Chapter 1: The Death at Scone

The scent of damp stone clung to the walls of Scone Abbey, mingling with the holy smoke of beeswax candles and the metallic tang of cold iron. It was March of 1292, and the abbey’s cloisters echoed with the hurried footsteps of petitioners, clerics, and noblemen, all summoned to bear witness to the search for Scotland’s next king. Yet in the quiet before dawn, as the first grey light bled through stained glass, a cry shattered the sacred hush. Ewan MacRae, a notary newly assigned to the court of the Guardians of Scotland, clutched his wax tablets to his chest and ran toward the sound. He found Brother Aidan kneeling beside a sprawled figure in the chapter house—Master William Dunbar, scribe to the Guardians, lay still as the dead, eyes wide and staring at the vaulted ceiling. Aidan’s candle cast long shadows across the flagstones, illuminating a patch of blood at William’s temple. “He is murdered,” the monk whispered. Ewan swallowed hard, forcing himself to look closer. William had been a quiet man, meticulous in recording each claim to the crown. “Who would do such a thing?” he asked, voice trembling. “Someone with much to lose,” Aidan replied. “Or much to gain.” The abbey’s bells rang for Prime, and the corridors filled with the rustle of woolen robes and the clank of mailed boots. Ewan wiped his palms on his tunic and made his way to the chamber of the Guardians, where the great lords—Baliol, Bruce, and Comyn among them—gathered in uneasy truce. Word of the murder spread quickly, souring the air with suspicion. That evening, as mist crept over the River Tay, Ewan found himself summoned to the chambers of Bishop Fraser, one of the six Guardians of Scotland. “You were the first to find him,” Fraser said, his gaze sharp. “You will aid us in finding the truth. Be discreet, Master MacRae. We have enough enemies without scandal.” Ewan nodded, nerves twisting in his gut. In the uncertain dawn of a kingdom without a king, secrets could kill as surely as any sword. —

Chapter 2: The Guardians’ Shadow

The council chamber was a tapestry of ambition. Robert Bruce, lord of Annandale, stood apart, his blue eyes narrowed as he watched John Balliol, who spoke in low tones with the Earl of Mar. Ewan lingered at the edge, notebook in hand, straining to catch a word, a gesture—anything that might explain William’s death. The Guardians themselves sat at the head table, Bishop Fraser presiding, his face as unreadable as the Abbey’s stone saints. Beside him, Bishop Wishart of Glasgow fidgeted, while Lord James Stewart picked at a hangnail, his mind elsewhere. “The king is dead,” Fraser intoned, “and now one of our own is slain. We must not let the hand of murder steer the fate of Scotland.” A murmur of assent. Ewan scribbled Fraser’s words, then slipped from the hall, heart pounding. He found Brother Aidan in the scriptorium, hunched over a half-finished letter. “William was last seen here, copying the claims of Bruce and Balliol,” Aidan whispered. “He argued with a man in a red cloak.” Ewan’s mind raced. “A red cloak? That’s the livery of Lord Buchan.” “Or of his cousin, the Earl of Ross.” Ewan’s thoughts turned to the parchment William had been working on. He found it still on the scribe’s desk, ink smudged as if written in haste. There, among the neat Latin, a line had been struck out. Ewan traced the words: _De jure, the claim of John Balliol…_ The ink was fresh. As he stood, a shadow fell across the desk. Lord Buchan himself loomed, tall and broad, his red cloak streaked with mud. His gaze landed on Ewan’s hands. “Curiosity is dangerous, boy,” Buchan rumbled. “Leave the dead to their rest.” Ewan swallowed, folding the parchment into his sleeve. He bowed and retreated, questions burning. Why would someone want to erase Balliol’s claim? And did William die for what he knew? Outside, a cold wind swept through the cloisters. Ewan shivered, the weight of Scotland’s empty throne pressing upon him. —

Chapter 3: A Secret in the Margins

Night brought little peace. Ewan tossed on his straw pallet, mind racing with the day’s events. He rose before dawn, candle flickering in the draughty scriptorium, and spread William’s parchment before him. The stricken line troubled him: what could Balliol’s claim conceal? He remembered William’s habit—he often scribbled marginal notes in cipher, a trick learned from English monks. Ewan fetched a magnifying glass and tilted the parchment to the candlelight. There, in the tight margin, a series of odd marks, almost invisible. He transcribed them, puzzling over the pattern, when a footstep startled him. It was Lady Isobel, daughter of the Earl of Mar, her cloak drawn tight against the chill. “Forgive me,” she said, voice low. “I saw your candle. My father sent me to find the king’s ring—William had it for safekeeping, but now he’s dead…” Ewan hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll help you search. But Lady Isobel, did you see who William spoke with last night?” She frowned, recalling. “I passed William near the garden after Vespers. He was arguing with a man—tall, with a limp. I think it was Lord Bruce’s steward.” As they rifled through William’s chest, Ewan found a pouch beneath a false bottom—a silver ring, set with a sapphire, bearing the lion rampant of Scotland. “Here,” he whispered, handing it to Isobel. Her eyes widened in gratitude. “You’re a good man, Master MacRae,” she whispered. “But be careful. In these halls, loyalty is a dangerous currency.” As she slipped away, Ewan turned again to the cipher, heart pounding. He cracked the code at last: _”A false claim soon to be proved, if Bruce’s steward speaks.”_ Ewan’s breath caught. The clue pointed to a lie at the heart of Bruce’s claim—and to the steward who might have died for it. —

