Little is known about Randolph’s wife, Isabel Stewart, the only daughter of John Stewart of Bonkyll, the patriot hero who dies fighting alongside Wallace at Falkirk, and Margaret Bonkyll. As is common with many of the people I write about, there are various spellings for the name: de Bonkyl, Boucle, Buncle, Bunkle and Bonkill. Isabel and Randolph have at least two sons, Thomas and John, but it is one of their daughters, Agnes, known as Black Agnes, Countess of Dunbar, who will become famous for her heroic defense of Dunbar Castle against an English siege in 1338.
In previous mentions of Randolph throughout the series, I used a version of his arms that I found from a number of sources (including the plaque dedicated to him on Edinburgh Castle): “Or, three cushions within a double tressure flory counter-flory Gules,” that is red and gold. But interestingly, for the Bannockburn Live 700th anniversary celebration, the expert historians had Randolph’s arms as red and white. http://learning.battleofbannockburn.com/battlepedia/characters/thomas-randolph,-earl-of-moray/#.Vst-8ceQloN I’m assuming that this was an earlier version—i.e. before Bannockburn and/or his earldom?—that I suspect is more accurate for my time period.
As always, you can find pictures and some of the places mentioned in The Rogue and more information on my website. www.monicamccarty.com
Don’t miss the other books in the New York Times and USA Today bestselling Highland Guard Series!
THE CHIEF
THE HAWK
THE RANGER
THE VIPER
THE SAINT
THE RECRUIT
THE HUNTER
THE KNIGHT (e-novella)
THE RAIDER
THE ARROW
THE STRIKER
THE ROCK
THE GHOST
***
Please continue on to read an excerpt from the last book in Monica’s bestselling Highland Guard Series coming from Pocket Books in June 2016…
THE GHOST
Joan Comyn swore allegiance to Robert the Bruce the day she witnessed England’s barbarous king torturing her famous mother, Scot patriot Bella MacDuff. Now the mysterious beauty slips into men’s hearts like a specter and entices England’s most illustrious barons to unwittingly divulge their secrets, then shares them with her king. Known only as the Ghost even among her Highland Guard brethren, Joan has become the most wanted spy in England.
The man determined to uncover her identity poses her biggest threat yet. Alex Seton once stood with Bruce but now fights for the enemy. Though Joan knows she must avoid the handsome warrior or risk discovery, his knightly chivalry touches a place in her long since buried. When his suspicions grow apparent, Joan realizes she must do everything in her power to stop Alex from revealing her mission and convince the powerful fighter to join forces with the Highland Guard once more. But as the ultimate battle in the great war approaches, will Alex chose love or honor?
An Excerpt from THE GHOST
PROLOGUE
Hagerstown Castle, Northumberland, England, late September 1306
It was a horrible, wicked lie! And had she not been eavesdropping on the two tiring women retained by her father to watch over her, Joan Comyn would have told them exactly that.
It couldn’t be true. No knight could do that to a woman. Not even Edward of England, the self-proclaimed “Hammer of the Scots,” could be so cruel and barbaric.
Could he?
A fresh stab of panic plunged through her chest. Though she never cried, her eyes prickled with tears as she slipped out of the alcove where she had been reading a book and trod soundlessly down the winding staircase of the castle that served as their temporary lodgings in the north of England. She wanted to put her hands over her ears to block out the offending words echoing in her head. Punish . . . traitor . . . cage.
No! Her heart raced and thudded wildly as she ran across the spacious Hall—ignoring all the curious faces that turned to stare at her—to her father’s private solar. She pushed open the big oak door and burst into the room. “It can’t be true!”
Her father’s frown was dark and forbidding enough to make her start. She sobered, cursing herself for forgetting to knock. John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, hated to be disturbed, and though her father rarely turned his terrifying temper on her, the threat alone made her heart beat a little faster.
“You forget yourself, daughter. What is the meaning of this? As you can see”—he gestured to the half-dozen knights and barons seated around the table—“I am very busy.”
She was instantly contrite. Clasping her hands before her, Joan bowed her head and did her best to look modest and respectful—the two qualities her father valued in women (and twelve-year-old girls who hadn’t yet reached womanhood).
She lifted big eyes to his pleadingly. “Please, Father, I’m sorry to interrupt. But I heard something . . .” She lowered her voice, knowing well the risk in uttering the words. “About mother.”
She quickly looked down again, but not before seeing the bolt of rage strike her father’s handsome features. In the best of moments, her father was irrational on the subject of his soon-to-be-set-aside wife, and in the worst he could become belligerent and unpredictable.
The room went deathly quiet. Tension and discomfort were thick in the air.
“Leave us,” her father said sharply to his men.
They were only too eager to do his bidding, shuffling out quickly without looking at her. Not one of them would meet her eyes.
Her stomach dropped. Oh God, what if it was true?
Tears burning behind her eyes, she looked up at the man seated behind the large table. She would never have described him as warm and loving, but the cold, angry, bitter man he’d become over the past six months was nearly unrecognizable.
