The King's Rebel Page 2

  “What is the charge?” she asked the intimidated boy.

  “It matters not the charge,” Lennox answered for him. “Edward will make sure it serves his political purpose and charge the men accordingly. They mean nothing to him except as a tool to demonstrate his power and his will.”

  Meghan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The sun warmed her face, a gentle breeze teased her hair. The everyday sounds of life in the keep filled the air with the reassuring noise of normalcy, but Meghan was immune to it all. What on earth could she do? Bargaining with another clan, trying to raise an outrageous ransom, even attempting a raid on a prison, these were all things Meghan felt capable of accomplishing. But the King of England? Edward Longshanks himself, who had already decimated the Welsh people and with them their quest for freedom? There was no recourse Meghan could take against an adversary like that! Despair overwhelmed her and she moaned.

  “There is one possibility,” Lennox said softly.

  Meghan opened her eyes and the young Comyn boy said, “What is it?”

  Lennox looked at the messenger and said loudly, “We’ve neglected our duties as your host. Morris!” he shouted, though the man stood right behind him. “Take this brave lad inside and fill his belly.”

  “Aye,” Morris said. “Come along then.”

  The young Comyn frowned at being excluded from Lennox’s plans, but followed obligingly when his stomach rumbled loudly at the mention of food.

  Lennox smiled as he watched the boy leave. “I remember what is was like when your head lost all battles between it and your stomach. The only adversaries that could defeat an empty stomach were your balls and nothin’ stood in their way when they had a demand!” Lennox’s laughter turned into an embarrassed cough as he looked at Meghan. His face flushed red and in spite of herself, Meghan laughed.

  “Aye, well, I’ll not know either of those dilemmas, but I do know that men his age are good for nothing beyond those two demands.”

  Lennox cleared his throat in a loud “Harrumph,” and then sobered. “Perhaps all is not lost. It occurred to me that there is a Scot with both the power and the influence with Longshanks to gain your father’s release.”

  “Who?” Meghan asked, prepared to travel to the ends of Scotland to beg him.

  “Robert the Bruce.”

  “No.” Meghan turned and walked away.

  “Meghan! Listen to reason, girl,” Lennox said, chasing after her. “He’s the bloody King of Scotland–-“

  ”No, he’s not!”

  “Aye, he is. Don’t let yer father’s plans for the Comyn clan to regain the throne mislead ye. The Bruce has the strength and the force to hold the throne. He and Edward have a truce between them now. The English king will listen to his fellow sovereign, perhaps even release your father so that Robert will be indebted to him.”

  Meghan stopped in her tracks and spun around to face her uncle. “And why would that bastard Bruce want to help us?”

  Lennox bit off a laugh. “Well, in the first place, because ye wouldna accuse him of bein’ a bastard to his face.” His smile faded. “The Bruce is not a stupid man. He knows that he must have all of Scotland behind him to fully overthrow Edward’s grasp. Were you to swear the Innes clan’s support to his crown, I believe he would do all he could to free your father.”

  “Swear the clan’s support? Are ye daft, man? I said my father would skin me alive if I treated with King Edward, but he would disembowel me with his own knife were I to betray him to Robert the Bruce!”

  “As he no doubt faces the possibility of disembowelment himself, I doubt he would be so eager to inflict it or any other punishment on you for sparing him that trial,” Lennox replied quietly.

  Meghan shook her head. “No. There must be another way.”

  “I’m hard pressed to think what it may be,” Lennox said, an edge sharpening his normally amiable tone.

  “I will discover it,” Meghan vowed.

  ***

  That night Meghan dreamt again of the English punishment for traitors. Only this time there were no shouting crowds calling for blood, no hooded executioner with fouled axe, no screams of pain from the accused. There was blood, however, buckets of it and it poured from her father’s chest, threatening to drown her in its flow. Meghan tried to scream but her throat was clogged as if full of the warm salty liquid. Oengus watched her steadily, his face eerily calm as his life’s blood spilled from his body. Even as they bound him between two teams of horses, each facing opposite directions, he uttered not a word, but turned his head to continue staring at his daughter. Meghan tried to run to him, but found she was holding something. Looking down, she found the reins to one of the horses in her hands. This time she found her voice as she screamed.

