The King's Rebel

  The King’s Rebel

  By Michelle Morrison

  The King’s Rebel

  by Michelle Morrison

  Kindle Edition

  © Michelle Morrison

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition

  For Jack, my very own knight in shining armor…

  Chapter 1

  Meghan Innes had no wish to marry a goat. If for no other reason than that, she wished her father a successful journey as he prepared to travel to a neighboring clan’s keep to discuss a union between Meghan and the chieftain’s son.

  When Meghan mentioned that she preferred to remain unwed, Oengus Innes had become enraged. “Ye’ll marry a goat should I decide it suits this clan best!” he told her. “And dinna think ye can sway me with tears!” he warned when a renegade drop slipped down her cheek.

  Meghan dashed the tear from her cheek with an impatient swipe. “I’m no crying! You’d not be able to make me cry did ye beat me with a stick!” she retorted.

  A begrudging laugh escaped Oengus’s lips. “‘Tis true. I’ve tried often enough, aye?”

  Meghan basked in his brief, gruff approval. He’d never compliment her on the accomplishment’s she’d made as a woman, but in those areas where a man showed his mettle–-being able to take a beating, holding his drink, and stealing cattle–-Meghan could win his approval. Of course, she’d never been on a cattle raid and never drank the vile swill men imbibed, so her only recourse was to take the paddle to her backside without a sound.

  “I know ye’re ashamed of the way that wicked Bruce tricked ye,” Oengus continued. “I know ye’re terrible young and gullible.”

  Meghan did not consider herself either terribly young or gullible, but she was not about to interrupt her father’s almost tender speech.

  “What ye need is a good husband to care for ye. ‘Tis my responsibility to choose the man for ye and I’ll make sure he’s one who’ll not only care for ye but see to the welfare of our clan as well.”

  Meghan’s pleasure at his consideration for her care faded as Oengus went on about finding a man who could expand the Innes lands, fill the Innes coffers, and produce an Innes grandson. “And to think, Meggie, were you to marry the Comyn boy, my grandson could someday sit upon the throne of Scotland.”

  Meghan’s head spun with the dizzying leaps of deduction in which her father was indulging as he dreamt of a possible alliance with the powerful Comyn clan. There were more hurdles to her father’s dream than her marriage to the younger Comyn, his three elder brothers notwithstanding. There was the very real fact that Robert the Bruce had proclaimed himself King of Scotland and had no small amount of following. Ten years before when the Scots throne stood empty, the Comyns had competed for the crown with the Bruce clan. King Edward of England had named a member of the Comyn clan, John Balliol, as the Scots king, but when Balliol did not obey Edward’s wishes, Edward forced King John to abdicate. Since then the Bruces had grown more powerful and support for the Comyns waned as the current Earl of Bruce sought to unite Scotland against Edward Longshanks of England.

  Apparently her father’s thoughts had progressed along a similar line. “Perhaps I shall tell John Comyn how a Bruce tried to seduce ye and steal my fortunes! ‘Twould rally the men to unseat that bloody upstart once and for all.”

  Heat flooded Meghan’s cheeks. She’d tried so hard to forget that debacle.

  “Father! Don’t you dare! First you tell me I’m to be shamed for my actions, now you wish to use my shame to further your own ambitions?”

  Oengus had the grace to look abashed. “Aye, well, perhaps ‘tis no the best idea. We’ve a fight or two left in us without havin’ to drag the womenfolk into the fray.” He ran a hand through his coarse red-grey hair. “I’m gettin’ ahead of myself anyway. First John Comyn and I must come to a settlement over ye. I’m honored by his suggestion of a closer alliance betwixt us, but we’re a strong clan with many a fighting man.” Bitterness crept into his voice as he continued, “My own cursed luck notwithstanding.”

  Meghan lowered her eyes, wishing once again that she could fill the hole in her father’s heart left by the death of her brothers. “Should you reach a settlement, when would the–-“ she cleared her throat. “When would the union occur?”

