Page 5 of The Guardian’s Bride (Highland Secrets #3)

“S ire. You sent for me?” Rowena bowed her head, dipped her knee as King Edward glanced up. He sat by a blazing hearth, robed in furs and thick woolen garments, and beckoned her forward with bony fingers.

“Come here.” He looked weary, his long face pale and drawn, gray hair straggling over rounded shoulders, long legs like sticks in baggy woolen stockings. But his blue eyes were sharp. “Did you bring more of that medicine we took from your hand?”

“I have some prepared, Sire. I will bring it here.” After nearly a month sequestered in Lanercost Priory waiting upon the king’s health and his whim, she looked forward to departing soon. If he wanted more of the potions she made, she feared he would keep her here.

Henry and Gilchrist stood nearby in the shadows, glancing at her in silence. As Edward’s pledged knights, both wore chainmail in the king’s presence, Henry in a wine-colored surcoat, Gilchrist in the red surcoat embroidered with golden lions that identified him as Edward’s man. She was glad they had remained at Lanercost with her; she knew they too hoped to depart for Scotland soon.

“Come closer,” Edward barked. She approached. “That concoction you brought the other day was helpful for the stomach.”

“Sire, I am glad.” Leaving Holyoak in a rush, she had blended remedies at Lanercost using whatever herbs, oils, and simples the infirmarian would spare. Learning that King Edward suffered stomach problems, she mixed infusions of mint, ginger, mallow, blueberries, and more to soothe and help heal. “If I may, Sire, I wish to return home tomorrow with my brother, Sir Henry.”

“The physician left, now you too? That leaves Brother Hugo to do all the physicking! What do you say, Hugo?” He growled this at the monk who sat in a corner. “Can you prepare the same simples as Lady Rowena?”

“Sire,” Brother Hugo said, standing. “With respect, if I may comment.”

“Speak!”

Rowena lowered her eyes as Brother Hugo Fitzwalter stood before the king. She felt the monk’s sharp, critical glance. Hugo was a cleric and infirmarian who had accompanied Edward’s party to Lanercost, and who now treated the king in place of John Gadsden, the cleric and physician who had departed for his college at Oxford days after Rowena arrived. Gadsden had been respectful regarding Rowena’s methods and opinions, even offering to send a precious copy of his treatise, Rosa Medicinae, to her at Kincraig Castle. Honored, she was sorry to see him go, needing an ally, especially one who could teach her more.

Hugo the infirmarian was a different matter. When she had first arrived, he refused to let her work in the priory kitchen to prepare a soothing syrup for the king, but John Gadsden had given permission. Still, Hugo had remained cool and unwelcoming to her. Yet since she had dosed Edward with infusions and syrups and advised a plain diet, the king had appeared to gain strength and sleep more soundly. When Hugo asked about one of her concoctions, she shared the recipe willingly. Yet he was disdainful when she revealed that an essential part of the recipe was to dip three crystals in rainwater and add the liquid.

While at Lanercost, she was grateful and relieved that Edward had not asked about her great-grandfather or the charm stone. Sir Malise Comyn had not visited Lanercost in the past weeks, and she hoped to leave before he arrived.

As Brother Hugo spoke with the king, she heard her name. “Sire, some of what Lady Rowena advises makes sense. But much of it is unnecessary and possibly harmful.”

She stepped forward. “Sire, with respect—” At Edward’s nod, she continued. “I am trained in traditional Highland medicine, and have seen such methods work well, helping even when naught else does.”

“Your Grace, I advise dismissing the lady and summoning John the physician back again. Together he and I can provide better cures.”

“Lady Rowena’s potions and treatments are soothing,” Edward said. “Your advice was not sought, Hugo. You may leave. Lady, you will stay.” He waved toward her. “There is a matter to discuss.”

She felt a twist of dread in her stomach. What did the king want? His health had improved under her watch, while the efforts of Brother Hugo and John Gadsden had made little difference. But she had not used the Rhymer’s charm stone, although she had used lesser stones.

“Sire?” she asked, feeling anxious. “Your Grace does look improved, with better color and brighter eyes. You look stronger.”

“Sleeping better. Eating more. The flux is less. Your potions helped some.”

“I am glad.” Unsure of the cause of his poor digestion, she had given him herbs that could calm and slow the stomach. He had been impatient and complained that she was not a physician, and worse, female. But he took what she offered.

“Your Grace, did you consider my suggestion to help the digestion? Smaller meals, no rich or fatty foods, less wine and spirits, and so on.”

“Considered them. Not interested.”

“Sire, some physicians and healers, such as the respected Hildegard of Bingen, whose works I have read, recommend that thoughts, words, and temperament can either ease or damage the body. For example, discontent and anger can harm the heart and stomach.” That comment was a risk, but it needed to be said.

