The Striker Read Free Page B

already falling as he spoke. Unfortunately, Sir John wasn’t going to get his wish: the bride would faint before the wedding night after all.

2

    Stirling Castle, Scotland, late September 1305
    A RE YOU SURE about this, Maggie?”
    Margaret took that as a rhetorical question. She was sure about everything, as her oldest friend well knew. “Have you ever seen anything like this, Brige?”
    Margaret’s question was a rhetorical one as well. Of course her friend hadn’t. Like Margaret, Brigid hadn’t traveled more than twenty miles from her home in the Rhins of Galloway in the remote southwestern corner of Scotland. A place that was so far away it seemed almost another world. God’s bones, it had taken them nearly two weeks to travel here with carts, and it wasn’t a journey she was anxious to repeat anytime soon.
    If she was successful— when she was successful—she might not be going back at all. Though the gathering at Stirling was an attempt to make allies of Scotland’s rivals for the crown to form a unified force against England, her father had another purpose in being here. He intended to propose a marriage alliance between Margaret and young John Comyn, the son of John “the Red” Comyn, Lord of Badenoch. It was her job to win over the young lord and make him eager for the match. As winning over men was something she’d been doing since she could talk, she would probably be betrothed in a fortnight.
    Margaret spun around. “Isn’t it magnificent? Look how high the rafters are! The Hall is so large I’m surprised the ceiling does not come tumbling down. How do you think they built it to stay up there like that?” She didn’t bother waiting for an answer, she was already racing across the room to examine the enormous fireplace. “I can stand up inside!” she said, ducking under the colorfully painted mantel.
    Brigid laughed as she peeked back under. “Careful,” her friend warned, suddenly sober. “The embers are still glowing from this morning. You’ll light your skirts on fire.”
    â€œThat would make an impression, wouldn’t it?” Margaret said with an impish smile. “No one would forget me then. The girl who caught her skirts on fire.”
    â€œNo one will forget you anyway,” Brigid said with a fond—if slightly exasperated—shake of the head.
    But Margaret wasn’t listening; she’d already moved on to the next discovery. Since they’d arrived at Stirling Castle a few hours ago, it seemed every minute had been filled with them. She’d barely taken time to wash—in the finest tub she’d ever seen—change her clothes, and run a comb through her still damp hair before she’d dragged Brigid off to go exploring. They could rest tonight.
    Margaret put her hand on one of the walls. “It is plaster! I wasn’t sure. The painting of the arms is so exquisite I thought it might actually be a shield! Can you believe they painted the whole room with this brick and vine pattern? There isn’t a surface that hasn’t been decorated in here. I’ve never seen a more colorful room. And look at these curtains.” She moved toward one of the windows and pulled the heavy scarlet velvet around her. “It’s fine enough to make a gown.” Glancing down at her plain dark brown wool kirtle, she grinned. “Actually it’s finer than any of my gowns. What do you think? Will someone notice if we take it?”
    Brigid shook her head with amazement. “Can you imagine using fabric as fine as that for curtains?” Suddenly, her face drew tight with consternation. “Do you think our gowns will be very different from the other ladies?”
    â€œI should hope so,” Margaret said with a proud squaring of her shoulders. “We are wearing some of the finest wool in all of Scotland. There are no finer weavers than from Galloway. I