“If you speak of the treacherous bitch’s punishment”—she flinched at the crude word no matter how many times he said it—“it is undoubtedly true.”
Whatever blood Joan had left in her body drained to the floor. She swayed, lowering herself to the recently vacated bench opposite her father to prevent her legs from giving out. “But it can’t be. I heard them say that she’s been imprisoned in a cage high atop the ramparts at Berwick Castle . . . like an animal.”
Her father’s gaze hardened, his eyes two pinpricks of onyx with the unmistakable shiny gleam of malice. “It is true.”
Horror made her forget herself. “But that is barbaric! Who could have thought of such a thing? You must do something to help her! The king will listen to you.”
Even in England, the Scottish Earl of Buchan was not without considerable influence. Her mother, too, was important in her own right. Isabella MacDuff was the daughter of the previous Earl of Fife and the sister of the current earl—one of Scotland’s most ancient and revered families. It was inconceivable that King Edward of England could punish any woman like this, but a lady—a countess—of her mother’s position . . . surely her father would be able to put a stop to it?
His face turned florid and his eyes sparked with an unholy fervor.
Joan shrank back in the face of the temper she had unwittingly unleashed.
“I won’t do a damned thing! The whore is getting no better than she deserves for what she’s done.”
Joan’s throat choked with tears. She’s not a whore! She wanted to scream in protest, but fear held her tongue.
Perhaps guessing her thoughts, he slammed his fist down on the table. The whole room seemed to shake—including her. “As if putting a crown upon the head of her lover wasn’t enough, she is said to have taken the most notorious pirate in the Western Isles to her bed. Lachlan MacRuairi,” he bit out disgustedly, spittle foaming in the corners of his mouth. “A bastard and a brigand. If she’s being confined like an animal, it is because that is what the rutting bitch deserves.”
Joan loved her mother more than anyone in the world. She refused to believe what they said about her. They were lies meant to discredit her and explain what people thought was unnatural bravery in a woman. They needed an explanation for how
a woman would dare defy not only her husband, but the most powerful king in Christendom to crown a “rebel” king.
But Robert Bruce had been like a brother to her mother—not a lover. As for Lachlan MacRuairi . . . Joan remembered the scary warrior who had appeared in her chamber in the middle of the night not long after her mother had left Balvenie Castle for Scone to crown Bruce to explain why she’d been unable to take Joan with her as she’d wanted to. He had been in charge of the guardsmen sent for her mother’s protection, that was all.
“She will freeze to death,” Joan whispered weakly, probing for any ounce of mercy that might remain for the woman he’d been married to for thirteen years. The woman he’d loved so much he could barely let her out of his sight and always had her under guard to keep her safe.
At least that’s what Joan had thought before. But maybe it was what her mother had wanted her to think. More and more, Joan was beginning to realize that something hadn’t been right in her parents’ marriage—that something wasn’t right with her father—and her mother had tried to prevent her from seeing it. What Joan thought had been love didn’t feel like love anymore. It felt like rabid possessiveness, control, and jealousy.
“Let her freeze,” her father said. “If I had my way, I’d see her hanging from the gibbet. I told Edward as much, but the king is reluctant to execute a woman—even one who is deserving. Instead she will serve as a warning, a reminder to all who might think to support the usurping ‘King Hood.’”
It was the name the English had given Robert the Bruce—the outlaw king. Nothing had been heard of Bruce and his followers in weeks. They were said to have fled to the Western Isles. They were hunted men. How long would it be before King Edward caught up with them?
Joan knew that help for her mother’s predicament would not come from that direction. Robert Bruce and his men were too busy trying to save their own lives to rescue her mother.
Nay, it was up to her. If anyone could help her mother it was she. Her father cared for her, the “beautiful” girl who so resembled him. She had to get through to him, even if it made him angry.
Joan might be quiet and reserved, but she wasn’t a coward. She had the blood of two of Scotland’s most important earldoms running through her veins. Taking a deep breath, she tried to clear the tears from her throat and lifted her eyes to meet his. “I know you think she betrayed you, Father, but she was only doing what she thought was right.”
“What was right?” her father exploded, jumping to his feet with enough force to cause the bench he’d been seated on to fall back with a resounding crash. Circling around the table, he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet. “How dare you try to defend her!”
Maybe she was a coward after all, because she was scared now. “I w-wasn’t—”
But he was deaf to her pleas. “I will show you what is ‘right’ lest you be tempted to follow in your whore of a mother’s treasonous footsteps. I wanted to spare you from this, but now I see that my coddling has only served to confuse you about where your loyalty lies. A daughter of Buchan—a Comyn—will never see anything right about a Bruce on a throne.”
He dragged her across the Hall. One look at his face was enough to turn even the most curious of gazes in the other direction. She tried to calm him down, tried to apologize, but he was too angry to listen.
The cold blast of autumn air penetrated through the wool of her gown as he pushed open the door and pulled her down the stairs. He called for horses, which were quickly brought forward.
