The Price of Freedom

by Carol Umberger

  He stepped closer, attempting to regain her hand. “Come now, remember a time when we shared gentle kisses instead of barbed words?” he said in the tender voice she remembered so well. The one he’d used for seduction.

  Any wickedness was carefully cloistered behind a mask of charm and perfect propriety. But an innocent child depended on her now—she must not fail again in her choices. He leaned forward, “I still think we are quite well suited.”

  Kathryn jerked her hand away from him. “We never suited, Rodney. I was simply too dazzled to see it.”

  “I apologize for my behavior, Kathryn. I wronged you and I’m here to make it right now that I’ve returned to my senses.”

  He seemed so sincere. Had he changed? Impossible!

  “You not only wronged me, you wronged Fergus.”

  For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. And then his expression became most contrite. “Yes, that was inexcusable.” He took her hand and laid it in the crook of his arm and they began to walk around the room. He said, “I have not been able to forget our . . . interlude, Kathryn. As I said, I regret my behavior and I hope you will forgive me. I shall apologize to—what was his name?”

  “Fergus.”

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “Yes, Fergus. I’ll apologize to him as well if it will win me a place in your good graces once more.”

  Again, they moved forward together, and Rodney obviously assumed her silence was the beginning of compliance. Kathryn’s mind raced. Was he sincere? She had heard of awakenings in men’s hearts, especially after the deaths of their fathers. How could one tell when the devil spoke the truth? The devil never speaks the truth. She must not trust Rodney, and she mustn’t allow him to provoke her into inadvertently revealing Isobel. Kathryn’s head began to pound as she sought an excuse to get away from him.

  “You may apologize all you want but it will not bring back Fergus’s sight nor my virtue.” She heard the stridency in her voice and paused to collect her emotions. More in control, she said quietly, “I find actions speak louder than words, Rodney, and yours made a lasting impression.”

  His smile was smug. “I am ready to redeem your virtue by marrying you. And do not forget you need my sword arm to protect you. Won’t you allow me to do so?”

  He was right. She most definitely needed a male protector. Perhaps she should just tell him about Isobel and accept his offer gracefully. In any case, she had to play this out, give herself some time to think. “I will give your suit consideration.”

  “There is nothing to consider, Kathryn.”

  She sighed. “Time to mourn, then. You will allow me that small favor, won’t you?”

  He kissed her hand again. “Of course.”

  Relieved, she said, “Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to my other guests.”

  Kathryn forced herself to walk slowly across the room to speak with an acquaintance then fled to the kitchen before anyone could observe her shaking hands and obvious turmoil.

  Not only did she have to deal with her father’s death, but she also had to find a way to discourage Rodney from an inescapable marriage. He would do what suited him, with or without her consent. She had to have time to think, to devise a plan. Perhaps she could persuade the king against the union. But what argument could she use? Edward would not approve of her keeping Isobel from Rodney.

  Homelea’s kitchen, a wooden structure, was attached to the stone house by means of a covered wooden corridor. Kathryn entered the warmth of the kitchen, the room that, despite its separated location, seemed to Kathryn to be the heart of her home. Perhaps because of the woman who ruled there.

  “Is there something amiss, lass? Are we running short of drink?” Anna, Homelea’s cook and Fergus’s mother, prodded.

  Leaning against the wall for support, Kathryn took several deep breaths before answering her long-time servant and friend. “No, there is plenty.”

  “What brings ye to the kitchen, then?”

  Away from Rodney, her headache began to recede. Kathryn rolled her eyes and, hoping to hide her turmoil and desperation, she made a face. Moving toward the older woman, she answered, “Too much overeager company.”

  Cook had served at Homelea since before the death of Kathryn’s mother, and not much escaped her notice. “Lord Carleton, I would guess?” She snorted as if to punctuate her disapproval.

  “Yes.” Kathryn fought to control her agitation. “King Edward has betrothed us, and Rodney is counting the days until he gains control of Homelea. But I don’t want to marry him. I can’t.”

  “Aye, lass. He’s a mean one. I fear for my son if you marry that man.”

