rel="nofollow" href="#u4fc02803-9fc4-5134-89e1-4c9e7594d6ec"> Chapter Nine
September 20th, 1513
They came from all over Scotland, converging on Stirling. The young with fire and anger in their bellies, the old with steel in their sinews. They came from the Highlands and the Lowlands, the borders and the isles. They came bearing weapons and grudges and wounds. Crushed by defeat in battle, yet unbroken in spirit, the Chiefs and the Lairds gathered together.
Stirling Castle loomed on rocks that fell away steeply on three sides. It was an imposing sight by any measure, visible from miles around, far over the winding Forth River. At dusk with the sun blood red behind it, the effect was doubly striking. Flaming beacons at either side of the Forework cast eerie shadows over the six soaring towers and seemed to breathe life into the stones themselves. The Forework became a skull, the windows black eyes and the great central doorway a gaping maw ready to swallow all comers.
Sitting astride his horse in the slow procession that wound from the city huddled beneath the rock towards the great gateway, Ewan Lochmore shivered at the disconcerting image that had entered his head.
He considered himself a rational man, not given to believing tales of eldritch creatures that his grandmother had told him and his brother every Samhain Eve many years ago. Even so, as he drew nearer and nearer he was filled with foreboding that once he passed beneath the stone arch his life would be changed for ever.
He winced and clutched Randall’s reins tighter as a stab of grief sharper than the blade of any dagger knocked him sideways. He gritted his teeth, determined to betray no outward signs of his pain. His life had already changed beyond all imagining and what he would do over the coming days would only make it official.
He looked again at the castle, thinking it no wonder that he saw the face of death when Death had claimed so many Scottish lives recently.
‘You’re quiet. What are ye thinking of?’
Ewan looked at the man driving the small cart alongside him. Angus, his father’s cousin and right-hand man, was watching with shrewd eyes.
‘My father,’ Ewan answered, his voice thick with emotion. ‘And death.’
‘Aye, we’re all thinking of Hamish,’ Angus wheezed, filling the words with a depth of sorrow that matched what Ewan was feeling. Cousins who were more like brothers, Angus and Hamish had grown up the closest of allies, with Angus acting as Hamish’s retainer and answering only to him. If any man had a claim to share the grief that consumed Ewan, it was this man.
‘I found him and held him as he died, a pike still in his back,’ Angus continued. ‘Even then spitting a curse on the cur who struck him down. A great Laird to the last.’
Ewan bowed his head. ‘I should have been there,’ he muttered.
Angus shrugged, but did not contradict him, which twisted the dagger in Ewan’s conscience even deeper. The loss of his father was a blow so great he feared he might never recover from the grief. What weighed him down even more was the knowledge that the eyes of all Lochmores, young and old, rich and poor, landowner or simple yeoman, would be on Ewan as the new Earl of Glenarris. Leadership had been thrust on his shoulders in the most tragic way possible. So far he had failed to impress Angus, one of the few men now living whose good opinion he craved. Jamie, Angus’s sixteen-year-old son, who was sitting alongside him on the seat of the cart, rested a hand on the older man’s shoulder.
‘We’ll drink to his memory tonight,’ Ewan said. His tongue felt parched as he spoke. He needed a drink. Lots of them, in truth. He’d been riding long enough today and his throat was dry.
The line was moving forward and before long Ewan and his companions were through the curtain wall and into the Outer Close where visitors with their horses and transport were being admitted. Six sentinels lined the path from the gateway to the doorway of the residence known as the King’s House. A neatly dressed man in black robes stood before the door, flanked by two more guards in the royal colours. Beside him, a scribe sat at a table covered with rolls of parchment and an inkwell.
Ewan dismounted and passed the reins to Jamie. He moved to offer his arm to Angus and received a contemptuous eye roll.
‘I don’t know what sort of weaklings they have in Glasgow, but I’m no’ in ma grave yet, laddie. I can use ma legs.’
Ewan took a measured breath, reminding himself that though white haired, Angus was a man of fifty-eight who had fought and survived the massacre at Flodden, not in his dotage. His offer had been an attempt at courtesy, not to insult. He ignored the jibe against the city where he had been living for the past five years. They might walk streets rather than glens and hill paths, but there were men mad-eyed and bottle-brave enough in Glasgow to meet Angus on the battlefield.
Angus clambered down unaided. He adjusted the folds of his brat across his shoulders, and pushed back the sleeves of the yellow linen leine he wore beneath the heavy length of cloth. Ewan rearranged his own cumbersome length of plaid and straightened the more formal doublet he wore beneath. Satisfied that he was presentable enough for any royal court, he walked to the doorway and made a deep bow to the standing figure. The man inclined his head slightly in return.
‘State your name.’ The man at the table dipped his quill tip into ink. He waited, hand poised over the parchment for Ewan’s answer.
‘Ewan Lochmore of Clan Lochmore.’
The secretary wrote his name on what Ewan could see was a growing list.
‘Your business?’ asked the robed figure.
He sounded uninterested in the reason Ewan was there.