Where the Beast Dwells

By Laura Pérez Macho

"Nature is the only place where human beings can go to find themselves"

– Henry David Thoreau (Walden) –

Celtic fiction and mythology develop in the historical framework of fifteenth-century Scotland to give life to this novel full of battles, adventure, love, betrayal, and mythology.

Where the Beast Dwells is a lengthy novel that blends elements of the fantasy, historical, adventure, and action genres. The characters experience a "journey" or life path that they will have to follow, marked by their own lives and experiences. They fight against danger, against death, against blood, and against loneliness.

How far can revenge take us? What can we do for love? Are blood ties a limit to love? What are the doings that give us strength in life? How can we seek justice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jul 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667460628

Book preview

Where the Beast Dwells

Laura Pérez Macho

––––––––

Translated by E. Wolburg 

Where the Beast Dwells

Written By Laura Pérez Macho

Copyright © 2023 Laura Pérez Macho

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Translated by E. Wolburg

Cover Design © 2023 Shutterstock images with license

Babelcube Books and Babelcube are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

To my family and friends. I love you all.

« Nature is the only place where human beings can go to find themselves»

Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Forward

In Ireland the authority of the English central government was inexorably diminishing. The black death had preyed on the English population in the Middle Ages.

The English presence in Ireland was reduced to the area of ​​The Pale, a fortified area around Dublin, where they concentrated the seat of power.

The Gaelic customs of the native Irish were given a breather to continue to spread freely, to the point where the Hiberno-Norman lords, former invaders, adopted them and allied with the natives against the English presence in Ireland.

Given this fact, the authorities of The Pale could do little. In 1366 they promulgated the Kilkenny Statutes, which prohibited the Anglo-Norman population from using the language, or from adopting Irish clothes and customs, as well as marriage between the two. But it was ignored since the authority of The Pale was scarce and malleable.

To control their interests in Ireland, successive English kings would delegate the constitutional authority of the lordship to the FitzGeralds, Earls of Kildare, a powerful family that combined the use of force and negotiations with lords and clans, in order to maintain the balance of power on the island.

However, this fact further alienated the English Crown from the affairs of Ireland, as the FitzGeralds created a policy more suited to their own interests on the Emerald Isle.

Local Gaelic lords and Gaelized Anglo-Norman nobles expanded their power at the expense of the Dublin central government of the FitzGeralds, who allowed intermarriage between natives and Normans in exchange for favors and tribute.

«Letter from Olaff to Alastair»

1460 Munster

Dear friend:

You know that I’ve never asked you for anything, but I will need your help to recover the most valuable thing that has ever been taken from me.

She's a young native pearl named Emma O'Neill. Her hair is jet black, and her eyes are a blue as intense and dark as the night sky. She has put a spell on me, and I haven’t been able to sleep since she disappeared from my life.

I met her one day, hunting. I had just shot a deer in the woods, and there she was. If you had seen her, you would be as ready as I am to do anything to get her back.

The girl was a healer, and she came to see me when I fell ill. Without a doubt, her presence made me feel strong as a bear again.

I wanted to marry her and I spoke with the FitzGeralds to reach an agreement. I had already told you that despite serving the English Crown, you could negotiate with them if you procured good tributes for them.

But that day I had the misfortune to be there at the same time as a young English officer. The bastard said that the Irish should be little more or less than slaves in the service of the Crown, and that no marriages should be allowed between them and my people.

He even threatened to tell the king himself so that he would remove them from office, and he left.

Despite everything, they told me that the deal was still on and that I could marry Emma.

After that I proposed to her and, after much insisting, she finally agreed. But a few days before the wedding she confessed to me that an English officer had raped her.

You can imagine how pissed off I was, so I met with the FitzGeralds. They told me that the officer had returned with new threats, and to silence him, they agreed to let him take Emma away! They sold her to a bloody Englishman behind my back!

I curse the gods because in her entrails grows the son of a bastard who sullied her before I could touch her. But this will not remain so.

My friend, I will need your help to find them. And when I have that weakling in front of me, I'll give him a slow painful death and then piss on his hollow skull.

I look forward to your prompt response, dear friend. Whatever you decide, we'll see each other sooner than you think in your beloved Scotland.

Olaff

––––––––

The spy

15th century, Aberfeldy, Scotland

Late afternoon in Edinburgh, the reddish hues of the sky hovered over the sinister silhouette of a small castle set in a clearing in the woods of Aberfeldy, Perthshire, a small town north-west of Edinburgh.

