Page 3 of The Hawk Laird
He had two arrows left. The distance would lessen his accuracy, but he aimed, drew back, letting one fly. The bolt hit one of the men, but he rode on with the others.
These men would escort their captive to a trial, and a horrible death. The archer was sure of that. His friend was a leader and a rebel who had driven the English king to mad obsession. Neither justice nor mercy would be shown.
One arrow left. He nocked, drew, sighted. And lowered the bow.
For one fervent moment, he wanted to take his friend’s life with a sure, swift arrow before the English could do it with torture and humiliation. He raised the bow again, eyes steady, jaw locked. His heart sank within him like a stone, and he shot.
The arrow fell short.
Chapter One
September, 1305
Rain pattered onstone as the pilgrim mounted the low steps to the abbey church. He pulled open the oak door and stepped inside. Shafts of light, silvered by rain, pierced the dimness in the vaulted nave. Plainsong drifted toward him, chanted by monks in the choir space past the altar.
Danger shadowed him like a demon, even here. He could not linger, but he paused, closed his eyes. Peace enveloped him like mist veiled the hills. But serenity, for him, was fleeting. He was glad for the simple blessing of shelter from the rain. The forest was his home now, and he was not as accustomed to enclosing walls or stone underfoot as he used to be.
He drew his cloak closer over his wide shoulders and dipped his fingers in holy water, crossing himself with a swift, practiced gesture. Cautiously he moved along the right aisle through shadows toward the nave. He was hunted daily now by English and Scots alike, but the summons of a friend brought him here to Dunfermline Abbey, out of the sanctuary of the forest. If he was discovered, his capture—or his escape—would disturb the hard-won peace of the abbey.
Last year, the English king had stayed here, summoning Scots nobles to pay him submission, and dispensing what he called justice. As he departed, King Edward had ordered the place burned, even though his sister was buried beneath the abbey stones. The blackened ruins of the refectory anddormitory were a stone’s throw from the church, which had survived.
He genuflected by the altar and moved past. In several years as a fugitive, he had never submitted to King Edward, unlike most Scottish nobles by now. He had taken a pledge of freedom for himself and Scotland.
Months ago, he had been wounded in battle, captured with two of his cousins, and thrown in an English dungeon. One cousin had died beside him and the other—a young woman—had been taken away. And still, James had refused to promise fealty to King Edward.
What he had promised, ultimately, had been far worse.
As he walked, his tall warrior’s build and gait naturally attracted glances, but he bowed his head and moved on. The scallop shell and brass saint’s badge pinned to his cloak identified him as a penitent man. Dunfermline Abbey was a frequent stop along the pilgrimage route, so the disguise served him well.
He looked about for the one he was to meet after vespers. A few worshippers knelt or sat on benches, absorbed in prayer. The smell of incense lingered, and plainsong swelled in the church. He knew the melody—a kyrie he had sung countless times in what seemed another life.
Now his soul had rough edges. He had changed much.
He entered the chapel of Saint Margaret at the east end of the church and moved toward the massive carved marble tomb of the long-ago Scottish queen. Kneeling in candlelight beside the plinth, he lit a new candle in homage to Margaret, a holy friend to pilgrims and those in need. He folded his hands and waited.
Footsteps, then a monk wearing the black robe of the Benedictine order entered the chapel and knelt beside him. The monk whispered a prayer, then glanced at James. He had a tonsure, brown hair, and a long and familiar face.
“Brother, I have traveled far on a poor day, and hope for good news,” James said.
“And I wish I had that for you, Jamie.”
James glanced sharply at his friend, heart sinking. “He is dead?”
“Wallace is gone,” the monk whispered.
James nodded, steeling himself against grief and anger.
“William Wallace was taken by foul treachery, Christ have mercy on his soul.” The Benedictine shook his head. “We heard just days ago. Captured by treachery, brought to trial in London, found guilty of treason…and executed.”
“Treason! He never declared fealty to King Edward,” James murmured. “He was not an English subject. He was condemned on false grounds.”
“Aye. They accused him of deeds he never committed—well, some he did, but naught to merit his fate. He was dragged to the gallows and hung until he scarcely lived. They took him down and—” Blair stopped. “I cannot say the rest, not here in this holy place.”
“Tell me,” James growled.
Blair murmured low, detailing cruelty and courage, while James listened in silence. His blood surged with sorrow and rage. A single arrow could have saved his friend untold suffering, had he only had the courage to—he clenched his hands, felt his spirit harden within him as if the last tender feeling turned to stone.
“Martyr,” John was saying. “His death will spark the Scottish cause, just when King Edward thought to extinguish the flame forever.”
