The Scotsman (28 page)

A moody smile set stiffly on his lips as Alex shrugged. “If I were to slay the lady’s brother …” He let the
sentence go unfinished, suddenly loath to allow Douglas to know his mind, but the other man quickly guessed.

“Aye, ’tis true she would vow never to forgive you for it. Yet I have observed that women are oft fickle in their emotions, and she may find that you are more important to her than her brother.”

Alex did not reply. It seemed unlikely that Catherine would ever be fickle in her love for her brother. And he would not want her to be less than she was.

Then Douglas abandoned the subject, and slinging an arm around Alex’s shoulders, accompanied him to the great hall where they joined others in enjoying the feast that had been deserted by the English. It was the first decent food he had eaten since they left Castle Rock a fortnight before, and Alex ate with gusto.

The next day, when the governor finally yielded after sustaining a serious arrow wound to his face, Alex waited impatiently for de Fiennes to be granted safe passage to England and quit the castle. He was suddenly filled with the need to see Catherine again, to assure himself that she was still well. If Devlin discovered his absence, it was likely that Warfield would join his son in an out-and-out attack in order to free his daughter and obviate the need to continue negotiations.

Finally, William de Fiennes yielded the keys and took his leave, his little caravan departing Roxburgh Castle to move toward England. Sim of Leadhouse was given the glad duty of relaying to Bruce the news of Roxburgh’s capture and no doubt receiving a hefty reward for the happy tidings, and Roxburgh was left with enough men to safeguard it until it could be razed to the ground. Destroying any hope of enemy occupation was the only way to ensure that the English would not return. The method was drastic, but successful.

Restless, Alex mounted his horse and waited for Douglas on the road outside the castle. Sparse afternoon sunlight glittered from behind heavy dark clouds, muted and hazy as it trickled over the rolling hills and slopes. Douglas eyed him with a lifted brow as he halted his horse beside him.

“You do not join us.”

“Nay. I must return. My keep is vulnerable, and I do not trust Warfield. Once I have ensured all is well, I have agreed to ride again with Moray.”

“Ah, my comrade in arms … give Moray my regards when you see him—and be certain he hears of Roxburgh’s capture.”

Alex grinned. It was well known that Douglas and Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, had a friendly rivalry, ever since Douglas had captured Moray and held him prisoner until he swore loyalty to Bruce. Since that time, the two men—so different, with Douglas tall, thin, and darkly restless, and Randolph shorter, stocky, and fair-haired—had been close friends. Bruce himself had noted the important differences between them and used them well, each in their own capacity. Randolph was measured in manner and astute in statecraft, but oft competed with Douglas in feats of daring and drama.

“I will tell Moray of your success with Roxburgh, so that I may watch him try to equal it. Twill be a most entertaining diversion, I think.”

A reckless grin split Douglas’s face, and he laughed. “We will meet again soon. Fare thee well, Alex Fraser. And give the lovely lady a kiss from Black Douglas when you see her!”

Laughing, Douglas put spurs to horse and sped away, and Alex grinned as he turned his mount toward the southwest and Castle Rock. He followed the Teviot River for a ways, then skirted English-held Jedburgh. The
movement of enemy troops was constant, and he circled the town to the northwest in the waning light of dusk. Dark fell early this time of year, and with it this night came high winds and spitting snow.

Reluctantly, he decided to seek shelter in Jedburgh Abbey for the night. If he left early and the weather held, he would be able to reach Castle Rock by dusk of the morrow. Much depended upon the presence of English troops in the area as well—the region was thick with them as news of Roxburgh’s fall spread swiftly, and he might have to ride far out of his way to avoid them.

When he reached the doors of the abbey, none answered his heavy thuds. He yanked impatiently at the bell rope, and heard it clang inside the hallowed walls. A cold wind blew from the north, chilling him to the bone, so that by the time a cowled monk opened the small grilled window in the door, he found it hard to speak without chattering.

“I seek shelter.”

“It is late on a holy eve, brother. Seek shelter elsewhere this night, for—”

“But I am here, newly come from Roxburgh and a victory for Robert Bruce,” he growled in Gaelic. “Do you deny me?”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then the face vanished from behind the grilled window, and the shutter closed on it. He lifted his fist to pound again, but heard a bolt draw back with a grating, heavy sound. The door swung inward, and Alex entered with his horse. The friar stepped aside, then swung the heavy doors shut behind them and slid the bolt. He held a lamp high so that light bobbed erratically over his portly frame, peering at Alex’s mail and weapon. Then he beckoned, and while his horse was given into the care of another cowled monk, Alex was led down a vaulted corridor illuminated by horn lamps
set along the wall. A grassy courtyard edged one side of the corridor. Spiny branches of rosebushes waved spindly arms in the night wind as they passed, reminding him of supplicating hands.

The friar paused in front of a door, then pushed it open and entered another corridor, leading Alex inside at last, into the smell of candles and incense. He followed the silent monk, his sword clanking slightly against the walls of stone and their footsteps echoing down the hallway. They passed a set of double doors that gave into a vast chamber filled with tables and benches and brightly lit by candles.

“That is the refectory,” the friar said in English. “We fast in honor of the holy day, but ’tis where we serve the evening meal for guests.”

The abbey was larger than it appeared, and Alex was surprised by the maze of hallways and doors. Finally the monk paused again and turned to indicate a door set into a small alcove. “You may sleep here this night, my son. For a fee by which we may continue God’s work, you may dine in the refectory with the others. If you so desire, you may join us in our evening prayers in the chapel.”

Now he spoke in Gaelic, and Alex answered in the same language. “Robert Bruce needs all your prayers.”