“Hmph. My priests are busy with prayers on my behalf. John Gadsden says the problem is the bilious nature in the blood and urine. He bled me near dry to balance it. The physicians, monks, astrologers and alchemists offer remedies and suggestions too. Naught helped more than your concoctions. You are required to provide more.”

“I will prepare some this evening, Sire, and leave it here, as I wish to depart with my brother. Your physicians are knowledgeable about bodily humors and matters of blood and urine, astrology too. What I know are traditional remedies that have proven reliable. Heaven grants healing blessings through Nature in plants and other elements, and those remedies often alleviate sickness.”

“Stones,” he said. “You put stones in water.”

“I did,” she said carefully. She sometimes used small crystals.

“The monks say charm stones are suspect. Is it nonsense, or healing, or evil?” He put a hand to his belly as if in discomfort.

“I believe these things help, Sire. I do wonder if regular bleeding weakens you.”

“Physicians know more than you do.”

“In some ways, aye. Your Grace may have heard that the Church banned the practice of bleeding among monks long ago, though physicians still use it. Scholars and doctors are always discovering more about the body and the healing arts, and there is much to understand.”

“Healing is up to God, so say the priests. However—” He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “We are curious about your other methods, lady. One of my knights says you possess a unique healing stone. Do you have it with you?”

So Malise must have told the king after all. She dared not risk revealing too much, having promised to keep her stone secret and safe. King Edward would turn a greedy eye on it if he knew.

“Sire,” she said carefully, “I used small crystals in rainwater in the simples and syrups I gave you.” She clenched her hands, hoping her answer would satisfy him. “Such things are common in Highland medicine.”

“Huh! Any stone can be dropped in a cup. Look.” He pulled a large ring of sapphire and gold off his middle finger and plopped it into the cup beside him, red wine splashing out. “That will not heal anyone. We hear you have something more powerful.”

“Gemstones and crystals, gold and silver too, can have healing powers, Sire.”

Scowling, Edward gestured to Brother Hugo to fish the ring out of the wine cup. “We ask again. You have an extraordinary stone inherited from the Rhymer. Where is it?” The question was sharp and direct.

“Sire, Sir Thomas Learmont left a few things that have meaning only to our family. He meant them for his kin, just as any grandparent might do.”

Brother Hugo handed the ring back to Edward. As the king shoved it on his bony finger, the monk spoke quietly; Rowena heard some of it.

“Sire,” Hugo said, “there is always a danger of poisoning with folk remedies that may have darker powers. In France, they seek out witches who claim to be healers and burn them for heresy and trafficking with demons.”

“We rarely do that here,” Edward muttered. The monk sent Rowena a sidelong glance and withdrew to the shadows, while the king frowned at her. “But you are advised to be careful, lady, and to answer truthfully.”

“Sire.” She bowed her head, startled by the clear warning. Poison! She saw that Brother Hugo did not understand certain traditional remedies—or care to.

A knock at the door prompted a young page to open it and admit a dark-haired knight in chainmail and a blue surcoat.

“Sir Malise Comyn, Your Grace,” the boy said.

Dear God. Rowena sent a glance to Henry and Gilchrist. Her brother quirked a brow and Seton tightened his lips. As the knight entered, Rowena stepped back, hoping not to be noticed.

Walking with an obvious limp, Sir Malise saw her and paused with a tight smile. “My lady,” he murmured, dark eyes glinting.

“Go, lady,” the king said. “Fetch those concoctions now and bring them back if you expect permission to leave here.”

“Sire,” she said, and hurried from the room.

Returning to Edward’s chambers in the priory carrying a wooden tray holding glass vials and small jars, Rowena saw that Sir Malise Comyn was still talking with the king. Hoping not to be noticed, she set out the vessels containing the doses she had prepared earlier, arranging them on a table covered in a patterned rug. As she worked, she glanced at Henry and Gilchrist, standing silently by, both frowning as they listened while Malise spoke to King Edward. She tried to listen too.

With good reason, the Keiths and Setons were none too fond of Sir Malise. Years ago, he had attacked Gilchrist’s sister, and more recently, had pursued Rowena’s sister Tamsin on Edward’s orders. Yet months ago, after a serious injury, Malise had spent two months in Holyoak’s infirmary. There Rowena, Gideon, and the monks had nursed him back to health. She was surprised to see that Malise had already returned to Edward’s service. He seemed hearty enough now, she thought, glancing toward him.

And she had no doubt now that he had mentioned the healing stone to Edward.

He stood before Edward, his movements somewhat awkward in chainmail and the long-skirted tunic, his back injury resulting in a limp and some weakness. She had hoped such a serious injury and the need for help would have made him less arrogant and ambitious. But she now suspected otherwise.

