A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (24 page)

"Jamie." Her voice was part
wheeze and part croak. Her breath rattled as she spoke. "How?"

He reached through the bars and touched her
hair. It felt like wet straw under his fingers. "I sneaked in. Isabel, love,
I'll get you out of here."

"They said--Bruce is dead?"

"No, love. He lives. We struggle. Many
died but not the king."

She put her hand over his. Her skin felt
like parchment. So hot, yet strangely dry with it wet from the rain.

He reached up. "Where's the lock? I
must open it. Force it." He felt for it in the darkness. Merciful God, he
had to get her out of here.

She began to cough, a tearing sound. He
took off his mantle and slid it between the bars. "I'm sorry it's wet. It's
all I have."

She pushed it back towards him, the cough
shaking her whole body, ripping at her chest.

"Take it," he said.

"I can't," she croaked. "A
guard slipped me a cloak once. When they found out--took it and didn't give me
food for three days."

His hand found the lock and he shook it. The
thing didn't even rattle. He took out his dirk and slid it into the crack. "I'll
get you out. Then it won't matter. I'll get you away. The smith shop. A bar to
pry it open"

"Jamie, stop." She hacked again,
a wet horrid sound. "I can't even stand." Then she sobbed.

He let go of the lock and dropped the dirk.
His arms barely fit between the bars but he forced them through and pulled her
against his chest. He stroked her sodden hair and felt her body jerk, half in
sobs and half in coughs. Her face burned with fever. "When I get you out,
I'll carry you," he said.

"They'd hear. I know what they'd do."
Now it was purely sobs that racked her. "They made me watch when they
killed Nigel."

His tears were silent and he let them run
down his face. "I can't leave you. God in heaven, Isabel." He stroked
her back. Under her sobs, he could feel the grinding in her chest but he kept
stroking. The bones of her spine stuck out so much he wondered they didn't cut
her skin. How had she lived exposed to the Scottish winter, with no shelter
except the bars of a cage? He pressed his forehead against the iron so hard
that it hurt. "I won't leave you."

At last, her sobs stopped. The only sound
was her breathing, like pebbles tumbling down a cliff. "Jamie--" she
whispered.

He kissed the top of her head through the
bars.

"If I were a man--if I were your
friend--would you give me a dirk?"

"No!" He looked around to be sure
he hadn't been heard. They were both quiet, listening. "I have to get you
out. Don't talk about that."

Another cough racked her before she could
speak again. "I won't. I won't watch you die. Not like Nigel. Choking back
screams whilst they slit open your belly." Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"You can't make me suffer that. I won't let you. I won't go with you."

He let her go. Desperate, he picked up his
dirk and slammed it into his boot, shoved his hands through his wet hair to
push it back. "I love you. Don't ask me that. I--"

She sighed faintly and leaned against the
bars. "I'm so cold. And it hurts. Has it been a year, Jamie? It's spring
again so it must be. I tried to count the days, but it's too hard."

"Let me try, Isabel. Please."

"My sweet love," she whispered. "Can
you magic open a lock? Make me invisible so they don't see me?"

"I can go over the wall," he said
trying not to sound angry. "I'm strong. I can carry you." He shook
the lock. Took out his dirk and slid it into the hole. But the fact was he knew
nothing about such things. He cursed under his breath. If he broke into the
smithy to get a bar of some kind--

"You'll climb the wall carrying a
dying woman? And they'll catch you. And kill you, too."

 
"You're not dying."

"Jamie, I am." She stretched her
arm up and clutched at it with her hot, dry hand. He knelt and pulled it
through the bars--so easily. Her wrist was no larger than a child's. Her arms
were skin over bone.

He kissed her fingers. "I can come
back with my men. I can..."

"You can take Berwick Castle--from
Edward?" She gasped and her chest heaved. James clutched her hand as she
struggled for breath. Finally, it eased. She coughed and spit something out
onto a scrap of cloth. "My lungs bleed. More every day."

James grasped the bars with both hands and
jerked on them. But he was no Samson to tear them to bits. Would to God that he
were.

What was he to do? He couldn't throw his
men's lives away. They trusted him, and this wasn't a castle he could take with
a handful of men and a trick. It was one of the strongest in the kingdom,
garrisoned with hundreds of guards.

"My sweet knight. Don't let me suffer.
Please. Give me your dirk."

He scrubbed at his eyes. "Isabel--I'm
no godly man. But to suffer damnation--" He wanted to sob but wouldn't. Not
in the face of such suffering. "You can't kill yourself."

"Could hell be worse than this?"

