Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,2
of the tomb. “But now that I see ye lying there, I realize the wait has been worth it. Enjoy the long darkness … it’ll give ye ample time to think on how ye wronged me.”
And with that, Henry motioned to his men. “Cover him up.”
Panic seized Draco then—a wild madness that reared up within him. “No!” he roared. “I beg you … no!”
But none of them paid him any heed.
Henry watched his men seal the tomb, muffling the cries of the man inside. They worked swiftly, their faces pinched and pale. It was an unsavory task, but a necessary one. They all knew what this man was. This was the only way to deal with the demon.
After sealing the tomb, the men dragged thick sacking over it, to muffle the captive’s cries and beating fists further. And once they’d replaced the flagstones, and stomped upon them to ensure they lay flat, Henry could no longer hear Draco Vulcan’s cries.
Sending his men away, Henry lingered in his grandmother’s chapel for a few moments longer.
Silence settled over the sanctuary, and Henry drew in a deep breath, his ears straining to hear the trapped man beneath his feet. Perhaps, if he listened carefully, he could catch the faintest whisper. But no one else would.
The young man walked to the altar then and crossed himself. “Forgive me, grandmother,” he murmured. “Ye may have died of a broken heart, but I’m not going to martyr myself. Instead I choose vengeance.” He paused there, his gaze lingering upon the iron cross before him. “I didn’t wish to sully this place … but it was necessary.”
And then, without a backward glance, he turned and left the chapel.
166 years later …
I
THE DRAGON
Dunnottar
Scotland
Summer, 1301 AD
DRACO HATED KIRKS.
Even sitting there, surrounded by others, the place made his skin crawl. He suffered Holy Rude in Stirling only because he never had to linger in the kirk itself.
Dunnottar chapel smelled of damp stone and fatty tallow—odors that made Draco’s belly churn. Several decades had passed since he’d been freed from his stone prison beneath the floor of Saint Margaret’s Chapel. Long enough for the memories of that ordeal to fade somewhat. And yet the smells brought everything back.
It was an irony that today celebrated Saint Margaret—a further reminder of that vile prison and the smothering darkness.
It seemed as if the memories would forever torment him.
Pressure built in Draco’s chest, and he closed his eyes, trying to still the mounting panic.
“Draco … is something amiss?”
Maximus’s whisper jolted him back into the present.
Eyes flicking open, Draco glanced at where his friend sat next to him upon the low wooden bench, with his wife, Heather, at his side. They were both watching him, brows furrowed, as Father Finlay droned on from the pulpit.
“Merciful God. Ye gave the holy Queen Margaret of Scotland great love for the poor.”
Draco shook his head, favoring them both with a tight smile. “I’m fine,” he whispered back. “I just find this tedious.”
“Behave,” Maximus replied, mouth twitching.
A few yards away, dressed in black robes, his prayer book held out before him, the chaplain of Dunnottar halted his reading a moment and flashed them a scowl. Then, clearing his throat, he continued his prayer. “Dearest Lord … lend yer ear to the intercessions of this holy woman and help us to live after her example so that yer goodness and mercy become visible in today’s world.”
Bitterness flooded Draco’s mouth.
Goodness and mercy.
He’d seen little of those things in the long years of his life. Indeed, the woman, as saintly and kind as she was reputed to have been, was the grandmother of Henry, Earl of Northumberland.
A man who buried others alive.
Draco’s only solace was that Henry had sickened and died at the age of thirty-seven, around seventeen years after he’d entombed his enemy under the floor of Saint Margaret’s.
Shifting uncomfortably on the hard bench, Draco cast his gaze around the rectangular-shaped chapel. High windows let in honeyed sunlight, which pooled on the stone floor—stone that still bore the charred marks of a fire five years earlier.
A fire that had incinerated the trapped English garrison.
Draco’s attention shifted to the man responsible for the massacre.
William Wallace sat at the front of the congregation, large hands clasped together in prayer. During the past two years in which Draco had been part of the freedom fighter’s band of loyal warriors, he’d been surprised to discover that Wallace was a pious man.
However, that hadn’t prevented him from setting fire to a chapel full of soldiers.