  Oengus looked at his daughter as if he had forgotten her presence. “What’s that? Oh, that remains to be seen. Assuredly before Michaelmas, sooner if we needs strike against the Bruces this summer. Once they’ve been dealt with, we’ll turn our attention to the bloody English.”

  Meghan did not see how a marriage could affect the timing of a civil war, but forbore from saying so. Instead, she obediently followed her father outside where her uncle and several other men were waiting to accompany him on his journey.

  “Godspeed, father,” she said.

  “And to you, daughter. See to my lands well,” he clapped her hard on the back and she took a tiny step forward to maintain her balance. “Ye’ve a right fine head on yer shoulders in spite of bein’ a woman.”

  Meghan flushed with pleasure at his compliment for Oengus was not one to lavish them.

  “But keep an eye on Gordon and his boys. It’ll be yer arse should they lose more sheep to theft.”

  “They’d not have lost any last time had they not been drunk-–“ Meghan protested and then bit her tongue as displeasure filled her father’s countenance.

  “An Innes takes his blame when ‘tis due. Are ye tryin’ to lay the guilt on another’s shoulders?”

  Meghan shook her head. “I’ll watch them more closely.”

  Oengus gave her a brief nod before turning to climb onto his horse.

  “God keep you on your journey,” she called as he turned his horse’s head.

  “And the devil take the English!” he laughed, his good humor restored at the thought of a fortnight of feasting and hunting with the Comyn’s hospitality.

  Meghan waved at her father’s stepbrother, Lennox who smiled broadly at her in return. Uncle Lennox at least never found fault with her.

  Meghan turned and surveyed the great hall and outbuildings with pride. As her father’s only heir, the responsibility for the keep and the people in it would one day be hers as they were during Oengus’s absence. Meghan absently rubbed the bruise on her back from her father’s approving pat and tried not to think about how her future husband may wish to rule Innesbrook.

  Over the next few weeks, Meghan continued to studiously avoided thinking of her impending marriage. If it crossed her mind at all, it was to hope that the wedding occurred later rather than sooner. She needed time to prepare herself: to learn to school her vivid features to cool acceptance, to practice her facade of removed acquiescence, and to solidify her vow not to love another for she would allow no man the power over her that William Bruce had held.

  Fortunately, the rambling keep provided her enough distraction to keep her mind from such troubling thoughts.

  Meghan conducted an inventory of the pantry stores, noting in her ledger those items they would have to buy, those they could make, and those they could expect as tithe from the surrounding farms. She ordered the stables emptied and swept out, the fetid straw burned and the walls whitewashed. Oengus had little use for decoration in his great hall, but he was adamant about his horses’ shelter being pleasing to the eye.

  It took three days to supervise the planting of the summer vegetables: cabbages, beets, turnips, and beans. And though she was weary by late afternoon, she made h
erself tend the herb garden, weeding the narrow rows and pruning the sturdy branches, separating the larger clumps of plants and transplanting those she had rooted in the solar. Though her father worried more about what his cattle ate than what his clan ate, Meghan could not abide bland food. There was little enough pleasure in life, she reasoned, so why not enjoy a rosemary-sprigged roast or a dill-encrusted fish. Despite her father’s scorn of the uselessness of an herb garden, she had enlarged and cared for the small plot until every meal at Innesbrook was deliciously seasoned. “Ironic, is it not,” she asked the fragrant bush of rosemary she was pruning. “That I can grow every kind of herb known in Scotland, but I’ve not the ability to cook so much as a simple broth?” Since Oengus placed such little importance on food, he’d never found it worthwhile for Meghan to learn to cook. Where it not for Beatrix, the woman who’d served for years as Innesbrook’s cook and as a surrogate mother to Meghan, the Innes clan would have starved long ago.

