Banquo's Son (A Crown of Blood and Honour Book 1) (21 page)

Rachel shook her head. ‘You of all people, Duncan, should understand the power of a first love. Fleance still loves his maid with all his heart. What may or may not happen is God’s will. Just leave it at that.’ She stood up. ‘It has been a long day and night. I am to bed and I counsel that is where you should go as well.’ At the door she turned back to him. ‘Do not think too much on how things should be.’

She left the room, her head high. But, just as Rachel could read him, Duncan, too, sensed his sister was hiding disappointment at the turn of events. Despite her stoic attitude, he guessed her heart had been captured by Fleance.

Chapter Twenty-Four

I
t was Duncan who accompanied Fleance from his room to the stables early the next morning. After the business and noise of the day and evening before, the whole castle was subdued.

Fleance felt a deep sadness that things had turned out this w
ay –
the angry outburst of the king, being put under house arrest
and the sm
all measure of shame he felt towards Duncan for being the cause of such a scene. However, he was looking forward to
seeing
Rosie again. Duncan stood by silently as he saddled Willow and then walked beside him as he led the horse out of the stables.

Morag hurried out, a bundle in her hands. ‘Master Fleance,’ she said puffing. ‘I have put together some sweetmeats for your
journey
.’ She bobbed an awkward curtsey.

Fleance inclined his head and smiled. ‘You are very kind.’ He took the food and put it inside his bag.

‘I must get back to the kitchen,’ she said nervously and
curtsied again.

‘Go well, Morag,’ he called as she scurried away.

Duncan cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry that my father reacted so. And I am sorry you are leaving for I have much enjoyed your company – as has Rachel.’ He handed Fleance a small money bag. ‘You may find this of use until you are bringing in your own.’

Fleance took the bag and held it in his hand. ‘This is kindness,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He tucked it into a pocket. ‘I have found more than I deserve in friendship and conversation – with both of you. I wish you happiness.’

Duncan looked at him for a moment. ‘If you ever have need of anything, Fleance, if things do not go to plan with your . . . Rosie, then you have only to ask – send word. Despite Father’s behaviour, Rachel and I will always welcome you.’

Fleance put his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘You have been kind and generous with your companionship and your hospitality. And I hope you will forgive me for not being so open.’

‘You have told me why but I have seen men go insane from the secrets they store up in their hearts. To find real friendship, each person must completely give over their heart, mind and soul, for it is in this place of surrender that love, trust and loyalty flourish.’ He clasped both hands around Fleance’s arms. ‘Go well, my friend. I pray to see you again under better circumstances.’

Fleance mounted and looked down at the fair-headed prince. ‘One last thing I would have from you, Duncan.’

‘Aye?’

‘Would you tell me, from your knowledge, the fastest way a man and horse can make it to Perth?’

Duncan laughed. ‘I thought you were going to ask me something that was a matter of life and death.’

Fleance grinned. ‘Getting to Rosie as quickly as I can is just as important for me, man.’

Duncan put his hands up. ‘Fine. Fine. If you take the highway, you will be there after supper, but if, when you come to the woods, you turn right, you can take many hours from your journey and will be there before sunset.’

‘I thank you,’ Fleance said graciously. ‘I wish you well.’ He turned Willow’s head and gave him a gentle kick. ‘Come on,
Willow
. We have our Rosie waiting for us.’ Once he was out of the castle gates, he urged the horse into a canter and they set out to Perth.

After twenty minutes, he came to the forest and turned right, slowing so that Willow could pick his way through the thick woods. Fleance thought about Duncan’s words about keeping secrets and knew that they contained wisdom. Rosie had always been
completely
honest with him. Each time they had met she had filled him in what had happened in her life since the last time they’d been together. He, on the other hand, had always held back. Though he loved her, he had never really felt able to give himself to her
completely
– until now.

‘Well,’ he said aloud. ‘That is about to change. Rosie can have all of me.’ Willow’s ears twitched backwards and forwards. Then, for the first time since he was a boy and because of his heart was so full, Fleance began to sing.

He did not hear the man who appeared suddenly beside him. It all happened so fast. A figure in dark clothes lunged at Fleance and Willow shied sideways. The horse, in fright, bucked and then galloped off. In a tangle of arms and legs both men fell to the ground. Fleance was crushed beneath the weight of his assailant.

