The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (30 page)

Stunned, she could only stare in disbelief.

It was the king. 
He’d lost his fine cloak and his silver shield, but there was no doubt. It
was
the king. 
As she watched, he lurched toward the mill, swaying in the saddle. And as he came upon the miller’s wife drawing water from the burn, he startled her and she screamed, dropping her bucket.

The king’s gray horse took fright, and swerving sharply to the side, reared back and unseated its rider.

Merry watched in horror as the king fell, crashing to the ground. Clad in full battle armor, the noise of his fall was astonishingly loud, enough so to draw the attention of the miller’s sons in the fields. The lads set off at a dead run toward their mother where she stood, her hands clasped over her mouth as she looked at the man lying unmoving at her feet.

Slightly dazed, Merry moved to join them.

“Who is he, ma?” one of the lads asked, a tall brawny youth with a shock of blond hair.

“I dinna rightly know.” His mother swallowed, looking quite upset. “I thought he was a ghost, I did. Is he … dead?”

Cautiously, Merry leaned close and lifted the visor of the king’s helmet. Placing a finger under his nose, she waited a moment.

And then she felt it. A soft, whispering breath.

“He lives,” she said in relief.

The miller’s wife and her sons expelled loud thankful sighs.

“Then let’s take him inside,” the woman said, waving at the boys to make haste. “We should remove his armor, aye? He’ll be too heavy to carry otherwise.”

As they unbuckled his chest plate, Merry rose and surveyed the area for any signs of pursuit. ‘Twas strange that the king should end up alone. Surely, his men would be nearby to protect him?

But the road in both directions stood vacant.

“Carry him in now, lads, and lay him on the bed,” she heard the miller’s wife say, and turning, Merry discovered the king already divested of his armor.

The lads hefted the unconscious man between them then, as their mother followed, shooing them onward as though herding a flock of geese. Cautiously, they moved toward the cottage, which hid behind the mill.

“’Tis a strange day,” the woman said as Merry fell into step beside her. “I wonder who the poor man is? I feel fair awful for causing him harm.”

Merry eyed the woman a moment, wondering if she should divulge that her sons carried the King of Scotland. But then deciding it would only upset the woman more, she kept her silence.

Instead, recalling the prince had ordered his father not be harmed, she said, “We should send for a priest to tend his wounds.”

“Aye,” the miller’s wife agreed at once, opening the cottage door for the lads. “I’ll send my boys for one once we get the man settled.”

The cottage was a humble one. Made of stacked stone, it had just two rooms, a dirt floor, and a simple thatch roof. Gently, the lads lay the king upon a bed and drew a worn plaid over him as a coverlet. And then heeding their mother’s instructions, quickly left to fetch a priest.

The king didn’t move at first, but then his eyes opened and with a groan, he lifted his head and stared at his surroundings in confusion. However, then spying the miller’s wife, he stretched out his hand in entreaty.

“Send for a priest,” he gasped, seeming to find breathing difficult. “I would confess ere I die.”

“Now, let’s not have talk of dying, aye?” the woman responded, rushing to his side to pat him gently upon the shoulder. “I’ve sent my sons for a priest, but not to shrive ye, my lord. But to heal ye, aye?”

He drew his pale brows into a frown.

“And what might I call ye, my lord?” the woman continued kindly. “I sincerely regret startling your horse, I do. Tell me, is there a message we might send on your behalf?”

Merry drew her lips into a line, and from her place by the window saw a look of caution suffuse the king’s face. He waited a moment and then closed his eyes.

“Aye, ‘tis as it was foretold,” he whispered through pale lips. “The Lion of Scotland shall be devoured by his whelps. Cameron was right. ‘Twas never Mar. ‘Twas my own son …
because
of Mar.” His voice cracked.

“Eh?” The miller’s wife frowned in confusion, and then when the king didn’t respond, she glanced at Merry with a helpless shrug.

Slowly, Merry came to stand at the foot of the bed.

The king lay there, muttering to himself, and then his troubled gaze focused on them once again.

“Alas,” he said in a voice so soft they could hardly hear it. “I was your sovereign this morning.”

The woman’s jaw dropped open, and then wringing her hands in an utter panic, she ran out of the cottage and wailed after her sons to hurry back with the priest.

