Page 94 of The Speed of Lightning
David leaned forward. “And to topple a king, we’ll need a tale like an arrow-strike—swift, sharp, strong enough to knock him from his complacency.”
Freya lifted her chin. “I’m sure I’m up to the task?—”
David shook his head. “I have the story. You need only compose it.”
Aileen rose, sweeping two fingers across her arm in a delicate motion, like playing a melody. Calum beamed. “She says your name…is Poet.”
Chapter 26
FINDLUGAN, ISLAY - FEBRUARY 14, 1387
The melody of the hurdy-gurdy?1 lifted over the bonfire at the center of the forecourt just outside the Great Hall of Findlugan, mere steps from the king’s residence. Saint Valentine’s festivities cloaked their true purpose—clans from across the Isles had gathered to feast, unaware that a spark of rebellion was about to be lit in their midst. Lightning’s gaze swept the crowd, then the exits, calculating their fleeting window to act. They were dangerously close to discovery at the very heart of the king’s power. One wrong move, and the plan would collapse before it even began.
He had spent much time at Findlugan, though only as a stopover between missions—a place to mend armor or join war councils. In the past ten years it had grown into more than a town—a true capital, a thriving hub where Islanders traded, shared news, and renewed the ties that bound them. He had rarely lingered in the Great Hall, or forecourt, instead relegated with the Lochbuies to the shacks at the fringes. The minstrels and their entertainments had never tempted him; it had always been mission first. But now, sitting with Shadow at a makeshift table near the west gate, he began to understand the allure.
Cota Liath wasn’t at all what he’d expected. They had found him quickly enough, yet the man himself was a surprise. For one thing, he was English, speaking their tongue with a gentler elegance—his voice slow and unhurried, carrying a natural rise and fall, a lyricism their harsher intonation lacked. For another, he was refined, maybe twenty years older than himself, yet still tall, slender, and strong, dressed in courtly finery. His once-white brocade surcoat, however, had dulled to gray, the mark of long years spent beside fires like this one.
The courtyard was packed this evening. Shadow and Lightning had paid their four-pence and huddled ale in hand, blending with the crowd. For such a fee, Lightning expected rapt silence, but folk clustered in groups, laughing and talking as the man performed. Cota Liath pressed on, voice ringing clear, carrying his poem above their scattered attention.
“Now welcome summer, with your sun soft,
that this winter’s weather does off shake,
and the long nights’ black away does take!
Saint Valentine, who art high aloft—thus sing the small fowls for your sake?—
Now welcome summer, with your sun soft,
that this winter’s weather does off-shake.”
Lightning leaned in, transfixed by the man’s skill, though the lofty words of the ballad drifted past him. Perhaps this was what his father had seen—clear talent wasted on dull material, flatter than a wet peat fire. He scanned the apathetic crowd, grimacing. The numbers were right, but would Poet hold them long enough? This might be their first—and only—chance to strike at King Dómhnall directly.
Cota Liath’s fingers flew over the buttons of the instrument, his other hand cranking in rhythm. Eyes closed, he lost himself in the whirring buzz of the tune. Lightning’s heart hammered as the final bars neared—the plan was about to begin. His eyes scanned the walls and found Birdy high upon the tower, perched on a narrow corbel.
He crossed both fingers, sweeping them out.Ready?
She mirrored him.Ready.
Guards?
Five patrols. Three men each. Circling northeast. Five minutes apart.
He swigged ale, scanning to be sure no one watched, then looked up again.Charger?
In position. South of the causeway.
To his right, Rock leaned against the wall, solid and wary. The tale had been his idea, but Lightning worried if he could withstand reliving it. Rock gave a short nod.
Are you certain?Lightning signed.
Rock made another short nod.
Cota Liath’s hands moved over the buttons, his feet tapping a subtle rhythm. The hurdy-gurdy ground to a stop, its final note hanging over the forecourt. The crowd offered scattered applause. He raised a hand, expression deflated.
“Thank you, lads and lasses. This latest work,Roundel, from the bard Chaucer. Copies for sale—a ha’penny.”
Lightning nodded to Murdoch, sitting to the far north beside a figure draped in black wool. He nodded back, then lifted his flute to his lips. Like a whipcrack, the lively notes of a jig zinged across the crowd. The audience glanced at one another, smiles spreading as they began to clap along with the tune. Across the crowd the draped figure rose, gliding before the audience, completely concealed.
