Page 27 of The Guardian’s Bride (Highland Secrets #3)

“B rother Hugo, bring me a cup.” Rowena held up the small bottle, which glittered pale green in candlelight and afternoon sunlight.

The monk, scowling, brought a goblet of thick, clear glass with a gold band and a base of swirled green glass—a treasure from some exotic place. He gave it to her.

“If I may, Sire.” She set the goblet on a table beside the king’s chair.

“What is in the vial?” Edward barked.

“Water.” She held it up to show the liquid. “I drew this water myself from a pool in a cave, fed by a spring blessed by a sainted queen. Healing miracles have occurred there. Folk come there to drink it and claim their ills are cured, and take it away.”

Here was another risk. Edward might expect a miraculous healing, but she did not know for sure what the water would do. Yet she had experienced a healing—her ankle likely needed weeks to heal, yet felt stronger each day.

“What pool? Which saint?” Edward demanded.

Would he accept it once he knew? “The pool is in Fife, Sire. The saint who blessed the spring was Queen Margaret of Scotland, later made a saint.”

Edward glared. “Scotland!”

“She was English, Your Grace,” she said in haste. “Her father was a prince and her uncle and kinsmen for generations were kings of England. Your ancestors too.”

“Huh. I know. English queen in Scotland.”

She pulled the wax from the bottle and poured some water into the goblet. The small bottle did not contain much, another risk if he did not feel better quickly. She offered him the goblet in two hands. The binding rope had left pinkish rings around her wrists. His eyes flashed there, then to Malise standing a little behind her.

“Would you care to drink, Sire?”

He wiggled his fingers and she gave him the glass. He sipped, set it down.

“Well?” he said after a moment. “I feel naught.”

“It needs time to do its work, Your Grace.”

He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I want the Rhymer’s stone.”

“Sire, I cannot—” She hesitated. Even if she was willing to use the stone for him, she would not perform a healing as if she were a jester or an alchemist at court.

Behind her, she heard footsteps and voices raised at the door of the tent. Edward looked up with a sharp glance. She whirled.

“What is that?” the king demanded. “Sir Malise, go find out.”

Outside the tent, a commotion of men shouted, moved, pushed. As Malise ran out, she saw familiar faces through the wide cloth gap. Henry! And— Aedan!

But for his hands bound in front of him, Aedan would have flattened Malise as soon as he burst out of the royal tent. As it was, Henry and Patrick each kept a grip on his arms. But Aedan pushed forward and managed to trip Malise as he came out, so that the man stumbled.

“Sorry,” Aedan said, “I forgot your limp.”

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” Malise demanded.

“Bringing Aedan MacDuff, as you wanted,” Henry said.

“The patrol’s instructions were to fetch me once you had him in custody.”

“I am delivering the prisoner to King Edward personally, in my capacity as a deputy sheriff,” Henry said smoothly. “This is Sir Patrick Wemyss—sheriff of Fife.”

“We have full right to deliver a prisoner to the king,” Patrick said. “Did Edward request to see him? Or just you, Comyn?”

Malise sputtered. “You may have the rank, but your loyalty to Edward may be far less than your loyalty to Bruce. Bring him in. Guards, stand back. The king wants to see this man.” He waved Aedan and his supposed captors into the tent.

Aedan was satisfied. This was just what he wanted—the chance to stand before Edward and Malise together, especially when he saw Rowena there near the king, who sat looking slack and old.

For the rest of his life, he would swear that when she turned, there was a golden glow all about her, like a saint, like an angel. Aedan stepped into the tent, oblivious to stares and exclamations, ignoring Malise, who flapped his hands, explaining to the king—Aedan discounted even Edward, glaring at him with fiery blue eyes. They were all a noisy blur.

He saw only Rowena, and his heart near burst in his chest.

She ran to him, threw her arms around his neck, and embraced him. “Aedan—dear God, Aedan!”

“Lass,” he whispered. “Love. Are you well? Are you hurt?”

“Fine. You, are you hurt—what happened? Why are you here? They will kill you!”

“It was the only way in here. You may not like this, sweetling, but I am here to bargain my freedom for yours.”

“Do not say it,” she breathed.

“What is this!” Edward was on his feet now, bellowing. Aedan realized the king had been shouting and he had not heard, nor had Rowena turned. “Come here!”

Rowena turned, took Aedan’s arm, and walked him—Henry and Patrick behind them—toward the king and Malise.

“Sire,” Aedan said, not waiting for anyone to speak for him, “I am Aedan MacDuff of Fife. I understand you wish to see me. And I wish to see you,” he added.

His heart pounded hard and fast. He knew the gamble he was about to take. Rowena stared up at him. They all stared. The silence was brittle.

Edward stayed on his feet, though he seemed a bit wobbly. “What could you, a MacDuff, possibly say to the King of England? Caught like a fugitive—we should have you thrown in a dungeon!”