Apprehension shivered down Merry’s spine as she stared at the now-silent monarch, and for a moment, she was fair tempted to throw up her hands herself and run after the miller’s wife.

Instead, she curtsied deeply, even though she was still clad as a lad, and then she returned to peer out the window overlooking the stable yard and to bite her already worn nails.

Surely, someone would come to take over the king’s care soon?

She’d scarcely thought it when the miller’s sons could be seen, returning. One of the lads led a horse carrying a comely young man wearing the homespun brown tunic of a priest.

The horse caught Merry’s attention first. 
It was a fine animal. Its nostrils flared wide, and it moved with a confident step in much the same manner as a battle charger. ‘Twas hardly a horse a priest might ride.

And then the priest dismounted, sliding to the ground. Drawing his hood about his face, he bowed his head and strode toward the cottage. 
There was strength in his step, the heft of a warrior’s.

As he ducked under the low door, Merry instinctively stepped forward.

Immediately, the man turned her way.

She swallowed. What was she doing? She had no right to interfere, especially when the eyes of the man staring into her own appeared calm and earnest.

“I am Father John, lad,” he introduced himself quietly, and then his gaze flitted to the king lying on the bed.

Lad. How easy it was to forget that she must still play the part of a lad. Clearing her throat, she stepped back and nodded at the king. “His Majesty is in need of your aid.”

“Then I shall do what I can,” the man responded with a dip of his cleft chin.

Brushing past her, he moved to kneel next to the bed, and first making the sign of the cross, he then placed a gentle hand upon the monarch’s shoulder.

The king’s eyes opened at once and upon seeing the priest, he gasped. “Father, I am certain to die this day. I would confess straightway so that my sins do not follow me.”

“Aye, my son,” the priest acknowledged kindly. “Tell me, how were ye wounded?”

The king swallowed and replied weakly, “I was knocked from the back of my horse and crushed by the weight of mine own armor.”

The young priest was silent a moment.

For the briefest of moments, Merry could have sworn she saw an expression of outright contempt sweep across his face.

But then he spoke, and his voice was only kind, comforting. “Your wounds do not appear so grievous that ye might not yet recover from them, my son.”

The king took strength in his words. “Aye, then there is hope still?” He seized on the words desperately but then grasped at the holy man’s robe and demanded all the same, “But I would still confess my sins. I would be prepared and not die unshriven, father. The prophecy says that I shall die.”

“We all shall die,” the priest answered quietly. “Ye shouldna hold to the Black Arts, my son. They are the pathway to the devil.”

Merry crossed herself and stepped to the door, suddenly ashamed to be eavesdropping upon the confession of a king.

But she’d scarcely taken a step toward the door when the priest rose to his feet.

And then a flash caught her eye.

Whirling, she saw a dagger in the man’s hand and even as she watched, he viciously plunged the weapon directly into the king’s chest as he lay unresisting upon the bed.

The king made a strangled, gargling sound.

And then the priest raised his hand again. And again. 
And yet again, he attacked the king with the dagger, almost as if to assure himself that he was truly dead.

Merry could only watch, rooted to the spot by her own shock.

And then with the dagger still in his hand, the man turned toward Merry.

Chapter Fifteen – I’m Not Saved Yet

Having caught up with Julian, Ewan rode beside him through the hamlet of Milltown in pursuit of the king. They had lost and found his trail several times, and it appeared they were losing his trail yet again when Julian paused on the banks of the Bannockburn and pointed.

“There, by the mill. ‘Tis that not the king’s horse?” he asked in a weary tone.

Brushing his hair tiredly back from his eyes, Ewan followed Julian’s gaze to see the king’s gray charger idly nibbling tufts of grass growing aside the burn. The afternoon sunlight glinted off what appeared to be discarded armor nearby.

They had just exchanged puzzled looks when screams issued from the vicinity of the mill.

At once, they wheeled their mounts and charged for the mill.

A middle-aged woman and two lads ran toward the mill’s cottage as the door opened and a tall youth stumbled out, falling to his knees upon the ground.

Behind him stood a priest in a blood-spattered robe, and he held a bloodied dagger in his hand.

And then the lad lifted his head, and both Ewan and Julian gasped in unison.

