Rivals for the Crown (9 page)

"D'ye think it'll come to war?" Rory asked, pulling his wet tunic over his head and tossing it on the floor.

"Look at the two of ye, half hoping it will," Liam said. "Dinna hope it, not even for a moment. I've seen war and ye dinna want to be part of it. Here," he said, handing the shirts to them. "We have a good fire, and these will keep ye warm while yer own clothes are drying. Now tell me why ye're here and why the hell is everyone talking about Rory MacGannon killing a man over a lass."

"I told ye he'd have heard," Kieran said. "And it's only two days ago."

"My da asked us to come see ye and Nell and hear what was being said," Rory told his uncle. "And to be sure ye'd heard about the Maid, although none of us could think that ye hadn't. After this we're to go to Edinburgh and listen to what's talked about there."

"And then down to Berwick," Kieran said.

"Where ye'll hear what's being said there as well," Liam said, answering the knock at the door. He returned with a tray of food and put it on a table. "Come and eat, lads, and tell me why there's a blood feud with ye at the center. What happened?"

"We were in Onich, on the bank of Loch Linnhe," Rory said.

"Aye, I ken it. And?"

"And a man was trying to rape a lass."

"And?"

"And I stopped him. And we fought. And I killed him."

"I heard ye cut him into pieces."

"No."

"His head was almost off, but not quite," Kieran said. "There were four of them. Rory killed the one and we wounded another and the others ran."

"The lass lived to tell the tale," Rory said.

"That's not the
rumour
that's being spread. I heard ye were the one doing the raping and ye attacked the others."

"How could that be?" Rory asked. "If I'm busy raping a lass, would I take the time to start a fight with the onlookers?"

Liam nodded and took another sip of wine. "But isn't that just what ye're saying the other man did?"

"No. We came upon them, him tearing her clothes off and two of them holding her down and another watching. We stopped it. I dinna mean to kill him, but he fought back, and after that there wasna a choice. I dinna regret it."

"Ye may. Ye've made enemies out there. Think they're telling the tale that they were the wrongdoers? Not likely."

"The lass will tell the truth."

"And be raped for it, or worse? She'll keep her mouth shut if she's wise. Who were they?"

"MacDonnells."

"Och! Making enemies from the clan whose land ye have to pass through every time ye come here. Cousins of yer mother's."

Rory took a long drink of wine and put his cup down. "I dinna choose the fight, Liam, but neither did I shrink from it. Given the same choice, I'd do it again. And if the MacDonells shelter men like those, we need to ken that about them."

"They're not like that." Liam leaned back and gave Rory a long, appraising look. "How old are ye now?"

"Twenty-one. Last Lammas."

"Ye have a lot to learn."

"What was I supposed to do?"

"Just what ye did, lad, just what ye did. But ye need to be a bit wiser."

Rory bristled, but Liam continued.

"Kill them all next time. Dinna leave anyone to tell false tales. Now, tell me what's being said in the west and on the islands."

They told Liam the news they'd brought while they ate warm beef slices with dark bread, a cheese that complemented the red wine, and a compote of apples and oranges. Liam sliced the meat with a dagger engraved with a language Rory could not read. Liam, he thought, must have bought it on one of his many journeys, for Liam had traveled almost everywhere. Liam's past was shadowy, and seldom discussed, but Rory had pieced together that Liam had been an ambassader for King Alexander, spending much time on

his behalf in other countries' courts. Liam had been in France when Davey had been rescued, when Nell had been forced to marry Lachlan. And in Flanders when Gannon had killed Lachlan and been banished from court. But all that was ancient news.

"D'ye really think it'll come to war?" Rory asked.

"D'ye really think the Bruces will back down from their claim? Balliol's closer to the throne and we all ken it, but the Bruces are an ambitious lot."

"Ye dinna care for the Bruces?" Kieran asked.

