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

by Marisa Dillon

  With the warhorse content in the other corner, she rushed to the bag and yanked the flap up revealing a soft dark green blanket inside. Excited about the prospect of what she’d find, Rosalyn dropped to her knees and set the satchel down so she could reach both hands inside. Gingerly she removed the mysterious bundle. Greta poked her head over at that moment. “What is it, Rose?”

  She smiled up to the only person other than her da who dared call her Rose. Greta was like her father in many ways, strong, bold, with no tolerance for injustice.

  “I’m about to find out. Keep watch a bit longer,” Rosalyn pleaded, her hands shaking while she began to unwrap the blanket.

  Once she had the green blanket unfolded, she discovered a purple, velvet cloak beneath. After she worked with the cloak, a bulky shape began to emerge.

  Rosalyn’s heart beat faster as she gently unrolled what she hoped was the Rose from the last piece of fabric.

  Aah. Even though she’d seen it before, the gift from the pope was breathtaking. The gems gleamed despite the low glow of light.

  She gave the Golden Rose a quick assessment and was happy to find all the roses, stems, and jewels in place. It was only the oil that had seeped out of the top in transport. Otherwise, it was in as good condition as the day the bishop had proudly paraded it before the nobles at Berwick Castle.

  Rosalyn breathed a sigh of relief as she quickly rolled the object back in the cloak, then rewrapped the blanket, swaddling the rose and gently pushing the bundle back into the satchel.

  After closing the stable door behind her, she gave Greta a huge hug.

  “You were the best of your da’s girls,” Greta said whimsically after Rosalyn released her.

  Rosalyn smiled. “Come, I am in need of a hiding place for this,” she said, patting the bundle.

  Greta’s eyes crinkled when she grinned at Rosalyn. The nurse was in her elder years, with graying hair, but she moved with the grace of a dancer despite her age. The maid waved her to follow. “I have the perfect spot.”

  Greta led them out of the stables the way they’d entered, then continued along the castle’s south wall. Luckily for Rosalyn, the Rose wasn’t heavy and she was able to walk naturally with it hidden under her cloak, following Greta around the perimeter and into the armory.

  After producing a sizable iron key from deep within her apron pocket, Greta turned it, unlocking the massive armory door, and the two slid silently inside.

  The cavernous room was one of Rosalyn’s favorite hiding places and she hadn’t been surprised when Greta decided to take her here.

  Her nursemaid handed Rosalyn the key. “You have the twin to this,” she reminded her.

  “Aye, my skeleton key.” She paused, remembering. “Mine unlocks all the important doors in the castle from the outside or inside.” She had fond memories of how this key had helped her escape many scrapes as a child.

  Rosalyn placed her hand against her thigh, happy to find her pouch full of precious items lay safe beneath her skirts. She needed the key to access the final hiding place. With all the traveling by horseback and a change of clothes, she’d forgotten to see if it was still securely tied around her leg until now.

  Flipping up her skirt to gain access, she loosened the furry bag from its hiding place, opened the pouch and drew out the key.

  Walking past the new lances, maces, and shields, Rosalyn made her way back to the farthest corner where the oldest weapons were stored.

  There it sat, just as her she’d remembered it: the Viking treasure chest.

  “Do you remember the fables you used to tell?” Rosalyn asked, motioning to the maid to join her as she knelt down before the old chest. She opened it with her skeleton key and carefully placed the entire satchel inside.

  “That your da had been captured by a great Viking raider named Strykar and had barely escaped with his head, yet alone the Norseman’s wool?” Greta asked, giving her a no-nonsense expression. “Those werenae fables,” the nursemaid said in a flat tone.

  “Well then, tell me again how da came to have this chest,” Rosalyn said, raising a suspicious brow.

  “Just because you are all grown up doesnae mean you are any smarter,” Greta replied with a smirk and a nod.

