A jolt of unease rocked her, but she did not force it away as she would have in the past. Perhaps Walter was right Wolf had many reasons to turn away from her, especially once he discovered who she was.
Isobel pulled her shoulders back and met Walter's gaze without flinching. He had asked where she would be when Wolf tired of her. Obviously the man knew nothing about her past or where she had come from. Her current predicament was paradise compared to where she'd been. Even if Wolf tossed her out into the wilds of Scotland tomorrow, she would be better off than before. At least she'd be free. At least she'd determine her own destiny.
She knew her choices would be few as a woman alone in the world without connections or family. But she would survive. Isobel dropped her gaze to her wrists and the scars that remained there. She'd lived as little more than an animal before, and she could do so again. Fine clothing, lavish food, even a soft, warm bed were not necessary for her survival. Life in the tower had made her stronger than most women.
A surge of confidence filled her as she met his gaze once more. "Thank you, Walter, for helping me realize I don't need your assistance. I am capable of doing this on my own." As she stood, the bench scraped gently against the wood flooring, mixing with Walter's gasp of surprise.
"Good day." Before he could respond, she strode across the chamber, determined to find the killer. One way or another, she would find out who had killed Cherie. What she needed was a trap—along with irresistible bait.
And she knew just what bait to offer.
Herself.
Isobel headed for the long hallway at the far end of the great hall. She'd seen the warriors enter the room from here dressed in their armor and mail. If she wanted similar protection, the rooms on this side of the castle seemed a logical place to search. An ominous silence followed her as she hurried through the semidarkness. Few of Wolf’s glass windows had been installed on this side of the castle.
She had no time to consider why as she came to the first doorway on her left. She pressed the handle down only to find it secured. The next door was also locked. She moved on to the door at the end of the hallway. The door here had a thick metal lock attached to the handle, yet it hung open, failing in its purpose to keep others from the room. Isobel pushed against the heavy wooden door. It swung open easily and she stepped inside.
Giant urns hung from hooks at both sides of the chamber, bathing the contents of the room in a rich, golden light Everywhere she looked weaponry covered the walls from the wooden floor to the vaulted ceiling. The weapons were organized by kind in neat and tidy rows. Spears and lances, swords and daggers, bows and arrows, crossbows and bolts, maces, battle axes, and shields. The metallic surfaces captured the light from the flames, making the chamber feel more like a magical place than a storehouse of destruction.
Yet the empty spaces on the wall testified that Wolf and his men had left the castle fully armed—armed to defend and destroy. And judging by the broken lock on the door, Wolf was not the only one who had access to the weapons. Unease brought a tingle to the back of her neck. Again she pushed the sensation away. She had a purpose here. She would see it through, no matter what.
To both left and right, racks of mail and armor lined the walls. Isobel moved toward the mail and searched through the heavy garments until she found what she wanted.
"Perfect," she said with a touch of satisfaction as she held up the small mail shirt that was probably fashioned for a squire or other youth. "Now, to find a weapon I can actually use." She draped the mail shirt over her arm and slowly walked down the line of weaponry against the back wall. None of the weapons were anything she'd ever had experience with before.
She paused before the crossbows and bolts, eyeing the weapons with as much curiosity as revulsion. Twice now someone had attacked a member of the castle with this weapon. Whether she knew how to use it or not, this was the tool that would help ensnare the traitor in their midst.
Isobel hesitated, her fingers hovering above the weapon. Could she do something so bold? Only a week ago she would have retreated to the chicken yard for safety, yet now she challenged herself to do something more.
She lifted the crossbow and two bolts from the wall. She would do what she could, regardless of her own future. She had what she needed to set the trap, then wait for the killer to strike.
The sound of bagpipes filled the air with a skirling melody that left Wolf’s emotions raw. He signaled his men to stop. The setting rays of the sun gilded the borderlands below the crag where he and his men assembled. Wolf scanned the area below, finding what he'd expected: his father's entourage. The report he'd had from the injured warrior had been limited but accurate.
