by Carmen Caine
Glancing about the chamber, he searched for something long and thin to loop the leather around. The only thing remotely suitable was the iron candelabra with its narrow tapers.
It took several attempts at wrapping the belt in different patterns around bars and tapers of varying widths before he finally saw a coherent series of Latin words form.
"Dolfin veniet si Dominus Giuliano Gray timetur. Electus eis invenire et occidere."
Julian caught his breath in alarm, whispering the words aloud, “Dolfin will come if Lord Julian Gray is in peril. Find the Electus and slay them all.”
Aye, even unconscious, the Saluzzo had given him the answer to why he’d been attacked. They sought to use him as a hostage to flush Dolfin out of his hiding place. But who was the Electus? And had they discovered that he was Le Marin?
Closing his eyes, he tapped his fist lightly against his forehead.
Matters had taken a dangerous twist. He couldn’t afford to ignore these strange doings any more.
Nor could he delay much longer in gathering the information that Cameron would so desperately need!
It was a long, aggravating night. Julian found no new answers, nor was he successful in finding the treaties signed by Albany’s hand.
And when the sun finally rose, it found him sitting in the great hall, exhausted and ill-tempered.
The day only worsened when Gloucester arrived, issuing orders to ride.
Wincing at his overly loud voice, Julian watched the men leap from their seats around him and scurry out of the hall to saddle the horses and make ready to depart.
Weary of the hall, Julian made his way to the courtyard and cast a critical eye at the gray and drizzly sky. He didn’t relish trailing after Gloucester in such miserable weather, but it had to be done. Leaning back, he stretched his arms with a loud yawn when his eye caught Albany’s red head bobbing across the ancient drawbridge spanning the roaring waters of the River Nene.
Julian’s jaw clenched, and filled with a mixture of curiosity and anger, he slipped outside the castle walls in hot pursuit.
The rainstorms of the night had caused the river to flood its banks, eradicating any sign of its usual graceful curves and forming lakes in the nearby fields. Those lakes had swallowed stands of birch and weeping willows, making for an eerie countryside.
Albany was already out of sight, but he’d left a trail of fresh footprints already half-filled with water, and those led over the boggy ground to a nearby spreading oak.
And it was there that Julian found the prince huddled in the company of a flock of rain-sodden sheep.
Albany stood silent, on the edge of a muddy hillock overlooking the turbulent waters. His head was bowed and shoulders hunched in a manner most forlorn.
Aye, the man had cause for a guilty conscience!
“’Tis odd to find ye here in England,” Julian said by way of greeting. The sarcasm was rife in his tone.
Albany jerked in surprise. “Aye, Julian. ‘Tis strange to see ye here in Fotheringhay.”
“Strange?” Julian repeated, adopting a belligerent tone. “I but visit kinfolk. I come here oft enough, but I’ve never seen ye here afore.”
Albany glanced away, and then replied, “Aren’t ye as angry as I? Do ye nae wish for vengeance on Mar’s behalf? ‘Tis not right that cur, Cochrane, succeeded his earldom!"
Julian raised a brow, surprised Albany would be thinking of his murdered younger brother. "Aye," he agreed truthfully. "I'm angry for Mar.”
But Albany wasn’t listening. "I loved my brother,” the Scottish prince admitted gruffly. “He was always seeing naught but good. He was a dreamer, that lad."
“Aye, he was a dreamer,” Julian agreed as his gray eyes narrowed. “And he’d not want to be the martyr who ignited treason—caused brother to fight against brother, aye?”
Albany went pale, and his hand began to shake. And then he whirled on Julian and shouted, “And what would ye know of it? I'll see justice done, Lord Gray! I’ll see myself King of Scotland even if I have to use a Yorkist bastard to get me there!”
A curse left Julian's lips. "God’s Wounds, but ye’ve gone daft, Albany! Don’t ye see you’re giving the King of England our land for naught but an empty title? There’s no justice for Mar in that. Ye’ve only drafted a surrender of Scotland!"
