Adrienne Basso (3 page)

Fiona closed her eyes, feeling her stomach churn. As bad as things were, she knew they could get much worse. If she were wrong, if her plan failed, she would be forced to grovel, to beg for her brother’s forgiveness, leaving herself, and Spencer, totally at his mercy. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, brother. But I must follow my conscience, and my faith.”

“So be it.” Harold relented, his manner deliberately ungracious. “Let it not be said that I didn’t warn you of the folly of your actions.”

Fiona refused to reply, instead lowering her eyes and bending her knee in a graceful curtsy. Clearly unimpressed, her brother snorted and turned away.

Fiona sighed, feeling the tension ease out of her shoulders with each step Harold took. Her brother believed she was going to the Abbey of St. Gifford, but that was a ruse. Oh, they would indeed stop at that holy place. Very briefly.

After respects had been paid to the brothers and prayers offered for Henry’s soul, Fiona was going to continue moving north, to their true destination. Once there, she would appeal to the one man she believed could grant her the justice she so desperately sought, could help her secure the future that Spencer deserved.

She was going to cross the border into Scotland and plead her case to the enemy—Henry’s secret ally, the Earl of Kirkland.

 

 

“I want him found and brought to me.” Gavin McLendon, Earl of Kirkland, declared. “Alive.”

A hush fell over the hall at the pronouncement, the silence most eerie. The soldiers gambling in the corner held their dice, the servants cleaning the remains of the noonday meal stood still, the castle women seated in the bright sunlight at the far end of the vast chamber halted their sewing. Even the castle hounds ceased foraging for food scraps among the rush-strewn floor, heads raised, ears pointed.

Alone on the dais, Gavin leaned back in his seat, his sharp gaze pinned to the three men standing before him. Yet their expressions, each more stoic than the next, never changed.

Gavin fingered the ornately carved armrest of his chair and waited. There would be no excuses—his men knew him well enough to avoid that mistake. But there might be some sort of protest, since what he was asking them to do was akin to impossible.

And they all knew that, including Gavin.

“We’ve tracked the bastard fer over a week, but the trail has gone cold,” Duncan admitted, his stare unapologetic.

Connor, standing beside his older brother, crossed his arms over his chest. “Gilroy has fled to the hills. He willnae be back fer a while, especially since he knew we were chasing him.”

There was a ripple of agreement from the two other men. Looking past them, Gavin noticed several of the soldiers nodding their heads, while the women clucked a few loud sounds of disagreement.

Frustrated, Gavin cast a hard look at his three best trackers, letting out a soft curse beneath his breath. “Why would Gilroy need to hide from ye in the hills? ’Tis clear from his bold actions he believes he has nothing to fear from me or my men. Two years. Fer two full years that bastard has walked freely among us, doing whatever he pleases, taking whatever he fancies. Why? Because he believes my men lack the wits to stop him. And dammit, he’s right!”

Duncan stiffened, his expression tightening. “’Tis not our lack of brains or skills, as ye well know. Gilroy’s a wily one. And he’s got plenty of help from our own.”

“Aye,” Connor added. “Half the lasses in our clan fancy themselves in love with him. They offer him shelter, then when we follow his trail to their village, they claim not to have seen him.”

Gavin slapped the chair arm beneath his hand, putting every ounce of frustration he was feeling into the blow. His bastard half brother was running amok, stealing cattle and grain and making a general nuisance of himself. Such behavior threatened Gavin’s authority, calling into question his ability to lead and rule his clan.

Something he could ill afford at any time, but never more so now, when Scotland was still a divided land. Even members of his own clan had questioned the wisdom of Gavin’s decision to support King Robert, for the would-be king was little more than a fugitive in his own kingdom. Yet Gavin had no intention of forsaking his pledge, nor did he intend to suffer the same gruesome death as others who had defiantly sided with Robert against England’s King Edward.

Not content with the mere execution of his enemies, King Edward had captured and then brought to London good men like William Wallace and Simon Fraser. Once there, he had ordered them hung, drawn and quartered and, as a final humiliation, had their heads impaled on spikes on London Bridge.

