Page 6 of The Guardian’s Bride (Highland Secrets #3)

W hile the guardians of the kingdom of Scotland argued around him, rising voices echoing in the small stone church just outside of Selkirk, Aedan sat apart and silent on a wooden bench. He stretched out his left leg, muscles aching hip to knee along the healing scar, aware of the March wind pummeling the shuttered window above his head.

He listened as the men disputed their possible response to King Edward’s most recent letter, delivered to Gartnait, earl of Mar, a high-ranking lord and one of the quieter voices in the room. If they did not find agreement soon, Aedan thought, he would speak. But as an interim guardian in a group of Scotland’s elite lords acting together as regent to govern Scotland, he had a lesser say.

Yet as uncle to Isabella of Buchan and young Earl Duncan of Fife, his voice was important and respected.

“Regarding Bruce’s kinswomen,” said Sir John de Soules, an older knight with a raspy voice and a will like steel, “we demand that Lady Mary Bruce and Lady Isabella, countess of Buchan, be removed from their barbaric cages and taken to better confinement in a castle or convent until Edward agrees to release them back to kin and country, with or without prisoner exchange. Tell Edward that!”

“We all read Longshank’s letter,” countered Gartnait of Mar. “The king refuses the request of the guardians of Scotland that these women, ‘including the countess of Buchan and the wife, daughter, and sisters of Robert Bruce, be taken thence to a place to be given over to the guardianship of Gartnait of Mar, Sir John de Soules, Sir Ingram de Umfraville, Sir Aedan MacDuff, the bishops of Glasgow and St. Andrews, and the sheriffs of Lothian and Dumfries. Such and similar arrangements are not amenable.’” Reading from the letter, he tossed the page, seals dangling, to the table.

“Edward has refused three times. What do we say now?” Sir Ingram asked.

Amid muttered replies, Aedan stood. “Write this,” he said, and walked forward, gesturing toward a clerk brought by Mar, who scratched ink over a used parchment page.

“Since the addressee—Edward—is taking pains to ensure the cruel and unwarranted confinement of Bruce’s kinswomen,” he said, “herein, the Guardians of the Realm of Scotland, lords and regents, request again that the king deliver back to Scotland on good surety the countess of Buchan, etcetera,” he said. “If they are not released to appointed sheriffs by—let us say the first of May,” he suggested, “the Guardians promise and resolve to deliver another letter to Pope Clement the fifth detailing the uncouth behavior and great aggrievances of the King of England toward women and children who have harmed none.”

“Well enough, Aedan,” Gartnait of Mar said. “But Edward is convinced Isabella did grievous harm by crowning our king. He will not release or exchange anyone until Bruce begs the king’s peace. And that will not happen.”

“We will take our chances with a final attempt at diplomatic negotiation. Then—” Aedan paused to give the comments time to settle.

“And then?” John de Soules crossed his arms.

“We rescue them by force. But we would need men standing ready wherever the prisoners are being held—castles and convents. A great number of men.”

“And a great deal of work to pull it off. But MacDuff is right,” De Soules said. “We should send one more letter—and begin to plan assaults to reclaim the women.”

Aedan resumed his seat as the discussion continued and the latest letter was composed. Flexing his shoulders, he felt weary from weeks of traveling. Only a month earlier, he had left the monastery at Holyoak; rather than return to Fife, he had headed south to carry out a promise to Robert Bruce. At Roxburgh Castle, he had seen Lady Mary Bruce only from a distance, huddled in the iron cage displayed on the parapet—a heartbreaking sight. Then he rode up to Selkirk, intending to visit Berwick afterward in an attempt to see Isabella before sailing home to Fife.

Privately he had little hope, despite the influence of the guardian lords and regents of Scotland, that Edward would release the women. The king was so determined to bend the Scots to his will that his mercy was rare now.

But what he had heard earlier in the meeting troubled him greatly: rumors of growing danger for Bruce, loyal individuals, and certain clans—MacDuff among them. Aedan felt more strongly than ever that he must make his way home to look after his kinfolk and secure the treasures he had secreted away.

Much later, his part done, he left the kirkyard while the lords still gathered in the church, intending to ride the mile or two of curving path that led to the town. Puddles in the rutted track reflected moonlight until he entered a deep aisle of shadow that cut through dense woodland. He looked forward to sleep in the tavern where he had hired the horse and paid for a room. A bed under a roof was a luxury these days, though he could fall asleep anywhere.

Still recovering from his injuries, he tired easily, limped some, and ached on rainy days. His wounds were healing remarkably well, though. Just neat pink lines remained of the stitches that had closed the gashes on his leg, forearm, and face, and the scars would fade. He was alive, healing, and grateful for it.