“Sire, about the report Your Grace requested,” Malise was saying. “I have the information requested about the Scotsman on the list of rebels to investigate.”

“Good. Ah, Lady Rowena is back again.” Edward looked toward her. “He has been singing your praises, lady.”

She gulped, turning with a forced smile, again wishing she had not risked any use of the guardian stone, even though Malise had been in dire condition. Somehow he had discerned what it was. As Henry mentioned, he might be aware of the inventory in the Rhymer’s last will, and could have surmised the remarkable legacy that the Rhymer left to his family—a legacy that Edward might want to obtain.

“Greetings, Lady Rowena. How good to see you again.” Malise inclined his head. “True, I did tell our king that I am only walking today because of your magic.”

“M—magic?” She blinked, horrified after hearing Hugo mention what could become of witches and healers.

“Not magickal arts, of course,” he went on. “Just an exaggeration born of my admiration for you. And I believe that whatever you learned from your esteemed kinsman, the Rhymer, helped my recovery. So I urged His Grace to send for you if other medicines and treatments proved unsatisfactory. To my great honor, he did.”

“That was not to honor you, Comyn,” Edward snapped. “But Lady Rowena has provided some relief. If it was due to a remedy learned from her kinsman, certainly we want to know more.”

Rowena bowed her head and stepped back. “Your Grace, I brought the herbal remedies that seemed helpful. I do not wish to interrupt the meeting with Sir Malise.”

“Stay,” Edward barked. “There is still a matter to discuss. Sir Malise, wait there. Lady Rowena, your treatments have helped, yet you do not ask for payment. Surely, you want some reward.”

That surprised her. “Sire, I require nothing. Perhaps a donation to Lanercost Priory.” She had heard complaints among the servants and a few monks about the burdens placed on the priory due to the size of the king’s household.

“They have the privilege of our presence,” he dismissed. “What do you want? Even loyal Scots can be rewarded. Ask for silk for gowns. A jewel. Those can be arranged.”

“Sire, I require naught. I am glad to help those who are ill.” Even you, she thought, lowering her eyes. “I only want to return to Kincraig.”

“Huh. But you are a young widow, living in your brother’s castle, visiting monasteries to help the sick. Commendable. Saintly. But a noblewoman should not travel about on her own.”

“I am usually accompanied by an escort, Sire. My brother is with me here.”

“Ah, Sir Henry. The Keiths of Kincraig want to stay in our good graces, surely.”

Seeing the king’s sharp stare, Rowena felt unsettled. “Sire.”

“We can arrange a husband for you. A good marriage.”

“Husband?” She froze. Standing by Malise Comyn, she felt ill suddenly. Not him. Not after all he had done against her family.

“Sir Malise owes his life to you. High praise. You could do worse than to marry one of our loyal knights. It would keep you in this court where you are needed.”

Lifting her chin, she felt her innate stubbornness emerge. “Sire, I appreciate your generosity, but I cannot marry. I am—” She sought some excuse and glanced at Henry, searching for what to say.

Her brother stepped forward. “Your Grace, if I may speak on my sister’s behalf.”

“What is it?” Edward seemed displeased by the interruption, and Malise sent a dark glance toward her brother.

“With respect, Sire, my sister cannot accept an offer of marriage. She is betrothed.”

Silence. Rowena stared at Henry, the king stared at her; Malise glared at Henry and turned his flat gaze on her. Then she realized what Henry was doing.

Aedan MacDuff. There was a thread of truth in it. But mentioning the man’s name here could endanger him.

“Betrothed!” Edward roared. He rose to his lanky height, wavering on creaky legs. His valet jumped forward in alarm and Brother Hugo came to his side, ready to support him should he fall. “Who is it? Scots in this court who wish to marry must have approval.”

“We cannot name him yet,” she said quickly. “The agreement is not final. It has been in discussion for years. I pray Your Grace understands.”

“Sire, it is being negotiated,” Henry said. “These matters are complicated.”

“He had better be a knight pledged to our service,” Edward muttered, and sat.

“He is a knight, Sire,” she said.

“Sire, regretfully, my sister cannot promise to another now.” Henry bowed his head and stepped back.

“Send word when it is done,” Edward said. “We will offer another reward.”

“Sire?” Her heart was racing. She could not bear another surprise from Edward.

He held up a finger. “Brother Hugo will visit Soutra hospital in a few weeks. You may accompany him on our royal recommendation. Then you may return here with new knowledge to continue working here. That is your gift.”

“I would be pleased to go to Soutra. It is an excellent hospital.” She had no desire to return to help King Edward, and no desire to go anywhere with sour Brother Hugo. But she was interested in the work at Soutra, and could hardly refuse the king easily.

