The Scotsman (10 page)

Silence fell. Rain pattered softly against the glazed windowpanes, and the fire hissed in the grate. His face had not changed, but remained as if chiseled from stone as he studied her so long her nerves began to fray under his cold stare. Finally, he pushed away from the mantel and moved to stand in front of her, dark and tall and intimidating, with only the chair between them.

“You have been wildly misinformed, my lady.” His tone was soft, but the words were clipped and hard. “Are you so ill-taught that you do not know the truth? Or is it that the English prefer to ignore the facts, and invent their own tales to justify their deceit?”

“Nothing of the kind.” She steadied the nervous quiver of her hands on the chairback. “Is it not true that after the Scots King Alexander died and his granddaughter was declared the new queen, King Edward signed a treaty granting conditions for Scotland’s independence? But when little Queen Margaret died soon after, the Scots who had signed that treaty treacherously declared John Balliol king of Scotland instead of following the terms of the agreement—which would have given Edward the right to the Scottish throne.”

“Those facts are far too bare, madam.” The thin white scar on his cheek tightened. “The Scots who signed that treaty with Edward were little more than minions of the English crown, intent upon their own ends rather than the wishes of most of Scotland. ’Twas crafty Edward who had these Scots make Balliol king. And after Edward had this puppet king declare the signed treaty null and void—thus releasing Edward from his promises of Scottish independence—John Balliol was discarded like a broken jug. Nay, Edward is not a man to be trusted.”

A wintry smile curled his lips as she stared up at him with uneasiness. “Do I see uncertainty in your eyes, my lady? Perhaps if you think on’t a time, you will see the truth for yourself.”

“That still does not justify Robert of Bruce’s claim to the throne.” Her protest sounded lame and uninformed, even to her own ears. Was it possible that all she had managed to learn was wrong? But how could it be? No, these Scots were masters of manipulation, as her brother had once angrily remarked. And this man was the most adept at it, despite the kernel of reason he injected into his explanation.

“Bruce’s claim is valid. He is directly descended from King David on his father’s side, and because of this, in 1238 his grandfather was named heir presumptive by King Alexander II. When the king remarried, however, his son Alexander was born and became his heir and king. But the Bruces have never forgotten their royal blood or favor.”

Catherine did not deny that there was a ring of truth to what he said, but it had been ingrained in her to believe in Edward’s claim to the throne of Scotland. There must be a reasonable explanation, an argument for all the issues he raised. If only she could think clearly, but the
days spent in solitude had rendered her mind near numb with endless monotony and apprehension.

With a lift of her shoulders, she said at last, “Yet the Bruce family aligned with the English at one time.”

“Aye, but only to fulfill their oath of obligation. The Bruces never paid homage to John Balliol as crowned king of Scotland, nor recognized his coronation. They kept faith with the allegiance they had sworn to Edward, and in turn, he promised them the crown of Scotland once Balliol was deposed. Again, Longshanks lied. And that was his undoing, for by it, he freed Robert Bruce to seek that which should be his.”

Catherine frowned at the curved back of the chair she held, anything to avert her gaze from the tall man staring down at her so dispassionately. “You seem to have an answer for everything. Yet ’tis true that since I was a small child, followers of Wallace and Bruce have swept down into England to burn monasteries and even infants. Just a year ago, Bruce crossed the Solway with his army and sacked Lanercost Priory, scarcely six leagues from Warfield. He ravaged Hexham and Corbridge, looting and taking hostages, then moved to Durham to fall upon those hapless merchants just as they were putting up stalls on market day. He burned the town to ashes, killing rampantly.”

“Yea, I know well what happened. I was with him.” A faint smile curled his mouth. “And I was with James Douglas at Hartlepool, when he ransacked the town and took wealthy burgesses and their wives as ransom.”

“Then you do not deny the depredations that have been visited upon innocent citizens!”

