The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  After they enjoyed a light meal of wine, cheese, dried meats, and bread, the horses were readied for the ride back to the castle. The weather had cooled with the appearance of a few clouds, and the light breeze had turned sharper and more persistent. A few of the ladies donned heavier cloaks, including Joan and her cousins.

  He hadn’t realized how tall Joan was compared to her kinswomen. Both Alice and Margaret were probably not much above five feet, and Joan must be six inches taller—though they probably weighed the same. Joan was slender and her cousins were rounder—especially Margaret.

  Short and round. Bloody hell. All of a sudden he noticed the color of Lady Margaret’s cloak. It was a dark red, “the color of claret,” trimmed with white—probably ermine—fur. The lady who’d left a missive for the monk had worn something similar.

  It could be a coincidence. And he hoped to hell it was. But a claret cloak with very expensive ermine fur wasn’t exactly common—and neither were ladies in a position to know key information. Margaret Comyn could well be the spy they sought.

  He had no idea why she would agree to do something so risky for the man who’d killed her kinsman (Bruce’s stabbing of John “The Red” Comyn before the altar at Greyfriars had only made the blood feud between the families worse). But the far more pressing question was, what the hell was he going to do about it?

  16

  ALEX DIDN’T HAVE long to decide. Pembroke’s newest squire found him and gave him a message that the earl wanted to see him just as Alex was helping the ladies down from their horses.

  “Is something wrong?” Joan asked, watching as the lad hurried away. “You seemed a bit subdued on the ride back.”

  He probably should be surprised how easily she already seemed to read his moods, but he wasn’t. With at least part of the wall that she’d erected between them knocked down, their natural connection was being felt. “Perhaps a bit. There is a lot to be done in the next few weeks.” He gave her a smile. “As much as I would like to focus on the betrothal, I’m afraid Edward and Pembroke will have different ideas.”

  She bit her lip in a way that could easily distract him, despite what he’d just said. “I hope it was nothing I said.”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t. But I’m afraid I will not be able to join you for the evening meal as I hoped. Pembroke has ordered me to attend him.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  There wouldn’t be if Alex didn’t suspect her cousin was the spy.

  He didn’t want to lie to her so instead he just said, “I suspect he is wondering about my progress in uncovering the person who has been passing important information to Bruce.”

  “And are you any closer?”

  The question was asked with polite interest—nothing more. But something about that bothered him. Perhaps it was the contrast with the impassioned discussion they’d had a short while ago. This almost sounded careful.

  Did she suspect her cousin as well? Did she know something?

  He hoped to hell not.

  His gaze fixed on hers as if he could force her to reveal her thoughts. But she stared at him blankly, and he prayed, guilelessly.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered.

  “That sounds promising.”

  Again, polite interest. Careful polite interest.

  “Not as promising as I’d hoped,” he said ambiguously if truthfully. He sure as hell had never expected a woman—let alone her cousin—to be involved in this when he’d offered his help to defray suspicion from himself.

  It put him in an awkward position. As was made clear when he faced Pembroke a short while later in his private solar.

  “You left on your ‘errand’ before you filled me in on the leads you were following,” the vaunted English commander said, not hiding his continued annoyance at Alex’s leaving the castle to find the king.

  As Alex had already offered his apologies and explanation, he ignored the thinly veiled reprimand.

  “What did you find out?” Pembroke finished.

  Alex cursed. His duty was clear. He should tell Pembroke what he’d learned about the spy being a woman. But if he did that there was every chance the earl would suspect Joan—as Alex had. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him his suspicions that it was Margaret. As much as he despised subterfuge, even if Alex was certain it was her, he wouldn’t condemn Joan’s cousin to prison—or worse—especially when he wasn’t sure of Joan’s involvement.

  Lies, subterfuge, treachery, and dishonor . . . these were exactly the things he’d sought to avoid, damn it. Yet here he was wallowing in them again.

  Honor and loyalty demanded an answer Alex wasn’t going to give. His line in the sand was moving. “Unfortunately, the leads I was following were less promising than I thought.”

  He could tell himself that it was not technically a lie, but no matter how carefully constructed the words he knew they were still calculated to deceive and wrong.

  Pembroke frowned. “I was told you met with the monk very late the night before you left. Why? Did he tell you something?”

  “I thought to catch him unaware in the hope that he might admit something useful. But after questioning him for a while, I am convinced that he never met the person who left the message. The young monk was indeed only a courier.”

  Another carefully constructed “truth.” Alex hid his self-disgust beneath Pembroke’s scrutiny. His commander gave him a hard look. “So you have learned nothing new?”

  Alex shook his head. “Nothing helpful. I suspect the monk’s capture has forced the spy to go underground for a while.”

  He hoped to hell that was the truth.

  Pembroke considered him for a moment. “Perhaps you are right. But in any event, protective measures have been taken. The king is convinced that Bruce has somehow become privy to our shipping routes, as attacks have occurred with too much precision to be coincidence. He is furious and wants to ensure nothing else finds its way into enemy hands.”

