The Recruit

by Monica McCarty

  Part of her had known this day would come. As the daughter of a Scottish earl and the widow of another—even one hanged for treason—she was too valuable an asset to ignore forever.

  But she hadn’t expected this. Nay, she couldn’t do it.

  She stared at Sir Adam, her fingers clenched in the black wool of her gown. “The king wishes me to go to Scotland?”

  Her old friend nodded. “To Dunstaffnage Castle in Lorn. Bruce”—the Scottish barons who’d sided with the English refused to call him King Robert—“is holding the Highland Games there next month.”

  Mary knew the former MacDougall castle well. She’d been there once with her husband years ago on a visit to his sister who had married the MacKenzie chief and resided at Eileen Donan Castle, which wasn’t too far away.

  “You will be part of our truce delegation,” the bishop added. Mary couldn’t believe the king would grant the recently released prelate—and man so closely tied to Bruce—permission to go to Scotland and negotiate on his behalf. It was like handing the prisoner the keys and telling him to make sure to lock up after himself. Unlike her, Lamberton didn’t have a son in England to ensure his “loyalty.”

  “The king has granted permission for you to represent the young earl’s interests,” Sir Adam explained.

  Mary eyed him sharply. Surely Edward had to see the futility in sending her to plead on her son’s behalf for lands in Scotland? With a few notable exceptions such as the Balliols, Comyns, and MacDougalls, Robert Bruce had taken great care not to forfeit the lands of the earls and barons who still stood against him like Davey, in the hopes of eventually bringing them back into the fold and winning their allegiance. But neither would he recognize the claim—and the right to the rents—for those who refused to do him homage. Essentially, they were at a stalemate. Davey was a Scottish earl in name without the lands in Scotland to show for it.

  Edward had to realize she would have little hope of success—not while David remained in England. There had to be another reason. “Is that all?”

  Sir Adam’s mouth thinned, unable to hide his displeasure. “He knows how fond Bruce is of you.”

  Ah, so that was it! Edward wanted her to spy. Aware that the bishop seemed to be watching her intently, she kept her expression impassive. “How fond he used to be of me. I have not seen my former brother-in-law in many years. Even were I inclined,” which she was not, “he’s hardly likely to confide in me.”

  “I told him as much,” Sir Adam said with a shrug as if to say, but you know the king. Fortunately, she didn’t, and had done her best to keep it that way. “But Edward is determined that a woman join our group. He thinks a feminine voice would set the right tone for our negotiations, and who better than Bruce’s former sister by marriage?”

  More like, who could be counted on to return? “So I’m to soften him up to accept Edward’s terms, is that it?”

  Lamberton couldn’t quite bite back his smile at her blunt assessment. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “I thought you would be pleased,” Sir Adam said, studying her with a worried frown on his face. It was an expression she’d grown quite used to over the past few years.

  “I am,” she said automatically. She knew she should be. Three years ago she’d wanted nothing more than to go home. But she was surprised to realize there was a part of her that didn’t want to go. A large part of her that didn’t want to stir up painful memories.

  There was nothing left for her in Scotland. Her brother Duncan had died with Bruce’s brothers over two years ago in the failed landing at Loch Ryan when Bruce made his bid to retake his crown. All that remained of her family was her son and her nephew, the five-year-old current Earl of Mar, who had been captured with his mother, Bruce’s sister, and the rest of the queen’s party at Tain. But both of them were in England. Like her son, the young Earl of Mar was a favored prisoner in Edward’s household.

  But why now? Why after nearly three years had the king decided to notice her? Just when she’d found some small modicum of peace far from the battlefield of war and politics, he wanted to drag her back in. Resentment she hadn’t even realized she had came bursting forward. Hadn’t they taken enough from her? Why couldn’t they just leave her alone?

  Aware that both men were watching her with troubled expressions, and knowing she didn’t have the words to explain what she was feeling, she attempted to cover her reaction. “I was merely hoping you’d brought other news.”

