A soft wind blew, belling out the hood of her cloak so that her bright hair spilled over her breasts. She had not bound it as usual, but left it free. It tangled in the breeze, but absorbed sunlight to glow like copper silk. She was so lovely, her pale face reflecting nothing of her thoughts or ordeal. If he did not know it to be false, he would think her just a maid out for an afternoon’s ride over wooded slopes.
Not by word or gesture had she betrayed any thought of Alex Fraser, though she had looked away when he had been put still unconscious over the back of a horse to be taken with them. Nor had Fraser yet regained consciousness, though at times he uttered a miserable moan.
Nicholas flinched a little from what had been done to him, but he did not regret it. Fraser should pay, not only for what he had done to Catherine, but what he had done to Devlin lands. Villages had been burnt to the ground, and while it may be true that no man was killed who did not offer armed resistance, it was insupportable that his crops had been ravaged, his livestock driven away, and his people left homeless. It was not the first time, for Robert Bruce had come through his lands two years before and laid waste as well; but the Scots king’s act had been an act of war.
Alex Fraser’s destruction was personal.
And now he had him at last. He just hoped Fraser lived long enough to face the executioner’s grim justice. It would be sweet vengeance to execute both Frasers and de Brus at the same time. That act he would not miss, as he had missed the battle that saw Alex Fraser captured. He had arrived only when it was over, and Beakin’s man Percy was already administering hot torment in an effort to discover Catherine’s whereabouts.
He shuddered. God help him, he had almost felt sorry for Fraser then as the hot iron was applied. Yet even when being most brutally ravaged by the iron, he had not yielded up the information. At that moment, Nicholas had felt an unwilling admiration for the man’s resistance to such cruel persuasion.
But it had done Fraser no good to try to protect her, for Catherine had still been found. It troubled Nicholas, for she had seemed truly horrified when she first saw what had been done to Fraser, then seemed to forget it. Yet she had always been far more tenderhearted than anyone of his acquaintance. That was one reason he had so often sought to keep her sheltered from the harsh truths of the world.
Yet life oft intruded in the most unkind fashion. He glanced at her again, frowning a little as she rode in serene silence, her face like that of a Madonna.
Bothwell loomed ahead, stone ramparts chewing at the sky, and he spurred his mount to a faster pace. His objective was in sight. Once Sir Alex Fraser was incarcerated in Bothwell’s dungeons, he would escort Catherine safely away. Nor would he let her out of his sight until he had her back at Warfield, for despite his feud with his father, he knew that she would be safe in that formidable fortress. Only then would he return to see justice done, bringing with him to Edward’s court the three prisoners that had so long been coveted.
Unlike his father, it was not power that he wanted, but vengeance. Blood recompense for the wrongs that had been done him by Fraser and the Scots that had ravaged his lands for so long. God willing, he would soon have it.
A challenge was issued by the sentries on the wall of the gatehouse, and when it was answered, the bridge was slowly lowered to allow them entrance. Hooves clattered on thick wooden planks as they crossed, and the grinding of the metal gate being lifted was loud. They passed beneath the jagged teeth of the gate and into a bailey, where their horses were taken.
Nicholas moved to help Catherine, but before he could reach her she had dismounted with dainty grace and stood silently. His hand fell to his side, and he frowned. The castellan of Bothwell Castle, Sir Walter FitzGilbert, came to greet him. A Scot loyal to the English, he gave the orders for the disposal of Devlin’s prisoners.
Gesturing toward Alex Fraser, who was half-conscious now and suspended between two burly men-at-arms, Nicholas said, “Take special care with that one. I want him alive for a while longer.”
Grinning, Sir Walter nodded. “Aye, milord. He will be given our best chamber. Double chains?”
“Yea, wrists and ankles. Tether him well, for King Edward will greatly appreciate his presence at an execution soon.”
