The Scotsman

by Juliana Garnett

  “Siusan still lives, though grievously wounded while trying to protect the children. She asks for Christian.” A tight band constricted his chest as if a merciless hand were squeezing his heart, and for a moment, he could not finish his words. Never again would he see his bright-eyed son and daughter, hear their childish giggles, and feel their chubby arms around his neck. It was a pain to exceed even the grief of losing his parents, for the two innocents had been shorn of life before it began for them. Clearing his throat, he said hoarsely, “I cannot tell Siusan that he is dead, as is her husband. See that her father does so if he thinks she can bear the truth. On the day after the morrow, we will bury the children and Main in consecrated ground.” He did not look up to see if he were acknowledged, unable to bear Robbie’s despair as well as his own. “Pay the customary deid-dole to the beggars from my coffers. I will gather the deid-claes to clothe them for burial.”

  Robbie’s words were thick. “And the wake? Grant that I may sit with them and keep the candles lit ’round the biers.”

  Alex nodded. “Aye, you may sit with them when I do not. After the burial, I will take all the men that can be spared with me to harry what of England I can compass. ’Tis your choice, Robbie. If you wish to stay here and hold the keep, I will leave you in command. If you wish to ride with me, you will ride at my side.”

  For a moment Robbie did not speak or look up. Another shudder trembled through him, then finally he tilted back his head. “I failed you the first time, but I will not fail you again, Alex. I will guard the lady and hold Castle Rock ’til the death.”

  Alex put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and held it tight, his fingers digging into strained muscle until he felt Robbie relax beneath his grip. Then he withdrew, leaving the hall and Robbie as he moved to the steps that led to the second floor. There were those who would blame Robbie for their losses, and those who would blame him as laird. But most, he had already seen in the faces around him, blamed Catherine.

  When he opened the door to his chamber, he saw her at once. She sat stiffly on the edge of a chair, her hands folded in her lap as she stared blankly at the far wall. He shut the door, and she did not move.

  “Catkin….” Slowly, her head turned to him, and he saw his own grief mirrored in her eyes. He halted warily, unable to bear it if she wept.

  But she did not, though her voice was strangely tight. “Alex, ’tis my fault this happened.”

  He almost smiled. “You will have to fight Robbie and me for the privilege of bearing the blame, I fear.”

  As if she had not heard him, she said in the same taut tone, “It was my temper. My own foolish vanity that I was being made fool that pricked me to unwise action. It is a grievous fault of mine that I allow others to provoke me when I know better.” Silence fell. Candles danced in the growing darkness, pinpricks of light in a world of gloom. “Had I remained, Robbie would not have been unprepared. If there is to be vengeance, let it be on me.”

  His brow rose. “Was it your arm that held the sword? I did not think so. ’Tis Warfield and Devlin who must bear the blame.” He drew in a deep breath. “I am not without blame myself, catkin. How many villages have I burned? Slain the men and beasts, and pulled castles to the ground? As many, no doubt, as your father. Though God strike me if I lie, I have never killed a woman or child, nor would I allow my men to do so. Tþs enough to slay fighting men without visiting war upon women and children.”

  “Alex?” Her lower lip quivered as she looked at him, and he steeled himself for what he knew she would ask. “If you have the chance, would you kill my brother?”

  “Yea, milady, without a doubt.” He did not flinch from her soft cry, though it sorrowed him to see her grief. “It is war, catkin. Devlin would be the first to agree.”

  Burying her face in her palms, she did not speak for a moment, but sat in the lengthening gloom with her back bent in anguish. He did not go to her. There was nothing he could say that would ease the truth. For if he had the smallest opportunity, he would run his sword through Devlin and send him to hell. It would be small penance for the work he had done in Kinnison this day.

  A large banner snapped so briskly in the wind that its red lion appeared to be dancing on the field of white. Held high, Warfield’s standard was visible before his father hove into sight, and Nicholas reined in his mount to wait. The earl came into view moments later, leading an armed troop over the Lyne River. Snow lay in sodden drifts along the banks, frosting grass and trees.

