Outlaw King

by Julie Johnstone

  “I have fought with Wallace,” Robert spoke up, hoping to deflect the king’s anger from Gloucester. “He is a fierce fighter, but he would nae ever order women and children killed.”

  “Comyn gave the order, not Wallace,” Gloucester said.

  “There you have it, then!” The king gulped in several ragged breaths. “You are a Scot; Comyn is a Scot. Together, you were the Guardians of Scotland! You knew of this attack!”

  “Sire,” Robert said, his eye twitching now with the effort to repress his roiling anger and his worry for Elizabeth. “Ye know well I do nae have any liking for Comyn. It is one of the reasons I first came here: we both wish to see him stopped before he sits on Scotland’s throne.”

  “Bah!” the king rumbled. “Just words! Where is the proof that you are my man? Where is the proof that you are loyal?”

  “What would ye have me do?” Robert snapped, losing his temper.

  The king’s eyes lit almost gleefully, and Robert wished with his whole being that he could retract the question. “I will tell you what you will do. You will come with me to Scotland. You will be my sword arm in sweeping through that filthy land and claiming it as my own. My mercy is gone; the peace is over. You will help me bend Scotland to my will, and until it is done, you will not lay eyes upon your wife.”

  Robert suddenly felt as if he could not breathe. It was as if the king had sentenced him to death. Anguish filled him, pain gnawing in his chest.

  “And if it is not done,” the king continued ominously, “I will have your wife sent to a place you will never find her, and there, she will become the mistress of another man. What say you to that, Robert the Bruce, Earl of Carrick?”

  He imagined ripping Edward’s heart out with his bare hands. Grief consumed him as if she were already gone. With a will born from years of toil and battle and loss, he dug deep into himself and nodded. “I am yer loyal servant,” he managed through clenched teeth.

  “We shall see,” Edward hissed. “Take Bruce to his chambers. And set two guards there who shall be with him as his shadow from this day until the time Scotland has fallen. As for my goddaughter, take her to her chambers in the queen’s room.”

  Robert looked to Elizabeth. Her hands were folded in front of her, her expression calm.

  “Prepare yourself to travel,” the king said to Elizabeth. “You will leave shortly for Kildrummy, where you will remain until your husband proves himself—or doesn’t. De Beauchamp will escort you.”

  Robert’s composure snapped. He sprang toward de Beauchamp when he leered at Elizabeth and barreled into the man with a grunt. They went flying across the floor and knocked into a bench, which tipped onto them. Robert shoved the bench off and sent his fists into de Beauchamp’s face. The satisfying crunch of bones filled Robert’s ears, but it was not enough. He would kill the man. Intending to do it now, he reared his fist back to strike again, but several pairs of hands grabbed him and hauled him off de Beauchamp. The primal need to protect Elizabeth consumed him, and though he found each of his arms being held behind him and four men surrounding him, he surged forward, reason gone, caution gone, but he was dragged backward.

  De Beauchamp struggled to his feet, blood streaming from his nose. A squire scurried to him and handed him a white linen strip, with which the man wiped his face, smearing a trail of blood across his skin.

  Robert met the man’s gaze. “I will tear ye limb from limb if ye touch my wife.”

  De Beauchamp smiled. “You would have to come in reach of me first, Bruce.”

  “Ye better keep yer guards close, de Beauchamp,” Robert snarled. “And do nae close yer eyes to sleep, for I will be coming for ye.”

  “As entertaining as this is,” Edward said with disdain, “I’ve tired. Guards! Take Bruce and Elizabeth away.”

  Forcefully towed out of the great hall, Robert could see Elizabeth ahead of him. She twisted around to look at him as the guards on either side of her drew her up the stairs toward the queen’s chambers.

  He cried out at the fear in her eyes. “Do nae forget what I said, Elizabeth,” he called after her. “Look to the stars at night, and whatever ye do, keep armed!”

  She nodded just as she disappeared from his sight.