She realized what he meant to do. “No, Father, please. Don’t take me there. I don’t want to see—”
“Not another word,” he bit out angrily. “You will do my bidding or I will see you punished with the lash. Would that I’d taken it to your mother and flogged the defiance out of her. We might have avoided this dishonor and blight upon our family.”
Joan’s eyes widened in disbelief. A lash? Her father had never raised a hand to her. But whatever regard he had for her had been forgotten by her defense of her mother. Not doubting that he meant what he said, she stopped protesting as he tossed her up onto a horse and they rode through the Northumbrian countryside the five miles to Berwick Castle.
By time they passed through the gate, Joan had never been in such a state of misery in her life. She hadn’t spoken a word since they left. Her father seemed a stranger—a dark, angry tyrant like the English king he defended.
It was dusk, and since she’d been forced from the manor house without a hooded cloak or gloves, her hands and ears were frozen.
What must it be like atop the tower in a cage?
She shivered or shuddered—maybe both.
Oh God, she couldn’t do this! To see her mother suffering so horribly . . .
But any thought she had of pleading with him one more time fled as he plucked her off of her horse. Their eyes met, and she knew he was beyond reason.
She kept her head down as long as she could. But eventually, amid the crowd of gaping onlookers, her father ordered her to look.
She forgot her fear long enough to beg. “Please, Father, don’t make me—”
“Look, God damn you!” He grabbed her chin and forced her gaze up to the ramparts. “See what happens to traitors and whores who betray their family to support false kings.”
For a moment her mind refused to let her see the horror and barbarity of the sight before her. But the self-protective blindness could only last so long. Like the specters of a nightmare, the shapes began to materialize through the hazy mist of nightfall.
The wood latticed bars . . . the iron frame . . . the tiny square of a prison that was barely enough space to stand and open to the elements and the scorn of onlookers.
No! An involuntary cry escaped her lips as she saw a movement inside the cage. “Mother!” she sobbed, lunging toward the tower as if she would free her. Every instinct in her body screamed to go to her. To do something. To put an end to this travesty. How could they do this to anyone? How could her mother possibly survive? Oh, Mother, I’m so sorry!
But she’d barely taken a few steps before her father caught her and pulled her away. She started to scream and kick, but he quieted her with a warning. “You are only making it worse. Do you want her to hear you? Do you think she wants you to see her like this?”
She knew her father was only trying to prevent a scene—he didn’t care about her mother’s feelings—but it worked. Somehow she knew that it would kill her mother to know her daughter had been forced to stand witness to her suffering.
But she couldn’t give up. She had to do something. Her mother needed her.
Past the point of caring about her father’s anger, she tried again. “Please, Father, I’m begging you. Please do something to help her. You can’t leave her like this.”
But he could. And that’s exactly what he did, dragging her sobbing and pleading from the castle.
Joan had never felt so helpless in her life. She’d failed. Her knees collapsed, and she would have slid to the ground had her father not been holding her up.
The pain and devastation on her face had finally penetrated the black haze of his anger.
Too late he seemed to realize that he might have gone too far. He held her up against him as if she were one of the pretty poppets he used to buy her as a child. “I’m sorry you had to see that, daughter. But it was for your own good.”
She looked at him as if he were mad. How could that possibly be for her own good? She would never forget it. Just as she would never forget his cruelty in bringing her here.
What he saw in her expression must have alarmed him. He looked truly uneasy as he wiped some of the hair back from her face. Feeling the chill on her skin, he jerked off his plaid to wrap around her. “Your mother is dead to us both. We will not speak of her again.”
He was right in that. They didn’t speak of her again. But it wasn’t her mother who died, it was her father, who didn’t rise from his bed after a fever struck him down two years later.<
br />
She didn’t mourn him. He’d been dead to her since the day he’d taken her to see her mother hanging in a cage. Her father had taught her a lesson that day, although not the one he intended. The image of her mother treated so brutally and Joan’s inability to do anything to stop it would stay with her forever, as would her hatred toward the king who’d put her there and the man who had refused to lift a finger to help her. She never saw her father in the same way again.
She would never see many things the same way again. No longer was she a spectator in the war between Scotland and England. From that day forward, seeing Edward of England defeated and Robert Bruce on the throne became all that mattered. She’d failed to free her mother from the cage, but she would do everything she could to ensure that her mother’s suffering had not been in vain.
She should have taken the lashing. At least those scars might have had a chance to heal.
CHAPTER ONE
Carlisle Castle, Cumbria, England, April 16, 1314
“You are driving me wild,” the young knight said as he frantically pressed his hot mouth all over her neck. “God, you smell so good.”
Joan wished she could say the same, but as Sir Richard Fitzgerald—the second-in-command of the Earl of Ulster’s Irish naval forces—had cornered her after the midday meal, he smelled distinctly of smoked herring, which needless to say was not her favorite.
When he tried to press his mouth on hers again, not even the prospect of learning the movements of the entire English fleet could have stopped her from turning her head. “We can’t,” she said softly. The slight breathiness in her voice was not from passion, but from the effort of fending off a determined would-be lover tired of hearing no. “Someone might discover us.”
The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard) Page 16
