The Scotsman

by Juliana Garnett

  And I have his heir, Alex thought in grim satisfaction. If he does not exchange Jamie for Devlin, he loses all.

  But what would he tell Catherine?

  It was a question that weighed on him heavily, so that when finally he rode over the slopes that still bore scars of the recent battle to reach the tent where she slept, he was uneasy. That there was no love between Catherine and her father was a fact. But her brother was a different matter.

  For good or ill, she loved him well, and if Alex harmed Devlin, he harmed her. Ah, God, what was he to do, for it was the way of things.

  But how could he say the words that would hurt her? Of all men, he knew how it felt to lose those you loved, though there was scarce a man in all of Scotland who had not lost someone dear to him in this conflict.

  Deep shadows shrouded tents and ground as his horse picked a way through the sleepy camp, until finally he saw his standard flutter from atop a tent pole. As he dismounted Robbie came to him and took the reins, then jerked his head toward the tent.

  “She sleeps. Is all well?”

  “Yea, Robbie, all is well.”

  “Is it true that Hereford and Angus have been taken prisoner?”

  Grinning, he nodded. “Aye, they were guests of Sir Walter FitzGilbert, just as I was not so long ago. Bruce intends to hold Hereford in lieu of his queen, as Edward’s wife is de Bohun’s sister and will no doubt put pressure on the king to yield to any exchange demanded.”

  “What of Jamie?”

  Alex’s grin faded, and he shook his head. “No word. Warfield fled the field, but there was no room at Both-well with the others, so he has not been taken. If he makes it to England, no doubt he will agree to exchange Jamie and de Brus for his heir, for his other two sons were slain on the field.” He paused and glanced at the tent. “What news of here?”

  “The lady had words with her brother.”

  Swearing softly, Alex could not help a glance toward the line of tents that held the noble hostages. Robbie intercepted his glance and grinned. “Devlin is under guard, for he would not give his word that he would not attempt escape. The lady has remained close to me, and other than their first meeting, has not tried to see him again.”

  Alex frowned. His weary destrier shook its great head in a brittle jangle of metal bit and harness, and he put out a hand to stroke the damp muzzle and quiet the steed. It did not sound like Catherine to avoid her brother. Could it be that she felt a compunction to help him escape? He could not help a little nagging doubt that she might try from some misguided sense of loyalty that he could certainly understand, but would not tolerate for a moment.

  He looked up, then slapped the destrier on the shoulder as he moved around it. “Take him, Robbie, and see that he has extra rations, for he has done well this day.”

  Ducking, he entered the tent, blinking at the absence of light save for a small lamp that dangled from the center pole. He stood still as the familiar fragrance of lavender wafted toward him. Closing his eyes, he breathed it in, and was startled by the sudden wave of comfort and love it brought with it. Perhaps he had wronged Douglas with his complaints, for the scented soap he had given Catherine had come to represent everything that was good in his life. And now it cleared away the residue of blood and death that lingered in his senses, to fill him with hope and tenderness.

  “Alex?” The sleepy murmur penetrated the gloom, and was quickly followed by a glad cry. “Alex … oh, you are here at last!”

  A shadow detached from the others and flew at him, and he caught her up and swung her into his arms. Pressing his face into her hair, he breathed deeply of soft scent and love. Suddenly, nothing else mattered now that he was here and holding her, nothing but the fact that they were together. He crushed her hair in his palm, letting the silky strands slide over his splayed fingers as he cradled her head, holding her to him as if he could not get close enough.

  It was what he had been missing all these years, the unfettered love that he had so long hungered for but not been able to put a name to. That it resided now in this one small woman who carried his child was a miracle.

  “Catkin … are you well?”

  “Yea, my love, I am now.” She tilted back her head, and in the soft gloom he saw the misty joy in her eyes. He brushed a thumb over her cheek, and found it wet.

  “Tears again? Poor catkin. Do you grieve?”