  Elizabeth stared in dread as Kildrummy Castle came into view. How would she ever escape such a place? A thick, stone curtain wall surrounded the castle. Tall towers rose from the wall; it would be impossible to get over. She nibbled on her lip, worry her only company. Not that she minded being alone. She had been filled with dread that de Beauchamp would try to ravage her in the carriage on the way to Kildrummy, possibly for retribution against Robert’s humiliation of the man. She touched a finger to the dagger at her hip. She did not even bother to conceal it now that they were gone from the Palace, and with it the king, her father, and Robert.

  God, Robert! She moaned and pressed her fingers to her lips. How long before she saw him again? Would she see him again? She squeezed her eyes shut, warm tears trickling down her cheeks. She could not allow doubt. A breeze filtered through the tiny window in the carriage, and she forced herself to open her eyes and look up at the stars that dotted the sky. They had not even gotten to say farewell.

  A suffocating sensation tightened her throat, as she recalled the warmth of his arms around her when they had stood at the window the night they had come back together. Grief and despair tore at her heart. Her only weapon was her memory of Robert’s breath upon her neck, his hands on her body, and the promises they had made, the plans they had thought of. Desolate loneliness stabbed at her, and she hissed, her thoughts spinning wildly.

  Whatever came to pass, she would survive for Robert, for if she could not find a way to escape, he would come for her. Of that, she was certain. This castle guarded the points where the main routes in Scotland connected from Moray and Buchan. It had not been far from the political upheaval between Scotland and England. It was possible that Kildrummy Castle would be one of the first places in Scotland that Robert tried to recover, and if not him, then one of the men loyal to him would do it. They came to a stop, and Elizabeth inhaled a long breath for bravery.

  The carriage door was opened, and de Beauchamp stood there, a smirk on his face and his hand held out to her. “Come, Elizabeth,” he said, his silken tone causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end.

  She pushed out of her seat, slapped his hand out of the way, and moved past him down the stairs. The men set to guard her stood but a few feet away, but they provided little comfort. They had been appointed to keep her here, not aid her, as far as she knew. Still, they would likely be less of a threat to her than de Beauchamp. She started toward them, only to be stopped by de Beauchamp’s hand clasping around her wrist. She tensed as he pressed his mouth near her ear. “The king might have ordered me not to touch you, but if you have not noticed, there is no one here to see what I do.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek in an effort not to show her surprise. Neither the king nor her father had relayed that they had given her protection. They had barely spoken to her. Grasping the small hope that had been given to her, she yanked her wrist from his hold. “My godfather instructed me to write him if you so much as look at me with lust,” she lied and tilted up her chin.

  “Only until Bruce fails him. I don’t doubt it will happen quickly. Bruce will never aid the king to bring down Scotland.”

  “Robert is the king’s man,” she said, praying she sounded truthful. “He will aid Edward, and then I’ll be allowed to return to him. You will never lay a hand on me, but Robert will come for you. You can be certain of that.”

  De Beauchamp leaned close. “I’m certain he’ll try,” he snarled in a low voice. “Which is why I will strike first.”

  “You cannot strike Robert,” she bit out, though fear blossomed in her chest.

  “Oh, I can, Elizabeth.” The surety in his voice chilled her. “I can strike Bruce straight in the heart—through you.”

  She drew back, horrified at the thou
ght of him touching her. “The king would have you killed for disobeying him.”

  De Beauchamp nodded. “But how am I to help it, if you pursue me?”

  She felt her mouth part. “No one will believe that.”

  “We shall see,” de Beauchamp said, then motioned to the guards. “Take her to the Snow Tower and keep a guard outside of her room. No one in but her lady’s maid, and when Elizabeth leaves the room, trail her.”

  “I did not bring a lady’s maid,” Elizabeth said.

  “No?” de Beauchamp asked, his feigned surprise obvious. “I will see one appointed to you.”

  She narrowed her eyes on him. He was sending someone in to spy on her—or worse.

  “No, thank you,” she said, giving him a wide smile.

  “Oh, I could not allow the Earl of Carrick’s wife to go without a lady’s maid,” he answered, flourishing his hand in a mock bow. “Now off you go to rest. Hopefully you can sleep knowing you are safe in the highest tower in this castle. I see dark shadows under your eyes, my lady. Let sleep elude you no more, knowing my every thought is to watch over you.”