It was Merry.

Leaping from their horses, they were at her side in an instant.

Ewan reached the man first, knocking the dagger out of his hand and shoving him back against the cottage wall as Julian pulled Merry to safety.

Grasping the priest roughly by the throat, Ewan stood there a moment, breathing heavily. He then kicked the man’s dagger out of his reach.

Turning to Julian and Merry, he lifted a brow in silent question.

“She’s unharmed,” Julian answered, but his gaze had locked upon the man in Ewan’s grasp. “Borthwick?” he asked, astonished.

Turning back, Ewan’s eyes widened in surprise as he realized he knew the young man.

And then Merry’s shocked voice came in short gasps, “’Tis the king. He slew the king. The king is dead!”

It was so astonishing that no one moved.

Even Borthwick.

And then the miller’s wife ran into the cottage and began to scream as Julian followed. 
Dragging Borthwick in after him, Ewan ducked under the low door to see for himself.

A quick glance was enough.

“He’s dead,” Julian confirmed in a shocked tone, looking up from the bed. And then his fair features darkened, and striding to Borthwick, he spoke in a deep-pitched voice. “Ye rode under my banner. Ye knew well that the king’s blood was not to be spilt!”

“Aye,” Ewan rasped, glancing through the window to see Merry still crouched in the stable yard, pale and stunned, and with her hands clasped tightly over her mouth. “And would ye have the blood of an innocent lady upon your hands as well?”

“Lady?” Borthwick repeated, taken aback.

Ewan scowled and nodded his firm jaw in Merry’s direction. “The lad,” he corrected. “Did ye plan on slaying him because he witnessed your crime?”

“Nay,” the man replied quickly.

But it was a little too quickly for Ewan’s taste.

“I would see this traitor hung,” Ewan growled, his blue eyes locked with Julian’s.

“Traitor? Nay!” Borthwick’s face flushed red. “’Tis not so. I merely followed the order of the Earl of Angus. Speak to the man yourself if ye dinna believe me! This morn he pulled a handful of us aside and swore that Cameron himself had promised a princely reward to the man who would bring him the king’s head.”

“Lies!” Ewan spat, shoving the man back.

Borthwick fell to his knees. “I swear it, my lord!”

“Then we’ll ask Archibald, aye?” Julian inserted softly. “Even now, the man comes.”

And indeed it was so. 
Archibald, the Earl of Angus approached the mill on horseback with a few others trailing behind him.

And as they’d dismounted and had begun to speak heatedly of Borthwick and his illicit charter amidst the miller’s wife’s hysterical wailing, Ewan wiped the grime from his face and stepped outside to kneel next to Merry. 
He was exhausted, and he was far beyond astonished to find her there, but he was right glad that she was.

“’Tis done, lass,” he said gently, laying a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

She swallowed. Her face was still white, and her eyes filled with horror. “I saw him, Ewan,” she whispered numbly. “He just … he just…” she choked. “I couldn’t stop him. I didna know he was …”

“Dinna think on it,” he said. Gathering her closer into a one-armed hug, he rested his forehead against hers. “’Tis done. The man met his fate. There was naught ye could do, lass.”

“I should have stopped him,” she said, reaching up to grip his fingers tightly. “I thought he was a strange priest from the start—”

“Nay,” he said, cutting her short. And then rising to his feet, he pulled her up beside him. Placing a hand upon each of her shoulders, he ordered, “Look at me, lass. The king’s death is not on your hands. The man brought about his own fate by his own foolishness. If ye had even
tried
to stop Borthwick, even now ye’d be lying dead upon the floor along with the king, and what is the good in that? That man’s evil doing is not your concern, lass.”

She was shaking, but she seemed to be listening.

“Nay, ye are supposed to live, Merry,” he continued in a gentler tone. “’Tis me ye have to finish saving, lass. You’re a remedy for my heart, and I need ye with me. I’m not saved yet.”

She drew in a long breath, and then she looked at him, as if noticing he were truly there for the first time.

“Ewan, are ye well? Have ye been hurt?” she gasped, searching his face.

And then she was running her hands along his bristled jaw, over his chest and thighs, clearly searching for wounds until he caged her within his arms and crushed her close to him.