“Yea, but for how long? Do not be foolish. Once you leave this abbey, you are at the mercy of Scot or English soldiers.”
A bell rang, and the whispering sound of footsteps in the corridors reached them as the call to vespers summoned both monks and laymen. The friar approached the door, and slowly, Alex drew back his arm and allowed them both to pass through. But she felt his eyes on her and knew that she was well and truly caught.
The quarters for female visitors were outside, across a grassy courtyard, and Catherine hesitated. If she went alone, Alex was quite likely to intercept her. So she turned, aware that he was still behind her as she moved along the corridor into the chapel. She filed inside, genuflecting toward the altar, and moved to the ranks with the others. There were no benches as there were in the chapel at home, where the lord and his family had their private seats at the front; here there were only places to kneel on the cold stones for the service. Already, the chapel was crowded, and she took a place next to another woman.
The heady scent of burning candles and incense filled the air, and the monks lifted their voices in melodic chant that seemed to rise to the top of the vaulted ceiling. The beautiful Latin words momentarily drowned out her fears as she knelt in prayer, resonating from gilded beams and soaring walls to fill ears, and mind, and heart.
“Dominus vobiscum,” a sonorous voice intoned, and the deep masculine response of the friars’ “Et cum spiritu tuo” filled the air with full-throated piety. There was a sense of peace and continuity that pervaded the beautiful chapel and lent her strength. She prayed it would be enough to withstand Alex Fraser.
As she suspected, he was waiting for her when vespers ended and she left the chapel. This time, he took her by the arm before she had a chance to avoid him, and swept her with him down the hall and into an alcove. She was shivering, but not from the cold, though it was certainly frigid in the unheated halls.
Curling his hand under her chin, Alex held her tight in his grasp, staring down into her face with eyes as barren as the winter sides. “I would hear how you came to be here instead of near twenty miles away, where I left you, madam. And I want to know why.”
She put her hand on his wrist, but could not push his arm away. It was like iron beneath her palm, solid and unyielding. With his fingers pinching her jaw, she managed to reply. “I walked. And you must know why without me saying it aloud. Would you endure being prisoner if you could be free?”
“Christ above … have you been mistreated? Did anyone there hurt you?”
Her face must have reflected her outrage, for he drew back a little and his eyes narrowed. This time she succeeded in knocking his hand away from her face. “Hurt me! I was stolen from my home and my lands without regard for my wishes, oppressed and threatened, made to disrobe for a man who is my sworn enemy, and you dare to ask if I have been hurt by anyone? Nay, not by anyone—only by you.”
“And you know the reason you were taken. I have dealt honorably with you. You ate in my hall and slept in comfort. What you did, you did of your own free will. I did not force myself on you, so do not claim violation—”
Stepping close to him, she looked up into his face and hissed furiously, “Caitiff! Do you think I do not know why you took the virginity you first claimed to decline? It was not your noble reluctance that bade you wait, but an oath you swore to return me untouched. And I know about the other oath you made, the vow that if your brother was not returned to you, I wouldst not be returned to my family a virgin. Ah, I see that you remember now.”
The breath felt tight in her throat, squeezing her chest painfully. He did not reply for a moment, but stood gazing down at her as if he had never seen her before. Then he looked away, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle leaped beneath the dark shadow of a half-grown beard.
“Does it really matter why I took you?” he asked at last, turning back to look at her. “You were not loath to accept me. Until later, of course, when thoughts of vengeance against your father faded and you were left with the full knowledge that you had bedded the enemy. Then I became the coarse Scot again, unworthy of your prize.”
Her laugh was shrill and a little wild. “Yea, I wanted vengeance, I freely admit it. But I thought … I thought it meant more to you after you were so tender … I did not know, of course, why you had first sworn not to take me. I thought you—cared.” It was out before she could recall it, and she flushed that she sounded like a petitioner for his affection. Clenching her jaws tightly, she held her tongue before she betrayed herself again with more unwise words.
