by Mariah Stone
“What did Bruce say?” she asked.
Angus licked his lips and stared into the space between two cauldrons.
“He didn’t say anything. I left him and said that I would take the letter and would send it tomorrow if he wished. The next day, he came out a different man. He slept and ate here, see. I was hiding him from Laomann.” Angus chuckled. “So I do think it may have been my magical uisge that made him change his mind. In either case, he came out, without fearing Laomann, or anyone, and asked me to gather men so he might speak to them. Laomann was furious and scared as shite, but Bruce didna care. Neither did I. After speaking to our most trusted men, you should have seen their eyes. They were burning.” A triumphant smile spread in his beard. “Burning. So we said we were on his side. Then I went around our lands and introduced him to tacksmen. We talked to more men, and although not everyone agreed, many did. Then we got him safely back to clan Ruaidhrí, who together with the Cambels and us, helped him win one castle after another as the spring of 1307 came. Inverlochy was the big breakthrough that changed everything. I fought there with him and the Cambels.”
Rogene’s hands shook with excitement. But why hadn’t the letter been found in the twenty-first century? Why wasn’t it known to modern scholars?
“You must have destroyed the letter?” she said. “I mean, it would be pretty bad if it landed in the hands of King Edward now, or became public knowledge.”
He chuckled. “It would be. But since I ken ye’re on Bruce’s side, I can trust ye. I didna destroy it. It was the symbol of a comeback. It reminds me that even in the deepest despair, there’s hope and light. And even the smallest man can change the destiny of the whole kingdom.”
She swallowed hard as she clasped her cold fingers. “So you still have it?”
He looked at her in such a way that her legs went weak. “I do, Lady Rogene. ’Tis hidden in my bedchamber. But I must destroy it. Lady Euphemia can never ken about it.”
Oh, yes, he was right. If the letter got into her hands, she’d show it to everyone and use it as a reason to usurp Bruce, altering the course of history. Rogene really needed to find the letter before he destroyed it and take a picture. But how would she prove that her photo was of the original, that she hadn’t faked the letter? Could she hide it somewhere, bury it so deep that she could find it again in the twenty-first century, whole and untouched?
Or would she be playing with destiny and risk changing everything?
Chapter 12
Three days later…
Rogene stood before the door into Angus’s bedroom. Her phone was in her hand with only 3 percent battery life left. Her feet were weak, her heart beat hard against her ribs. The last three days had flown past in preparations for the wedding, and though Rogene had been scouting for every opportunity to get into Angus’s room to find the letter, there was always someone next to her.
Then, finally, this afternoon a merchant ship had arrived with silks and perfumes and soaps from the Kingdom of Galicia, or Spain, and now, it seemed, the whole castle—including the servants and even the warriors—had gone to the sea gate to take a look and buy stuff for the wedding feast.
She glanced over her shoulder, down the dark flight of stairs that led to the landing in front of his room. No movement, no noise. With her hand trembling, she pushed the cold wood of the door and stepped in.
Angus’s scent enveloped her—leather and iron and something musky and woody and dark. She also smelled some herbs with a sharp aroma she didn’t recognize. The room was modest and straightforward, like him. The simple canopy bed of dark wood, the swords and shields on the wall, the chests under them—massive and dark. There was a dummy with armor on it—leine croich and his chain mail coif. The room was simple, and tidy, and sturdy. Rogene suppressed an urge to climb onto the tidily made bed and inhale the scent of Angus’s pillow, imagining that he’d wrap his arm around her and pull her to him.
A noise came from behind her. She looked back, her blood chilling.
The landing was empty.
She shut the door and listened for a moment. Quiet. She should hurry. If Angus saw her here, he might think she’d come to offer herself to him… Or he might realize what she was really after and never trust her again.
In the fireplace, ambers glowed under the white ash that lay like snow. She was so nervous and so cold, she itched to stretch her hands to the warmth. She heard the excited voices and laughter coming from beyond the window, from the jetty by the sea gate where Angus had kissed her a few days ago.