  “Nay, my love. They are relief. Joy. You are here, and what I want most from this world is with me. I have you, and I have our child beneath my heart. It is enough for now.”

  He stroked her cheek. “And tomorrow, catkin? Will it be enough for you then?”

  “Yea, my heart. And next year and the next.”

  Her swift response heartened him, and he could not speak so he pulled her to him again. For a time, he just held her. The beat of her heart was steady and sure, her fragrance sweet, and her skin soft and pliant beneath his hands. He did not deserve this. Not really. All his life he had fallen short when it came to doing the right thing. Everything he had touched, he destroyed.

  Except this.

  Ah, God, except this, and it frightened him that he may yet somehow manage to lose her despite all he could do to keep it from happening. It did not matter that a priest had said the vows, or that she said she loved him. There was yet the fear it would all be taken away, as so many had been.

  What would he have left? His life would be empty without her. It had been empty before, but he had not known why. Now that he knew what it should be, the loss would be that much greater to bear.

  She moved against him with a soft sigh of contentment, and he slid an arm down her back to lift her, then took her to the narrow cot against the limber wall of the tent. He lay her down gently, and knelt beside the cot on the dirt floor covered only by a few scattered rugs. For the first time, he noticed her garments, and smiled.

  “I see you prefer the garb of a milk maid to the velvet gowns.”

  “It seemed more practical here, where it is so dusty and rough. Do you mind?”

  “Nay, love. They are much easier to remove than all the trappings of a female in velvet.”

  Her laughter was soft, and as he reached for the laces of the leather girdle she wore, she whispered encouragement to him, French words mat made him laugh, and the English vernacular that lifted his brow.

  “I hope”—he kissed the bare skin of her shoulder—“that you do not”—another kiss on the cushioned slope of her breast as the linen gown was pulled away—“speak to our children”—this kiss made her gasp and arch upward as he found the nipple—“this way. Ah, yes, love … like that.”

  Conversation ceased, and in the close air of the tent, he made love to his wife for the first time. No other time they had lain together had been like this, for the vows that had been said created a bond between them that was stronger. It was sweeter, deeper, lasting.

  It was forever.

  A warm wind blew the unfurled banners with sharp, snapping sounds, and the red lion danced upon the field of white as the Earl of Warfield entered the bailey of Castle Rock. The contingent’s arms had been taken from them at the gates, and the group of horsemen sat uneasily while the earl dismounted and climbed the stairs of the keep to greet the Scotsman.

  Catherine watched without expression as her father crossed the hall with a limping stride that bespoke the wounds he had suffered at the battle on Bannockburn. He looked aged now, with deep creases in his face that revealed his years.

  Warfield came to a stop before the dais and looked up at Alex. “I brought the required hostages. Where is my son?”

  Alex remained silent as Robbie gave a signal and Nicholas was brought into the hall. Catherine’s throat tightened when her brother still refused to look at her and stood silently, flanked by armed guards. In the past month, he had been a polite, distant stranger to her, held hostage in a silken prison with all his needs met, but still hostile.

  Stiffly, the earl growled, “And my daughter?”

  “She r
emains here.” Alex lifted a brow at the chagrin on Warfield’s face, and Catherine almost smiled.

  Then he blustered, “By Christ, Fraser, you have broken the terms of our agreement! Two for two, and now you have reneged—”

  “Nay,” Catherine spoke up quickly, angrily, “it was never that and you know it. I am worth not even one hostage to you. Do not pretend otherwise.”

  “Twas understood that it would be a fair exchange of hostages, by God!” Warfield’s expression was dark, and his gaze darted to Nicholas for a moment, then back to Alex. “I will keep my bargain, but you must keep yours, or I will not send the message that will bring in de Brus and the young whelp.”

  Alex did not move, nor betray by gesture that he was angry, but Catherine could hear it in the taut, clipped tone of his voice.

  “You cry foul, when ’twas you who played me false, my lord. I negotiated for the return of your daughter, and you came to my lands and slaughtered my people wantonly. That is not the act of a man with honor.”