The sentinels patrolled the surroundings of the fortification with great care.

The rhythmic echo of the guards' footsteps echoed off the stone walls and cobblestones of the long corridors like a drum band playing a military march. The great room was heavily guarded, as there was an important private meeting between the most distinguished nobles of various Scottish clans. The same Alexander Stuart, Duke of Albany and brother of King James III, had also been secretly summoned in that isolated and wild embers of the forest.

The future of a king and of an entire nation was debated in the main hall of the fortress with extreme caution. Through the window the sunset could be seen, and in the center, seated at an enormous carved hardwood table, the host, Sir James Stoneheart, a well-built English soldier with short blond hair, presided over the event. He surveyed his less imposing-looking, darker, brown-haired noble Scottish allies with icy eyes as they plotted small clan uprisings to wreak havoc across Scotland.

Alexander, younger, and a traitor to the cause of his brother the king, listened carefully to the insurgent proposals of his subordinates, approving them with slight nods and showing special enthusiasm for the most twisted and bloody plans that were emerging, until the storm of ideas became a struggle to see who could come up with the most insane plan to obtain the favors of their future regent.

Beneath the Englishman's thick mustache, one could see a smile more typical of a wolf among a flock of sheep than of a human.

That fortified castle was Sir James's private home in Scotland, courtesy of Alexander, and being far enough away it was the perfect place to hold their meetings undisturbed... or, at least, that's what they thought.

Behind the door, and safe from all eyes, there was a hooded man who was listening with extreme attention. At his feet lay four dead guards. He perceived nearby movement and hid. Four other guards were approaching, who, alerted to see their companions down, drew their swords, turning their heads in all directions. One of them distributed them with energetic gestures to cover all possible areas. The hooded man remained hidden in every conceivable nook and cranny until confrontation became inevitable.

Seated on the chest of drawers in her chambers, a young woman with long, golden hair rested her eyes, blue as clear as the summer sky, on a parchment before her. The dim light of the candles illuminated her angelic and saddened face while the white swan feather glided on the paper, tracing elegant and stylized letters.

Dear Aunt Helen:

I still haven't received an answer from you and my concern grows as time goes by. I hope you are well, although I am sure you are better than me.

I should never have left your side; you don't know how much I miss you and how much I want to return to the tranquility that your presence gives me.

I wish I could step back onto the cobbled streets of London and blend in with the hustle and bustle of the city people. Even though I was very young, I still remember our walks in the park with the summer sun bathing our skin.

Here there are no streets, no sun, no summer. It is a vast gray and stormy expanse from which I can’t escape.

She printed the words with a strong and determined pulse, although sometimes she stopped to cry when she thought of all the hardships she had had to go through. At these important meetings of State, as her father, Sir James Stoneheart called them, everyone was strictly forbidden to leave their rooms on pain of death. Even if it was his own daughter who broke the rule. So during those evenings locked in her rooms she could only do three things: cry, write and sleep to escape from her sad reality.

I've been in cold, bleak Scotland for longer than I can remember, but you know my father better than I do, and you know I've had no choice, I never have a choice.

And I have to confess to you that my sorrow increases when I remember the man I lost, the only good thing this land could offer me, my beloved Eduard Campbell, may God have him in his grace. My life would be so different if I had gotten to marry him... If you had known him, surely you would have loved him as much as I did.

In this last line, the stroke was losing strength until she stopped writing. Her eyes watered, turning the sight of the paper into a mere blur. Suddenly, the echoes of a riot and a clash of swords brought her back to the real world. Then hurried footsteps slowed near the heavy door to her chambers. A loud bang on the wall let her know that someone who had escaped the fight was panting on the other side, as if his heart was going to burst out of his chest. The shouts of the soldiers could be heard in the distance of the corridor.

The young woman gathered up her long white nightgown to hurry to the doorjamb and listen more carefully. She tried to hold her heavy breathing to avoid being discovered. The stranger's gasps were getting louder and sometimes he whispered some words that she couldn't understand. She had no intention of breaking his father's prohibition, but it made her curiosity jump like a hare in the field. Another spy? She thought to herself. She slowly opened the door, peeked timidly through the crack, and saw a hooded man with agile movements and a thin but strong complexion. The cloak, a dark brown color, gnawed, dirty and wet from the rain, covered his entire body. Undoubtedly, he was a spy who was being chased by the guards.

