The Scotsman (18 page)

“Yea, and rightfully so, my lady.” Sir Neil gazed at her coldly. “’Twas my kinsman he slew so treacherously after promising him safe conduct across his lands.”

“As was mentioned earlier, Sir Neil, this is war. I am certain your kinsman was made aware of the risks should he deal unfairly with my father,”

“Unfairly?” Sir Neil’s jaw hardened. “I do not consider escorting a sick wife and two small children across Warfield land to reach the Solway Firth unfair. Unwise, perhaps, in light of the earl’s barbarous slaughter of them all, but not unfair. He sought only to return his wife to her family for proper care, as she had been held hostage near to the point of death. They were slain, my lady, along with two bairns not old enough to be out of swaddling.”

Catherine’s stomach knotted, and the food she had eaten felt like a heavy lump as she regarded Campbell with rising dismay and daunted heart. She did not want to believe that her father would do such a thing, yet knew it must be true. He had too often said that Scots were like a sickness on the land that must be destroyed at first sprout and not allowed to flower.

“Sir Neil,” Alex said softly, “I do not think the lady should be made to bear the blame for her sire’s actions. And neither do I think she was taken into his confidence either before or after his heinous deed.”

Campbell drew in a deep breath. “Yea, I forget myself. Grant pardon, Sir Alex. It was rude of me to castigate another guest at your table for faults which are not hers.”

“’Tis not my pardon you need ask, Sir Neil, but the lady’s.”

Catherine shot Alex a quick glance of surprise. His words were soft, but his tone steely. Silence had fallen along the table, as all waited to see the reaction of this renowned warrior who answered to no one but Robert Bruce. After a moment, he bowed his head stiffly and looked at Catherine.

“Grant pardon, my lady, for my hasty words. My heart is still sore from my loss.”

She hesitated. Grief marked Campbell’s face, striations that cut deep into his features as if permanently etched there. An ache ignited in her, spreading outward until it felt as if her ribs were being squeezed.

In a whisper, she said, “If, indeed, it was my father who visited such loss upon your house, I am most shamed by his monstrous deed. ’Tis I who should beg your mercy for the wrongs that were done to your kinsman and his family, Sir Neil.”

There was another moment of silence, then Sir Neil’s ravaged face softened slightly, and He inclined his head
toward her. “I should be shamed, my lady, for heaping abuse upon an innocent. Of all men, I should well know that one cannot force another to compensate for unearned sins.”

It was scant balm to her tortured soul, and the knowledge that her father was regarded so widely as a man brutal beyond most was anguishing. Yet she could not quail before such watchful gazes, could not betray the depth of her shame before men who would relish her pain.

With as much dignity as she could muster when her throat felt raw and her breath was tight in her chest, she inclined her head gracefully. “Perhaps it would better serve us to speak of other things, Sir Neil.”

It was Alex who agreed. “Aye, ’tis indeed time for us to converse more easily among ourselves. The hour for more direct discourse will be when we are joined by the others.”

Others? Catherine wondered briefly if he meant more Scots would soon arrive. It seemed the hall was already full to bursting with armed knights and rough-looking men with various woolen swathes draped across chests and belted around their waists. There was the dull gleam of wicked weapons, huge double-edged axes and thick spears, and sheathed swords that clanked with soft menace against thighs and wooden benches. It was a room ready for war, and the thought chilled her to the marrow. Even in her father’s hall, there had not been this air of barely leashed violence.

She yearned to retreat to the silent security of the tower chamber, where she could find solace in beautifully lettered volumes of poetry, or at least in mute prayers of entreaty for her salvation. But it was quickly evident that they were to linger in the hall, for musicians entered with harps and lutes, the more traditional instruments
of her experience, rather than the loud and raucous pipes that had serenaded them before.

Lively music filled the air, and there was laughter and merriment as boisterous couples began to dance. Some women were garbed in narrow lengths of bright-colored wool as well, though it was worn as adornment, pinned at one shoulder to flow over their backs to their waists. Occasionally, Catherine would catch their curious glances at her, and wondered wryly what they thought of this hostage their laird had imprisoned. Mairi made no secret of her opinion, but she was not the only woman who lived in Castle Rock.

She thought of Bess, and how distressed the young maid must be at her mistress’s abduction. No doubt, Bess would be one of the few who missed her. It had always been difficult for Catherine to relate to the young women who were fostered at Warwick, for she had so little in common with them. While the others giggled and compared compliments from lovestruck swains, she had remained aloof, unwilling to admit that none dared pay her court for fear of the earl’s wrath. Only on occasion had she joined them, and that when wandering troubadours visited Warfield to sing songs of love and gallant chevaliers.

Then she had felt a rare kinship with others her age. If she had been able to trust them, she would have read to them from the volumes of poetry her brother possessed, for she knew they enjoyed the romantic tales. But she had learned at an early age that trust is a nebulous quality oft betrayed for personal gain. It had not left her with an enduring faith in most.

And so she had not taken the risk of her skill being betrayed to the earl by one of her mother’s handmaidens, preferring instead to secrete herself in some shadowed
alcove to peruse the volumes filched from her brother’s store. The only relief from her self-imposed loneliness was Nicholas. He was the only one who truly cared for her welfare and her happiness. And it was Nicholas she mourned most in her absence from Warfield.

The gaiety of the hall reminded her how he enjoyed the lively dancing and music of feast days, when the earl’s strict rule grew lax enough to allow merriment. Then, her brother would seize her by both hands and dance her down into the midst of the revelers, until they were both breathless from laughter and exertion. It was at those times that she felt cherished. Almost content. But those moments were too few and too rare.