These barbaric acts had scared some sympathetic to King Robert’s cause, but not Gavin. Instead, it had strengthened his resolve to do all that was necessary to help King Robert break from England’s rule and achieve independence.

Yet how could he expect his people to trust his judgment and follow his lead when he couldn’t control the raids of his bastard half brother? If word of this weakness spread, Lord only knew what other dangers they would be inviting. For in Scotland, if you didn’t hold fast to what was yours, another clan was more than happy to claim it for themselves.

Allowing the determination that burned in his chest to be freely reflected in his face, Gavin stared down at his men.

Duncan, Connor, and Aidan were his cousins, sons of his father’s brother and three of his most experienced, skilled fighters. He was confident of their loyalty, their devotion to him personally, and their regard for the welfare of the clan. A part of him regretted having to speak so harshly, but results were imperative.

Gilroy
must
be captured. Soon.

“Intruders have been seen in the south woods, milord!”

Gavin bit back his additional words of reprimand as the young soldier bringing the news hurried into the great hall. Was the opportunity he had been waiting for finally here? Gavin felt his pulse race at the thought of ending this irritating problem once and for all.

“Is it Gilroy?” Gavin asked, his expression eager.

“I dinnae think so.” The young man hung his head, his disappointment obvious. “James saw them and sent me here with the message. There are two women in the party, a lad, a man wearing a priest’s tunic, and six mounted knights. James dinnae get too close, but he said I must tell ye he believes they are English.”

English? On my land?
Gavin could feel the muscles in his body tighten, but outwardly he remained calm. Not his half brother, but who could be certain? This could easily be another trick, a diversion created in one place while mischief was accomplished on another front.

“Take some men and ride out to meet these intruders,” Gavin commanded. “That is, if ye think ye are capable of bringing them to me without any difficulties.”

Duncan flushed, Connor fumed, and Aidan grimaced.

“We willnae have any trouble,” Connor shot back.

With a stoic grimace, Gavin lifted a hand and waved off the comment. Clearly annoyed, the three men stomped away. Good. Perhaps the possibility of further humiliation would ensure their success. Reaching for his half-empty tankard of ale, Gavin took a long swallow, then leaned back in his chair.

He eyed a few of the soldiers gambling in the corner, but none would meet his gaze. Not surprising given his current mood. Unperturbed, he lifted his goblet, took another deep swallow, then leaned back in his chair and waited.

 

 

Concealed behind the large trunk of a fallen tree, Ewan Gilroy watched through the dense foliage as the McLendon men approached the encampment. When they crested the hill a cry arose from the camp sentry. One of the women moved forward as if to greet the McLendons, a short, broad-shouldered knight at her side. The rest of the men circled the edge of the camp, yet their weapons remained sheathed and they made no outward moves to defend themselves. Ewan wiggled forward on his belly to get a better look, but this closer view confirmed what he had seen.

Curious.

Though in truth, Ewan knew he shouldn’t be surprised. He had been tracking this odd group for four days and nothing they had done made much sense. In the beginning, they had traveled on the public highway, but once they gained a foothold on McLendon land, they had taken to the forest, blatantly trespassing. ’Twas almost as if they were challenging the earl’s authority, as if they wanted to be discovered.

“If we’re fixing to raid the traveler’s camp and take their bounty fer ourselves, we best make a move now or else the McLendons will reach them first.”

Ewan froze, recognizing the voice of Magnus Fraser. Magnus was not part of his regular band of men and more often than not, Ewan had regretted his decision to bring him on these last few raids. Aye, he fought well and hard, but there was an arrogance to the man that was distasteful, an attitude bordering on threatening. With other skilled fighting men available to ride with him, Ewan had come to the conclusion that Magnus was far more trouble than he was worth.

“There’s no need to bother with this lot,” Ewan responded. “The McLendons believe us to be far away. ’Tis foolish to show ourselves fer whatever meager trinkets those travelers carry.”

