Page 134 of The Speed of Lightning
Brian stumbled over to her, his appraising eye studying her. He lifted his shoulders, raising his chin beside her, hiding his mangled hands behind his back. He understood, though they spoke no words. Neither one of them would go down cowering in fear.
Behind them a spine-curdling sound began to alight, the sound of a hone dragging across the blade of an axe. Sharpening, grating, shrieking with finality.
The guard who had jostled her up the stairs stood to the front of the platform. It was here. It was upon her. Heart thudding, she struggled not to tremble.
“Whereas Freya Anna MacLean, convicted of high treason…”
He began the reading of her writ of execution, and she searched the crowd, praying that Calum was there, somewhere, among them. If she could only see him, or one friendly face, it would make this easier to bear. A sting of tears prickled at her eyes, but she drew in a deep breath of sea wind, refusing to let them fall.
She slipped her hand inside her chemise and slid Calum’s ballad discreetly into her hand, the warmth it held from her body making her feel as if he were near, sheltering her.
“…is adjudged to death, by decapitation…”
Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed sudden movement. She turned her head, hope surging for moments before realizing she saw only the flash of a pure white dove escape from the top of the chapel belfry at the far end of the green. It dipped low over the crowd, wheeled, and vanished back toward the tower.
“Witness the King at Ardtornish, the eleventh of March, in the fourth month of our reign. Signed by His Grace, King Dómhnall.”
Beside the platform a drum began to thrum, each beat echoing in her ribs. A boy, no more than thirteen, stepped forward and scattered hay at the base of the headman’s block. Stray stalks lifted on the wind and clung to the plain blue wool of her leine. She swallowed hard, lifted her chin, and held it high.
A maid she recognized from Ardtornish stepped forward, eyes glistening, a solemn white cap in her hands. Somewhere in the crowd, a baby cried. From their platform the King looked down, unmoved. Fingon steepled his fingers, not in prayer, but in satisfaction. Alexander Stewart stared at her, disappointed, as though he had expected more of a scene.
The guards took each of her arms and drug her forward, forcing her roughly to her knees. The maid knelt before her, hands shaking. Carefully she guided the tight-fitting cap over Freya’s hair, tucking in every strand carefully, a sob escaping from her throat. Freya caught her eyes and gave her a short nod of thanks.
The thunking boots of the axeman rattled across the platform, and he loomed before her, a black hood over his head. He seized her chin in his rough hand, fingers brushing her lips and digging into her flesh. “Shame to kill such a comely little piece.”
The crowd gasped. Beside the platform the wagon of hay was alight. For a heartbeat no one moved, not understanding the sight. A lantern had somehow fallen into the center. Seconds later its glass burst with a shattering boom—shards spraying outward, a thick cloud curling skyward in a great grey-blue plume. The concussion knocked Freya sidelong into the maid. The scaffold was still swaying as fire engulfed the hay wagonspreading fast. Guards began jumping down, running toward the well for water.
Brian staggered forward, eyes wide. “What the devil was that?”
Freya got to her knees, rising, her heart surging. “Black powder.”
Chaos erupted. From beneath heather bushes, from beneath thatch and through windows, from barrels, stables, and trees, men poured into the green. Their bare chests, arms, and faces were streaked with wild streaks of blue as they came screaming forward with axes, swords, and spears raised.
More guards leapt from the platform, rushing to shield the king. The villagers before the scaffold shrieked and scattered, believing themselves under attack. The maid fled down the steps, swept away with the crowd running north.
The careful control Freya clung to shattered as she realized who the pack of wild men were. Tears blurred her eyes. They were Jurans.
Alexander Stewart shot to his feet beside a pale-faced Dómhnall and a dismayed Fingon. “Kill her. Kill her now!”
The remaining two men shoved her forward. She kicked out, sending the block crashing over. A rough hand clamped her shoulders; another seized her throat, hauling her up. She choked for air, terror flooding her, as the block was dragged upright before her once more.
And then, beyond the green, a sound split the air—a war cry, savage and primal, so fierce it made her ears ring. The crowd parted in panic, clearing a path as a figure streaked toward her.
Calum.The same face she remembered from the day he’d hauled her aboard his skiff — but now ten years older, fierce, daubed like his Pictish forebears. His muscled body was covered in heathen blue, the black wolfhound emblazoned across him declaring him to be Cù Cogaidh, the unmatched hound of war.And he was streaking toward her, faster than the speed of lightning.
The guard forced her down, shoving her neck into the groove of the block. “Do it! Kill her!”
She screamed in disbelief. Not now—not when he was this close.
The axeman scrambled, raising his blade high. And then it fell.
Chapter 41
LOCHALINE, SCOTLAND - MARCH 13, 1387
Poet fought with everything she had, throwing herself away from the block as the two guards forced her toward it. It overturned.
More speed, he needed more speed. He wasn’t going to make it in time. He dropped his sword, leaning into the sprint and shortening his steps, his legs pushing him forward, his arms pumping. Beside him Bog coursed, his eyes pinned on Poet.
