Rivals for the Crown (2 page)

Her family had left much behind—their furniture, except for a few stools—but they'd taken her father's books, her mother's precious plate, her sister's dowry box, and three chests holding their possessions. Her mother had sighed as she'd looked around her kitchen, running her hand one last time over the wooden table she'd used daily. Rachel had turned away from the sight, her anger threatening to erupt. What had she and her family done to deserve this? They'd been good citizens of London, good subjects of the king. Their customs and beliefs might be different from those of the Christians, but they prayed to the same Father God, obeyed the
same rules. What sins against society had made them outcasts now?

And what of the Jews who stayed despite all the warnings, those who watched them now—would they pay dearly for their decision? Would soldiers truly kill all those who remained? She would not think of it, would not remember their names. She would not think of the boy who had promised to woo her when they were older, who had watched silently as she and her family left. Would not think of Isabel, her dearest friend, who would never know what had happened to her, only that Rachel had left with no farewell.

The light was brighter now and the rain had stopped. But still they were in London. There were other Jewish families departing too, people
carrying
bundles and babies, hurrying toward the city walls. Carts like theirs fought for places in line to pass through Aldgate, and their carter swore and whipped his horse to push forward. Rachel, like her father, kept one hand on the cart, unsettled now by those around them and the fear that suddenly filled the air.

Boys pelted them with rotten fruit from overhead, but no one complained. Everyone was intent on the imminent sunrise and the slow-moving line passing through the gate. And then her mother was hit with refuse, the dark stain spreading on the shoulder of her gown. Her father whirled, his face a mask of rage.

"No!" Mama cried. "Jacob, no! Ignore it."

Papa was hit next, and his face went scarlet. "Is it not enough that we are forced from our homes? Is it not enough that we are running like cattle? Must we endure this humiliation as well? It is beyond bearing!"

Mama grabbed his arm. "Jacob, think! They are nothing, those boys throwing this at us. They want you to get angry. They want you to go after them! And then what? We will still be here at dawn. And what will happen to you, to us? Ignore it. They are nothing. This is nothing. We will survive this."

They stared into each other's eyes. And then Papa nodded.

There was a sudden commotion behind them, and a troop of the king's cavalry burst through the throng, coming forward with a great show of weapons and
armour
, and lining the path to the gate, the horses' breath looking like smoke from a foul fire in the unseasonably cool morning air. Rachel looked at the faces of the king's men, at the glances they gave each other and the sky. Would the soldiers be given orders to fall upon those who were still in London at daybreak? She began to pray, for her family, for those behind them. Ten people ahead of them, then six.

And then she heard Isabel's voice.

"Rachel! Rachel!"

Only Isabel de Burke would have braved this madness, Rachel thought, her heart lifting. One person in all of London still cared whether she lived or died. "Isabel!" she cried, standing on her toes, trying to find her friend. "Isabel!"

The line moved forward and Papa grabbed her arm. "Do not stop, Rachel!"

"But, Papa, it's Isabel! How did she know?"

"She lives at court," he said. "They all know."

"Rachel!" Isabel's voice was louder now.

A slim hand with long fingers waved madly above the fray, and Rachel finally saw her. Isabel's light brown hair was in disarray, tumbling around her shoulders as though she'd risen hastily from her bed. She was dressed as a servant, her clothing simple and drab, but not convincing. Servant girls did not have Isabel's fine bone structure or her rare beauty. Rachel's eyes welled with tears of gratitude that her friend had found her.

"Here! Isabel, here!"

"We have no time for this, Rachel!" Papa said.

Rachel stayed where she was, waving her arm high. The group in front of her family was arguing with the guards at the gate, and it became clear why the wait was so long. They would have to pay to leave! The word spread to those behind them, and she could smell their fear and anger. The king's men let their horses paw at the ground, as though impatient to start their tasks.

"I thought I would not find you!" Isabel darted through the crowd and embraced Rachel.

"I could not send word to you! Soldiers came—"

"I heard what was happening and ran to your house," Isabel gasped, "but you were not there. Oh, Rachel! Where will you go? Sir, where will you go?"

