His Destiny (19 page)

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Authors: Diana Cosby

BOOK: His Destiny
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“Before I go to sleep, I would like to see Sir Patrik.” To tell him good-bye.
Lady Linet hesitated. “He is with a healer. Once she leaves, ’tis best if he rests as well.”
So that was what Lord Grey had whispered to his wife, to keep Emma away from Patrik. Fine then, she would not ask again, but she would see him one last time before she left.
 
 
Hands grasping the sturdy woolen coverlet upon his bed, Patrik clenched the aged wood between his teeth as the healer prodded. Yellow candlelight exposed several angry gashes across his shoulder and arm, wounds that had almost cost him his life.
“Bite harder,” the old woman said, her eyes focused on the deepest gash across his left arm.
Patrik complied, trying to focus on anything but the pain as her hands quickly cleaned, then bound the severed flesh.
Her expression held grim satisfaction as she tied the last knot. She held up a ripe concoction. “Swallow this.”
The pungent taste of herbs stung his tongue, and he gulped the water she handed him. “Tastes like mud.”
“Aye,” the healer agreed, “but ’twill lessen the worst of the pain. Rest now. You are not to be about for a sennight.” The healer scowled. “A fortnight it should be, but I have known you too many years to believe you would ever be following that, if you even remain abed for a day.” Though gently spoken, anger coated her words, caused by his attempt on Nichola’s life.
Wood creaked as the chamber door opened. Seathan strode inside, followed by Duncan, then Alexander. The grim expressions upon their faces were far from welcoming.
The healer nodded at Seathan. “He should recover, my lord. With time. As yet, there is no sign of infection.”
“Thank God,” Seathan said.
In silence, the elderly woman secured the pouches of herbs, stowed them within her basket, and then closed the lid. “If he starts a fever, send for me.”
“Aye,” Seathan replied.
Soft footsteps echoed as the healer departed.
As the door closed in her wake, his brothers surrounded his bed. Tension throbbed in the chamber.
Patrik exhaled, taking in his brothers, the scowls on their faces. Nichola’s outburst replayed in his mind. “No matter how many times I beg forgiveness for trying to kill Nichola, it will never be enough.” He ached at the words, needing to say them.
Alexander crossed his arms. “She refuses to see you. A denial I will honor.”
Patrik’s throat tightened. “It is her right.” While he’d lain healing within the crofter’s bed, he’d had time, months to recount his actions, time in which he had found shame and self-recrimination in his attempt upon Nichola’s life. Foolishly, he’d held hope that time could repair the severed ties with his family. But in his musings, Nichola had agreed to see him. Now, he didn’t even have that hope.
Until she forgave him, though his brothers would allow him to remain at Lochshire Castle, their family bond would remain fractured, and this would never again be his home.
“By God’s eyes, how do you live?” Alexander asked. “I saw you die, saw the light fade from your eyes.”
“I . . .” Warmth pulsed within the stone at Patrik’s neck. He frowned and touched the halved malachite, caught the exchange of curious glances between his brothers. “I remember pain, blackness, and then coming awake.” He dropped his hand to his side. “I should have been dead.”
The silence stretched.
Seathan cleared his throat. “There is a pressing issue that cannot wait.”
At the seriousness of his tone, Patrik tensed. Then he knew. “The writ.”
“Aye,” Seathan replied. “Alexander gave it to me. I will send a runner to bring it to Wallace.”
“My thanks,” Patrik replied, still struggling to accept that the bishop had surrendered to the English. “Without the bishop’s guidance, what will Wallace do?”
Seathan grimaced. “When Wallace learned of the bishop’s surrender, he sent a missive to Andrew de Moray to bring his troops south. He was unaware John de Warenne was preparing to join forces with Cressingham, but it seems as though God guided his decision.”
“Aye,” Patrik agreed, his mind spinning with the news. The addition of de Moray’s forces would allow the rebels to deal a major blow.
At the continued silence, tension filled the room.
A muscle worked in Seathan’s jaw. “Except, as Alexander told you, we were sent to intercept
Dubh Duer
.”
Weariness settled over him. Aye, he had much to explain. In detail, Patrik revealed how after he’d recovered from near death, he had traveled to Bishop Wishart, begged for forgiveness of his sins, and pleaded to be allowed to continue to help the rebels. Then he spoke of the bishop’s agreement as well as the new name he’d taken:
Dubh Duer
.
“So you hid behind an alias?” The rawness of Duncan’s words echoed as if a slap.
“I could do no other,” Patrik replied.
Alexander grunted. “You could have. Though I am proud of you for aiding the rebels, instead of daring to face us, tell us the truth, you shielded yourself behind a false name.”