It wasn't the first time it happened, every time an important meeting took place, she heard light, hurried footsteps near her door. Her rooms were located in the corridor on the way to the great room that her father used for meetings, so, although she never left them, she was a silent witness to what was happening outside.

For some reason, she had the strange feeling that it was always the same man; as if it wasn't the first time she had seen, or even met, someone who moved the same way. Always one, always the same cloak covering the same person, that when he visited the castle there was some excitement in her boring and monotonous life. Why did he risk so much by always coming alone? Has he ever been caught? she wondered. To tell the truth, she couldn't be sure that he was acting without help either. She only heard and saw the little that happened in that small space of the castle.

She couldn't contain the impulse to go out to meet him to try to help him, and just as she went out into the corridor she was run into by the fugitive, who was running away and hadn’t noticed her presence. They both fell to the ground and the pleasant smell of wet earth that he gave off invaded her. Whenever there was a storm, she longed to get out of that enormous prison and be enveloped by the rain to feel free, now that aroma had gone to look for her in her rooms, and the fresh drops of his cape splashed her face. Despite the impact and fall, the hood continued to cover his face, but she could see a black goatee on his chin. The chin of a young man, perhaps her own age.

—Lady Leathybeth! — a guard shouted at her unexpected appearance.

Hearing her name, the fugitive rose and held out his arm to help Leathybeth up. The young woman, without thinking twice, took his hand and got up. Although she couldn't see his face, she felt how his gaze had locked on her, her heart was going to beat out of her chest.

—Get away from her, you bastard! —the guards yelled scornfully, but he didn't seem willing to take her hostage, or even threaten her, which surprised them greatly.

Instead, he started a race that, to a new surprise, was stopped by an unexpected arrow that hit his left leg. Leathybeth was startled and couldn't help but worry, but there was nothing she could do. One of the guards urged Leathybeth to go back inside and lock the door while he joined the chase.

Leathybeth, still shaken by what had happened, looked around curiously to try to figure out where the marksman was who so accurately wounded the spy. It was strange, none of the pursuers was armed with a bow or crossbow, and there was no one else there.

Suddenly, an arrow flew close to her shoulder, just enough to miss her. She held her breath when she heard a small smirk behind a column. The stranger stepped into view, a thick velvety black cloak covering his imposing countenance. He was a taller and stronger man than the lithe fugitive.

She could see little under the dark hood that covered his face, except that he was staring at her without moving a muscle. Sinister character who, due to his intimidating appearance, could well be one of her father's subordinates, but why didn't he go after the spy along with the guards?

A chill ran down her spine as his gloved hand lifted the crossbow and brought it aimed at head level. Though she was some distance away, Leathybeth knew he wouldn’t miss. She hurried into her chambers and closed the heavy bolt with trembling hands. She hid behind the bed, panting like a girl who had seen a monster. By staying like that for a while without the stranger trying to force the door, she realized that he had no intention of killing her. She had the strange sensation of having felt his presence on more than one occasion, that someone was following her as if he were her shadow. After her repeated escape attempts, it wasn't unreasonable for James to keep an eye on her all the time, and possibly that man was there to prevent her from trying to go somewhere she shouldn’t.

The fugitive, closely followed by the guards, continued his frantic flight. At the end of a corridor, he turned a corner and they lost sight of him. With the agility of a cat, and despite the arrow wound in his leg, he had climbed up the wall to the roof and was watching them from above, waiting for them to go in one direction before proceeding in the other. The guards, exhausted by the chase, saw the shadow of someone walking down one of the nearby corridors and decided to attack him from behind. That individual must have thought that they knew nothing of ambushes, he inhaled deeply and turned towards them, revealing his face before their swords could touch him. The two soldiers stopped suddenly.

—Bruce! —One was frightened, outlining a nervous smile.

They lowered their guard and sheathed their swords in a firm salute to their superior. Bruce gave a slight smile. The scar that crossed his face and his trimmed beard gave him a threatening appearance, more like a thug than the right-hand man of the representative of the King of England, but no one questioned his authority, he was feared and respected for having become the James Stoneheart's henchman. Some even claimed that Bruce was crueler than James himself.

In addition, there were other reasons why he was feared; he seemed to enjoy torture and had strange nocturnal habits.

—That bastard is fast as the wind; we’ve chased him all over the castle — affirmed one of them wiping the sweat from his forehead. His companion nodded panting.

*

Outside, the cold and mist of night had closed in on the forest, and it was dangerous to go into it, for it was swarming with wolves and other creatures that came out to hunt. The hooded fugitive who had stumbled upon Leathybeth was seen by the posted sentinels.