Suspicion and anger replaced the distress that had driven Wolf from the castle and away from his bride. His father was not in danger. Nay, something else was at play here.
Wolf tensed, but even as he did the sound of the bagpipes worked their magic. It went deep inside him, pulling him back to an earlier day. He closed his eyes and let the music pulse through him. In his mind's eye he could see the land that stood before him. He could hear the sound of the clear, cold water that ran through the burns, the rivers that flowed through the cliffs and crags. He could hear the wind as it whipped over the lochs and across the grassy green knolls.
He loved the land as much as he loved his own freedom, and only his father knew that Wolf opened his eyes and gazed at the watchfires that surrounded the encampment below. His father's troops gathered there, and by the look of things they were not heading to Duthus Castle anytime soon.
His father—Robert II of Scotland, a Scot, a Stewart, and the rightful king on the throne—had brought clansmen who supported him. The clan chiefs gathered around him, ready to defend, no doubt, against the only man who disputed his claim: Lord Henry Grange. The echoing of the pipes, the skirling melody told it all. It was the music of war.
"What does he want?" Brahan reined in his horse alongside Wolf’s.
"My guess is to finally put an end to his battle against Grange and Grange's weak claim to the throne," Wolf replied.
"You guessed correctly," an unfamiliar voice replied.
Twisting in his saddle, Wolf saw a line of archers take position behind him and his men. Bows drawn and aimed to strike.
"Artemis."
The man bowed his head with a newfound arrogance. "You may address me as master of the realm." He stepped forward, holding his sword at a threatening angle. "I am the king's new favorite, Lieutenant of the Realm."
"A new title? A change in rank? My, who did you have to kill to receive such a promotion?" Wolf kept his tone casual, bored. He cared not a whit about the man or any of the reasons why he had been moved from such a lowly position in his father's court to one of extreme rank. Nay, what he did care about was time—stalling to buy more of it in order to get himself and his men out of their current predicament.
"The king would have a word with you," Artemis commanded, his sword at the ready. Arrows or swords, both would be lethal once unleashed.
The sound of the bagpipes faded into the distance, replaced by the creaking of leather as the horses shifted beneath the weight of Wolf’s men. The tension in the air sharpened. Wolf could see from the corners of his eyes as his own men grasped the hilts of their swords, ready to fight at the slightest inclination of his head. Anger tightened Wolf's gut. "So it has all been a ploy to get me to come to his aid."
Artemis shrugged. "I do not presume to know what goes through the king's mind. He has summoned me to bring you to him, and that I shall do. We can do this peacefully, or more of your men can fall. Which is it to be?"
Mercilessly Wolf gripped the reins in his hands, the leather biting into his palms. "He killed and injured my warriors, not Grange."
"The king did what he had to do in order to bring you here." Artemis raised his sword to strike.
Wolf tensed as he darted a gaze to his left, to his right, searching for some way out. The horse beneath him sensed his mood: its flanks t
ightened, its nostrils flared. Damn his father for deceiving him again.
If it came to a battle, Wolf held the tactical advantage from atop his horse. But that would not protect his men from the arrow volleys.
Bile rose in his throat as he forced a bow of acquiescence. He signaled his men to stand down and to fall in behind him. "Shall we?" he stated more as a challenge than as consent as he maneuvered his horse purposefully down the slope toward the king's encampment.
This time his father had gone too far.
The night sky darkened with angry rain clouds, and flashes of lightning darted across the sky. A storm threatened both in the heavens above and here on the ground. Wolf tensed as he waited outside the tent, listening as the lieutenant announced his arrival. Footsteps sounded on the other side of the oiled cloth. The flap swished aside and a pale light spilled from within. "You may enter."
Wolf stepped inside the king's domain. The lieutenant followed him inside. Standing as guardian beside the doorway, he drew his sword.