Grateful, too, to the young woman who had saved his life. Without her grace and ability, he would not be here today. She was not a nun after all, and she was kind and lovely. Her name was blurred in his memory—perhaps Rona or Robina—but he still thought of her. He wished he could find her, show her his healed scars, his regained strength. He wished he could repay her somehow.

At Holyoak, fevered and weak, he had watched her, had fastened his deep need to survive on her kindness, her grace, her calm strength. She was part of the medicine that had helped him. Weeks after he left Holyoak, as his head cleared, he felt as if he had fallen a little in love with her.

Perhaps what he felt was not love, but gratitude unexpressed. Yet he felt a glimmer of hope dreaming of the girl. If he found time to return to Holyoak, he would thank them and ask after her. Seeing her again would help him differentiate gratitude from infatuation or more—though he did not expect to encounter love ever again.

Tonight, he was weary, aching, and hungry. He wanted a good stew, a cup of ale watered to his tolerance, a bed, and good dreams of family, home, and the girl at Holyoak.

Then his horse neighed, snorted, lost the rhythm of his step in the lowering shadows. Alerted, Aedan slowed, glanced around, listened. Just the sound of wind through trees, an owl’s cry, the horse’s breath and step.

He slowed again when the horse sidestepped and snorted nervously. Drawing on the reins, he paused the horse in the shadow of the woodland to either side. The stallion he had hired in Selkirk was new to him; perhaps the animal was restive or disliked the dark. Then he heard the hoofbeats.

More than one horse, perhaps three or four; riders were coming at a fair pace. Thankful for his horse’s nervous warning, he spurred the mount onward with still a mile to go. The road stretched past the forest into the open with moonlight showing the way. Soon the hoofbeats were closer.

“Halt! MacDuff of Fife! Halt!”

They were on him even as he bent to the horse’s neck urging a gallop; even as he reached for the broadsword strapped to the saddle; and before he could wheel and defend. Shouting, they surrounded him, weapons drawn. His name, so honored in Scotland and reviled in England, was yelled out. He resisted, but his arm, weakened by the long, deep scar, gave too soon.

Dragged from the horse and thrown to the ground, he rose to his feet with a roar, feet planted wide as he stood taller than the three soldiers in steel helms and red surcoats. Though his scarred leg trembled like a sapling, he stood his ground and slid a hand under his plaid to grasp the dagger hidden there. Even so, one of the three poised a sword tip at his throat, bringing the sting of blood. He froze.

“What do you want?” he growled.

“MacDuff,” one said. “You are a traitor, accused of treason!”

“I am riding to town minding my own business. You mind yours and leave off.” He leaned back, but two sword points pinched his neck. He liked his throat. He stilled.

“You took part in a treasonous act by aiding in the unlawful crowning of Robert Bruce. Your name alone is a crime, so says the king. We have orders to take you down.”

“I am a Guardian of Scotland, a clan chief—best think before you arrest me.” Feeling the snakebite of a sword point, he leaned and felt a third point press his back.

“Orders, MacDuff. Yield!”

They took him by the arms, kicking his feet from under him, his weaker leg folding. Then the side of a blade knocked against his temple and he slumped to the earthen road.

Rowena stood in the long ward room at Soutra Aisle, the Augustinian hospital in East Lothian where she had met Brother Hugo days earlier. Seated beside an old woman, she held her hand and thought about the stone hidden in her purse; she wished she had a sturdy chain to keep it even closer and out of sight of others. Even through the cloth, she felt the stone grow warm and vibrant, felt the woman’s breathing ease. The stone was helping in its way, though she sensed that soon death would do its inevitable work here.

Days before, Sir Gilchrist and his cousin, Sir Finley Macnab, now seneschal at Kincraig, had left her at Soutra. She had assured them she would be fine in the company of monks and a few nuns who helped here. The men promised to return in a week if she did not send word sooner.

After spending lovely weeks at home in Kincraig with her family and friends, she had no desire to go anywhere. But when a messenger arrived from Brother Hugo with word that she was expected at Soutra, she knew she had no choice but to go.

As for Edward’s demand to have whatever the Rhymer had given the Keiths, she informed her family, yet no royal order had arrived. In Selkirk, Henry wrote that he had no word of it either. Rowena hoped King Edward had forgotten—he was more ill than most knew, she was sure—or he dismissed it as unimportant, which would not surprise her. The matter of Scotland would take precedence: the king in the heather, as many called Bruce now, was rapidly gaining support.

