“I don’t think so. I am wary of these strangers, Father.”
He shook his head. “I was so eager for you to be free of this place, when I was uncertain myself. But that is your value, my lady, in being returned to London. There is no one who wishes you any harm, since you may bring back loved ones of the rebels.”
“Father, thank you, I feel far safer here.”
Distressed, he left her at last. That night, though, she paced the room, feeling her confines more closely than ever before.
She had been given a choice.
And still, over the next several days, though he came many times, she stubbornly refused to accept any invitations.
Perhaps she was able to do so because Jennie came many times. They played cards, and chess, and read, and Jennie was able to tell her that she’d gotten her letter beyond the walls through the kind services of a passing tinker. And so, it seemed, time did not weigh so heavily.
When Jennie didn’t appear, she received a new visitor—Rowenna. Rowenna was pleased to be with her, and told her that she and Gregory had come to the castle in the company of the healing Thayer and the others after their night at Father Padraic’s wayside. She was serving in the kitchen, and Gregory was working with the horses. He had a way with animals, loved them, and tended them well.
Igrainia was glad to see Rowenna, but her enjoyment of the girl was somewhat marred by her memory of her behavior with Eric. Apparently, as bitter and agonized as he might be at the loss of his wife, he did not mind having a sweetheart.
But it seemed that Rowenna was happy and at peace. And it was more evident than ever that she had been beautiful before the scar had slashed her cheek. And of course, in her gentle way, she remained beautiful.
And yet, she was, Igrainia knew, loyal to the man who had brought her here, and loyal to Robert Bruce, and the dream of a free Scotland.
Day after day, Father MacKinley came to entreat her to come down to supper.
On Sunday, she left the room to attend mass at MacKinley’s small chapel within the castle walls.
And later, that evening, she assumed that it was Father MacKinley at her door when she heard a tapping toward nightfall.
It was not. It was the newcomer who had arrived the day that Eric had ridden out.
He stood at her door, bearing an almost uncanny resemblance to Eric, though this man had darker, redder hair, and his eyes were more of a gray than a crystalline blue.
And he smiled, a pleasant smile. His eyes seemed alight with a secret mischief.
“Igrainia of Langley!” he said, and bowed deeply. “I’m Jamie Graham.” He offered her a jestingly humble shrug. “I’m known to be an excellent tactician in the art of defensive war, but that’s no matter, I’m also articulate, very well educated, and can play a lute. I saw that you were enticed to leave the room for mass this morning. There is no reason for you to be so completely imprisoned here, so far from the world around you! I would deeply appreciate it if you would cast off the shackles of confinement and join us in the hall for supper this evening.”
She stared at him.
“Sir, I am but a prisoner in this castle.”
“That, my lady, should not let you discard the concept of a pleasant supper among men who are weary of fighting and would find sheer delight in simply having you near. And please,” he added hastily, “you mustn’t fear for yourself in any way. You’re a hostage of the crown, you know. And no man would dare be anything but completely courteous to a—a ward of King Robert.”
“Really? I’m afraid that there are those among your number that I’m not so certain I would describe as . . . courteous.”
“You’ll not find them at table tonight.”
She watched him, surprised to feel amused—and interested. “Perhaps,” she told him.
He bowed to her. “The choice must be yours.”
He turned and walked down the hall.
Later, another tap came at the door. It was Father MacKinley, hoping to escort her down to the supper table. He would be at her side throughout the meal, he swore.
She decided to join them. Jarrett greeted her pleasantly in the hall, and downstairs at the great dining table, Jamie and Peter MacDonald were waiting. Jamie Graham greeted her with pleasure, and pulled out a chair that she might sit. As Father MacKinley had said, his place was by her side, and Jamie took the next chair. Another man named Dougal joined them, and though he was far quieter than the outgoing Jamie, he was courteous and pleasant, greeting her with a grave welcome.
Berlinda and Garth served the meal—venison, eel, fowl, and plates of summer vegetables, fresh bread and steaming gravy.