Nodding his tonsured head, his round face broke into a smile. “You can be certain he receives them, my brother.” He moved to the door and opened it. “It is small, but offers shelter. A candle costs a ha’penny.” He looked down and closed his fingers around it when Alex pressed a coin into his palm, then withdrew a tallow stub from beneath his robe. He smiled again. “You will hear the bell ring for supper.”

Alex followed him into the room that was little more than a cell. It contained a hard bed with a neatly folded
wool blanket at one end, and a table with a carved wooden candlestick. The friar lit the tallow candle from his lamp and jabbed it into the end of the candle holder. Then he left, and Alex felt the silence close in around him as the door shut.

The complete absence of sound was unnerving. Always at Castle Rock there was noise, whether distant or close; it was never quiet save at night, and even then there would be the whispered rustling of sentries or guards or servants creeping about their tasks. But here, insulated from the world in hallowed halls of prayer, it seemed as if he could hear the blood run through his veins and his heart beat in his chest.

Tempted to wrap himself up in the blanket and go right to sleep, Alex debated going to the main hall for supper. But his growling belly made the decision for him, and he stripped away his mail hauberk, swearing softly before he caught himself when one of the leather straps broke. A pitcher of water sat on the edge of a stone basin, and he broke the ice in it to pour a small amount out to wash his face and hands, scrubbing them dry with the edge of his plaid. The room was austere but immaculate. Not a spiderweb graced a corner, nor did dust lay upon the small table. He smiled slightly. A spartan life, to be certain.

It was not a choice he would make, but he could understand a man’s desire to retreat from the world this way. Most of the time, it was a quiet, simple life spent in prayer and the growing of food, dispensing herbs and advice with generous hands, guiding the lost and abandoned. There were those orders and priests who abused their offices, but most he had met were decent men with high principles. As in all areas of life, some few could influence the rest to either direction.

Pulling a small packet from the folds of his plaid, Alex
placed it on the table. It was wrapped in a square of silk and tied with ribbons, a neat parcel that contained scented soap and exotic perfume. He had found it at Roxburgh and taken it as part of his spoils from the victory. Inside were also rich silk ribbons of purple the same shade as Catherine’s eyes, and a comb for her hair wrought of gold and amethyst. No doubt, some English soldier had purchased these for his lady. Now they would go to another English lady.

A bell rang, chimes sounding deep and the call to supper resonating through the abbey. More bells would sound the call to prayer or mark the hour. Alex adjusted his plaid for warmth and left his small cell, moving down the echoing corridor to the refectory.

Others had already arrived and taken seats on benches at the tables, some refugees from the night like himself, he supposed. There were even a few women draped in the required veils or wimples to cover their hair. One of the brothers came around with a small wooden bowl, holding it out discreetly for coins. Alex dropped in his contribution with the rest, but his attention was snared by one of the other guests’ soft exclamation of dismay.

In French, she murmured that she had no coin. The brother hesitated, frowning, and the lady shook her head, her face shrouded by the draping of her wool veil. “I am sorry. I did not know….”

“I will pay her coin,” Alex said, and the lady’s head came up. He froze with the coin held out, staring directly into familiar violet eyes. They widened, pupils expanding until her eyes looked almost black as she stared at him in horror.

“Good eventide, Lady Catherine.” His English was rough with surprised anger, and she made a small, wordless sound in the back of her throat.

Fury gripped him—fury and apprehension and an
overwhelming sense of betrayal. There could be only one explanation. She had escaped.

Curse her. And curse his own foolishness for thinking she could be trusted. For thinking that when she had yielded her body, she had also yielded her heart.…

Mortal terror struck her to the marrow. Catherine could neither move nor speak, she could only stare at Alex Fraser as he regarded her with an expression of fury she had never seen before. Her first instinct was flight, but she immediately realized how futile that would be. No, her only hope was to brazen it out, for she was in a house of God. No man could harm her on hallowed ground.

The cowled monk had moved to stand at Alex’s side, and he jiggled the bowl a little impatiently. Alex dropped the coin into it with a brittle clink. She bent her head, and with a trembling hand reached for the bread she was offered. She must think. A bowl of barley pottage was placed in front of her, and she dipped the crust of bread into it without glancing up, afraid of meeting the eyes like steel swords staring at her from across the table.

She had gone the wrong way; she knew that now. She had gone east instead of west, and the nunnery Tarn told her of had never appeared. Three days of hiding and fear had rendered her near senseless, and the happy relief of
stumbling onto this abbey, so much further than her original goal, had been her salvation.

She had spoken French, careful not to betray herself with an English accent, even though the town was held by English. The kindly porter had allowed her inside. A woman alone … the abbot was horrified. Robbery? Ah, what was a widow from a good merchant family doing wandering the country when bands of brigands roamed mercilessly … it was well she had come here, for word of a nearby raid had reached them earlier in the day.

She had thought, briefly, that she was safe. With nearby Jedburgh in English hands, she would be able to get word to Nicholas that she had escaped. All for naught now, of course. Alex Fraser was here and he would never allow her to send word to anyone, nor allow her to leave save with him at her side. She had seen it in his eyes, the lethal promise and menacing fury of a man who has been thwarted.

Yet at the same time, she resented his anger, and the righteousness that obviously accompanied it. Had he not taken her maidenhead only to fulfill a threat? It did not matter that she had yielded it for reasons of her own. It was hers to yield. And because there was nothing more than that between them, she would of course attempt to escape him as soon as she could. She was English and he was Scots. They were sworn enemies even before she had been born, and would be so long after she died. It was the way of things. She had been foolish to ever dream it might be different.