The memory burned her, brought heat to her cheeks. How was it possible that the two serious boyfriends she’d had in the past had never caused this reaction from her, yet after knowing Angus for such a short time, she was set ablaze at the very thought of him?
Ridiculous.
Get yourself together, she told herself, looking around. Where could the letter be? Surely, he’d hidden it. Perhaps in one of the chests? With guilt heavy as a stone in her stomach, she opened the first chest by the fireplace. Clothes. Clean tunics and breeches—or rather medieval hose, which were essentially two long woolen stockings that covered the entire leg—and braies, which were knee-length linen breeches that looked like loose-fitting pajama bottoms. There were also several braiels, which were thin leather belts that fastened on the waist and held braies and the hose.
She bit her lip, feeling blood rush to her face and neck at the thought that she was rummaging in Angus’s underwear…
No letter.
She opened the next chest. Woolen socks and several shoes, all in the medieval fashion—pointy—some made of rough leather, others made of thin, soft leather. The next chest held heavy clothes: cloaks and caps and coifs.
Ah, damn it. She opened several others, but there was nothing like a letter. She found some leather pouches with a few coins, a couple of boxes with herbs and clean pieces of cloth—probably the medieval version of a first aid kit. He had few possessions and no books, and she thought how different this simple life was compared to the twenty-first century. She, a struggling PhD student, owned so many things, and he owned so little, though he was wealthy for a man of the Middle Ages.
She straightened and looked around. Maybe under the mattress? She went to the bed and lifted the heavy mattress, filled with sheep wool, but there was nothing under it. Nothing under the pillow.
Ugh. Where could it be? She carefully looked around the walls, searching for holes in the mortar between the rough stones. Above the chimney? No. Under the windowsill?
And then she saw it… A small stone that protruded a bit more than the others and looked loose. With her stomach flipping, she moved to the window and touched the small rock. It was cool under her fingertips. Wiggling it up and down, she managed to pry it out…
And there it was, a leather roll. With her breath held, she pulled it out of the hole. She sat down on the bed and undid the roll with shaky hands…
Her heart drummed. There it was, on the parchment, written in medieval calligraphy that she was already used to seeing. It was written in Old English.
January sixteenth in the year of our Lord thirteen hundred and seven.
Robert the Bruce to King Edward I, greetings.
I received news that your lordship has my wife, my daughter, and my sister in captivity. I hereby resign my crown and become a humble servant and compel you to release my women. I am no longer King of Scots. May God bless you.
Your servant.
Rogene stared at the letter. Her heart ached to see that the legendary king, who was the symbol of independence and strength, could be so defeated. The parchment was smooth, though a bit dusty in her fingers. Her mind racing, she reread it. She retrieved her phone and took a couple of pictures.
She put the phone back in her pouch and read it again.
“What are ye doing?” said a cold female voice.
Rogene looked up.
Her pulse leaped. A pair of angry eyes bore into her. In the doorway, looking like a snake coil
ed to attack, stood Lady Euphemia.
Chapter 13
Without thinking, Rogene hid the letter behind her back. Her heart thumped against her rib cage.
“Um…” she said.
Euphemia marched towards her. “What is that?” She angled her head to see behind Rogene’s back.
Rogene stood. “Nothing.”
With her eyes as sharp as dagger tips, Euphemia came closer. “Ye’re spying on Lord Angus, are ye nae? I’ve seen ye lurking here, and now ye’re reading something. Ye will show me what it is.”
Rogene stepped back. “It doesn’t concern you.”
Euphemia went into the folds of her dress with one hand. “And why does it concern ye?”
Casually, she retrieved a dirk and pointed it at Rogene. The short blade glistened. Rogene’s feet chilled. If Euphemia got the letter, she could very well use it against Bruce. She could send it to Edward II. This could change history.
All because of Rogene.
No. To hell with her PhD. She couldn’t let her actions undo the progress that Bruce had achieved. Even if it meant that she would achieve nothing.