“So, you are Eric’s cousin,” Igrainia murmured when the food had been served.
“I’m a first cousin, on his father’s side, of course, and Dougal is a second cousin to us both. We’re from an extensive clan, you see. We’ve been spreading out across Scotland well over a hundred years now . . . close to two hundred years. There are some of us in the lowlands. Some from the highlands, and our particular branch of the family tree is centered not far from Stirling. And, you, my lady, come straight from a fine place not far from London. Your father was supposed to have been quite an impressive horseman, leading the king’s troops against the French, I’m glad to say.”
She curled her fingers around the chalice in front of her.
“Would it have made a difference to you if he had fought at the head of the king’s troops in Scotland? Robert Bruce fought often enough with Edward’s men in Scotland.”
The table fell silent, except for the sound of Father MacKinley’s sigh.
Then Jamie laughed. “Well, you do have an edge about you, Lady Igrainia. Many Scots followed Edward many times. Unfortunately, some of our nobility is entangled deeply with Edward, since English lands have tended to be far richer than those in Scotland, and so many have had holdings in both countries. But the time has come when a man must make a stand.”
“Do you truly believe that Robert Bruce can prevail?” she asked. “The English might is overwhelming.”
“Ah, but the Scottish spirit is indomitable!” Jamie said. He shrugged, casting his head at an angle, seriously studying her face and then offering a rueful smile. “You see, my lady, we have our forests into which to disappear. There are the highlands, where the terrain has beaten back many a man. And there, in the old lands, the lands where the ancient royalty lie and in death, watch over the clans, there is no rule other than the chieftains, and they choose a man to follow, and will live and die by their choice. Aye, it will be a hard fight. But Robert Bruce will prevail.”
She sipped her wine. “I hope he does so before Edward’s men swarm over Langley and kill all these good people for being traitors.”
Silence fell again. Then Father MacKinley said, “There is nothing stronger, anywhere, than the human spirit—and the power of God. Look at Langley! Just short months ago, it was devastated, a place of disease and death. But those who lived buried their loved ones and the past, and if you look about, you’ll see a fine hall, clean and filled with flowers, and the table filled with the bounty of the season.”
“Aye, look at Langley,” she murmured.
“I believe I will have more meat,” Jamie said.
And even he seemed frustrated. But when he had finished eating, he asked her if she was familiar with pipes.
“We may be in the lowlands,” she heard herself say, “but this is Scotland.”
Jamie grinned slightly. “Dougal can play with a beauty you’ll not believe.”
“Ah, Jamie! I can barely wheeze out a tune.”
“But the lady would love to hear one.”
“Aye, Dougal, play!” Jarrett encouraged.
“Because our Jarrett can really dance to the tune, you know. Do you dance, Lady Igrainia.”
“No, no, I’m afraid I don’t know the dances at all.”
“That’s because, being the lady you are, you’ve missed the sheer pleasure of a country fair, my lady!
But we shall fix that. Dougal, get the pipes!”
And so Dougal did, and since she demurred determinedly from attempting to dance, Jamie drew up Jarrett as a partner. Dougal really could play, and despite herself, Igrainia found herself laughing over their frolicking on the floor until it grew late, and Father MacKinley took her up to her room.
The next night, she joined them again, and Dougal spoke more, telling her how happy he had been to arrive, and see the old friends who had survived the sickness. To see the family crest and colors on the castle, and the life teeming when the plague had taken so much.
“Yes, actually, I’ve been quite amazed,” said Igrainia. I saw the people when Sir Niles Mason arrived with them and . . . it was really quite terrible and pathetic. Everyone was worn and ragged and dirty, and, of course, so many were suffering from illness. Yet it appeared to be the poorest crowd, and almost magically, men had clean tunics and breeches and tartans, and there were flags everywhere.”
