Highland Warlord - Amy Jarecki Page 0,26
his knees in the church at Fail Monastery. It had taken a bit of persuasion to be allowed an audience with the monk who had taken a vow of silence.
But James, if not gifted with a silver tongue, was nonetheless a persuasive man. He walked into the nave and sat in a pew beside Blair. His shaved head bent in prayer, a ring of silver locks revealing the monk’s advanced years.
Rather than speak, James tapped Blair’s arm with the missive.
The monk glanced back, crossed himself, took the letter, and slid into the pew.
James clenched his fists as he waited for Blair to read the contents, nearly holding his breath to keep from demanding Blair leave with him at once.
“The rumors are true,” mumbled the monk, his voice barely audible.
“I thought you’d taken a vow of silence.”
Blair glanced over with bloodshot eyes, the bags beneath sagging against his cheeks. “I did.”
“But you choose to speak now?”
“I suppose no one bothered to ask me why I entered into holy silence.”
“Why, then?”
“After they executed Wallace, I vowed to never again speak until someone with big enough cods stepped forward and put the Scottish crown on his head.”
“You’re a vassal of Robert the Bruce?”
“Och, I never thought much of the fellow when his father was alive.”
“And now?”
Blair held up the missive. “If what he’s written is true, then I have had a change of heart.”
“He said you could lead me to Wallace’s hideaway in Selkirk.”
“How many men have you?”
“At the moment, two.”
“Pardon?”
“Three, counting you. But not far from here are Douglas lands. I reckon I’ll raise fifty, mayhap more.”
“You’ll not survive a fortnight with an army that small.”
“Aye? Then let me ask you, how many men did Wallace have when he first ventured into Selkirk?”
“You think you have a point, but things are no longer the same as they once were. The people are tired. They’ve been beaten down and left with naught but a few sickly sheep, their crofts burned and left to the buzzards.”
“Mayhap you’re right. But soon the sons of the fallen will rise again. Men like me who saw their fathers murdered at the hands of the English tyrant.”
The friar adjusted the ropes belted around his waist. “You are not wrong there. Lord kens we cannot endure much more of his oppression.”
“Will you come with me?”
“Aye.” Blair stood, and seemed taller, certainly robust for a monk. “But you’d best prove to me you are a worthy leader of men.”
“I welcome you allowing me the chance to do so.” James released a long, pent-up breath. “I’ll return on the morrow. Be ready to ride.”
“Have you a horse?”
“A palfry. What about yours? Did you not ride with Wallace?”
“Upon entering the monastery, all our worldly possessions are given to the abbot.”
James pushed to his feet. “I’ll secure you a mount by morn.”
***
The day was nearly at an end when James sat atop his palfry and looked across the valley of his birth. Jutting above the walls stood the round tower built by his great-grandfather. Black smoke belched from the chimneys, settling above the castle, making it look as dark and ugly as it had become.
Bile burned his throat as he craved sweet revenge. It should be he sitting before the hearth in his great hall, his wife at his side with a babe in her arms. Had things been different, his da might have arranged his marriage to Lady Ailish.
James chuckled to himself. How sweet it would be to hold such a woman in his arms every night. Make love to her every night. Awake each morning to her bonny smile.
And where was he now? A landless knight, staring at his ancestral lands like an outsider. Damnation, the mere thought of what might have been stirred his ire—made him want to barrel through the gates and put the lot to fire and sword. Aye, soon James would face Clifford and rid his lands of the English vermin.
But not this day.
He rode into a copse and waited until darkness fell. Only then did he make his move and slip through the back door of his father’s most trusted man’s cottage—the very man who had delivered James into the care of Bishop Lamberton eleven years ago.
A woman saw him first, dropping a wooden trencher to the floor of packed earth.
“I’m James Douglas, son of William Douglas and it is time to take back what is mine.”
Sliding his fingers onto the hilt of his dirk, Hew, now far older, his face worn like old leather, his