Anger erupted. Patrik shoved himself up; wove. “Bedamned!” he said as Seathan reached out, caught his good shoulder, steadied him. He faced Alexander, fought for consciousness, emotions slamming through him. “Tell me, Alexander, had you known that I lived, would you have found forgiveness after I had drawn blood from your wife, from you? Blast it, I tried to kill you both!” He glared at him. “I think not.”
A flush stained Alexander’s cheeks. “I—”
“What?” Patrik demanded, tired of the deceit, the lies that smothered him like a rag shoved over his mouth. “What would you have done? Do you not think while I lay within the crofter’s bed, the days rolling into months, I had not the time to think out every possibility, time to wish to go back, time to erase the dishonor I took upon myself?”
The scar along Alexander’s left cheek tightened. “And your suffering, reliving how you tried to kill my wife, is that supposed to rectify your actions?”
Sadness washed through Patrik. His legs shaking, he sank on the bed and steadied his hands upon his legs. “Nay. I have no ex-excuse but my loyalty to you.”
“Loyalty?” Alexander grunted. “If trying to kill Nichola is an example of your loyalty—”
“Enough.” Seathan glared from one man to the other. “Arguing will but deepen wounds already made.”
The door opened.
Surprised someone dared interrupt their lord, Patrik glanced over.
A tall man entered, his stride confident, his build that of a warrior. Brown hair, secured by a leather thong, enhanced the hard angles of his face, his cloak of the finest wool, fitting his title—Baron of Monceaux, an affluent English lord, Advisor to the English king on Scottish affairs, and Nichola’s brother Griffin.
The baron’s eyes cut to Patrik, and he paled. Then anger brought crimson slashes to his cheeks. “You live?”
“Aye.” How had they informed Nichola’s brother so fast? Last Patrik knew, as King Edward’s advisor to the Scots, Griffin was in England in discussion with John de Warenne on a pressing issue. He must have traveled north on business for the English crown, or, for the Rebels as
Wulfe
.
Seathan frowned. “Griffin, I thought you were meeting with Wallace?”
“I was, but our talk was interrupted by a missive from Wishart with his intent to surrender to the English.” The baron stepped before Patrik, halted, his legs braced, his face carved with a fierce expression. “Needless to say, with that news our plans changed, and Wallace bade me here. Except,” he drawled, fury slicing through his voice, “I had not expected to find the man who tried to kill my sister.”
Chapter 16
 
“Saint’s breath!” Patrik shoved to his feet again; once more, the room spun. He braced himself, held the Baron of Monceaux’s damning gaze. “I was a bloody fool for trying to kill your sister, nay worse.” His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe, to steady himself against the flood of emotions. “I regret everything about that day. More than you could ever know.”
Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “A mere apology and you expect me to forgive you?”
“Nay.” Patrik cursed the entire situation, that he’d ever entertained the notion of returning to Lochshire Castle or reclaiming his family. “I expect nothing from you or anyone.” Exhaustion weighed heavy upon his mind, he realized the herbs had begun to work. Aye, surrounded by four warriors, a fitting time for him to be slow of wit. “I was wrong to attack Nichola.”
“Attack?” Alexander moved beside Griffin. “You shoved a knife to her neck and bloody tried to kill her!”
The image replayed like a nightmare in Patrik’s hazy mind. “At the time I believed her unworthy of you and wanted her dead. But I was wrong.” With heart-wrenching sadness, he took in each man, men whom he’d fought beside, men with whom he’d shared his dreams. Remorse balled in his throat. “Worry not, I shall not remain.”
The scar on Alexander’s cheek tightened. “Where will you go?”
Patrik gave a dry laugh. “As if where I am is of consequence ? You will nae see me again, on that you have my word. But I will continue to serve Scotland’s cause.” He took a step toward the door; his body trembled from the effort.
“Sit, damn you,” Seathan spat.
Feet braced, Patrik lifted his head as his soul crumbled. “An order, my lord?”
Seathan scowled. “Sit down before you fall.”
“I—” The room blurred. Patrik struggled for words. “I will nae—” Blackness shrouded his mind.
Alexander caught Patrik as he collapsed. “Help me, damn you, Griffin.”
“’Tis fine to see you as well,” his brother-in-law said as he caught Patrik’s other shoulder.
Alexander grunted. “Put the bloody fool back in his bed.” Once they’d settled Patrik beneath the covers, Alexander stared down at the man who had tried to kill his wife, a man he still considered his brother. “The lad has the brains of an arse.”
Duncan walked over, halted beside Alexander and shot his brother a grim smile. “Aye, but then, he always did.”
On an exhale, Griffin stepped to Alexander’s other side. “I would like to have wrung his bloody neck, but ’twas a waste to a man barely conscious.” He cast Seathan a grim look. “Will you allow him to stay?”