“Sire,” Hugo began in protest. Edward held up a hand for silence.

“Consider the marriage offer, lady. Betrothals are easily broken, and this arrangement is in your favor. The Keiths would do well to ally with the Comyns. Loyalty is rewarded when Scots are loyal.” Edward’s gaze was pale blue and icy. She saw grave illness in his pallor and physical weakness—and tremendous willfulness too. She knew how easily his temper was provoked.

“I will consider it, Your Grace.” She needed caution, not a show of resistance.

“Sir Malise?” Edward barked.

“I would agree, Your Grace,” Malise said. “The alliance would be good.” He shot Henry a fresh glare.

No wonder it appealed to him, Rowena thought. By Scottish tradition, even enemies were safe if they married into an opposing clan. Marriage to her might protect Malise from the Keiths and Setons—at least in theory.

“Brother Hugo, you will send word to Lady Rowena about Soutra—you will,” he insisted as the monk squawked. “Now, Lady Rowena. If you have a charm stone or anything else of the Rhymer’s, those are now the property of the Crown.”

She blinked. “Sire?”

“We will confiscate whatever your kinsman gave you.”

“But—Your Grace, he left us nothing of value.”

“More than you realize, it seems. Leave whatever stones you have with Brother Hugo. Anything else in your family’s possession that came from the Rhymer must be delivered here within a month, or it will be collected. Do you understand? Sir Henry, is that clear?”

“Sire,” Henry droned. She heard the tight, quiet fury in his voice.

She felt the unfair command like a blow. Edward was convinced that Thomas had left magical, faery-borne things to his family—and believed he had the right to claim them. Those were special things with unique, even extraordinary traits, items to be protected that must never fall into other hands, especially into Edward’s keeping.

The very air turned tense. Edward was obsessed with prophecies and esoteric knowledge; he needed to control his future through any means, magical, otherworldly, or by force. Since he regarded the Scots as his subjects, he believed whatever Thomas owned belonged to him.

She understood that Edward, sick and growing weaker, might crave a magical charm stone if it could heal him. But Rowena would not give it up at any cost.

“I will leave the charm stones I have, Sire,” she said, meaning the small crystals Una had given her years ago. The Rhymer’s stone was packed in a leather satchel with her things, tucked away in the little chamber she used at Lanercost. Her heart pounded. She felt frantic to fetch it and leave for Kincraig as soon as possible.

“Send the rest,” Edward said. “The clerk will draw up a writ with the orders. Sir Malise will make sure you comply. That way he can—protect the Keiths from further irritating the Crown. Now you may go home, lady. But leave the potions.”

She bowed her head. “Sire.” She would not thank him, her heart pounding with fury and frustration. Henry stood silent beside Gilchrist.

Returning to the table where she had left the vessels, she withdrew the small quartz stones from the purse on her belt and arranged them with the other things. Given Brother Hugo’s smugness, she hoped Edward would demand that the monk use them.

She heard Edward speak to Malise then. “Give us your news,” he rasped.

At the table, Rowena tipped her head to listen and saw Henry do the same.

Sir Malise produced a rolled parchment, which Edward opened and read.

“Damned Scots,” the king growled. “Crowning Bruce was treason. It took you long enough to find those involved. Arrest this man and throw him in Berwick to rot. Take his property. Get a warrant from the sheriff there.”

“Sire, he holds Castle Black in Fife. His nephew is the young earl of Fife, Duncan MacDuff, who is Your Grace’s nephew and ward in Northumbria.”

“That pup! We will not release him. The Fife castle should be forfeited.”

Arranging vials and jars, Rowena felt her heart jump. MacDuff of Fife!

“Sire, a warrant for forfeiture must designate a new owner to keep the property under the Crown’s control. Who shall have it?”

“Take it for yourself if you can. We cannot spare the men to attack it. The clerk will prepare a warrant. What do you know of this scoundrel MacDuff? Wife? Family?”

Just now, Sir Aedan was either on his sickbed or limping his way home to Fife. Rowena sent Henry a frantic glance, and he returned a frown.

“His wife is dead. He has a son. It is in the report, Sire,” Malise Comyn said.

“Throw the son in the dungeon with the father.”

“It is a small child, Sire.”

“Gone soft, Comyn? We confined Bruce’s daughter without harm. Put the boy in a dungeon and make sure he gets milk.”

“The Bruce girl is twelve and in a convent. This boy is too small to be imprisoned. If the Pope hears of it, you will be censured.”

“Damn it,” Edward muttered. “Fine. Take the boy to live with the other Scottish whelp, that so-called earl. Find this MacDuff, arrest him, and take the property. No MacDuff related to the Earl of Fife can be free! Imprisoned, confined—or dead!”