  “I’m afraid Fergus would kill Lord Rodney first.”

  “I fear it, too.”

  Kathryn rubbed the tenseness in the back of her neck. She was not in the habit of questioning authority, or questioning God. But marriage to Rodney was more than she could bear. The need to escape overwhelmed her. “I cannot face him again, Anna. Not until I’ve had time to think.”

  “Running away never solved anything, lass. Ye’re a countess now. Time to act like one.”

  “Maybe tomorrow, Anna.” The kitchen no longer felt like a sanctuary, and Kathryn grabbed her work cloak from the pegs on the wall and hurried from the castle. Outside the mist had lightened somewhat although there was still no sign of the sun. Head bowed, she headed to the stable, shoulders slumped under a burden of responsibilities and emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

  In the stable with her beloved horses she sought solace. She opened a stall and stepped inside, idly stroking the sleek chestnut hide of her favorite mare, hoping to lose her confusion and her grief in the comfort of the familiar action. Despite the sure knowledge that she would one day be reunited with Papa, she missed him here. Needed him here, now.

  “Please, God. Deliver me from Rodney. Please help me protect Isobel.” She hugged the patient horse’s neck and cried the first tears she had shed this endless, difficult week.

  How long she stood thus, she didn’t know. Eventually the horse in the next stall nickered. Kathryn raised her head to see Anna’s son, Fergus, entering the stable. As her childhood friend came to stand by her, Kathryn dashed her sleeve across her eyes in a futile effort to erase the telltale signs of grief.

  Fergus took her in his arms. “’Tis all right to cry, lassie. God knows ye’ve kept it inside these many days. And it will no’ be getting any better, I’ll wager.”

  He pulled a shivereen of cloth from the folds of his plaid and offered it to her. She thanked him and blew her nose as he led her to a bench outside the saddle room. The pleasant fragrance of hay and the earthy odor of the horses filled the barn. He sat beside her. “The mourners have left, except for that scum, Lord Rodney.”

  She didn’t correct him for his slur upon the nobleman. Only a year in age separated them, and they’d long ago discarded the formalities between lady and servant. Their friendship ran deep— Fergus was as dear to her as any brother could be. And she knew he felt the same. “I didn’t think Rodney would leave.”

  “Aye, that was too much to hope for. He ordered me to lower the portcullis. Rumor has it that some of Bruce’s men are about.” His hand tightened on her arm. “Did Rodney Carleton speak of marriage, Kat?”

  Kathryn’s stomach tensed. “Aye, he made it clear that he has Edward’s support in the matter. How can he think I would have him after all that he’s done?”

  “I’ll not allow him to touch ye again.”

  “Don’t cross him, Fergus.”

  She looked to his scarred face and ruined eye. Rodney’s handiwork. Fergus could see light and dark and movement, but only the blurry outline of objects. A boy no longer, Fergus gazed at her with a man’s respectful appreciation and none of the resentment he might have felt.

  Kathryn fought her guilt—now was not the time to wallow in useless recrimination. She stared at her hands in silence. “I want to live at St. Mary’s and leave you here as castellan.”

  “T
he bairn is well?”

  She smiled, thinking of Isobel. Fergus and his mother were the only ones at Homelea who knew of the child. “Aye, she’s a bonny lass.”

  “Ye can’t hide with her there forever.”

  “Aye, I know.”

  Fergus’s face relayed his dismay. “I’d sooner ye became a nun than let him touch ye. But ye can’t run from yer duty, from the people here who need ye.”

  She placed her hand on his arm. “’Twas only wishful thinking, Fergus. I won’t desert Homelea or its people. But I swear I’d rather lose it all than become that man’s wife. Or let him near Isobel.”

  Fergus shook his head. “More likely the wretch will force his way where he’s not wanted.”

  “We must pray for a champion, someone who can protect us all from Rodney.”

  Wistfully, he said, “I wish it could be me.”

  “So do I.” But it was impossible. Fergus had neither the social position to become her guardian nor the training in arms to take on a swordsman the caliber of Rodney.