  Meghan’s strangled scream woke her and she sat up quickly in bed to dispel the horrible images swirling in her mind. She put a hand to her brow and found it slick with sweat, though she shivered as if it were the middle of winter instead of nearly July. Flopping back, she drew the covers up under her chin and clenched her teeth to prevent them from chattering. She tried to think of something soothing, like the Latin mass sung at Christmas, or the cheery crackle of a fire in the hearth. Instead she found herself thinking of a Maypole bedecked with ribbons, a castle full of revelers, and a handsome man by the name of Bruce. Against her will, she remembered the past Mayday celebration she’d attended with her father and knew she was doomed.

  Though she thought she’d rather die than remember, Meghan could not stifle the memories that welled up. They poured forth from the farthest recesses of her mind like a pot boiling over on the fire. Instead of the cold snap that chilled her fingers, in her memory, Meghan could only feel the gentle warmth of a fragrant May evening. Instead of fear and worry for her father’s plight and despair at her own inability to help him, she gave in to the remembered anticipation of that Mayday celebration–-the unspoken promise which had filled the air like the scent of freshly baked bread…

  Chapter 3

  Even on that beautiful spring evening with the smell of newly bloomed blossoms wafting through the open windows mingling with the delicious aromas of roasting meat and freshly baked bread, Meghan had had no wish to marry a goat. As a result she looked about the hall full of bachelors with a speculative eye. Though she was not interested in marrying just yet, her father had threatened her with a livestock wedding if she did not choose a suitable husband at this event.

  Two days before, her father had announced they would travel to Earl Seamus Graham’s small keep to participate in the Mayday celebrations. Since Oengus Innes rarely participated in such festivities, Meghan asked him why they were going.

  “D’ye think I need a reason?” he asked sourly.

  “Nay, but ye usually have one,” Meghan replied, well used to his brusqueness.

  Oengus laughed at that. “Aye, I’m no the type of man to gad about wi’out a purpose, am I? I want to take a look at Seamus’ new breeding stock. I hear he’s a new stallion from France.”

  Meghan nodded. Innesbrook had a reputation for breeding strong horses.

  “Oh, I though we might as well see about gettin’ ye a husband. ‘Tis well past time ye were wed. I need an heir and the clan needs a future leader.”

  “I’m your heir,” Meghan mumbled to herself but her father had a hunter’s ears.

  “Aye, but no Scot worth his salt would follow a woman into battle.” Oengus’ lips twisted with suppressed rage and grief. “I’ll no find a man to replace your brothers, but mayhap I can raise another to do the job.”

  He turned his shrewd gaze on her. “Ye’ll provide me that heir before I die and I’ll train him to lead clan Innes.”

  Meghan turned away before she sighed so her father would not hear its frustration. Since the death of her brothers, her father had become obsessed with obtaining an heir and though she felt she had well proven herself as an administrator and leader, the very fact that she was a woman invalidated her worth in her father’s eyes.
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br />   Thus here she was, dressed in a new gown with her hair clean and brushed, her mother’s necklace of silver at her neck: a fit prize for an eligible bachelor. No, a trussed goose for a hungry wolf. Meghan laughed at the thought and resumed her perusal of the decorated hall.

  Garlands of new flowers bedecked the window sills of Castle Clackmannan and the stout wooden shutters were thrown back to allow the fresh spring air to dispel the mustiness of the small, cramped, stone fortress. Trestle tables groaned beneath the weight of food, delicacies set out to accommodate the hungry crowds. Visitors from as far away as Drummond were crammed into every nook and cranny of the drafty place. Meghan thanked the saints and her father’s good name that she had been afforded a small chamber, even if she did have to share it with five other girls. Since the death of the earl’s wife nearly five years past, no festival had been celebrated in the great hall. Clearly, the time for mourning was past and the occasion was even more raucous than normal. Meghan glanced around the great hall, wondering if she would meet her husband here. She hoped that her father would allow her some say in the matter. If Oengus only looked to find a strapping man who would sire strong sons, she might be saddled with--

  “What think ye of the crop o’ young men, Meghan?”