Chapter 4: The Steward’s Testimony

Ewan watched from the shadow of an arch as Lord Bruce’s steward, Sir Malcolm Drummond, limped through the cloisters, pausing often to cough into a kerchief. He looked haunted, eyes darting to every shadow. Ewan intercepted him by the herb garden, where the air was thick with rosemary and sage. “Sir Malcolm,” Ewan said quietly, “I know William trusted you. He left a message in cipher. I must speak with you—alone.” Malcolm hesitated, glancing around, then nodded. They retreated to a narrow passage beside the Abbey’s granary, where Ewan pressed him. “William died for something he learned about Bruce’s claim,” Ewan said. “What was it?” Malcolm sagged, rubbing his temples. “I warned William not to write it down. The Bruce claim is strong in blood, but there are papers—English papers—that say John Balliol’s right is clearer. William had a copy. He was to show it to the Guardians.” “Where is it?” Ewan pressed. Malcolm’s face twisted in pain. “Gone. Stolen from my chamber last eve. After, I heard footsteps—someone followed William…” A bell tolled, and Malcolm started. “I must go. Trust no one, Master MacRae.” Ewan watched him limp away, weighed down by secrets. If Bruce’s claim was built on a lie, and Balliol’s on English favor, who in Scotland could be trusted? The murder was not just a matter of jealousy or ambition—it was part of a larger game, with the future of Scotland at stake. That night, as Ewan walked the Abbey’s dark corridors, he felt the gaze of unseen eyes upon him, and clutched William’s coded parchment tight to his chest. —

Chapter 5: The King’s Envoy

The following morning, the Abbey was abuzz: Edward I of England had sent his envoy, Sir Henry de Beaumont, to “advise” the Guardians. The Englishman arrived in shining mail, his retinue trailing behind like carrion. In the council chamber, Sir Henry’s presence cast a pall. “His Majesty, King Edward, wishes only for a just and peaceful settlement,” he declared, smile thin as a knife. “Should any untoward event arise, England stands ready to restore order.” Ewan watched the Scottish lords bristle. Lady Isobel caught his eye, her gaze filled with warning. After the session, Ewan saw Sir Henry in heated discussion with Lord Buchan. He edged closer, catching snatches of their words. “…the document must not surface. My master’s patience is not infinite,” Henry hissed. Buchan’s reply was a growl. “I have done as you asked. But the boy—MacRae—has the scribe’s last message.” Henry’s eyes sharpened. “Then see to it that he is silenced.” Ewan shrank back, blood pounding in his ears. The murder was no longer a private matter—it was entangled in the web of English interference. William had died to conceal a paper that could crown a king or doom a nation. That evening, Ewan found his chamber ransacked, his notes scattered and his wax tablets gone. Only the cipher, hidden in his boot, remained. He pressed it to his heart, realizing that his own life now hung by a thread. —

Chapter 6: The Abbey’s Fire

On the night of the feast for Saint Cuthbert, the Abbey was a blaze of torchlight and song. Nobles danced, clerics drank, and alliances shifted with every toast. Ewan moved through the throng, seeking Sir Malcolm. He found him near the kitchens, face pale. “They know,” Malcolm whispered. “Buchan’s men come for you.” Suddenly, a shout rang out. Flames leapt from the east wing, smoke billowing through the cloisters. Panic erupted. In the chaos, Ewan saw Lord Buchan slip away, dragging a parcel wrapped in oilcloth. Ewan darted after him, dodging fleeing monks and choking smoke. He caught Buchan in the cloister garden, where the moon painted the grass silver. “Give me the papers,” Ewan demanded, voice shaking. Buchan sneered. “Foolish boy. You think a scrap of parchment will save Scotland? England will have her way, king or no king.” Ewan lunged, grabbing the oilcloth. They wrestled—the packet tore open, scattering charred parchment. Ewan seized the largest sheet, recognizing the English seal. Buchan struck him, sending him sprawling. But as Buchan raised his dagger, a shout rang out: Lady Isobel, flanked by Stewart’s men, rushed in. “Enough!” she cried. “Let the Guardians see what you would destroy.” Buchan fled into the night. Stewart’s men helped Ewan to his feet, and together they salvaged the precious document. —

Chapter 7: The Judgment of Scone

Dawn broke over Scone Abbey, the air heavy with smoke and uncertainty. In the great hall, the Guardians gathered, Scottish lords tense as bowstrings, Edward’s envoys cold and silent. Ewan presented the document—a letter from Edward himself, acknowledging Balliol’s superior claim, but promising Bruce support if he would serve English interests. The room erupted in uproar. Bishop Fraser raised a hand. “Enough! We see now the price of English friendship. Scotland’s choice must be Scotland’s alone.” Sir Henry de Beaumont’s face was thunderous. “You meddle in affairs too great for you, notary.” “Let the record show,” Ewan replied, voice steady, “that Master William Dunbar died for the truth.” The Guardians conferred for hours. At last, John Balliol was proclaimed king, to be crowned at Scone. Later, as the Abbey’s bells pealed, Ewan stood with Lady Isobel in the garden where the murder began. “You have done more for Scotland than you know, Master MacRae,” she said softly. Ewan gazed at the blackened stones, the embers of ambition still smoldering. “I only hope it is enough.” In the uncertain light of a new reign, the price of truth lingered—a reminder that, in Scotland’s darkest hour, a scribe’s courage had shaped the fate of a nation. —