Rivals for the Crown (43 page)

The topic turned to wine then, and Isabel spent some time translating. Her charges grew restless and were dismissed. They hurried out of the dining room, their laughter resounding in the hallway. One of the Frenchmen smiled and talked in English of his own children, and Isabel was able to let her mind wander. Rachel had married Mosheh, and was once again in Berwick. The stab of longing she felt was tangible. How she'd missed her friend. And what of Kieran? If Rachel had married Mosheh, had Kieran not returned?

Edgar's manner was winning, and he proved popular with her employer's guests. Their business was conducted quickly, terms decided on with few quibbles. Outside, the afternoon ended and the rain pounded on the side of the building. The candles burned low. And still they talked.

At last the meal was over. The Frenchmen made their farewells, bowing low over the merchant's wife's hand, then doing the same
honour
to Isabel, who nodded and politely refused their offer of a ride to her lodgings. Edgar said good-bye then, as courteous as the Frenchmen, and strode off down the lane, where his coach waited. Isabel assumed she would go over the discussions with the merchant's wife, but she was relieved to be dismissed.

"And tomorrow I will not need you until evening. We will be attending a gathering at the castle and would like you to help me keep my daughters in check."

Isabel began to protest, but the merchant's wife placed her hand on Isabel's arm and smiled.

"They listen to you, my dear," she said. "Please, I need your help for this event. I would be most grateful if you would attend with us. It should be a short evening."

Isabel gritted her teeth and agreed, eager to make her escape. Outside, she stood under the shelter of the porch for a moment. Edgar's coach still stood at the corner, as she'd suspected it would. She pulled her hood far over her head and ran toward it. Edgar opened the door and helped her in.

"Good God, Isabel, it's wonderful to see you!" he said and embraced her lightly. "We have much to say to each other."

She hugged him back, all of her suppressed emotions coming to the surface. How foolish she had been, to think she could leave Isabel behind.

They talked all evening and well into the night, sitting in the tavern where he was lodging, hidden in a dim corner. He had been astonished to find her at the merchant's house and demanded that she tell him all that had happened since she'd left. She did, omitting nothing but the intimate details of that night with

Langton, telling Edgar simply that he had been trying to make love to her and she had stabbed him.

"An evil night that was," he said. "Rachel and her family are all well now, even Gilbert, though they all have scars from that night. Rachel has missed you. We have all missed you, Isabel. But you should not go back. You would be recognized, even with the darker hair, and Berwick is still talking about what you did."

"I could not go back, Edgar. I brought the horror of that night to the Angenhoffs and I will not risk their safety again. I was afraid even to write, for fear of bringing reprisals upon them, upon you all."

"And you were wise. Langton sends men to stay at the inn. They think we don't know why they are there, but they always ask about you. Jacob always tells them you left and they do not know where you are, nor do they want to know."

She felt her lip tremble, and she controlled her sadness. She was not Jacob's daughter. She'd endangered his family. How could the man want her back in their lives? "I don't blame him."

"I don't think he means it, but he is protecting his family."

"Yes, of course. I would ask you not to tell him then, and not Rachel, that you saw me."

He laughed then. "And risk her killing me slowly were she to find out that I saw you? No, I will tell Rachel at once. It will be her decision whether she tells her father."

"I am so grateful to you, Edgar, for not giving me away here. And so happy to hear that they are all well."

"Aye, Rachel is well, but Sarah says she is not happy. Three months after she married Mosheh, Kieran came back."

At Isabel's exclamation of surprise, Edgar nodded.

"Poor Rachel! If only I had been there!"

"What could you have said that would have changed anything? She said she'd given up on Kieran returning. I know she regrets her decision. I know Kieran regrets it as much. He comes to see me now. And Rory."

"Rory?" Isabel could hear the catch in her voice. It was suddenly hard to breathe. "How is he?"

"He is one of Wallace's captains now, acting as a liaison for the Highlanders. He has been looking for you since you left, Isabel. In every city in Scotland. He has scoured the country." He told her of Rory's trip to Berwick. "He went to Lonsby, to see if you'd gone to your father's."

She put a hand over her mouth.

"Your father said he knew nothing of you. I'm sorry."

"No. Do not be. I meant nothing to the man."

"And he even went to London."

"Oh dear God, Edgar! How dangerous that was! He could have been captured! What was he thinking?"

"Of you, Isabel. He was thinking of finding you. He's different now. Harder. Seasoned. I'm helping them, bringing messages back and forth from the Continent when I travel. And messages from here. I am trusting you to be silent about this, for now we both hold secrets about each other that could destroy us. I will take a message to Rachel, if you'd like. I know she will be so relieved to know you are alive and well."

Tears sprang to Isabel's eyes. "Yes, Edgar, if you would.. .tell her everything I have told you. And that I love her, that I've missed her so very much." She wiped her tears away. "I cannot go there, nor can she come here, but tell her I think of her."

He nodded. "I will. And any message for Rory?"

She looked at him, her mind whirling. "Tell him," she said, "that I wish him well."

"Anything else?"

"No." She shook her head, ignoring the tears that spilled from her eyes. "There is nothing more to say."

Edgar sent her home in a coach. She ran from its shelter to the stairs to her room, hurrying as quietly as she could. At the landing before her room, she fumbled for her key. And heard Florine's door close. Let her think what she will, Isabel thought, and closed her own door behind her.

Rory. Rachel. The past kept her awake the rest of the night.

"Newcastle Castle," the guard told the merchant's wife and daughters, "was built upon the site of an ancient fortress built of wood. A hundred years ago Henry II rebuilt it of stone and added the curtain wall. Fifty years ago Henry III added the Black Gate through which we just passed. Step carefully, ladies, the bailey here is full of horses, and the grooms have not tidied up yet."