  Meghan turned to her newly married friend Glynnis and her younger sister Sorcha. Meghan shook off her dismal thoughts and looked again at the boisterous crowd, sighing heavily for her friends’ amusement. “They’re alright for a passel of boys, but you’re the only one of us to catch a real man, Glynnis.”

  “Aye,” said Sorcha, getting into the spirit of the teasing. “Are ye sure you wouldn’t be willing to share him with us, sister?”

  All three burst into giggles befitting girls half their age.

  “You’ll no get so much as a peck from my Gordon,” Glynnis said, attempting to sound stern. Then relenting graciously, she said, “But I will help you find boys with promise. ‘Tis time you both were married–no more gadding about, you hear?”

  “Oh, aye, Glynnis,” Meghan said. “And you’ve been married for how long now?”

  “All of three weeks, I’ll have you know.”

  More riotous giggles attracted the attention of the young men under speculation and Sorcha smiled sweetly at them all. She, at least, did not view the prospect of choosing a husband upon first site with the same dread Meghan did.

  Meghan turned when Sorcha sucked in her breath. “What is it? Find someone you like?”

  “Aye, and he’s no boy, either.”

  Glynnis squinted across the hall. “Who–oh him. Do not so much as look in his direction.”

  “Why not?” asked Meghan.

  Glynnis smiled with the anticipation of one who is about to impart a tidbit of juicy gossip. “Because that, my dears, is Black William.”

  Sorcha gasped, but Meghan couldn’t help but laugh. “Black William, eh?” She stood on tiptoe to see over the crowd. The man in question lounged indolently against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his head lowered as he listened to the maid at his side. Despite his posture, she could tell he was taller than most men. Taller and perhaps broader through the shoulders, though the rest of his frame was lanky enough. He wore an indiscriminate hunting plaid of muted browns and greens. Of his face, she could discern little except that his nose was crooked as if it had been broken one too many times. His hair and brows were the intense black of a moonless night.

  “I wonder why they call him Black William,” Meghan joked.

  “‘Tis not for his coloring, I’ll assure you,” Glynnis answered.

  Meghan laughed. “Oh no?”

  Glynnis shook her head and Meghan stole another glance. The crowd had parted and she did not have to stretch to view Black William clearly.

  “Well, he appears wholesome enough, but I suppose even Satan must be able to hide a black soul.”

  “I hear he’s killed his share of men,” Glynnis whispered. “But that’s not how he got his name.”

  Sorcha’s eyes widened. “Do tell us, sister!”

  “He’s called Black William for his vile reputation with women. He leads a girl to believe he’ll marry her just to woo her to bed. I hear he even took one maid’s dowry, gambled it away and still refused to wed her!”

  Meghan laughed again. “The cad!” she said in mock offense. “Killing men didn’t earn him a sinister name, but seducing a milkmaid did, eh?”

  “Mock me not. ‘Tis said that he can sway the most righteous maid with just one smile.”

  Shaking her head, Meghan inspected the man again. Crooked nose aside, he was rather handsome, she thought. Still, enough so to woo women from the path of decency?

  As if feeling her critical gaze upon him, Black William glanced up. Startling hazel-green eyes fringed with sooty lashes stared steadily at her. Meghan’s heart froze. Slowly, a smile as crooked as his nose spread across his lips. As if to counter their lopsided frame, his teeth were straight and startlingly white. Meghan’s heart passed a few frantic beats and lurched again. Black William raised one eyebrow at her and nodded politely. Meghan looked again at his mouth. There was nothing polite about that smile. It was...too knowing.

  She tore her gaze from his, forcing herself to focus on Sorcha and Glynnis. Aye, he was handsome enough.

  “What clan is he?” Meghan asked.