—Get him!! Don't let him escape! —the captain yelled furiously, frustrated that he hadn’t been able to capture him in the castle, but the elusive hooded man melted into the mist, like a specter from the underworld.

Peering into the shadows, the enraged soldier caught a glimpse of his face. It was a ghostly vision that intended to kill them; he brandished his sword and managed to skillfully dodge it, but the guard who was next to him conceded the fatal blow, falling struck down to the ground.

Grown by the advantage offered by the fog and the environment, he continued to distribute his steel mercilessly to whoever dared to attack him until not a single one was left standing. Blood spattered him, severed limbs flew from nearly lifeless bodies, and it seemed to make him stronger and more agile, as if his blade was nourished by each kill.

But the captain, a red-haired man in his thirties, well trained and strong, was the only one standing, a tougher nut to crack. He stood guard, undeterred, and suddenly the storm of steel ceased, the mist beginning to lift slightly. There was no one behind the mist.

He stayed alert moment longer in case it was a ruse, and when he was sure that he wasn’t going to appear, he glanced at his troop with the most accentuated anger on his face. That was a real carnage; even in the toughest fights his confidence in them was complete, he had trained them himself severely, and he couldn’t believe that a single man had killed six of his own without dying in the attempt, with such little effort.

—Damn coward, show your face! —His green eyes blazed with anger—. May the wolves tear you to pieces! —Only the silence of the night answered him—. Do you hear me, you bastard!?

The captain clenched his teeth and fists, making a silent vow to give him the worst of deaths the next time their paths crossed. He looked up at the sky; the full moon shone radiantly as if it were the night sun and in the distance the echoes of the howling of the wolves could be heard.

—Your attempt was pathetic, Alastair. It’s clear that McDonalds can’t be trusted —said a guttural voice behind the captain.

Turning, he saw the imposing figure of Bruce, his face covered by the hood of his black cloak; the black leather of his gloves crackling as he clenched his fists in a gesture of suppressed anger. He looked at the corpses on the ground, some dismembered, and an angry growl escaped his throat.

He returned his gaze to his men. Through the darkness of the hood, some would have sworn to see that his eyes glowed as red as blood.

—Watch Leathybeth. And clean all this —he ordered in a tone that admitted no reply. His voice was more grotesque than usual, his men froze with fear, under his thick cloak he seemed to be in slight convulsions, and as the captain withdrew, seeming not as shaken by Bruce's presence as the rest, he gestured at them so that they would react and obey.

*

Alastair always carried with him that letter that his father, also called Alastair, had bequeathed to him before his death. The letter Olaff had written to him. Alastair had not yet had the opportunity to meet Olaff, a family friend and relative, in Scotland. However, he would continue with that mission that his father left unfinished, which was none other than to find James Stoneheart's bastard and reveal his identity to Olaff so that he would take revenge that he had been wanting to carry out for a long time.

Alastair's father hadn't the faintest idea who James's bastard might be, so he didn't have much information to pass on to his son.

In those secret meetings, Alastair tried to keep a close eye on the Englishman, but he couldn’t find out anything, he always went alone and had only one recognized daughter, Leathybeth Stoneheart.

*

The spy had entered the forest and was running frantically through the trees, glancing back from time to time to see if anyone was following him. The crickets chirped and the hooting of the owls could be heard clearly, it seemed calm. He stopped at the stabbing pain in his leg wound, he leaned his back against the stout, twisted trunk of a willow tree. He was bleeding profusely, and he knew the scent of the precious fluid might attract nocturnal predators. He ripped off a piece of his cloak that he tore into two parts, one to dry the blood as best he could, the other to make a tourniquet, clenching his teeth trying not to make a sound.

He looked around, paying attention to any nearby movement. There was still nothing to disturb the tranquility of the night, except for the nocturnal fauna and the sound of the light breeze that swayed the branches and leaves of the trees. He tore the blood-soaked cloth into several pieces and spread them around the area to confuse predators, continuing south on a different path.

The shadow of some huge beast that walked stealthily was seen between some trees. The spy, sensing that he was being followed, turned, but saw nothing or no one, until he heard a slight growl behind him and when he turned again, he discovered a huge creature. Its black fur gleamed in the moonlight and its glowing red eyes stared at him, its powerful jaws and claws could well dismember him without difficulty.

Its movements were extraordinarily fast, and when it rose to its hind legs it towered above any other known creature.