“I like trinkets.” Magnus cleared his throat and spat on the ground. “We should have gone in at first light, like I said. When there were no McLendons around to see us.”

Ewan avoided Magnus’s stare, knowing he was right. They should have attacked sooner, but something had made him hesitate, hold back. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge nor admit.

He was weary. Of the constant raids, the running and hiding, of not having a true home to call his own.

Lately, they had been even more successful in disrupting the business of the clan, an occurrence that should have given Ewan a sense of triumph. Instead, it left a hollow, almost empty feeling way down in the pit of his gut.

Given a choice, this was not the life he would have chosen for himself. Fugitive, outlaw, thief. It had been hard growing up as Moira Gilroy’s bastard son, especially since his noble father had not laid claim to him until he was on his deathbed, mere minutes before meeting his maker.

By then, it was too late. Though born a daughter of a laird, Moira Gilroy had been cast out by her family when she shamefully revealed her pregnant state. Her lover, the grand and mighty Earl of Kirkland, also turned his back to her plight, refusing to acknowledge the child as his own.

Terrified and alone, Moira had repeatedly pressed for aid and finally the earl relented. His concession provided his former mistress with a crude hut on the outskirts of one of the villages, along with a meager stipend that shrank each year. If not for Ewan’s quickly learned hunting skills as a lad, the two would have perished from starvation years ago.

Weaned on his mother’s hatred for the earl, her constant wailing over the injustices done to her, and her almost daily recounts of her pain and suffering, Ewan grew to manhood with a bitterness eating at his heart. Two years ago, at the age of twenty, he had started the raids on the clan as a means to exact revenge, and in a short time they had increased in frequency, size, and intensity.

But so, too, had McLendon’s pursuit. Though Ewan swaggered with rash boldness in front of his men, the truth was they had nearly been caught on this last raid. The incident had given Ewan pause and for the first time he began to think about how—and when—it would all end. The earl was long dead and in his place Ewan’s half brother ruled. ’Twas said that Gavin McLendon was a fair and honorable man, yet he treated Ewan with the same contempt as their father.

“If we cannae pluck any treasure from these travelers, then I say we go to Kilmore,” Magnus grunted. “Their grain house is near to bursting. What we cannae use fer ourselves, we can sell.”

“Kilmore village is one of the earl’s strongholds,” Ewan said. “We have few allies within it.”

“They’ll not be so loyal with an empty belly and their bairns crying out from hunger when they try to go to sleep,” Magnus snarled.

Ewan closed his eyes and felt a ripple of emotion flood his heart. “I willnae starve innocent folk to make a point.”

Magnus’s eyes gleamed. “’Tis the smart move.”

There was a low grumble of agreement among several of the men who had drawn near when the discussion began. Ewan cocked an eyebrow. “And when exactly did ye get a brain in yer thick skull? Tell us true, Magnus, was it left to ye by the wee fairies while ye were sleeping?”

The men laughed and Ewan could feel the building tension leach away. Well, most of it.

Magnus was smiling as broadly as the rest of them, but his knuckles were white where his fingers wrapped around a tree branch. Ewan noted the telltale evidence of anger and defiance and casually reached for the dagger hidden in his boot. ’Twould be a pity to kill such a skilled fighter, but if challenged, he would not hesitate. Ewan had no illusions about the character of many of the men who followed him.

Heartless bastards, the lot of them. And Ewan knew he was the worst of the bunch.

The color in Magnus’s cheeks heightened and a tiny muscle beneath his left eye twitched. Ever on the alert, Ewan waited, but the attack never came. Magnus glanced at a few of the men, then looked away uneasily.

Ewan slowly lifted his hand, keeping his dagger hidden. There would be no fight—this time. Yet Ewan was wise enough to realize that one day soon the time would come when Magnus
would
challenge him.

By all that was holy, he’d best be ready for it.

Fiona stirred the meager pot of rabbit stew and wondered if it could be deemed a surprise attack when you knew it was going to happen. Not precisely the time, or even the place, but a confrontation was an eventuality. They were deliberately on the earl’s land—trespassing. And they were being watched. It was now only a matter of time before they were confronted.