“Yea, lady, I do deny it. Bruce does not kill the innocent, as does your Edward. Those who do not resist are spared, and women and children are not slaughtered.”

“Fie on you, sir, for telling such tales! Next you shall say William Wallace and his men did not burn alive a school full of children or attack villages….”

“War is war. And much is attributed to Bruce and William Wallace that never happened. How else could Edward raise an army to fight men who want only their freedom if he does not convince his soldiers of false atrocities?”

“For a crude Scot,” she retorted in rising frustration, “you have a nimble tongue.”

His countenance relaxed slightly, and the suggestion of a genuine smile tucked the corners of his mouth inward. “Aye, so I have been told before. But so do you, lass.”

“I have not exactly come off the best in this war of words, I fear.” Some of her tension eased as he grinned, and she looked away from him again. “I will think on what you have said, though I cannot help but suspect you have only twisted the facts to suit your purpose.”

He shrugged. “I invite you to listen and learn. ’Tis the only way to glean the truth.”

“Perhaps, but ’tis my thought that how truthful a man is depends on which country he is in when he voices his opinion.”

“By that reasoning, milady, should your father happen to be in Scotland, he would be branded a liar if he swore that Edward is Scotland’s rightful king. Is that right?”

“You name him liar now, when he is yet in England.” Curse him, must he stand so close? She could not think, could not breathe with him standing over her, and she gripped the chair back more tightly. “I am certain my father would give you point for point his reasons why Edward is king, just as you can give reasons for Bruce’s claim. There are truths, and in the end, God will decide who is right.”

“It has been said that God is always on the side of the biggest army.”

“Then ’tis certain Edward will be victor, for his army numbers many more than the Scots.”

“Do you think so?” There was an odd note in his voice, and she looked up at him then, struck by the intensity of his tone. “Edward may have more soldiers, but Scotland’s army is made up of its people, and numbers far more than the foreign mercenaries King Edward hires to wage war against a country they care nothing about. In the end, no man will risk all just for coin. ’Tis only men who have nothing left to lose but their Uves who will risk all. I suggest you remember that when you begin to doubt the outcome, milady.”

Silenced not just by his argument but by his tension, she watched him warily as he prowled the room like a great cat, predatory and dangerous in his dark mood. She kept the chair in front of her as if to shield herself from him, a flimsy barrier, in truth, should he choose to pounce. Finally he turned toward her, pivoting on his boot heels to stare at her intently, but his words were civil.

“I am just returned, and still wearing mud from my journey. You may linger here as long as you like, but call for an escort ere you return to your chamber.”

“Of course. May I take a book with me?”

Some of his tension eased, and he nodded. “Aye, take what you like. ’Tis certain no one else here has the time to read them.”

Catherine bit back a scathing remark on her wasted hours, forcing herself to nod graciously as he took his leave of her. With the closing of the door, relief flooded her, and she sank into the comfort of the chair that had supported her.

If he was not right, he certainly believed he was. And
that, she had observed, made a man dangerous. Did not her father believe himself right? Yea, and he was most dangerous.

Her hands trembled slightly, and she tucked them into her lap to still the quiver. She felt as if she were standing at the edge of Castle Rock’s highest parapet, precariously balanced over sharp crags below. A single misstep and she would go plummeting to her doom.…

“Any answer from the earl?”

Alex glanced up at Robbie and shook his head. “No, as you well know.”

“It has been a fortnight since you sent our offer.”

Sliding his foot all the way into his boot, Alex gave an irritated grunt that Robbie chose to ignore.

“What do you think the bloody earl intends, Alex?”

“If I knew that, I would no doubt also know the mystery of life. Give over, Robbie. I am in no mood to ponder questions with no answers.”

Robbie slouched against the carved chest at the foot of Alex’s bed, regarding his companion with eyes narrowed in thought. “There are answers,” he muttered after a moment, “but mayhap not the ones we want to hear.”