The young man drew his sword and managed to repel the powerful attacks of the beast; with the weapon he deflected his huge arm, but he could not avoid the terrible slash of the other claw, which threw him several meters, making him lose his sword. From the ground, that creature was even more gigantic, its half-open jaws letting out puffs of breath in a rhythmic, calm, tranquil breath, sure of its success.

He scrambled across the ground to grab his sword, the beast following with a slow, purposeful step. At last, his hand touched the hilt, but before he could rise to fight, the huge beast lashed out with a powerful claw, impossible to dodge, that lifted him from the ground, ripping violently through his thick cloak and tearing painfully into his flesh. The blood from his chest splattered the nearby tree trunks and surrounding vegetation in a crimson rain. When his back hit the ground again, he was unconscious.

*

In the middle of the night, he woke up with a start, panting and sweating; still believing that this beast was nearby. His whole body ached and his head was spinning. He felt as if he were somewhere else, but besides his racing heart, he couldn't make out any sound and everything was blurry, though he had the feeling that there was someone else with him. He passed out.

Conspiracy

James III was walking nervously and thoughtfully through a small unit of his home, Stirling Castle. He was restless, because his nobles hadn’t supported him in his decisions for some time, that certain matters were taken too lightly, or even, and to make the situation worse, they were reluctant to help him in his opposition against England, which made him particularly uneasy.

His son, Prince James, also avoided discussing certain matters of state with him, as if his mind were occupied with what appeared to be more trivial matters, such as going hunting in Aberfeldy, or attending other idle activities with friends who he never spoke about.

What the king did not know was that his brother Alexander, Duke of Albany and leader of the nobility, intended to usurp the Scottish throne with the help of King Edward of England. Prince James and the nobles also held strictly confidential meetings with each other in which they planned riots and noble rebellions to involve the Scottish king and attempt to assassinate him.

Still unaware of the impending insurrection, King James III had already realized that something was wrong. Thanks to a confidant, he had found out that lately all the activities that his son James IV carried out included his brother Alexander Stuart. The two of them had always gotten along well, but they had never arranged so many meetings so closely spaced between them, and that, coupled with the strange behavior of the nobles, made him think.

Somebody knocks at the door.

—Come in —the King orders.

A wiry, elusive man enters, bowing.

—Majesty...

James makes a fuss of impatience, indicating that he should drop the formalities and get to the point.

—Have you been able to find out anything?

— Your Majesty, in this last outing they have taken more escort than usual. I have been able to find out that the captain of the guard himself has accompanied the prince. But your majesty —he added, in a lower tone—, I can assure you that they have not gone to their usual hunting ground. They diverted their route and continued further north, where the woods are infested with wolves and, they say, other dangerous creatures.

—Why would they take that unnecessary risk? —James thought aloud, frowning—. What's so far north besides bloodthirsty beasts? That being the case, I don't think there is much prey there —he continued, looking directly at the informant, who ducked his head to avoid looking at him—. Something is going on behind my back, and my son is hiding something from me, I know it —he stated with absolute conviction.

The king requested the presence of the captain of his guard, he wanted to find out more about what had happened.

At the castle gates stood a strange man wearing a dirty tattered and bloody cloak, his leather breastplate torn and smeared with dried blood, his boots muddy, and he didn’t walk quite upright. It seemed that he had walked for days.

—I request an audience with the king.

His voice, though deep and manly, revealed that he must have been about twenty years old; under the hood that hid his face a thick and short black goatee could be seen.

—The king has given the order not to let anyone pass, who are you?

—I have an important message for the king, it is necessary that I speak with him in person.

The guard looked him up and down examining his clothes, without emblems or brooches carved with the shield of some noble or lord. He had a sheathed broadsword strapped to his leather belt. He looked around; he was alone. And it was clear that he was not a messenger.

—Please, I beg you —insisted the strange traveler before the silence of the guard—. I must speak to the king as soon as possible; his life is in danger. Will you take me to him?

The guard drew his sword and took a few steps towards him, frowning, even if he were the high priest, they would not let him pass without an express order from the king. James was cautious, he had reduced the number of visits and doubled his guard for fear of possible riots. The guards knew that the visitor could wait out the night and try to sneak in, but the risk to him would still be high, there were too many men posted.

The castle was impregnable and he had to try to get in by good means. In any case, they also did not know his degree of recklessness, they had to make sure that he did not cause problems again by killing him right there if necessary.

—A farmer is not worthy of being received by the king, especially without revealing his identity at the gates of his dwelling. What is so important that you must tell him?

