The Knight's Reward (Border Series Book 10)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Reid whistled. “You can tell me about it on the way,” he said, likely realizing Kathryn was a source of tension between the brothers. “We should leave now.”

  “Faye will want to feed you first.” Geoffrey opened the door, its creak a testament to how little it was used.

  “I would be most grateful to take a bit of bread and cheese with us.”

  Geoffrey’s bark of laughter took Neill aback.

  “Most grateful? Lady Allie has been good for you, Reid.”

  Neill did not know the Kerr brothers as well as Geoffrey, but even he knew of the youngest’s reputation. It appeared his wife had gone a long way toward taming the wild Kerr.

  “I would like to know how Lady Allie managed such a thing,” he said, looking around the hall. Kathryn was nowhere to be found. Neill needed to find her before he left.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to hear the tale,” Reid said, following Geoffrey toward the kitchens.

  “I’ll meet you in the stables,” he said, ignoring his brother’s frown.

  He spotted Peter in the distance and was prepared to inquire after Kathryn when the very lady he sought addressed him from behind.

  “Looking for someone?”

  He wasted no time escorting them back into the chamber. Pulling her toward him, Neill found her lips, claiming them. Claiming her. Her murmurs of pleasure made it difficult to stop, so he didn’t. Instead, Neill tightened his arms around her.

  He groaned when her hand tugged on the nape of his neck. She wanted more, and he wanted to give it to her. But now was not the time.

  Reluctantly, he pulled away. And without a word, kissed the tip of her nose, smiled, and led them back to the hall.

  Kathryn would have closed her eyes were she not astride a fine-looking mount, following Sara away from the loveliest of places. The countess had taken her to what she’d described as her “favorite place in the world,” a small lake surrounded by forest and framed by willow trees.

  She’d enjoyed it, really she had, but her mind kept returning to the feel of Neill’s lips on hers before he had ridden off to Edinburgh. She’d not been pleased, of course, to learn he was leaving, especially given what had happened on her last visit to Edinburgh. Kathryn would forever be leery of that place. Neill had insisted he and Reid would be safe.

  But would she?

  Geoffrey did not seem to think so. He had not been pleased about their ride, but Sara had refused to allow Kathryn to be a prisoner in the castle. The guards they’d been forced to take rode both in front and behind them.

  Those guards must have heard something, because all four of them closed ranks, cinching in around Kathryn and Sara. And then Kathryn heard it too—the sound of horses’ hooves riding quickly toward them. The woods were too thick for them to see much beyond the small clearing ahead, so their small riding party stopped.

  And waited.

  Suddenly, four riders thundered around the corner. They reined in abruptly when they spotted them.

  Kenshire men.

  “Gerald!” Sara exclaimed. Breaking free of the guards around them, the countess rode ahead to meet the man in the lead.

  “You’re hurt.”

  Indeed, Kathryn saw the blood on his upper thigh, and then something else caught her eye. One of the horses was riderless. From the way Sara leaned sideways in her saddle for a better look, she knew Sara had noticed it too.

  “Who?” she said, her voice throbbing with command. This was the Countess of Kenshire, not her spirited hostess, and she was very much in charge.

  “Charles, my lady.”

  “What happened?”

  The man named Gerald spoke just loudly enough for all to hear.

  “Scottish reivers. We were returning from Dunburg Abbey when they struck. There were ten men, my lady.”

  “And they attacked without cause?”

  “We were close enough to the abbey. They seemed to know that we trade in gold.”

  “And Charles?”

  “Fought bravely, my lady. Two of my men retrieved his body but were separated from us afterward.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say more but changed his mind.

  Violence along the border.

  She’d heard the phrase so many times. Had seen fights break out between Englishmen and Scots at the inn. But this . . . this was entirely different. To see the evidence of the unrest before her . . .

  As if remembering Kathryn was there, bearing witness to what had happened, Sara rode back toward her. “We are on Kenshire land now and quite safe.”

