Late August, 1320

Scone Palace, Scotland

 

Today was as good a day as any for an execution.

Kieran MacAdams planted his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. Judging by the yellowish tint to the air, dawn was only a few minutes away.

“It is time,” Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland, said beside Kieran. His somber, serious voice boomed over the silent crowd gathered in the palace courtyard.

The palace’s double doors creaked open, and a string of guards leading three prisoners emerged into the yard.

Even though the sun still had not risen, the prisoners blinked at the comparative brightness after spending nigh a month in Scone’s dungeon. Once finely clad nobles, the three men now huddled in rags, their shoulders hunched against the mute stares of those in the courtyard.

They were led to the wooden gallows that had been constructed after the King had passed down his judgment at the Black Parliament less than a sennight past. Though Kieran wasn’t normally one for sensationalism, Black Parliament was a fitting name for what it had been.

Three death sentences for three traitors.

Each man was positioned on a wooden box beneath a length of rope. Then the executioner, dressed in black and with a low-drooping cowl to hide his face, slowly fitted the noose around each man’s neck in turn.

But the King held up his hand to stay the executioner, then motioned toward the palace doors once more.

The Countess Agnes of Strathearn appeared, sagging against her guard and weeping into a kerchief. Kieran nearly grunted at her overdone display. The countess was not to be executed today—or any day, assuming the Bruce didn’t change his mind. She had been found guilty of participating in a treasonous plot to assassinate the King, just like the others, yet because she’d broken down and confessed the names of her co-conspirators within moments of being found out, the Bruce had shown leniency.

Still, the Bruce meant for her to witness a demonstration she was not likely to forget this morn. Her allies would hang, and she would be made to watch.

When the final prisoner emerged into the yard, Kieran clutched his hands so tightly behind him that his knuckles were no doubt as white as the countess’s kerchief.

William de Soules.

Unlike the countess, the scheming Lowland bastard did not cry or lean against the guard holding him. Instead, he strode with surprising calm through the yard. His gaze landed on the Bruce, snagging only a hair’s breadth before traveling coolly over the members of the Bodyguard Corps flanking the King.

When de Soules’s dark eyes settled on him, Kieran actually drew back his lips and gave the man a silent snarl. Hot hatred flashed in de Soules’s gaze before his icy control snapped back into place once more.

De Soules clearly still despised the Bruce for the perceived slight against him when titles and lands had been distributed among the King’s nobles. That had prompted de Soules to launch an attempted coup against the Bruce, landing him here among his fellow traitors.

Yet the Lowlander also seemed to hold a special loathing for Kieran. After all, Kieran had been the one to drag de Soules’s sorry arse to the King for judgment after his conspiracy had been uncovered.

The guard drew de Soules to the countess’s side before the gallows. Though de Soules had been the clear mastermind behind the scheme to assassinate the Bruce, he had been granted a life of imprisonment rather than the drawing and quartering he deserved. But the King believed de Soules would serve as an example—and a deterrent—in life better than in death.

Kieran wasn’t so sure. He stared hard at the bastard who had plotted to kill the King.

Thanks to Jerome Munro and Elaine Beaumore—soon to be Munro as well—who stood on the King’s other side, the scheme had been unraveled just in time and the major conspirators rounded up and imprisoned until punishment could be meted out. At last, those guilty would pay for their betrayal. Except for de Soules, the guiltiest of all, who would live to see another day, albeit from within the bowels of Scone Palace.

Just then, the sun crested the eastern horizon, sending rays of orange light over the silent gathering. The Bruce cleared his throat.

“John Logie, Gilbert Malherbe, Richard Broun,” the King intoned. “Ye have been found guilty of treasonous conspiracy against yer sovereign and country. The punishment for such a crime is drawing, quartering, hanging, and beheading. Yet I dinnae take pleasure in the deaths of my countrymen, men I have broken bread with countless times. Therefore ye are to be hanged by the neck until ye are pronounced dead.”

Kieran barely resisted the urge to spit on the ground. These bastards didn’t deserve leniency. But it wasn’t Kieran’s place to pass judgment. The King had also granted them the right to a Christian burial, another mercy Kieran wouldn’t have had the grace to grant.

Just as well that Kieran didn’t bear the burden of leadership. He was only a warrior, a soldier who did the Bruce’s bidding. Aye, he was a member of the King’s Bodyguard Corps, an elite group of warriors who protected those most vulnerable to the attacks of Scotland’s enemies. But he knew his place. He was a weapon, the King’s sword and shield, to be wielded as the Bruce saw fit.

