The Price of Freedom

by Carol Umberger

  The death of his brother and capture of his women might have crushed another man. But Robert the Bruce was not just any man. In his veins ran the royal blood of the Celtic House of Canmore, and he was determined to rule the land he loved. As long as their king held fast to his faith, Bryan knew he and this ragged band of loyal men would follow Bruce through the very gates of Satan’s lair, if need be.

  For freedom.

  February 1308

  The Hills of Carrick

  CEALLACH KNELT BEFORE his foster brother, the king of Scotland, not on the marble of a stately palace but on the dirt floor of a small stone cottage in the hills where they’d lived together as children. No trappings of office surrounded the royal personage, for Robert’s clothing was nearly as threadbare as Ceallach’s own.

  The months of hard travel, of hiding and fear, of physical pain, threatened to overcome Ceallach. He knew that Bruce had also known treachery, deceit, and physical deprivation this past year, and knowing that had given Ceallach hope that Robert would understand. Raising his head, he prayed his eyes would not betray his desperation. Robert was his only chance for anything resembling a normal life.

  Robert rested a hand on his shoulder. “Rise, Marcus of—”

  “Nay, sire.” Glancing at the three men standing nearby, Ceallach pulled Bruce close to whisper, “Please, Your Majesty. I go by the name of Ceallach.” It had been fifteen years since they had seen each other and just two months since Ceallach and five others had escaped from prison in France. Despite their injuries, they had made their way here through the wintry countryside. Bruce studied him a moment before saying, “I understand. Rise then, Ceallach.” Ceallach stood as the king motioned to the others. They moved to the other end of the cottage, giving the king privacy. All except a tall, black-haired youth who stood still and scowled. Despite the scowl, the boy looked familiar.

  “’Tis all right, Bryan. You can go,” Robert said quietly. The boy nodded and moved off, but kept himself and his sword at the ready. Ceallach stared at the boy and then at the king. Despite the difference in coloring the boy had the same straight, narrow nose, the same slanted, Celtic eyes, and the natural grace of movement that had made Bruce one of the most accomplished knights in Christendom.

  Ceallach returned his gaze to his foster brother. “You are married, then?”

  “Twice, but never to the boy’s mother.”

  Ceallach found his voice. “Does he know?”

  “Aye, of course. But we do not speak of it.”

  Ceallach glanced at the youth once again. “You are proud of him.”

  “I am.”

  Ceallach nodded.

  “What, no sermon, brother? No reproof, no rebuke for my sin?”

  Even if he weren’t desperate for Robert’s sanctuary, he would not have lectured his foster brother on sin. Ceallach’s own lessons on the subject had been both painful and permanent. “We all fall short of the glory of God, Robert.”

  “You also? With your holy vows?”

  “Even the holiest of vows can’t save you from sin or suffering, Robert. Especially suffering.”

  Robert’s expression became one of compassion. “We must talk of it.”

  Ceallach wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to talk about his recent ordeal. “Aye, but ’tis a long story, best saved for another day.”

  Robert laid his hand on Ceallach’s shoulder. “All right. How can I help you?”

  Ceallach managed not to flinch from the touch—he simply moved away so Robert had to remove his hand. “I think we can help each other, my laird. I have need of sanctuary. You have need of weapons and money.”

  “You were among those Phillip of France arrested?”

  “Aye. You may as well know that my comrades and I are wanted men. No ruler in all of Europe will give us sanctuary for fear of excommunication.” They had managed to evade capture thus far by staying aboard the ship that carried them from France. When they had recovered their health they’d walked for nearly ten days to Bruce’s camp.

  Bruce snorted. “I may be a king, but at the moment ’tis in name only. Very little of Scotland is under my dominion.” He smiled ruefully. “And since the pope has seen fit to excommunicate me, you are hoping I’ll ignore the bounty on your heads.”

  “If you can.”

  Though he’d known of Robert’s disfavor with Rome, Ceallach had no idea the war with England proceeded so poorly. As for his own difficulties with the pontiff, Ceallach feared the reaction of the others in the room if they should realize his former occupation. He prayed no one would make the connection between Ceallach the warrior and Marcus of Kintyre, late of the now disbanded Templar Knights.

