Had she ever said she loved him at all?
‘I should have known from the beginning.’ She was again the stern, judgemental woman he had met on the moor. ‘You came here disguised to gain our trust. And now you’ve betrayed Lord Douglas.’
‘Me?’ Anger, deep, turned his desire to ash. ‘It’s Lord Douglas who betrayed the King. Ten years in captivity and why? Because Douglas wanted no rivals to his own rule. That’s why these terms weren’t accepted years ago. And despite that, David will make him an Earl and I’ve no doubt he’ll take it. They’ll both be satisfied. Why aren’t you?’
‘Because a Scot fights for freedom! We would have dethroned the Bruce himself if he had dared to subjugate us to England.’
‘When the falcon flies, she doesn’t see Scotland or England. She sees one island. One body. No more able to be cleaved than my own. Is it worth endless war to be sure no one steps across a line we cannot even see?’
‘Yes.’ The word. Cold. Immovable.
No way to convince her that these two countries must share an isle in peace. No compromise. Only what should be.
‘I will never forgive them,’ she said, ‘for what they have done to Scotland. Churches, fields, everything burned.’
Them. The English.
Him.
Yet he tried to argue. Useless, when it was her heart that was unconvinced. ‘You criticise Edward, yet against their enemies the Bruces did the same.’
She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you ever heard of the herschip of Buchan?’
The colour on her cheeks told him she had.
‘Then you know what David’s father did to his enemies. To men who were also Scots. Destroyed their homes, burned their castles, crops, cattle, killed all who were loyal to his enemies and left the rest without food or shelter on lands where they had lived peaceably for a hundred years. Terrorised the poor folk so thoroughly that they have never raised their heads in fifty years.’
Fury shook him. Was it for her or himself?
But he could not stop now. ‘So don’t sit there and wax righteously against the evils of the English. At war, all men are devils, capable of things no man should see and no woman should know of. In the midst of battle, no man clings to chivalry. Not if he wants to live.’
His chest was heaving as if he’d been wielding a sword against an enemy. ‘And we all, Mistress Clare, want to live. More than we want food or drink or air or sex. We want to live and we will do anything, anything, to be sure that we do.’
‘So that is your excuse? You expect me to forgive the English because they are no worse than anyone else?’
He shuddered at her words. ‘I expected, at least, that you had forgiven me.’
‘How can I? You, Edward, you set fire to everything, the church, even the people—’
‘I didn’t!’
‘But you wanted to!’
His confession, hurled back at him. He had managed to come to terms with the horror of war. To accept himself and the conquered darkness within.
She had not.
To her, he was still a monster who could burn a church full of innocents. And without her trust, he was still the same divided man who had faced the Lamp of Lothian, holding a torch.
‘This isn’t about Scotland or England at all, is it? It’s my English blood you can’t forgive.’
‘The others…’ She hesitated, searching for the words. ‘Those men who did those things you speak of, they do not sleep in my bed.’
The nights of loving acceptance. The dark desires shared only with each other. That union that had united his warring blood.
Surely all these things could not lie?
He reached for her, wanting their bodies to speak again, beyond the hateful words. Her body would remember his touch. He had simply been too long away. Once they joined, all would be as it was.
She stood, stiff in his arms.
‘You’re afraid,’ he said, truth finally sinking into his thick skull. ‘Afraid of what other people will think of me.’
‘No!’
‘What, then?’ He watched her eyes, no longer trusting. Worse, ashamed, regretting what they had done together. ‘This isn’t even about trusting me.’ Her silence confirmed his fears. Too long away from his body, she had let her doubts intrude. ‘It’s about trusting yourself.’
She closed her eyes. Pursed her lips.
He knew he was right. And knew that with a kiss, a touch, the gentlest of force, he could release her again to fly with him.
But now, he could not do it.
She pushed him away, as if she knew his thoughts and had to get away before his touch removed all her resistance. ‘I’ve had time to think. Time to realise those things we did…’ Her shudder spoke more of longing than of revulsion. She opened her eyes and the ones that met his were hard, cold green-grey again. ‘They went beyond all boundaries. You are not a man I could love.’
‘Love is not perfection. It’s messier than that. It’s what happens in the dark corners between two souls. Good and bad mix in us all. Things we are proud of. Things we hope no one else ever sees. But when you love someone, you love even the parts that are not perfect.’
She did not speak. Did not move. Did not reach out to touch him.
With all the others, he had brushed off what was said of him, not expecting to live long enough for it to matter. Waiting only for an outer battle to bring the one within to a fatal, inevitable conclusion.
But with her, he had seen himself as something more than a knight whose task was to kill, known that the darkest impulses could be resisted, even channelled to create light.
And now, too late, he had brought them outer peace, and shattered the peace within.
Each flight was a choice. Each flight was a risk. And by her silence he knew he had lost her.
‘Nae. Enough. I’ll trouble you no more.’ He grabbed the sack, still full of what he had taken on his travels.
‘Where will you go?’
He heard no curiosity in her words.
Where would he go? What was a knight to do when the war had ended?