A white-robed bishop emerged from the abbey attached to the palace, gliding toward the gallows with a somber expression. He mounted the wooden steps and moved to each man in turn, murmuring a prayer for their souls and making the sign of the cross before them. Then he turned to the King and tilted his head.

Those gathered in the yard seemed to hold their breath then. Only the sound of the countess’s soft weeping and the rattling of wood against wood broke the thick silence. John Logie, the first of the prisoners, was shaking so badly that the box he stood on clattered hollowly against the gallows.

The King gave the executioner a single nod. The black-clad man moved to Logie and kicked away the box, silencing the clattering. The traitor dropped like a stone, a single gurgling noise rising from his throat before his life was extinguished.

The executioner moved silently to the second man, who had urinated himself in fear. Befitting the somber mood, the executioner did not pause for dramatic effect or to extend the man’s terror. Instead, his boot moved swiftly, kicking away the box. With a hard jerk and three twitches, the man was dead.

Yet when the executioner reached Richard Broun, the traitor dared to spit in the black-clad man’s face. A gasp of surprise rose from those gathered. Broun’s gaze flicked to de Soules before latching onto the King.

“Ye think this is over, ye bastard?” the man hissed. “There are more of us. There will always be more of us. And we willnae stop hunting ye and yer allies until we get our just rewar—”

The executioner unceremoniously knocked the prisoner’s box away, cutting off his diatribe. But the man did not die easily. He thrashed and gurgled, his legs seeking purchase on naught but air. His face turned red, then purple, his tongue swelling and lolling from his mouth until at last his struggles ceased and he swung lifeless in the bright morning sun.

Kieran’s gaze shot to de Soules. The man stood in profile to him, but even still, Kieran could make out the faint smile curving his lips.

Hell and damnation. Cold trepidation seeped into Kieran’s bones despite the mild summer morn. It was just as he feared. De Soules still had allies in his mad scheme against the Bruce, despite his seeming lack of power as a prisoner.

The guards pulled the countess and de Soules away from the gallows, the countess still crying into her kerchief. De Soules kept his brown head modestly dipped as he was drawn past the King and his bodyguards, yet the ghost of a smile still played around his lips.

When the prisoners were inside once more, Kieran spun on his heels and faced the Bruce. “Robert,” he said, keeping his voice low. The King had granted Kieran such familiarity in private now that he was a member of the Corps, but the yard was still crowded with onlookers. “Ye cannae doubt now that de Soules still schemes something.”

The Bruce kept his weathered features smooth, yet Kieran didn’t miss the flicker of concern in the man’s keen brown eyes. “We will discuss this matter further inside—all of ye,” he replied curtly to Kieran and the other members of the Corps surrounding him.

They fell in behind the Bruce as he strode toward the palace. They crossed the great hall and made their way down one of the many corridors leading to the palace’s private chambers. The Bruce halted in front of one of his meeting rooms and shoved inside.

Only when the door was tightly shut behind them did the King mutter a curse under his breath.

Kieran planted himself in front of the door, letting his gaze travel over those inside. It was one of the oddest assortments of people he’d ever shared a chamber with, yet they were all members of the same small, select group whom the King trusted most.

There were eight of them all together, not including the Bruce. Apparently this wasn’t the entire Bodyguard Corps, for the King had sent many of his best warriors to the far-flung corners of Scotland and the Borderlands. Yet once the assassination attempt had been thwarted a month past, the Bruce had called down several members of the Corps who’d been training at a camp somewhere in the Highlands.

Jerome and Elaine, who stood to Kieran’s right, were the only ones he’d known until a fortnight past.

He’d been introduced to Colin MacKay and his wife Sabine, who stood to the left of the King, once the Bruce had made Kieran a member of the Corps. Colin, blond and sharp-eyed, was apparently one of the founding members of the Corps. Sabine, who never seemed far from Colin’s side, ran the King’s network of spies and messengers.

Will Sinclair, the one with the eye patch and the constant scowl standing on the King’s other side, was an obvious choice for the Corps. The man had the tall, strong build of a warrior. But the remaining two, Niall Beaumore and Mairin Mackenzie, were strange additions indeed.

Niall was Elaine’s older brother, and though the russet-haired English lad had a fighter’s frame, he looked to be a few years before his prime.

And Mairin… The lass was as thin as a wisp, her dove-gray eyes ever watchful. Elaine and Sabine, while members of the King’s inner circle, weren’t technically part of his elite fighting force. But Mairin, with her short sword belted to her hip and more often than not a bow and quiver slung over her back, most certainly was. What on earth was a wee thing like her doing in the King’s Bodyguard Corps?

