the occupants of Lockhart Castle, his brother's castle, be made to wait outside the gates of Lee Castle until his return. He wanted to screen every new resident as they entered the protection of his home. He could not afford to allow an assassin to slip into his castle.
Pushing his horse as hard as he dared on the half frozen roads, Camden entered Glasgow at midday. He headed straight to the river green, where he'd found the blacksmith the other day. He dismounted outside the smithy's yard and strode toward the forge. Two men, both fair in coloring, leaned over the open flame. From iron clamps they rotated red-hot metal over the glowing coals. One man looked up as his approach.
"Good day, milord."
Camden bowed his head in greeting. "The blacksmith, the one with the dark hair, where is he?"
The two men exchanged a look of surprise. "Nolan?"
"Aye," Camden said. "That was the man's name. Where may I find him?"
"He's dead," the older of the two men replied.
Dead? Cold rose in Camden's throat and danced down his neck. "That's impossible. I just spoke with him two days past."
The younger man set his piece of metal back into the fire. "He was robbed then murdered last night."
A sinking sensation filled him. Had the assassin come after Nolan for the other half of the money Camden had promised? "How did he die?"
"Strangled," the younger man said. "The odd thing was when we found Nolan, we also found the heads of two other dark-haired men."
Camden didn't need to hear any more. He turned back to his horse and with a renewed sense of urgency spurred the animal toward the shadier part of town. A heavy fog crept across the streets near the river, making the twining stone corridors eerie and confusing despite the daylight.
The air hung heavy and stagnant, filled with the odor of rot and slime. Camden stopped at the nearby inn, then a pub farther down the way, asking after the man he had employed. A long litany of negative responses greeted him at each stop. No one seemed to remember the man.
Determined to press on until he had found what he searched for, Camden eventually reached the long, dark alley he had visited a few nights past. In the daylight, the river waifs lingered in the alley, leaning against the crude stone walls, watching with curious eyes as he rode by.
At the turn in the alley, right before the stairs that led down to the riverbank below, Camden dismounted. He surveyed the area with a frown. Where was the darkened doorway his assassin had appeared from the other night? Or had there been a doorway?
"Ye lookin' fer somethin'?" One of the waifs pushed away from the wall and headed toward him, slowly, appraising with each step.
"I hired a man here two days ago. I need to speak with him."
The young boy continued toward him. "What ye want with him?"
"That is between me and the man."
"Well, since he ain't here and I am, ye might want tae take it up with me."
"I have no time to waste. The man, where is he?"
"Ye might not have time but ye have funds me and the boys would like to relieve you of," the waif said with a bark of laughter that brought a round of chuckles from the other boys behind him. He pulled a dagger.
Camden's muscles clenched, and his own hand drifted to the hilt of his curved Saracen sword, ready to strike. The river waif's weapon would be out of his hands in the blink of an eye if Camden chose to attack.
On the river below, a ship's whistle sounded. Camden startled at the flash of memory it evoked.
Over the high-pitched squeal of a whistle, he heard the shouts of the clans riding into the seaport town of Dunbar, the wailing of the pipes, the echo of a day long past.
The English had invaded, but the clans refused to be tamed. As Scots born and bred, 'twas in them to fight, to the death if needed, to save their country, their heritage, each other. Men in tartan plaids, weighted down with weaponry fell upon the English. Camden and Orrin were really too young to fight, yet their hearts were
Pushing his horse as hard as he dared on the half frozen roads, Camden entered Glasgow at midday. He headed straight to the river green, where he'd found the blacksmith the other day. He dismounted outside the smithy's yard and strode toward the forge. Two men, both fair in coloring, leaned over the open flame. From iron clamps they rotated red-hot metal over the glowing coals. One man looked up as his approach.
"Good day, milord."
Camden bowed his head in greeting. "The blacksmith, the one with the dark hair, where is he?"
The two men exchanged a look of surprise. "Nolan?"
"Aye," Camden said. "That was the man's name. Where may I find him?"
"He's dead," the older of the two men replied.
Dead? Cold rose in Camden's throat and danced down his neck. "That's impossible. I just spoke with him two days past."
The younger man set his piece of metal back into the fire. "He was robbed then murdered last night."
A sinking sensation filled him. Had the assassin come after Nolan for the other half of the money Camden had promised? "How did he die?"
"Strangled," the younger man said. "The odd thing was when we found Nolan, we also found the heads of two other dark-haired men."
Camden didn't need to hear any more. He turned back to his horse and with a renewed sense of urgency spurred the animal toward the shadier part of town. A heavy fog crept across the streets near the river, making the twining stone corridors eerie and confusing despite the daylight.
The air hung heavy and stagnant, filled with the odor of rot and slime. Camden stopped at the nearby inn, then a pub farther down the way, asking after the man he had employed. A long litany of negative responses greeted him at each stop. No one seemed to remember the man.
Determined to press on until he had found what he searched for, Camden eventually reached the long, dark alley he had visited a few nights past. In the daylight, the river waifs lingered in the alley, leaning against the crude stone walls, watching with curious eyes as he rode by.
At the turn in the alley, right before the stairs that led down to the riverbank below, Camden dismounted. He surveyed the area with a frown. Where was the darkened doorway his assassin had appeared from the other night? Or had there been a doorway?
"Ye lookin' fer somethin'?" One of the waifs pushed away from the wall and headed toward him, slowly, appraising with each step.
"I hired a man here two days ago. I need to speak with him."
The young boy continued toward him. "What ye want with him?"
"That is between me and the man."
"Well, since he ain't here and I am, ye might want tae take it up with me."
"I have no time to waste. The man, where is he?"
"Ye might not have time but ye have funds me and the boys would like to relieve you of," the waif said with a bark of laughter that brought a round of chuckles from the other boys behind him. He pulled a dagger.
Camden's muscles clenched, and his own hand drifted to the hilt of his curved Saracen sword, ready to strike. The river waif's weapon would be out of his hands in the blink of an eye if Camden chose to attack.
On the river below, a ship's whistle sounded. Camden startled at the flash of memory it evoked.
Over the high-pitched squeal of a whistle, he heard the shouts of the clans riding into the seaport town of Dunbar, the wailing of the pipes, the echo of a day long past.
The English had invaded, but the clans refused to be tamed. As Scots born and bred, 'twas in them to fight, to the death if needed, to save their country, their heritage, each other. Men in tartan plaids, weighted down with weaponry fell upon the English. Camden and Orrin were really too young to fight, yet their hearts were
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