  Still unsure of his welcome, he said, “There are six of us— trained in the Saracen ways of war. We have access to money and weapons in return for your protection.”

  Bruce grinned and it was as if the years fell away. “’Tis good to see you again, brother, after all these years. I would clasp you close in friendship if it wouldn’t arouse suspicion. But it seems we both have a price on our heads and a need to conceal our whereabouts.”

  “Aye, we’ve much in common, then.” Ceallach allowed a brief smile.

  “I trust you, Ceallach, but I need to know how you found me.”

  “You have no need to fear, I’ve not betrayed you.” Ceallach paused. “Nor will I betray those who helped me.”

  Robert nodded in understanding.

  Ceallach had nothing to lose. Either Robert accepted him and gave him refuge, or Ceallach’s life would end here in the wilds of Carrick. No sense mincing words. “I have no home, Robert. I am not safe in any country in all of Europe, save possibly for Scotland. All I held dear was stripped from me, and I’m lucky I escaped with my life.”

  Robert’s expression became bleak, and suddenly, Ceallach feared Robert would banish him, since his presence would only increase Edward’s desire to destroy Bruce. Hoping to forestall such a concern, Ceallach confessed. “I would pledge myself to your cause, Robert.”

  “You would fight for Scotland’s freedom?”

  “I am a warrior. ’Tis the only life I know.”

  “This is no holy war, Ceallach, fought to uphold the Church.”

  Ceallach laughed. “No war is holy, Robert. To think otherwise is a fool’s game, and I’m done with being a fool.”

  “But you and your companions would fight for freedom?”

  “If that is your cause, then, yes. We would do so willingly, because we have no home, no country, not even a church to pray in.”

  “Nowhere else to turn.” A gleam came into Robert’s eye. “Then join with me. We shall be free men once more.”

  Ceallach the Warrior, weary, desperate, at his strength’s end, wiped tears from his eyes and followed his king into the night.

  He would live to fight again.

  For freedom.

  ONE

  Year of Our Lord 1312

  THE PERFUME OF HER MOTHER’S ROSE GARDEN surrounded Kathryn de Lindsay as she strolled on the arm of Lord Rodney Carleton on a late summer afternoon. As they approached the secluded bench near a bubbling fountain, Rodney steered her toward the seat and Kathryn allowed it. They sat down side by side and Rodney tried to draw her into his arms. Mindful of proprieties, she held back as a proper young maid should.

  “Come, Kathryn. Surely I’ve made my intentions clear to you by now. I mean you no harm, only good.” Rodney looked at her with such longing in his gaze. He loved her, but she wasn’t sure how she felt about him. Perhaps if they kissed again?

  He bent his face to kiss her, and the touch was gentle, beguiling. Surely these strange fluttering feelings were a sign that she was in love, truly in love. She didn’t resist when the kiss became demanding and the fluttering. . . . She pulled back in haste.

  “My lord, we must stop.”

  “Ah, then you do feel something for me, sweeting?”

  “Aye.” But what did she feel? How did a woman know when she was in love? Was it the ple
asure of looking at her lover’s face and form? Rodney’s handsome face and blue eyes were framed by deep auburn curls. And his body was that of the renowned swordsman he was—lithe and strong. A most pleasing sight.

  How did one avoid the temptation promised in a man’s kisses? If only her mother were still alive to guide her in this business of being courted. Sir Rodney was but one of several men, young and not so young, who had paid court recently to the Earl of Homelea’s only child, the future Countess of Homelea.

  She’d turned all of the others away, because most of them were more interested in becoming an earl than they were in her. But Rodney was different—attentive and charming and altogether persuasive. Kathryn found herself envisioning a life with him as a cherished wife and mother of his children.

  If his eye roamed over the kitchen maids now and then, who would censor a bachelor for behaving thus? Once he was happily married to her he would stop such behavior, she was sure. Married.To Rodney. The idea grew of its own accord and the fluttering feeling started once more.

  Rodney tugged her closer. “Tell me I may speak with your father.” He kissed her again and he touched her bodice.

