The Golden Rose of Scotland (The Ladies of Lore Book 2)

by Marisa Dillon

  When hushed exclamations of surprise and admiration began rippling through the great hall in reaction to a new group entering, Rosalyn returned to the present as Lord Hailes waved the new procession forward.

  Dressed in full battle armor, three guards approached the dais, the one in the center cautiously carried a gleaming object while the castle’s host gushed with pride. “He’s gracing us with his presence during a brief stop after arriving today at port. From here, the bishop will travel by guarded caravan to deliver the Golden Rose to James III, the King of Scots.”

  “The Golden Rose?” Rosalyn whispered in Ursula’s ear, but the healer gave her a gentle elbow and a tiny, “Shh!”

  The castle’s lord turned to the bishop, “Your Excellency, please present the Rose.”

  “Grazie,” the bishop thanked him, his serene face glowing. “I will speak in English,” he promised with only a hint of an accent, although there were many in the room who would have understood Latin.

  “What makes this Golden Rose special is not only its pure and precious metal, but the mystical significance and honor it carries. The Rose represents love after hate, joy after sorrow, fullness after hunger,” the holy man explained, his voice full of reverence. “Blessed at the solemn Mass in the papal chapel,” the bishop said, picking up the gift and raising it in exaltation, “the Golden Rose is given once a year to a worthy king as a token of admiration for the leader’s Christian virtues.” The bishop paused, then bowed his head. “Let us pray.”

  As the holy man began a poetical prayer appropriate for the occasion, Rosalyn bowed her head slightly, but kept her eyes open. She was close enough to study the object that measured about eight inches tall. Ten golden roses were nested in a golden urn, with the largest rose centered in the middle and smaller ones clustered around it. Rubies and other gems decorated the petals. Nature captured in a metal form. She’d never seen anything more stunning.

  When she heard the word, “Amen,” she mumbled it under her breath and was startled when she looked up to find everyone else seated but herself. With a shrug, she slid silently into her regal chair at the end of the row. Her eyes involuntarily darted to Lachlan, whose gaze she caught unexpectedly. He’d been watching her and flashed her a charming grin. She returned a sheepish smile before she realized she’d done it.

  Where was her ire when she needed it? Being angry at Lachlan made it easy not to like him. And right now she should be plotting her escape from him, not swooning under his attention.

  The bishop brought her focus back to the high table when she found him by her side.

  “Scusami,” he said with a slight Italian lilt.

  Rosalyn’s lips froze and her mouth went dry. She wanted to speak, but not even a squeak would come forth. Ursula elbowed her in the ribs again, and Rosalyn started breathing, thankful for the poke.

  “Your Excellency,” Rosalyn said in a wispy voice she did not recognize as her own.

  “No formalities, my dear. Are you the Scottish lass I seek?”

  Chapter 5

  Sitting on the dais speaking to the bishop, Rosalyn was a vision of desire. But a dalliance with a Scottish lass would not allow Lachlan to earn back his father’s respect. Besides, Rosalyn was proving to be a worthy adversary. She wanted what he wanted: Fyvie Castle.

  What had started as an exercise in forgery to claim the Scottish prize at his father’s request, had turned into another opportunity for his twin brother to best him.

  Now that the proceedings had concluded, he couldn’t avoid a conversation with his brother any longer. Lachlan braced himself for the worst as Ethan turned.

  “Explain how Fyvie’s land title eludes you,” his brother asked as though he didn’t know already, his gaze intense as always.

  “You met my trifle inconvenience,” Lachlan said, nodding toward Rosalyn at the dais, holding back his anger, wanting to remain neutral. “Any self-respecting English judge would have tossed the twit out on her pretty arse after making a land claim.” Then Lachlan leaned in and said, “But the local chancellor treated her like Scottish royalty. He must be in King James’s pocket.”

  “No doubt you have a plan?” Ethan asked.

  Nothing sparked his ire more than his competitive brother’s scrutiny. “It’s not a matter of if, but when I deploy it. I suspect I’ll join you in a fortnight or sooner.” Lachlan bristled. He’d answered enough questions. “Where’s Father?”