  A few years ago, when she and Fergus had grown old enough to understand the difference between lady and servant, woman and man, they’d discussed the implications of their friendship, accepted its limitations, and sworn their devotion to each other. Sworn to remain sister and brother of the heart, no matter what.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes before Fergus suggested, “Perhaps ye could petition Scotland’s king to come to yer aid. I’m sure he’d be glad to control Homelea’s wealth.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Kathryn had no way of knowing what promises had been made between her father and England’s king. She’d met King Edward II on a trip to London several years ago. People older and wiser than her were of the opinion that the son wasn’t half the man his father, The Hammer of the Scots, had been. Still she found him to be an intimidating man, and she doubted she could persuade him to change his mind about giving Rodney control of Homelea.

  She and Fergus sat in restrained silence, punctuated only by the sounds of the horses. Kathryn swiped at the tears that rolled down her cheeks as the realization of all she could lose came crashing down on her. If only Edward would have chosen someone other than Rodney.

  Stifling her tears and hating the weakness they implied, she asked, “Do you really think Bruce would come to my aid?”

  “Ye remember his decree? Scotland’s landowners have less than a year to declare for him or be considered a sworn enemy. Aye, he might aid ye and provide a guardian, someone to protect and defend yer person.”

  “Probably marry me off to one of his nobles,” she said gloomily.

  “Most likely. One thing for certain, he wouldn’t make ye marry Rodney Carleton.”

  That thought sparked hope. “Can we get a message to him?”

  “Aye. But it would take time, and Rodney might insist on marrying before Bruce can answer.”

  Loud shouting and the clatter of approaching horses interrupted them. “What now?” She glanced at Fergus who rose to his feet and offered his hand, but she waved him off as she stood and headed toward the commotion.

  A stable boy dashed through the doorway and ran headlong into her, nearly knocking her down.

  “Pardon me, my lady, but ye must come quick. A knight and his warriors are demanding entrance. And he carries the king’s own banner.”

  “Which king?” Fergus demanded.

  “’Tis a red lion on a field of gold.”

  “Bruce,” Kathryn whispered and moved closer to Fergus.

  He faced her. “Aye, lass. I doubt he knows of yer father’s death, but his timing is a godsend.”

  Kathryn grinned. “Aye, my prayers have been answered. It is beyond belief! I will yield to Bruce and be done with Rodney and England.”

  “Are ye certain, Kat? Perhaps it would be wise if ye’d be more cautious.”

  “ ’Tis the answer to my prayers, Fergus.”

  Fergus nodded. “All right. Let’s hear what this knight has to say.”

  Duty required that she be sure those she loved would be safe. At least now she had an option other than Rodney. Show me your will, God. Give me wisdom. Gathering her resolve about her along with her cloak, Kathryn walked briskly toward the gatehouse guarding the entrance to Homelea.

  Heart pounding in renewed optimism, she climbed the stairs leading to the guardroom, Fergus close behind. She crossed the small room and peered through the slotted window, saying another prayer for strength and wisdom. Fergus stood close by her, silently offering support.

  There indeed flew Bruce’s banner. She counted a small force of perhaps two score men, just beyond range of her archers, should she decide to deploy them.

  Homelea was not a great castle but a large manor home surrounded by a curtain wall. The fortifications would not hold up to a determined siege, but provided security from marauding bands intent on stealing more than the occasional cow or sheep. The walls were surrounded on three sides by the Tweed River and by a bog on the fourth. A knight on a magnificent black stallion rode to the end of the causeway that had been built across the bog. She didn’t recognize his pennon, only that it marked him as a bachelor.

  The knight called out, “I am Sir Bryan Mackintosh and I come in the name of Scotland’s King. I demand to speak to the Earl of Homelea.”

  Kathryn tripped over her skirt and nearly ran over Fergus in her haste to withdraw from the opening. St. Columba save us. Bryan Dubh. Black Bryan Mackintosh, the Black Knight himself. He was certainly not the answer to anyone’s prayer for protection.