  “You return for more men?” she asked Gerald.

  “Aye, my lady.”

  With that, they followed the newcomers on the path they’d been traveling toward the main road. They set a quicker pace, and no one spoke on the ride back to the castle. All seemed to feel the same miasma of dread and horror.

  By the time they entered the courtyard, Geoffrey was waiting for them. He must have received word of the attack.

  Sara dismounted, and although Kathryn was too far away to hear anything, she could tell the countess was quite upset. No wonder. Her people had been attacked most viciously, without provocation.

  This had happened because of Caxton. Because of what he’d done to the Day of Truce.

  Not wanting to interrupt, Kathryn dismounted and handed her reins to a stable boy. She hung back until Sara waved her over.

  “It is getting worse every day,” Sara said to her, pulling her aside as Geoffrey spoke to Gerald. “Before, this would not have stood. Without the Day of Truce, our warden is powerless.”

  The words hit Kathryn like a knife to the stomach. “I’m sorry to hear of the man you lost,” she said, following Sara through the courtyard toward the main keep. “Sorry, also, for his family.”

  “I will visit them this evening.” Sara made her way up the steps as Peter opened the door to the front entrance of the keep. “Thank you, Peter.”

  “And the other two men who haven’t yet returned?”

  “Will hopefully make their way back or be found by Gerald and the others.”

  She stopped when the portly maid, Faye, walked toward them with a bundle in her arms. Sara held out her hands and Kathryn stepped closer. The newborn babe was a sight to behold. She marveled at his tiny features, his mouth a little rosebud, and caught Sara looking at her.

  “Would you like to hold him?”

  She hesitated for the briefest moment. She would, but Kathryn did not have much experience with babies. Or children at all, for that matter. She’d been raised mostly at court, where children were discussed but rarely seen.

  “Aye,” she said, watching precisely how Sara held him. When she took him into her arms, she attempted to do it the same way.

  He smelled clean, as if freshly washed.

  “Can you tend to him while I find the other wee one?” Faye asked.

  “Find?” Sara laughed. “Is Hayden lost, then?”

  “Nay, my lady. Hugh has been trainin’ him again.”

  “Hugh believes ’tis never too early to learn the sword,” she explained. “Go,” she said to Faye, while Kathryn tried desperately to appear as if she were not terrified.

  “He is heartier than you would imagine,” Sara said with a small smile.

  Apparently she hadn’t been hiding her discomfort overly well.

  Kathryn stared at the babe, wondering how she’d not given any thought to having children of her own. For the last year, such a thing had seemed impossible, but now . . .

  The thought faded as she remembered what had happened today. An innocent man was dead. Others had been hurt.

  Sara herself had admitted it was because the Day of Truce had fallen apart.

  “The man who died today—” she looked up at Sara, “—does he have children?”

  Sara’s shoulders sank, her answer plain enough.

  “We cannot do this.”

  She said it more to herself than Sara, but her new friend heard, and understood.

&n
bsp; “Do not say that,” she admonished. “We shall see what happens in Edinburgh. We’ll devise a plan when Neill and Reid return, and not before.”

  Sara’s tone did not invite an argument from her, and so she didn’t give one. Even so, Kathryn could no longer dismiss her doubts or pretend they didn’t matter. She suspected whatever happened with Bothwell might not improve their situation.

  Where is he now? Is he thinking of me?

  Does it matter?

  Kathryn wanted to believe it did.

  But she could not dismiss the image of the blood on Gerald’s armor and the riderless mount that accompanied him south.

  Chapter 23

  “What did you discover?”

  Neill and Reid had been at the Fiddler’s Inn in Edinburgh for nearly a sennight. They’d stayed away from court, knowing their presence would raise suspicion. Even Alex, who was in town as a guest of Emma’s husband, Garrick, had not known they were in Edinburgh those first few nights. Garrick, the Earl of Clave, was housed in the King’s Tower with his sister, and while the king did not actually reside there, it was within the walls of Edinburgh Castle. Too close to Bothwell for comfort.

