Rivals for the Crown (29 page)

Rory and Magnus had been close when they were younger, but since Magnus's marriage to Jocelyn their lives had been very different. This visit had both reinforced their affection for each other and highlighted their differences. Rory wondered how his wild older brother had turned into a man who pondered with his wife whether to repaint the beams of the ceilings. Jocelyn's doing, of course.

The house was warm, and welcoming. Rory and Kieran stripped themselves of their wet clothing in the kitchen, waiting by the fire while new clothing was brought from their room.

Magnus found them there. "Ranald's here," he said. "And William is with him. We thought ye'd be back earlier. Was there trouble?"

"Aye," Rory said, telling him what they'd found. He handed the bundle to Magnus. "I took these, locks of hair and bits of clothing, to see if anyone recognized any of it. Someone must be missing them or expecting them."

Magnus opened the bundle. "I dinna recognize any of this, but Ranald might. Look, dinna tell Jocelyn about the murders just the now, a'right? I'll send runners out with the word." He tucked the bundle away and led the way to the hall.

Ranald and William greeted them warmly. Jocelyn rose from her seat at the long table near the fireplace. Rory had always thought she looked like one of the fey, the fairie people who had once ruled this land, displaced by the Picts. Her hair was very light, almost white, and her eyes were the palest blue. She did not walk; she floated, which enhanced her fragile appearance. Until she opened her mouth. Her voice was a whine, and her face was most often set in lines of dissatisfaction. Rory had never heard her laugh aloud, nor sing with joy. What his brother found in Jocelyn he had never understood, but Magnus was mad about her, always had been.

"Rory," she said. "Kieran. I will have more food prepared." She sighed, as though their return had been unexpected, and went to the kitchens.

Rory and Kieran thanked her, then exchanged a look. They'd talked about Jocelyn many times and were in agreement on her charms. Magnus, as always, seemed to notice nothing disagreeable about her manner and simply watched her walk away.

"Sit," Magnus ordered. "We've ale and wine ready and food on the way. Tell Ranald what ye found."

Ranald listened to their story, then nodded. "It's getting worse." He held up the buckle. "I think this belonged to one of the Irvine lads. If it's the one I'm thinking of, he and two English soldiers had some words last week over swearing the fealty." He shook his head. "It's getting uglier every day. I'm here to convince ye three to swear and get it over with."

"William," Rory asked his uncle's cousin, "have ye sworn yet?"

William Wallace grinned. "I've been swearing about this a great deal, aye. I'm not a landowner, so I'm not required to swear. My father is. And yours is, but Magnus can swear in his stead."

"Liam is a landowner too," Kieran said.

"Which is where I'm going next," Ranald said. "They've returned from Stirling, no doubt because English soldiers are on their way there. Liam must agree to swear fealty. I cannot have all my family in jeopardy. It's bad enough that the lot of us got into it with the Bruce's men."

Rory nodded. That had not been wise of them. He, William, and Kieran, accompanied by several of William's Crawford cousins, had been involved in a brawl with some of the Bruce men at a tavern in Ayr. No one had been seriously hurt, but the incident had caught the attention of the English soldier garrisoned there.

"And now Malcolm!" Ranald said. "I tell ye, this is not wise!"

Rory looked from Ranald to William. "What? Which Malcolm, yer father or your brother?"

"My father," William said. "He's refusing to swear fealty. He said he could not do it. He's leaving Ayrshire with my brother Malcolm rather than swear."

"He's refusing?" Rory shot a glance at Magnus, who nodded.

"Do not think to follow his example," Ranald said sternly. "Aye, Malcolm's gone, abandoned his family." He silenced William's protest with a raised hand. "You're young, William, and I'm glad you defend your father, but his actions are not wise. Principles are one thing, but he's left your mother, my sister, to face the consequences."

"She was in agreement," William argued.

"Which does not matter," Ranald said. "He left her to fend for herself. We've taken Margaret and the youngest, John, in, for now at least. I'm here to convince you to be wiser, and off to your uncle Liam next to do the same."

"What will you do?" Rory asked William.

Ranald answered. "William's off to Dundee to study to be a priest, and that will keep him out of trouble. But, lads, think of how much better off my sister would have been in her own home."

"So ye're doing it, aye?" Rory asked William. What would it be like, to be that tall, that strong, and choose to be a man of God? Of course, William had had little say in it. His father was a knight. His older brother, also named Malcolm, would inherit his father's lands —assuming he'd not just lost them by refusing to swear fealty. It was traditional that second sons became priests, and younger ones became soldiers. Which meant that had his own parents thought the same, he'd be off with William to learn to pray for the rest of his life. He was grateful that they did not.

William nodded and shrugged. "I like the study.. .we'll see how godly I become. But rest assured, I'll say an extra prayer or two just for you, for I'm thinking you'll be needing them."

Rory grinned. "Better make it more than two. I intend to deserve whichever I get, heaven or hell."

"I'll make it several then."

"Ye could spend yer whole life praying for him. I ken our mother has," Magnus said, his laugh so like their father's that Rory was startled. How was it that he'd never realized it before?

"What will happen to Malcolm Wallace now?" Rory asked Ranald. "We've all heard that the penalties for not swearing will be severe. But what does that mean? Death? A fine? Flogging?"

Ranald's smile faded. "I do not know yet. Maybe all three. Maybe they simply take his land, which means the Wallaces lose everything."

"What I dinna understand," Kieran said, "is how we got here, swearing fealty to a king that is not ours. If we do it, we acknowledge him as our overlord, which means he's ruling Scotland already. So why do we need to go on with the fiction of choosing a Scottish king?"

"We don't, remember?" Rory said. "We dinna get a vote in this. We were sold to Edward."

