Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,3
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