The Scotsman

by Juliana Garnett

  But he had no intention of letting James Douglas know how he felt, and shrugged off the teasing jests. There were other, more important concerns to deal with now. The problem of Catherine of Warfield would have to wait for his return.

  For now, they must conquer the entire garrison of Roxburgh Castle with only sixty men. And here as well, the odds might be one in ten that it could be done.

  15

  Catherine felt Robbie MacLeod’s gaze on her, and her shoulders tensed. Finally she looked up at him. “Must you stare at me?”

  “Aye. ’Tis my duty tae protect ye.”

  “For the love of all that is holy, do you think a band of villains is about to fall upon me here in the midst of the hall? ’Tis doubtful, though I am certain Sir Alex will greatly appreciate your loyalty and sense of duty.”

  Robbie did not respond, nor did he move from his position against the wall. He leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest, but remained in the same spot.

  “Stubborn Scot,” she muttered to herself, and looked back down at Tam. “You are doing excellently, Tarn. Sir Alex will be proud when he returns.”

  And when would that be? She fretted with each passing day, and wondered if anyone would bother to tell her if they knew when he would return. Or if he would not … oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, she could not start thinking such things or she would go mad.

  To keep her mind from straying, she kept busy. Now she worked with Tam. But later? What would keep her from dread visions of what might happen … not even the pleasure of reading was enough to divert her from the fears that plagued her when she thought of all the possibilities she now faced.

  She was with the steward asking about the proper food for the approaching Lenten season when Robbie suddenly made a soft noise in the back of his throat and snapped to an upright position from the familiar slouch she had grown accustomed to seeing. Curious, she followed his gaze.

  Across the hall, bearing down on them with grim purpose, was Mairi. The older woman was disheveled, her normally tidy gray hair in disarray and her clothing flapping about her body like a loose blanket. Catherine felt the steward take a step backward as Mairi reached them, but she held her ground.

  Halting in front of Catherine, the woman’s face was distorted with rage and hate. “I curse ye, whore of Babylon, for poisoning Sir Alex wi’ yer witch’s mind and body….” Silence fell in the hall. Spittle laced Mairi’s mouth, and her eyes were wild. “If no’ for ye and yer wicked blasphemy, I wa’d no’ hae been sent frae my place here!”

  “I did nothing to you.” Catherine’s voice was calm despite the rapid thudding of her heart. “Nor did I ask to come here.”

  “A lie! Ye hae been sent here by the Sassenachs tae spy on us, and murther us all in our beds … I hae tried tae tell the laird, but he wa’ bewitched by ye and wa’d no’ listen tae me….”

  Robbie moved at last, coming to speak to Mairi in Gaelic, his voice rough and low. The woman shook her head vehemently, and glared at Catherine as she lifted a trembling arm to point at her. “’Tis true … and ye know it well, ye scheming harlot … d’ye think the laird wa’d hae taken ye tae his bed otherwise? Nay, he wa’d no’ do it, no’ after he swore tae leave ye untouched. But I heard him tell tha’ Sassenach lordling wha’ ye call brother tha’ he wa’d no’ long leave ye virgin if there wa’ no answer aboot Jamie, and ye maun hae known there wa’d be no answer … ’twas a trick tae hae him lie wi’ ye, tae bewitch him so ye can open the gates o’ a night tae let the murtherers in tae slaughter us all in our beds….”

  Robbie took her forcefully by the arm, speaking rapidly to her in Gaelic as he pulled her with him. He said something to those nearby, his voice sharp, and Catherine saw the fear and suspicion in the faces watching her. Even Tarn looked askance, as if uncertain she could be trusted not to leap at them with a weapon.

  She stood still, unmoving as Robbie evicted Mairi from the hall. She did not speak when he returned to her side and suggested she retire to her chamber, but accompanied him silently from the hall to the winding staircase that led up to the second floor. Echoes of Mairi’s ravings seemed to resonate off the walls in eerie repetition, so that she heard over and over again that Alex had only taken her to his bed as vengeance against her father’s delay.

