Page 133 of The Speed of Lightning
A guard leaned in, torchlight catching his face. “Saints. What have they done to you?”
The odd, almost tender remark lit a flicker of hope. “Are they releasing us?”
His face fell. “I’m sorry, lass. No. The King’s only agreed the MacDonald guards may see you as far as Lochaline. Once we reach the green…” he paused, grimacing, “…the Stewarts will take over.”
Freya’s heart plummeted. “My husband? Has he been told?”
The guard shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
She drew a breath, slow and shuddering. Her chest ached with the weight of all she was losing—Calum, Bog, her friends, the children she would never hold. The grief threatened to crush her, and her eyes burned as fresh tears slid hot over her aching cheeks.
Yet in her sorrow, something steadier stirred. She remembered the river, the words she had whispered there, the God who had heard her then and would hear her now. Death was coming, but not the end. Beyond the scaffold, beyond the sword, lay a kingdom without end.
Chapter 40
LOCHALINE, SCOTLAND - MARCH 13, 1387
The horse cart jolted along the road, and Freya gripped the wooden frame, drawing in deep, precious breaths of sea air. Gulls dipped on the wind, crying overhead. The bracing salt filled her lungs, and she clung to every sight, every sound, imprinting them in her mind as her body began to tremble. She could endure this. Only a few moments more, and then—paradise.
Along the roadside, farmers removed their bonnets as the cart rattled past. Were they praying for her? For her condemned soul? Beside her, Cota Liath slumped against the cage wall, his face hard, eyes fixed on the sky.
The road bent, carrying them into Lochaline. Freya lifted her gaze, and for the first time she saw it—at the hill’s crest, the scaffold stark against the deep green, the village clustered below. A stage for justice and a warning to all who watched.
As the cart rumbled closer, another platform came into view, three seats raised high. At the center sat the King, to his right the Wolf, to his left the Abbot of Iona. Freya’s heart dropped. Never, since the war with the Wolf began, had she imagined her own kingdom would bow so low. That the rulers she once trustedcould twist peace into pretense, letting evil men trample the very people they were meant to protect.
The cart drew level with their platform. King Dómhnall’s eyes found hers, and she held them, staring back with all the condemnation she could muster. How must it feel, she wondered, to condemn your own blood for the sake of power? God had given her a hard life, a bruised childhood, a burdened path—but He had also given her a heart that still felt compassion. That was blessing enough. She would meet death knowing she had loved well and acted rightly. Better that than the cold stone beating in her half-brother’s chest.
The cart jolted to a halt before the scaffold. Brian dragged himself to his knees, and she slipped her arm beneath him, helping him rise as he leaned heavy against her. His heart thrummed against her shoulder, his breath ragged, a tear glinting before he set his jaw.
She tightened her hold. “It will be all right. Just a moment, and then it’s over.”
He gave a single nod.
The Stewart guards unlocked the cage. “No speaking. The Earl of Buchan forbids it. No words to each other, none to the crowd. Out. Quickly.” She stepped forward with Brian, but a guard seized her arm and wrenched her away.
“He needs help!”
The blow came fast, a smack across her wounded cheek that made her cry out.
“No talking.” He shoved her onto the road. Pain shot up her wrist as she fell, his boot forcing her toward the scaffold stairs. “Up. Quickly!”
On muddied hands and knees, Freya scrambled for the steps. The planks were roughly hewn and still smelled of fresh timber, an almost pleasant smell that made her stomach suddenly roil. The guard took her arm and began to drag her, her kneesknocking against the stairs. When they reached the platform he shoved her again and she flew forward, splinters digging into her palms.
“On your feet!”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She could not help it. This was not the solemn, judicial execution she was expecting; this was a performance. A lesson to the crowd below of what awaited any who defied Stewart rule. With effort, she rose and at last turned to face them.
Her eyes searched the horizon, the sea beyond, the rooflines of the village, hoping beyond hope that the Shield was near, yet everything looked as it should.
From every narrow lane in the village, men, women, and children were rounded up and forced down toward the ceremony herded by armed Stewart guards with swords and spears pointed at their backs. Deep fear was etched upon every face, especially among the children.
A crushing realization settled in her chest. This death, they would remember. How she faced it would carry them forward into the war with bravery, or it would crush their resistance. And so she dried her cheeks, swallowing the salty burn at her throat, remembering that she was still Poet. Whether her team was with her or not, she was on her final and most important mission.
God, give me peace. Give me strength.
The fierce spirit of the Storyteller tingled through her arms, her spine, stilling her trembling. She brushed hair from her eyes and began to plait it over her shoulder. When the braid was finished, she wound it round her head and tucked it in. She would need a naked neck. Better that the crowd, and Dómhnall, Stewart, and Fingon, should see it.
She drew a confident breath and lifted her chin high. The crowd continued to gather at the foot of the scaffold, their scared eyes looking at her as she stood defiantly in the Hebridean wind.In front of her, a headman’s block was carried and dropped down, shaking the board she was standing on. Her stomach twisted again, but she kept her face rebellious. They wanted fear, Stewart thrived on it, and she would give him none.
