Drake's Honor Read online

  Drake’s Honor

  Madeline Martin

  Copyright 2021 © Madeline Martin

  DRAKE’S HONOR © 2021 Madeline Martin. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.

  * * *

  DRAKE’S HONOR is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Teresa Spreckelmeyer @ The Midnight Muse Designs.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Madeline Martin

  Prologue

  July 1342

  Lochmaben, Scotland

  * * *

  The sun was beginning to set as Greer MacPherson finished the last of the few days’ collection of washing. But where was Mac?

  She glanced over her shoulder as she plunged her hands into the icy barrel beside the river, expecting to see her younger brother bounding over the hill with his usual youthful exuberance. He’d seen twelve summers with an unfettered joy she had never been afforded, and that was exactly what she wanted.

  She’d wash all the clothes in Scotland if it kept him innocent and happy.

  The water in the barrel was cloudy from lye soap that stung at her chapped hands, but she edged around the familiar discomfort and fished out a kirtle—the last item to be washed. After a practiced dunking in the quickly flowing water of the river, she rose with the broad basket clutched in her hands, the weight of the wet clothing making her tired arms quake.

  Normally, she would gather the garments from the line that had been dried by the sunshine earlier and hang the sodden clothing straight away. Except a gnawing at the back of her mind made her set the basket down inside the door of their cottage and follow the well-worn path to the meadow.

  Where was Mac?

  He loved the meadow, aye, but he’d always returned by early afternoon. If nothing else, his bottomless stomach had him sniffing about the large clay pot where their bread and cheese were kept from vermin.

  The breath huffed from her lungs as she made her way up the hill, the tension in her chest there by nerves rather than exertion.

  Something was amiss.

  She reached the meadow as the late afternoon light took on a reddish hue. “Mac?” Her voice carried on the wind, unanswered.

  She ran through the tall grass and stopped short when she came across a figure on the ground. Not Mac. Thanks be to God.

  But Greer’s relief was short-lived.

  The woman lay prone, face up and pale against the verdant lawn, her neck cocked at an unnatural angle, her golden hair loose and snagging over the grass about her like fine cobwebs. Her blue eyes were open, wide as they stared sightlessly upward.

  Her gown was precious silk, a pink that turned orange in the strange light of the setting sun that twinkled at the gems on her neck.

  Greer took an instinctive step back. Finding a dead noble was never a rewarding deed for a peasant. That was when she caught sight of the small wooden hoop laying on its side; the one Mac loved to roll through the grass.

  Icy dread tightened in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, she had an idea of where Mac had gone. He would not have quietly left such a scene. Nay, his kind heart would have compelled him to find someone to help. Someone who would take him prisoner for what he’d found. Or worse…

  Greer spun on her heel and fled the meadow, heading straight for Lochmaben Castle, and prayed to God that her brother had indeed been taken there. Then at least, there would be an opportunity to have him released.

  And she would do anything to see her brother safe.

  1

  August 1342

  Dunfermline, Scotland

  * * *

  Drake Fletcher’s dream was within his grasp. He approached the dais, his head held high in the presence of the young monarch who might forever alter his life.

  “We hear ye are an honest man,” King David said from where he sat upon a massive carved chair in the Great Room of Dunfermline Palace. Sunlight streamed in through the cross-hatched windows and caught at the gilt thread on his fine crimson tunic. “Yer brother-in-law, Reid, recommends ye most highly. ’Tis why we’ve summoned ye, as ye’re well aware.”

  Drake drew in a deep breath. The room was warm, heightening the clean scent of the rushes beneath, freshly changed and strewn with meadowsweet and lavender.

  “Aye, sire,” he replied.

  “Lord Androll’s eldest daughter, Lady Eileen, has been found dead.” The king spoke in a voice low enough not to carry through the open space to where a servant stood by the closed door. “Androll refuses to believe her neck was broken from a fall and instead suspects a nefarious deed. As he is one of our closest advisors, we would be remiss to no’ look into the matter further.”

  The king sat upright to retrieve the chalice from a small table beside his ornate chair. “Lord Calver is a most lucrative supporter of the crown and has been asking for a guard to help train his men. We’d like ye to go under the guise of assisting him while ye uncover what happened to Lady Eileen. We suspect it might have been one of his soldiers, mayhap a lover’s quarrel.” He lifted a shoulder. “If ye discover the truth of what befell her, we’ll see ye knighted.”

  Knighted.

  Drake’s heart thudded hard at the word. His father had been a knight, a man of great honor. As a boy, Drake had looked up to him every day until the fateful battle where his da had been slain. As a man, Drake had aspired to become just like him.

