Murine’s eyes met hers. ‘I carried the pain of me husband’s passing, too.’
Flushed with embarrassment, Clare gasped. ‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered. So good at seeing her own pain, she had been blind to others’. She thought she was the only one ever left alone, but all around her, people bore losses beyond speaking.
‘Ye drag the past with you like the bells on those birds of yers. Any time ye might forget, the bell rings so ye can remember and resent it all over again.’
Sinking to sit on the wooden chest, she let the tears go, and let Murine pat her shoulder. How could this woman know her so well? ‘But I thought Alain…and then he…and I don’t even know what I did wrong.’ All her fault, in truth, and not her father’s at all.
Murine held her at arm’s length and looked her squarely in the eye. ‘Ye? Me thinks it’s the Frenchman who’s a fool if he couldn’t see how lucky he’d be to have ye.’
The blunt speech startled a laugh. She had not expected such words from a woman who had just criticised her roundly. She smiled, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, trying to remember whether her mother had ever lavished her with such praise.
‘Well, this is the marriage Da wanted, so this is the one he’ll get.’ She sighed. ‘Though I don’t know why.’
Murine’s smile was knowing. ‘Ye will.’ She patted Clare’s cheek. ‘Ye got the best part of the bargain.’
She put little store in the words. Murine had no concept of the courtly life. She spoke only out of her loyalty to Clare’s father.
Still, a small corner of Clare’s heart smiled. ‘Well, at least I got the man who knows the falcons. The comte hunted no better than an ill-trained kyte.’
Their laughter mingled. Clare waved her hand at the dresses. ‘So which one, Murine?’
The woman looked carefully at each, smoothing the fabric, picking away a stray thread. Then, she pointed. ‘The blue. It will set off your eyes.’ She grinned. ‘And his.’
Clare found herself still smiling after Murine left.
Chapter Fifteen
Marry in May, rue for aye. That was how the saying went.
Yet it was June before they could gather Lord Douglas and a priest educated enough to perform a nuptial mass and Clare feared she would rue the day just as heartily.
At table the day before the wedding, her father, Douglas and his men celebrated more heartily than she or Gavin. Her husband-to-be, surrounded by an increasingly rowdy group, sat wearing his best half-smile, silent.
Clare, with Murine and Euphemia, worked tirelessly to keep the platters full. It was Clare’s task to be sure that Lord Douglas had the best cut of meat and that his cup was never empty.
An easy task. The man drank little.
After the meal, he waved her over, refusing the brogat. ‘Come. I would speak with you alone.’
He rose, and Clare glanced at Murine, who nodded that she would keep food and drink flowing.
‘Lord Douglas.’ Clare stepped quickly to match his strides as he left the Hall behind. ‘We are honoured to have you here.’
‘Of course,’ was his only answer. After ten years as de facto ruler of the Borders, he was a man comfortable with his power.
He led her up the stairs to the gallery and fresh air. One lonely man had drawn the lot and been left to scan the countryside for danger. He straightened to see Lord Douglas, then moved out of earshot when the man motioned him away.
‘Now,’ Douglas said, turning his eyes on her, ‘tell me of this man you are to marry.’
She cleared her throat, trying to think. Douglas had made his promise years ago. Faced with the real man to whom he would entrust these lands, he might rethink his pledge.
She chose her words carefully. ‘What has my father told you?’ If her father had kept Gavin’s parentage a secret, everything could change once Lord Douglas discovered the truth.
And what would happen to her, to all of them, then?
His grim expression darkened. ‘That he’s Eltham’s son.’
So he knew. She should have expected as much. Gavin had said that his name was reviled throughout Scotland.
‘Why should I give these lands to an Inglis enemy? Has your father’s brain gone feeble?’
She refused to admit she had wondered the same. She must give Douglas no reason to doubt her father.
‘I’m sure he does not expect your blessing until you, too, can be satisfied that the man supports Scotland.’
He looked at her sharply. ‘You’re the woman he’s to wed. Does he?’