He knelt down, as close to her as he could
get. Pulling his dirk, he tested its edge on his thumb. It cut and he sucked at
the blood. Then he laid it in his lap. "I won't leave you, my love. I
swear it." He looked up. "I wish the stars were out. I watched them
so clear last night. I won't mind dying with you."

"I would though." Her breath
choked again and she paused. "You can't die. You have an oath. And--I'd
like for what I did to mean something. Can you make it count for something? Would
someone care that I crowned the king?"

He reached through the bars and took her
hand. Stroked the twigs that were her fingers.

"I'd like--not to go to hell, Jamie."

"No," he begged.

"But I don't want to hurt. Please. I
want out of this cage. And that's the only way."

He held his head in his hands. God in
heaven. She was right. He couldn't get her out--not without getting caught. And
he couldn't leave her here.

"Come close to me," he said. She
scooted against the bars. He forced his arm through so he could put it around
her. She leaned against them and her head touched his shoulder. He pressed his
lips to her hair. "God forgive me. I can't tell you no."

He squeezed as close as he could, trying to
give her some of his warmth.

"Thank you." Through the bars,
she touched his face. "Kiss me--and don't let me hurt any more."

He would never forgive himself for this. He
stroked her cheek, the bone so sharp under her hot skin. "I love you."
He pressed his lips to hers and they parted. He held her tight against him. He
wouldn't let her do something that would condemn her to hell. Better him than
her.

The dirk slid into her throat. She jerked. Her
blood soaked his hands, his chest. He cradled her through the bars until she
was still and limp.

He sat holding her. Her body grew cold. Inside
him was a place that was as dead. This was a sin he'd never forgive himself
for. Never.

A light shone across the bailey from an open
door. "Cursed rain," a voice said.

James stood and ran to the part of the
hanging wall that ran into the River Tweed. The water wasn't deep enough to
dive into so he jumped. The jolt hurt when he hit. He ducked under the water. It
wasn't deep, not even man a man's height. But he held his breath and swam as
far as he could. The icy water numbed him and even his thoughts stilled. He
came up for a quick breath. The night was quiet. Mayhap no one had heard the
splash. Another dive took him far enough from the castle to climb up on the
shore. At first light, he'd be away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Douglasdale,
Scotland: April 1307

James rubbed his hand against his leg.

Still, days after he had snuffed out her
life he could feel the dirk in his hand as it slid through her throat, and his
fingers twitched.

He had felt guilt at beheading his
prisoners, but nothing like this. He had never known that grief and guilt could
hurt so much. Unbidden, old prayers passed through his lips, prayers of
contrition that the priest had taught him when he was a child, but he felt no
forgiveness. Once he even wept, but it seemed to shame her suffering so he
forced his eyes to go dry.

He had ridden straight from Berwick to
Douglas, stopping only to water and rest the animal. Mayhap someday he'd be
weary enough to sleep. He knew he was flagging. Every muscle ached, but it
wasn't enough to make him close his eyes and see Isabella as she had suffered,
hear her pleading for death.

He needed to talk to Will, so in the
semi-dark of night he stood in front of their hearth watching the glowing
embers as the fire died. Alycie opened a pot and steam drifted up bringing a
meaty scent of rabbit.

"I'm to meet with my woman from
Bothwell, my lord," Will said. "Her son brought me a message that
this news is too important to trust to another."

Alycie put a bowl on the table. "Eat,
please. You--don't look well."

James looked at the bowl. He'd forgotten
the last time he ate. "Thank you. I'm just tired, but it smells good."
He pushed the stool to straddle it and took a bite of the stew. Rabbit. His
mouth watered and he shoveled in another bite. "How long will it take you,
Will?"

"I'll be back soon after first light,
I hope. Early enough that I won't be missed cutting the logs. Clifford has us
working hard at rebuilding the castle. A few of the stone split from the heat
of the fire but mostly it's rebuilding the floors and inner walls."

James paused in his eating to look up and
smile. "I'll be sorry to waste your labor."

As the man laughed, James scraped the bowl
clean. "I didn't know that I was hungry. Or mayhap it was just how good it
was."

James leaned his elbows on the table and
plunged his hands into his hair. "I think I've never been so tired. I'd
best wait for you, Will. When I was at Bothwell, Valence wasn't there. I want
to know if he's returned."

Will put his hand on James's shoulder and
squeezed then jerked it back. "I'm sorry, my lord."

"When did I become so fine that I'd
mind a man's hand on my shoulder?" James stood. "I'll put a wood on
the fire and sat for a while if you don't object. I don't like to waste it,
but--sometimes it seems a good thing of a dark night."