“Spare me your lofty speech, Julian! Why would ye care which king sits on the throne? The wine will flow for ye just the same!” Albany’s nostrils flared, and he gave an irksome bray of a laugh.
Wiping his hand over his brow, he stumbled back a little.
And then suddenly he was sliding down the riverbank and tumbling backward into the slow-moving current.
He began to thrash then, flailing in the muddy river water and struggling for breath, and it took Julian a moment to recognize the wild desperation in the man’s eyes to be genuine panic.
The fool couldn't swim.
It was tempting to leave him there and let fate take its course. And he almost walked away.
Almost.
But then Albany gave a gargled sort of scream. And as he was swept downriver a bit, Julian grudgingly searched for something with which to fish him out.
A short distance ahead he spied a coil of rope tied to a tree, the kind used to guide boats to the other side of the shore. ‘Twas cumbersome, but it would have to do.
Sprinting past the flailing prince, he heaved the coil up and tossed it in an arc. Miraculously, Albany managed to catch hold.
Julian eyed him a moment and then lounged against the tree to watch. Aye, he’d not be reeling the shameful prince in like a fish. The fool deserved to thrash about and fight for his life. After all, he was preparing to wage war on his own kinfolk.
It took some time, but Albany finally struggled ashore, his lips trembling as he shivered uncontrollably.
"I'll be your king soon, Julian!" The man seethed through chattering teeth. "Have a care!"
"Then it behooves me to see that ye never be king.” Julian growled. The words were like a gauntlet, flung down at the prince’s feet.
Albany’s mouth dropped open.
But Julian didn’t give him a chance to respond. “Stop this madness, Albany! Dinna doom Scotland to servitude and dinna spill the blood of your own kinfolk!”
Albany’s mouth snapped shut, and his shoulders sagged once more. And then, without a word, he pivoted on his heel and headed back to Fotheringhay.
Julian watched him go, shaking his head in disbelief as the sudden raucous calling of crows caught his attention. And as they flapped off squawking in alarm, the rain suddenly began to fall in driving sheets.
Squaring his shoulders, he set off after the prince.
‘Twas time to leave.
* * *
“Liselle! Do you know what you have done?”
Liselle whirled to look straight into Pascal’s accusing, dark eyes.
Glaring at him, she put her hand to her heart. “Are you trying to frighten me?” She gasped. She hadn’t heard him sneak into her chamber. Santo Ciélo, he was as silent as a cat!
She sent him a scathing look.
He matched it.
“Show me your stilettos!” he ordered forcefully, “Both of them! Ale!”
Liselle tensed.
He didn’t miss it.
In a flash, Pascal twisted her arms behind her back and snatched the stiletto from the hidden sheath within her sleeve.
He was so astonishingly quick that she had no time to react. Òsti! Her cousin grew more surprising by the day! Where had he learned such speed?
“Where is the other one?” he asked as he tossed the bone-handled stiletto onto the table.
Wrenching herself free, Liselle faced him, haughty and proud.
“Yes!” she confessed boldly, raising a clenched fist. “Yes, I attacked the Saluzzo last night. But I did not kill him!” She’d been ill enough at injuring him. She couldn’t imagine what it would have felt like to have taken his life.
Pascal loomed
over her, his handsome face rife with disapproval. And then to her utter astonishment, he shrugged and observed softly, “’Tis a pity that you did not kill him, bábia! Ridding the world of a Saluzzo would have atoned for the entirety of your follies. And, I feel compelled to remind you, your follies have been numerous!”
Picking the stiletto up, he held it aloft a moment. And then, taking up her hand and spreading her clenched fingers apart, he placed the hilt of the slim weapon into her palm and closed her fingers around it.
“Tell no one of what occurred last night,” he commanded with his arrogant eyes boring into hers. “No one! Not even Orazio!”
Liselle was shocked. “How can I not tell my Magno Duce?”
“He needn’t know,” Pascal answered with a superior smile.
