Prophecy Of Kings: Volume 1 ✔️

Chapter 15 - Trouble in Scone (Part 1)

Hairy hooves pounded the ground relentlessly. Rupert had been galloping for hours with his two stow-aways in tow; eventually stopping as the suffocating trees parted ways like watchmen at the arrival of an expected guest. Firmin felt like it had been days since he had felt the freedom of the sharp Scottish wind against his face, inhaling deeply as he looked downwards to the bustling town ahead: Scone.

"Ye better get changed out oh' that armour pal, disnae seem like you want to be spotted?" said Ru, glancing backwards.

Firmin nodded, taking in the town properly for the first time. He had only seen the smoke billowing from the many chimneys, and the faint flicker of firelight through ajar windows when he had skirted the town in twilight a few days prior. The thatched roofs ranged from faded blonde to murky brown; clearly some had been replaced more recently than others. Through the gaps in the criss-cross of stone houses he could see the crowds gathered in the square; an amalgamation of clansmen and animals big and small. Firmin knew that Scone held great significance for the Scottish people. Every Alba King had been crowned outside the Abbey on the outskirts of the town, perched on the Stone of Destiny "clach-na-cinneamhain" for all to see.

He first learned of the stone when he was a boy. He remembered peering through the cheering crowd as the captured stone was ceremoniously transported to Westminister Abbey; with the head of the Scottish King resting upon it. That was after King Edwards death, he recalled. How the years have escaped me.

Athelstan 's first Royal decree forbid Scotland from having a King after his father's assassination, abruptly imposing his will on the once independent nation. The new King of England would not repeat the mistakes of his father before him. The Scottish people were not to be trusted. Firmin was only a child when the Alba folk were rounded up and hanged in the streets. Devils they told us. A nation responsible for the death of King Edward. Now I look back... were we the devils? He stared at the steeple of the Abbey in the distance, deep in thought. The spire jutted out into the clear sky like a broad sword moments from being dropped on an unwilling neck. We laughed with delight as we watched innocent people hang... but why did they have to be killed? I see now it was nothing but the wrath of an unrighteous King. Not the will of God.

"Oi... did ye hear me? Ye better nae be dreaming of that lassie again?"

"Huh? Apologies Rupert, yes, my armour," said Firmin, cupping the back of his neck with his hand. "You eh, you don't have anything to change into, do you?"

"Aye have a look in the top left hand side," he replied whilst snorting.

Firmin peeled back the crop to reveal an orange and green pleated blanket. "This?" He held it up to Rupert with a blank look on his face.

"The exact een! My mither always telt me to never hit the road withoot a spare plaid."

"And exactly how do I?" Firmin huffed before stripping down to his under-garments.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the reindeers expression change. Probably my scars, he thought unashamedly. Every time Firmin caught a glance of the three large slashes on his chest, he was reminded of how fickle his life was.

"Should have killed me," he said whilst tracing the scars with his fingers. "White-tailed eagle, came out of nowhere. Tore clean through my breastplate."

"Aye, that would be the Bruces," replied Rupert. "Dinnae want to mess with that lot." Firmin could see the reindeer shuddering at the mere thought.

"What about the one on yer shoulder?" Ru gestured with his furry nose towards the freshly healed wound which still flared an anrgry pinkish tone.