Sir Walter laughed. “There will be many to join him ere long, milord. Once we have finally taken Scotland back from these rebels, every tree will have fresh fruit dangling from ropes.”
Nicholas smiled at the jest and moved to take Catherine with him into the keep. Beakin would see to the placement of his men. The man was efficient and conscientious in his duty, a true value to him of late. Not many were left after the depredations visited upon Devlin, but it was Beakin who had rallied what he could of the garrison and gotten them to safety after seeing how it would end. And it was Beakin who had managed to track Alex Fraser and arrange the ambush that netted him the Scot as well as Catherine.
Yet as he escorted his sister up the stone steps to the forework of the keep, he could not help but think that she was not as docile and accepting as she seemed, for there was a taut set to her jaw and an occasional glitter in her eyes that forebode mutiny. He had seen it too often not to recognize it now. Yea, she would have to be closely watched or Alex Fraser might still cheat King Edward’s executioner.
24
It hurt to move. It hurt to think. Alex wished sleep would come again, so he could escape the constant torment. At times it felt as if the iron were searing his skin anew, but ’twas only the reopening of a lesion that pained him.
Shifting when the pain grew too bad in one position, the clank of heavy metal chains rattled against the wall next to his ear. Iron manacles circled his wrists and his ankles, with a length of chain stretched between them and fastened to a huge metal ring in the wall behind him. He could move his arms to rest them on the floor, but could not reach his legs below the knee. The stone wall was cold and damp, the straw filthy. Sharp stalks jabbed into his legs in tiny annoying pricks, and occasionally found a raw welt or open abrasion.
While he regretted his capture and the loss of good men, he worried most about Catherine. Despite the assurance of a slow death, if he had to be taken, he was glad it was by Lord Devlin, and that he had come upon them before it was too late. Devlin would ensure that his sister was safe, and that was the best possible fate left for her now. He was as good as dead, and so were Jamie and certainly Adam de Brus. He dreaded the death that awaited him, for it would be the same grisly end as had been visited upon William Wallace, three of Robert Bruce’s brothers, and countless Scots earls and barons. He would much prefer dying in battle than for the entertainment of kings, nobles, and common crowds.
But the choice was no longer his. There would be no quarter given. No regrets asked.
And yet, and yet … he could not stop a deep stab of regret that he had not told Catherine how he felt about her. It would be foolish to have done so, for he had always known how it would end, but there would be a certain solace in saying the words aloud to her. Too late now, of course.
Had she seen what they did to him? He hoped not. Though he had not cried out, clenching his teeth until his tongue was too swollen to use anyway, it was a shaming thing to have lost the battle and been rendered so helpless. It was not the way he would have her remember him—fainting from the agony of the hot iron on tender flesh. If Devlin had not arrived when he did, no doubt Percy would have unmanned him ere long.
Resting his head against the wall behind him, he stared up at the gloom of the ceiling. Faint light streamed through bars high up on the wall, and in the bailey outside his cell he heard the distant sounds of voices and laughter. He was alone. None of his men were near, and he wondered if he was the only survivor or if the others had already been executed. This slow, agonizing wait was worse than ten deaths.
Ah, Christ above, would Catherine come to see him executed? He prayed she would not. He would like to see her just one more time, to tell her that he loved her. And if she loved him, he would ask her to gran
t him the mercy of refusing to watch him die. But that was impossible. She would never be allowed so close to him.
The bars of light crawled across the cell floor as the sun rose higher, until they slanted over his face and he blinked against them. It was the only time of day that he felt, even for a brief moment, the warmth of the sun. Too swiftly, it would leave and he would be in darkness again. There was a comparison to his life somewhere in that gloomy thought, he mused wryly. Infrequent splashes of warmth all too swiftly taken away: his mother and father. Jamie. Christian and Sarah. Catherine … not, perhaps, as the others had been taken away, but gone to him just as finally.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside his cell and he turned his head toward the door, always expecting the key in the lock that would signal the beginning of the end. Food came once a day, just after first light, but never any visitors, so the days were long as he waited for the moment when he would be taken out to his death. His muscles tensed painfully as the steps drew near, then paused outside his door. A knot formed in his belly, icy cold and hot at the same time, and when he heard the metallic click of the lock’s tumblers, he knew that his wait was at an end.