  Sir Adam guessed to what she referred. “The king is quite fond of David. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to relinquish him. A decision as to which of his barons will have the Earl of Atholl as his squire has not been made. But I think there is a good chance Percy will win the honor.”

  Her fingers clenched even harder. It was almost too much to hope for. Lord Henry Percy, 1st Baron Percy, had just purchased the Castle of Alnwick in Northumberland. Her son would be so close. “Do you think …”

  She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

  Sir Adam finished for her. “I don’t see any reason why you should not be allowed to see him as often as his duties permit. That is—” He stopped.

  But she guessed what he was about to say. “That is as long as I do Edward’s bidding.”

  He shrugged apologetically. “Davey—the earl—is most eager for you to go on his behalf.”

  Her heart leapt with embarrassing eagerness. “Did he say so?”

  Sir Adam nodded. “He has not forgotten that it was you who petitioned the king two years ago to return the English lands that had been forfeited upon Atholl’s death.”

  It was the only time she’d ever purposefully brought herself to the English king’s attention. With the help of Sir Adam and Sir Alexander Abernethy, who’d raised the coin to pay off de Monthermer, who’d been temporarily given the earldom, her petition had been successful. Her son had half his patrimony—the English half.

  If she’d ever had a thought to refuse, she knew she could not. Her son had never asked her for anything before. This was her chance to do something for him. He was nearly ten and three, and still almost a stranger to her. The divide between them would only widen as he approached knighthood. This might be her last chance to bring them closer.

  It was time to hold to her vow to see her son restored to the earldom. And perhaps this was a chance to hold to her other vow as well. There was one question that had haunted her the past three years, despite the improbability: Could Janet have somehow made it back to Scotland? It seemed unlikely, and Lady Christina had assured her the men had returned to the Isles alone, but Mary had never asked Robert if he knew anything. Now she could.

  Echoing her thoughts, the bishop urged gently, “It is time, lass.”

  Mary met the prelate’s gaze. The years of imprisonment had not been kind to William Lamberton. Like her, he was thin to the point of gaunt. But his eyes were kind, and oddly understanding. His words tugged at her, almost as if he were trying to tell her something.

  Resolved, she nodded. “Of course. Of course, I shall go.”

  Perhaps it wouldn’t be as painful as she feared. It could be worse. She’d thought when Edward finally remembered her, it would be to try to marry her off to one of his barons. She shuddered. Being a peace envoy to Scotland was infinitely more palatable than that.

  She had no intention of spying for Edward, but she would do her duty and return to her quiet life in England, hopefully with more opportunities to see her son.

  Sir Adam looked much relieved. He took her hand, patting it fondly. “This will be good for you, you’ll see. You’ve been too long alone. You’re only six and twenty. Far too young to lock yourself away.”

  Having heard similar words a few hours earlier, Mary bit back a smile. No doubt the proud knight turned respected statesman would be surprised to realize how much he had in common with a merchant. Sir Adam didn’t approve of her choice of attire either, but she suspected he’d guessed the reason for it.

  “I haven’t b
een to the Games in years,” Lamberton said. “As I recall, your husband was quite a competitor.” She remembered. It was where his armor had begun to shine. “It will be fun.” Then, apparently forgetting which side he was supposed to be on, he added, “Perhaps one of the competitors will catch your eye.”

  Mary thought she was more likely—and perhaps more eager—to catch the plague.

  Two

  Late August 1309

  Dunstaffnage Castle, Lorn, Scotland

  Kenneth Sutherland was surrounded as soon as he entered the Great Hall of Dunstaffnage Castle. He was accustomed to a certain amount of feminine attention, but the frenzied atmosphere of the Highland Games took some getting used to. The competitors enjoyed an almost godlike status, with the favorites such as himself having large entourages of followers. Very enthusiastic followers.

  Though usually there was nothing he liked more than being the focus of so many beautiful women, tonight he was on a mission. While the king had been here at Dunstaffnage negotiating with the envoys from England, Kenneth had been on a peacekeeping undertaking of his own. He’d just returned from a two-week-long journey north to pacify the Munros, longtime allies of his clan, after a misguided attempt by Donald Munro, his brother’s henchman, to kill the king.