Drawing in a ragged breath, she let the music swirl around her now without notice, staring down at the clasped hands in her lap, praying that she could soon escape. Childish laughter broke her reverie and she looked up to see two small children approach the high table. A boy and a girl, about six and five years of age respectively, came to a halt before the table and made their courtesies, the boy bowing from the waist while the little girl managed a clumsy dip. Both were handsome children, dark-haired with rosy cheeks and glowing eyes. They were trailed by two young women, who paused in the center of the hall to watch the children.

Beside her, Alex stirred, and turned his attention to the children. He beckoned, and both came toward him with smiling faces and expectant eyes. He spoke to them in Gaelic and they answered, then each gravely acknowledged the greetings of the guests at the high table.

Catherine smiled when they glanced at her, then back to Alex, who said something to them in Gaelic. In English, he said to her, “This is Christian and Sarah. They speak a little English, if you care to greet them.”

“Of course. Good morn, Christian, Sarah.”

A little slowly, the young boy said in a rough burr, “Good morn, milady.”

The little girl stared up with round eyes, her pursed lips slightly quivering. Then she said faintly,
“Ha neil Sassenach.”

“Yea, Sarah, you have English enough to say good morn,” Alex said, then he must have repeated it in Gaelic, for the little girl took a deep breath and nodded.

“Gude morn, m’lady,” she burst out, then beamed when Alex laughed approvingly.

After a short conversation in Gaelic, Alex beckoned to a servant, who brought the children a comfit. Then the two women still standing in the center of the hall came forward quickly. Halting, they bobbed in front of the table, then looked up expectantly. A servant placed small purses in their outstretched hands. Again, the two women bobbed courteously as their eager fingers closed around the jingling pouches.

Leaning back in his chair, Alex spoke to them and they replied animatedly, accompanying their comments with smiles and flirtatious glances at him. They were pretty women but obviously Kinnison villagers, and Catherine was surprised at how familiar Alex was with them in front of his guests. None of the men seemed to notice the exchange, however, speaking among themselves in low tones. After a few minutes, the women departed, ushering the children in front of them.

“What pretty children,” Catherine said when she felt Alex looking at her, more from a desire to distract him than anything else. “And very well behaved.”

“Yea, I insist upon it.”

She looked at him curiously then. “I thought the people of Scotland were free to do as they please, and answer to their laird for naught but loyalty.”

“Yea. ’Tis true.”

“Then why do you insist upon good behavior from the children of your village? Is that not tyranny?”

She had meant to gently mock him, to seize upon an implied contradiction in his denunciation of King Edward, but he gazed at her with a faint smile curling his lips.

“Do not parents demand obedience from their children?”

“Of course, sir, but you are not parent to—” She halted abruptly, warned by the amused gleam in his eyes. Her composure began to unravel as he remained silent, and comprehension dawned. “Those are your children, I take it, sir.”

“Yea, lady, they are.”

“And which of the women is their mother?”

“Both.” He shrugged lightly at her appalled gaze. “Do not tell me that in England there are no natural children born.”

“Of course there are.” She inhaled sharply to stifle words of censure. How could she berate him for deeds such as her own family had committed? For it was true that several babes had been born of Warfield blood without benefit of a priest. It was not uncommon, but she had never seen the children or the mothers paraded through the hall.

Something of her thoughts must have shown in her eyes, for he leaned forward to say softly, “They are my blood, and I will not deny them a place or my presence. They are innocent of all blame in their creation, and I would not have them shamed. While their mothers still live below in Kinnison, my children live here. I see to it that they are welcome in my hall, and are given all that their station in life can provide. None are allowed to slight them. Nor will I censure their mothers unless I
care to censure myself, for ’twas of my own free will that I lay with them.”

Catherine stared at him, feeling heat stain her cheeks scarlet. How had he guessed her thoughts? And how was she any different from those two women, save that he had not taken what she was willing to give?

And then, fleetingly, she had the awful thought that she envied them for their freedom in choosing their own destiny, in lying with a man without thought of reprisal other than perhaps the creation of a babe.

Oh, how much she had changed in the weeks since she had been brought to Castle Rock! For as she gazed into Alex Fraser’s clear gray eyes, she knew that she longed to lie with him as completely as those women had done.…

Torches flickered on the stone walls, but beyond the bright pools of light loomed shadows black as pitch. Nicholas strode down the dank, narrow corridor behind a guard. Faint, desperate sounds infiltrated the murky halls, oppressing and furtive, like the dry rustling of rats in the walls.

“Do you know which cell?” His impatience penetrated the guard’s silence, and the man turned with a jangle of keys to peer at the metal ring he held up in the wavering glow of a wall torch.

“Aye, m’lord. ’Tis this one.” The guard’s hand shook slightly as he rattled the keys, turning the ring to squint at the selection.

“By all that is holy, man, do you find the right key before I freeze in this cursed hole,” Nicholas muttered in a snarl that earned him a frightened glance from the guard.

“Aye, m’lord. I do be hurrying.”

Nicholas grimaced at the man’s obvious fear. He put a hand on the burly guard’s shoulder. “’Tis too cold for us
both in this damp hole. When you have let me in, seek warmth at the closest fire. I will call when I need you.”

“Aye, m’lord.” The guard gave him a quick glance as he slid the key into the hole, then ventured a warning. “Do you be careful, m’lord. I would not trust these Scots savages.”

“They are chained. But I will heed your warning.”

With a grinding grate of metal on metal, the key turned the tumblers in the lock and the heavy wood and iron door opened with a groan. The guard jammed a torch into a holder on the wall so that light filtered into the cell, then Nicholas dismissed him. A fetid odor greeted him as he stepped inside, the ordure of confined men stinging his eyes and nose. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness that cloaked the cell.