“You have gone mad, Pascal!” Liselle accused. Bowing her head, she whispered the words that had kept her up all night. “They will find out. The Saluzzo survived. He will tell them, and they will know the treaty has been broken. I have rekindled the war betwixt our families! They will demand retribution! And—”
“I grow weary of quarreling with you!” Pascal interrupted sharply before adopting his trademark smirk. “The Saluzzi are nothing. I do not fear them. The Vindictam should not live in the shadow of fear, bábia, and especially if that shadow belongs to a Saluzzo!”
Liselle tilted her head suspiciously. “What game are you playing? Have you no loyalty to the Vindictam—to our families?” she asked, feeling more than a little trepidation.
Pascal sent her a black look. “Game? Perhaps I only seek to protect you! Why would you accuse me of playing a game?” But he couldn’t refrain from sarcasm for long. Shaking his head, he clucked, “Ah sì, what is ‘blood loyalty’ anyway, when the recipient of that loyalty isn’t—how shall we say it—loyal?”
She didn’t answer. She merely narrowed her eyes.
“Well then!” Pascal gave a graceful shrug. “We have an understanding. If you speak of this to anyone I shall send for Orazio and inform him that merely to save Lord Gray’s life, you became the first member of the Vindictam to spill Saluzzi blood since the treaty was forged. Won’t he be pleased that his own sorèlina cara was the one to start the war!”
Liselle swallowed. “Unthinkable!” she whispered. It was unthinkable precisely for the fact that it was horrid to think it was exactly what she’d done!
“Or,” Pascal continued with a black look and a gleam in his eyes. “Or remain silent and perhaps this Saluzzi fool will be permanently silenced as well.”
She could only stare at him, wondering how much she really knew her cousin, after all. Was he offering to protect her? Was he even capable of that? Or, as was more likely, was he using this incident as an excuse to rid the earth of the Saluzzi that he so desperately hated?
Suddenly weary, she sank against the table.
And then Pascal said in a soft voice, “Pack your things, bábia. We leave straightway for Alnwick.”
And without a backward glance, he quit the room.
Subdued, Liselle quickly packed her belongings, and a short time later, clad in a French riding gown and a tightly woven russet cloak, she picked her way across Fotheringhay’s courtyard.
Horses stamped and metal swords clanked. Men cursed as the rain poured upon them.
She glanced up at the dark sky. The storm showed no signs of retreating. It would be a miserable ride.
But, it matched her mood.
Spying Albany and Pascal astride their horses near the castle gate, Liselle drew her hood low over her face and hurried to join them.
Dressed in royal plaids and a dark green mantle, Albany waved a hand as she approached. “We’ll have ye cozy in Scotland soon enough, lass!” he promised, wiggling his brows.
A sudden clatter of hooves behind her made her glance back to see the fierce Duke of Gloucester bearing down upon her.
“Get you gone, woman!” he ordered brusquely. Sitting in the saddle, his curved spine was not as pronounced.
Liselle blinked, unprepared for the vehemence in his voice. “My lord, I am to be escorted to Edinburgh—” she began, dipping a quick curtsey.
“But we ride to war, woman!” The duke peered down the length of his long nose at her disdainfully. “This company is no place for you.”
“My lord—” she began.
“Silence!” he cut in curtly and lifted his hand.
Liselle snapped her mouth shut and turned to Albany.
For a moment, she feared the Scottish prince would agree with the duke, but then Pascal chose that moment to urge his mount forward and to casually rest his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
Albany didn’t miss the gesture. Clearing his throat, he addressed the duke gruffly, “I’m sworn to deliver the Lady Liselle to the Princess Anabella in Edinburgh, Gloucester. When we reach the borderlands, I’ll send her on her way with a few of my men.”
Gloucester’s forehead creased with displeasure, but then with a grunt, he spurred his horse and was gone.
Sending him a dark look, Liselle mounted her gray mare. She’d scarcely done so before the horns sounded and the company of horsemen under Gloucester’s command unfurled his royal banner emblazoned with a white boar, and began to march out of Fotheringhay Castle with the duke and Albany at the head.
Sitting on her mare, Liselle watched the men file before her.