  Nicholas spurred his horse across the field and rode to meet them at the bridge. He drew alongside the earl as he rode up the riverbank. Without preamble, he said, “I am told you rode to Castle Rock.”

  “Yea, my cockerel, so I have.” The earl met his gaze with an ironic twist of his mouth. “Fraser will not soon forget my visit, I vow, though he seems to forget yours soon enough.”

  Nicholas scanned the mass of soldiers and said softly, “Yet I do not see my sister with you. If you have been so successful, where is she?”

  “My notion of success is the annihilation of the enemy. You prate of negotiation and give Fraser command of the situation, while I take command from him.”

  “Yet I do not see Catherine or even Fraser with you—did you breach Castle Rock? Rescue Catherine? Slay Fraser? Or did you strike down those who cannot fight back, and name it victory….”

  “Curse you for an impudent dog. The difference between you and me, Nicholas, is that I am not told what to do by my inferiors—if they dare challenge me, I destroy them.”

  “Pray God that is not the only difference between you and me, for I could not stomach knowing we are like in much else.” Rage made his voice harsh, and the earl’s eyes narrowed hotly at his words.

  “Do not think to lesson me in front of my own men, or I swear I shall strike you down! If you had the courage for it, you would have gone with me.”

  “It does not take courage to slaughter the defenseless. It takes vanity and arrogance, as well as a willingness to risk damnation.”

  Answering fury leaped in his father’s eyes, and he lashed out, but Nicholas easily avoided the blow. There was the clink of chain mail and his sword against his horse’s side as he jerked back and the earl’s fist met empty air. His horse snorted in alarm, and Nicholas grated through clenched teeth, “As a sworn knight, I took an oath not to be struck without striking back. You are my father and my overlord, but I will not take your fist again.”

  “Insolent pup! Get thee hence from my sight and do not darken my hall until you come to me on bended knees and beg my pardon for your audacity.”

  “Do not look for me soon. And a word of warning, lest you think yourself safe from reprisal—unless you killed him, Alex Fraser will be here soon enough.”

  Sawing on his reins, Nicholas pulled his horse’s head around and set his spurs to him. Hooves pounded over spongy turf as he rode away without looking back. It was true then. Warfield had massacred Fraser’s village, destroying hope for Catherine. All his careful plans, his negotiations and appeals to the Earl of Hereford, his petition to the king—for naught. For if he knew his man, Alex Fraser would not tolerate the earl’s assault without brutal retaliation.

  Now he must ride swiftly to fortify his holdings, for it would not be long until the Scotsman avenged the wrong done him by the earl. And as Warfield’s son and heir, it would surely extend to him, for there was certainly no love lost between them.

  That there was no love lost between father and son would not matter.

  In truth, though he detested the cause for it, he was fiercely glad of this opportunity to meet Alex Fraser on the field of battle. As much as he hated to admit it, his father was right when he said negotiations were futile. Nothing had been settled nor even come near being settled. Yet that was as much the earl’s fault as anything else, for he would not yield on the matter of the hostages.

  In desperation, Nicholas had even considered exchanging the hostages without his father’s consent, and suffering the consequence
s once Catherine was safely home. But if he had failed, his one chance would be lost forever. As now.…

  Bitterly, he reflected on the vagaries of war that oft left a man reeling from unexpected blows. It was the fatal surprises that always caught him off-guard. As with sweet Catherine.

  He thought of her and wondered if she fared well, and if she still fancied herself in love with the Scot. No doubt, by now her belly was swollen with a Scottish brat. Had she watched the carnage in the village and known then the full horror of war? All, he had tried to keep her sheltered from it, for her gentle nature had been lent more to dreaming of sweet illusions than the harsh realities that afflicted the world. It had always amused him that despite their shared parentage, he knew only too well how the world worked while she seemed to have visions only of impossible achievements. She was the sole love and softness he had known in his life, and the thought of losing her forever struck him as hard as a physical blow.