“Sire, you did for a bit, but I left. Would you punish an ambassador representing Scotland? The Pope takes a dim view of such things, I hear.”

“Ambassador?” Edward sat.

“I am interim Guardian of the Realm of Scotland in place of my young nephew, Duncan MacDuff, Earl of Fife, who you hold hostage.” His voice was strong and resonant in the surrounding silence of the overwarm tent.

“Guardian?” Edward frowned. “You?”

The old king must have forgotten, for he had known. “Sire, I am not an earl. But in my nephew’s absence and as his nearest kinsman, I act on his behalf. His sister, Lady Isabella, is currently a victim of your hospitality. I believe the Pope has been advised of the treatment you have accorded the royal women of Scotland.”

Aedan knew the impact the Pope’s disapproval could have. He also knew that a sick and aging king would want his sins forgiven or at least overlooked. Edward would not relish a papal reprimand at this point in his life.

All part of the gamble. He waited.

The king had turned even more pale and drawn. “What do you want, MacDuff?”

“Sire, weeks ago, the council of guardians sent another plea for terms in the negotiation regarding the captive Scotswomen. Our terms and our offer of compromise were refused, without discussion or countermeasures.”

“We will not release those women until Bruce relinquishes his claim to the throne of Scotland. That is why we are invading again. The point shall be hammered home.” Edward projected his voice louder than before.

“Sire, hammer your point. But not on the backs of women. Not when Rome is watching you and reading letters detailing your behavior—and your sins.”

“What compromise does the council offer?” Edward said. “We do not recall that any terms were delivered.”

They were, Aedan thought. Was Edward trying to crawl away from it now? “We demand the humane release of the women back to Scotland. Until that time, the ladies held in cages on public display must be removed to convents for the sake of their health and dignity. That was the latest message of the council. I witnessed the letter.”

The king stared at him, fingers drumming. His eyes flashed to Rowena, then to Malise, Henry, and back to Aedan.

“Who can verify that this man is a Guardian of Scotland and acts in that capacity?”

“I can,” Brian said, stepping forward from the back of the tent. “Sir Brian Lauder, Lord of Bass Rock and justiciar of Lothian. Sir Aedan is on the guardian council.”

“I can,” Patrick said. “Sir Patrick Wemyss, Sheriff of Fife.”

“I will. Sir Henry Keith of Kincraig and nephew of the Marischal of Scotland.”

Edward looked at Malise. “You?”

“MacDuff is on the council of guardians,” Malise groused. “He also escaped one of our prisons, and Your Grace wanted him brought to justice.”

Edward waved his fingers. “What about you?” he asked Rowena.

She caught her breath at the unusual request for a woman’s word in such a situation. “Your Grace, Sir Aedan is as he says—an interim guardian of Scotland, acting chief of Clan Duff, and uncle to the current earl and a captured Scotswoman. And he is one of the best men I have ever known. We are betrothed to marry.”

Aedan’s heart surged. He wanted to reach for her hand, but his were bound.

Edward cast a sharp look at him. “You are betrothed to Rowena Keith?”

“We were pledged in childhood.” He glanced down at Rowena, who moved closer, her arm brushing his.

“This needs thought.” Edward cleared his throat, then began to cough. A fit began as he gasped for air. Rowena stepped forward.

Aedan saw a monk in black move forward too. “Sire, let me give you something.”

Edward waved the monk away. “Before this guardian came rudely into our presence, Lady Rowena was about to give up the Rhymer’s charm stone. You know about that, MacDuff?”

“I do. And I know it does not belong to the Crown of England.”

“If you want your terms met, it will. That is my price.”

Rowena gasped. “Not the stone!”

As she took a step, Aedan moved to hold her back, but she slipped past.

Reaching Edward, Rowena clasped her hands and shook her head. “Please, your Grace, the healing stone must never be in the hands—of others. That was Thomas the Rhymer’s request.”

“I want it. You can bargain that stone for the comfort of those women to fulfill MacDuff’s request. Surely you would approve that.”

She looked over her shoulder at Aedan—and for a moment could not look away. Standing among other men, he was magnificent, taller than most, shoulders wide and proud, eyes keen, his whole being radiating strength, capableness, confidence, kindness, too. She felt the love that warmed his eyes as he gazed at her. It did not matter that his plaid and tunic were plain and shabby compared to some here, or that his hair was curling and unkempt, or his jaw shaded dark with days of beard. He was beautiful, a greater man in his quiet power than many. He always would be so in her eyes.

Those eyes crinkled with a small, private smile for her. She melted, and suddenly the strength he lent her filled her with resolve. He would not ask or expect anything from her. Whatever she decided, he would accept.