Wolf turned to where his father sat in a sumptuous red velvet chair that appeared out of place amid the trappings of war. "What do you want" He did not bother to disguise the anger he knew reflected in his voice.
"Your cooperation."
"Most men would just ask."
"I am not most men."
Wolf regarded the king in stony silence as he bit back another surge of disappointment. Would his father ever treat him as a beloved son, and not just as a vassal to do with as he pleased?
The king stood, relying heavily on his cane for support. "It is time to rid ourselves of Grange."
"You have tried that tack before without success."
The king lifted his chin as though scenting the air, a warrior, an animal assessing his prey. "I now hold the advantage." The oiled flap flew back and another warrior entered. He stopped at the doorway until the king waved a hand for him to approach. In his grasp he held a leather pouch. Wolf recognized it immediately.
Instant alarm creased his brow. "Where's Brahan?"
The king accepted the pouch with a frown. "So worried about your men. That is your weakness, you know."
Wolf’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword. "What have you done to Brahan?"
"Stay your weapon. Your lieutenant is safe. For now." The king flipped open the pouch and pulled out Brahan's stone. He brought his gaze back to Wolf’s. " 'Tis the Stewart half. Now where is the Balliol half of the Seer's Stone?"
Wolf stared at the broken piece of stone as if seeing it for the first time. Lord Grange had been after Brahan's stone, a stone his own father now held in his hand. The small white stone appeared broken, only part of what it should be. Wolf had never noticed that before. He could only stare at the object, and as he did another stone came to mind. Isobel's stone necklace was also small, white, and broken on one side. "What do you mean, the Balliol half?"
The king shook his head in disgust as he stroked the smooth surface of Brahan's stone. "Did your mother never tell you of the significance of this stone? Or why she chose you, of all her children, to gift the Stone to at her death?"
Wolf felt the hilt of his sword bite into his hand. The pain seemed to focus him as his emotions ran the gamut from anger at his father to grief over his mother. "Nay. She never told me anything other than that the Stone was meant to be used by a seer. Since our family has never had, nor wanted that ability, I passed the Stone to Brahan, whose family is famous for such talents."
"God's toes," the king growled. "That woman did you no favors, withholding the truth."
"My mother did what she thought was best." Wolf’s voice was laced with steel as he drew his sword. No one, not even his father, could get away with slandering his mother or her memory.
Artemis lunged forward, positioning his body between Wolf and the king. "Withdraw your weapon or feel the thrust of mine."
Wolf held his position. He wasn't afraid to die. It seemed entirely appropriate that he should do so at his father's feet. Their blood connection only became an issue when it served his father's purposes, such as now. The man wanted something, and Wolf knew the king would never allow his vassal to die before that purpose was fulfilled.
"If you are both so determined to use your sword, then do so outside, while you are chasing down that scoundrel Grange," the king roared, his voice booming in the confines of the tent.
With a twist of his wrist, Wolf sheathed his weapon. He stepped past Artemis to stand beside his father. Wolf took the Stone from his father's grasp, studying it in greater detail than he ever had before. One side of the Stone was rounded and smooth. The other was blunt, rough. The symbol etched into the top had always looked complete before, yet now it looked segmented—as if it was only half of something more.
Wolf met his father's curious gaze. "What did you mean by the Balliol half of the Stone?"
"That Stone is incomplete. When the two families— the Balliol and the Stewarts—battled over the throne, the high chiefs divided the Stone and gave half to each family." The king swayed on his feet, as if the memory suddenly drained him of strength. He shuffled backward toward his chair. "I must sit."
He did look tired, and Wolf felt a moment's sympathy before he checked himself. It was probably just an act to gain sympathy. "Go on. Tired or not, you started this game. You'll see it out."
He did not argue, merely nodded.
