Authors: Adrienne Basso
Intimate Betrayal (34 page)
But the sad truth was, he could not.
Chapter Two
Summer, one year later
“Are you certain you wish to leave tomorrow, Lady Fiona? I’ve heard rumors that the King’s army will soon be marching north again. ’tis hardly the safest time to venture across the border into Scotland.”
Fiona wiped her damp palms against her skirt and forced herself to stay calm as she gazed in the weathered face of the knight standing before her. It had taken her months to formulate this plan and even longer to put the pieces into place. Now that the moment was at hand, she must not allow anything to sway her commitment.
“I believe that King Edward is determined to lead a victorious campaign against the Scots, Sir George. Yet I fear if we wait for a safe time to make this journey, we shall never leave.” She tried smiling, but her lips refused to cooperate, doubt and fear keeping them frozen.
Sir George’s dark eyes softened. Though only of average height, he appeared larger, due to his thick, muscular build. The scars on his face and arms were a testament to his years on the battlefield and Fiona knew she was lucky to have a loyal, honorable knight with his skills on her side. It brought a small measure of comfort to her heavily burdened heart, though in truth there was little that could be done to appease the bitterness she felt.
That some called the death of her husband—a year ago on this very day—and the loss of their lands a cruelty of fate was viewed by Fiona as insult. How could an event of such anguishing loss be given such a trite explanation? No, it was not fate that brought such devastation into their lives—it was betrayal.
Fiona was convinced that somehow the alliance Henry had forged with the Scottish Earl of Kirkland had reached the ears of King Edward. Lacking any substantial proof, the king had decided not to outright accuse Henry of any wrongdoing. Instead, he had allowed Sir Roland DuPree, one of his brutish minions, to petition a blatantly false claim to their lands. And when Henry refused to yield the property, Sir Roland and his army, with the King’s silent sanction, had stormed the castle and taken it by force.
It had hardly been a fair fight. Fiona closed her eyes and once again relived the nightmare of the fateful event that had destroyed the only happiness she had ever known, forever changing her life.
It had been quiet that night—too quiet. The soldiers who stood guard in the watch towers had died swiftly, their throats slashed to prevent a warning of the impending invasion, to delay a call to arms. Roused from their beds, Henry and his knights had fought bravely to defend the keep and protect the inhabitants, but they were no match for the men who had devised the ruthless attack.
Outnumbered and unprepared, Henry and his soldiers fell one by one. With the tide turned against them, many of the surviving guardsmen laid down their arms and pledged their allegiance to the conquering Sir Roland.
But not Sir George. He had been the first to pledge his sword to Henry’s son and heir, ten-year-old Spencer. And it was Sir George who had managed to safely spirit her and Spencer away after Henry had been fatally struck.
Sobbing and in shock, Fiona, her maid and Father Niall had followed Sir George through the dank, musty, secret escape tunnels that ended outside the bailey walls. Together, Fiona and Father Niall carried a badly injured Spencer on a makeshift stretcher, each moan uttered from the child’s pale lips a fresh pain in Fiona’s bruised heart.
The fear had been almost paralyzing. Even now Fiona could still smell the dampness, hear the skittering sounds of the rats in the tunnel and the clash of swords from above as a few brave men fought on.
The tunnel ended in a cave and they hid there for what felt like hours, while Sir George scouted ahead. Finally, he returned, stolen horses in hand. Just as dawn was starting to break, the weary group rode away, ears attuned to the sounds of pursuit.
Thankfully, no one followed. In her greatest time of need, Fiona had no choice but to turn to her eldest brother, Harold. They arrived at his keep six days later, exhausted and in shock. He had hardly been gracious in receiving them, but at least he had not denied them sanctuary.
“Sir George! You’re here!”
The boyish voice rang out with pure delight. Fiona turned and watched Spencer make his way across the crowded bailey. Her heart jumped with worry as it became necessary for the boy to move with speed and agility to avoid the carts, animals and people hustling through the courtyard.
Even from this distance she could see how badly Spencer limped. The broken bones of his right leg, an injury suffered during the attack, had fused together at an odd angle, leaving it shorter than the left leg. It was a constant reminder of what they had endured, of what had been broken that could never be restored.
As Spencer drew closer, one of the castle hounds suddenly darted in front of him. His balance compromised, the boy’s face contorted into a grimace as he stumbled and fell. Fiona gasped, biting her lip until she tasted blood. No, she refused to cry out, to show any outward sign of distress. The last thing Spencer wanted or needed was her pity—he got that in buckets from others.
More than anything else, her child needed her to believe in him, needed to know that she had faith he would overcome this physical infirmary; that he would one day be whole again. And by God, no matter how difficult it was for her, she would give that to him.
Arms flailing, Spencer shoved the hound, who was now trying to lick his face, pushing the animal away. Though it was only a few seconds, to Fiona it felt like hours, as she watched the boy lay flat on his back, panting with the effort it took to right himself. Finally, with slow deliberate movements, Spencer rose to his feet. His misshapen grin of triumph when he regained his balance wrenched at Fiona’s heart. Swiftly, she brushed away her tears, replacing them with a confident, supportive nod.
A nod her son answered with one of his own.
“After these many months, I had hoped the boy would be stronger,” Sir George mussed, his eyes narrowing with worry.
“He improves each week,” Fiona replied sharply.
“Can he wield a sword?”
“Yes.”
“With authority?”
Fiona skewered the knight with a piercing look. “He’s barely ten years old.”
“He began learning how to fight at his father’s knee when he was but a lad of five,” Sir George responded. “I supervised the making of his first wooden sword myself.”