For Kieran’s part, he towered over all the others, even the other men born and bred in the Highlands. He was used to being the biggest, strongest man in any given room, yet he was the newest member of the Corps. Though he had a few choice words to spew about de Soules, he held his tongue.

Jerome was the first to speak, saying what they were all no doubt thinking. “We all heard what Broun said. De Soules may still be scheming even from his cell.”

“There should be more of us here to watch yer back, Robert,” Colin said quietly.

The King shook his head slightly. “Garrick is never far, and we could easily call upon Ansel, or even Kirk or Logan, if the need truly arose.”

“And ye dinnae think it already has?” Colin asked. “Broun used his last breath to threaten ye, Robert, and de Soules looked like a cat who swallowed a canary out there. This matter could be easily remedied if ye would—”

“Enough,” the King snapped.

Apparently Kieran wasn’t the only one who thought de Soules should have been given a traitor’s death, but the Bruce wouldn’t be swayed.

The King smoothed his red and gray beard to regain his composure. “I willnae make a martyr of de Soules, for it will only embolden his allies—if he truly has any. I am loath to put much faith in the words of lying scum like Richard Broun.”

“Fair enough,” Elaine said, tilting her coppery head. “It is your decision, sire. And truly, I cannot see how de Soules or anyone still loyal to him could possibly strike against you—not with so many members of the Corps here. But what of the threat against your allies?”

“Like Lady Vivienne.”

Everyone in the chamber turned to Kieran at his gruff interjection.

Kieran crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye granted me permission to fetch her from the French court nigh on a month past, Robert. Yet here I am, listening to de Soules’s crony make threats even with a noose around his neck.”

The air crackled with tension for a long moment. Though the King granted a certain informality amongst the members of the Corps, Kieran had just bluntly called the Bruce to task before the others. He didn’t give a damn, though. He wasn’t one to soften his words, even for a King.

“I wished for the Black Parliament to be over and done with before sending ye on an assignment,” the Bruce replied tightly. “And what’s more, I believe ye should be more fully integrated into the Corps before ye are turned loose in France.”

Sabine cleared her throat, breaking the tension somewhat. “Who is Lady Vivienne?”

The Bruce waved at Kieran. “Ye can explain.”

“Ye all ken that Jerome and I—along with de Soules—were selected to deliver the King’s Declaration of Arbroath to the Pope, aye?” At the nods, Kieran continued. “By the time we’d reached King Philip’s palace in Paris, Jerome and Elaine suspected de Soules of some nefarious scheme, yet they assumed it had something to do with thwarting the delivery of the declaration. But one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, Vivienne, alerted them to the fact that de Soules had been seen visiting Edward Balliol’s estate in Picardy.”

Thanks to that discovery, Jerome and Elaine had realized that de Soules had no interest in the King’s declaration proclaiming Scotland’s independence and petitioning the Pope to recognize the Bruce as King. Nay, de Soules had in fact been plotting with Edward Balliol, the son of the former King of Scotland, to assassinate the Bruce and usurp the throne for Balliol. The other members of the Corps had been apprised of the plot against the Bruce when they’d been called to Scone, but not of Lady Vivienne’s involvement in helping thwart the scheme.

“Jerome sent me on to Avignon to deliver the declaration, but we didnae ken what to do with de Soules. We couldnae openly accuse him, as we didnae have proof yet, but nor could we allow him to catch wind that we were on to his scheme,” Kieran continued. “Lady Vivienne slipped de Soules a draught to incapacitate him—and kept him dosed for nigh on a fortnight until I returned from Avignon to drag his arse back to Scone to face charges of treason.”

Elaine, who had befriended Vivienne in the short time they’d spent at the French court earlier that summer, jumped in. “Lady Vivienne’s actions against de Soules are now apparently common knowledge in France. If de Soules has any allies at all, Vivienne would certainly be a target for her part in his downfall.”

“And he likely does have at least a few lackeys in France,” Jerome added, his features grim. “After all, he fomented his would-be uprising no’ only on Scottish soil, but in France as well.”

Sabine’s brows drew together. “I haven’t heard aught from our network of eyes and ears, but we do not have much of a presence in France. Besides, word travels slowly with the North Sea between us.”

Will Sinclair spoke for the first time. “Then ye plan to send MacAdams to France, Robert?”

Kieran tensed as he waited for the Bruce’s response. Of course, the King had already agreed nearly a month ago to allow Kieran to remove Vivienne from court and take her somewhere safe until the danger had passed. Though some rational sliver of Kieran’s brain understood the King’s reasoning for wanting to keep Kieran and the rest of the Corps close until punishments could be meted out, every time he thought of Vivienne being in danger, his stomach twisted in rage.

