The Scotsman

by Juliana Garnett

  A faint smile curved his mouth. “It has come to my attention that you find your visit here lacks excitement.”

  She stiffened. “Nay, what I said to Father Michael was that I find your household wearisome. But then, I would prefer boredom to certain notions of entertainment.”

  “No doubt. Since Father Michael reports your spirits to be withering without proper company, I thought to relieve your tedium.”

  “With your company?”

  “If I choose.” His cool reply was guarded, and she noted a small flicker in his eyes that betrayed his chagrin at her derision. So, he was not as immune to insult as she had begun to think. It was a worthwhile bit of information to file away for future use.

  “Perhaps your company is better than dying slowly of tedium, but I prefer a slow, uncertain fate to a swift, certain one.”

  Leaning back against the oak portal, he crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her without smiling. “Do not be so sure of that, milady, until you are faced with the choice.”

  Silence stretched awkwardly, and Catherine studied him with a slightly lowered gaze. His trews were faded, his sherte of fine quality linen that showed age, and his knee-high boots were scuffed and muddy. A sword was strapped around his waist, dangling with lethal promise at his side.

  Impatience edged his words as he said, “I see my long absence has not improved your opinion of me. ’Tis of little consequence to me if you languish here alone. I came only to offer you relief from your solitude, but if you prefer—”

  “Pray, pardon my sharp tongue, sir.” She said it quickly as he pushed away from the door with the obvious intention of departing, desperation overcoming her natural aversion. “Since Father Michael can no longer come, I find the days overlong and unbearable without some task to fill them. I can weave, if you care to have a loom brought to me. I can spin wool into yarn, or knit garments … I am not accustomed to being idle for so long.”

  Pausing with one hand on the door latch, he looked at her for a long moment, his gray eyes serious and considering as if calculating her sincerity. “I was told you read.”

  His abrupt comment startled her, but she nodded. “Yea, ’tis true.”

  “Do I have your word of honor that you will not attempt escape if I allow you from this chamber?”

  Hope flared, but she gave him a cautious reply. “Am I so feared a captive then?”

  “Nay, but none here have the inclination to waste time dragging you back should you attempt flight.” A flicker of impatience knit his dark brows into a frown. “I am not a tolerant man, milady. Do you give me the answer I seek, or linger here with only your own company to fill your days. ’Tis your choice.”

  “With so gracious an invitation, I can do naught but accede to your request. Of course you have my word that I will not attempt escape. Where would I go? I am in an alien land peopled by the enemy.”

  “See that you keep that in mind.” He stood back and gestured for her to precede him. After the briefest of hesitations, she crossed the chamber and moved through the door. Even knowing she was still a hostage, freedom from the tiny circular chamber was cheering.

  The corridor was short, but with long windows that allowed in light on each side. Shutters were opened on the gray day, and a brisk wind carried in the smell of rain as they traversed the hallway to the stairwell. It spiraled down in a tight coil, narrow steps and dank closeness lit only by oil lamps in small niches. Light flickered and wavered over the stone steps as she made her way down cautiously, ever aware of the towering presence just behind her.

  Silently, he guided her down another corridor off the stairwell, to a heavy door. Reaching past her, he pushed it open and it swung noiselessly into a large, airy chamber. Catherine stepped inside, trepidation melding into astonished delight.

  “Oh, what a lovely room this is!”

  “My father had it built.” Alex stepped around her to the windows, shoving one open to allow in fresh air. Lit candles danced in candle stands, and a horn lamp burned steadily beside a bolstered chair obviously meant to welcome an occupant. Shelves lined one wall from floor to ceiling, holding volumes of leather and wood-bound books.

  “May I?” Catherine indicated the books with an uplifted hand.

  He shrugged. “You did say you could read, I think. Choose a volume that interests you.”

  There was an undisguised challenge in his tone, and she understood immediately that this was a test of some kind. She had pleaded for rescue from her boredom, and this was his answer.