  “I know not. I only just heard about him this eve,” Glynnis admitted.

  Meghan pushed all thoughts of Williams, Black or no, from her mind. She was on a mission to find an adequate husband before her father chose one. “Let us gather fresh flowers for our hair before the dancing begins.” But as she turned to lead her friends out of the hall, she resolutely refused to turn and meet the gaze that was all but burning her back.

  ***

  “William! Hey, William!”

  William turned his attention to his burly friend. “Where have ye been, Hamish?”

  “Fetchin’ us a bit o’ ale, ye clot. Where’d ye think I’d been?”

  “You’ve been gone so long, I thought ye might be brewing it yourself.”

  “It no be worth drinkin’ did I do that,” Hamish replied.

  William took the heavy tankard and slowly sipped the thick bitter brew. He glanced absently about the great hall and his gaze rested on the young woman who’d earlier stared at him as if he were Satan himself. She and her friends had just reentered the hall and their heads were bedecked with flower wreaths. William had no eye for the two blonds, however.

  The young woman was tall–-taller than most women. Besides the flowers, she was crowned with a riotous mass of auburn curls that hung halfway down her back. Her skin was the color of new cream, her eyes a cool grey. Her tunic clung to her curves and as he watched, she tugged self-consciously at it, as if her breasts and hips had developed over night-–or as if she felt his appraising gaze. Her lips were full, and except for when she’d glared at him, they seemed to be permanently parted in laughter.

  William thought of Lorna, the woman he’d just been flirting with. She had made her desires all too apparent and he’d intended to fulfill them until just a moment ago. Now, he dismissed her from his thoughts. He wanted to hear what the redhead’s laughter sounded like, wanted to know if her lips and neck were as soft as they looked. For some odd reason, he didn’t want her to stare at him with the censorious gaze she had earlier leveled at him.

  “Hey, Hamish. Have ye any idea who that ginger-haired lass is?”

  Hamish squinted. “That’s the abbess of Balquidder.” He shuddered. “She’ll ruin any fun to be had this week, an’ I’ll bet my life on it.”

  William frowned and then saw the somberly clad nun Hamish was describing.

  “Not the abbess, you clod.”

  Hamish belched. “That abbess forced me to eat an entire root of ginger last year when she heard me complainin’ of a stomachache. Thought she did the same to you.”

  William shook his head and let out an exasperated laugh. “The red curls. See them?” He jut
ted his chin in the young woman’s direction.

  “Why didn’t ye just say so then?” Hamish whined. Craning his neck, he squinted again. Grasping William’s shoulder, he levered his short body up to its tiptoes. “Ahh,” he said.

  “You know her?” William asked with anticipation.

  “Never seen ‘er before, lad.”

  “Then what do you mean, ‘Ahh’?”

  “She’s a bonny one, aye?”

  William’s disappointment faded as he looked again at the young woman who was flirting with a small group of admirers.

  “Aye, she’s a bonny one,” he murmured.

  “Meghan Innes is her name, and ye might as well put her out o’ your mind.”

  William frowned and glanced down at Lorna. He’d quite forgotten her presence. Now he realized she had clearly read his thoughts and was disgruntled. Smiling amiably, he put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her close.

  “Lorna, sweetie, you’re no thinkin’ my eyes are wandering, are ye? Ye know you’re the prettiest lass here.”

  Appeased, Lorna said, “So long as you know it too, ye cad.”

  William threw a quick glance at Meghan Innes. “But just in case I forget, tell me why I needs put her out o’ my mind?”

  Lorna stiffened but when William turned his smile back to her, she relaxed and rested her hand possessively on his chest. “She’s old Oengus Innes’ daughter. Her family has long supported the Comyn’s claim to the throne and she’d sooner kiss a goat than have anything to do with a Bruce. Besides, her brothers have all died and I hear she’s a pretty dowry set aside for a noble husband.”

  “Then ‘tis a good thing I’ve found you, since the fair Meghan is lost to me, isn’t it?” William said.