“My dear lady!” Peter MacDonald said, shaking his head. “We had been traveling, and then encamped, when the English burst upon us. Naturally, we traveled with our belongings, our colors, our tartans, our flags, and even much of the mail you’ve seen was in our trunks. When the English seized us, lady, they seized our goods. A bitter thing at the time, but when we came back to Langley to free our families, many important pieces of our lives were here to be seized back.”
“Ah,” she murmured.
“We stole back what was stolen from us!” Jarrett said, shrugging.
“Ah, but it’s getting far too serious here!” Jamie said. “It’s time for the pipes again!”
And so, Dougal played the pipes, and that night, Jamie got her out on the floor, laughing and whirling about as she tried to imitate his movements. And it was Jarrett who was the expert, and soon, he was showing her how to turn about the room as well.
She was so involved in the activity that she didn’t notice when another man slipped into the hall, quietly talking to Peter and Jamie.
She didn’t see the two leave the hall, and she was dizzy and laughing when he returned.
With company.
She spun as Jarrett had shown her and she came to a dizzying halt, sweeping her hair from her face, then sobering in a horrified instant.
The pipes wheezed to a halt.
Eric had entered the hall.
“Ah, Eric, so you have returned quickly!” Dougal said with pleasure. “And the King, the King is alive and well?” he asked worriedly.
“Aye, Robert Bruce lives, and continues amassing greater troops,” Eric said. “Word has it that Edward himself has risen from a sick bed and will lead his own troops, as he is angry with the failure of the Earl of Pembroke to bring the Bruce down.”
“King Edward still hasn’t measured the mettle of the Scots,” Dougal murmured. “Nor does he understand that the fight cannot be won in the forests and the highlands and far to the north!”
Eric stood just feet from Igrainia, towering and gleaming in mail, tunic, and tartan-weave mantle. He greeted Jarrett, clapping him on the shoulder, and commenting on the vigor of his dance, then turned to Igrainia at last.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said. He strode to the table they had all deserted. He drew his gloves from his hands, casting them on the table, and accepted a chalice of ale from Garth who had emerged from the shadows to serve him, thanking the man courteously as he did so. His eyes raised to Igrainia’s once again. “How enchanting, my lady, to find you in such a pleasant state of mind,” he said. “Had we only realized earlier that we could thaw your anger with music and dance!”
“I think it’s time I retire for the evening,” she said.
“I’m so sorry that my arrival must ruin your night,” he told her, and she saw that the hall was beginning to fill as others entered from the courtyard, Peter, Jamie, returning from greeting those who had ridden out, and Angus, Raymond, and Geoffrey, who had been with Eric. They were accompanied by another man, a tall, lean, white-haired and grim-faced priest. They talked among themselves as they entered, the riders appearing pale and drawn, and the others deeply concerned.
A strange fear swept through her like wildfire. They all looked so grim. Especially the priest. Something had gone very badly on their mission. She fought a panic rising in her. The way that they had come . . . and with a priest . . . could they possibly intend to execute her in retaliation for some act of the English?
She stared at Eric, determined not to betray her fear. Because she was afraid she knew what had happened: King Edward had refused to exchange Robert Bruce’s wife or his kinswomen for her.
And the king of the Scots was furious. Robert Bruce, too, had his temper. Perhaps he could not be accused of all the atrocities Edward had practiced in Scotland, but he knew how to kill, and he knew how to fight, and there were many innocent victims in war.
The men she had come to know, those who liked her, were looking at her with pitying glances. Geoffrey, Allan. . . Peter.
Geoffrey lifted a hand in greeting, and gave her a weak smile. At his side, Jamie asked him something that drew his attention, but as he spoke to Jamie, he kept glancing at her.
“It would be best if you return upstairs,” Eric said softly. Though there was some distance between them, he spoke to her alone, and his tone was very low. “I will be along to speak with you soon. There are a few events which take place tonight and we must prepare here, but I will be up soon to explain what is happening.”
She looked around the great hall again. The men had gathered in groups. Berlinda had come from the kitchen to join Garth in serving ale to those who had just returned, tired from their hard ride, and parched.