  Alex knew the inability to get provisions to the English garrisons in Scotland for the large army that Edward intended to send north could be a severe blow, affecting their battle plan. They would be forced to take all the supplies with them, which would slow them down and make the large army even more unwieldy. How had Margaret managed to get that kind of information? Could de Beaumont have been that careless to share such detailed information?

  But it was what else Pembroke had said that he was focused on. “What kind of protective measures?” Alex asked.

  The other man waved him off. “It isn’t your concern.”

  Alex held his temper—barely. “How can it not be when it is my job to uncover the spy?”

  “A job that you have failed,” Pembroke pointed out. “But you need not concern yourself with finding the spy any longer, I have another task for you.”

  Alex’s teeth were grinding at the slight that was unfortunately warranted, but he managed to say, “My lord?”

  “There is trouble brewing in East Lothian. The garrison commander at Hailes Castle is having some trouble with the local farmers, some of whom I believe are your tenants in Haddington.”

  Alex was immediately on alert. “What kind of trouble?”

  “The captain believes they are conspiring with the enemy to provide them food and other necessities.”

  Alex bit back the curse that was about to follow, instead saying, “That is ridiculous. Bruce’s men raided that area not long ago in retribution for their supplying the garrison with grain. The same garrison that should have been protecting them,” he added pointedly.

  “I do not care about the details,” Pembroke said. “I simply wish for you to do whatever is necessary to put the trouble to rest and bring any traitors to justice. I do not need to tell you how important the garrisons are as we make our way north.”

  Hailes was on the main road to Edinburgh.

  “And if I find that it is the garrison commander that is the problem?” Alex asked.

  “I am sur
e you will find a solution,” Pembroke said.

  In other words, justice didn’t matter. The plight of the people in the Borders didn’t matter. Just appease the damned captain.

  By now Alex’s teeth felt as if they’d been ground flat. He managed to nod, acknowledging the order.

  “Good,” Pembroke said. “You will leave at dawn. Take as many men as you need. I don’t expect it should take you more than a few days.”

  Dismissed, Alex left the tower to find his men. He was so frustrated and seething with anger that he didn’t look up until he heard a sharp gasp.

  “Alex?” The soft, feminine voice was instantly familiar.

  He didn’t need to see the face hidden in the hood of the cloak to recognize the woman who came hurling into his arms a moment later.

  Joan worried that she’d pushed Alex too hard and made him suspicious. But she’d been carried away by the prospect of a future beyond heartbreak, and the possibility that she could somehow convince him to return to his former compatriots.

  He had clearly struggled with the decision to leave and didn’t seem reconciled to it even now. At the time . . .

  With what he’d said—and what she knew of him—she had a deeper understanding of what had motivated him to switch sides. It didn’t seem as much of a betrayal now.

  He’d been worn down, frustrated, and pushed to the breaking point by the brutality of war. Part Scot, part English, part knight, part brigand, Alex was torn between two worlds—two ideals—and unable to reconcile the fight for justice and chivalry. Eventually he’d snapped.

  But whether it was the little girl, the trouble with Boyd, the style of warfare, his personal code, because he couldn’t see an end, or a combination of all those things that caused him to leave, he’d done so with a noble purpose. He’d betrayed his friends and king because he thought he could do more good working for an end to the war from a different angle.

  It was an admirable idea, but she guessed that it hadn’t worked out the way he’d hoped. He’d counted on reasonable, honorable men like him—which were in short command. Moreover, the distrust and suspicion that Boyd had heaped on him for being “English” had followed him to England, where he was considered “Scottish.”

  She’d sensed Alex’s frustration and had hoped to plant the idea to return. But she’d been a little heavy-handed with the seed, and now she feared she might have given herself away.

  If he thought her sympathetic to Bruce, how long would it take him to connect her to the person feeding the “rebels” information? Perhaps he’d made the connection already. He’d been acting so strangely and purposefully evading her questions.

  What a mess. The situation had become unbearable. She cared about him too much to continue to lie to him. But did she trust him with her life? Strangely, despite his betrayal of her brethren, she did. Unfortunately, there was more to it than trust. Telling him the truth would put him in a horrible position. He’d be forced to decide between her and his honor and duty. She didn’t want to do that to him yet. Not until she was sure there was no other way.

  But what did he know?

  She’d followed him to Pembroke’s solar to find out. As she could hardly listen at the door in the hallway, she gave proof to her spectral war name and passed through the wall like a ghost—or in this case, through the neighboring chamber with the unlocked door. She’d done this countless times before, but spying on Alex was different.

  Though most of the castle was at the evening meal, just to be safe she hid behind the heavy tapestry that covered most of the wall. The partition was wood, but as it had been plastered, it muffled their voices enough to prevent her from hearing the entire conversation. But she heard enough to know that if Alex knew something, he had not passed it on to the earl. She also heard that he was being sent away, and that caused a surprisingly hard pang in her chest.