  Swearing softly, he considered his options. There was still the chance he could save her, but it would involve the Earl of Hereford. Pulling his lathered mount to a halt on the muddy road that led to his estates, Nicholas deliberated briefly, then turned away from Devlin. If Hereford would lend his ear and his support, Nicholas might yet sway the king to his side, for Hereford’s wife was Edward’s sister. Yea, but ’twould be his final gamble, for now Fraser would be looking for him as well as his father, and if he fell into either of their hands, Catherine would be lost.

  19

  The fair winds of April blew soft over Castle Rock, and the hills beyond were bursting with new green and splashes of color from wildflowers. Catherine stood on the ramparts and let the wind blow her hair back from her face, thinking of another time she had stood on castle walls to wait for a returning warrior. It seemed so long ago that she had stood on Warfield’s parapet, waiting for Nicholas, but always in her mind it was the turning point of her Ufe. For when she had run down to meet him in the bailey, she had seen the two captives who set into motion the train of events that changed everything.

  Were they still alive, she wondered. No word had come, and if Alex knew, he had not mentioned it to her. It was a piece of his life that he kept apart from her. She had learned not to ask questions when he returned from one of his long absences, usually muddy and stained with blood, a grim light in his eyes and often new scars on his body. It grieved her that they could not commiserate, but he was right when he told her she could not bear to hear of the things that were done.

  Ah, sweet Mary, she was such a coward. How did men endure the doing and the knowing, the death all around them? She was weak. But one promise she had wrung from him, and that was his oath that if he met with her brother, he would tell her. Good or bad, that much she would have to know. It was the first question she always asked of him.

  Restless, she turned away from the parapet wall and saw Robbie. Her shadow, her constant companion. He was fiercely intent upon guarding her, never far from her side. This time, she did not mind. Oddly enough, she felt indebted to him. For of all of them, she thought Robbie had suffered most. Not just with grief, but guilt. It ate at him, gnawed him with continuous worry so that if she was gone from his sight for more than a moment, he set up a roar. She could not blame him for it.

  “Be ye ready, milady?”

  Coldly polite, deadly courteous, he kept her at arm’s length. Perhaps he had never truly been a companion, but neither had he regarded her with such austere hostil-ity.

  Frowning, she ran a fingertip over the jagged stone of the parapet. “Will you ever forgive me, Robbie?”

  He shrugged. “’Tis no’ my place tae forgive ye or no’, milady. I am just set tae watch ye, and tha’ I hae sworn tae do.”

  She sighed. “Would it help if I explained to you why I felt I must escape?”

  He straightened from his slouch against the wall. “’Tis no’ my affair, milady. Be ye ready?”

  She crossed the battlement, but paused to stare through a narrow crenel built into the high wall. In the distance beyond the walls, soldiers of the garrison practiced their marksmanship by firing arrows against a huge butt. Others staged mock combat, all training for war. Much of Kinnison had been rebuilt, but there were still blackened timbers that pointed skyward from ruins. A cross rose high above the houses and shops, gracing the new church steeple. Inside the chapel beneath a small crypt lay the two bodies of Alex’s children, side by side as they had oft been in life. Main rested nearby, peaceful at last in death.

  Robbie had come up behind her, and Catherine turned abruptly, surprising him. He backed away a step, but she moved closer. “I do not apologize for what I did, but I do entreat you to understand that ’twas not to do harm to you or anyone at Castle Rock that I left. It was my own vain pride that pricked me, the shame at thinking I was being made a fool that kindled my escape.”

  For a long moment he stared at her, then looked away. New lines creased his weathered face, and his features were sharper than before, more angular. “’Twas Mairi who set ye tae flight. I knew it even then. I should hae told ye better.”

  “Told me better? What do you mean?”