  With an impatient gesture, the earl snapped, “They were only villagers. Do you regard them so highly?”

  “Yea, my lord Warfield, so I do.” Alex leaned forward, and the earl’s eyes narrowed slightly at the ferocity now apparent in his face and words. “My children were in the village that day, and met their fates at your hands. ’Tis fortunate for you that I am bound by the rules of honor and chivalry not to play you as false as you did me, for by all that is holy, you should lose your life this day!”

  For a moment there was only silence. Warfield stood as if carved from stone, staring up at Alex. Then, roughly, he said, “I still contend that the terms of the agreement will not be met lest there is an even exchange of hostages.”

  “Your king is not so discriminating as you, my lord Warfield.” Alex sat back in his chair, but Catherine still felt his tension. “The Earl of Hereford brought the exchange of fifteen Scottish hostages, including Bruce’s queen. If your son and heir is so valuable to you, perhaps I should ask for more.”

  Rage suffused his face as the earl glared at him. “Do you think yourself noble now that you have earned a barony?”

  “Nay, my lord, I have always thought myself noble. My fathers were barons before me, and ’twas only your king who took away our title. It has been returned to me twofold, with all the trappings of my rank.” He paused, and let his hand fall to caress Catherine’s arm. “My lady is content to remain with me, and so she shall stay. You will exchange de Brus and my brother for Lord Devlin, or find yourself a guest at our table much longer than you anticipated.”

  “If I do not return or give the signal before the bell rings for vespers, my men will cut their throats.” His eyes darted again to Nicholas, who remained strangely quiet, his gaze fixed upon the licking flames of the fire in the center of the hall.

  “And you will have the pleasure of seeing your son’s throat slashed before your eyes.”

  Catherine tried not to move, but could not help a sudden jerk of the hand Alex held beneath his palm. He exerted small pressure, and she remained silent, though her heart was thumping madly in her chest. Surely, he did not mean it! It had to be a bluff, to force her father to yield without strife.

  But Robbie stood with a hand upon the hilt of his sword, and Nicholas was still flanked by two burly guards, and the earl was growing more furious by the moment. She could not bear it.

  “Hold,” she said into the tense silence. “I can hear no more of this. Do you wish for an even exchange by taking me as well? I vow, I am amazed to hear it, for you have never thought me worthy of aught but your anger. Yet now, I am to be a bone to be fought over. I will not have it. I do not choose to go with you. I choose to stay here with my husband, whom I love. Yea, you may well look at me with daggers in your eyes, but we were wed on Saint John’s Eve by a priest at Bannockburn.” She drew in a deep breath. “As for an even exchange, it would not be, for I am with child, and you would receive three hostages in place of two. Choose now whom you want, for if ’tis an even exchange you must have, then you will have to take me alone.”

  A long silence fell that was not broken until Nicholas began to laugh. Catherine flicked him a nervous glance, and even Alex stirred uneasily. Had the strain affected him? But no, for Nicholas began to shake his head, and looked at their father with amusement still marking his face.

  “She has you, I fear, my lord. What say you, a Scots wife and her babe, or your heir? I can appreciate your dilemma, for none of it must appeal to you. But then, I have had much time to think in the past weeks of solitude, so perhaps I am unnerved.”

  “Yea, so you sound.” Warfield looked irritated. “Curse it, I will accept your terms, Fraser, but I will not yield to you her dower lands.”

  “’Tis done, for I want the lady more than I do her lands. In this, my lord, we are in accordance, for you want the lands more than you do the lady.”

  The earl did not look at her again and Catherine did not speak, even after Adam de Brus and Jamie Fraser were delivered into the hall, and Alex rose from his chair at last and left the dais to take his brother in his arms.

  Then did she look at Nicholas, and with a heavy heart said softly, “I will miss you most sorely, Nicky.”