From the moment he’d laid eyes on her earlier that summer, he’d understood that she was never meant to be a part of the violent, dangerous, and harsh world Kieran inhabited. She was a creature of light and air, a beauty so rare and delicate that she might as well have been made of hand-painted porcelain.

And the second she’d glanced at him with blue eyes as dark and cold as a midnight sky in winter and tilted her head in that infuriatingly imperious way, he’d known that he’d just as soon be driven mad by her haughtiness as kiss that perfect mouth of hers.

Aye, she was a frosty one, yet she somehow managed to fan his ire to red-hot flames with her polished superiority. Still, he couldn’t ignore the obvious danger she was in—thanks in part to him.

The Bruce tugged on his beard. “Aye,” he said at last. “Even if de Soules doesnae have the power to strike directly anymore, he cannae be allowed to harm our allies. Those who have aided Scotland must be kept safe.”

He turned to Kieran, his dark eyes hard. “But if the threat is as grave as ye fear, MacAdams, I dinnae like the thought of sending ye alone.”

“I work better on my own.” All eight sets of eyes snapped to Kieran then, some widening at his sharp tone.

But Kieran wouldn’t apologize for it. Aye, he was blunt, and crass, and downright rude at times, too, even to his King. But he hadn’t been brought into the Bruce’s inner circle for his manners. He’d been brought in because he was a damn good warrior, loyal and unrelenting. And he wouldn’t waste time on flowery words when there was a task at hand.

“I’ll be able to move faster,” he added when the Bruce continued to eye him. “And it willnae cause as much of a kerfuffle in the French court if I go alone. Besides, ye’re better off keeping as many of the Corps as ye can close at hand, though I agree with Elaine that de Soules doesnae have the power to mount a direct attack against ye.”

The Bruce’s russet brows lifted. “I dinnae ken about ye avoiding a kerfuffle in France. Ye are like a raging bull tearing through a market square, man. Ye cannae help but cause a commotion wherever ye go. But,” he added, giving him a grudging nod. “Ye are right that I would prefer to keep the rest of the Corps close for the time being.”

“Then it is settled,” Kieran replied. “I’ll depart for Paris within the hour.”

“And after ye reach King Philip’s palace, where will ye take this Lady Vivienne?” Colin asked.

Kieran leveled him with an assessing look. Though he knew all the members of the Corps were honorable, loyal warriors, he was not inclined to trust so easily—especially when it came to Lady Vivienne’s safety. “Scotland,” he said noncommittally. “I have a place in mind, but there isnae reason to make it known.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed on him, but the Bruce spoke before the exchange could grow more tense.

“Verra well, but I want ye to return to Scone before ye tuck the lass away in some remote corner of the country,” the Bruce said. “I’ll want an appraisal of matters in Paris—and I’d like to thank Lady Vivienne in person for her aid, as well.”

Kieran responded with a curt nod.

The matter decided, the others began to file out of the meeting room. Kieran waited for the King to pass through the door, then moved after him, his mind already full with his task, but Jerome’s hand on his arm halted him.

“Give our best to Vivienne,” Jerome said. A knowing smile curled the corners of his mouth. “That is, if ye can remember our names—or yer own, for that matter—when ye lay eyes on her again.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” Kieran snapped, shifting a glare between Jerome and Elaine, who had lingered in the chamber as well.

“Naught,” Elaine said, lightly swatting Jerome. “He’s only teasing you.”

Kieran grunted. “Ye damned lovebirds see romance and ardor everywhere ye look. Ye’re mad, the both of ye, if ye think Lady Vivienne and I—”

“Peace, man,” Jerome cut in. “Ye dinnae need to explain yerself to us.”

Aye, he didn’t, yet Kieran found himself doing just that. “Ye cannae fault a man for resting his eyes on a beautiful woman, but it doesnae mean aught. Ye think I want to get tangled up with a spoiled French noblewoman? No’ bloody likely. But she is in danger in part thanks to me. It is my duty to protect her. If she were anyone else, I’d do the same.”

Elaine blinked at the sudden outpouring of words. Jerome lifted his dark eyebrows. Hell and damnation, Kieran was making a fool of himself.

He clamped his lips shut and locked his features into a scowl. He’d promised himself ten years past not to grow soft in the head over a lass again, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to break that vow over a damned self-important French chit.

With only the faintest nod of farewell, Kieran strode from the chamber without a backward glance. The sooner he reached France, the sooner he could ensure Lady Vivienne’s safety. He was only doing his duty—naught more.