Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,21

the coming of the Broom-star, only to be disappointed? Again and again.”

“I didn’t lose my perspective … I gained it,” Maximus countered, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “And if it meant that I didn’t end up like you, I’m relieved I did.”

IX

CHASING ANSWERS

THE ENGLISH WERE leaving Stirling.

John Comyn, Baron of Badenoch, stood atop the castle walls and watched them go.

From this distance, Edward’s force looked a great, slithering beast, its chainmail skin glittering in the morning sun, its back bristling with pikes and standards. The clear call of silver trumpets echoed over the wide strath below the castle, drifting across the waters of the Firth and reverberating off the rocky crag and fortress perched high above.

Comyn ‘The Red’ observed the departing army with a cool gaze. Edward had reacted swiftly following his meeting with Galbraith. As reinforcements had arrived the previous day from Northumbria, he immediately set about preparing to march upon Dunnottar. The king had also sent word of his movements to his son in the south.

The baron stood upon the walls a long while, enjoying the warm sun on his face. Eventually, his attention shifted to the keep itself, his gaze swiveling to the guard of six English soldiers behind him. The guards stared back at him, their helmed faces impossible to read, and their hauberks glittering in the sun. They were his own personal escort that Edward had left behind to ‘watch over’ Stirling’s guardian while he was gone.

The English king had also left a sizeable garrison behind to keep the town and castle in English hands. Edward might have been focused on capturing William Wallace at present, but he was as sharp as ever. Despite that Comyn had minded his manners since the English had taken Stirling, Longshanks still didn’t trust him.

Clenching his bearded jaw, Comyn glanced back at the view as the last of the horns faded and the army’s rearguard stomped their way east.

He’s right not to.

Comyn had a job to do—but it wouldn’t be easy with this lot watching him.

Nonetheless, ‘The Red’ wouldn’t be thwarted.

The baron threw back the plum-colored cloak he wore about his shoulders and climbed down from the walls. Ignoring his escort, he then strode back across the inner-bailey courtyard toward the keep itself. Pebbles crunched underfoot, and his attention flicked across to the rose-entwined archway leading through into the gardens.

It was barely a moon ago that David De Keith had attempted to cut the English king’s throat in there.

If only the fool had managed.

Chaos would have ensued, but the Scots could have made good use of it. Scotland would have been liberated by now.

Comyn made his way up to the solar where he and Edward usually broke their fast together in the mornings—and where the pair of them often shared a cup or two of wine in the evenings.

Before Longshanks’s arrival, this had been John Comyn’s space, but now the Plantagenet banner—a field of golden lions on a crimson field—hung upon the pitted stone wall.

Comyn’s mouth thinned. How he’d enjoy ripping that banner down and burning it. Instead of golden lions, he longed to see a pennant hanging there with just one golden dragon, holding a dagger in its claw. Underneath it would be the Comyn motto: courage.

Courage indeed. He’d bided his time long enough. The English had made him their toady for too long. He could stomach it no longer. Now was the time to act.

A platter of food awaited him, as he’d expected. The noon meal was approaching, and as Edward wasn’t residing in the castle at present, the baron would take all his meals here rather than in the Great Hall.

Seating himself at the long, rectangular table, while three of the guards took up their places inside the solar and the remaining three in the hallway beyond, Comyn lifted the wicker cloche to discover a large bowl of still-steaming venison stew, accompanied by oaten bannocks and a large wedge of cheese.

Satisfied, Comyn began to eat in hearty mouthfuls. He was a big man who enjoyed his meals, and as such, the castle cooks did their best to oblige him.

He had just finished the last of the meal, and was sipping from a pewter goblet of bramble wine, when a comely form appeared in the doorway.

Comyn smiled at the sight of Fyfa Comyn. Wed to his cousin Hume—steward of this castle—Fyfa was a sight indeed. Sometimes the baron wondered how the staid Hume managed to handle his spirited, doe-eyed wife. Comyn thought then of his wife,