What could she say? That he was not an enemy? Did she even believe that? Yet the consequences now, should everything crumble around them, were as frightening as the marriage.
‘He has as much Scottis blood as Inglis.’ The words he had said so often warmed her mouth.
‘And as many ties to Edward as to David. And none to me.’
Douglas wanted a man as loyal to himself as to the Bruce. ‘He has chosen his side.’ She touched the stone wall, thinking of the hunger in Gavin’s eyes when he looked at the land. ‘He will die to hold this land for you.’
That, at least, she did believe.
He looked at her, assessing. ‘So he will be loyal to me.’
Douglas. David. Scotland. She had never thought there to be a difference. ‘Yes.’ Even she could hear the wobble in the word.
The man was quiet for a time, looking north towards all of Scotland. Finally, he turned back to her. ‘Be sure the man gets you with babe. That way, if something happens, I will name a guardian until the child is of age.’
Silent, she followed him back down the stairs. That’s all you’ll have of me, she had said. But it had not been true then and it was less so now. Scottis or Inglis, she would have to take him to her bed.
And the thought was not near as distasteful as it should have been.
The fire burned low as Gavin listened to Lord Douglas. The man, in a triumphant mood, regaled them with boastful tales as the evening tired. How he had hounded Edward back across the border. How he had then kept riding and rousted the English loyalists from Galloway and Kyle and even the mighty castle of Caerlaverock.
‘There’s the last of him,’ he concluded, with a grim smile, directed at Gavin. ‘Edward and his de Baliol puppet.’
He said it as if expecting Gavin to speak.
Standing on the other side of the border had not brought the peace he had hoped. Scottis as he was, Gavin could not rejoice in the English defeat, so he remained silent. He was Clare’s intended, but promises to the baron notwithstanding, Douglas could undo everything with a word.
His eyes sought Clare, as they usually did when he was not aware of his thoughts.
Then, Douglas’s hand fell on his shoulder, hearty as a blow. Brown eyes burrowed into Gavin’s, as if reading his doubts.
‘You’re to keep this tower, Fitzjohn.’
He nodded. ‘So I vow.’
Douglas did not relax his gaze. ‘I’ve given you an easy task. I’ve made a truce with Northhampton until Michaelmas.’
Northhampton was English Warden of the March, as powerful on his side of the border as Douglas on his. ‘You no longer need King David and King Edward to make war and peace?’
Douglas drew back his hand. ‘I never did.’
The words chilled him. How many sides were there to this war? ‘So you will press for King David’s release now.’
Douglas sipped his brew. ‘Perhaps.’
Gavin had not thought he asked a question. He wondered, not for the first time, whether Douglas really wanted David back. With the English gone and David captive, Lord Douglas, along with the Stewart, was as powerful as a king himself.
‘What would stop us from bringing him home?’ Gavin said, cautiously.
Lord Douglas grunted. ‘The ransom they want would bleed us dry. I won’t pay it.’
I. As if the decision, the money and the country were his.
‘Besides,’ Douglas continued, ‘David thinks to give the throne to a
son of England.’ He spat.
‘Instead of to Robert Stewart or to you?’ he asked the question calmly, wondering whether the man would pull his dirk.
‘Instead of to someone who has spent his life defending this land against the laidly Inglis while “David Drip-on-altar” warmed his toes by Edward’s fire.’
He had not heard such a slur against King David in all his years in England. ‘I shared that fire with him,’ Gavin said, jaw tight. A life in exile was no life at all. ‘He’s spent ten years in England because his countrymen are too cheap and too stubborn to bring him home.’
‘Which side are you on, Fitzjohn?’
When he chose Scotland, he chose King David. Were his loyalties to be divided again? ‘I’ve chosen my side, Douglas. Would you have me choose between you and my King?’
‘You must choose Scotland, no matter who is King.’ The man met his eyes, searching.
‘I thought that as long as a Douglas had a say, a Bruce would be King.’