‘Why, I’ll do what the most chivalrous knight would do,’ he said, forcing the edge of laughter back into his voice. ‘I’ll go to England as Edward’s hostage so that one of those with real Scots blood can come home. That will spare one of Douglas’s relatives a long, lonely stint in exile.’
As for him? Well, he would be again a man divided, as much of a wandering stranger as the falcon, without a country to call home.
Chapter Twenty-Four
She watched him, frozen with guilt. She had done nothing right, not from the very first. ‘But you promised to protect…the land. To protect me.’
‘Peace will protect you.’
‘You think the Robsons care for the Kings’ peace?’
She saw it then, a pang of pain, on his face. ‘If they did attack again, you would only wonder whether I aided them.’
He stepped closer and she clenched her fists to keep herself from falling into his arms and reaching for his kiss.
He did not give it. Instead, he touched his fingers to her cheek, then smoothed them over her hair, tightly braided today, with no room for his fingers to roam.
He lifted her chin and she closed her eyes, waiting.
With a kiss, he could sweep her away. She could lose herself in his arms, surrender to his desires, and pretend that it was not her choice, but his that drew them together and made her do those things.
She waited, but his lips did not meet hers.
She opened her eyes.
His fingers fell to his side. ‘Farewell, my falcon.’
Gavin protected her even as he left, giving her father a smooth, clever lie of explanation. Yes, he had known all along that he would have to return as a hostage. No, he had not told them because he had not wanted to spoil the homecoming.
No, he could not delay. Someone needed to carry the first ransom payment to England and he had volunteered. He h
ad come all this way just to see home again.
He looked at her when he said it.
And, no, he did not know when he would be able to return. It might be years.
The men, disappointed and confused at losing the leader they had come to respect, gathered at the gate to wish him well.
She did not join them.
Alone again, Clare clung to her righteousness. It did not comfort her.
The bed they had shared was wide and cold now. Sleep, which had come so gently when he held her, no longer came at all.
Weeks later, she huddled beneath the covers long after sunrise, unwilling to face the damp autumn chill.
A knock jarred the door. She didn’t answer.
Murine opened it anyway and stood, solid and stubborn, at the end of her bed.
Clare burrowed beneath the blanket. ‘Leave me alone. I have nothing to say to you.’
The woman ripped back the covers and stepped up to perch her spreading hips on the edge of the bed. ‘Well, I have some things to say to ye, so wake up and listen.’
Clare scrambled to sit, leaning against the headboard, and pulled her knees close to her chest beneath her nightdress. She had avoided the woman since coming upon Euphemia and Walter, but it was a waste of breath to argue with Murine. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Walter and Euphemia want to wed.’
Clare nodded. Not a moment too soon. A babe would arrive, no doubt, by March. ‘I’ll send for the priest, then.’
‘And let Fitzjohn know.’
His name bludgeoned her heart. ‘He’s no longer master here.’
‘That’s not for ye to decide.’
‘His loyalty lies with the Inglis, not with us, that’s plain.’
Murine snorted. ‘There’s them I might accuse of that. He’s not of them.’
‘The Treaty he gave us will bring nothing but sorrow. That proves which side of the border owns his heart.’
The woman raised her brows and gave her a sideways look. ‘Your Da worries. And not about the Treaty.’
‘Did he send you here?’
Murine shook her head, but Clare knew, now, that more than bodies joined when a man and a woman shared a bed. He would not have had to ask. ‘It’s my father’s fault I married the man. I rue the day I met him.’
‘Do ye, now?’
Clare nodded. ‘If he hadn’t come here, I would be married to the comte.’
‘And ye accuse Fitzjohn’s heart of lying across the border? Ye sound more like a Frenchwoman that a Scottis one.’ Murine shook her head and patted Clare’s hand. ‘Besides, ye’re talking like a child. The lily livered man never asked ye and even if he had, ye would have been miserable.’
Resentful, she pulled her hand away and crossed her arms. There were no secrets in this house. ‘Fitzjohn left us, Murine. That’s the end of it.’
‘Left? I’d say ye sent him back into exile.’
Something hot and hard seemed to burst in her chest. ‘He left me, Murine! He left me.’ The fire blurred through her tears and all the words tumbled out. ‘I knew what I should do, what kind of woman I should be and I failed.’ You’re perfect. Just the way you are. He had said it, but he had lied. If she had been perfect, he would still be here. ‘I failed.’
Murine hugged her, rocked her, and let her cry. ‘All of us do, child. Ye’ve no special claim to perfection.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s too great a burden for any earthly sinner.’
‘But I tried so hard…’ Not good enough for Alain, not good enough for Gavin.
You’re perfect. He had not said it when she behaved like a virtuous lady, but when she had fallen apart in his arms, wanton desires laid bare.
‘Seems to me ye have more rules for yerself and everyone else than Saint Peter. That’s a hard way for a woman to live. And harder for a man.’
Suddenly, she wondered how many rules her mother had brought from France.
She sat up and wiped her tears on her sleeve, ashamed at having cried before this woman. ‘Forgive me. You’re right. I’m behaving like a child.’ She lifted her head and straightened her shoulders, trying to be the lady of the household again. ‘Walter and Euphemia will have my blessing and a cottage of their own before the child arrives. Is there anything else?’