There was a strange expression on his face, almost pain as he looked at her, and he veiled his eyes with a sulky droop of his lashes. “You said you regretted that you had done it. Why would it matter to you if I cared?”
“I never said I regretted it.”
“Did you not? No matter. But you should know that men say what will have the most effect in times of crisis, catkin. I am certain I made a lot of threats to your brother about you and about many things. And I no doubt meant them when I said them, as he meant what he said. God.” He raked a hand through his hair, looking suddenly more weary than angry. “If every threat made was put to the test, the world would have been burnt to cinders long ago.”
“So….” She paused, watching him, uncertain. “So you did not mean what you said to Nicholas?”
“Oh, aye, I meant every word. I could lie to you and say that I did not consider taking you in retaliation, but I did. I thought very long and hard about it. But in the end, it was not thoughts of vengeance that made me want you.”
She held her breath. When he said nothing else, she blew out her breath softly. There was a wealth of innuendo in what he had said and not said. Oh, Holy Mother, it was not as she had thought, as Main had said. Perhaps there were no vows of love or affection from him, but that he would say as much as he did—and if she had not flown from Castle Rock only to be snared, she may never have known it.
Then she said, “Robbie will be most upset with me, I fear.”
Grimly, Alex muttered, “Robbie will not waste time being upset with you once I have hold of him.”
“Oh, no … do not be angry with him. It was not his fault.”
“Madam, when a man full-grown and well versed in the ways of war allows a slip of a maid to escape a castle so well built a rat cannot escape without my leave, he needs be chastised most heartily.”
She smiled a little. “But you must know that I am more clever than most at finding ways to leave fortified castles for I have been doing so all my life.”
“A most intriguing virtue, catkin.”
Catkin… she loved the way he called her that, with an odd inflection almost like fondness in his tone. Strangely, she suddenly wanted to weep. Perhaps it was the aftermath of anger, the sudden release of tension that had held her in its grip for over a fortnight. Not again would she allow unproven accusations from another to so distress her.
She looked up at him where he leaned with a bent arm pressed against the wall over his head. “Are you still angry with me?”
“God, I should be. All of Scotland is crawling with enemy soldiers, and you wandering about like a lost goose. You are fortunate you are not now lying dead in some ditch.”
“But the English are your enemies, not mine.”
“Do you think that would matter? A troop of soldiers and a lone woman dressed like a peasant can have a very bad conclusion. You are in Scotland. Your speech would not save you if they preferred to think you the enemy and available for sport.” He raked a hand across his face and heaved a sigh. “You were in danger from both armies, catkin. Men are men. Some are more brutal than others.”
It was not very heartening, and she suppressed a shudder at the thought. “But now you are with me. I will be safe.”
He stared down at her. “Pray God you are right, for we are still a long way from Castle Rock.”
It had been a strangely quiet journey. They rode slowly for the most part, skirting villages and takin
g paths that wound through the edge of Wauchope Forest. Alex wore a heavy mantle over his mail, and wrapped it around her where she sat in front of him on the burdened horse. Leaning back, with his arms around her and the beat of his heart a steady rhythm in her ear, she did indeed feel safe. How odd, that a man who was her sworn enemy should make her feel secure when she had felt imperiled her entire life. Not physically imperiled, perhaps, but in jeopardy of losing that part of herself that she held dear, the small, intrinsic idea of freedom that meant so much. She thought of the night before, of the odd timbre in his voice when he had admitted it was not vengeance that made him want her. Dare she hope for love? And if it was love, if he did want to keep her with him, how then would they manage it? Never would her father agree. Not that his blessing was necessary for a priest to say the vows, but there would be swift, horrible retribution against Alex’s brother for the deed. She could not countenance that, could not bear to have it on her conscience if her happiness purchased a young man’s death.