However, she was very surprised when several of the king’s men arrived at Soutra and asked to see her.

“Is the king ill? Has he sent for me, as he said he might?” she asked Brother Hugo, who came to fetch her. She could not imagine why four knights would come to the abbey hospital with a message for her. “Is there something wrong at Kincraig?”

“My lady,” said the knight who introduced himself as Sir Peter Abernethy, “we have orders to take you from Soutra.”

“From Sir Henry or Sir Gilchrist??” Puzzled, she felt a growing alarm.

“We are to arrest you, my lady.” He seemed ill at ease.

“On what charge?” Her heart pounded, her hands shook. Had Edward finally acted on his threat against the Keiths regarding the Rhymer’s legacy?

“For attempting to poison the king,” Sir Peter said. “He still lives. We are here on royal orders.”

Stunned, she looked at Hugo, who stood to one side. “Brother?”

“Lady Rowena, I am shocked. Abernethy, what is the meaning of this?”

“The lady has been accused of poisoning the king. Here is the order.” Sir Peter produced a folded parchment with a dangling royal seal and handed it to the monk. But he did not show her, as if she did not matter. Brother Hugo read it and handed it back.

“Hugo, please, can you do something?” she asked. “Surely, you know I would never do harm to Edward or anyone.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “They must take you. It is their duty. I tried to warn you and the king about some of your practices. But I will do what I can.” A strange look crossed his face as he turned away. It was satisfaction.

Sir Peter, with a murmured apology, helped her mount a waiting horse, side-saddled for a woman, then tied her wrists with rope attached to the harness.

“Please. I did not do this. Please—send word to my family.”

“Brother Hugo will do that,” Sir Peter said. But she knew that would not happen.

Led away, she rode with them over hills and meadows to a river, fear like lead in her stomach. They put her on a barge, her hands still tied, guards around her. Panic turned to illness, for water travel often made her uneasy. When the barge docked, she did not know where she was, but saw a familiar face among those on the bank.

Sir Malise Comyn. She did not know whether to hope or fear even more.

He came forward. “Lady Rowena!” He took her aside, gesturing for the guards to wait. “I rode hard to be here when I heard about this.”

“Sir Malise, what is happening? They say I tried to poison Edward—two of the guards said I was a whore and a witch. Abernethy did not even reprimand them. I do not know what to do.” Tears sprung in her eyes. “I did no harm. Surely you know these charges are false!”

“My dear,” he murmured, “I am stunned by this order. But the king issued it himself. So I rode north to help if I could.”

She had to chance trusting him, having no one else here. “You know this is wrong. Tell them you know me.”

“I owe you a debt. But if I cannot arrange your release, you must consider the king’s wishes for you.”

“Wishes?” She blinked. Did he mean the Rhymer’s legacy—or the mention of marrying Malise? Either was abhorrent. “What do you mean?”

“Edward suggested that we marry. If you were my wife, I would have more influence in this situation. Alas, you are promised, though that can be broken. And you can give Edward what he wants and earn a pardon, and favor for both of us.”

Cold realization spiked through her. She could not trust Malise, though she had once hoped that helping him recover from injury would soften his hardened heart. “Is this because King Edward thinks I have something that belonged to the Rhymer?”

She was glad that Sir Peter was courteous enough to not only show reluctance to arrest a noble lady, but to refrain from searching her, or he would have found the crystal. She could only pray that Malise would show some courtesy too and leave her be.

“Lady Rowena, I am here because I care about you. If you are betrothed, I wish you luck. But that fellow will change his mind after this, if you survive this ordeal.”

“Malise, please help. You said you owed me something.”

“I will try. But I have my orders too. Edward insists that I find that fellow in Fife and then go to Kincraig for whatever gewgaws you possess. A lot of rushing around for not much reward. You could make this easier.”

A chill doused her spirit. She was wrong to hope for mercy. “Malise—I would not marry you after what you have done to people I love. I hoped once your catastrophe had changed you, but I fear I was wrong. Help me or do not—but I cannot give you what you want. I am sorry,” she added hastily, for her soft heart interfered in the moment.

“As you wish. I will do what I can, nonetheless.” Yet the flash of anger in his dark eyes confirmed he was no friend, no matter what he said.

He stepped back as the guards came to lift her into the cart. As it rolled away, Malise Comyn stood watching thoughtfully.

They took her to a place called Yester Tower toward the east coast, a region of Scotland under English control. Weak with fear and fatigue, she found the strength to kick and struggle. But they dragged her into the stone fortress and down steps to a dark lower level, where they pushed her into a dark cell, slammed the door, and walked away.

Then she realized she was not alone.