  She shuddered as she remembered the tales of the villages he’d burned and the castles he’d destroyed on both sides of the border. This warrior had earned the title Black Bryan from his many hapless victims. She’d also heard he was a natural son of Robert the Bruce, born while the then future king was still in his teens and well before Bruce had married his first wife, Isabella of Mar. The Black Knight’s prowess with the mighty double-edged claymore sword was second only to his mentor, Bruce himself.

  Bryan Dubh killed without mercy. What mercy could she hope for from a man such as him? She struggled to breathe, disappointment fogging her brain. This was not the champion she had prayed for! She had to think of some way to defend her home or they would all be dead before nightfall.

  Fergus turned to Kathryn, “Ye should yield to him. I’ve heard it goes well for those who don’t resist him. But he’s the devil himself when opposed.”

  Kathryn braved another look. Even at a distance, she could see the size of the man. Those of his men who were mounted rode small, Scottish garrons. The menacing knight was mounted on a large, well-bred steed of considerable proportions.

  The voice boomed once more. “Gatekeeper, fetch the earl at once!”

  Frightened but determined, she took a deep breath and said, “He’s but a man, Fergus. A very fearsome man, no doubt, but a man nonetheless.” She smiled, and said a short, fervent prayer that her show of bravado made her appear more confident than she felt.

  “Lord Carleton will be here any minute, Kathryn. Yield to the knight.” His deepening scowl gave proof of his opinion of Rodney.

  Gentling her voice, she said, “I understand your feelings for Sir Rodney, Fergus. I don’t much care for him either. But allowing this warrior inside our gates might bring us all to death. We’ve both heard the horrible tales of his brutality.”

  The thought of Rodney caused her headache to return. The very real possibility of marriage awaited unless she yielded to the knight on the causeway. The knight whose legend had grown until he’d become the subject of the very lullaby she’d sung to Isobel not two weeks ago.

  Isobel. Could she trust Rodney’s avowal that he’d changed?

  She would delay until her course became clear. “Tell Sir Bryan who holds Homelea.”

  Fergus reluctantly complied. “Sir Bryan, the earl was buried this morning. This stronghold is held by his daughter for her king, Edward of England.”

  The knight stood in his st
irrups. “My condolences on the lady’s loss. However, you should remind her that her home lies in Scotland, and Robert the Bruce is king of Scots and all who do dwell here.”

  Where was Rodney? Surely he’d heard the commotion by now. She said to Fergus, “Go see what is keeping Lord Carleton.”

  “I say we are in more danger from Lord Carleton than we’d be from the Black Knight.”

  “Enough. You overstep your place. Now do as I ask.”

  She’d never spoken with such authority before and Fergus looked suitably stunned. Kathryn watched him pivot on his heel and stalk away. Perhaps she would grow into the role of countess yet. She just hoped it wouldn’t cost her Fergus’s friendship. Though she was sorry to have been so curt, she had to believe that Rodney was a better choice than Bryan Dubh. Had he not killed every man, woman, and child at Roxborough when they resisted him? Heaven help her if she was wrong.

  Black Bryan spoke again. “I grow weary of shouting.” He paused to steady his restless horse. “Tell your lady she must yield to me. No one will be harmed, I give my word.”

  Kathryn’s mind raced. According to the stories, Black Bryan had successfully captured several heavily fortified castles. How could they hope to hold him off with Homelea’s modest defenses?

  Finding no answer to her question she decided to speak with the man. She took a deep breath and willed her body to stop shaking, but still her voice quavered. “Sir Bryan, I am Countess Kathryn de Lindsay, and I hold my home for my liege laird, Edward. I am quite prepared to withstand a lengthy siege if you care to waste your time on such an endeavor.”

  The manor had been built during the peace and prosperity of Alexander III’s reign. Just now Kathryn wished her father had built it for defense instead of comfort. She imagined Black Bryan laughing at her audacity—he must know how pitifully inadequate Homelea’s walls would be against a protracted siege.

  Still, she couldn’t just give in. She might well be forced to yield, but not without a show of resistance. She couldn’t allow his reputation alone to win the battle.

  She had prayed for rescue—a champion to protect her home and person. As much as she didn’t want her guardian to be Rodney, she was certain it couldn’t be Black Bryan.