She saw Jamie speaking again, across the room. He was questioning Geoffrey and Raymond. Father MacKinley was standing there with them as well, a deep frown furrowed into his brow.
It seemed as if they were all casting glances her way. Glances that were filled with consternation and sorrow.
Eric had returned with some news regarding her, obviously, and they were all talking about it.
As she watched, Jamie asked another question of his companions who had ridden out.
She heard Geoffrey murmuring quietly in return. Though he was speaking softly, within the great stone hall, sounds could be picked up and echoed, and heard across the room.
She caught whispered syllables of their words.
With mounting horror, she put them together.
She is to be murdered.
Oh, God, yes, those were the words he was saying!
Murdered. Weakness filled her limbs. Murdered. Her death was to be one of the “events” taking place at Langley tonight. This was a drastic measure. Not even King Edward had executed his female hostages. And now, Eric wanted her to go upstairs so that he could tell her alone, so that she could get some dignity together, compose herself so that her screams wouldn’t create an uprising within the castle.
“Igrainia,” Eric repeated. “Jarrett will escort you up.”
She shook her head, facing him. “No. Find the courage to tell me here and now.”
“The courage?” He arched a brow.
“Surely, there is something afoot, and it cannot be a pleasant task for you.”
“Not at all,” he responded gravely.
“Tell me now,” she said, her limbs like ice. “Am I to be killed?”
“Killed?” Eric repeated, frowning and startled. He shook his head, lowering it, a dry, curious smile curving his lips. “No, my lady, I have not returned with any intent to do murder, legal, royal, or other.”
“I overheard Jamie’s words to Dougal and Jarrett. You don’t need to disguise what is happening to me. If I am to be executed, murdered, simply say so.”
His smile deepened, and once again, he shook his head. “So you hear them speaking, but I’m afraid you didn’t hear correctly. You’re not to be murdered. You are to be married.”
“Married?” she said incredulously. “Married?” She was stunned,
and the absurdity of it was so great that she couldn’t begin to think or reason at the moment. She looked then from Eric to the grim priest who had entered with the other men, and back to Eric once again. His ice blue eyes were set upon her hard. “Married?” she echoed a third time.
“Married, my lady. Joined in holy wedlock. I know you’re familiar with the contract, having entered into it before.”
His impatient sarcasm brought something snapping together within her mind.
“Indeed, I understand the concept. But it is quite impossible. So perhaps you will be so good as to explain why you think that I will be married, and to whom.”
He set down his chalice with a shrug. “It’s not at all impossible, and it will occur—the king has spoken.”
“Your king has no power over me.”
“I’m afraid he does. This is, after all, Scotland.”
“He is an outlaw on the run. He can force me to do nothing.”
“But I can,” Eric said evenly. “And I am the man to whom you are to be wed.”
CHAPTER 11
She didn’t believe him, couldn’t believe him. But she was suddenly desperate to be away from him, and away from the hall, filled with his people. She was afraid that she would begin to scream or laugh, or go utterly mad in front of all of them.
This had to be an improbable jest. At her expense, surely.
She turned slowly, almost blinded. Jarrett and Dougal stood near her now. She managed to keep her shoulders straight, her knees from quaking, and she inclined her head to them both.. “Thank you for the entertainment, but I must leave now. The hall has become filled with . . . liars and madmen,” she finished, and started for the stairs.
She realized then that the hall had grown silent. All eyes were following her.
Behind her, she heard the motion as Jarrett started to move, ready to follow her.
“No,” Eric told him. “This is something I might as well begin, as I must see it through myself.”
She fled the rest of the way up the stairs, and into her room. And as she reached it, she rued her own flight—it was madness. Eric intended to follow. And then she would be in a confined space with him, alone. If she had remained in the hall, Father MacKinley would have come to her side, he would have explained that it was all preposterous. And still, she thought, this had to be a jest, because Eric himself would never take part in such a farce.
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