  Rosalyn scrunched up her face and pursed her lips. That was the face she’d given Greta when she hadn’t believed the nurse’s tales.

  Greta laughed. “Come sit by me like old times, before the men start looking for us.”

  Rosalyn let out a tiny squeal and almost climbed into Greta’s lap.

  Once she was settled, Greta brushed the stray stands from Rosalyn’s brow. “Your da was quite the explorer in the early days of building his wool trade. Before he was your da and before he was laird of Aberdeen.”

  Rosalyn’s heart filled with pride as she was reminded how adventurous, enterprising, and brave her father had been.

  “‘Twas on his second trip by boat to Norway that your father and his soldiers landed on the southern coast in a port city known as Oslo.”

  Most of the Macpherson’s family wool was brought back to the Highlands from France, but now she remembered in the early days, it wasn’t.

  “When yer father first started, he traded with the Vikings of Norway and one in particular, a Norseman named Strykar. He was a giant. Taller than any man your father had ever met. Your da described him as a barbarian, eating raw fish and killing men with his bare hands.

  “Strykar was a suspicious man and he didnae believe your father had come to barter for the wool, but to steal it. When you da gave him deer skins in exchange for the sheep’s wool, the Viking spat on them, saying they were inferior.

  “Not long after, your father and his men were locked in a prison and marked for death. Fortunately for your da, though, a Frenchman he knew was in Oslo and heard about your da’s plight. He traded with your da, giving him superior furs for the deer skins, allowing the Viking to get a fair trade and the Frenchman to help your father escape.

  “But over the years, Strykar and your da became friends. When winters came, the Vikings brought the wool. They had no qualms about sailing the frigid seas or walking our frozen winter lands. But after they delivered the wool and your da invited them to visit the last time, the giant and his men wiped out all his stores of mead, not to mention fought and killed his own on Fyvie’s land. After a few weeks of this behavior, your da was ready for them to leave. But he knew he couldnae just order them away, so he concocted a plan.”

  Rosalyn found herself entranced by Greta’s tale, just as she had been as a young lass, hanging on to every word. She really didn’t care if the story was real or imagined, it was about her da.

  “Do you remember your cousin Rebecca?”

  Rosalyn nodded. She was her da’s sister’s only daughter. Although Rosalyn never liked speaking ill of anyone, she had to admit that a union with Rebecca would be a sentence to damnation.

  “Your da told Strykar one night in the great hall at dinner that he would honor the Viking giant with an engagement to Rebecca and introduced them. Your da insisted the Norseman’s reputation would be damaged and his God, Odin, would wreak havoc on every one of his family members back in Norway if he didn’t agree to the proposal.”

  Rosalyn covered her mouth with both hands.

  “You must remember the woman had a shrill voice that sounded like a screeching goat with a face to match.”

  Rosalyn burst out laughing.

  “Well, the threat worked. Strykar and his men were gone before the sun rose the next day and either they left their chest of treasures in haste, or as payment for their freedom. Your da didn’t care, for he was happy to be rid of them,” Greta finished, dusting her hands off as if to rid herself of something disgusting.

  Whether truth or no, Rosalyn’s heart was full of happiness to be back at Fyvie
, even with so much uncertainty swirling around her. She gave Greta another generous hug, then turned her skeleton key in the oversized chest, locking the Golden Rose of Scotland safely away.

  In moments, her key was stashed in the safety of her skirts again and she was making her way with Greta to her childhood room, anxious to find out if it looked anything like it had when she’d been forced out by Nicholas Luttrell.

  Chapter 29

  Bishop Passarelli had kept Lachlan’s spirits high along the last of the trail that led to Fyvie Castle, but he was hanging on to his last strand of patience when Rosalyn’s home finally came into view.

  Approaching the gate, Lachlan gripped the reins of his destrier, anxious to make inquiries. Were his brother and Rosalyn behind these walls?