Lord Douglas blinked. He could not dispute that as long as the heart of a Bruce decorated Lord Douglas’s shield. ‘Tell me, Gavin Fitzjohn, why did you come back?’
‘Scotland is my home.’ Despite the years away, his feet had recognised the ground. ‘And now, so is Carr’s Tower.’
Douglas’s glance was sceptical. ‘Only by my grace and that of your strong right arm.’
‘I’ve no doubts about the arm.’
Douglas frowned into his brew. ‘I made a truce, not a peace. If you think holding the border will be easy, you are the wrong man.’
Must a man seek war instead of facing it to satisfy Douglas?
‘Not easy, but I will hold it—for you and for Scotland, and for David the Bruce,’ Gavin said. ‘I’m sure you’d agree its time he sat on his throne again, instead of on Edward’s chairs.’
Douglas’s scowl was tinged with grudging admiration. ‘Edward has appointed ten commissioners to sue for peace. I meet with them before I go to France.’
‘I thought you were going on pilgrimage.’
‘To Amiens.’ He crossed himself. ‘Thanks be to God for our defeat of the Inglis.’
The comte joined them. ‘And if any Inglis dare to challenge us on French soil, we shall defeat them there, as well.’ He raised his eyebrows, a challenge to Gavin, who had been an Englishman on French soil once.
‘I’ve had my fill of war on French soil,’ he answered. He let his eyes rest on Clare again. ‘And I have a bride to enjoy.’
Beneath his moustache, the Frenchman’s smile soured. ‘It was not you that she wanted.’
Douglas’s glance flickered from the comte to Gavin.
‘It is now,’ Gavin answered.
‘Be sure of it,’ Douglas said. ‘I expect to see a babe in nine months.’
‘Oh?’ Gavin’s unconcerned smile emerged to protect him again. ‘Are there any other conditions of this union I need to know before I take the tower?’
Douglas’s expression spoke of war, not of wedding. ‘Only that you hold it. If you lose it to those men across the hill, you won’t be the one to win it back.’
Gavin lifted his mug. ‘I’ll hold it.’
Douglas watched Clare approach with another round of brogat. Gavin saw their eyes meet, a glance exchanged, and wondered what they had talked about when they left the hall together.
The marriage had been the baron’s idea. Douglas, like Clare, had been coerced into agreement.
Had his bride begged for release? To prevent the marriage?
Or something more sinister?
She had feared, even hated him. Enough for murder?
‘Now leave the rest of this, Clare. Ye’ll marry on the morrow and it’s too late to be doing kitchen work.’
Clare untied her napron and smiled as Murine and Euphemia tried to shoo her away. Nothing could have been further from the castle of the de Garencieres family than the kitchen of Carr’s Tower. Yet sharing with these women had given her a few bits of that happiness Murine had spoken of.
Maybe she could find a few to cling to with Gavin.
‘Clare. A word.’
Startled, she looked up to see him at the door. Her body had begun to anticipate the wedding night. Each time she saw him now, it was harder to breathe.
‘Now see?’ Murine said. ‘It’s time for ye to go.’
But no smile touched Gavin’s lips tonight, and her moment of anticipation wilted. He gripped her arm as if she were a captive as he pulled her towards the stairs.
On the dark level below, the empty dungeon and the cellar shared a floor that smelled of old wine, dried meat and mixed spices.
‘You talked to Douglas,’ he said, when they were alone.
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me what you said.’
‘He wanted to know whether you would be loyal to him.’
‘And if I wasn’t?’
The doubts she had held at bay returned. ‘I told him you were. I told him what you keep saying—that you have as much Scots blood as Inglis. Are you telling me I lied?’
‘I am telling you nothing. I am asking whether you and Douglas are plotting a way to end this marriage.’
Jolted, she stared at him.
If something happens.
Douglas had promised a wedding. No one could promise long life. And he would not hesitate to slay Gavin if he felt his reasons were right. He had killed his own uncle to become leader of the family.