  His words sent a shudder through her. Glad to leave his presence, she did not hesitate to follow the guards, making sure to study the castle as she went, in case she needed to escape. The rear wall faced a ravine, and the circular towers were at the back corners of that ravine. She saw a tower that rose seven stories, and her gut clenched.

  “Is that Snow Tower?” she asked the guard nearest to her.

  “Yes, my lady,” he said, continuing his trek toward her prison. They made their way inside the tower and slowly climbed the stairs to the very top. The guard opened the door for her, and she went in, her heart sinking. The room had no window. She would not be able to look out at the stars as she and Robert had spoken of doing. A sensation of intense sickness and desolation swept over her.

  “Do you need me to bring you anything?” the guard asked from behind her.

  “No,” she murmured. She struggled to keep her tears at bay until the door was closed, but the moment it clicked into place, the tears came, hot trails down her face that soaked the top of her gown. She did not bother to wipe them away. She let them flow freely but silently. Her throat strained with the effort of holding in the sound of her sorrow.

  She moved slowly to the bed, feeling it was almost impossible to command her body to her will, and then she lay down, gripped the pillow, and buried her face in it. A faint scent of musk filled her nostrils, so in contrast to the fresh pine scent of the last pillow she had laid her head on beside Robert. Her racking sobs began to soften, leaving a dull ache in her stomach and a piercing one in her heart. Her dagger poked at her hip, so she loosened it from its holder and set it within reach upon the bed.

  She flipped over onto her back, the tears barely coming now. Anger started to simmer low and warm within her. Every thought of how her father and the king had tried to use her, how the king tried to control Robert, made the anger in her hotter and brighter until it was a rage she could not contain. She flung the pillow away, ripped all the covers off the bed, and beat at the bed with her fists, her helplessness making her nearly mad. But then slowly, as the rage subsided, determination sprang up. It built in her chest until it ached. Those tears would be the last ones she’d allow herself to cry until the day she was reunited with Robert. Then, and only then, would she cry, and those would be tears of joy. Until then, she would be as strong as her husband had been surrounded by his enemies at the English court. He had never shown fear, and she would do the same and make him proud of her.

  Weary beyond the point of sleep, she lay back on the bed, stared at the cracked ceiling, and pictured Robert in her mind for comfort. In memory, she ran her hands over his broad shoulders and down the corded muscles of his stomach to his narrow hips, all the while holding his dark gaze with her own. He smiled, and his dimples appeared.

  She let out a sigh and closed her eyes. Her body started to get very heavy, and she thought perhaps she might sleep, but then she remembered de Beauchamp. Her eyes flew wide open, and she screamed. Looming over her was a woman holding Elizabeth’s dagger. She had been so absorbed with her own misery that she had failed to hear a thing. The woman pointed the dagger at her and shook her head in a chiding manner.

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to demand who she was, but the woman pressed a finger to her own lips and cocked her head toward the door. Elizabeth followed the woman’s gaze, and outside in the passageway, she could see the outline of one of the guard’s backs. The stranger rose slowly and walked to the door, her bare feet padding against the floor. She closed it, came toward Elizabeth once more, and said, “I kinnae believe Robbie did nae advise ye to bar yer door before ye close yer eyes.”

  Elizabeth gaped at the woman, shock quickly turning to relief. The woman was not here to try to harm her. Elizabeth shook her head, her thoughts moving as if in a fog. Robert had told her to never release her dagger, which was now in this woman’s hands. But the woman had an accent. “You’re Scottish,” Elizabeth said.

  The woman smirked. “How clever ye are. Robbie married ye?” Her gaze traveled over Elizabeth as if she were giving her an inspection, which Elizabeth was failing.

  Incensed, she pushed herself up and scooted back from the woman. “You called my husband Robbie,” Elizabeth said, jealousy stirring.