  To her surprise, he met her gaze, and a faint smile curved his mouth. “Yea, kitten, I think you will.”

  Then they were gone, Nicholas and her father—who had neither glanced at her nor spoken to her—departing the hall and Castle Rock.

  As the tension drained from her body, she braced her hands on the table, and then Alex was there, his arms around her as he drew her to him. “I want you to meet Jamie, catkin.”

  A thin young man with a shock of black hair and a striking resemblance to his brother stepped forward and swept her a courtly bow. When he straightened, he said, “Your brother oft spoke of ye, m’lady.”

  “Did he?”

  “Aye, most kindly.” He smiled, and her heart clutched as she saw Alex in this young man, in the direct gaze and angular features that still bore traces of youth.

  She thought then of Tarn, who had been brought back to be laid to rest in the church yard with all honor as a fallen hero, and of the fees that his mother would receive in lieu of her son. These were people she liked, people she respected, and suddenly she knew that she would be content here. The animosity that had ignited after her father’s assault had faded now that she was Alex’s wife and bearing his child, and she thought she had Robbie to thank for diluting much of the village’s resentment of her. While she did not know what he had said to the people, it seemed to have helped.

  “Come with me, catkin.” Alex pulled her with him, his arm around her shoulders, and walked her across the hall to the circular stairs that led up to their chamber.

  When they were alone in the second-floor corridor, he took her in his arms, and his voice was rough with emotion. “I have never loved you so much as I do at this moment.”

  She toyed with the crest on his gilt-trimmed soutane, and looked up at him with a faint smile. “Have I told you how handsome you are dressed as a lord, my love? Though I think I much prefer the convenience of your tunic and plaid at times….”

  Soft laughter came from him, and he leaned against her to press her into the wall. “That can be easily remedied, catkin. Shall I show you?” His mouth found her throat, lips working against her skin.

  “Alex … here?”

  “Here. The hall. The kitchens. Wherever you like. Ah, wait….” He kissed her mouth, and his hands slid down the velvet gown she wore to gather her skirts into his hands and lift them. She gasped, but it was swallowed by his mouth over hers. And then he was lifting her, his hands bracing her as he pulled her legs around his waist and entered her with slow, luxurious sensuality. She arched against him, and lost herself in the familiar, sweet sensations.

  Never had she dreamed she would be so blessed, or that she would find the love she had once thought lay only in romantic tales. It was more than she had hoped for, more even than sh
e imagined could exist. And it was not just a romantic poem or knightly tale of love, but real.

  “I love you,” she said in a husky whisper that brushed past his ear, and his arms tightened as he shuddered against her.

  “Ah, catkin, I love you more than you will ever know.”

  She only smiled, for she knew well how much he loved her. And it was enough.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I have tried to stay true to history, while incorporating my characters within the confines of the times and historical figures. Most of the incidents took place as described, or as legend dictates. A contemporary account, The Lanercost Chronicle, recorded many of the deeds, as well as the words attributed to the Bruce and James Douglas, as written in this story. Another contemporary source was John Barbour, who wrote the epic The Brus.

  James Douglas was indeed the romantic, dashing figure he was portrayed as here, reckless and ruthless and boon companion to the Bruce. The incidents attributed to him in my story are recorded in history and legend. Alex, of course, is a fictional character, but could well have existed in very similar fashion. Men of that time were dangerous and intent upon victory, and hostages were frequently captured and exchanged.

  For details of the Battle of Bannockburn I must thank an excellent source, a video by Castle productions, entitled The Battle of Bannockburn. It was informative and inspired. For the ballads, I used a book entitled Scottish & Border Battles & Ballads, which was very useful. As nearly as can be determined, these ballads were sung during the time of my story.

  And finally, as always, I took liberty with the language of the times, incorporating it into a readable format for modern readers. For those purists who prefer the lyrical “thee” and “thou” or Scottish dialect, I apologize, and for those who cannot bear any kind of dialect, I apologize again. I can only say, you should have seen the first draft!