” Merraid asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps a celebration o’ the king’s return?” she asked with heavy sarcasm.
“I fear not. Indeed…”
“What?”
“Let’s take a closer look.”
They crept through the fog and between the pavilions. Men-at-arms, horses, archers, and servants drifted in and out of the mist like fish swimming in a murky firth. Everyone was busy, but Merraid could only pick out snippets of conversation about supplies and weapons.
They gradually circled the entire expanse, passing by all the pavilions so Adam could identify the clan banners.
“Six clans are here,” he told her. “I recognize Ferteth, the Earl of Strathearn. I don’t know the others.”
“Why have they come?”
He lifted a warning finger to his lips to caution her to silence. Then he called out to a passing archer. “Good sir, I’ve just come at the request of Strathearn.” He gestured to Merraid. “Do you know what he wanted with this monk?”
The archer screwed up his face in consideration. “Mayhaps to bless the siege?”
“Ah, of course.”
“‘Tis a siege?” Merraid whispered when the archer was gone. “Against the king?” That seemed unlikely.
“I’ll find out.” Adam snagged an ale from the tray of a passing maidservant and approached a pair of soldiers drinking from their own cups. Raising his cup, he toasted, “Here’s to our success! May the clans stay strong…”
The soldiers raised their cups in reply, and one of them added, “And may the king see the error of his ways!”
They all drank, and Adam gave them a salute of farewell.
Merraid was agog. How had this happened? How could King Malcolm’s subjects rise up against him?
She knew Lady Feiyan had been unhappy with the king’s behavior and the way he’d been sidling up to the English. But had things become so serious that clans were laying siege to their own liege?
Before she could begin interrogating everyone within sight, Adam dragged her back to the hawthorn to hide and consider their options.
By the time they reentered the woods, Merraid had already made up her mind.
She wasn’t going to let a siege deter her.
She’d come a long distance to seek an audience with the king.
She wasn’t going to abandon her mission now.
She was going to find a way into the keep.
King Malcolm could deal with his disgruntled earls later. After he granted clemency to Gellir.
Adam had a different idea.
“We should go,” he said.
“What do ye mean, go?”
“Leave.”
“I’m not leavin’,” she said. “Not when I’ve come so far.”
“’Tis a bad time to ask the king for a favor.”
“’Twas always a bad time for me,” she admitted. “But I’m not goin’ to let that stop me.”
“How do you plan to gain entrance to the castle when ‘tis under siege?”
She glowered at him. The one time she needed him to be daring and impulsive, and he was naysaying her with rhyme and reason.
He rubbed his jaw. “Unless…”
“Aye?”
“We could wait out the siege.”