  She jerked away from him and for a brief moment hard anger showed on his face. But the look was so fleeting she doubted she really saw it.

  He drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Kathryn, love. Forgive me. I cannot seem to help myself.”

  Surely Rodney must care for her to have such strong feelings toward her. And she must love him to feel the way she did, all loose and fluttery and, dare she think it? Warm and soft. Aye, this must indeed be love.

  What if he did speak sharply to the servants? And what did it matter that he didn’t attend morning mass? One couldn’t expect perfection in a prospective spouse. The hand of a gentle woman such as Kathryn would tame his lesser inclinations.

  Rodney pulled her close again and kissed her until her knees nearly gave way.

  He loves me.

  “Talk to Papa, Rodney,” she said breathlessly.

  His face lit up with joy. Aye, she was sure it was joy and not triumph. “I’ll speak with him yet tonight. Then there will be nothing to keep us from bliss.”

  He held her close again and murmured in her ear. “May I come to your chamber after I’ve received your father’s blessing?”

  His strong arms enfolded her and her heart pounded at the thought of Rodney’s suggestion. Betrothed couples often engaged in intimacy before the actual wedding. The Church taught that she should wait, that though a betrothal was a legal contract, a betrothal could be broken. Marital relations were only sanctioned within the commitment of marriage. But since neither she nor Rodney had cause to break the agreement, what harm could there be?

  They were in love. And she longed to know the secrets her body yearned to discover.

  She swallowed. “Aye, come to me.”

  Rodney kissed her again with what seemed like reverence. “I will hasten to you, love, as soon as your father says yes to our betrothal.” They stood and walked to the keep’s entrance where they said good night and parted amidst promises of undying love and devotion.

  LATER THAT NIGHT as the rest of the castle slept, Rodney stole into her chamber and to her bedside, stroking her long hair. “My bride,” he whispered. “You will soon be my bride.”

  Kathryn shivered with pleasure at his touch, and thrilled at the knowledge that soon she would be a married woman. Papa had said yes! Rodney was a fine choice, and he made her feel so beautiful, so desirable.

  And so it was that Kathryn gave herself to the man who would be her husband.

  The pleasures of marriage were indeed a prize, and for hours, Rodney cradled her in his arms, delighting her with his tender touch. She had not known what it would be to lay beside a man, to be one with him. She had not known the joy that awaited her. Marriage would be a gift, and Rodney a fine husband . . . Just as she was dozing off, he suddenly moved away, letting cold air beneath their warm covers. Kathryn blinked rapidly, trying to focus. He pulled on his trousers and his shirt, then his boots.

  “I will see you in the morning,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.

  Kathryn rose to a sitting position, confused at his brusque manner. She clung to the sheet at her breast. What of the tender words he had spoken earlier? What was this chill that ran across her bare shoulders? Licking her parched lips, she quickly pulled the blanket up farther, feeling suddenly . . . exposed. But that was silly—he was her betrothed. They had only done what countless engaged couples had done before them.

  “Rodney?”

  He turned in the doorway. “Tomorrow. Sleep now.” And with that, he was gone.

  She lay back against the down pillows, struggling to reclaim the sweet drowsiness that had almost claimed her. He was merely tired, as she was. And it wouldn’t do to have her maid discover them together in the morning, betrothed or not. But the fingers of guilt played with her heart. Papa would certainly be disappointed if he knew what she’d done.

  She hadn’t expected this; she had expected gratification, fulfillment, completion.

  Instead she felt robbed.

  PAPA WASN’T FEELING WELL the next morning and sent a servant to ask Kathryn to come to him after mass. Though the guilt continued to nag as she walked to the chapel for mass, she pushed it aside. They were in love, Papa had obviously given Rodney his blessing, and God would surely forgive her. When such thoughts did little to pacify her conscience, she vowed to resist Rodney’s temptation again until they were properly wed.

  To her surprise, Rodney attended the service and sat next to her. She smiled in satisfaction. Already their impending marriage was working good in his heart. He whisked her out of the chapel as soon as the last prayer was finished. “Rodney!” she said with a giggle, “what is this rush?”