“He is our brother.” Seathan paused. “Why has Wallace sent you here?”
“He refuses to allow Wishart to remain in English hands,” Griffin replied. “While he focuses his efforts on the English, we are to free the bishop.”
Alexander nodded. “Wishart is too valuable for the Sassenach to keep, on that I agree.”
“Where have they taken Bishop Wishart?” Seathan asked.
“He is incarcerated at Roxburgh Castle,” Griffin replied.
Seathan grimaced. “What of the Earl of Carrick and Sir William Douglas? The missive Wishart sent stated they were to surrender as well.”
“Robert Bruce has agreed to turn over his daughter as a hostage in his stead.” Griffin paused. “As for Sir William Douglas, ’twould seem no quarter will be given. He was hauled to Berwick Castle.”
“God’s teeth.” Seathan blew out a harsh breath. “We must free him as well. He cannot remain in English hands.”
Darkness clouded Griffin’s face. “I am not sure we have time. Douglas is to remain in Berwick Castle but a short while. During my brief meeting with Sir Henry de Percy, he explained King Edward demanded that once Sir William Douglas was caught, he was to be imprisoned within the Tower of London.”
“To die there,” Duncan growled.
Griffin nodded. “’Tis King Edward’s wish.”
“Bedamned to the English bastard,” Alexander said, all too easily imagining the glee upon the king’s face.
“Aye,” Seathan agreed, “but for now, we must heed Wallace’s orders and save Wishart. After, unless otherwise ordered, we will try to save Douglas as well.”
Alexander grimaced, praying they’d have time to rescue Douglas before he was incarcerated within the Tower of London.
His brother-in-law turned toward where Patrik lay. “I am not sure whether to ask how Patrik is alive or how he came to be at Lochshire Castle?”
“He is the runner that Wishart asked us to intercept,” Seathan replied.
Face pale, Griffin met Seathan’s gaze. “Wishart told me the runner is
Dubh Duer
.” He paused, stared in disbelief “
Dubh Duer
is Patrik?”
Seathan grimaced. “Aye.”
“God’s teeth,” Griffin whispered, “King Edward would pay a hefty lot to display his head upon a pike.”
Duncan arched an amused brow at Griffin. “A sum the English king would pay, if not more, for the spy they call
Wulfe
.”
Brown eyes glittered with humor. “As for there being an English lord who shields his true name behind the title of
Wulfe
,” Griffin drawled, “I often assure King Edward tales of this notorious noble are fables, stories crafted by the Scots to infuse doubt within the crown, that indeed, no such noble exists.”
Alexander gave a rude laugh. “Aye, to save your bloody hide. Pray the bastard never learns that you, his Advisor to Scottish Affairs, are the man he seeks.”
Silence descended in the chamber, laden with knowledge of the dire consequences to those who rebelled against King Edward, and of the challenge in regaining Scotland’s freedom.
Seathan withdrew the leather-bound missive, handed it to Griffin.
The Baron of Monceaux studied the blood red wax impression, flicked his eyes to Seathan. “’Tis indeed the royal seal.”
“Aye,” Seathan replied, “the informant’s daring brand, which he uses beneath King Edward’s nose, and proof we intercepted the runner Bishop Wishart awaited. It is also proof Patrik is
Dubh Duer
.”
Griffin shook his head. “’Tis unbelievable. We thought Patrik dead, and he has fought alongside us throughout.”
Somberness filled the room, the ache of old hurt joining the slash of new. Alexander stared at his brother sprawled upon the bed, his face pale. Time had hardened the broken lad who had come to them after his family was murdered. Time had tempered the pain, but not Patrik’s anger toward the English. Over the years their adopted brother had learned to hide his outrage, to mask it with a quip.
Until he’d met Nichola.
Nay, until Alexander had fallen in love with an English lass, a woman who Patrik had stated at the time he’d found unworthy of his brother. By God’s eyes ’twas a mess, but one they would muddle through. Patrik was family. A low pounding started in Alexander’s temple. He rubbed his brow. How could he tell Nichola of Patrik’s regret? Or, should he?
Seathan took the writ, distracting Alexander from his troubling thoughts.
His elder brother met Griffin’s gaze. “Patrik said ’tis confirmation that John de Warenne is preparing to depart and rejoin forces with Hugh de Cressingham before the end of July.”
“God’s teeth, with the Earl of Surrey’s dislike for Scotland,” Griffin said, “King Edward must have ordered him poked with a hot iron to prod him from his estates in Surrey.”
“Aye,” Alexander agreed. “ ’Twould please me to see King Edward’s minion be fool enough to ride into battle with the Earl of Surrey. I would savor the sight of his flesh upon my blade.”