Instinctively, Fleance rolled rapidly three or four times away but it was not enough. The man pounced on him before he’d even had a chance to pull out his dirk. It was to be a fight relying on brute strength.

For perhaps the first time in his adult life, Fleance found
himself
wrestling with a man more powerful than himself. He feared for his life. This man didn’t speak but his actions were clear – he was out to kill. Once, twice the man smashed his fist into Fleance’s face. He felt his mouth fill with blood and spat it out angrily. With the man atop him, he could do nothing so, with an almighty roar and with all his bound-up strength, he thrust the man back and was able to get free.

Willow was gone with sword and crossbow but he still had his dirk and he pulled this from his belt. Fleance was in a worse state than his adversary. But he was angry. He did not deserve this. He had done his best to make things right with the world and all it had brought him was sorrow and pain. Hot rage flooded him.

‘Forget your orders, man,’ he said. ‘I am no match for you.’

‘Aye,’ came the reply. ‘You’re not and that is why you’re easy money.’

This enraged Fleance further. He stood, five paces way from the assassin. His dirk held aloft. ‘You do not know who you are sent to kill for I am well armed.’

The man laughed. ‘Right, so your horse has taken off; you’re on your own and you just have your dirk. I think maybe, young man, you regard yourself more highly than you should.’

He leapt towards Fleance, but neither blade was of use. This was a fight of hand-to-hand combat. Though both held their daggers to harm, they could not. Fleance bit the man’s hand so hard that he let go of his weapon. But his would-be murderer pressed down on his arm – the weight of him extraordinary so that Fleance was powerless to do any injury.

The man again punched his fist into Fleance’s face and once again he saw stars. The pain; the fight; the need to stay alive. They gave him power. He could not, would not go down at this absurd place: a tranquil wood. Though bleeding and sore, he fought on. And, again, he was able to push the man away so that they stood some paces apart, both breathing heavily.

‘Well, lad, you’ve put up a mighty fight which makes the game so much more interesting.’ He rolled his r’s thickly and Fleance recognised him as a Highlander – and dangerous.

Suddenly, the assailant swung a great log around so that it collided with Fleance. He fell. He thought that he was done for, but then he thought of Rosie waiting for him at Perth and he knew he must not give up. The wood was silent but Fleance still had his dirk and was still alive. His chest was crushed; he was bleeding but he was conscious.

The man came towards him, an unpleasant sneer on his face, a dagger held steady. Fleance pretended he was gone but, as the man lifted up his blade to end Fleance’s life, Banquo’s son plunged his dirk into the foot of his enemy.

The man screamed and in that moment, Fleance whipped
the di
rk out and thrust it up into the belly of his attacker,
slicing th
e blade around to the right. The man’s face contorted with agony and despair. Blood poured forth and covered Fleance. He twisted the dirk further so it made a crunching noise – enough to sicken any man’s stomach. Fleance gave another push and felt the man’s warm blood on his hand. Fleance looked into the man’s eyes and watched him slowly die.

The man fell onto him, the last of his hot blood seeping into Fleance’s vest. He pushed him off.

Fleance was panting heavily. He heaved, his hand hanging down, red with blood. Fleance had ended yet another’s life – the third since he had embarked on his quest. When would the bloodshed end? He stood there for a moment and looked up at the trees. Minutes ago, he was singing and happy and looking forward to seeing Rosie. Now, he had killed another man.

But, what was worse, Rosie was waiting and he had no way to reach her on time.

There were more problems: a corpse which, very soon, would smell high and invite the wolves; he was hurt and bleeding; a man without a horse – a most unenviable position to be in.

Fleance would have to bury the man before he could go on, otherwise he would attract further danger.

He looked around for some softer ground where he could bury the body and found a large gap between two trees. Using his dirk, he stabbed at the soil and then, using his hands, scooped away the loosened dirt. By the time he’d made a shallow grave, sweat was pouring down his back and face, stinging his eyes.

