Cassian (The Immortal Highland Centurions #2) - Jayne Castel Page 0,29

the feeling surfaced once more. It was just as well the journey was ending. Such thoughts weren’t doing him any good.

“The castle is lovely,” Aila breathed, her wide grey eyes on the keep perched high upon a rocky crag. The collection of thatch roofs of the town below tumbled down the hillside to where the River Forth sparkled in the noon sun. “Heather told me Stirling was beautiful … but her descriptions didn’t do it justice.”

Cassian’s gaze followed hers, although his attention focused more on where a blockade of men and horses barred their way into the town. They didn’t have to cross the river as they were approaching from the north-east—yet it seemed the English were patrolling all ways in.

“There’s no place quite like it,” he replied, his attention shifting to the high curtain walls. How many times had he visited Stirling over the years? Too many to count—and yet the sight of that great keep standing guard over the River Forth, a wall of mountains at its back, never failed to make him catch his breath. He remembered the fort that had been here during his early years in Caledonia—the Romans had even occupied it for a time—before the Picts built a stone broch upon the crag.

It was around that time, long before the people of this land worshipped the Christian God, that Cassian, Maximus, and Draco had carved a temple to Mithras out of the rock.

Cassian reached forward and unclipped the lead from Dusty’s bridle. “It’s best you fall back now, Aila,” he said, his manner brisk. Now that they were approaching the wolf’s lair, he couldn’t afford any distractions. “Rejoin Lady Gavina. The De Keith will need to announce himself.”

Aila nodded and drew her palfrey up, waiting to one side while the column rode by. Dusty tossed her head. The mare didn’t appreciate being made to wait, but Cassian noted that Aila held the horse in check better than she had earlier that day.

Glancing over his shoulder, Cassian watched the laird urge his courser up the column so he rode directly behind him.

“Ready, De Keith?” Cassian greeted him. “Your welcome party awaits.”

The laird wore a strained expression, his gaze narrow as it settled upon the big chainmailed men who barred their path. “How dare they prevent me from entering Stirling,” he growled. “This is our land.”

Cassian tensed at his laird’s aggression. As the younger brother, David De Keith had little experience with diplomacy. His brother had known how to treat with his enemies, but it occurred to Cassian then that David’s fiery temper could work against him here.

Cassian’s mouth thinned. Sending De Keith to Stirling was like throwing a wasp nest into the midst of a banquet. He hoped the Wallace hadn’t made an error in insisting De Keith make this visit. Wallace wanted the Balliol family back on the Scottish throne—but his dedication to the cause made him blinkered at times.

“Remember … you’re here to bend the knee,” he warned his laird. “Try not to let your disdain for the English show too plainly upon your face.”

De Keith muttered a curse under his breath at this, while Cassian urged Rogue forward. Two of the chainmailed English warriors walked out to meet them.

De Keith is in danger here. Cassian schooled his features into an expressionless mask. As are all of us, if he doesn’t do as he promised.

Clattering up the hill, Aila craned her neck to stare at the towering walls of the castle above her. Excitement fluttered up into her throat, and her pulse quickened.

The rumors were true: Stirling Castle was much grander than Dunnottar. The way in, up a wide road, was definitely more impressive. However, her belly tensed, her excitement dimming, when she caught sight of the two flags flying from one of the keep’s towers. The first was white with a red cross—England’s Saint George’s cross—while the second flag bore three golden rampant lions against a crimson background—the Plantagenet banner of Edward’s family.

Aila’s mouth pursed, anger dousing the wonder that had consumed her upon riding into Stirling.

The arrogance.

Now that they’d been admitted to Stirling, an escort of English soldiers led the way up the hill. Tension rippled through the company. Lady Elizabeth’s pretty face was set in rigid lines, while Lady Gavina had gone quiet and pale. Even Jean, who usually had plenty to say for herself, had lapsed into silence, her gaze wide as she took in her surroundings.

The streets were quieter than Aila had imagined. Heather had spoken of the