Liam snorted. "Ye could say that. Ye ken my uncle is the Sheriff of Ayr, and as such, in command of yer da's lands. And Carrick is just south. The Bruces have caused enough trouble down there, haven't they? They've made many enemies. But only a fool would discount them. Robert the elder may be an old man, but he's a vicious one still. And look what his son did, kidnapping Maijory of Carrick and forcing her to marry him."

"I heard it was the other way round," Kieran said.

Liam shrugged. "Does it matter? They're well matched, those two. And all of them are tied to the English throne and probably hoping Edward will lend his weight to their cause. Three Roberts, all looking out for themselves first."

"And Balliol?" Rory asked. "Is he looking out for himself, or tied to England?"

"Both, of course. But he also has yer cousins, the Comyns, guarding his back. And ye need to guard yers, lads. When they hear ye're abroad, they'll try to recruit ye to gather news for them as well, and will make vast promises for the future. Ye'll do well to be cautious of everyone. Ye see what happened on our way in here. Ye've got some vowing to kill ye and everyone willing to take sides. It's an interesting time for ye to be traveling. Ye'll stop back here on yer way home?"

"Aye."

"Good. Who kens, maybe we'll have a king by then."

They talked for a while longer, then found their beds, Liam in his comfortable room, Rory and Kieran down the hall in less sumptuous surroundings. Liam had handed them a wine bag as they'd left, and Rory shared it with Kieran now.

"D'ye think there will be a war?" Kieran asked, then took a mouthful of wine.

"Could be," Rory said, stretching out on the cot he'd been given. Outside, the rain drummed on the tile roof of the hall, and he pulled the cover over his shoulder, glad to be inside.

"Who will we fight for?" Kieran asked.

"Balliol, I guess. Ye heard Liam. He has no use for the Bruces. Neither does my da, so I'm thinking we'd fight for Balliol."

"I'm ready!"

Rory laughed. "Drink a bit more wine and ye'll be starting a war of yer own."

"Are ye not ready to fight for a good cause?"

"I am for the right cause."

Kieran slept then, but Rory lay awake in the dark, wondering what lay ahead. He felt as though he stood on the threshold of something, but he had no idea whether it was wise or foolish to step forward. Or if he had a choice. His father, he knew, often had dreams that foretold the future. Not for the first time, Rory wished he'd inherited the gift.

The morning was clear and bright, with the promise of warmth later, and they were anxious to get on the road while the weather held. They had breakfast with Liam in the large hall teeming with soldiers and men from all parts of Scotland, then set out, heading east to Edinburgh.

When they went to the stable to collect their horses, the lad greeted them, asking their names.

"MacDonald," Kieran said.

"MacGannon."

The lad's eyes widened. He pointed down the line of stalls and fled.

Kieran and Liam exchanged a look as Rory walked slowly past the other stalls, some empty, some containing horses that watched him pass. There was Kieran's horse, but not his. The stall at the end was empty. Or so he thought at first, but then he caught a glimpse of something dark on the floor. He leaned closer.

"Jesu!" Kieran, at his shoulder, covered his mouth and turned away.

The horse's throat had been cut. It had bled to death on the floor of the stable, the blood spreading through the hay to stain the whole space.

"They ken ye're here, lad," Liam said quietly.

FOUR

Rory bought another horse in Stirling village, ignoring the

glances thrown his way as they left. The day seemed colder than before, and he found himself looking over his shoulder much too often. Liam accompanied them for an hour, leaving them at a crossroad, but not before lecturing them again.

"Berwick's a bit rough, ye ken. Not all of it, of course. The Flemish are all over and the Dutch are there now, too, and God kens a host of English. Ye'll be sending messengers home with news?"

"Aye. If we hear of anything important, we'll send them to ye as well."

"Stay alert." Liam paused, frowning. "Shall I see ye to Falkirk?"

"And tuck us in our beds?" Rory asked. "I'm thinking no."

Liam held out a hand to each of them. "Remember, they ken who ye are, but ye dinna ken who they are. It looks like a whole

bunch of MacDonnells have decided to go after ye. There's no law right now in Scotland. Dinna depend on the goodness of man. Safe journey, lads. Guard yer backs, aye?"