  With a nervous smile he said, “Come. I’ve talked Cook into packing us a picnic.” He took hold of her elbow and propelled her toward the stable.

  She wrested her arm from him and stopped walking. “I must speak with my father, Rodney.”

  He scowled but quickly recovered with a charming smile. “Your father will understand if he is no longer first in your affections, love. And I am most anxious to get you alone again.”

  Rodney swung her into his arms and around a secluded corner, kissing her so passionately that she forgot about Papa, forgot about her decision to hold Rodney off until they were married. This pursuit, the thrill of desire—it was a difficult thing to say no to. No wonder the betrothed often gave up on their intentions to wait! She smiled in flirtatious, silent agreement and Rodney beamed his pleasure.

  Hand in hand they ran to the stable and were about to saddle a horse when Cook’s son, Fergus, came into the barn.

  “Yer father wants to see ye, Lady Kathryn.”

  Rodney stepped between them. “The lady and I are going on a picnic. Tell her father she will see him when we return.”

  Fergus looked at Kathryn with uncertainty and said, “My lady?”

  Before she could respond, Rodney grasped her elbow with more force than was necessary and she nearly yelped at the pain of his grip. She attempted to pull free but he didn’t let go. “Rodney, you’re hurting me.”

  Fergus stepped closer. “My lady, are ye all right?”

  She nodded to Fergus but one look at Rodney’s furious expression and she wondered for the first time if she was, indeed, all right.

  Rodney said, “Be gone, boy. The lady will attend her father when we return.”

  Fergus stepped closer yet and stared meaningfully at Rodney’s hand where it still clamped fast to her elbow. Boldly he glared at Rodney. “I’ll not leave until ye release Kathryn’s arm and allow her to talk with her father. I don’t take my orders from ye. I take them from the earl.”

  Kathryn and Fergus had been friends all through their growing up and sometimes she and Fergus forgot that he was a servant. But Rodney wasn’t likely to forget the distinction and Kathryn knew she must defray the tension betwee
n the two men.

  “I’m all right, Fergus.” She turned to Rodney and said, “I will only be a few minutes with Papa. Then we can go on our picnic.” She smiled brightly, but Rodney continued to glower. His grip loosened but his resolve did not. “You’ll obey me now, Kathryn.”

  Shocked at his tone of voice, she stared at him. Fergus unwisely pushed at Rodney’s arm. “The devil she will. Who are ye to order Lady Kathryn about?”

  Shrugging off Fergus’s hand, Rodney declared, “I am the man who will be her husband.”

  “Ye forget I was tending to the earl when ye spoke to him last evening. He didn’t seem too keen on a wedding.”

  Kathryn gasped. She fought for air, for understanding. “Is that true, Rodney? Papa did not give us his blessing?”

  Rodney dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “Your father only wants you to tell him it’s what you want before he’ll sign the betrothal agreement.”

  “Then there’s no harm in my going to him before we depart.”

  Looking rather pleased with himself, Rodney said, “I’m sure your father will see things differently this morning.”

  “What have ye done, Kat?” Fergus stared at her and she could feel her face turn crimson.

  “The lady does not answer to you,” Rodney said.

  “I have done nothing wrong,” she lied.

  Fergus stared hard at her. “I hope not, for all our sakes. Don’t go with him, today, Kat. He’s using ye to get Homelea.”

  “That’s enough!” Rodney shouted. He shoved Fergus out of the way and grabbed Kathryn’s arm so tightly she cried out from the pain. Fergus dived at Rodney’s legs and they went down in a tumble, Kathryn spared from a fall at the last second when Rodney let go of her arm. She stumbled backward and watched in horror as Rodney grabbed a riding crop and slapped Fergus across the face with it. The lash caught Fergus across his left eye, baring the brow bone and marking the lid.

  Fergus fell away, stunned. Kathryn placed herself in front of Fergus to spare him another blow. When Rodney paused, wiping his upper lip of sweat, she turned to Fergus and nearly fainted at the sight of his blood pouring from the split skin. The eye was already swelling and she feared he would lose his sight.