  His gaze moved back to her, studying her. “He is no’ the kind of man tae do wha’ Mairi said he did. Oh, I grant ye he wa’d think aboot it, but he held his own mother too dear tae ever take from a woman wha’ she isna willing tae give—or take it for the wrong reason. ’Tis no’ in him. I hae seen Alex Fraser fight three men at a time and bring them all down, but he isna a man tae harm those who dinna warrant it. He wa’d never hae taken ye tae his bed if he didna want ye there, milady. no’ tae spite the earl, or even King Edward.” He looked away again. “I should hae told ye, but I didna think a little humility would do ye any harm. And that is my sin, for I knew how ye took wha’ Mairi said tha’ day.”

  Catherine scraped her hand over the rough stone. The smell of smoke was in the air, reminding her of that awful day, a holy week to everyone but her father. It was not something she would ever forget. She looked up, and saw him watching her.

  “I understand, Robbie. Perhaps I would have done the same as you did in remaining silent. And for the same reason.”

  He nodded, and she left the battlements with him, descending the spiraling stairs to the great hall. The light evening meal was served, and the hall was noisy with soldiers and laughter, and then the inevitable music from the pipes. She had grown used to them, though at first she had hated the wild, primitive music produced by a squeezed bladder of air and a mouthpiece that resembled a flute. Now, she actually enjoyed the gay music that filled the hall of a night.

  It was just past dark when a cry came up from the walls, and there was a stir at the doors of the keep. Catherine’s heart beat faster, for none but someone well known to the garrison would be allowed into the castle grounds after dark.

  When Alex entered the hall, she did not move, but watched him cross the rushes with his long, familiar strides. Each time she saw him anew, he never failed to set her pulse racing. As he approached, he stopped several times to talk to knights and foot soldiers alike, and she studied him intently. He seemed whole, though muddy, of course, his head bare and his mande draped carelessly over one shoulder. He wore his chain mail and a surcoat, and there was something different about him than she had seen before, an underlying intensity bordering on excitement.

  Then he looked up at her from the middle of the hall, and her heart skipped a beat. His mouth curved slightly upward on one side, then his attention was once more claimed by one of the men. It took him much longer than she would have liked to reach her, and now the entire hall was stirring with ill-kept excitement. Could it be—? Was the long struggle between Scotland and England finally over? Was that the cause of this elation in the faces of these men lining the hall? Her lack of Gaelic had never been missed more sorely, and she waited with growing impatience for Alex to come to her.

  Finally he was there, smelling of peat fires and damp wool, but beside her at last. She tried to curb the desire
to fling herself at him, still very much aware of the resentment of the people of Kinnison and Castle Rock.

  “Milady.” He lifted her hand to his lips, grinning a little at her disgruntled expression. “You are more lovely than even the last time I saw you.”

  “And your tongue is more agile. Have you news for me?”

  He squeezed her hand. “It was told to me that Lord Devlin has joined Edward in Berwick, in the company of the Earl of Hereford.”

  Relief flooded her, and she nodded. So, they had not met in battle. God willing, they never would. “Wilt thou be with us long this time, Sir Alex?”

  The courtesies were observed, though she knew that later, when they were alone in the chamber she shared with him, he would dismiss all pretense of formality.

  A squire brought an ewer of water and a dry cloth, and Alex washed his hands and dried them before he took his seat beside her. She felt his gaze on her, and slanted him a glance from beneath her lashes.

  “Milady, I have other news for you, some of which I have already shared with the men of Castle Rock.” His eyes remained on her face, and she felt the first inkling of dismay at what he may say.

  “Pray, share then with me this news….” He was gazing at her so intently, his gray eyes shadowed by his lashes, and she could not help another dread feeling of premonition.

  “All expeditions have ceased, and Edward Bruce and his men have been recalled from Cumberland. There have been summons sent throughout the kingdom calling up men for military service. Bruce is in Torwood Forest, and we are to join him there.”

  Searching his face, she held her breath. No, the war was not over at all … it was about to begin. Oh, sweet Mary and all the saints, she feared for the future. For their future.