  The woman, who appeared to be maybe twenty summers, tossed her long red hair over her shoulder, sat on the bed, scrunching up her gown, and crossed her legs. She stared at Elizabeth for a long silent moment, her gray eyes assessing. “Aye, I did. I reckon I earned the right to call him Robbie. I’ve known him since I first toddled around on chubby bairn legs, and he was the first boy to ever have his hand down my gown.”

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Begging my pardon is a good place to start,” the woman said, her tone amused. “Ye are nae Scottish after all.”

  Elizabeth scowled. “Who, pray tell, are you?”

  The woman smirked. “Did Robbie nae tell ye about me?”

  “He did not,” Elizabeth replied through clenched teeth.

  “Och, I suppose I can see why.” She raked her gaze over Elizabeth. “We all know he was forced to marry ye for political gain.”

  Elizabeth’s face and chest flushed. “We married for love.”

  “Oh, ye lie easily, like all who are loyal to the English king,” the woman said in a derisive tone.

  Fury nearly choked Elizabeth. Without a thought for what might happen, she reached out, snatched her dagger from the unsuspecting woman, and turned it toward her. She pressed the point of the dagger to the woman’s chest with enough pressure that the stranger would know that Elizabeth was not to be mucked with. “Robert did not marry me for political reasons,” she snapped. “Now tell me who you are before I lose my temper.”

  The woman surprised her by chuckling rather heartily. She quirked a russet eyebrow. “Mayhap Robbie did marry ye for love. Ye have the fire in ye, and I know he likes women with fire.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath to quell the storm stirring within. “And how would you know that?”

  “Well, I believe I was the first woman he ever truly loved… It all started with a frog down my gown.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Is that what you meant when you said he was the first man to have his hand down your gown?”

  “Aye,” she said, her lips trembling with now obvious mirth. “What did ye think I meant? That I was a woman of easy virtue?”

  “Well, I—” She bit her lip at the quick judgment she had made. “As a matter of fact, yes.” Heat burned her cheeks.

  Amusement flickered in the woman’s eyes. “I’ll nae be offended since ye just met me.”

  “In point of fact,” Elizabeth said, quirking her mouth, “I have not met you. Who are you?”

  “I’m Catarine Mar. My father is the Earl of Mar.”

  Disappointment washed over Elizabeth. “Edward’s man.”

  Ca
tarine narrowed her gaze upon Elizabeth. “Is Robbie Edward’s man?”

  Elizabeth stilled, considering how honest to be. She did not know Catarine, so it would be foolish to trust her. “He has bent the knee to the king,” she said, answering without truly answering.

  Catarine arched her eyebrows high. “My father also bent the knee to the English king, that does nae make him the king’s man.”

  Elizabeth stared in surprise. “What you reveal could get your father killed.”

  “Robbie will be proud of ye,” Catarine said, a pleased look upon her face.

  “Proud of me?” Elizabeth asked, frowning.

  “Aye.” Catarine nodded. “I could tell from the message he sent that he was verra worried for ye and yer safety.”

  Elizabeth’s heart squeezed. “Robert sent a message here? But how?”

  “Gloucester,” Catarine said with a scowl. “He rode hard and fast to the castle to arrive before ye did.”

  “Gloucester has aided Robert before,” Elizabeth said slowly, sensing Catarine’s dislike of the man. “Do you not like him?”

  “He’s nae Scottish, and I do nae trust anyone who is nae.”

  “I’m not Scottish,” Elizabeth said evenly.

  “Aye,” Catarine acknowledged, “and I do nae trust ye. But I will aid ye because Robbie asked it of me. Nae only are we kin by marriage but I believe, as many do, that yer husband will one day sit on the Scottish throne.”

  “He would be a worthy king,” Elizabeth said cautiously, “if he wished it. But he is Edward’s man now, and Robert’s father still lives.”

  Catarine chuckled. “So verra careful ye are,” she said. “I commend it. Now, see that ye are that careful at all times.”

  Elizabeth inhaled a long, steadying breath. Catarine gave wise counsel that Elizabeth fully intended to follow. “Is Gloucester still here?”

  “Nay.” Catarine unfolded her legs and stood. “He had to ride out as fast as he rode here. The king commanded him to Prince Edward’s side, so Gloucester had just enough time to detour here.”