Murine sighed. ‘Are ye going to throw away happiness just because it doesn’t come according to your rules?’
‘Good day, Murine.’
The woman left, shaking her head.
She had tried to explain, but Murine couldn’t understand. Rules were the only armour she had, the only way to ensure nothing bad would ever happen again, that she would lose no one else.
She’d broken those rules with the falcons. Warned not to raise birds in the mews, she had ignored the advice. Disaster had followed. One bird was useless for the hunt and the other had disappeared.
And with Gavin, she had done everything, been everything wrong from the moment she saw him emerge from the fog.
That’s why he, too, had left her alone.
Unless Murine was right. What if she had pushed him back into exile because he did not behave according to some rules she had memorised, rules no one ever really followed?
She found herself staring at the red-and-gold banker and noticed, for the first time, that it was a poorly woven piece. She folded it, put it inside the chest, and dressed to meet the day.
A message went to the priest in Jedburgh before midday.
She sent no word to Fitzjohn.
Late in November, the rain and fog cleared one day so she rode out again. She found no game, though Angus, with one wary eye on her, kept looking.
They slowed the horses to a walk and she looked at the bird, suddenly feeling cruel. She was trained to hunt, as was her nature, but she was starved in order to be hungry enough to kill on command. Everything seemed turned around. As if everything were different.
But since Wee One’s mate had come to the mews, everything had been different. Perhaps with him, the bird had remembered she was more than a trained hunter, only allowed to feed at a human’s whim. Remembered what it had been like, to fly without a hood, jesses and bells.
Clare looked at the falcon, who had been her closest companion. Only a bird. Not a pet. Not a person. How could she put all her hopes, all her love, into a creature with wings when a man, a real man, had stood before her, trusting her with the darkest secrets of his soul?
And she hadn’t even trusted him to be loyal to the blood that ran in his veins.
Falcons mate for life. He had told her that on her wedding night. Yet she had driven her mate away. Left herself alone as she’d been alone as a child. As she’d been all her life. And no matter what she had tried to do, how perfect she had tried to be, it wasn’t enough.
She looked at Wee One. No, she had not done everything right with this one. She had broken one important rule.
She had kept the bird too long.
‘Angus, come. We’re going to Hen Hole.’
He frowned, but didn’t argue.
It was cold as she climbed higher, but she pressed on, hugging her cloak more tightly.
At the top of the ridge, the mountain dropped off steeply. Hen Hole was there below, in the deep cut created by the burn that wended its way towards a gentler valley. From here down would be an easy flight, but a long, dangerous ride.
She looked over the hills, thinking, foolishly, that she would see the tercel waiting for his mate, as if that would be a sign that she was doing the right thing.
The sky was stubbornly empty.
She fumbled with the falcon’s hood, her fingers stiff in the cold.
‘What are you doing, Mistress Clare? There’s no game here.’
A gust of wind swayed the jesses and jangled the bells. Calm, deliberate now, she started to untie them.
‘Give me the sack with the food, Angus.’
‘But if you feed her, she might not come back!’
‘I know that. I’m going to release her.’
‘
But she’s your favourite!’
‘Yes, she is. That’s why I’m going to let her go.’ To give her a choice. A warm, safe home in the mews or the life she had been born for. A chance to find her mate and their life together, here in the wild crags where the falcons nested and in the land across the sea where they would winter.
She reached into the bag and pulled out a piece of food. Unaccustomed to being fed if she had not hunted, Wee One didn’t touch the titbit.
Clare poked it towards her beak again. This time, Wee One gobbled it down.
And the next.
And the next until the bird seemed heavier on her wrist.
Clare let out her breath. Wee One would be able to live for days now, while she remembered how to hunt and eat without help from people.
She handed the bird to Angus, then dismounted, taking back the falcon and leaving the horse, to walk carefully the last few steps of the winter-slick trail. Wind, ceaseless, whipped her hair free, tangling the strands as they flew behind her.
Wee One sat patiently as she’d been taught, even without her hood and jesses. Clare stroked her black-and-white striped breast, savouring her final touch of the soft downy feathers.
‘Come home if you want, Wee One. The mews will always have a place for you.’
The bird turned her head, as if to hear better, but Clare knew she spoke only to herself.
She met the falcon’s sharp glance, then lifted her gloved hand.
The bird rose and circled, confused. Never had she been fed before being released and she paused, expecting prey to be sent her way.
Maybe the bird would follow her home, Clare thought.
But she grasped at a vain hope. Wee One turned, and flew south.
‘She’s gone, Mistress.’ The boy, stunned, stared at the empty sky.
‘And so must you be, Angus.’ Yet another dear one she had kept too long. The boy was past ready for squirehood. ‘My father has spoken to Lord Douglas. He’s agreed that you can join his men.’
His grateful smile eased her emptiness.
He held her horse while she mounted and they turned for the tower, riding in silence. Only the whistle of the wind challenged her thoughts.
His Border Bride Page 21