  It was no simple task to become a knight, however, when one’s father was of English birth and one’s mother was Scottish. The mixed blood in Drake’s veins had made his path that much harder. It also made the king’s words now that much sweeter.

  What was more, it was the perfect time for such an opportunity. All three of his sisters had settled into married lives, now safely away from the border between the two countries. Even his mother had moved to the Highlands when Clara, the gentlest and kindest of them all, decided to move to the Isle of Skye with Reid, who she had recently wed.

  Drake would never stop worrying about his family, but at least now, he knew them to be protected and well cared for.

  Now he could truly focus on his dream.

  “I accept the task,” Drake replied. “Indeed, I’m honored to be considered.”

  The young monarch rubbed his chin under his short beard. “What say ye to a squire?”

  The question took Drake aback. Squires were not offered to men who had not yet been knighted. It was far too great an honor to bestow upon him.

  “Forgive me, my liege,” he spoke carefully, loathing the words he had to drag from ins
ide him. “I couldna accept a squire without being a knight.”

  “Ye are honest.” The king chuckled and motioned to his servant at the side door. The man was older with a pate that shone through his cottony white hair. He disappeared at once, knowing exactly what was wanted.

  “The lad is a bit overeager and…” King David tilted his head in consideration. “Mayhap moral to a fault. We think some travel will do him good.”

  Moral to a fault?

  Was such a thing even possible?

  Regardless, Drake was relieved to know of the lad’s integrity. No doubt he would be little trouble. “If it pleases ye, Majesty, I would be honored to travel with the lad.”

  The door to the side of the Great Hall creaked open, and the old man returned with a small boy. Far too young to be a squire. The lad’s skinny legs were like twigs beneath his tunic as he hurriedly approached the dais.

  “This is Beathan, but everyone calls him Bean.” The old man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and turned to him. “Ye’ll be traveling with Master Drake Fletcher, aye?”

  “Ye mean Sir Drake.” The lad shook his thick brown hair from his brow and peered at Drake with piercing blue eyes.

  “He’s no’ a knight,” the king replied. “Yet.”

  Bean’s left eye squinted with his apparent confusion. “But why—”

  “The travel will do ye good, lad,” the servant said encouragingly.

  The boy didn’t attempt to hide his pout as they were dismissed from the Great Room. Drake didn’t take offense, knowing all too well how lads could be, and instead led him out to the corridor.

  “Where are we going?” Bean asked, rushing to keep up with Drake’s long strides.

  Drake slowed his pace somewhat. “Lochmaben Castle, to help train the earl’s guards.”

  “I hope ye’re taking him with ye,” a stout man said as Drake passed. “And that ye’ll be gone for a long while.”

  Whatever question Drake might have asked died on his lips as Bean seemed to shrink in his skinny frame.

  “Farewell, Bean,” a squire called from beside a well-dressed knight. Both laughed with a cruel, mocking tone.

  Drake narrowed his eyes, but before he could say anything, Bean spoke up quickly, “Are we leaving now? I’d be fine if we were.”

  “Whenever ye’re ready.” Drake continued to focus on the knight and his squire with his hard gaze.

  “I was informed I’d be leaving today and had time to prepare,” Bean replied efficiently. “Though I did expect to be traveling with a knight.”

  Drake couldn’t help but smirk at the second reference to his inadequate rank and guided the lad away. “Forgive me for the disappointment.”

  Bean swept the hair from his eyes with a hard jerk of his head. “Ye seem fine enough, and I know King David wouldna ever put me with someone unkind. He’s always liked my da.” He eyed Drake’s sword. “Maybe ye could teach me to fight? My da said I wasna ready yet, but that was last year.”

  Drake regarded the boy, assuming him to have seen ten summers or so. Far too young to be trained with a sword. “Mayhap in a bit.”

  Bean opened his mouth to protest, revealing his two front teeth, overlarge by comparison to the others. “I’m no’ as young as I look. I’m four and ten.”

  “Of course ye are.” Drake swallowed his surprise. “I only meant I wouldna let someone use my da’s blade. We’ll need to procure a weapon for ye.”

  There was certainly truth to that. The sword had protected Drake’s da in battle for years and was the only thing Drake had inherited that he hadn’t been forced to sell. Even in those stark years following his da’s death, Drake hadn’t been able to bring himself to part with the beloved weapon.

  “Go on and collect yer things.” Drake nodded toward the stairs that crept upward into the cool darkness of the castle. “I’ll be in the courtyard.”

  Bean gave a single, firm nod and dashed in the opposite direction while Drake made his way out of the castle. He’d never enjoyed being inside, especially on a day so fine as the August one that greeted him with open sunshine and an endless blue sky overhead.