But when the door opened, no jailer or soldiers stood there to drag him up, but a cloaked figure in sweeping finery and smelling of flowers. He bunked, and the sunlight blinded him as he turned his head slightly to better view the visitor. But the moment she moved inside, he knew.
Catherine.…
Chagrin filled him, that she should see him like this, filthy in a bed of straw with his body befouled and stinking from his ordeal. Even worse, she smelled so fresh and clean even from the doorway, and her garments were new and immaculate as she swept into the cell in a rustle of velvet slippers over matted clumps of straw. She was holding a lace ball to her nose, and it was that he smelled as she moved toward him—a pomander such as those sold at the fairs, perfumed for ladies and gentlemen to ward off the foul odors of the city.
“Hold, milady,” the guard said gruffly when she drew close to him. “I got me orders, and there is to be no familiarity with the prisoner.”
Pushing back the hood to her cloak, Catherine turned to the guard and smiled sweetly. “Yea, sir, so I understand. Do you really think I want to be familiar with this … thing?”
The last was said with such loathing and contempt that it hit Alex hard, as if the words were a blow to the belly. The fierce rush of gladness he’d felt at seeing her altered to a wary tension as she laughed.
“La, sir, I but came to see the fierce Scots prisoner who has so abused many good English, as I told you. If you fear, perhaps more coin will ease your fright?”
The guard flushed angrily. “Nay, milady, ’tis not for coin that I fear, but that he might harm you.”
“With you standing here? I would not fear ten of him as long as I knew you were there with your sword, sir. You do seem to be a man most capable of dealing with the enemy. Are you not?”
Some of the guard’s anger eased, and he shrugged as he slid a glance toward Alex. “I could get into much trouble were it known that I allowed you to badger me into coming here. Lord Devlin gave strict orders you were to be watched closely at all times.”
Catherine pressed the pomander to her nose and breathed deeply. “And so you shall watch me, sir. I do not want to be left alone with this man, for it would frighten me, after all that I have already endured.” She turned slightly to face Alex, and said softly, “I only came to tell this man how much I detest him, how I abhor all things Scottish, and most of all—how I hate him.”
Some of the light falling across his face shifted as he turned his head, watching her carefully. The words were of hate, but the look in her eyes was love. He did not mistake it. Could not mistake it. She had never been able to hide it from him, though he had not wanted to acknowledge what she felt. He wanted to smile, to return that love and sympathy, and to offer overwhelming gratitude that she had come to say her farewell in the only way open to her. If only he could tell her what he felt—but it would undo her efforts if he did. It was his last gift to her, this mute acceptance of the love she gave him.
So he remained silent while she insulted and reviled him until the guard was grinning and shaking his head, and all the while she was telling him with beseeching eyes and open heart that she loved him. The bars of light moved lower, striping his bare legs, and she faltered as her gaze dropped, then rose again. She turned away as if overwrought with anger, but he had seen the slight quiver of her lip and the shudder that ran through her.
Looking at the guard, she said, “The man is despicable. He is to die soon, is he not? Yea, so I thought. I would show him what an English noblewoman thinks of a man like him, a savage beast not fit to lick the boots of the most common English churl….”
As she talked, she walked toward him, and Alex tensed. Had she gone mad? The guard would never allow her so close, but even as he had the thought, she came to him swiftly, bending in a graceful movement that smelled of perfume to slap him hard across the face. His head jerked to the side from shock and the force of the blow.
Then she was straightening, and exclaiming in vexation that she had dropped her pomander … “Ah, there it is, in this filthy straw … I have it, Saunders.” Scooping it up, her hand grazed his fist and he felt the cold press of metal.