She turned back. “Sire, if trading the stone means the ladies who are suffering will be released to better comfort, I—” She paused. Tears came to her eyes. She felt compassion for the women and loss for herself, yet knew she had little choice.

“Sire, she has the stone even now. Just take it!” Malise said.

Before she could react, Malise grabbed her shoulder, snatched the silver necklace and yanked it away from her. The chain snapped and the crystal pendant flew free. Malise caught it, holding it up triumphantly.

“Here! My king, I give it to you freely, no bargain! I give it to you!”

He went down on one knee, pulling Rowena with him as he tossed the silver chain and shining pendant to the king, but his weak legs gave way, so that he fell forward in clumsy haste—directly on the king. Edward fell too, his chair cracking and collapsing. Rowena tumbled as one of Malise’s feet swept her ankle.

All around were shouts and tumult as guards moved forward to protect the king.

Then Rowena saw Aedan throw himself at Malise, tackling him to yank him off Edward, who writhed on the floor.

Even with his wrists tied, Aedan reached down to pull Malise off the king. He surged to his feet, holding Malise by the scruff of his tunic as if he were a deerskin. Then he tossed the man aside, reaching down to offer his joined hands to Edward.

“Sire, may I?” Bending, he carefully assisted the old man to stand.

Edward rose, wobbly, as Brother Hugo and one of the guards rushed to help the king. An attendant brought another chair and Edward sat heavily.

“Guards! Get him out of here!” Edward pointed at Malise. A guard pulled him to his feet and began to shove him toward the curtained doorway.

Brushing at his clothing, Edward held up his hand, cupping the stone in his fingers, its surface gleaming in the light.

“So this is it? The Rhymer’s charm stone?”

Her heart nearly broke to see it in Edward’s hand. Rowena got to her feet, silent.

“Does not look like much,” Edward went on. “What does it do? Is it worn like a jewel, or dropped in wine?”

“Sire, I put stones like this in water, then you would drink the—oh! Queen Margaret’s healing water! Sire, may I have the goblet?”

“Go on,” he drawled. She heard disappointment. He expected more and saw just a pretty crystal banded in silver. Given his temper, she wondered what he would do next.

Taking the wax plug from the little green bottle, she poured the rest of the water into the goblet. Edward plunked the crystal into the cup.

She reached out to swirl the flat of her palm over the top of the goblet.

“What are you doing there?” the king demanded.

“I am asking the stone and the water to heal you.”

“Either you are mad, a witch, or both.”

“Your Grace,” Aedan said. “I have seen the lady do this before. I can attest that it has healing benefit. She saved my life with it.”

“Saved your life, did she? Malise’s too. Huh!” Edward motioned to Henry and Patrick. “Untie the guardian’s wrists lest we be schooled by the Pope.”

Rowena lifted the stone out of the goblet by its broken chain, glad to have it in her hand again. She gave Edward the goblet, hoping he would not ask for the stone back.

The king drank. Sitting back in the chair, he closed his eyes. Pale-faced, cheeks drawn, his eyes shadowed gray, he did not move. She looked up as Aedan stepped beside her, his hands free. He set an arm around her shoulder and she stood close, waiting.

“Sire?” she finally asked.

Edward’s eyes popped open, sharp blue. “The illness in the stomach feels—calmer. Something about it. I want you to send kegs of that water to me.”

“We could do that.” She glanced at Aedan, who lifted a skeptical brow.

“Brother Hugo, come here,” Edward barked. “I want you to learn all you can from Lady Rowena about stones and healing water. There something to this. I feel—refreshed. We shall see if this lasts.”

“Sire, you have had a trying day,” Hugo said. “This magical healing is nonsense, perhaps even dangerous heresy. You should avoid it. I will give you a dose of the treatment you have been taking for months. It is more reliable.”

Rowena stepped forward. “Brother? What is that, may I ask.”

“Hugo has something that relieves aches and brings on sleep,” Edward said.

“A sleeping potion?” she asked sharply. “The same that you gave me?”

“I prepare a tincture that benefits the king’s health.” Hugo stared hard at her.

Then she knew. Hugo had been giving Edward the blend of the Great Rest, a powerful mixture of poppies, cloves, valerian, and more. “Sire, that tincture must be meted out carefully and never used often. It is powerful enough to produce weakness and even death. I fear,” she said, glancing at the king, “I fear Brother Hugo has not just been dosing aches and pains. He has been poisoning you.”

“Poison,” Edward said. “What is this, Hugo?”

“He may not realize it, depending on his training,” Rowena said.

“This was prepared and recommended by John Gadsden, who learned of it in Constantinople when he was on Crusade,” Hugo defended.

“You make it yourself? Is the king ever slow to wake, or very weak?” she asked.

“Sometimes, but he is very ill, as you know.”

“It helps sleep,” Edward said. “We will have more tonight. But we may not need it. The crystal and the water have done something—remarkable.”