  “Dunster Castle in Somersetshire.” Ethan took a long swig of mead from his goblet as if to provoke Lachlan further with the delay. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Ethan continued. “He has a score to settle with a Garter knight, but promised to return to Aberdeen before Easter.”

  Lachlan was repulsed by how much Ethan was like their father in manner, mind, and where money was concerned. “Father always has a score to settle.” Lachlan rubbed his beard and reflected on how his father pitted the two brothers against each other as young lads. Whoever was the boldest and pleased Father the most slept in feather-bed comfort while the other slept on woven rushes on the floor. Even then, Lachlan knew Ethan was Father’s favorite.

  “And so do I. Off to King Henry’s coronation on the morrow, then to Dunster to give Father my report. He may have to get involved after all,” his brother threatened, a sneer curling his lips.

  Wanting nothing more than to punch Ethan’s face, Lachlan gritted his teeth instead before replying, “Your report? Now, what might that be about?”

  “Your actions,” he said, then ticked them off with his fingers. “At Berwick court for months. Leaving Fyvie without an overlord. Avoiding the mutinous clansmen.”

  Lachlan forced a hard smile. “You tell him Fyvie’s ours. I have the means. I’m pondering the method.” Lachlan wanted to be as vague as possible about the whole affair. No longer willing to defend his actions, he turned his back on Ethan and focused his attention to the dais, hoping his disinterest would end the discourse.

  “Your inconvenience is beautiful,” Ethan said dryly, “but not worth your inheritance.”

  “No need to worry, Brother. I fancy the black-haired beauty, Ursula, over the angry redhead.”

  “I fancy Ursula as well.”

  Of course he did. Ethan fancied anything Lachlan did out of spite. Ethan was beyond jealous, though. Some called him mad. He’d stop at nothing to take from Lachlan: women, land, titles, if he could. But Lachlan was ready for battle and turned back to face him. “Are you up for a wager, Brother?”

  “Perhaps.” His brother stroked his goatee like a lover. “What are the stakes?”

  “You bed Ursula and my future title is yours.” That was one thing Lachlan had over his brother. He was first out of the womb.

  Ethan chuckled loudly, drawing the attention of the flirtatious noble women. His brother ignored the curious and slapped him on the back. “Earl? Yes, that’s acceptable. What’s the rest of the wager?”

  “You lose, you do my bidding for a year. What I require. Whatever I want you to tell Father. Agreed?” Lachlan shot out his hand.

  “Done,” his brother said, accepting the wager with a handshake.

  Now it was Lachlan’s turn to smirk as he turned his attention to the dais. Even if his brother was as notorious as his father, he’d learned from an early age that Ethan couldn’t resist a good wager. Never had Lachlan put so much on the line, but never had there been so much to gain.

  Knowing Ursula as he did, though, it was a gamble worth taking and perhaps the only way to accomplish his goal. Right now, he had make sure Father stayed out of Scotland.

  Just then, Ursula shifted her gaze from the bishop to the table where they sat. She glowed with an earthy confidence as she stood, then followed the redhead and the bishop off the dais. He turned to find Ethan’s gaze tracking her movements, his brother’s breathing heavy as if hunti
ng prey.

  “Take me to her room. Now,” he demanded.

  ~ ~ ~

  Knees knocking, but determined to stay strong, Rosalyn carried the Golden Rose following Ursula and the bishop as Lord Hailes led them from the great hall down a winding, narrow corridor to the courtesans’ small chapel. The bishop had made it clear at dinner that it was God’s calling she needed to answer. He told her the Lord had put her in the bishop’s path for a reason.

  Oh, praise Mary!

  Rosalyn considered the invitation both a blessing and a curse. Surely, arriving in Edinburgh with a reverent entourage and the Pope’s emissary to deliver the Golden Rose would give her much-needed esteem and a stronger position from where to argue her cause. On the other hand, she’d need to figure out a way to make sure Lachlan, her curse, was sidetracked so she could plead her case first.