  She was growing too attached. But how could she stop it?

  She left the room not long after she heard him leave. When she was sure there was no one coming, she made her way down the tower stairwell and out into the yard.

  She glanced around, scanning the area, and her heart slammed into her chest. The air in her lungs turned so hot and acrid it hurt to breathe.

  It hurt all over.

  She hadn’t waited long enough. Alex stood about fifty feet away near the entry to the chapel. She stepped behind the corner of the building, but she needn’t have worried about him noticing her. He had his arms around a woman and was lifting her off her feet. When he started to spin her around and knocked off her hood, Joan could see that it wasn’t just a woman, but one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen in her life.

  Rosalin Clifford now Boyd was still laughing when Alex gave her one last squeeze and set her back down on her feet. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so shocked to see someone. Shocked and very happy. She reminded him of . . .

  He stopped the thought. His old life was over.

  She reached up and put a hand on his cheek. “Oh, Alex, it’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

  He took her hand and brought it to his mouth. “And I’ve missed you, too, lass.”

  Suddenly, their location was brought back to him. They weren’t in Scotland, they were in the middle of a castle full of English soldiers, and she was the wife of one of the most hated men in England.

  Perhaps his darkening countenance reminded her as well, for she hastily adjusted her hood back over her head, hiding her remarkable features. Rosalin was one of the most beautiful women on either side of the border—a face like hers would not go unnoticed.

  He cursed. She’d heard worse from him and didn’t seem to pay it any mind. “God’s wounds, Rosalin. What the hell are you doing here?”

  She wrinkled her nose as if annoyed by the question and the tone in which it had been asked. “Lower your voice. We are drawing enough attention as it is.”

  He swore again and looked around. There were a handful of soldiers in the area, most of whom were looking at them curiously—and a few (who must have seen her face) enviously.

  “Who is the woman?” Rosalin asked.

  Alex frowned. “What woman?”

  Rosalin looked around. “She was standing by the Constable Tower but she must have left. From the way she was looking at you, I assumed you knew her. Very pretty—sultry looking—dark haired.” She frowned. “She looked familiar.”

  Alex swore again. Christ, Joan must have seen him. Sultry looking. He’d have to remember that—it fit.

  “My betrothed,” he said. He was going to have some explaining to do to Joan later. But first, he had to deal with the more pressing problem.

  Taking advantage of Rosalin’s shock at his announcement and noting the nearby chapel, he pulled her inside. Fortunately, it was empty.

  “You are betrothed? Oh, Alex, I’m so happy for you. Do I know her? What is her name?”

  “Later,” Alex said. He folded his arms across his chest and gave her a look that warned her not to lie to him. “Does your husband know you are here?”

  She bit her lip, having the good sense to look chagrined. “Not exactly.”

  Alex exploded, letting off a string of blasphemies and curse words that would have made MacRuairi proud. But his anger turned to something else entirely when she pulled back her hood again and unintentionally revealed something else—something he probably should have noticed when he was hugging her.

  His face drained. “Good God, don’t tell me you are with child?”

  She made a face that involved a pursed mouth of distaste and a frown of displeasure. “Very well, I won’t.”

  “Christ, you are!” he said incredulously. “Raider is going to kill—” He almost said “me,” he was so damned used to being the source of blame, but he had nothing to do with this, which didn’t explain how he somehow felt responsible. “You,” he finished.

  She didn’t seem worried and shrugged. “I have every right to be here. Robbie and I have an agreement.”
>
  His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What kind of agreement?”

  “That I could come see my brother whenever I wished.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean for you to come on your own with the entire English army camped nearby. Bloody hell, the king is here. There are soldiers everywhere.”

  The bite on her lip deepened. Funny, Joan did the same thing, but when Rosalin did it, he wasn’t distracted at all.

  “He is?” She may have winced with a little bit of shame. “I didn’t realize, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. I needed to see Cliff.”

  She was referring to her brother, Lord Robert Clifford, one of the highest ranking of Edward’s barons and a longtime enemy of her husband’s. Alex had no idea what she’d done to work out a truce between those two—hell, maybe he should have had her try to talk some sense into King Edward.

  “And it couldn’t wait?” he asked.

  She shook her head, her expression suddenly despondent. “I had to see him before he left. I don’t know how to explain it—it’s just a feeling . . .”

  Alex’s mouth fell in a grim line. He didn’t believe in premonitions, but he would not argue with one. “Have you seen him yet?”

  She shook her head. “I was on my way to his rooms when I saw you. But I guess it was a good thing I did, as I suspect his rooms may have moved.”

  Alex nodded. “He’s in the Captain’s Lodgings. Pembroke has his old rooms in the Constable Tower.”

  “Indeed a very good thing, then. Sir Aymer would recognize me quite easily.”

  “I will take you to Clifford—and then I will take you back to wherever it is you came from.”

  “That isn’t necessary—”