—My name and my face are insignificant compared to his life. Forgive my boldness, but there are traitors among yours and I can’t trust anyone else to get the message to him. It must be myself. If necessary, I'll break in —he stated without hesitation, and before the rest of the guards could draw, in an extraordinarily quick movement, he slipped his right hand under his cloak to draw his sword.

—Careful! He's armed!

—Stop him! He wants to kill the king! —one ventured to shout.

The underdog appearance fooled everyone. The stranger dodged a first attack with great agility and counterattacked successfully disarming his opponent, grabbed his arm and twisting it, stood behind him, holding him tight. The guard could feel the cold metal of the sharp blade at his throat.

—You will be the traitors if you prevent me from seeing him.

Suddenly, a sword struck him from behind and he released his hostage to turn towards his new opponent, who was none other than the captain of the guard, Alastair McDonald, and the haughty look in his green eyes. His trimmed beard and hair shone with reddish gleams.

—You! —He cocked his head wryly, acknowledging the dirty, tattered cloak. He grabbed him violently and got closer until he could whisper in his ear—, What are you going to do now that the darkness of the night isn’t protecting you?

The stranger didn't say a word.

—I'm glad the wolves didn't eat you that night, so I can make you pay for what you did to my men —he released him with a dismissive gesture.

—Traitor —sentenced the hooded man with the same contempt.

At those words, some soldiers exchanged incredulous glances, others with contained anger. The captain let out a loud laugh that he abruptly silenced with an annoyed gesture.

—Seize him! —He ordered—. I'm going to take care of him right now — he added in a more sinister tone.

Suddenly, doubt was sown among his men. With the latest events, uncertainty had been sown between them. There were some who remained faithful to their superior and would never say a word, but others, aware of certain anomalies in their captain's behavior of late, and of the intrigues that hovered over him like bees over honey, were not sure who was right. They thought that if the stranger had bad intentions towards the king, he wouldn’t risk losing his life in this way, no one was so naive. Or stupid.

—What’s wrong with you? — Alastair glared at each and every one of his men furiously—. Are you going to believe this poor devil who has come out of nowhere and intends to break into the king's dwelling without even showing his face? —He received no response other than the same dubious glances—. This man is a murderer! He killed dozens of my men!

Yes, he had, during the conspiracy meetings that were taking place in a remote forest to the north. There were four guards who had obeyed their captain. The hooded one, despite his wounds and with insulting ease, broke free, leaving one incapable of fighting, amputating his right hand with a tremendous Slash, and keeping the rest at a safe distance without too much difficulty.

Captain Alastair could not hide his disbelief, that man had extraordinary strength. With a firm gesture he ordered the rest of the undecided to take charge, and they had no choice but to obey if they didn't want to be demoted from their posts, or worse. Only one escaped from the fight to run to warn the king, the same one who had had the stranger's edge bite his throat.

Panting, he burst into the room where the king was with his wife. He knew that according to the protocol he shouldn’t do it, but the seriousness of the situation required it.

—Your Majesty —he started urgently—, there’s a man at the gates of the castle who insists on talking to you. —He stopped for a moment to take a breath, he was panting and sweating—. He has come alone and says that your life is in danger. — The king's eyes widened upon hearing those words—. The captain wants to kill him. —The guard hesitated before revealing what the messenger so bluntly stated, but considered it his duty to inform the king—. Your Majesty, the stranger suspects that the captain is a traitor.

The monarch's face darkened without seeming too surprised; turning to his wife he found terror reflected in her eyes.

—Bring them both here. Tell Alastair I want him alive —he ordered emphatically and with a lost look.

His wife, Marguerite of Denmark, came toward him with long, hurried steps. She rested her hand on her husband's arm with concern.

—My lord, I think you should be more cautious, we don't know who this man is or what he really came for.

—He has come alone, in broad daylight, and he has said that my life is in danger. It won't be him who wants to kill me.

*

Meanwhile, the captain continued to fight with the unknown right-hander, they continued with their attacks, injuring themselves in carelessness. The hooded man had few, and despite the wound in his back and the thick gnawed cloak that hampered his movements, he was surprisingly agile. Alastair was aware of the danger when the cloak was churned in a gale, at which point the storm of steel would descend on him mercilessly. A small oversight and he would be dead.

—My captain, the king requests your presence immediately.