  Catherine did not deign to reply verbally to his challenge, but moved instead to the bookcase. The inevitable Greek tragedies were there, with treatises in Latin and French. After studying several dozen titles, she chose a slim volume of French poetry. She could feel him watching her as she flipped it open to peruse the lettered pages. It was beautifully copied, with flowing script and intricate drawings on the thick pages.

  “Pray, read to me, milady. It has been some time since I have heard a woman read poetry.”

  She looked up at him with a cool lift of her brows. “I do not care to read aloud.”

  “No doubt.” A cynical twist of his mouth accompanied his advance toward her. “Humor me, if you please. If for no other reason than because I have temporarily freed you from your chamber.”

  “Very well. Shall I read in French, or translate it for you?”

  “A translation would be satisfactory.”

  “If you insist.” She riffled the pages a moment, both resentful and amused by his skepticism of her ability to read, then cleared her throat and began to translate: “‘The story I shall tell today Was taken from a Breton lay Called Laustic in Brittany, Which, in proper French would be Rossignol. They’d call the tale In English lands The Nightingale.’” She felt his eyes on her, but kept her gaze firmly fixed on the stiff pages of the book as she read further. “‘There was, near Saint Malo, a town Of some importance and renown….’” He remained silent as she read more, unmoving until she reached the lines, “‘They were much happier than before And would have asked for nothing more But lovers can’t be satisfied When love’s true pleasure is denied—’”

  “Enough.”

  Catherine halted and looked up. He was staring at her with a strange expression. She shrugged carelessly. “There is much more to read, sir.”

  “I know that. I am familiar with this particular ballad. Twas composed by Marie de France, I believe.”

  “Yea, so it was.” She closed the volume with a crisp snap, and held the leather-bound book to her chest. “I admit I am surprised that a man such as yourself would read this land of verse.”

  “No more surprised than I am to find a woman who reads it so eloquently, I should think.”

  “Or one who reads at all, I infer.”

  A faint smile flickered. “Aye, ’tis true enough, I vow. I did not expect to harbor an educated female.”

  “Not exactly educated, but not ignorant, either.” She ran a fingertip over the closed volume’s edges. “Men are said to be illiterate if capable of reading in only one or two languages. For a female to read at all is a vaunted skill and quite useless, I have been told.”

  “And who would be so ignorant as to say that?”

  “My father.” She smiled wryly. “He shares the opinion of many men, who think a female should use her skill for the creation of children and tapestries, and little else.”

  “I cannot say I completely disagree with that opinion, though ’tis not likely that I would agree with Lord Warfield on much else. I would prefer meeting him on a battlefield to a bargaining table.” Clasping his hands behind him, he moved across the room in strides as loose and easy as a large cat to stand in front of the windows, staring out.

  Catherine watched from beneath her lashes, more than a little curious about a man who in one breath professed to read poetry, and in the next spoke casually of war. There were depths to him she had not considered. Was it possible he was not just the crude, savage Scot she had first
thought him? If he was civilized, there may yet be hope for her.

  “Of course, my father also said that Scots are vicious, untaught barbarians prone to devouring their own children if their larders are empty,” she commented, still watching him from beneath her lowered lashes.

  Alex turned sharply, and his dark brows crowded his eyes in a scowl. “I have no doubt Warfield would make such a remark, but am surprised that you dare repeat it to me.”

  “Are you? I beg your pardon. I thought we were being candid.”

  “Candor is for the captor, not the captured.”

  “I see. Honesty avails only those holding the sword, is that right, sir?”

  “Usually.” His mouth quirked into a tight smile. “It has been my experience that prudence is more useful to those beneath the blade.”

  “Yet the Scots still defy their rightful king. Would not prudence be of more use to you than arms?”

  “Not if it involves yielding one hide of land to a king who has stolen the crown with lies and deceit.” Crossing the room to the hearth, where a fire burned brightly, he leaned one arm on the stone mantel and regarded her with a brooding expression. “You are a cheeky maid, to speak so boldly to the man who holds your life in his hands.”