“Sire, if Lady Rowena was blamed for poisoning you, she was wrongly accused,” Aedan said. “Whatever happened was done by someone else’s hand.” He looked at Brother Hugo. “Easy enough to blame a lady who was there to help. You wanted to be sure you did not catch trouble for it yourself when you saw the king weakening.”

“I have reduced the dose since,” Hugo said. His cheeks were flaming red.

“Hugo, we will discuss this later,” Edward said. “We will have justices consider it. If that sleeping potion has caused illness, there will be harsh consequences. But you two,” he said to Aedan and Rowena. “You are both free to go.”

“Sire?” Rowena leaned into Aedan, the stone still clutched in her hand.

“Take the stone. Hugo will just get rid of it if you leave it here. Send Queen Margaret’s healing water, but make sure the stone is dipped in the water before you send it on. Do whatever you must do and get it done quickly. It—is needed.”

“Sire,” she breathed out, filled with relief. Aedan dropped his arm away and she reached for his hand, wanting that constant. He was her rock, her protector, the man she loved with the deepest love and compassion she had ever known, the man she would protect, however she could, in turn.

“Sire, what of the captive Scotswomen? If you do not keep the stone, what will become of them?” she asked.

“We will consider their conditions. There is much inconvenience and expense keeping those cages. People come to stare, say the reports, they trample the grounds, they make it difficult for soldiers to move in and out of those places. There are extra visits from physicians because of their health. It is very annoying. Letters from the Pope—we are full aware, MacDuff, of his disapproval. Other kings and potentates as well—letters from the King of France and the Holy Roman Emperor—no one seems to agree with this. Allowing the women to live in convents may be necessary.”

“It may be best, if I may say so,” Aedan remarked.

“You may not say!” Edward snapped. “You and your council may wait upon our decision. Lady Rowena, how long will the effect of that water last? There is a reviving of the spirit, it seems.”

“I am glad to hear that, Sire. I cannot say how long it will last.”

“There are matters that require our royal presence. The Scots must see Edward of England riding under the dragon banner in armor on a war horse, expecting obedience.”

“Sire, we are Scots, if you please,” Rowena said, knowing it was bold. “And should you do that in your state of exhaustion and illness—it could be the last time you do.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I know that. Go.”

Outside the tent, Aedan took Rowena’s arm and hurried with a long stride, while Brian, Patrick, and Henry followed. He wanted to leave this place as fast as possible. Rowena hastened beside him, and in deference to her ankle injury—though she did not seem to be limping—he slowed.

And saw Malise Comyn in the company of three or four guards, arguing with them. Aedan made a sharp right turn on the path to head toward him.

“What are you doing?” Rowena asked.

“Finishing what I should have done in the royal tent.”

Malise had his back turned as Aedan walked up to the men. The king’s guards looked up in astonishment at the interruption as Aedan tapped Malise on the shoulder.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said.

Malise turned and scowled. “MacDuff! Best get out of here quickly before I bring the whole of the Scottish and English justice systems down on your head. You got away neatly today, sir. But it will not last.”

“One favor,” Aedan said.

“Hardly. What do you want?”

“This.” Aedan hauled back and punched him so hard that Malise went down to his knees, cupping his hands over his face, blood pouring between his fingers.

Aedan shook the tension and ache from his hand. “Thank you, sir. I look forward to whatever the justice system has to say about you and me, and which of us has inflicted more ill and damage on the other. I will gather my witnesses. You do the same.”

He turned on his heel and walked away. Behind him, he heard the guards laughing as they brought Malise to his feet and led him away.

His friends stared at him, mouths open. Henry grinned, ear to ear, and clapped him on the shoulder. Brian laughed, while Patrick applauded.

What he cared about most in that moment was Rowena. He turned to her. “Was that chivalrous, do you think, or the act of a brawny ox in need of taming and tethering?”

She looked up at him and smiled. “A little of both, I think. And I think—I rather enjoyed that.” Suddenly she laughed, a chime like sweet bells that went into his heart like the twinkling lights in the stone she treasured.

And he treasured her. “Love,” he said, “so long as you are pleased.”

“I am. But there are other things that will please me more,” she murmured.

“Tell me about them,” he whispered. “But not here.”

He bent to sweep her into his arms and kissed her, soundly and surely, in the dust and mud and commotion of the enemy king’s war camp. Her lips were soft and lush under his, her promise truer than any he could imagine—but for his own.

“I am a fool in love,” he murmured, sweeping back a drift of her dark hair.

“We must do something about that. Surely there is a treatment for it. I have the same malady, as it happens.”

“Perhaps that wee stone can help.” He took her hand and walked with her, while the others followed, chuckling.

“Oh, I have something even better,” she said, taking his arm, kissing his hand, and then hurrying beside him out the gate and into the meadow where the horses and freedom waited.