"Both families were happy until they tried to use their half of the Stone. The visions were suddenly unpredictable, not as clear. And the seer who tried to use the Stone either died immediately or aged a number of years over the course of a few minutes. Fear set in, and instead of being desired, the Stones became reviled. Lesser members of the family took claim of each half of the Stone, since the need for their survival was not as great as those who stood in line for the throne."
Wolf prickled at the comment. As a bastard child of a king, he most definitely fit that role. Yet that was never the issue between him and his father. Acceptance had always been the key—often desired, but never fulfilled.
The king continued, unaware of the tension his words had caused. "I have always known where the Stewart half of the Stone resided, but only recently did I learn about the Balliol half. It had vanished for many years, until my spies discovered what part of the Balliol line it had been passed down to."
Wolf kept his gaze on his father. "And now you think I have that half of the Stone. Why? Why would I have the Stone? I'm no Balliol."
"Nay." The king smiled wickedly. "But your wife most certainly is."
His wife? Isobel? A Balliol? Rage, hot and hard, pounded through Wolf. "Damn you." He clenched his jaw against the vile words he longed to say. "My marriage to Isobel," he bit out. His father had used him for his own benefit and advancement again. A Balliol? Impossible. Or was it? What had she tried to tell him before he'd left?
The king shrugged. "It was necessary to bring me the other half of the Stone."
"Yet you thought nothing of me—or of Isobel—in your scheming."
The king's eyes narrowed. "You needed a wife. I gave you one. That the two houses of Scotland are united again seemed more important than your feelings on the subject."
Wolf crossed his arms over his chest. "Now the truth comes out."
"I did what I had to do."
"Why do you really want the Stone?" Wolf asked fiercely, concentrating his anger on the Stone instead of the deeper issue of exactly who he had married. He would think on that later.
A look of surprise crossed the king's face. "Because Grange wants it. He will use the Stone and its power against me."
"So you fight your fear by creating more fear. Is that right?"
The king's face hardened, as it always did when Wolf had pushed too far. "You know naught of what it is like to rule a country."
"Perhaps not But I do know what it is like to have the respect and support of my men not through fear, only trust."
The king met Wolf’s gaze with eyes as clear and cold as polished stone.
"Then I trust you'll have no objection to using that connection with your men to run Grange through."
"You might have succeeded in bringing me here, but that does not mean you have my cooperation," Wolf replied.
"I'll have your cooperation, boy. Because if I don't it will be your beautiful new bride who will pay for your foolhardiness."
Wolf tensed. "Isobel is safe within my castle. You cannot touch her there. You'll have to try another tack, Auld Blearie."
The king's face turned crimson at the mention of the much-despised name. "Safety is at best an illusion. Even now, as we speak, your bride is at risk."
Wolf’s gut tightened. "You wouldn't—"
"I'll have your cooperation and that of your men in order to defeat my enemy."
"Who is it?" Wolf demanded with venomous force. "Who did you plant to deceive me?"
"That matters not."
"Who is it?" Wolf's hand snapped out. He grasped the king beneath the chin. The old man's clear eyes became suddenly watery beneath Wolf’s assault.
"Release ... me!"
Artemis surged forward, but Wolf stalled him with a look as sharp as his own blade. "Another step and he dies," Wolf threatened.
Artemis froze.
"Who deceived me?"
A cold and calculating look settled over the king's face. "You won't... hurt me. Or you would have ... years ago."
Wolf clenched his jaw and considered tightening his grip on his father's throat. He had more than enough reasons to justify killing the man right here and now. Yet his fingers refused to cooperate, so he shook the man instead. "Tell me who has betrayed me. Or I might be forced to prove you wrong."
"Your ... brother ... Walter," the king choked out.
A terrible sense of disbelief and betrayal stole his anger, and Wolf snapped back his hand. "Walter would do no such thing. Not against me."
The king grasped his throat and coughed as he struggled to regain his breath. "He had as much of a choice ... as you have now."
Warrior's Bride Page 19