Her fingers strayed to the small cloth bundle tucked into the folds of her wool gown. Scented soap, heady perfume, and a comb for her hair lay nestled among the silk ribbons. Gifts from him, given to her this morning with awkward gruffness that had endeared him to her even more. After spending a restless night on a hard cot in a small cell with two women whose snores had kept her awake, she had not been able tó form a proper reply, but stood as a tongue-tied maid on the steps of the abbey and smiled foolishly. He had seemed to understand, for his answering smile was soft, with no trace of the anger that had marked him before.
Drowsing a little with the jogging cadence of the horse beneath her and its hooves a uniform clatter on the hard frozen ground, she sagged into Alex’s embrace. It was not until a sudden jerk of motion woke her that she smelled it. Blinking sleep from her eyes, she looked about, dazed with slumber and a little confused by the billowing clouds that seemed to fill the glen below. They were out of the forest now, on a high, wide ridge looking over a steeply descending slope festooned with crawling gray ribbons. Fog? No, fog did not have that sharp, acrid stench to it … her heart began to thump hard in her chest, and she sat upright.
“Alex … smoke.”
“Aye.” His tone was flat. “I see it.”
Ahead, she recognized the familiar stone towers of Castle Rock visible through the drifting haze. Her mouth went dry, and she clung tightly to the saddle as Alex nudged the horse into a hard, driving canter.
Long before they reached Kinnison, she could smell and hear the devastation. Keening wails rose to mingle with the still crackling flames and thick black smoke that poured into the air, and men shouted as they hauled buckets of water to douse the fires. Spitting snow melted quickly in the heat. Everywhere she looked was death and despair, heart-wrenching as they rode down streets littered with bodies and awash with blood. Half-timbered houses and shops that had been neat and prosperous smoldered in charred ruins. Children screamed for lost parents, and parents screamed for lost children. The din was deafening.
Not even the village church had been spared. Rope still dangled from the roof where the steeple had been pulled down to topple on the ground. Bits of bright glass from shattered stained glass littered grass and stone, and some windows had been removed to leave empty sockets like dead eyes staring out at the destruction. A priest sprawled in his cassock at the foot of the stone steps, his drawn sword still clutched in his lifeless hand. She did not look to see if she knew him, but glanced away with rising nausea.
Behind her, Alex was silent, but she felt his rage in the taut muscles of his arms on each side of her, the clenched fists on the leather reins as the horse danced nervously along the frozen ruts of the street. Tears stung her eyes and a sob clogged her throat.
Then someone recognized him and cried out in Gaelic, a hoarse bellow of anguish. Alex halted and answered him, his tone curiously flat. The man’s face was black with soot and streaked with tears that made odd patterns on his cheeks. His bleary gaze flicked to her, and he said something else, his voice harsh this time. Alex answered sharply, and the man looked away, gesturing to the pile of rubble that must once have been his shop and home. Shattered splinters of wood and blackened stones were all that was left of it, save a single tiny shoe lying amid the ruins. It was untouched by fire or water, lying in mute testimony of the small foot that had worn it.
Never had she envisioned such ruin, and Catherine felt suddenly as if she could not bear to look any longer. Turning her head into Alex, she buried her face in the folds of his wool cloak. He put an arm around her to hold her against him, a comforting gesture in the midst of what must be a distress much greater than hers.
Beneath her, the horse pranced restively, and Alex nudged it forward again, the pace swift. In a blur, she glimpsed scenes of grief and despair as they rode through the street, not toward the castle road, but to a narrow, twisted lane of burghers’ shops. Or what had been burghers’ shops. Now charred, smoking rubble remained. Alex reined in the horse before a building that was only half-burned, and she heard a familiar voice greet them.
She looked up to see Robbie approaching. Soot streaked his face and his light hair was nearly black. Despite the cold, he wore a sleeveless jerkin, and mail chains covered his legs. He spoke Gaelic in the same oddly flat tone that she had just heard from Alex, and gestured to blanket-shrouded forms lying on the ground nearby. Alex sucked in a harsh breath and dismounted swiftly, nearly unseating. Catherine as he leaped from the horse to move to the still forms on the ground. She watched, clinging to the horse’s neck as Robbie grabbed at the dangling reins.