She darted to the fireplace and threw the parchment on the hot embers.
Euphemia sprang after her and grabbed her by the shoulder, pressing the sharp edge of the blade to her neck. As she saw the embers ignite the letter and flames start to consume it, she let Rogene go and sank to her knees. With her dagger, she pierced the edge of the parchment and threw it onto the floor. She stepped on the flames several times until they died, leaving only the blackened edge.
Euphemia bent and picked up the letter. Oh, hell, no! Rogene leaned forward and waved her hand, trying to grab the letter, but Euphemia pulled her arm away. She hid the letter behind her back and pressed the tip of the dagger against Rogene’s stomach.
“One movement, and I’ll spill yer guts on the floor,” Euphemia said.
Euphemia’s eyes were icy blue and dead cold, and Rogene knew the woman had every intention of killing her. Rogene’s hand fell.
“Ye were spying on my betrothed, were ye nae?” Euphemia said.
Rogene didn’t say anything, feeling her chest rising and falling quickly. Euphemia was standing so close, the sickly scent of roses reached Rogene’s nostrils.
Euphemia pressed the knife harder into her stomach, and Rogene felt the tip ripping through the layers of the dress and the undershirt and stinging her skin. Sweat tickled down her spine.
“Aye, spying on him after ye slept with him, were ye nae?” Her voice took on a bitter undertone.
Rogene swallowed a hard knot. “I didn’t sleep with him.”
Euphemia scoffed. “Ye should be a better liar for a spy. I’ve seen ye two kiss. Ye wilna take him away from me. He’s mine.”
Rogene sighed. “I have no intention of taking him away from you, Lady Euphemia. You two are supposed to be together and you will have a son.”
Euphemia’s eyelashes trembled, and she blinked, hope softening her features. She must really love him…
The thought stabbed Rogene in the gut as though the knife had sunk deep into her.
But then Euphemia’s eyes regained their steely expression.
“Even if ’tis so, it doesna change that ye were either stealing something or spying on Angus. What is this?” She turned and brought the letter to her eyes.
Using the woman’s distraction, Rogene stomped on her foot and grabbed her wrist to take the dagger, but Euphemia came to her senses. She snatched her wrist out of Rogene’s grasp—damn it, the woman was strong!—and shoved the blade into Rogene’s chest. Red-hot pain seared through her in a flash as the edge of the knife cut her dress and her flesh, but it didn’t go deep between the ribs.
She gasped, watching the edges of the tear in her pale-blue woolen dress become saturated with blood around a dark gash in her chest just under the collarbone.
“Move,” Euphemia said. “Ye will be punished. Thieves and spies are whipped.”
She pressed the edge of the dagger into Rogene’s throat. A tremor rushed through Rogene. Her heart raced as she walked, moving her icy cold feet. The cut burned and ached.
And now—was Rogene really about to get whipped?
They came out onto the landing, Euphemia’s dagger pressed against Rogene’s lower back, right where her kidney was. Step after step, she descended to her doom.
Chapter 14
“Gift for your wife, my lord?” the Galician merchant said to Angus in a thick accent. The dark-haired man was short and stout with bronzed, weathered skin. He gestured with a muscular arm around the goods displayed on the booths.
“I dinna have a wife,” Angus said, looking over the rolls of white and red silk, casks of expensive wine, small bottles of perfume and rose water.
But he needed a gift for Euphemia. She surely had her wedding dress with her already, but he wanted to do something nice for her and make sure she felt special.
Around him, people were talking excitedly, touching the goods, smelling the cakes of soap, brushing the silk that was so rare here in Scotland. Catrìona picked up a small Bible with a gold-and-silver icon on the leather cover and was leafing through it. Angus wondered why she was doing this to herself if she couldn’t read.
“He has a bride, though,” Iòna said as he smelled a very yellow fruit that the merchant had called a lemon. Iòna was Angus’s friend and the warrior he had fought side by side with ever since his first battle.
“Ah,” said the merchant. “This?”