  Trailing behind the grand robes of the bishop as she entered the small chapel with Ursula, Lord Hailes, and the six priests, Rosalyn found herself greeted by a beautiful statute of the Virgin Mary gazing at her from behind the altar. Awe and reverence stirred inside her.

  As they walked in a slow procession, the bishop began a beautiful chant, his Latin words bouncing off the high beamed ceilings.

  Although it wasn’t heavy, the Golden Rose felt like a burden, as if she carried all the hopes and dreams of her countryman in her hands.

  When they reached the font of the chapel, Bishop Passarelli directed her to place the precious gift on the altar. Then after gesturing for all to kneel, he began a prayer.

  “Oh, Lord, most powerful and forgiving, we have set foot on English soil this day, the first part of our journey, to deliver the Golden Rose to the one most deserving. Please bless our steps as we travel to Scotland with the chosen one. Provide your protection and your divine love. Amen.”

  As the bishop began chanting again in Latin, Rosalyn held her spot among the kneeling congregation curious as to who was the chosen one. King James, no doubt, was the most deserving. She tried her best to put her mind at ease until more was revealed, but couldn’t stop her feelings of frustration now that the path to win back Fyvie was no longer her own.

  When the chanting stopped, she opened her eyes just as the bishop gestured to her.

  “Lady Rosalyn, come before me.”

  With knees knocking again, Rosalyn did her best to navigate the narrow path between the priests and the altar until she was in front of the bishop. She knelt with her head bent and her heart pounding.

  He put his hand on her head and said softly, “My child, do not be afraid. The reasons you are the chosen one are manyfold. Some of that I will reveal to you now, the rest when you are ready.”

  I’m the chosen one? As much as she wanted to feel honored, she couldn’t help but want to disappear into the heather-filled woods of her homeland with her land title tucked into her boot, gone from the worries of court, free of a kissing Englishman, and of any obligations to the Catholic Pope.

  “Rosalyn.” When the bishop spoke her name again, she snapped out of her pondering. “The Golden Rose is one of the greatest treasures of the world and each year when it’s en route to its final destination, a ward of that country is chosen as its champion.”

  Rosalyn gulped, wondering how she could escape when she was going to champion a public treasure as the holy man kept his hand on her head.

  “How appropriate too,” he continued, with a slight Italian accent, “that your name means rose in Latin.” Then he chuckled and his mirth traveled through his hand to her. “Of course, it is no accident, it’s God will.”

  God’s will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

  “Si, Rose, God’s will be done,” the bishop answered, as if hearing her thoughts. He’d called her Rose, but she would forgive him as he reached for her hand and helped her up.

  Filing in behind Bishop Passarelli, Rosalyn let out a little sigh, happy she would not become a sacrificial casualty. Of course, it had been ridiculous of her to think that possible, but her fears often overrode her sensibility. Sadly, it was when she was angry that she had the best clarity. But she could not be angry with the bishop for his request. In a strange way, it gave her purpose for the journey to visit her king beyond the court proceeding she was dreading.

  The bishop led them back to the entrance of the great hall. After the group said their goodbyes and offered wishes for a good night’s sleep, Ursula and Rosalyn walked the short distance to the healer’s chamber door.

  Rosalyn was a step behind her friend when Ursula opened the door and screamed. Covering her ears, Rosalyn wasn’t sure whether to follow Ursula inside or run for help.

  “Lachlan!” Ursula’s voice boomed across the room and brought Rosalyn inside to look. Barely covered, he lay in her bed. The healer shook with anger, her fists at her side, her chest heaving. “Not now, not ever. You are a verra selfish man to risk my reputation. Certainly, you do not care about your own,” Ursula said through gritted teeth, no doubt unaware her brogue had entered the room with her.

  The awkwardness of Ursula’s refusal hung in the air for a few moments until he sat up.

  “Your escort can leave now,” was his response.

  “You, sir, can leave now, or I’ll scream down this hallway until the chamber is full of gossips. Is that what you want?”