"By the saints, burn all the wood I
have and you're welcome." He frowned at James. "Alycie's right. You
look worn to the bone." He picked his mantle up and kissed his sister's
cheek as he left. She barred the door after him.

James thrust a piece of wood from a pile
into the embers and squatted to poke at it whilst it caught. He pulled a stool
from the table to sit on, stretching his legs out to the fire. "Mayhap
I'll sleep here in front of the fire." He bent and tossed another piece of
wood into the flames.

"You can't rest so. I have some chamomile.
Let me prepare a mug for you."

 
He gave her a wry smile. "I'm not a
bairn or an old man--just tired." He sighed. "I really have never been
so tired." Not a lie--the weariness went down to his soul.

She knelt by him and touched his arm. "What
happened?"

 
He took her hand and turned it over. Running
a finger over her soft fingers, he found a callous her middle finger. He
wondered how she'd made it. Not a fine lady's hand, but soft and warm withal. "How
many years do you have, sweetling?" he finally asked.

Looking puzzled, she said, "Sixteen."

He reached out a hand, stroked her hair,
and ran a fine strand through his fingers. The house was quiet. The wood popped
as it burned. "You should be married with a bairn at your breast. Not here
with a lord who's as like to ravish you as not."

She shook her head, but she had laughter in
her eyes again. "Jamie, you're not going to ravish me." Standing, she
brushed a finger across his lips. "You wouldn't--"

"How can you be so sure?"

"I admit you used to chase me away
with a stick when I was a lass. But I remember the one time when you caught
me--" She smiled. "What did you do, Jamie Douglas?"

He had to laugh. How could he have
forgotten she was the first lass he'd kissed? He'd been eight and she mayhap
all of six.

She stroked his hand. "I know you
better than you think I do."

He was on his feet both hands holding her
face. He bent to press his face into her hair and breathed the scent of grass
and beneath it her own scent. Running his hands down her back, she arched
against him at the pressure. "Do you? You're sure I wouldn't ravish you?"

Her arms slid up and around his neck. She
stretched up onto her toes, pressing her mouth to his ear. "No," she
whispered. "You wouldn't."

He held her close and her heart was beating
against him. No, he wouldn't. She touched his face and tipped her head back to
look up at him. "You think I don't know you better than that, James, Lord
of Douglas?" She shook her head. "To think that you'd hurt me?"

"How can you know me when I don't know
myself? What I've turned into?" He shoved the stool back as he pulled her
down and sat on the floor, tucking her against him with his arm around her. He
propped his back against the wall and gentled her head on his shoulder. A knot
in the wood popped loudly and he sighed. "I've done things I never meant
to. I never meant to--" And like a dagger it cut him that he was grieving
as much for himself as for Isabel. His grief was in part for the knight he'd
meant to be--the knight who would do no wrong. "Dreams. What did you dream
as a lass?"

She laughed softly. "Impossible
things, but I won't tell you." She looked at him out of the corner of her
eye.

He smiled and turned her head towards him. "Really?
Is that what you dreamed of?"

She blushed and pushed his hand away,
looking into the fire. "You shouldn't make me admit that. It was foolish."

"Not at all. You're beautiful enough
for any man." He settled her back against his shoulder and kissed the top
of her head. "Mine were boy's dreams. Jousting. Defeating all who came
against me. Battles that left me covered with glory." His voice hardened. "They
say I have glory--that my enemies fear my name. I never suspected the price
that came with it."

She put a hand against his chest. "It's
been a terrible price for all of us. But I know what's inside you, Jamie."
She stroked her hand over his heart. "I know the love that's there."

He tilted her chin up with his thumb and
kissed her, nibbling at her lips. "I shouldn't do this," he whispered,
and he was so hard it hurt.

He caught the hem of her kirtle, tugging it
up to her hips; he could feel himself trembling. "Lass, tell me no,"
he urged.

She rose onto her knees and pulled the
kirtle over her head in a motion, tossing it aside. James took her hand. He
pulled her gently to him. Her mouth tasted of mint and honey when he thrust his
tongue into it. Her fingers stroked his neck, tangling into his hair.

She made a noise in her throat and fumbled
at the fastenings of his clothes as her mouth clung to his. Not here, he
thought. He wouldn't rut with her like an animal so he scooped her up and
shoved the door to her room open with a foot.