Papa's expression softened. "I don't know, Isabel. I don't know."

"I did not believe the king would enforce his proclamation!" Isabel's eyes were wide with worry. "You'll have no safe passage. You'll have no protection! It will be dangerous. You know how treacherous the roads are!"

"We have no choice," Papa said.

"I wish I had money or the power to send men with you! Be careful, be so careful!" Isabel cried and hugged Rachel tighter. "I cannot bear it! It will be so long until we see each other again!"

"Isabel, we will never see each other again!"

"No, no, do not even say that!" Isabel said. "We will meet again. You must believe it! We must both believe it! We will always be friends. Nothing, not even this, will change that!"

"Rachel, come!" Papa said as their turn came to pass through the gate. He handed the gatekeeper coins and turned to Rachel. "Farewell, Isabel. Thank you for being a friend to my daughter. Come."

Rachel tore herself out of Isabel's arms, both girls sobbing.

"Stay safe, dear friend," Isabel said. "Rachel, oh dear God, take care! I will pray for you every day! I will pray for you all!"

"And I you, Isabel! I will think of you in your new life at court!"

"Rachel, come!"

Rachel passed with her family through the gate. She turned to look for Isabel but could not see past the frenzied throng pushing through behind them. The sun's rays touched the tops of London's buildings, and her father turned her away from the sight, hurrying her along the road behind the cart. Her tears, unleashed by Isabel's appearance, continued to flow.

"Rachel," Papa said, his voice comforting. "We are out of London, and we have much ahead of us. Dry your eyes. We'll face the future together."

Rachel sniffed. Now they faced the dangers of the road. She hugged her arms and looked at the stain on her mother's shoulder. Part of her would never feel safe again.

ONE

SEPTEMBER 1290 LOCH GANNON, SCOTLAND

M
argaret MacDonald MacMagnus lifted her head and let the

wind blow through her hair while she caught her breath. Even after all these years, she still climbed to the top of this headland to wait for her man to come home. Two ships today, and neither of them his, but there were still hours of daylight left. She was not worried, for Gannon MacMagnus was a man to trust. He'd said he'd be home this day, and home he would be.

She'd missed him. Wasn't that absurd, to live with a man for nigh on thirty years, then miss him terribly when he'd only been gone a few days? He'd not gone anywhere unusual or dangerous, only to Skye to visit her brother Davey, then down to Ayrshire to visit their oldest son, Magnus, who lived on the lands the king had granted to Gannon so many years ago.

And there it was, the sail she'd expected and had hoped to see. Gannon's ship was approaching rapidly from the south, its rail

almost under water, its white sail mirroring the foam at its bow as the black hull sliced through the dark blue water. But it was not alone on the sea, for there, in the north, was a second sail, one that made her draw her breath in sharply. A dragon ship. A long
ship, of Viking design, its wide beam and shallow hull bringing back a flood of unwelcome memories. Dark storm clouds billowed behind it, putting the square sail, red with yellow stripes, into high relief. She clasped her arms and ignored the chill that swept through her, reminding herself that it was not a warship—those days were over forever. It would be a messenger from the north, nothing more. Still...She looked south, where Gannon's ship was nearing the entrance to the sea loch, and was comforted. Whatever the news the dragon ship brought, she and Gannon would face it together, as they had everything else life had brought them.

She turned to start down the slope, then took a moment to look over the glen that was her home, where she and Gannon had built a life together, binding the remnants of her family and clan into a thriving community. The sea loch was now known as Loch Gannon, which never failed to amuse her husband. But the
honour
was appropriate, for without him, none of them would be here. Across the usually placid waters, ruffled now by the wind, the mountains rose to the north and the east, protecting them from the world beyond. Below her the fortress grew out of the rocky promontory on which it rested, and to which she now hurried, hearing the horns sounding twice, first with the familiar notes that let all below know that the laird of the glen was coming home, then again, with the message that a ship was approaching and that it was not one of their own. Gannon had the men of the clan well trained,

and her staff would know to prepare a meal to welcome him and his men home. But she would greet him—and the visitors—herself.