"Given is more like it," William said, his tone angry now. "I don't like what's happening at all. We have English soldiers in Ayr, and Irvine, and they're moving into every castle and manor house. How can that not be called an occupation?"

"It should be," Rory said. "And the Balliols and Bruces fighting over the scraps. And ye," he said to William, "on yer knees, praying for the lot of us."

"I'll be a busy man," William said lightly.

"We'll all be busy," Ranald said. "Pray that the hearings in Berwick find us a king soon."

"I'm thinking of going to see for myself," Kieran said.

"Think again, lad," Magnus said, handing him a letter. "From yer da. Calling ye home. And Rory, I'd like ye to stay until things settle around here, if ye would. It will make me feel better, kenning that Jocelyn has the both of us protecting her."

AUGUST 1291

BERWICK-UPON-TWEED, SCOTLAND

Rachel stood next to her father on the riverbank, watching her sister and mother arrive on the ferry that crossed the Tweedmouth estuary. Behind her the city hummed with activity, for Berwick was preparing to host a king. And perhaps see another king chosen. The weather was clear now, but the thin clouds and the look of the sky promised rain later, not unusual for August. She'd learned to predict the weather in this strange northern city that was now their home; she'd also learned to predict her father's mood. The second was the easier of the two tasks.

She didn't need to ask her father if he was worried. Jacob rubbed his chin and sighed occasionally, and she knew his mood was
sombre
. Small wonder. The inn had been doing very well, so well that her father had bought the building next door and broken through the wall to join the two. So well that her father had hired four more people and Rachel's days were so full that she hardly noticed the months passing. So well that they'd put Isabel to work on her second day with them and she'd never stopped, and it was a delight to have her with them. So well that she'd almost forgotten what had brought them to Berwick.

But now.. .Edward of England was coming—bringing an army, they'd been told, and why did a king need an army except to wage war? It was difficult to acknowledge the possibility that once again they might be driven from their home. Should they flee to the Continent? But where? Jews had been driven out of Anjou and Gascony—by Edward Plantagenet himself. Gilbert, the former innkeeper, had told them to stay, saying that the king would not

come to the inn, nor would his courtiers, who would be housed at the castle or in grander places. The less important members of the royal entourage who might come to the inn would not even notice the Angenhoffs as long as the rooms were clean and the food palatable. If anyone asked, Gilbert said, he'd claim to still own the inn.

And so they'd decided to stay. But still they all worried, and once again Mama sewed coins into their hems.

And now.. .now, of all times, Sarah had announced that she would marry Edgar Keith. Rachel had not quite believed Sarah would go through with it. But Sarah was returning now, with Mother, from meeting Edgar's parents, the last obstacle to the match.

"It will be good to have them back," Rachel said.

Her father merely nodded while he watched the ferry land.

"I hope it went well," she said.

"How could it not?" Jacob asked. "How could any mother not want your sister to marry her son? The boy is smitten."

"He is, isn't he? And very handsome. Your grandchildren will be lovely."

Jacob's smile was weak. "My grandsons will be handsome, child, not lovely."

"What if you have granddaughters?"

"Then they will be beautiful, like their mother, and aunt, and grandmother."

"Oh, Papa! Mama and Sarah are beautiful, but I am not."

"Both my daughters are beautiful," Jacob said firmly.

Rachel kissed his cheek. "Thank you. I wish they would live closer. She'll be two days' journey away."

"She'll be safe. No one will notice her there."

"We'll miss her."

Jacob rubbed his chin. "We will. We will. Isabel will help. She's been a godsend, Rachel. Always cheerful, always thoughtful. I would not have thought she could work as hard as she does. I don't know what we would have done without her. Or she without us. Still nothing from her mother?"

"Nothing. Her grandmother writes once a month, but no word from her mother. Not one letter.

"What kind of mother sends her only child, an innocent girl, to travel alone and wait for a father who might never come? I ask you, Rachel, what kind of woman does that? Your mother wouldn't. Look, look at her there, a bright smile on her face." He met Rachel's gaze. "She hates this match as much as I do. But

you'd never know it, would you? And Sarah will not either. You'll not tell her."

"No, Papa, I wouldn't. I want her to be happy."

"So do I. But she won't be. It can't work." He rubbed his chin again.

Rachel sighed and followed her father to the ferry. Sarah's wide smile let her know that the trip had been a success, and Rachel buried her own shameful hope that it would have failed. She would be happy for Sarah. And like their father, never let Sarah know otherwise. How strange life was, she thought, for the Almighty to have given her Isabel just when Sarah was leaving them. And for Edward of England to have followed them here.

It wasn't until late that night that the sisters had a chance to talk. They'd returned to the inn to find it suddenly full of travelers and Isabel overwhelmed because she'd been serving alone this evening. They had immediately plunged into the many tasks that awaited them and had not had a moment to sit together. When the kitchen had been cleaned and the last of the patrons had left the tavern room, Rachel and Sarah huddled together in the small bed that they shared in the attic and whispered so that Isabel, in her cot across the room, would not hear them.

"Well?" Rachel asked. "How was it? Tell me, tell me!"

"His mother was so very nice. You should have seen her and Mama, like two cats watching each other. But no claws. It was all very polite."

"So it's settled? You will wed?" Rachel felt a pang of sorrow. She should not be so selfish. She wanted Sarah to be happy—but it would never be the same without her.

"Yes. At their Yule celebration. Edgar will come and get me. We'll be wed here with a rabbi, then there with a priest."

"You will have a Christian wedding too? For Edgar?"

Sarah lowered her voice. "When I am married, I will become a Christian."

"How can you?..."

Sarah's expression hardened. "How can I not? I will convert, Rachel. What has God done for those of us who keep our faith? He's let us be driven out of every land on earth. We are not the Chosen People; we are the forsaken people."