  Now that Kenneth was back, he was anxious to speak with the king. The Bruce, as the men had taken to calling him, had been putting him off for too long. But as the king seemed to be locked away in the laird’s solar with his men, it seemed their conversation would have to wait.

  He should be enjoying hearing his deeds on the battlefield recounted minute by minute, but it was out of habit more than true enthusiasm that Kenneth laughed, teased, and accepted the ladies’ compliments for a few minutes before taking his seat at one of the trestle tables just below the dais. Normally being the heir to an earldom would warrant a place at the high table, but with the Highland Games about to begin, most of Scotland’s nobles—at least those loyal to Bruce—were here.

  His sister Helen was seated at the opposite end of the table and rolled her eyes at his “throng of worshipers,” as she called them. He responded with a helpless shrug that didn’t fool her one bit. If women wanted to throw themselves at him, he sure as hell wasn’t going to stop them.

  He supposed there were much less pleasant ways of biding his time than being seated between two beautiful young women with a goblet of wine in his hand. But for once, big blue eyes, soft red lips, enticingly low bodices, and platitudes didn’t hold his attention. His gaze kept slipping to the solar door.

  “Will you be competing in all the events, my lord?”

  Kenneth turned to the woman on his left, aware of the gentle pressure of her leg against his. Lady Alice Barclay had been sending him less-than-subtle signals all evening, and it was impossible to miss the invitation in her eyes as she fluttered her lashes up at him. If there was any doubt—which there wasn’t—the way she leaned forward to give him a fine view of some rather remarkable cleavage all but shouted “take me.”

  He smiled. Though she was certainly pretty enough, and those soft, round breasts were generous enough to tempt a monk, this was one invitation he didn’t plan on accepting. Lady Alice was the young wife of one of Bruce’s most trusted commanders, Sir David Barclay, and therefore forbidden fruit. Kenneth wasn’t going to do anything to draw the king’s ire. He’d worked hard to prove himself and wasn’t about to throw it all away on a woman, no matter how tempting.

  But Lady Alice wasn’t making it easy. She leaned forward a little more, resting her hand on his thigh under the table and letting one of those plump breasts graze his arm. He felt the hard bead of her nipple through the wool of his tunic, and his body reacted.

  A slow smile curved his mouth. At least forbidden fruit until Bruce gave him an answer, and then he might have to reconsider.

  “Most of the events, Lady Alice, although I fear I’m not much of a dancer. I will leave the sword dance for those with more nimble feet.”

  “I think you are being modest. I’ve heard you are quite nimble, my lord. Especially with your sword.” Her hand inched closer to the growing bulge between his legs just in case he’d missed the suggestiveness of her words.

  Though he was tempted to see how far she would take it—he’d been a squire the last time a lass had stroked him under the tablecloth in the middle of a feast—he wasn’t going to take any chances. With a sigh of regret, he covered her hand with his and eased it off his lap. He smiled, hoping to ease the sting of his rejection. “In the practice yard, perhaps. Alas, that is all I can focus on right now.”

  Thankfully, the woman on his right decided his attention had been on Lady Alice long enough. “The ladies are already making wagers, my lord. I believe you are favored to win many of the weapon competitions.”

  He lifted a brow in mock disappointment. “Only the weapons?”

  Lady Eleanor, the daughter of Sir William Wiseman, another of Bruce’s closest cohorts, blushed, not realizing he was teasing her. “Perhaps the wrestling event as well. But Robbie Boyd still has not said whether he will enter.”

  As Kenneth was fairly sure Robbie Boyd was a member of Bruce’s secret army, he doubted the king was going to let him anywhere near the competition field. Magnus MacKay, Tor MacLeod, Erik MacSorley, and Gregor MacGregor as well. All past champions of the Games, and all, he suspected, members of Bruce’s famed phantom band of warriors. “Famed” because of their almost mythical deeds, and “phantom” because they seemed to slip in and out of the darkness like wraiths, identities unknown. The king wouldn’t want to draw attention to their skills, not when the names of the members of his secret army were so sought after.