She’d spent the night fretting over Lord Julian Gray. Where was the man? She knew the Saluzzo lay ill under the care of the herb-wife, but could there be others? Had Julian escaped harm throughout the night?
She waited until the last possible moment, desperately seeking any sign of him before reluctantly nudging her mare to follow the other horses plodding over the drawbridge and through the village.
They had just reached the far side of the marketplace when she saw Julian near the churchyard astride a red roan.
She caught her breath in relief.
He wore no cloak, only his dark plaid and a white shirt, plastered to his muscular body by the rain. He’d unfastened the top button of his shirt, and as they passed by him, she couldn’t prevent her gaze from dropping to catch a glimpse of his bare chest.
She bit her tongue. Hard. And then she lifted her lashes and their eyes locked.
But her horse chose that moment to sidestep into another, and when she’d regained control of the animal, she looked back at the church.
But he was no longer there.
She didn't see him again in the days that followed.
Gloucester’s party had headed north through rolling hills, fragrant meadows, and vales clothed with ancient forests. Pascal had informed her that their destination was Alnwick, but the name meant little to her beyond the fact that it was a castle close to the Scottish border.
She lost track of the days.
And then finally one afternoon, they left a forest and rounded a bend in the road to arrive at the mighty Alnwick Castle sprawled over the hill guarding the northern borderlands.
It was a magnificent place, one that inspired awe.
As their horses clattered over the drawbridge straddling the River Aln and a deep ravine, Liselle could only stare in awe at the fortress rising before her, its battlements adorned with the figures of stone warriors. She passed through three sets of gates before finally reaching the center of the great citadel.
Men dressed for battle were everywhere, and the smell of horses filled the air. There was an army here. And a large one.
She turned a questioning gaze to Pascal riding beside her.
“Thousands,” he answered softly, reading her unspoken question. “There are thousands of men here. It does not bode well for Scotland.”
Liselle followed in silence.
A short time later, she curtsied before the elderly lady of the castle, and begging weariness from the journey, retired at once to her assigned chamber.
Dusk was approaching. With so many men in such a place, Alnwick Castle was a treasure trove of information. And once dark
ness fell, she could slip unseen through the passages and learn much—perhaps even a secret or two to serve her well in the future.
Plaiting her hair to the side, she rummaged through her clothing and selected a simple dark gown and soft leather shoes, shoes the Vindictam fashioned for silence.
A servant appeared with a meal of roasted fowl, bread, and nuts. And after eating, Liselle sprawled comfortably in the window seat, waiting for the sun to set and allowing her thoughts to rove where they would.
As night approached, campfires dotted the hillside, accompanied by the sound of stamping horses and the low, gruff voices of men.
And then finally, it was dark enough.
With a beating heart, Liselle slipped silently from her room. She stood still, staring wide-eyed into the inky darkness, waiting for her eyes to adjust. And then with a wary step, she crept down the passageway to the grand staircase expanding below her like a fan.
The main hall of Alnwick Castle was still a hive of activity. Tables ran down the center of the room, loomed above by braided-iron chandeliers. Tall windows in arched alcoves lined one wall and a massive fireplace graced the opposite. It was framed on either side by richly woven tapestries, and before them stood ancient suits of armor on display. Men clustered in groups, their heads bowed together as they used various table items to model battle strategies. Women bustled about, filling cups of ale and bringing out great baskets of bread and cheese, while scullery maids hurried about gathering wooden trenchers and abandoned cutlery.
At the head table, Gloucester sat alone, hunched in his chair and drinking what looked like whiskey from a large glass bottle.
Liselle snorted.
She found it nigh impossible the man could ever imbibe enough spirits to render him in a more agreeable mood. Never had she met so cantankerous a man!
Slowly, she crept down the stairs, staying in the shadows when shouts sounded abruptly from behind her.
“Le Marin! My lord, Le Marin!” a man cried, flying past her down the stairs.
Gloucester leapt to his feet, nearly knocking the whiskey over as the new arrival thrust a gray Turk’s head knot into his hands.