Her stomach turned with restless agitation. If she was wrong about the earl, all their lives were in grave peril. The only thing that kept her calm was Spencer. Basking in the innocence of youth, he had seen this trip as a grand adventure. His boyish delight in the simplest of things had kept them all in good spirits.

But even Spencer’s sweet charm could no longer dispel the tension inside the camp. Fiona’s frayed emotions were stretched to the breaking point.

“Why have the McLendon men not approached us?” Fiona asked as she tossed a bunch of wild onions in the cauldron.

“They’ll be waiting for orders from the earl,” Sir George responded. He leaned forward and sniffed appreciatively. “Is it ready?”

Fiona sighed.
Saints alive, how could he possibly be hungry?
Since crossing the border into Scotland four days ago, she had barely been able to choke down a few bites of hard bread and cheese. Fiona supposed she should be grateful that Sir George was not so easily rattled, yet it was still unsettling.

After a final stir, she ladled a hearty portion of the stew into a wooden bowl and passed it to the knight. “I hope you do not regret your decision to aid me, Sir George.”

Sir George took a big bite of the concoction, noisily sucking in his breath when the hot food hit his mouth. “Riding into Scotland is the last thing I wanted for you and the boy, my lady, but I understand why you had to leave your brother’s keep.”

Catching a whiff of the food, a few of the other men drifted toward the cooking fire. Fiona handed the ladle to her maid, Alice, and the older woman diligently assumed the task of distributing the meal.

Not wanting to be overheard, Fiona stepped away from the others. Sir George took a second helping of stew before following her.

“The men all understand what they are to do when the earl’s retainers show themselves?” Fiona asked.

“I have ordered them to stand firm and wait for my signal before drawing their weapons.” Sir George frowned. “But I’m still not certain that will work. The Scots are warriors, men known to strike first and ask questions later.”

“I know. That is why ’tis so important that we not challenge them.”

Fiona carefully avoided looking at Sir George when she spoke, knowing her words had the potential to insult the knight. He was not the sort of man who ran from a fight and that was exactly what she was asking him to do.

“I will do as you wish,” Sir George said begrudgingly. “But I give you fair warning. At the first thrust of a Scotsman’s sword, my men and I will retaliate in kind.”

“I understand. Though I shall pray it won’t be necessary.”

Sir George ate the last bite of food in his bowl, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Tell me again, Lady Fiona. Why are you turning to this Scottish earl for aid?”

“Believe me, he is hardly my first choice. But I am long past the point where I must face the facts. There is no one in England who will support Spencer’s claim to his birthright, including my own kin.”

“And you think a Scottish earl will?” Sir George asked, disbelief evident in his tone.

“He is my last hope,” she whispered, hating how weak and pitiful she sounded.

“And if he turns you away?”

Though his tone was gentle, the cruelty of the question struck at Fiona’s core. What would she do if the earl turned her away? It was almost too frightening to consider.

“The good Lord will provide,” she replied, secretly wishing her faith was that invincible, that strong. Disregarding the pain squeezing her heart, Fiona smiled up at the knight. “Now, come and have another bowl of my stew before it is all eaten.”

Momentarily distracted by his stomach, Sir George complied. They sat companionably among the others, engaging in low conversation. Spencer, unaffected by the rising tension, kept them distracted with his endless questions.

Suddenly, the thunder of horse hooves cut through the tranquility of the afternoon, the sound far louder than Fiona expected. Brushing the wrinkles from her skirt, she rose slowly to her feet, eyes widening when she caught sight of the men galloping toward them.

There were three in the lead and another dozen retainers behind them. Even at this distance, they were an intimidating force. Bare-chested, wearing a variety of fierce-looking weapons strapped to their upper bodies, they looked like a band of frenzied beasts on the scent of fresh prey.

The closer they came, the faster they rode, bearing down on the small camp with a single-minded determination. Fiona threw a hand over her mouth to still a cry of fear. What if they attacked before she had a chance to speak?

