Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,56
The pair usually enjoyed a bit of dark banter, but not tonight.
The three of them sat alone at the captain’s table in the guard’s mess. Supper had come and gone. The men of this keep, exhausted from five days of fighting, were elsewhere—sleeping, drinking, or taking their watch on the walls. The Wallace was heading the watch tonight. Not for the first time, Draco was impressed by the man’s fortitude. William Wallace wasn’t immortal, but he had the strength and resilience of ten men. None of the warriors he led dared flag under his command.
“I’d rather not,” Cassian mumbled, before raising the cup to his lips and taking a deep draft.
Next to him, Maximus scowled. “Neither would I,” he growled. “And I don’t know why you’re looking so cheerful. Even if it takes Longshanks a while to scale the walls … once he does, it’s the beginning of the end.” He paused there, a deep groove etching between his eyebrows. “The end for everyone inside this keep … except us.”
Draco put down the piece of wood he’d been whittling and reached for his own cup of wine. It had been another exhausting day. Abandoning the battering ram, Edward’s men had tried to put up ladders against the walls. The defenders had managed to repel them—but they’d lost over a dozen men doing so.
“You could send Heather and Aila away,” Draco pointed out. “There’s De Keith’s boat. It only takes two … but that would be enough. You could meet up with your wives later … after all this is over.”
Cassian muttered a curse under his breath. “Don’t you think we have already thought of that?” he ground out. “They both refused.”
“Heather slapped me when I suggested it,” Maximus added, his fingers tightening around the cup of wine he held. “Our wives are loyal, Draco. They won’t abandon their parents … or their people.” His mouth twisted then. “And I wouldn’t either in their place.”
Draco returned to his whittling. It was the same piece of rosewood he’d started a couple of weeks ago. He’d thought the figurine was going to be a siren, a beguiling mermaid. But instead, a woman’s figure with legs emerged. She had a neat, yet lush body, with long hair tumbling down her back.
Draco’s throat tightened. The woman reminded him of someone.
His wife.
He’d kept his distance from Gavina over the past days. He hadn’t returned to her bed since their first night together—their only night together. That morning, after leaving her bed as the first glimmers of dawn sparkled over the sea, he’d tested the curse once more by cutting his thumb. And as always, it healed swiftly.
Bitterness had flooded his mouth then. He’d done as the riddle commanded. If he was the Dragon and Gavina was the White Hawk, the two of them had done their part by wedding. He’d bedded her twice—that should have been enough.
But it wasn’t.
“I don’t understand it,” Cassian growled out, reaching for the jug to refill his cup. “Why hasn’t the curse broken?”
“The riddle was a ruse,” Maximus replied. His voice was weary, almost as if he could barely bring himself to speak. Draco watched the Roman, his chest constricting at the despair he saw there. He’d really hoped that by wedding Gavina he’d spare both Cassian and Maximus this pain.
Cassian’s features tightened. “So, the bandruì was just playing with us?”
Maximus stared back at him. “I think so.”
“But I don’t understand. Everything fell into place. Why tell us about the Broom-star, the fort upon the Shelving Slope, and the Hammer of the Scots … if it’s all a lie?”
Maximus didn’t reply.
Draco drew in a deep breath and shrugged. The gesture belied the ache in his chest. “She was a vindictive bitch … We should have never trusted her word. We were fools … hopeful ones, but fools nonetheless.”
His friends stared back at him, their gazes desolate. And suddenly, for the first time in a long while, Draco wished he’d tempered his words.
XXIII
SEEKING ANSWERS
THE WOMEN WORKED in silence. It had been a number of days since they’d gathered together like this to weave, spin, and sew. But as night had fallen and the siege had halted once more—if only for a few short hours—they’d all sought solace in familiar activities.
Gavina sat at her loom, using a wooden beater to push down weft threads she’d just woven. She was weaving the De Keith pennant now, a splash of turquoise and blue fluttering from the top of the keep.