  Ursula appeared angry enough to follow through on her threat, jamming fisted hands against her hips, eyes blazing.

  Rosalyn shifted her stance, ready to reach for her dirk if Lachlan made a threatening move.

  Anticipation stretched to anxiety for Rosalyn as time passed in silence. Finally, Lachlan let out a grunt and threw off what little silk covered his naked form. Taking his time to leave the bed, his manhood rose before he did.

  Heat rushed to Rosalyn’s cheeks. Aye, she was still a virgin and, aye, this was her first contact with a naked grown man. His full arousal was intimidating, but even though his body mesmerized her as he moved, she was taken aback by his primordial nature.

  Ursula didn’t flinch and even walked over to stand protectively in front of Rosalyn as Lachlan dressed and finally left the chamber without another word.

  Once he was gone, Ursula slammed the chamber door shut and drew the heavy bolt into place. Then they ran toward each other before collapsing into a huddle.

  “It’s time to leave this place,” Ursula finally said. “I won’t be safe here any longer. If he tried this once, he’ll be back.” She gazed into Rosalyn’s eyes, fear swimming in her black pools. “The only thing that kept him from taking me was you.”

  Rosalyn hugged Ursula tightly and guided her to the bed’s edge, easing them both down. “We must honor the commitment we made to Bishop Passarelli, but we need a device that will keep Lachlan here. At first I hoped to escape with your help and travel to King James to make my plea without Lachlan, now I must make my way with the protection of the bishop.”

  Ursula stared at her blankly. But after a few silent moments passed, the healer arched one perfect brow. “Och, I could retaliate by poisoning his food!” She cackled wickedly. “Wouldnae have to kill him, just make him sick enough to keep him in bed a few days.”

  “Enough days to hold him at Berwick until Fyvie is mine,” Rosalyn agreed, and she laughed wickedly, too.

  Yet Ursula did not seem satisfied. With her brows knitted together, lips forming a firm, straight line, she gazed into the hearth.

  Rosalyn considered the delay as it went usually long. Ursula wasn’t angry enough to change her mind and kill him, was she?

  But after a few more moments of contemplation, Ursula finally rose with a glazed-over stare, then walked to a tall, ornate cabinet covered with plant carvings and Rosalyn followed.

  The healer slowly opened the cabinet doors as if a vicious beast were caged inside. But instead of something awful, Ursula revea
led rows of vials and potion bottles.

  As Rosalyn peered inside, a waft of odor assaulted her senses even though all the containers were sealed. She gagged from the overwhelming smells.

  But Ursula appeared unfazed. She spun and danced in front of the cabinet as if in a trance.

  When the healer finally stopped what was either a celebration or ritual, Ursula got to work taking what she needed from the shelves.

  “Nightshade, eye of a frog.” The healer turned around to face Rosalyn, her hands full of bottles that tottered precariously between her fingers. Ursula gestured with a beckoning head nod. “Help, please?” she asked, pointing her elbow toward a twisted vine basket by the door.

  Rosalyn hurried to retrieve it. Then after she helped Ursula unload her precious cargo, she took her time to scan the chamber. The shock of seeing Lachlan naked had kept her from doing so until now.

  The room—a virtual lab within a bed chamber—would make any healer envious. And because Rosalyn was a healer, too, she appreciated the collection. Not only did the cupboard contain curious concoctions, but the wall rack by the window also held treasures of many plants. Some were freshly picked, others dried on the rack. Under the window, an impressive marble-topped table stood covered in mortars of many sizes.

  Rosalyn slowed to a stop at the table, admiring the resources until Ursula loudly cleared her throat and tapped her foot.

  “Oh, of course,” she mumbled, finding Ursula with another handful. The two quickly filled the basket to the brim with great care and efficiency.

  Humming, the healer almost skipped to the marble table and began unpacking her arsenal of Mother Nature’s ammunition.

  What type of poison would the healer make?

  Immersed in her work, Ursula pointed toward the drying rack. “Fetch me the dried hemlock. You should know it,” she ordered as if Rosalyn was a loyal lap dog.