Rory, her younger son, tall, strong, and ready for the world, met her on the path to the postern gate, his blond hair catching the light, the same pale shade as his father's. He was so like his father. He had Gannon's chin, Gannon's blue eyes, his wide shoulders. And his impatience.

"Mother! Do ye ken who it is? Da and who else?"

She shook her head, not wanting to betray how breathless her headlong dash had made her. She often forgot that she was no longer young, but her body never did. "Aye, yer father's coming. But the other is a dragon ship."

Rory's eyebrows drew together, just as his father's always did when he turned thoughtful. "From Orkney? Perhaps with news of the queen's progress?"

Margaret's mood lifted at once. Margaret, Maid of Norway, only seven years old, was on her way to accept the throne of Scotland that she had held since she was three. "Of course. That's what it is. Drason did say he'd let us ken when she stopped in Orkney on her way to London. I'll just—"

"Go to meet Da," Rory finished with a laugh. "As if ye dinna always do that?"

"And someday, my lad, if ye are as fortunate as yer father, yer own wife will do the same."

"Ye'll have to teach her to adore me, as ye do Da."

"Adore! He's been spreading
rumours
again, has he?"

She laughed with him and led the way into the fortress that Gannon had built to keep them all safe. Wooden walls at first, replaced over the years with thick stone walls, filled with rubble to withstand siege machines. And unable to be burnt to the ground, as both Inverstrath and Somerstrath had been. But she would not remember that now, any of it. Those memories belonged to a time past, when she and her sister Nell and young Davey had faced horrors no one should have to endure. When Gannon had entered her life and changed it forever.

She'd been Gannon MacMagnus's wife for twenty-seven years, had borne five children and seen two live to be grown men. Magnus, already married, was learning how to manage lands and people. And Rory was young, but Rory would do well, for Rory excelled at everything he attempted. All he needed—eventually— was a home of his own, and a woman to love and, yes, to adore him, for he deserved it. But that would come in time.

Gannon's Lady sailed into Loch Gannon under full sail, her husband at the helm. Margaret stood, as she always did, at the end of the dock, waiting for him, Rory at her side. The sky was darkening and the wind rising, bringing the smell of the storm with it. This one would be more than simple showers, for already the

mountaintops across the loch were obscured, and the seabirds were flying inland, seeking shelter. The autumnal equinox often brought fierce storms, and this one, coming nine days later, looked to be no exception. Rory's hair was whipping around his head, and he brushed it back with a gesture that was so like his father's that she smiled.

And then Gannon himself was calling to her, his tall form alive with movement. As always, she saw nothing else. He wore the clothes of a Scotsman, plaided trews, knit leggings, and a saffron
over tunic
. He'd abandoned his Irish clothing long ago. Sometimes she herself forgot that he was of Ireland and not a native of the western shore of Scotland that had always been her home. But the painted carvings along the railing of his ship, Celtic symbols and Norse runes painted gold against the black of the rail, reminded her that he was her gift from the sea, Ireland's loss and Scotland's gain.

She waved in return, her smile wide. Her man was home and all was well.. .for a moment at least, for there, rounding the last turn through the barren entrance that hid Loch Gannon from the world, came the dragon ship. She recognized it as Drason's at once. The Orkney
man had been their friend since their fateful meeting that long-ago summer of 1263. Their friendship had begun strangely. They'd been enemies who quickly discovered that they were united in their hatred of Nor Thorkelson, Drason's uncle and the man who had murdered her family. They'd joined forces and had finally defeated Nor in a mighty battle on the Isle of Skye that was still talked about all over Scotland. Drason waved, but not with his customary exuberance, and her heart lurched. Whatever news he brought was not good. She was certain it did not concern Magnus, or her brother Davey and his family, for Gannon had just come from them. And surely not Nell, who was in Stirling to greet the child queen, nowhere near the Orkneys nor the sea.