  Despite the frenetic rounds of cleaning, planting, and management, despite her utter physical exhaustion when she fell into bed each night, Meghan could not prevent her mind from conjuring the image of inky black hair, a slightly crooked nose and deliciously straight white teeth, displayed to devastating advantage by a rakish smile. She would toss and turn, trying to think of anything but William Bruce and his physical attributes, but her traitorous mind would only offer the memory of his bold kisses and warm, wandering hands. As a result, Meghan often arose in the morning as weary as she went to bed, and even more determined to drive the specter of William Bruce from her mind with physical exhaustion.

  ***

  “Meghan! Come quick! Yer uncle returns and his horse is lathered near to death!”

  Meghan looked up from the vat of wool she was dying and turned her attention to Beatrix. The men had only been gone four days—far too few to hunt, drink, and negotiate a marriage.

  “Uncle Lennox has returned? But what of father?”

  The stout woman wiped her red face with a kerchief and pulled Meghan from her task. “I know not. Yer uncle is even now leavin’ off his horse.”

  Meghan left the older woman behind as she ran out the front door to see Lennox hand his reins over to a stable lad and turn, white-faced, to greet Meghan.

  “Uncle Lennox? What is it? Where is father? Is he hurt?”

  Lennox’s hands shook as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Meghan grabbed his arm. “What has happened?” she demanded.

  “Yer father,” he panted.

  The blood drained from Meghan’s face as she prepared to accept the worst. “Is he dead?” she whispered.

  “Nay! Nay,” he said and leaned over to rest his hands on his knees while he tried to catch his breath.

  Meghan clenched her hands into fists and tried not to scream with impatience. “Uncle Lennox, what happened?”

  ”Yer father’s been captured,” he said abruptly.

  “What?” Meghan thought frantically. Her eyes widened with understanding. “He went after the Bruces, didn’t he? He could not leave his damnable pride unavenged and he waged war on the Bruce and his clan! He must have convinced John Comyn to join him or he’d no have enough men for a serious fight. I only pray Black William was not involved in the capture or father will never live it down. Curse the man!” she swore, though she was unsure which man she cursed. Meghan paced the hard-packed dirt of the outer courtyard, beating her fist against her thigh in frustration. “I suppose we’d best be grateful a Scot’s got him instead of Longshanks. I’ve heard of the English punishment for traitors. Drawing and quartering they neatly call it.” Meghan shuddered and then pushed the thought aside. “The Bruce will be wanting a hefty ransom to assuage his pride and ensure we don’t–“

  ”He didn’t attack the Bruces,” Lennox said morosely, as if wishing Oengus had.

  Meghan frowned and stared at her uncle, willing an explanation from him. Lennox looked away before continuing.

  “He and several of the Comyn men...”

  “Lennox!” Meghan said in exasperation. “Spit it out!”

  “They rustled sheep from the lands along the border.”

  “They what?” How often had her father chided his men on caution when stealing cattle? How often had she herself pleaded with him not to go on the dangerous raids?

  “Well, at least we’ll no have to spend as much to free him,” Meghan began.

  “Meghan,” Lennox rasped, and then louder when she continued to plan, “Meghan! We’ll need more than money this time. It’s worse than an irate shepherd or even the Bruces needin’ to be paid off.”

  “What could be worse?” Meghan asked.

  Lennox stared at his clasped hands.

  “The English have captured him.”

  Chapter 2

  The disembowelment of a man for a crowd’s pleasure is a delicate process requiring timing, talent, and an intuitive sense of when the crowd has enjoyed enough torture and the mercy of the axe blow is necessary. Meghan had heard stories aplenty of the English method of punishment. She considered herself discerning enough to discount those stories of the disemboweled prisoners being forced to eat their own hearts and other such absurd tales. But the fact remained that the very act was gruesome and atrocious enough without the necessity of a storyteller’s embellishments to cause her to wake in the middle of the night, drenched with the sweat of fear.

  “We must obtain his release,” she told her uncle the next morning.

  “Assuredly,” Lennox said. “But how? We’ve not the connections in Edward’s court to even request a ransom for Oengus’ life.”