"We'll do that," Rory said.

In Falkirk they learned little new information, hearing the same discussions about the rivals for the crown repeated endlessly. They also heard the story of the murderous Rory MacGannon, who had killed four men with his bare hands, then raped a family of women. He fought the urge to defend himself and his name. He kept his head down and said nothing, but he wondered how high the tally would go before people stopped believing it.

In Edinburgh, where many of the Eastern Highlanders and Border families had men stationed, they heard no more about Rory MacGannon—only political talk. And here they heard some news from the Continent, and that King Edward, and the forces that had accompanied him, were lingering in the English Midlands.

They did not stay in Edinburgh long and soon were on the road again, far from alone. They rode south with a steady stream of travelers, arriving on the bank of the River Tweed opposite Berwick late on the afternoon of a
grey
November day. The city had an interesting history. It had originally been Scottish, then had been granted to England's Henry II as part of the ransom paid by Scotland's imprisoned King William the Lion for his freedom. Richard I of England sold it back to the Scots to raise money for his Crusade, and England's King John destroyed it in 1216. Berwick had survived the changes and had thrived despite them.

Rory had no trouble finding a ferryman to take them across the estuary to the city itself, and before long he and Kieran were on the flat barge, looking around them with interest as the ferryman navigated the current. Berwick
harbour
was filled with watercraft of all sorts, small fishing boats moored alongside merchant ships from the Continent. English galleys bobbed next to
long ships
. Coracles and ferries competed for passengers who crossed the estuary like insects on new growth. There did not seem to be any pattern: there were as many leaving as arriving. Rory's first task was finding a place for them to sleep.

"D'ye ken a good inn for us, sir?" Rory asked the ferryman.

The man snorted. "For the two of ye? Down by the water, just within the city, there are places that will house ye. And women willing enough there to serve ye whatever ye desire. Even Highlanders."

"What?" Kieran asked indignantly.

"Even Highlanders?" Rory asked the ferryman mildly. "They're that undemanding?"

The man laughed. "Your kind is not always welcome in the south, but Berwick has very few scruples about its visitors. If ye stay peaceful ye'll do well."

"We're here to do business, not cause trouble."

"Then ye'll do just fine. Berwick understands making money." He slanted a look at Kieran, then at Rory. "Young to be merchants."

"We're not merchants. Any advice for dealing with them?"

"Don't let them know you're Highlanders. Change out of your Highland clothing and talk proper Scots, not Gaelic, and ye won't be taken advantage of."

"We're not idiots," Kieran said.

The ferryman gave him a long, appraising look. "Ye asked for advice. I gave it. If ye act like that ye'll just convince everyone that what they've heard, that Highlanders are akin to savages, is correct."

"Is that what ye think?" Rory asked.

"I don't think. If the coin is genuine, I ferry them across. If not, I don't."

"Fair enough," Rory said, and the ferryman laughed.

They were silent the rest of the trip, but as they climbed the hill, Kieran complained about the ferryman's remarks. Rory shook his head.

"Let it go. Ye'll be starting that war we were discussing all by yerself."

"Did ye hear what he said about Highlanders?"

"Aye. They think we're barbarians. They ken us for what we are as soon as they look at us. See anyone dressed as we are?"

The differences were notable. The citizens of Berwick wore long, dark tunics and leggings, or long, dark robes with under robes of a contrasting color. Their cloaks were often unlined, or lined with the softest wool. Rory and Kieran wore saffron-colored heavy linen tunics over knitted trews. Their cloaks were long, dark and lined with fur, and over that, tossed over a shoulder, was the plaid length of wool every Highlander knew, dyed with the plants of their homes. Their hair was different as well, braided away from their faces and loose down their backs, whereas the townsmen's hair was cut shorter or hidden under felt caps. The only similarity was their boots, all of leather, most with a low heel.