“With his lack of training with a sword,” Duncan said, “he could spear naught but a morsel upon his trencher.”
“Regardless, with his arrogance and believing that the battle is already won,” Seathan said, “I would be more surprised if he did not ride alongside the Earl of Surrey.”
Griffin nodded. “I agree. ’Tis folly to underestimate Cressingham. For a man of illegitimate birth, he has ascended far to become the treasurer of the English administration in Scotland.”
“Mayhap, but the blood of the impoverished stains the bastard’s steps. Nor does he care.” Alexander shook his head. “Nothing will stop the king’s minion from his selfish goals.”
“Aye,” Duncan agreed. “’Tis fitting that behind Cressingham’s back the English label him the
Son of Death
.”
“And,” Alexander added, “the
treacherer
by the Scots.”
“Both names testaments to the lengths Cressingham will go to achieve his goals,” Griffin stated, “regardless of cost.”
Silence hummed within the room, thick with tension.
Alexander glanced at Patrik; his brother’s face was ashen, his body wilted within his bed. “What of the lass?”
Confusion darkened Griffin’s gaze. “What woman do you speak of ?”
“When we found Patrik,” Seathan explained, “a Scottish lass, Mistress Cristina Moffat, accompanied him. She told us Patrik saved her from being raped by English knights a few days past.”
“The bloody miscreants.” Griffin paused. “Where is she?”
“Asleep,” Seathan replied. “And nearly as battered as Patrik. When English knights attacked a crofter’s home, Cristina hid their little girl, then later fought off the English knights to save her.”
Surprise shone in Griffin’s eyes. “She killed two knights? Sounds like an amazing woman.”
“She does.” Alexander grimaced. “Mayhap too much.”
His brother-in-law’s gaze narrowed. “Explain.”
“When we found the lass,” Alexander replied, “she was in the forest with the crofter’s child. Patrik was with her, but trees shielded him from our view. When I saw Patrik—” Memories stormed Alexander’s mind. He clenched his fists, the taste of anger still fresh. “—I lost my head, jumped off my mount and began to beat him.” He shook his head. “A fact I am not proud of, but all I could think was how he’d tried to kill Nichola.”
Red slashed Griffin’s cheeks. “Understandable.”
“Nay, you do not understand,” Alexander said, wanting him to comprehend the wrong he’d committed. “I cared not that Patrik’s sparring with the English had left him seriously injured, or that he staggered before me, or that his body lay bruised and stained with his blood. I attacked. Brutally. At that moment, I wanted Patrik dead.” He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them. “God’s teeth. I tried to kill my own brother.”
“You did,” Griffin replied, his voice somber, “what any man in your position would have done. What I would have tried as well.”
Alexander fisted his hands at his sides. “That does not make my actions right.”
“No,” Griffin agreed, “but it makes you a man, one who loves his wife, one who stops at nothing to protect what is his.” He paused. “What about the woman?”
His body still trembling with emotion, Alexander unfurled his hands. “After I began hitting Patrik, instead of screaming as most lasses would, Mistress Cristina jumped upon my back and started to strangle me, her grip sure.”
“After the years the English have ravaged Scotland, torched its towns and slaughtered its people,” Griffin said, “why would you find a woman who knows how to protect herself odd?”
“I should agree,” Alexander replied, “and I find myself trying to dismiss my worries. But en route to Lochshire Castle, I caught her trying to slip away.”
Seathan’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you not tell me this before?”
“What? That I saw the lass climbing toward the back of a wagon holding Patrik’s water pouch? That at my words she jumped as if a thief caught?” Alexander grunted. “I should have allowed her to climb from the wagon and gained proof of my suspicions. Now, I have naught to base my claim upon but her reaction and the feeling that something about the lass is amiss.”
“Mayhap,” Seathan said. “But instinct often saves a warrior’s life.”
Alexander glanced at Patrik. “Curious I will be to hear his thoughts on the lass.”
“As I.” Duncan frowned. “Remember when Patrik stood within the bailey apologizing to Nichola, how he was barely able to stand? Remember how the lass defended him like a she-wolf would her cub?”
“She is knowledgeable as well,” Alexander added, “and speaks as if schooled. She claims no lineage, but whatever she is, it is far from common.”
Griffin arched a brow. “You believe she is of noble birth?”
“When we first found her,” Seathan explained, “she wore a gown befitting gentry. She explained the dress was a gift and she but a commoner.”
“I am confused,” Griffin said. “Aside from Patrik saving her life, what significance does this woman hold?”
“The lass,” Alexander grumbled as he eyed his brother-in-law, “is in love with Patrik.”

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