Fleance was thirsty but he could not go looking for water until he had finished his gruesome task. Standing up stiffly, he hobbled over to the body. He went through the man’s garments looking for clues as to who had sent him. He found a money bag but, when he opened it, there were only three small coins. He also found a water skin, almost full, but nothing else; nothing to identify him or who had employed him for such a task.

His eyes were still open so Fleance found a couple of small stones which he would lay on the lids before covering the body with soil. He sat the man up and put his arms around his chest then dragged the heavy weight of the body to the grave. It was too small but Fleance had no more strength to dig. Instead, he arranged the body so that it appeared the man was simply curled up and sleeping. Fleance turned the head so that he could close the eyelids and place the stones on them.

He removed the water bag, pouch and knife from the body – it had no need of these now and it could make the difference between life and death for Fleance.

Carefully, he covered the body with the soil. It was not enough. He must find rocks or heavy branches so that no animal would disturb the site.

It took another hour and the sun was very low in the sky before Fleance felt satisfied with the job. It would be dark soon and he needed water and rest – and a safe place to hide.

At the edge of the wood, he found a small burn and lay down on his stomach pushing his face into the cold water, leaving the skin for another time. His lips and cuts stung but there was also relief. He drank deeply and then pulled off his shirts and soaked them in the water. He washed his hands and rubbed away the last traces
of th
e would-be assassin’s blood from his body and clothes.

Watercress grew abundantly along the banks. Fleance picked handfuls and stuffed them into his mouth, refreshed by the tart and tangy flavour of the plants. The light had all but disappeared from the sky. It was time for shelter. He had seen an old oak with large upsweeping branches which looked like the palm of a man’s hand. Fleance found it quickly for it stood quite alone from the other trees.

Wincing with pain, he slowly climbed the tree and was pleased to see the centre was like a small platform covered in old leaves. He hung his damp shirt over one branch and pulled his cloak over his bare chest, wrapping himself in it like a swaddled baby against the cold of the winter night.

Fleance rolled over, the leaves at once cushioning him. It meant he could sleep and, despite the pain, he quickly sank into oblivion.

Rosie
Perth

Rosie tidied the small cottage attached to the tavern and readied a room for Flea. She washed her hair and poured lavender oil into the curls at the end. She had repaired one of her best dresses and, just before the evening meal, when they all expected Flea to arrive, she arranged her hair just as it had been when they had first met at the tavern – gathered up in a thick bundle on her head with curls falling around her face.

The table was set with an extra place and Ma and she had cooked a lamb roast with carrots and fresh bread. All was ready and her excitement painted a permanent smile on her face.

Each time there was the sound of a horse, Rosie flew to the tavern door; each time the rider was not Flea. By the time the sun had set and the roast had dried, Rosie began to feel anxious.

Dougal said what she was feeling. ‘I heard him myself. He said he would be here before nightfall and look, night fell two ho
urs ago.’

‘Maybe he was delayed, Da,’ Rosie said, trying to will the gathering knots in her stomach to stay still. ‘I am sure he will come.’

Dougal grunted. ‘Well, let’s not waste this meal though I feel the meat is only good for the dogs now.’

They ate in silence and Rosie tried very hard not to give in to the tears which threatened to spill forth. She would be strong. He was coming; she felt it. He would not disappoint her again.

By the time the meal was finished, the customers either sent on their way or lodged for the night, the dishes washed and the kitchen cleaned, it was midnight and still no word of Flea.

Rosie went to her room and quietly closed the door. She took off the necklace and removed the bracelets. She pulled the clips from her hair and, as the curls fell around her shoulders, she caught a whiff of the lavender. As steadily as her shaking hands would allow, she unbuttoned her dress, slipped off her shoes and climbed into bed in her underclothes.

She lay there, the candle burning down low, staring at the ceiling, reliving yesterday; reliving the look of intense joy on his face. The way he held her, kissed her. The excitement which radiated from him as he told her his story. The way he looked. The way he smelt. And the way her heart filled to overflowing with passion and love. When she was with him, all other things faded into insignificance. The sound of his voice and the touch of his hand and the way he looked into her eyes told her, without any doubt, that he loved her as she loved him.

Rosie sat up and put out the stuttering candle. As she settled back down into the bed, she tried to think of why he had not kept his promise: perhaps Willow was lame? But surely he would have sent word or used another horse?