Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,8

broadsword.

The newcomer tensed, his gaze flicking to the big man with red hair who sat by the hearth. Of course, only the high-born Scots understood or spoke French.

“Mar sin tha thu air tighinn bho Dunnottar?” John Comyn translated.

The newcomer mumbled a response through cracked lips.

“He says ‘aye’ … and he brings news,” Comyn replied, his gaze returning to the English king.

Edward’s gaze narrowed. “So I hear,” he replied coolly. “You wouldn’t have been allowed up here otherwise.”

The former Guardian of the Realm translated that too, and the blacksmith frowned.

Edward stood near the window in his solar. He’d been taking a cup of wine with Comyn when one of his men had announced he had a visitor. Edward would have turned the lout away if he hadn’t mentioned Dunnottar.

The De Keiths had been on his mind of late, especially after their laird had tried to cut his throat just a few short weeks ago.

Gavina and Elizabeth De Keith had both slipped his net, but in the end, he’d decided he cared little about that. David De Keith had most likely acted alone. The man had been a scheming weasel—Edward had realized that from the moment they met. But he’d never imagined the laird would pull a dirk on him.

Fortunately for the king, De Keith had underestimated him. He might have been getting on in years, but he was still lethal in a fight.

De Keith’s brother remained an English prisoner, as Edward hadn’t yet decided whether or not Robert De Keith should be executed for his brother’s act.

Edward had considered marching up to the fortress immediately and laying siege to it, just to teach the clan a lesson. But once his initial outrage faded, Edward let pragmatism rule his decisions. He needed to strengthen his defenses at Stirling before he marched off to Dunnottar. Keeping hold of the territories he and his son had already taken was proving more difficult than he’d hoped.

The Scots were hardier than the Welsh, it seemed. The additional troops he’d ordered from Northumbria had just arrived the day before. He was almost ready to make the trip north.

“So, what news do you have?” Edward asked, impatience creeping into his voice. Even from a few yards distant, he could smell the man: the rank odor of stale sweat and unwashed clothing. It was all he could do not to screw his face up.

The smith spoke again, his words mumbling and incoherent.

Across the room, John Comyn stiffened.

“What is it?” Edward barked. He hated not being able to understand Gaelic, and sometimes wondered if Comyn altered some of his translations to suit his own ends. The Scottish baron had bent the knee to him, yet Edward was ever watchful of Comyn.

He was a Scot after all, and none of them could be trusted.

“William Wallace is hiding at Dunnottar,” Comyn replied, his tone wary.

Edward’s gaze swiveled back to the smith. “What’s your name?”

“Dè an t-ainm a th ’ort?” Comyn translated.

“Blair Galbraith,” the man mumbled back, before saying something else.

“He was smith at Dunnottar,” the baron continued. “Apparently, the Wallace arrived nearly two moons ago and has been hiding out in the fortress ever since.”

William Wallace. Edward went still, coldness seeping through him.

Long moments passed. When the English king eventually spoke, his voice was quiet, yet flinty. “Apparently? You don’t believe him?”

John ‘The Red’ Comyn pursed his lips, but didn’t answer that.

Edward ignored him for the moment, instead focusing his attention on Galbraith. Rage ignited in the pit of his belly. De Keith was hiding Wallace. The bastard knew I was hunting him … he must have been laughing at me.

Nonetheless, Edward kept his expression neutral. He knew better than to reveal his reactions in front of the likes of Comyn. A month ago, he’d drunk too much one evening and been too open with the man; Edward had later regretted his candor, and had been tight-lipped around the baron ever since.

Anger pulsed through him, and he let it burn, catching alight in his veins. A rush of vindictive pleasure followed. William Wallace had caused him no end of trouble over the years—and now he had discovered his location. The man’s days were numbered.

Wallace had murdered William de Heselrig, Edward’s High Sheriff of Lanark. Then, after winning the Battle of Stirling Bridge, Wallace had desecrated the body of Edward’s friend Hugh de Cressingham, the treasurer he’d put in Stirling. Wallace had fashioned Hugh’s skin into a scabbard, hilt, and belt.

But worse than all that—and of far greater worry to Edward—was the fact