The guard appeared with two other companions. The hooded man lowered his guard, losing interest in the fight and received a sword blow from Alastair in the arm that made him drop his weapon. The tip of his sword lifted the intruder's chin, revealing his black goatee and the sneer on his mouth.

––––––––

—I must deal with him first; he is a liar and a murderer. The punishment for confronting and killing members of the royal guard is death for treason against the Crown.

—His Majesty requests his presence as well.

The captain made a grimace of annoyance and, drawing away the edge of his sword, ordered with a nod that they seize him to bring him before the king. The stranger offered no resistance.

James III heard the voices of some soldiers approaching through the corridors, they seemed to be giving someone a reprimand.

The great door of the room opened and two soldiers of the personal guard of James III himself, together with the captain of the guard, requested permission to enter the room. They held by the arms with virulence that daring man who had not uttered a word, nor did he struggle.

The king's gaze authorized their presence and at the same time demanded an explanation.

The captain, unable to hide his curiosity, uncovered the face of the captive, a boy of about twenty with long, unruly black hair, dark blue eyes, and an implacable gaze. Despite his scruffy appearance, no doubt partly caused by mistreatment by his captors, his bearing was imposing.

If James had met him under different circumstances and with different clothing, he would not have doubted his noble origin for a moment.

—Your Majesty —the captain began loud and clear, after having made the appropriate bowing—, this assassin has been prowling around and has killed several of my men in the last few days.

James exchanged a significant look with his wife, Margarita's face showed concern, they sensed that this young man prostrated before them would shed more light on the shadow of the insurrection that hung over the kingdom.

—And you say that he has come of his own free will to tell me that my life is in danger? —The king's tone was not exempt from a certain irony, at this point he no longer knew whether to trust his guard or that young man, who might have killed the true traitors.

—He is a spy and a murderer, Your Majesty, —one of the soldiers continued—. He has been discovered on several occasions pursuing Alexander and your son, and has killed several members of your personal guards. As Your Majesty knows, that is punishable by death.

The captain confirmed that information with a dismayed and firm gesture, waiting for the king to pronounce his death sentence. But the fact that he had killed members of the prince's and Alexander's bodyguards, together with the fact that he had not shown up at the castle until now, was already significant enough for James III. If he had been a thug making a direct attempt on his life, he would not have let himself be caught so easily, unless that had been his plan all along.

—Captain Alastair McDonald.

James III walked around the room with a thoughtful air, until he approached his subordinate, standing in front of him with curiosity reflected in his gaze.

—Majesty? —He responded with a slight bow.

—You were aware of my express order to keep the maximum number of men in the castle.

Alastair nodded hesitantly, the king staring at him, watching every last of his facial movements.

—Despite that, —he continued—, you attended my son's last hunt with more men than necessary, —he stated without taking his eyes off him.

The captain maintained his stance, James' presence commanded respect even from traitors, and on some occasions that had been enough for the truth to come out of the lips of the person being interrogated.

—Yes, Majesty, he expressly asked me to do so.

—I can't understand why you needed so many escorts, was there any unexpected danger this time? Perhaps you have ventured to explore a new area of ​​the forest?

The captain made a move to answer, hesitant, he didn't dare tell the truth about that day, but he didn't have very many options. If he did, Alexander would kill him; and if he covered it up, the king would become more suspicious. James III's eyes fixed on his like fine needles, sensing that he was hiding something from him.

—It was a precaution, Your Majesty, at this time of year the woods are infested with wolves. I offer you my most sincere apologies, Majesty, it will not happen again.

As soon as the tension was released from the king's piercing gaze, Alastair exchanged furtive glances with his two soldiers through gritted teeth. If they betrayed Alexander, they knew their days were numbered, though if they betrayed the king, they would also suffer the same fate. It was in their hands to choose their executioner.

James III frowned and, approaching the young man, examined him as if he wanted to penetrate his mind, as if he were a psychiatrist analyzing a patient who appears to be sane, but still harboring doubts about his madness.

It was strange that someone, no matter how strong and well-versed in combat, would walk into the lion's den all by himself, engaging the royal guards without any military support. Unless he was a fearless soldier whose mission he considered more important than his own life. Or that he really was a murderer who got caught so he could conspire from within.

Considering his situation and the tension that the young man's presence aroused among the captain and his men present, the king was open to any possible explanation from the brave messenger.

The guards shoved him to stand before the king. James III made a gesture with his hand for them to let him go without ceasing to observe him meticulously.

Everywhere he reflected the signs of the struggle that had brought him here: wounded, bloody, ragged. He noticed that he kept his right arm crossed over his chest, as if he were convalescing from some recent injury to his torso.