His fingers instantly closed around it, and he felt the unmistakable outline of a key pressed into his palm. The back of his fingers brushed against something else she had dropped there, and from one corner of his eye, he caught the faint wink of jewels on the hilt of a dirk amid the straw. His mother’s dirk.…
Remaining still, he did not speak as Catherine sailed across the cell to the door and the waiting guard. Pressing the pomander against her nose, she said in a faint voice, “I feel so weak … wouldst thou assist me, Saunders? ’Tis the stench of Scot in this cell that has me in a swoon … I vow it will be midnight before I recover, and I do not want to miss the celebration in the hall this eve … wilt thou accompany me to my chamber? I still get lost, and cannot even find the east gate without help.”
Saunders was helping her from the cell with an arm around her shoulders, and Alex noted from the intense set of his mouth that he was paying attention only to Catherine’s soft loose hair and intoxicating scent. No doubt, it was the closest he had ever gotten to such a beautiful woman, and an earl’s daughter to boot.
When the cell door closed with a solid thud and the key turned in the lock, Alex leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. She had tried so hard, but still he saw no hope. A key to his shackles would only free him within the cell, and his mother’s dirk would hardly hold off a brace of armed soldiers if he did manage to escape this hole. Even if he could disarm his guard and take his weapon, then pray that he could leave the cellars unnoticed … he would be killed before he made it to the wall. Or worse—recaptured.
Poor catkin. No doubt she had spent the last three days concocting this plan and badgering the guard. But he continued to think about it. Why disappoint her? At worst, he would be caught or killed, and where was he now? At the best—he drew in a deep breath. His hands clenched convulsively around the key.
Yea, and her idle chatter was no idle chatter. A feast meant food and drink, and distracted guards … “I vow it will be midnight before I recover, and I do not want to miss the celebration in the hall this eve … will thou accompany me to my chamber? I still get lost, and cannot even find the east gate without help.”
It was worth a try. After all, he had only his life left to lose now.
Music from horns, harps, and flutes filled the hall, and the castellan smiled benignly upon the revelers. On the morrow, it would be May first, a day of celebration to welcome the new season. In England, it was oft celebrated with decorated poles in the village, garlands of flowers, and much laughter, singing, and dancing. But this was Scotland and a time of war, when a hostile populace surrounded them. The only concession to the usual festivities was a merry feast with music
and dancing.
Catherine sat quietly beside her brother. She dared not look at him, for fear he would somehow know what she had done. Tense, she curled her hand tightly around the stem of her goblet and sipped her wine. Her trencher lay half-full, the meat untouched. Nicholas leaned close.
“Is the wild boar not to your liking?”
She set down her wine, “Yea, ’tis succulent, but I am not very hungry.”
“You must eat, kitten, and be strong enough to ride. I have delayed too long already, but we leave the day after the morrow to meet Hereford.”
Frowning a little, she gave him a curious look. “Why is he to meet with us?”
“I have arranged it. When we leave here, we will rendezvous at the abbey near Jedburgh. It should be safe enough there, as we have matters to discuss. This meeting cannot be held in Berwick, but when it is done we will continue there before I take you to Warfield.” He frowned. “I had not planned to take you with me, but this cannot be helped. I dare not trust you to anyone else.”
Putting her hand on his sleeve, she said softly, “You love me well, I think.”
He met her gaze, and in his bright blue eyes she saw the love and affection she had never received from another. Until Alex Fraser.
Nicholas nodded. “Yea, kitten, I love you well. You must know I do, or I would not have gone to so much trouble to see you safe. God knows, it would have been much simpler to let Fraser have you, but I could not.” He looked down at her hand on his arm, and put his own over it. “I have defied even our father to keep you safe, Catherine.”
She smiled. “You have defied even me to keep me safe.”
The Scotsman Page 28