  It was not until she stood in the center of the chamber she shared with Alex—his chamber, with high bed and thick hangings, tapestries on the walls, and a constant fire with a decent chimney to draw the smoke—that she finally spoke.

  Turning, she looked hard at Robbie. “Is what she said true, Robbie? Did Sir Alex tell my brother that if he did not soon receive an answer about Jamie he would take my virginity?”

  Robbie glanced away. “I was no’ in the room when ’twas said, milady, so I am no’ the man to ask. Ask Sir Alex when he returns.”

  “Nay, that will not be necessary, for you have answered the question more completely than you know.” Anguish made her hands tremble, but thankfully her voice was steady. “I would like to rest now. Please shut the door when you leave.”

  He hesitated, but something in her face must have convinced him, and he nodded. “Aye, but I will be outside the door should ye need me, milady.”

  It was not often he left his post, and she knew that he trusted few to relieve him, fearing perhaps that harm would come to her and he would be blamed. She watched mutely as he left, and waited until the solid door clicked with finality before she collapsed onto a low stool.

  What a fool she was. She had hoped—thought—that Alex must feel some tenderness for her, or he would not be so attentive, would not have been so gentle. But now she knew it was not love, it was nothing more than lust that kept her in his chamber—it had never been anything but lust. He had warned her. She should have listened when he had said lust and love were equally dangerous. It was true. Oh, God, it was so true, and she had been so blind, so caught up in the unfamiliar emotions and physical urges that she had convinced herself he cared.

  Yet the truth brought no real anger with it, only a grief as if someone she loved had died. There was a sense of pain along with it, that she could now see so clearly what she had blinded herself to before. But no anger. No self-righteous rage that he had lied to her, or at the least, not been entirely honest. She could not hate Mairi for telling the truth, and could not even hate herself for being deceived. It had been self-deception, after all, for he had not pretended to love her.

  And perhaps that was the worst of it.

  Pressing her fists to her mouth until she tasted blood, Catherine sat for a long time as shadows crawled across the room and squatted in corners like predatory beasts; the fire died and the candles guttered, plunging the elegant bedchamber with its silk hangings and embroidered tapestries into utter darkness. It felt right to sit where there was no light and no hope. It felt familiar.

  A fluttering in her stomach kept her tense and on edge, but she betrayed nothing as she listened to Robbie MacLeod talk to the guard outside her door in Gaelic. He was leaving her with a new man as guard, a rare occurrence as Robbie had remained almost unfailingly at her side until now. Only on occasion would he leave her with another, and then for short periods of time.

  But this was the moment she had been waiting for, been expecting for the past two weeks since Mairi had raved at her in the hall and shattered any illusions she held about Alex Fraser caring for her. After days of agonizing, she had finally accepted what she must do to end this anguish. She would leave Castle Rock. It would not be easy, and perhaps she would be caught, but she could not just linger here and wait for his return. It would be too painful to see him again, to look into his angel’s face with the devil’s own lie in his eyes.…

  She had learned there was a nunnery close by; she would seek refuge there until she could enter a cloister in her own land. Her lands would be dowry to the church, and she would live out her days in relative independence and freedom. Now that she was no longer a virgin—in the eyes of the church and her father, an unwed wom
an with a past and no future—she would be accepted without debate about her eligibility. The church would be glad to receive her extensive dowry, and she would still be allowed to retain monies for her own use. She could travel if she wished, or linger in the sanctity and peace of the nunnery and devote her time to prayer and reading. It was a way of life free of the restrictions wives and daughters faced in the secular world.

  And now the moment was at hand. She was prepared for it. Swiftly, she donned the garments she had hidden in a chest for this purpose, then slipped the velvet gown over her head and left it loosely tied at the sides. When she was certain Robbie had left, she waited a few more minutes, then opened the door.

  “Guard … please … I am taken ill….”

  Disconcerted, the guard stared at her without response, and she wondered wildly if he spoke English. It was something she had not considered. Groaning, she clutched her stomach and bent double, then sagged to her knees. Alarmed, the guard knelt beside her, not touching her.