  She looked up at him, lifting her brows in feigned astonishment. “Again, you must forgive me. I was under the impression that my life was in my father’s hands.”

  “No. Your fate is in your father’s hands. Your life, I hold.”

  “Of which fact you relish reminding me.” She placed the book on a table, feeling his eyes follow her as she crossed the chamber. Candle glow brightened the meager gray light streaming through the tall windows. Tiny rainbows danced across the floor in wavering patterns. The opened window allowed in cool air that smelled of imminent rain and distant freedom.

  Alex laughed softly. “Next, I suppose you will claim that your father is a noble human being with the morals of a saint.”

  “I am not a fool, sir.” Catherine clutched the back of a chair with both hands, the dark wood smooth beneath her fingers as she held it tightly. “Nor am I blind. I am well aware of my father’s faults, as I have told you. But at least he did not sneak like a thief into your home to take your brother. Your brother, youthful as he may be, chose to engage in violent conflict. Do you deny it?”

  “Nay. Jamie chose to leave the protection of his home, where you did not. But if I can save him from certain death, I mean to do it, whether you agree or no.”

  She wanted to say that her father would not kill his young brother, but did not. It was a he, and he would know it. Instead, she chose another tactic. She would see how far she could go with this man.

  “Truthfully, sir, Robert Bruce is to blame for your brother’s capture.”

  Irony marked his expression. “Is he? Twould greatly interest me to hear how you reached that conclusion. Pray, share with me your reasoning, my lady.”

  “Very well.” She traced a carved vine with one finger, watching him to gauge his reaction. “If Scotland were to be reasonable and acknowledge Edward as their true and rightful king, none of this conflict would be necessary. The Earl of Carrick would retain his lands and peace would reign. Instead, Robert Bruce has lost his earldom and will soon lose his Ufe, along with the lives of countless men, women, and children who have fallen victim to his ruthless depredations.”

  Silence fell. Rain pattered softly against the glazed windowpanes, and the fire hissed in the grate. His face had not changed, but remained as if chiseled from stone as he studied her so long her nerves began to fray under his cold stare. Finally, he pushed away from the mantel and moved to stand in front of her, dark and tall and intimidating, with only the chair between them.

  “You have been wildly misinformed, my lady.” His tone was soft, but the words were clipped and hard. “Are you so ill-taught that you do not know the truth? Or is it that the English prefer to ignore the facts, and invent their own tales to justify their deceit?”

  “Nothing of the kind.” She steadied the nervous quiver of her hands on the chairback. “Is it not true that after the Scots King Alexander died and his granddaughter was declared the new queen, King Edward signed a treaty granting conditions for Scotland’s independence? But when little Queen Margaret died soon after, the Scots who had signed that treaty treacherously declared John Balliol king of Scotland instead of following the terms of the agreement—which would have given Edward the right to the Scottish throne.”

  “Those facts are far too bare, madam.” The thin white scar on his cheek tightened. “The Scots who signed that treaty with Edward were little more than minions of the English crown, intent upon their own ends rather than the wishes of most of Scotland. ’Twas crafty Edward who had these Scots make Balliol king. And after Edward had this puppet king declare the signed treaty null and void—thus releasing Edward from his promises of Scottish independence—John Balliol was discarded like a broken jug. Nay, Edward is not a man to be trusted.”

  A wintry smile curled his lips as she stared up at him with uneasiness. “Do I see uncertainty in your eyes, my lady? Perhaps if you think on’t a time, you will see the truth for yourself.”

  “That still does not justify Robert of Bruce’s claim to the throne.” Her protest sounded lame and uninformed, even to her own ears. Was it possible that all she had managed to learn was wrong? But how could it be? No, these Scots were masters of manipulation, as her brother had once angrily remarked. And this man was the most adept at it, despite the kernel of reason he injected into his explanation.