  They had since been in touch with both Alex and Clave, although they had not yet met them in person. That would change tonight. They were meeting to share knowledge and decide on a path forward.

  Last eve, Reid had spoken to the owner of another inn who’d claimed to know a man who’d seen Richard Wyld’s body carried from the Firth of Forth. Neill had found the man and questioned him.

  “It was as you said.” Neill paced the room, waiting for the others to join them. “He was reluctant to speak, but aye, the body was definitely that of Richard Wyld. Which means only that Kathryn’s father is, indeed, dead. It does not explain who killed him. He said nothing of seeing Bothwell or any of the king’s men.”

  A knock at the door quieted both men. Reid opened it, revealing the remainder of their party.

  “Brother.” Reid opened the door wider to let them in. “Emma, Garrick.”

  She rushed to him, and Neill engulfed his twin in a hug. Somehow, she managed to grow even lovelier since he’d been away.

  “You are a man,” she said, shoving him back. “I don’t remember you being so thick around the shoulders.”

  He smiled. “I do remember you being so quick with your opinion though.”

  “’Tis good to see you, brother.”

  “And you. Though I wish you’d not have come here.”

  But he knew his sister well, the most stubborn of all the Waryns. He looked at Clave as if in sympathy. He’d not met his sister’s husband yet. Their wedding had been arranged rather quickly, and Neill had been in France at the time, participating in a tournament.

  “Well met,” Clave said, stepping forward and shaking his hand. “I was sorry to have missed you at the council.”

  The stranger had a firm grip and a warm smile. He felt as if he already knew the man, for Emma had told him quite a bit about her husband, including details of their unconventional courtship.

  He was about to say as much when Alex cleared his throat. “Shall we get started?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

  “Richard Wyld is indeed dead,” Neill began. “I spoke to a witness who saw his body being removed from the river.”

  “Aye, and it was Bothwell who killed him.”

  They all looked at Clave, who’d spoken the words so softly it took Neill a moment to realize what he’d said.

  “My other title, Linkirk, holds more importance here than Clave, and with it, I gained access to the inner sanctum.”

  “The inner sanctum?” Neill asked.

  “The inner sanctum is another name for the king’s small circle of advisors, which counts Bothwell as one of its members,” Clave explained. “Bothwell is sly, of that there is no doubt. But I asked some pointed questions and learned the king had indeed received a message from Edward prior to Bothwell’s arrival.”

  “The contents of the message?” Reid asked.

  “Unknown.”

  They exchanged a look. If the fact that Edward had requested a renewal of Alexander’s oath of fealty had not yet been shared with the masses, it meant the king was still considering the request.

  “Do you believe Bothwell is attempting to influence him again?” Alex asked Clave.

  “Aye, and I believe the delay can be laid at Bothwell’s door. I spoke to some who believe Bothwell aligns with those calling for a Scotland independent of Edward. It cannot be proven, but I am convinced it’s so. And I strongly suspect he had Kathryn’s father killed to prevent the renewed allegiance.”

  The men were silent.

  “We have no proof,” Reid said. “Nothing but supposition.”

  “Wyld’s dead body counts for nothing?” Neill was furious on Kathryn’s behalf. He was as convinced as Garrick that Bothwell had done the deed, and he aimed to prove it.

  “We would agree with you,” Emma said, “and yet it proves nothing.”

  “I need an audience with the king.”

  Everyone in the room protested at once, but Neill would not be swayed. Bothwell would never admit to his misdeed, and only the king knew if his chancellor was attempting to dissuade him from repledging Scotland’s allegiance to the English king. If he was, the information about Kathryn’s father was vital. And he trusted none to convey it to him.

  “Can you arrange it?” he asked Clave. Emma’s husband ground his jaw, apparently displeased by the request. He obviously thought it a poor idea to take such a direct approach, but Neill suspected it may be the only way to expose Bothwell. The man was too wily by half.