  While the gate ground nosily and the jagged bottom of the iron portcullis raised like sharp teeth, a group of mounted knights galloped forward and met them halfway on the bridge.

  The bishop held his rein-wrapped hands in prayer before his chest as he spoke. “Good Garter Knights, we have been sent by King James to find a missing wife and his Golden Rose. Our sources tell us they both are within your fortress.”

  Lachlan reined his horse beside the bishop’s and studied the mounted men before them. Hostile or hospitable? As much as he wanted to tell the knights he was the new laird of Fyvie and chieftain of the Aberdeen clan, he was uncertain what awaited them.

  One of the Garter knights moved forward. “Who grants entrance?”

  “I am Bishop Passarelli, a missionary of the pope.” He turned and gestured to his group. “And this is my escort. Will you welcome and assist us?”

  These were not the same men that had left Edinburgh with Rosalyn just four days ago.

  “I am Sir James Luttrell, custodian of castle Fyvie and a Knight of the Garter. We welcome friends of King James and the pope,” he said and steered his horse to the side as did the rest, allowing their group to enter.

  Once inside, Lachlan studied Sir James as the men dismounted and Fyvie’s squires rushed to attend to their horses.

  A Luttrell? He’d never heard his father speak of a Sir James. Perhaps a distant cousin?

  Sir James clapped his hands and the servants lined up ready to serve. “See these men to their quarters,” James said crisply, like a man used to commanding, and the servants scurried forward, waving them to follow.

  The bishop took at a slight bow. “Thank you for your welcome, but before we take advantage of your hospitality, I do have a few questions if you will entertain walking with us.”

  The knight did not appear to be put off by the request and fell in step with Lachlan and the bishop. The holy man had a way about him that put everyone at ease, and this included Sir James.

  Walking with purpose and hands in prayer, the short-legged bishop kept stride for stride with the hulking knight. “You said you are custodian of this castle.” He took a little pause, then turned to look up at the knight looming tall above. “May I ask what that means?”

  Lachlan wasn’t surprised the bishop was so direct, but he was taken aback at Sir James’s deep laughter.

  “Good bishop, you may ask me anything you like. I am bound by the Garter pledge to be honest and forthright in all things as I serve my English king. I’ve been instructed to keep particular information to only a privy few and will let you know if I cannot answer your questions.”

  Lachlan believed Sir James was being forthright and so far, he had no reason to think he would be anything but honest.

  “However, if you want privacy and it appears you are in earnest to seek answers before we meet again in the very public great hall, then follow me this way.”

  The knight steered them down a corridor that veered off to the right and he then led them down a winding staircase to a secluded room that appeared to be a place where the knights of the castle would meet and plan attacks. The walls of the room were completely lined with weapons of all kinds. Six massive trestle tables, crowded by long benches, occupied the middle of the retreat.

  “I can assure you we will not be overheard in this chamber,” James promised, closing the heavy, latticed wood and iron door behind them.

  After the Garter knight gestured for them to take a seat at one of the tables, the bishop cleared his throat and began again.

  “Thank you, good sir, for this privacy. If not for the weapons, it reminds me of some of my prayer sanctuaries back in Rome,” he said wistfully, as if longing for home and the comfort of a quiet and celibate life.

  Lachlan relaxed his jaw. A Luttrell family member could be a help or a hindrance. Because he’d not been formally introduced yet, Lachlan hoped he’d have time to determine which surname, Luttrell or Macpherson, would serve him best before he’d have to commit.

  “Now, then,” the knight began, “you asked about my custodianship.”

  The bishop’s tight gray curls bounced when he nodded, making Sir James smile with amusement. As always, the holy man was unassuming for his high position and childlike in his enthusiasm.

  “‘Tis a long story, but the short of it is my father is dead and this was his property,” the knight admitted.

  Lachlan smothered his surprise. Sir James was more than a relation, he was his half-brother.

  The bishop placed a hand on James’s arm. “My son, I am sorry for your loss.”