Being Douglas’s enemy could be no more dangerous than being his friend.
‘Well?’ Gavin, impatient.
‘I am not privy to his plans.’ His eyes, so blue. As if he had stolen a piece of sky. She still feared him, but not for reasons she could share with Douglas. ‘But mine include a wedding, not a burial.’
‘A wedding and a birth.’
She shivered. Hot and cold, her blood rushed in anticipation. Close to him, in near darkness, he stirred her body without a touch.
After tomorrow, there would be no escape. She would be forced to accept this man into her body. Night after night, she would be caged with his darkness and her own. No rescue. No peace. And no idea where the path that joined them would lead.
She resented him, and her flesh, for making the idea so tempting.
‘Yes, a birth. I know my duty.’
Was that shift in his gaze disappointment? ‘And does your duty also include warning your husband if his life is threatened?’
‘Yes.’ She feared his touch, but she would not see him dead, and for reasons that went beyond wifely duty.
He touched her chin and turned her face towards the torchlight, searching her eyes in suspicious silence.
‘Clare…’ he said finally.
The word was a question.
She did not know how to answer.
He dropped his hand. ‘Be sure of it.’
Turning his back, he mounted the stairs, leaving her alone and straddling a strange border between love and hate.
Chapter Sixteen
The wedding was over. The guests gone.
Alone in her room, Clare gazed out of her window as Alain, Douglas and their men rode away, the priest, on a slower horse, lagging behind. Douglas had no time to stay for a feast. They had left just after midday, heading for the ship that would take them to England and then to France.
Without her.
The hoofbeats faded, until only the wind’s whine remained.
‘Did you say your fond farewells?’
Gavin’s voice startled her. She did not turn to meet his eyes.
‘I bade our guests goodbye, of course.’ She was glad Alain had gone. She could not have borne it, the next morning. The pounding at the door. The search for the bloody sheet. Alain’s eyes looking at the evidence that she belonged to Gavin.
Behind her, she felt her husband move closer and waited for him to touch her as was now his right.
He didn’t.
‘He did not seem to mourn your marriage.’
She squeezed her eyes aga
inst the pain, more angry at Alain and herself than at Gavin because it was the truth.
‘No. Only I do that.’
What a fool she had been. He had left with no more than a polite farewell, as if she had meant nothing to him.
No more than he, she realised now, had meant to her. A symbol, not a person. Someone who would have decorated her life like the banker graced her chest.
‘Would you have me woo you now?’
She turned and he filled her eyes, too rough, too raw, too large, invading the space that had been her last haven.
‘It’s too late for that. We are wed. I have no escape.’
‘Nor I.’
Fire and pain mixed in his eyes. She blinked against them. She didn’t want to see his pain and feared the fire even more.
‘If you wanted one,’ she said, ‘you should have spoken long ago.’
He did not want her. Not as she longed to be wanted. But at least he wanted the tower and the cattle and the sheep and the land that came with her. Alain had disdained even that.
‘Come,’ she said briskly, pushing him towards the bench beside the fire. The unfamiliar ring weighed heavy on her finger. ‘I will tend to you.’
Eyes never leaving her, he sat. She knelt before him to unbutton his cote hardie. It was too tight, a gift from Lord Douglas since the man had carried nothing with him and there had been no time to send for fine cloth and make another.
Gifted. Just like his bride.
She fumbled with the buttons. He grabbed her hand. ‘Since this duty displeases you so, I’ll do it myself.’
She stood and backed away as he rose from the bench, pulled off the garment, and tossed it aside. He kicked off his soft boots and held out a hand.
She turned her back, refusing to yield to the desire to curl against his chest and lift her lips to his. But breaking the gaze changed nothing. Blood still pounded through her veins and pooled in her core.
She battled for a breath, resentment washed away by desire. She owed him the duty of a wife and would show him only that or she would drive him, too, away.
She fumbled with the ties at the back of her dress, trying to disrobe and get into bed quickly, as if hiding her body would hide her desire from him.
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