Cassian (The Immortal Highland Centurions #2) - Jayne Castel Page 0,30
Riverside market, but there were no stalls along the banks of the Forth today. When her sister had passed through Stirling just over a month earlier, the town had apparently been full of Scotsmen, warriors from the lowland clans who’d rallied to Stirling to help defend it.
But there was no sign of those men now.
Aila swallowed, the fine hair on the back of her arms prickling as she realized most of them were likely dead.
What few folk they spied on the way up the hill peered out from windows and shadowed doorways. Their gazes were fearful, and their faces rigid with distrust.
Finally, the De Keith party thundered through a great stone arch and into a wide outer-bailey. Low buildings—which likely housed the stables, byres, storehouses, and an armory—lined the cobbled space.
More English soldiers awaited them here. The tension within Aila bloomed into panic at the sight of them. Suddenly, Stirling lost its sparkle.
It was impossible to ignore that the English ruled this town and its mighty fortress.
She still remembered what it was like at Dunnottar during the English occupation: how she, her sister, and her mother had feared to wander the keep. She’d also worried for her father’s life, for as castle steward, Donnan De Keith posed a threat to English authority. They’d even thrown him in the dungeon for a spell, after first taking the castle, until they could be assured that he wouldn’t make trouble.
The English dressed as Aila remembered: many in long hauberks—mail shirts—and chainmail chausses, or stockings. Some of the warriors had pulled up their coifs—hoods made of chainmail. It was a look that she found intimidating.
English and Scot eyed each other warily as De Keith and his followers filled the outer-bailey.
Aila drew up her palfrey and glanced to where Lady Gavina had halted next to her. Meeting Aila’s eye, the lady gave her a wary look. “Keep yer wits about ye here, Aila,” she warned.
XIII
I’M HERE FOR SCOTLAND
“WELCOME TO STIRLING, De Keith. I’m glad to see at least one of you has the courage to come before me.”
Edward of England’s deep voice echoed across the Great Hall, breaking the tense hush that had settled when David De Keith entered.
The king spoke French, the tongue favored by the English ruling classes.
Cassian walked at his laird’s side, while Gavina and Elizabeth brought up the rear of their small party. A crowd of Edward’s retainers drew aside, letting them approach the dais, where Edward sat upon a huge wooden chair.
It had been a long while since Cassian had actually been inside Stirling Castle—the last time was a couple of centuries earlier when the now mighty keep had been little more than a round-tower. This great stone hall with wooden rafters was certainly a magnificent structure.
However, Cassian’s attention didn’t linger upon his surroundings for long. Instead, it shifted to the man who’d just welcomed them.
He was face-to-face with Edward Plantagenet himself.
Despite his advancing years, the king appeared hale and strong. He looked to be in his early sixties and bore an impressive mane of greying blond hair that flowed over his broad shoulders. A golden, gem-studded crown sat upon his head. He was dressed as a warrior king, in a blood-red surcoat, with a glittering hauberk underneath. A longsword hung at his hip. The man commanded the room.
Even seated, Cassian could see Edward was a tall man. He stretched his long legs out before him and crossed them at the ankle.
Cassian bit back a wry smile. Longshanks, indeed.
Watching the English king closely, Cassian understood why Edward of England caused the Scots so much bother. He wore an aura of authority, and as he drew nearer still, Cassian saw the man’s ice-blue gaze was flinty when it rested upon David De Keith. A drooping left eyelid marred his even-featured face.
A few feet behind Edward stood another imposing figure: a big man with a hawkish nose. The warrior was clad in chainmail and sported a luxurious red beard.
Cassian needed no formal introduction to know that this was John ‘The Red’ Comyn, Baron of Badenoch—Steward of Scotland. The man hadn’t earned his nickname because of his fiery temper or high coloring, but because of his mane of red hair.
Comyn watched the newcomers halt before the dais without a flicker of emotion on his face. His gaze, when it settled upon De Keith, was guarded. Of course, the Scottish baron had been in control of Stirling before the English attack a month earlier, but wasn’t able to hold the castle and township.