He retrieved a pearl necklace. The pearls were perfect: white and round, they were worth a fortune and were so bonnie, he could imagine only one woman wearing them.
Lady Rogene.
Angus’s neck muscles stiffened. Pearls were so rare and so expensive that, undoubtedly, he couldn’t afford the necklace.
“How about something simpler?” he said.
The merchant hid the necklace, disappointment masked under a polite smile on his face. He produced a golden cross on a golden chain. The cross was covered with thin, twisted golden patterns and had a small, round ruby in the middle.
Angus nodded. “Aye. This will do as a wedding gift. And some silk.”
“Lord, Lady Euphemia will be pleased,” said Iòna, rubbing his short, blond beard.
“Thank ye,” Angus said and turned to the merchant. “Will ye accept my finest uisge-beatha as part of the payment?”
The merchant’s mouth curved, and he nodded.
“Would ye bring three casks, Iòna?” Angus asked.
“Yes, Lord,” Iòna said and turned to the castle.
When the warrior returned with the uisge and the trade was done, Angus felt like he’d just lost half of his fortune. He tucked the white roll of silk under his arm and the necklace in his pouch. He doubted she deserved his gifts. But still. If she was anything like his father, she must be starved from the lack of attention, and that would only make her more dangerous.
The atmosphere was cheerful. Men and women bought plenty of goods—small and large—and looked forward to surprising their loved ones or trying an exotic new food.
Catrìona stood by his side eyeing the crowd. Angus reached into his pocket and retrieved a small wrapped in oiled canvas parcel.
“For ye,” he said and held it out to her.
“For me?” She beamed and took the gift.
He loved it when his sister became so carefree. Her smile could light up the whole room. Unfortunately, he didn’t see it so often.
She opened the parcel. “Soap!”
She brought the yellow cake with petals encased in its depths to her nose and inhaled.
“Rose soap. Thank ye, brother. That must have cost a fortune.”
He chuckled. “Dinna fash. I dinna get to spoil ye often.”
She shook her head and gave it back to him. “Nae, please. Give it to yer betrothed. ’Tis sin to indulge in bodily pleasures. And soap that smells so lovely surely would be that.”
“Nae, I do think that God likes it
when people are clean, aye?”
“I suppose…”
“Besides, ye’ll have yer whole life to take care of yer immortal soul. Mayhap, ye can enjoy the rosy scent of soap before ye become a nun.”
She beamed. “Thank ye! I do like a good bath.”
Warmth spread in Angus’s chest. In moments like this, he wished their whole family were together. “Do ye ken that Raghnall is in the village?”
“Is he? Nae, I didna ken.” She glanced around. “Does Laomann ken?”
“Nae. But I think I want him at the wedding—”
A distant, urgent yell made him stop and look towards the castle. A woman was running towards the jetty, waving her hand.
“Lord Angus!” she cried. “Lord Angus!”
Fear washed over him in an icy wave.
“Here!” He ran towards the woman.
As he reached her, he recognized Sorcha, the woman Lady Rogene had tried to save from her husband, Gill-Eathain. She was panting, her cheeks red and strands of hair sticking out from under her cap.
“Lady Rogene…” she said as she gasped for air. “Yer bride told my husband to whip her…”
Angus shoved the silk to Catrìona and ran. His feet heavy and cold, he heard his ragged breath in his ears and had just one thought. Protect her.
Through the sea gate he ran, then the empty outer bailey with workshops and barracks and stables, through the second gate and into the inner bailey.
What he saw there made his heart drop into his heels.
Attached to the whipping pole, with her dress torn and her back bare, was Lady Rogene. Euphemia stood next to Gill-Eathain, who had a horse whip in his hand, ready to let it fly. By Euphemia’s side was pale Laomann, who watched everything with wide eyes. Around them was a small crowd of people who were talking with one another excitedly. Gill-Eathain brought the hand with the whip up.
“Stop!” Angus cried.
Gill-Eathain froze and everyone looked at Angus.
