Page 57 of The Falcon Laird

“It is in the well,” Robbie said. “All covered with slime. Or in here, locked away in a secret box.”

“We know every box and chest in this room and this castle.” Christian stood, holding the clothing that she had collected. “It may never be found.”

“But if we look very, very hard,” a mellow voice said nearby, startling her, “surely we will find it.”

She spun around to see Gavin standing nearby. Clad in his black tunic, he blended with the shadows in the dim chamber. He stepped forward, his hair catching a golden sheen in the torchlight.

“So that is the legend of Kilglassie,” he said. “I have heard many tales of Arthur and his knights, but never that one, and so nicely told. You are a bard as well as a harper.”

Blushing fiercely, she shoved the pile of garments toward him. “I found these for you.”

“My thanks,” he said, taking them. He reached out to touch her collarbone, just above where the pendant lay. “You wear Kilglassie’s treasure?” he asked softly.

“All that is left,” she said. Shivers danced through her at his casual touch. She drew out the leather cord to show him the garnet wrapped in gold, strung on a simple string.

“The heart of Kilglassie,” he murmured. “It is be a beautiful thing, and ancient. No wonder the English want the rest of it. Henry searched for it too, I suppose. Did he look in this storage chamber?”

“Very thoroughly,” she said. “Upended everything.”

He slanted a look at her, his brows pulled together. “I see.”

“It is not down here, if you think to look. It cannot be found. I doubt it exists.”

“We could find it. You and I.” He spoke low so that only she heard.

She snapped her brows together. “Why try? To give it to your king?”

“Christian,” he said.

“Gavin Faulkener!” Robbie called.

“Aye, lad?” Gavin asked.

Robbie bounced to his feet. “Help us find the treasure and we will share it with you and King Robert!”

“Though you’re a Sassenach,” Patrick added.

“A tempting offer,” Gavin said solemnly. “I will consider it. For now, Dominy has been working hard up in the tower. Mayhap you can offer them some help. See, Moira goes there now,” he said, as she rose to her feet.

“Aye, Sir Gavin,” Patrick said.

“Aye, my lord,” Will said, joining the others as they all ran, with noisy echoes, to the door with Moira Macnab.

Gavin turned back to Christian. “Tell me. I noticed that the Macnabs—and most of the workmen here—seldom call me sir, and never my lord, although I am baron at Kilglassie. And I notice you yourself do not call me my lord.”

“Does your English pride demand it?”

“Only my curiosity demands to know,” he said.

“Gavin Faulkener,” she said, tilting her head, “in Gaelic Scotland, we do not recognize lords or barons as our superiors. In the Lowlands it may be different, for some areas are more English in their ways. But here in Galloway and Carrick, and in the Highlands, we keep many of the old Celtic ways. We have lairds and knights, we have chiefs and earls. But all are thoughtequal to their chiefs and lairds. We might call you Kilglassie, if you had a full right to it.”

“Ah,” he said. “And you?”

“The wives of lairds and chiefs may be called lady out of courtesy, but lairds are called by their own names, or the names of their homes. In Celtic Scotland, only the king and his earls may be lords.”

“What was Henry called here?”

She frowned. “He insisted that we call him lord, but few did. It made him angry. Such titles do not roll off a Gaelic tongue very easily.”