Alex knelt and flipped back the edge of a blanket. She could not see the forms, but knew with sudden horror who must lie there when a hoarse cry was wrenched from him. Then she saw the small bare feet peeking from beneath the wool, smooth, childish toes curled toward pink soles.
Catherine pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, knuckles digging into her lips. Robbie stood stone-faced, and one of the women she recognized from the hall as the mother of Alex’s child fell to her knees sobbing beside the bodies. Snow powdered her black hair in gauzy drifts.
“Ohon! Ohonari …!” she wailed over and over in a keening cry that pierced Catherine, the sounds of her grief a sharp blade that cut all within hearing.
With hot tears running unchecked down her face, Catherine began to murmur a prayer for the dead, the Latin familiar on her tongue: “Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccáta mundi: dona eis réquiem … Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccáta mundi: dona eis réquiem sempi térnam….”
Robbie looked up at her with ravaged eyes. “Yea, pray God grants these wee bairns eternal peace and rest, for there willna be peace in this land until the bloody English are all driven frae Scotland.”
She held his gaze, somehow knowing the answer but compelled to ask the question: “Who did this, Robbie?”
The single word spat like a curse confirmed her worst fears and extinguished the flame of hope that had flared so brightly and so briefly.
“Warfield.”
Alex turned, and she saw in his face and eyes the awful promise of retribution. He lurched to his feet, and his voice was a harsh rasp, unashamed tears wetting his cheeks. “When I have buried my children and those of my village, I will avenge them, blood for blood, life for life.”
The English words were directed to her, and there was nothing she could say. In truth, she did not lay blame for his vow. How could she? Knowing that her father was responsible for this? For the first time, she truly understood the ravages of war, the scope of loss, and it appalled her.
Sickened, and aware that there was nothing she could do or say to assuage his loss, she watched numbly as Alex bent to tenderly lift the lifeless bodies of his children and bear them away.
18
Robbie stared at the stone floor of the hall, his downbent head and taut posture evidence of his grief and misery. Yet Alex did not relent.
“How was it,” he asked softly, “that a mere maid was able
to so easily escape Castle Rock? And that my sentries did not see the approach of an entire bloody army?”
Anguished eyes glanced up at him beseechingly. “She tricked the relief guard when I had gone to the garderobe. By the time he found me, she was not to be seen. We closed the gates and searched, but she had already slipped away. I drew the sentries from their posts to look for her, then Tarn came to say she had asked him about Langholm Priory. It made sense that ’twas where she would go, but we could not find her. We had not been back long when Warfield struck, just after first light. We barely had time to close the gates, and those that did not make it in time …”
His words drifted into helpless silence. Alex could visualize it, the frantic villagers fleeing to the gates before they closed, with Warfield’s armed soldiers in hot pursuit. Their screams of panic must have been agonizing to hear, their death cries devastating.
His anger dissipated abruptly. He did not blame Robbie. He blamed himself. Most of all, he blamed the Earl of Warfield and his devil’s spawn, Lord Devlin. Curse them both to hell, he would not let them escape this act without harsh retribution.
Robbie made an aborted gesture with his hands, his voice choked. “The bairns had asked to go with Mairi to visit their mothers … I did not think of them fast enough when we returned from searching for the lady. It all happened so quick—by the time we were able to arm ourselves, Warfield was gone.”
“Do not blame yourself, Robbie. What is done is done. It may well have happened had I been here.”
“Nay, you would not have let the lady from your sight. I failed you, Alex.” Robbie fell to his knees suddenly, despair wracking his shoulders in harsh shudders. “Now they are dead and I am to blame for it….”
Firelight flickered over Robbie’s light hair. It still bore black streaks of soot, and his arms were raw and red from burns he had received in fighting the fires. But Alex could not offer Robbie more comfort when his own sorrow sat so near the surface, ready at the first crack to break through and unman him. He looked away from his comrade’s awful grief, his jaw tight with emotion and his tone flat.
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