  “What of the Comyns? Surely John Comyn has some influence with Edward.”

  Lennox shook his head. “After the catastrophe with John Balliol? The Comyns will no be in any position to ask favors of the English king. If anything, they’re in a worse position than we are.” He tore the loaf of bread in front of him into small shreds and absently ate a few bites. “We would stand a better chance of convincing Edward that Oengus was an innocent bystander caught unawares betwixt the English troops and the Comyn men.” Lennox took a swig of ale and choked. “I have it,” he said, dribbling ale and breadcrumbs down his chin.

  “What?” Meghan asked.

  He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before answering. “Perchance we could tell Edward that yer father was tryin’ to catch the Comyns for the English!”

  “And have the bards sing that the Innes clan betrayed the rightful heirs to the Scottish throne?” Meghan snapped. “Never!”

  Lennox gazed back at his niece with steady brown eyes. “Sometimes Meghan, we must bow to the winds of change. Edward will gain Scotland. He is too strong and we Scots too combative against our own.”

  Meghan shook her head. “Nay. My father would skin me alive before he allowed me to tell such a tale to Longshanks. Besides, as you said we’ve no connection in Edward’s court to even offer our gold, much less try to negotiate his release.”

  She and her uncle lapsed into silence as they tried to think of a way to save Oengus.

  “Where are they keeping him?” she finally asked.

  Lennox shrugged. “York, probably.”

  “Would they keep him in a prison or perhaps just under watch in a house?”

  Her uncle looked away. “I’m sure he’s being treated well wherever he is,” he hedged.

  Meghan closed her eyes and refused to think of her proud father being beaten and kept in a cold damp cell. She shook her head both at Lennox’s words and to clear the images from her mind. “No, what I mean is, do you think there is a chance we could free him by force or conspiracy?

  Lennox smiled approvingly at her. “Yer father would be proud to hear ye consider such alternatives. Aye, such a plan could work. We’d have to find out for sure where he was, who his gaolers are, perhaps even discover when his meals are delivered.”

  Meghan felt the tight band of worry around her chest loosen slightly as she and Lennox planned their attack.

  �
��Which men shall we take with us?” she asked.

  Her uncle’s brows rose. “Planning on joinin’ us are ye?”

  “Aye,” Meghan said grimly.

  He stared at her for a moment but then nodded and continued as if nothing were untoward about the suggestion. “Arran and Geordie, for sure. Morris MacDonald too, I should think, for he’s the man for takin’ out enemies quietly--”

  Their plans were interrupted by the slamming open of the hall doors by Morris himself. “The Comyn has sent word!” he shouted and Meghan and her uncle leapt to their feet and followed him outside where a young lad was dismounting from his horse.

  “I’m John Comyn,” he said by way of introduction. “Er, the Comyn’s nephew,” he clarified as if they might mistake his scrawny frame for that of the tall, burly leader of the clan who had three-score years beneath his belt.

  “What news do ye bring?” Meghan asked.

  The boy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin neck like a feather in the wind. “The men are bein’ moved,” he began.

  “Moved? Moved where?” Lennox interrupted. “Who’s movin’ them?” he asked.

  “Uncle! Let the lad speak,” Meghan snapped. She motioned the boy to continue.

  “Yesterday morn, yer father, and the Comyn’s son were taken under escort. The rest of the men we presume are still in York.”

  Meghan fought the urge to shake the boy. “But where did they take my father?”

  “The Comyn sent men to follow but ‘tis most likely they’re headed to London.”

  “London!” Meghan exhaled as her hopes of freeing her father crumbled about her. London meant the Tower and there was no chance of freeing him from that mighty fortress.

  “There’s more,” the boy said.

  “Speak,” Meghan ordered, her fraying nerves sharpening her voice.

  “There’s talk that they’re to be tried as traitors.”

  “Why? What traitorous acts did they commit? Stealing sheep?” Meghan’s voice rose until it cracked. Her uncle put a reassuring hand on her arm, but she threw it off.