  Rumors of an elite group of warriors—a secret army—had been floating around for years. But it wasn’t until Kenneth and his Sutherland clansmen had come over to Bruce’s side late last year that Kenneth had figured out that not only was it real, his foster brother had been a part of it. Until he’d been killed in battle, that is. Kenneth intended to take his friend’s place among the best warriors in Scotland. If the Highland Games were the recruiting ground for the secret army, he wasn’t going to leave any doubt as to his skills.

  No matter who he faced.

  “I would welcome the challenge,” he said truthfully. Wrestling was a bit of a misnomer. Hand-to-hand combat was more accurate. It was an all-out brawl—a melee of two. It was the ultimate contest of strength and fighting ability, matching two opponents with nothing but their fists.

  Though Robbie Boyd had never lost in the wrestling event and was considered the strongest man in Scotland, Kenneth never shied from a fight—which admittedly sometimes got him in trouble.

  “Are you so sure, Sutherland?” Kenneth stiffened at the familiar voice coming from behind him. “As I recall, last time you did not fare so well.”

  His shoulders stiffened reflexively, but when Kenneth turned to look at the man who’d taken a seat beside his sister while his attention had been fixed on the solar door, there was no sign he’d heard the taunt.

  He didn’t usually shy from a fight, he amended his earlier thought. Until now. Sangfroid, he told himself. Kenneth was going to be on his best behavior, even if it bloody well killed him. And not just with the women. He was determined to keep his temper in check and not let his bastard of a soon-to-be brother-in-law get to him, even if MacKay seemed to be making it his personal mission in life to rile his temper and prove him unworthy for Bruce’s secret army.

  He wasn’t rash—or a hothead—damn it!

  Magnus MacKay had been his enemy, nemesis, and all-around thorn in his arse since Kenneth had been old enough to hold a sword. MacKay had bested him on the field when they were youths more times than he wanted to remember. But he did remember, every one of them. No more. Kenneth was done coming in second. He’d spent the better part of the past three years honing his skills in battle, becoming one of the best warriors in the Highlands. He was determined to prove it by winning a place in Bruce’s army. If MacKay didn
’t stand in his way, that is.

  He smiled at the man his sister planned to marry at the conclusion of the Games. “As I recall, neither did you.” Magnus’s face darkened. He didn’t like losing any better than Kenneth did, and they’d both lost at the hands of Robbie Boyd that year. “But that was four years ago. Perhaps we’ve both improved?” And because he never could resist taunting the bastard back, he added to the women around him, “Although I’m afraid you won’t get to see MacKay fight. He is still nursing an arm injury.”

  The women immediately expressed their disappointment and well-wishes for his swift recovery, while Kenneth grinned at the glowering Highlander. He knew full well that MacKay’s arm was fine, but Bruce had prohibited him from entering the competition. He also knew just how much the warrior who prided himself on toughness would bristle at the idea of “nursing” anything. He would feel the same.

  “I’m not—” MacKay stopped so suddenly and with such an “oof” of air that Kenneth suspected his sister’s elbow had just connected rather firmly with his ribs. After looking down at Helen, who smiled angelically back up at him, MacKay’s anger fizzled. “Fortunately, I have a very talented healer to nurse me back to health.”

  It was Kenneth’s turn to glower. Although no one else at the table had picked up on the sensual innuendo of MacKay’s words, he sure as hell had. The idea of MacKay marrying his little sister was bad enough, but the bastard had better damn well keep his hands off her until after the wedding. Noticing the heat rising to his sister’s cheeks, however, Kenneth suspected it was too late.

  He was reconsidering his vow not to fight with MacKay, when the door to the solar opened and men began to emerge from the room. Intent on reaching the king before he left, he quickly excused himself and crossed the twenty or so feet to the solar. The guardsman standing at the door would have refused him entry if the king hadn’t glanced over and waved him in.