  “Bruce’s claim is valid. He is directly descended from King David on his father’s side, and because of this, in 1238 his grandfather was named heir presumptive by King Alexander II. When the king remarried, however, his son Alexander was born and became his heir and king. But the Bruces have never forgotten their royal blood or favor.”

  Catherine did not deny that there was a ring of truth to what he said, but it had been ingrained in her to believe in Edward’s claim to the throne of Scotland. There must be a reasonable explanation, an argument for all the issues he raised. If only she could think clearly, but the days spent in solitude had rendered her mind near numb with endless monotony and apprehension.

  With a lift of her shoulders, she said at last, “Yet the Bruce family aligned with the English at one time.”

  “Aye, but only to fulfill their oath of obligation. The Bruces never paid homage to John Balliol as crowned king of Scotland, nor recognized his coronation. They kept faith with the allegiance they had sworn to Edward, and in turn, he promised them the crown of Scotland once Balliol was deposed. Again, Longshanks lied. And that was his undoing, for by it, he freed Robert Bruce to seek that which should be his.”

  Catherine frowned at the curved back of the chair she held, anything to avert her gaze from the tall man staring down at her so dispassionately. “You seem to have an answer for everything. Yet ’tis true that since I was a small child, followers of Wallace and Bruce have swept down into England to burn monasteries and even infants. Just a year ago, Bruce crossed the Solway with his army and sacked Lanercost Priory, scarcely six leagues from Warfield. He ravaged Hexham and Corbridge, looting and taking hostages, then moved to Durham to fall upon those hapless merchants just as they were putting up stalls on market day. He burned the town to ashes, killing rampantly.”

  “Yea, I know well what happened. I was with him.” A faint smile curled his mouth. “And I was with James Douglas at Hartlepool, when he ransacked the town and took wealthy burgesses and their wives as ransom.”

  “Then you do not deny the depredations that have been visited upon innocent citizens!”

  “Yea, lady, I do deny it. Bruce does not kill the innocent, as does your Edward. Those who do not resist are spared, and women and children are not slaughtered.”

  “Fie on you, sir, for telling such tales! Next you shall say William Wallace and his men did not burn alive a school full of children or attack villages….”

/>   “War is war. And much is attributed to Bruce and William Wallace that never happened. How else could Edward raise an army to fight men who want only their freedom if he does not convince his soldiers of false atrocities?”

  “For a crude Scot,” she retorted in rising frustration, “you have a nimble tongue.”

  His countenance relaxed slightly, and the suggestion of a genuine smile tucked the corners of his mouth inward. “Aye, so I have been told before. But so do you, lass.”

  “I have not exactly come off the best in this war of words, I fear.” Some of her tension eased as he grinned, and she looked away from him again. “I will think on what you have said, though I cannot help but suspect you have only twisted the facts to suit your purpose.”

  He shrugged. “I invite you to listen and learn. ’Tis the only way to glean the truth.”

  “Perhaps, but ’tis my thought that how truthful a man is depends on which country he is in when he voices his opinion.”

  “By that reasoning, milady, should your father happen to be in Scotland, he would be branded a liar if he swore that Edward is Scotland’s rightful king. Is that right?”

  “You name him liar now, when he is yet in England.” Curse him, must he stand so close? She could not think, could not breathe with him standing over her, and she gripped the chair back more tightly. “I am certain my father would give you point for point his reasons why Edward is king, just as you can give reasons for Bruce’s claim. There are truths, and in the end, God will decide who is right.”

  “It has been said that God is always on the side of the biggest army.”

  “Then ’tis certain Edward will be victor, for his army numbers many more than the Scots.”

  “Do you think so?” There was an odd note in his voice, and she looked up at him then, struck by the intensity of his tone. “Edward may have more soldiers, but Scotland’s army is made up of its people, and numbers far more than the foreign mercenaries King Edward hires to wage war against a country they care nothing about. In the end, no man will risk all just for coin. ’Tis only men who have nothing left to lose but their Uves who will risk all. I suggest you remember that when you begin to doubt the outcome, milady.”