“My brother has refused to allow Spencer any time on the practice field,” Fiona replied, embarrassed to admit her own flesh and blood had so little confidence in Spencer’s abilities. “Father Niall works with him, but the priest’s skill is limited. With the proper training, I know Spencer will be able to compensate for the weakness in his leg. All he needs is the opportunity.”
Sir George took a breath. “If the lad cannot be trained here, then perhaps he can be fostered at another castle?”
“Believe me, Sir George, as much as it would pain me to be separated from him, I have tried to find him a place. Father Niall helped me compose the letters I sent to all the holdings in the area, both large and small.” Fiona felt her face flush with heat. “No one will take him.”
Sir George’s eyebrows rose. “No one?”
Fiona frowned. She had begged her brother to intervene and when he refused, she had taken matters into her own hands. Though possessing only a rudimentary knowledge of reading and writing, Fiona had put all her efforts into the task of securing a future for Spencer. Yet even with Father Niall’s aid, it had taken her hours to write those letters.
Oddly, waiting had been the hardest part. For as each reply—and rejection—was received, hope for Spencer’s future had slipped farther and farther away. Now all that was left was the reality of her situation. No one was going to come to their rescue and willingly take up Spencer’s cause.
They would languish in her brother’s castle for the rest of their lives—an unwanted burden with no true place or purpose. For Fiona, the idea was equally repellant and terrifying and completely unacceptable.
What had started as a mother’s duty to protect her child was now a compulsion for Fiona, burning like a fire within her chest. She would give her own life if it prevented any further harm from coming to the boy. But she was greedy in her wishes and dreams, wanting more than mere survival for Spencer. She wanted him to thrive, to flourish, and when the time was right, to regain his birthright.
“Henry was never openly accused of treason, but ’tis common knowledge that the King did nothing to prevent the attack on our lands,” Fiona said. “That, coupled with Spencer’s injury, has made it impossible to find a nobleman willing to foster him, to give him the proper training needed to attain knighthood.”
Sir George stared at her somberly. “Have you considered the boy’s future might lie with the church?”
“Oh, Sir George, not you too,” Fiona said, bristling at the remark. “’Tis bad enough that I must listen to my brother harp upon how Spencer’s infirmary makes him fit only for a priestly life. I expected more from you.”
Sir George bowed his head. “I only want what is best for the boy.”
“As do I,” Fiona huffed, though there were moments she had questioned her own motivation. Was her need for revenge putting Spencer in a dangerous position? Should she listen to men like Sir George and her brother who were so certain the only course for Spencer was a life of spiritual devotion?
Feeling a twinge of uncertainty, Fiona watched Spencer finally make his way to their side. His smile was wide and genuine as he embraced Sir George. It renewed her sprits to see the boy so happy. And renewed her determination. She refused to languish here at her brother’s keep, wasting precious time. She would not quietly accept the future that others wanted to foist upon her son. She would fight for the future he deserved.
Had not Father Niall himself reluctantly agreed the boy had no true calling to be God’s servant? And when further pressed, the priest had added that he highly doubted Spencer would be happy living a quiet life of faithful devotion.
Seeing the hunger and longing in Spencer’s eyes when the men were training was proof enough of the boy’s true desires. He deserved to inherit his father’s lands, to lead and protect their people. Somehow, someway, Fiona was going to make certain he had the chance.
“Will we be ready to leave soon, Sir George?” Fiona asked.
The answering silence from the knight was disturbing. Fiona suppressed a shiver of alarm. If Sir George abandoned them now, they would be stuck here for months. Maybe even years. So great was her distress, Fiona failed to notice her brother Harold sauntering smoothly across the bailey toward them.
“Ah, I see your chivalrous knight has finally arrived.” Harold halted beside her. Arms crossed, booted foot restlessly tapping, Harold’s narrowed gaze slowly swept from her to Spencer, and then rested speculatively on Sir George. “Good day to you.”
“My lord.” Sir George favored Harold with a curt nod before turning toward Fiona. “The preparations for our journey are nearly complete. If it pleases you, Lady Fiona, we will depart tomorrow at first light.”
Spencer tilted his head in interest. “Am I going, too?”
“Yes, of course.” Fiona smiled. He looked so young, so eager. With great effort she resisted the urge to run her hands affectionately over the lad’s dark curls, knowing the gesture would embarrass him in front of the other men. “Sir George and his men will escort us north, to the Abbey of St. Gifford, so we may visit the holy shrine.”
Harold scoffed. “I don’t know why you insist on traveling such a great distance to pray. The Brothers are not known to perform miracles or cure the infirmed.”
“Harold!” Fiona felt her ire ignite, not only at her brother’s words, but the smirking expression on his face. “We have no need of cures or miracles.”
Her brother’s perceptive eyes narrowed further. “Then why go at all? Why travel these dangerous roads?”
Fiona swallowed. Lying had never come easily and with so much depending upon keeping her true plans secret it was hard to find a response. But find one she must. “I need to show proper respect for the anniversary of Henry’s death. A retreat of prayer and reflection seems fitting.”
“My chapel is at your disposal, as is my priest. Hell, your priest still resides within my keep. Are these two holy men not enough?”
“I need to show proper respect,” Fiona repeated, forcing humility into her tone. Why was her brother taking such an interest in her now? He had hardly been welcoming when she arrived a year ago, dazed and shocked and desperate. His lack of attention and concern had been hurtful, and even more upsetting was the eventual realization that her brother’s feelings would not change.
’Twas obvious he had little use for Spencer, with his infirmary, and even less for her, a widow with no dowry. Harold’s neglect and disinterest was one of the reasons she was making this journey. No longer could she tolerate the bleak, barren future her brother saw for her son.
“A holy pilgrimage is a fitting tribute for the Baron,” Sir George interjected. “I am proud and honored to be of service to Lady Fiona.”
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