“I do not doubt that for a moment.” Alex pulled a clean sherte over his head. It smelled of fresh air and heather sprigs. His nose wrinkled. “How many times must I tell Mairi not to allow the gillies to salt my garments with flowers?”

A soft hoot of laughter greeted his muttered complaint. “You must smell sweet for the ladies, Alex lad.”

“I have no time for the ladies.”

“Not even for the one in yon tower?” Robbie’s sly question earned him a fierce glare, but he gave an undaunted chuckle. “Did you think I would not notice how you look at her? I saw it in your eyes that first day. ’Twas not to scare her that you kissed her but to satisfy your own want.”

“I kissed her because she behaved as if I was too dirty to touch her, not for any other reason.”

Robbie’s eloquent shrug disagreed, but he did not argue the point. “What did the Bruce have to say about you taking her hostage?”

“That it was a waste of time and effort.” Alex slung a wide leather belt around his waist and buckled it before looking up at Robbie again. “He has dealt with Warfield before and has no high opinion of him.”

“Aye, so I feared.” Robbie scrubbed a hand over the light beard bristling on his jaw. “Are we to join Bruce soon?”

“I have until January to do what I can for Jamie. Then we are to join James Douglas in subduing the Lothian province and take as many castles as possible before the cursed battle we shall be forced to wage against the English on midsummer’s day.”

Nodding, Robbie said, “A pox upon Edward Bruce for committing not only his brother, but all of us to that battle. If he had not grown weary of laying siege to Stirling Castle and accepted the crafty terms of the English commander’s offer—”

“’Twas an ill mind that prompted him to that oath,” Alex interrupted, frowning. “The English know well ’tis the Bruce’s policy not to risk pitched battle with their greater numbers. But when Lord Mowbray offered to
freely yield Stirling Castle to the Scots unless King Edward rescues them by midsummer’s day, he was only setting the date for a confrontation. Edward will never let Stirling Castle go without a fight, as it is vital to the English defenses.” Alex shrugged with irritation and muttered, “As the Bruce’s brother should have foreseen, instead of allowing Mowbray to Cozen him into such damaging terms.”

Silence fell between them, both men lost in grave contemplation of the past as well as the future. It was Alex who broke their preoccupation by announcing that he was famished.

“It was a hard ride to Bruce’s camp and back here. While we eat, you can tell me what transpired here while I was gone.”

Shrugging, Robbie accompanied him from his chamber and into the hallway, relating events of minor squabbles and a feud over the ownership of a pig. “The sow is set to farrow, and William of Kinnison claims she be his, while his dead brother’s wife swears the sow belongs to her.”

“Did you settle it?”

“Aye.” Robbie nodded in satisfaction. “You now have a new sow until she farrows, then lots are to be cast to divide the grice.”

“Neatly done.” Smiling, Alex glanced up as they rounded a corner, then stopped. Accompanied by a sullen Mairi, Lady Catherine approached, several books tucked under her arm. When she saw him, she jerked to a halt under the flickering light of a wall torch, looking a bit uncertain.

“As you see, sir, I am being escorted, though she is most unwilling.”

“So I see.” Alex regarded Mairi with grim amusement, and asked in Gaelic if his orders had been followed regarding
the lady’s chamber. When Main shook her head, he frowned and said, “You may go.”

Main jerked her head in assent, then stomped away, leaving Catherine staring after her. “If I offended her,” she muttered, “please tell me how so that I can repeat the offense the next time she wakes me before first light.”

Alex grinned. “Mairi believes one should not stay abed once the sun has risen.”

“A remarkable policy, but detestable when one has not slept soundly.”

“We go down to the hall to sup, milady, if you would care to join us.” He didn’t know why he offered, save that she looked so lost at the moment, so vulnerable with her load of books and ill-fitting garments. Her hair was tucked into small coils above her ears, but loose tendrils had escaped to dangle against her cheek and the nape of her neck.