  A woman in a plain dun-colored kirtle swept past, her long auburn hair falling down her back in a thick rope of a braid that bounced against her bottom. Drake slid his gaze away, not wanting to ogle.

  Instead, he put his mind where it belonged—on the mission at hand, on the details he knew and those he would need to gather. He’d never been tasked with unearthing a murderer before, not like this. For certes, he would need his wits about him.

  He wouldn’t have looked back at the young woman again if the sensation of being watched hadn’t settled in a heavy presence over him. His gaze flicked up, and he found the woman glancing over her shoulder at him, her green eyes sparkling, and her mouth curled up at the corner in a flirtatious smile.

  A bonny lass, to be sure.

  But there were many bonny lasses in this world and only one opportunity to become a knight.

  Drake directed his attention back to the castle entrance as he waited for Bean to return, determined to keep from being distracted by a woman. After all, he knew the dangers of beautiful women and how loving them could wreak the greatest kind of pain.

  The king had refused to see Greer. Irritation rankled her. She was exhausted from her long travel and her stomach gurgled around the discomfort of its mean emptiness.

  The guard back at Lochmaben Castle had confirmed Mac was within the bowels of their dungeon. He swore he knew nothing of why her brother continued to be held but had agreed to help so long as she offered a bribe of fifty marks.

  It might as well be fifty thousand.

  She’d hoped to find assistance with the king for her unjustly incarcerated brother, but the royal guards had taken one look at her and turned their pert noses up before sending her away.

  Fifty marks it was, then.

  She glanced back toward the dark-haired warrior she’d passed near the castle. It was his sword that first caught her eye as she exited the castle. Fine quality steel, solid and well-made. It would fetch a nice bit of coin.

  The man was well-made himself with broad shoulders that spoke of a muscular physique and the kind of square jaw and intense dark eyes that commanded attention.

  He’d looked at her once before, but any additional attempt to catch his notice was ignored as he returned his attention to the castle without interest.

  She turned away with a shrug. It didn’t matter. There were plenty of people about with costly goods on their person, items that would be easier to slip away with than a large sword.

  Indeed, she’d never seen a crowd such as the one loitering before Dunfermline Palace. The men and women wore silks and brocades that cost more than the sum of all the money she’d ever had in her lifetime. Gold and silver adorned their throats, ears and hands, with gems winking in temptation. Greer assessed them all with a critical eye, gauging their worth.

  Even with several fine pieces, it would take a considerable number of pilfered effects to amass the required bribe.

  She paused in her assessment to deliver a scowl in the direction of the castle and hoped the chill of her glare somehow reached the heart of the king. Or at least the men who kept her from seeing him.

  She was a nobody. She knew that. A woman in a homespun kirtle absent of any embellishments. A woman who might have been better off being an orphan than to have had the da she’d been cursed with. He’d cared more for drink than he had for his children.

  Aye, looking at herself by comparison to the nobles lingering about in their costly attire, it was no wonder she wasn’t shown to the king when she’d sought an audience.

  Usually, she could convince people to do nearly anything. It was a gift. Her father had deemed it such once, his skinny chest puffed up with rare pride. Which, of course, meant the skill was an immoral one, like the incredible deftness of her hands.

  Everything she had ever been good at was wrong. Frustration simmered low in her stomach. Mayh
ap that was why living an honest life for so long had been so damn hard.

  Though she’d not taken in laundry for over a month in her travel to Dunfermline, her fingers were still cracked at the creases from so many years of working with the harsh lye soap. Honest work didn’t pay.

  Especially not fifty bloody marks.

  Mayhap it truly was to her benefit that she was good at being bad.

  Her abilities might be the only thing to keep Mac from certain death.

  She had a way of standing out when necessary, with a confident gait and a toss of her rich, auburn hair. But she also knew how to blend into a crowd, slinking low into herself and tucking her head down.

  Different situations required different responses. Now, in a thick crowd of so many watchful gazes, she did the latter. Her shoulders hunched forward as she rounded her back, reducing her average height to a more diminutive stature.

  A woman standing nearby wore a shimmering green silk gown, a sign of great wealth. Or at least once upon a time, it had been. Now the hem was dimpled with stitch marks from being let out, and the band of her wide belt had shifted, revealing an old stain. The woman might have had fortune at one point, but now she appeared to be enduring hard times.

  Greer turned from the woman for a new target, one who didn’t appear to need every coin on their person.

  Several guards clustered together a few feet away, and Greer shifted her direction again, away from them and toward a lone man who stood by with his purse looped carelessly over his belt.