  “Milady … be ye truly ill?”

  His English was rough but intelligible, and she nodded before groaning louder. “Please … it is a female complaint that so ails me … I need a woman from the village … oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God….”

  Her last words were uttered in a moaning wail as if she were about to die, and the guard scrambled to his feet and looked around him in panic. It was obvious he was loath to leave his post, and she increased her moans, then went into shaking spasms that were not too difficult to mimic in her current state of agitation. She thought of a religious woman she had once seen, who had fallen to the ground in a fit of holy fervor and foamed at the mouth and thrashed about, and did her best to imitate the convulsions she had witnessed.

  Apparently, she was very convincing, for after another glance and a few muttered words in Gaelic, the guard backed away, then sped down the hall with a clatter of sword and fervent prayer for his own safety. The echoes of the Latin prayer drifted back to her, and she kept her eyes half-closed in case he turned around. Lying in the open doorway of the chamber, she waited for what seemed an eternity before rising in a swift motion and stripping away her velvet gown. The rough servant’s clothing she wore beneath was quickly covered with a long mantle she had pilfered from some hapless soul who had carelessly left it in the hall, and she supped from the chamber into the empty corridor.

  Below, she could hear voices, and in the bailey outside was the constant ebb and flow of normal activity. Accustomed by now to the back staircases, she used the one at the opposite end of the hall the guard had chosen, and quickly descended the tight, narrow spiral steps, blowing out the lamps in the niches to plunge the stairwell into darkness behind her. When she reached the bottom, she paused and, bending, scraped her hands over the dirty floor and rubbed it on her cheeks, forehead, and chin. She tucked her hair beneath a square of rough wool to hide it from view, knotting the comers together, then pulled the mantle’s hood up to cover her head. She tugged on the wool gloves she had been given in her first days here, to cover hands that would betray her with their pale softness.

  With pounding heart and a dry mouth, she made her way slowly across the small room toward the kitchens. No one paid her any mind as she moved with purpose to a bundle of rags tied with thin cord, and hefted it to sling over one shoulder. It was heavier than it looked and she staggered a bit under the weight, but did not pause.

  She carried the makeshift burden as if it belonged to her. Sunlight and cold wind struck her forcibly as she stepped into the mud and clatter of the bailey, and she kept her head down as she moved along with the bundle of rags atop her back. No one seemed to notice her as she wove a path through the milling soldiers and various tradesmen. On the morrow, it would be Shrove Tuesday, the day before the Lenten season began and a time of festivity before the long season of fasting commenced. The keep was thus busier than usual.

  When she reached the outer gates, open during the day to allow in tradesmen and those who had business here, she did not pause. Her heart was pounding so fiercely she felt as if her ribs would be bruised by its force. Posted guards oft stopped those entering, but generally did not detain those trying to leave. She found herself behind an old man with a load of woven baskets tied around his neck and across his back, and he began to quarrel with one of the guards.

  Would he never cease his ranting in that querulous voice? If she were still within the keep when her absence was discovered and the cry went up, all would be for naught. This was her only chance.…

  Finally the guard gave a disgusted grunt and a shove, and the old man moved along, still indignant about some slight he must have suffered, and she followed with her head low. She prayed to be invisible, for if she were forced to speak they would know instantly she was English.

  But the guard stopped her with an arm stretched in front of her, his command rough Gaelic. She stopped, but shook her head mutely, keeping her eyes downcast. He said something else in a sharp tone, and she stood frozen in panic. What was he saying to her? He would quickly discover she did not understand his language, and all would be lost … but when she dared a glance upward, he was peering at her with narrowed eyes and she opened her mouth and made an incoherent sound, then pointed to her ears and shook her head. It was inspired.

  At once, he shoved her forward, then looked at the man behind her and said something that must have been coarse, for they both laughed. It did not matter. She walked past him, bent under the bundle of rags, deaf indeed to all but the loud pounding of blood that filled her ears as she trod the narrow passage that led to freedom.