For a moment, he came to think that he was the captain's scapegoat, but no, that couldn't be theater, he couldn't be an accomplice to his men. All you had to do was see on their faces the expressions of those who, for a moment, saw death pass by without taking them. And the captain, also hurt and resentful, was too proud to admit that he was nearly beaten by someone less than his age.

He seemed nervous, trying in vain to remain calm, it was obvious that he was hiding something.

After the respectful bow from the stranger, he realized that he was taller than he seemed, his injuries did not allow him to stand up straight. His face harbored neither hatred towards the king, nor indifference, nor disdain, as he was able to verify more than once in the countenances of his nobles when they addressed him. No, the gaze of that portentous young man oozed a deep respect, and that was something that James had not noticed in his relatives for a long time. He had never seen him before and already he admired his courage.

Margarita of Denmark accepted the reverence that the young man gave her with a slight nod, she had not uttered a word; she remained expectant, like her husband. However, she pushed her respect to the limit and didn't speak until she was allowed to.

—Speak, messenger, what is that important thing you have to tell me?

—My king —he began in a clear, firm voice—, I have witnessed a conspiracy against you, so they have tried to kill me —he admitted bluntly with all frankness, his soft, deep voice giving him more years than he appeared to be—. Your brother Alexander intends to seize the throne from you with the help of King Edward of England.

The tremendous accusation caused a stir and whispers among those present. The captain tried to keep up appearances, but he was finding it difficult.

James III thoughtfully took a few steps towards the young man. Despite the seemingly unbelievable news, it didn't catch him off guard very much. The guards wanted to seize him again in case he tried something, but the monarch stopped them with a gesture, and cocked his head, narrowing his eyes without taking his gaze from his confidant's face, as if he were looking for any hint of deceit or hesitation. Also entering his thoughts was the possibility that he was a false informant, trying to confuse him to create more chaos.

—That is a very serious accusation, young man, —James III stated in a severe tone, addressing those present—. I don't know if you are aware of your situation, but you are not in a position to lie when it comes to these matters. —The commotion ceased—. Do you have proof? —he added, turning back to him.

—I have been spying on King Edward's ambassador for a long time, I know him too well. —In his look, James noticed a certain resentment—. Sir James Stoneheart is ruthless and would not hesitate to kill you with his bare hands, Majesty. —At the mention of that name, Captain Alastair's gaze darkened—. There was a secret meeting, Stoneheart was with the prince, with Alexander, and several of his nobles. You must know, Majesty, that this is not the first time I have seen them together.

The whispering and commotion soon returned, and the king was forced to call angrily for silence.

The young man's eyes, a blue as deep as the lochs of his beloved Scotland, radiated calm like their calm waters, hardly disturbed by the breeze.

James III thought about the possibilities, his son never gave him details of those idle activities with his uncle Alexander in which he spent most of his time. Likewise, Alexander did not give him any explanation in this regard and had never clearly expressed himself in favor of his decisions of State, but what would never have crossed his mind is that the King of England himself tried to kill him using two very close members of his family.

He resisted the idea that his lust for power would go so far as to plan an assassination of such dimensions, but he knew that Edward would take advantage of any situation to achieve his ends, and, without a doubt, he had chosen the best moment to do so.

Surely, together they were brewing a noble rebellion for the assassination, that way Edward of England would not stain his hands with royal blood, and a possible war with Scotland would be avoided.

James III's suspicions materialized like a ghost made of flesh and blood before his eyes. A strong feeling of anguish oppressed his chest, so much so that he thought his heart was going to explode.

The confidant had no reason to lie, he had risked his life, and if he found out that everything was false, he would only have to kill him, right there if necessary. Besides, his cool demeanor gave him far more confidence than the nervous tics and ill-concealed furtive glances of his men. That young man had kept his gaze at all times, looking into his eyes, challenging him to find any hint of doubt or lie in them. He even seemed furious about the situation as well as expectant, as if he was waiting for some order to do something about it.

—What is your name, young man?

—Philip, Your Majesty.

—And where are you from, Philip?

The king made a gesture, wishing to know the last name.

—I have no family, Majesty. I don't even know where I was born, but I grew up here and I feel as Scottish as anyone here.

James III gave a slight smile and his gaze turned benevolent.

The captain of the guard seemed surprised by Philip's words.

Marguerite of Denmark was deeply relieved and gave Philip a slight nod of approval. She went to some