  James paused for a moment as if wanting to choose his words carefully. After blinking hard, he finally said, “He was not a good man, and he will not be missed.”

  “I will pray for his soul,” the bishop promised and said a silent prayer. When he opened his eyes he and leaned forward, as if to gossip. “Then you are here to establish order?”

  James nodded. “Since I arrived shortly after my father’s death a week ago, there have been claims made and demands raised. I had at least a half-dozen yesterday, one today, demanding the castle,” James admitted as if frustrated by the obligation.

  The bishop nodded in a sympathetic way and patted the knight’s arm. “No doubt a burden you wish to unsaddle. How will you go about reviewing the claims?”

  James’s weary expression drew a little darker. “In the great hall on the morrow, I will preside over a hearing of all petitions. Those who are daring to claim the lairdship must prove they are worthy.”

  Then the knight’s expression lightened. “But you are not here to make a claim. Tell me more about the missing wife and the Golden Rose you speak of. Why do you believe they are here?”

  The bishop continued to keep James engaged in the conversation and after the most pertinent information about the journey to Fyvie was shared, James waited patiently for the bishop to explain the rest.

  “My story too, is long.” The bishop sighed. “But like you said, I’ll get to the short end of it. A gift of great significance, priceless some would say, is missing and we believe a guest of yours may have it in hiding.”

  James crossed his arms and looked back and forth between the bishop and Lachlan.

  The bishop leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “Si, this gift was intended for the King of Scots, a gift from Pope Innocent VIII, called the Golden Rose,” the bishop told James, his tightly gripped hands shaking. “I will not be able to return to Italy, to my home, until it is delivered to its rightful owner.”

  James seemed moved by the bishop’s plea. The more he observed his half-brother, the less he appeared to be like his other sibling. Lachlan was grateful that James appeared genuinely interested in the bishops concerns when he asked, “Do you know why this priceless Rose would be here at Fyvie?”

  “I suspect it may be with a man who claims to be laird of this castle. He’s traveling with a woman,” the bishop said.

  James eyes narrowed. “We’ve had so many guests arrive in a fortnight, most who claim to be the new laird. But there was on
e who traveled here with a woman today.” He cast his gaze to the ceiling. “From Edinburgh, I believe,” he finished, then looked over at Lachlan.

  When James finished speaking, Lachlan tried to keep his expression from changing, but inside his heart leapt.

  Could she be here?

  “A beauty with fire-red hair. For certain you would have noticed this lady,” the bishop offered.

  Lachlan expected James to move his attention back to the bishop when he spoke of Rosalyn, but he continued to watch Lachlan.

  “Is this lady your wife?” James asked Lachlan directly.

  The bishop turned slightly red.

  “Scusami, where are my manners?” the bishop said. “This is Sir Lachlan, and his new wife is the other missing Rose.”

  “Her name is Rosalyn,” Lachlan stated flatly. “She may allow the bishop to call her Rose, but reserves it for a select few.” He glanced at the bishop and offered an apologetic smile, then he turned to James with concern in his voice. “I suspect she was taken here.”

  James kept his eyes on Lachlan. “Against her will?”

  “Or she’s run away,” Lachlan suggested awkwardly. He hadn’t considered that a possibility until now. “She has family in Aberdeen,” Lachlan offered.

  “The castle grounds are vast. We have hundreds and hundreds under roof,” James said, “but you are welcome to seek both missing Roses.” He looked directly at the bishop. “I trust you will protect the privacy of others in your search.”

  The bishop’s graying curls bounced in agreement.

  Then James’s attention turned back to Lachlan. “And you, Brother, we have much to talk about.”

  “B-Brother?” Lachlan replied.

  “I’ve met your twin and your wife,” James said stoically, then paused and stared at Lachlan. “How is it that our father, Nicholas, named you both Lachlan?” Then he cocked his head. “Perhaps because like me, no one could tell the two of you apart?”