  As she made her way across the bridge and down the steep hill toward Kinnison, she prayed that she would find the priory Tarn had told her was only a few leagues distant. It was near Langholm, which was very close to the border. She just must remember to keep the rising sun on her left, and the setting sun on her right.

  But it would be difficult, for even now clouds were scudding across the sky and the wind was growing sharp and colder. Without the sun to guide her, she may soon be lost, wandering with no one to help her in the country of the enemy. Never in her life had she felt more alone than she did now, and with each step, Catherine prayed for guidance.

  16

  It was Shrove Tuesday, February 27, and the garrison of Roxburgh was celebrating the day before the beginning of Lent with a feast. Douglas, Alex, and a hand-picked group of men that numbered sixty in all approached the castle after dusk. Over their chain mail, they wore black cloaks that draped to the ground and blended them into the shadows. Silently, in single file and on their hands and knees, they moved along a narrow path as if they were cows or oxen that had been left in the fields for the night.

  It was a brilliant plan—if it worked, Alex thought with grim amusement. He could barely make out the form of the man in front of him, shrouded by black wool with only an occasional clink of his sword along the rutted track to lend noise to the gloom. Stealthily, they made their way close to the castle walls, careful to appear aimless to any who may be watching. It was not until they were directly beneath the wall that they heard a sentry speak, his voice drifting over them in the quiet, cold night with crystal clarity.

  “The local farmer must be making good cheer, for he has left out all his cattle.”

  Another man laughed softly and replied, “Good cheer tonight, but Douglas will have them tomorrow.”

  Laughing, the two men wandered along the stone ramparts until their voices faded.

  Douglas beckoned, and his men came close to the foot of the wall, hooks and ladders in hand to scale the height. “Who drew the winning lot to go first, lads?” he whispered with a wild grin, and a man stepped forward eagerly.

  “I am to go.”

  “Good man, Sim. Give us the signal when you have seen the lay of it.”

  Alex helped fit the iron hooks of the ladders to the top ledge of the castle wall, and Sim of Leadhouse swiftly scaled the ropes. They stood in the shadows and watched as he reached the edge o
f the parapet. There was a brief scuffle and grunt, and then Sim turned to look down with a reckless laugh, hissing, “All’s well. Speed quickly.”

  With a muffled clump of boots against stone, they made their way up the hempen ladders and over the parapet to the sentry walk. A dead guard lay sprawled on the stones, stabbed in the heart to stop his warning. When they were all up, Douglas motioned and they separated into small groups, dispersing in different directions, keeping to the shadows and muffling the noise of their boots and swords.

  Alex accompanied Douglas, and they moved along the sentry wall with silent purpose. When they rounded a corner, Douglas put up a hand to halt the small group, and Alex heard the soft sound of a woman singing. He peered through the gloom, and in the fitful light of a torch burning on a wall, he saw the figure of a woman seated on the edge of the parapet. Her back was to them and she was holding a baby and rocking back and forth, crooning a soft song.

  In the dark, Douglas turned to him, and his teeth flashed white. “Listen….”

  Amused, Alex grinned back as the words to the song drifted into the night: “Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye; Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye; The Black Douglas shall not get ye….”

  As she sang, Douglas approached her on silent cat’s feet, and as the last words faded, he put a hand upon her shoulder and growled, “Do not be sure of that.”

  Turning, the woman’s face crumpled in horror as the Black Douglas loomed over her, but he laughed softly at her terror. “Do not fear, good dame, for I will protect you this night. It is a holy eve. Go in safety, but remain hidden for protection from the fray.”

  Beckoning a man to him, he set him to guard her so she would not give the alarm, and they continued down the walk to the circular tower and winding stairs. Few men were about this night, but they could hear the noise in the great hall, where all were celebrating Shrove Tuesday with dancing and singing. Flanking the doors, they waited, and when Alex saw Douglas give the signal at last, he turned with the others and burst through the doors into the hall, bellowing the war cry of the Douglas. It rang through the hall, causing instant pandemonium.