  “If he does not listen to you—” Reid crossed his arms, “—you’ll have made some powerful enemies. Word will reach Bothwell. And it could even put Kathryn in danger.”

  Indeed, and he would have enemies in England as well, the king and queen among them. Even so, he thought it the best way to proceed.

  “She is already in danger,” he argued.

  None disagreed with that statement.

  “But she is under my protection. And I will protect her.”

  “Aye,” Reid said, “but at what cost?”

  Neill silently wondered the same.

  Neill rose from his knees, remembering the last time he’d stood before a king. Even now that man awaited word from the one in front of him. The fate of their two countries, of the borderlands, was in their hands. The great kings were brothers-in-law, though the relationship had not seemed to endear them to each other.

  “Sir Neill Waryn,” he was presented, “son of the late Sir Thomas Waryn, Lord of Bristol Manor.”

  He waited and watched from the corner of his eye, and when the king nodded, Neill did the same.

  “Alexander, by the grace of God, king of the Scots, I thank you for your audience.”

  It had taken three days. Three long days for him to garner an audience with the king of Scotland. Neill was not sure how Clave managed to arrange it, but he was thankful.

  Neill looked the king straight in the eye, trying to see the man behind the preeminence. Alexander was a king, aye, but he was also a servant of his country, a husband and warrior. He was capable of being moved by reason.

  “Sir Neill Waryn,” the king boomed. His voice, as was legendary, reverberated throughout the opulent hall. “You are the man who inspired L’Histoire de Guillaume le Maréchal, are you not?”

  A poem of his exploits in France. Neill nodded. There was little point in denying the truth, and perhaps his reputation would recommend him. “The same,” he said.

  “Hmmm.”

  Neill knew this next request would likely get him thrown from King Alexander’s presence. But he had made his decision, and he would follow through as he must.

  “The information I bring you, Your Grace, can be shared with you alone.”

  As he had suspected, dissent erupted around him. Thankfully, the Earl of Bothwell was not in attendance, just as Reid had discerned from his scou
ting earlier in the day, but the royal steward and the twenty or so other men in the room all voiced their displeasure.

  Neill did not flinch.

  The king watched him carefully. And just when Neill was sure he was about to relent, a voice from behind them broke the lengthening silence.

  “Unacceptable, Your Grace.”

  Somehow, Neill knew who’d spoken those words even before he saw his face.

  He didn’t turn but waited until the Earl of Bothwell emerged from his right side.

  Bothwell’s red beard preceded him, and a long, elaborate surcoat trailed him as he made his way to Alexander’s side.

  Although the earl could not know what message Neill carried, he had certainly learned of his presence here and was threatened by it.

  This man was guilty.

  Of that, Neill had no doubt.

  Of his own ability to leave the court alive, he was less certain.

  “No one is leaving this hall,” the earl said with authority, as if his king were not sitting beside him.

  “I will determine that,” the king said, still watching Neill carefully. “Are you quite certain this is necessary, Sir Neill?”

  “Aye,” he said, his voice strong. “It is, Your Grace.”

  “Leave us,” the king called out to the gathered courtiers. Just when he thought victory was upon him, the king turned to Bothwell. “Stay.”

  Dammit.

  The hall cleared out at once, and he was left alone with the king of Scotland and the man he had intended to accuse of murder.

  The idea Alexander might believe him, an unknown English knight, over his own chancellor, the man he clearly trusted above most others . . .

  Perhaps the others had been right. This audience might have gone better were Garrick or Reid to bring him the news. Garrick, after all, was the Earl of Linkirk in addition to the Earl of Clave, and Reid was the second to Toren, the chief of Clan Kerr. Neill was English, through and through. But damned if he would trust Kathryn’s fate to anyone else, a decision he could admit now had been a little rash.

  He thought again of that letter Kathryn had teased him about—the one he’d written to Emma crowing about his invulnerability, only for it to arrive on the eve of a great loss.