Suddenly, the plan she had so carefully conceived seemed fraught with incredible risk and danger.

Heart pounding, she turned to the knight at her side. Sir George looked uncertainly back at her, his eyes narrowing to small slits. “Hold steady, men,” he ordered. “Await my signal.”

The restless sound of shifting feet and metal armor failed to offer her comfort. Silently, Fiona held out her hand, gesturing for Spencer to stand between her and Sir George. Trying to instill a confidence she didn’t feel, Fiona rested a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder, not surprised to feel him trembling.

The sound of the riders grew louder. Her fingers tightened on Spencer’s shoulder as her gaze scanned the surrounding woods, searching for an escape route in case things went terribly wrong.

One of the riders pulled slightly ahead of the others, then raised his arm. The men behind him pulled up and quickly dismounted. Fiona was dismayed to discover the Scots were no less intimidating on foot.

“Yer on McLendon land,” the leader said. “Why?”

“Our lady has business with the earl,” Sir George announced, stepping forward.

The leader scoffed. “What sort of business?”

“Private business.”

“With an English lady? Not likely.”

There was a chorus of hearty chuckles and Fiona felt every set of Scots eyes shift toward her. Her cheeks heated, but she blithely ignored the sudden sense of helplessness that surrounded her, keeping her attention on the leader.

She knew this man. He was among the soldiers that had sought sanctuary on their land after the battle. But for the life of her, she could not recall his name.

“Ask her again what kind of business she has with the earl, Duncan,” one of the men jeered.

Sir George growled low in his throat and reached for the hilt of his sword. Fiona thrust her arm across his waist to keep him back, ignoring the burst of angry rumbling from the men standing behind her. If Sir George broke rank, a fight was certain to ensue.

Fiona cleared her throat delicately. “Duncan? Do you not recognize me? I am Lady Fiona, wife of Baron Arundel.”

The corners of Duncan’s lips twitched. “Wife? Widow is more like it.”

“Yes, widow.” Fiona swallowed the lump in her throat. “You must forgive our intrusion upon McLendon land, but Sir George speaks the truth. I have come to see the earl.”

“Yer not expected.”

“Yes, I know. I am sorry. There was no means of sending a message asking his permission.” She tried smiling, achieving only a wane grin.

Duncan looked mildly annoyed at the gesture. They all stood silent and uneasy for a few moments. “Now then, on a usual day we’d be chasing the lot of ye off our land—and not real politely, either. But today is a lucky day fer ye, Lady Fiona. The earl told us to bring ye to him. So, ye’d best be getting on yer horse.”

Lord be praised.
Releasing the breath she had been holding, Fiona scrambled to obey. One of Sir George’s men boosted her onto her mount and she quickly gathered the reins. The others started toward their horses, but Duncan’s voice halted their movements.

“Only the lady comes with us. The rest of ye will wait here.”

Sir George and his knights exchanged glances. “My men will stay behind, but I will accompany Lady Fiona,” Sir George insisted.

“Nay.” Duncan’s voice boomed.

Fiona flinched. Several of her knights became more vocal in their protests, shifting restlessly on their feet. Out of the corner of her eye, Fiona saw one of the Scotsmen reach for his sword.

No!
They had come too far to risk failure now.

“Silence!” Fiona held up her hand. “We are guests of the earl and as such must act accordingly.”

“I’ll not allow—”

“Since he is the earl’s man, I trust Duncan’s honor implicitly,” Fiona shouted, interrupting Sir George’s protest. “I’m sure he will gladly guarantee my safety.”

Everyone’s attention shifted to Duncan. There was no mistaking the annoyance in his eyes, but there was something else there, too. Integrity. His word, once given, would not be broken.

“She’ll not be harmed on my watch,” he said grudgingly.

“Thank you.” Fiona felt her belly tighten. The last thing she wanted was to ride into the earl’s castle without her knights at her side, but there appeared to be no other way. “I entrust you with Spencer’s safety, Sir George.”