She was watching, eyes wide, as he jerked
off his tunic and breeches. Out of his clothes, he knelt beside her and took
her soft breasts in his hands. He swallowed and couldn't wait longer. He'd
waited so long. He touched her soft thigh and moved his hand up until he could
feel her warmth and her wetness.

Slowly, he eased his finger inside her and
she tensed. James knew she had been hurt and what had been done. He lay still
as he whispered soft words in her ear. Breathing in the scent of her hair, he
forced himself to wait, holding her and fingers gently stroking her wetness. His
mouth drank her in, her breasts, her neck, her mouth. Her arms tightened around
him as he heard her moan. She moved against him.

"Jamie," she pleaded. She
returned his kiss, her tongue probing his mouth until it found his.

He threw back his head, his eyes closed. "I'll
be gentle." He was easing into her. He came deeper and she was lifting her
hips for him. Then slowly he began to move. He held her head between his hands
and kissed her, his words fast and frantic, gasping out between kisses his need
for her. He'd wanted to be gentle at this moment but he could not. He thrust
deep. "I won't hurt you, sweetling. Ah, God, I need you." She cried
out and held tightly to him.

As she lay in his arms afterwards, James
realized how much he had needed her. Not just that it had been a year since
he'd lain with a woman, but that in all that time he'd not touched anyone but
to kill them. He'd hungered for this. He might well die tomorrow or mayhap the
next day. If he did, he'd go to hell thinking of Alycie and not the men he'd
beheaded or his knife sliding into Isabella's throat.

He could feel the softness of her hair that
fell across his chest as she lay against him. He stroked the silky strands and
wound it gently around his fingers.

She murmured something against his shoulder.

"Go to sleep, love," he said. With
a sigh, she settled against him. When her breathing turned deep and even, he
eased his arm from beneath her smoothing the coverlet around her. Naked, he
walked to the front door and stepped out to make water. Beyond the trees, the
black shape of Douglas Castle hulked, but a single light showing from the tower.
James shook off the last drop of piss and thought that he'd have to do
something about the castle again. But not yet. He'd let them finish first. Then--he'd
remind them that the Douglas had returned.

When James returned to the bedroom, Alycie
held out a hand and said sleepily, "I awoke and you were gone."

"I'm here now." He slid into bed
and pulled her against him.

She pressed her body to his and he was hard
again. "Yes," she said and drank in his mouth. He was on top of her
and for a while, she made him forget war and blood.

He awoke to a knock on the door. "My
lord," Will said.

James slid his arm from under Alycie's
shoulders and slipped out of bed. She murmured a sleepy sound as he tucked a
blanket around her. James grabbed his breeches and boots. Opening the door, he
said, "You're back early." He closed the door and stepped into his
pants. Looking away from Will's gaze, he tried not to color. Not that he'd
intended to hide what he'd done from Will, but this wasn't how he'd meant to tell
him. But Will just sighed.

"I knew this would happen."

James finished lacing himself, chewing on
his lip. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"What is there to talk about, my lord?
Done is done."

James folded his arm across his chest and
propped up the wall with his back, frowning at the man. "Do you think I'm
the kind of man to abuse a woman? Take her against her will?"

"No. But that doesn't mean I have to
like it. Or that there's anything I can do about it."

James nodded in the direction of the castle.
"You could go there and tell them what you know."

"God's wounds, I wouldn't do that. Never.
Whatever has happened, I'm your loyal man."

"No, I don't suppose that you would."
James sighed. "Like me, you're your father's son. But, Will, you have to
know--I'll not hurt her. I won't make promises I can't keep, but if I can
protect her I will."

Will rubbed his face, looking weary himself.
"And we have no time for this. That's what's wrong. We have time for nothing
until they're gone. I met the woman who spies for us from Bothwell and rushed
back as fast as could be. That's why I'm early."

James sat, jamming his feet into his boots.
"What happened?"

"Today John de Mowbray will leave to lead
a troop to join with Valence."

James jerked his head up. "Mowbray."
There was a traitor he'd give much to cross swords with. "How many? Which
way do they go?"

"My lord, there's more news. There was
much talk that King Robert fought a battle at Glen Trool. Valence attacked him
in the Glen with a thousand men and was driven back. It's said that when
Longshanks demanded an explanation, Clifford and Valence came to blows in the
king's presence." Will was practically tripping over his words in
excitement.

"I heard about Glen Trool. But
Clifford and Valence fighting--" James laughed. "That I would have
given much to see. But that was a good place to catch them. I know that glen
well. Narrow and with steep cliffs on each side. A thousand men our king
defeated." He gave a grim smile. "Our luck has indeed changed. But
what of Mowbray?"