Isabel lifted her skirts above the muck, following in the wake of the merchant's family. It was a formidable entrance, but to one accustomed to the Tower in London and the royal palaces and castles, not as awe-inspiring as it obviously was to the others.

"We will ascend the staircase to the Great Hall. If you feel the sudden need to pray to our Maker, there is a chapel below the Hall. And if you need to escape," he leaned low over one of the girls, his smile meant to be charming, "there are two postern gates around the grounds, and a sally port through the storage chamber below,

by which the soldiers could sally forth to fight the invaders. But you lovelies will want to stay for the dancing, I warrant, aye?"

"Will there be dancing, sir?" one of the girls asked.

"I hope so, else why all the musicians arriving, eh? We need to keep those knights and soldiers on their toes." He laughed at his own joke. "Here we are, ladies. No escaping, now. Enjoy yourselves."

The Great Hall was spacious, with a vaulted timbered ceiling, several passages leading from it, a large fireplace in which a fire roared, and steps up to a window alcove. It was there, in the window seat, that Isabel sat with the merchant's daughters, their merry chatter keeping them occupied. The floor of the Hall was full of tables, laden with every sort of food. The newly arrived knights sat there. Henry, mercifully, was not among them, and Isabel saw no one she knew. As the hours passed, she relaxed her guard, enjoying the music and watching the dancing. Her charges were too young to join in, but their parents were in the middle of the festivities.

Rory. She could not get him out of her thoughts. Rory, searching for her. She should have sent a warmer message with Edgar, one that would have let
Rory
know she was willing to be found by him. But no, how could she lure him here, where he was certain to be captured as soon as he entered the city? She should have told Edgar to tell Rory not to come here. What if he did? Was there no end to the people who faced hazards for her sake? What a fool she had been not to think this through.

She calmed herself with the thought that her message had been cold and perhaps Rory would take it as an end to whatever had been between them. She'd not meant it to be as meager as it had been, but how could she have bared her soul when he'd not come for her in Berwick? All those months of waiting, only to discover now that he had searched for her. She closed her eyes for a moment, praying that Edgar would return, that when he did she could tell him.. .what? That she'd never been able to forget Rory MacGannon? Yes. Exactly that. Let the world be mad around them. Perhaps she and Rory could at last speak freely to each other. She opened her eyes and felt better.

The dancing was continuing and the merchant's daughters were discussing who was the fairest among the men who were on the floor. One liked the blond man, another the dark-haired younger one. She studied the two and realized that the younger one, the dark-haired one, who now danced with the bailiff's daughter, his smile wide.. .was Henry de Boyer's squire. Or had been, years ago, in London. She shrank back against the wall, her heart constricted. The world seemed to be closing in on her.

"Ask your mother which one she thinks the most attractive," she told the merchant's daughter. "And find out who they are."

Perhaps, she told herself, she was not remembering the man correctly. But when the girl came back, it was the same name, the same man.

"He is a knight," the girl said. "Newly made, just in time for the war with Scotland. Look, he is looking at us!" She waved gaily,

and the knight returned the wave, his glance passing over Isabel, then returning to her face. His brows drew together. For a long moment he held her gaze, then his attention was diverted.

She would, she swore to herself, never step foot in this castle again. And perhaps she should leave Newcastle. But where could she go?

NINETEEN

DECEMBER 1295 SCOTLAND

R
ory tossed the shredded bits of leaves into the fire, watching the

tiny flare as the flames engulfed them. It would take more fuel to hold off the night, but there was no wood left. He reached for more of the leaves bunched at his feet. These had blown in with the last gust of wind, and he, one of those nearest to the cave's entrance, pulled his clothing tighter, trying to stay warm. His thoughts chilled him even further.

He could no longer count the number of men he had killed. Surely he would spend eternity in Hell. He hated taking another man's life. Every time, he hated it. And, God help him, he'd gotten very good at it. There were the wild ones, dangerous, who flailed away, their eyes frenzied. He'd learned to wait for the moment when their energy slowed. That was the moment he took. There were the terrified ones, who almost wanted him to end it. Those were difficult. But the worst were the brave green ones, the young lads who no more wanted this war than he did, who fought bravely and cleanly, whose faces haunted him in his dreams.

Killing a man with an arrow, shooting it from a protected spot behind a stone wall, that was simply a task of aiming correctly. You did not see the surprise when a thrust hit home, did not look the man in the eyes and see his soul for a moment before it left his body. Did not feel the difference in your hand when a blade left the air and sank into flesh. Did not have to face the night. There were some, of course, about which he had no remorse, men who had lusted after his death and who had died instead. Foul men, ardent men. Those he did not mourn. And there were the others, who had never become men to him, but simply were the enemy.

But more than the men who had come to Scotland to kill, to burn people out of their houses if they complained about the deaths of their friends or loved ones; more than the simple fact that his country was coveted because it was prosperous and peaceful and had the misfortune of being situated on the same isle as England. More than anything, he hated the man who directed it all—Edward of England.

King Edward Plantagenet, whose riches could not be counted, who owned lands and men in England, Wales, Ireland, and France already, and still lusted after Scotland. Who sent men to do his bidding, to steal, and rape, and kill in his name. Who sacrificed those men, did not care if they lived or died in their pursuit of his aims, for there were always others to send. Who, with his queen, had not bothered to attend his own young son on his deathbed but had left him to die with neither of them near. Who humiliated John

Balliol simply because he could. Who kept a man like Walter Langton in his employ and looked the other way while Langton did as he wished. Edward, who directed it all, was the one Rory hated, almost as much as he hated his own part in Edward's plan. He knew that by killing the men Edward sent to subjugate Scotland he was reinforcing the hatred the English now felt toward the Scots, adding to the fury with which their comrades would retaliate.