Somewhat mollified, the knight nodded his head.

“I’ll be leaving some of my men to keep ye company, Sir George,” Duncan announced as he swung himself effortlessly onto his saddle. “Just to make sure ye dinnae get lonely.”

There was barely any time for Sir George to argue. Within seconds Fiona could feel the press of horses and men as the Scots formed two columns around her. The moment they began to move, her startled horse meekly followed the surge.

The brisk pace left Fiona breathless. She resisted the urge to turn and look back upon the camp. Instead, she concentrated on keeping her seat, determined to show the Scotsmen that she was able to keep to their grueling pace.

They rode through a large meadow, covered with sweet-smelling green grass and tiny lavender flowers, then entered a dense forest. Here they were forced to ride single file, with Fiona placed firmly in the center of the pack. They eventually emerged from the dense woods into a valley with a picturesque stream meandering through the center of it.

Pressing the back of her hand to her forehead to shield the newly emerged sun, Fiona gasped as she caught her first glimpse of the earl’s castle. Dominated by four massive gray stone towers, it was perched at the top of a large hill, looming over the landscape below and allowing for sweeping views of the countryside from all directions.

Stone walkways on the ramparts connected each of the towers, and Fiona could see the heads of the men who patrolled them. As she and the riders drew closer, she realized that there was a second curtain wall of stone surrounding the entire complex. Here, the battlements were numerous, allowing for even greater protection against attack. Her mind whirled as she tried to calculate the time and expense required to design and construct such an elaborate stone structure.

Though clearly built for warfare and defense, there was an unmistakable beauty surrounding the fortress. The stone shimmered when hit by sunlight and the water in the wide moat sparkled like gemstones.

Surrounding the great castle was a sizable village of thatched-roofed homes, cooking smoke rising from many of them. As they rode down the main path through the village, the sounds of laboring hands and bustling activity filled the air. Hammering, sawing, nailing. Children’s laughter and mothers’ scolding, braying livestock and clucking hens.

Word quickly spread of their presence. People abandoned their work, emerging from their dwellings to stare openly as they passed. Several of the children waved, and a few of the young women simpered and cast appreciative, flirting eyes toward the men.

Fiona could not help but notice how healthy they all looked, with round cheeks and sparkling eyes. There were barely any holes in their clothing and most had shoes upon their feet. It was a sharp contrast to the thin, dirty rags and gaunt faces of the peasants on her brother’s land. It buoyed Fiona’s sprits to see the common folk so well cared for by their lord and bespoke of the earl’s compassion and generosity.

Pray God, that giving spirit would extend to her and Spencer.

“She’s English.”

The accusation was hurled from a faceless voice. A chill crept inside her, reminding Fiona that here she was considered the enemy, an unwelcome and unwanted intruder. Word quickly spread among the villagers and the friendly smiles turned to harsh glares. She braced herself for any verbal taunts, but a glowering stare from Duncan silenced the growing crowds. Still, Fiona could clearly see that the villagers’ simple curiosity had given way to mistrust.

Quiet surrounded them. Fiona nudged her mount closer to Duncan. Another dark scowl twisted the young man’s face and a feeling of gratitude swept through her. He had given his word to keep her safe and was now intent on keeping his promise.

Still, a pang of loneliness dug into her heart. If only she had Sir George or Spencer by her side to give her courage.

Finally, they left the village behind and resumed a fast pace. Soon they arrived at the castle entrance and Duncan gave the signal to slow their mounts. When they rode beneath the raised metal portcullis Fiona’s back was as rigid as the stone curtain that surrounded the great castle, giving no hint of the fear tearing her apart inside.

I know I am doing what is right
, she repeated to herself.
The earl is a man who values honor. He will not forsake us in our time of great need.

As Fiona expected, the inner bailey was bustling with activity. Here, the retainers were barely given a second glance. Boys came forward to take their horses and several of the men joked with them. Duncan jumped off his horse, then assisted Fiona from her mount, his hands barely touching her waist. She cast him a shy smile, grateful for his respectful treatment.