Beside her, Alex stirred, and turned his attention to the children. He beckoned, and both came toward him with smiling faces and expectant eyes. He spoke to them in Gaelic and they answered, then each gravely acknowledged the greetings of the guests at the high table.
Catherine smiled when they glanced at her, then back to Alex, who said something to them in Gaelic. In English, he said to her, “This is Christian and Sarah. They speak a little English, if you care to greet them.”
“Of course. Good morn, Christian, Sarah.”
A little slowly, the young boy said in a rough burr, “Good morn, milady.”
The little girl stared up with round eyes, her pursed lips slightly quivering. Then she said faintly, “Ha neil Sassenach.”
“Yea, Sarah, you have English enough to say good morn,” Alex said, then he must have repeated it in Gaelic, for the little girl took a deep breath and nodded.
“Gude morn, m’lady,” she burst out, then beamed when Alex laughed approvingly.
After a short conversation in Gaelic, Alex beckoned to a servant, who brought the children a comfit. Then the two women still standing in the center of the hall came forward quickly. Halting, they bobbed in front of the table, then looked up expectantly. A servant placed small purses in their outstretched hands. Again, the two women bobbed courteously as their eager fingers closed around the jingling pouches.
Leaning back in his chair, Alex spoke to them and they replied animatedly, accompanying their comments with smiles and flirtatious glances at him. They were pretty women but obviously Kinnison villagers, and Catherine was surprised at how familiar Alex was with them in front of his guests. None of the men seemed to notice the exchange, however, speaking among themselves in low tones. After a few minutes, the women departed, ushering the children in front of them.
“What pretty children,” Catherine said when she felt Alex looking at her, more from a desire to distract him than anything else. “And very well behaved.”
“Yea, I insist upon it.”
She looked at him curiously then. “I thought the people of Scotland were free to do as they please, and answer to their laird for naught but loyalty.”
“Yea. ’Tis true.”
“Then why do you insist upon good behavior from the children of your village? Is that not tyranny?”
She had meant to gently mock him, to seize upon an implied contradiction in his denunciation of King Edward, but he gazed at her with a faint smile curling his lips.
“Do not parents demand obedience from their children?”
“Of course, sir, but you are not parent to—” She halted abruptly, warned by the amused gleam in his eyes. Her composure began to unravel as he remained silent, and comprehension dawned. “Those are your children, I take it, sir.”
“Yea, lady, they are.”
“And which of the women is their mother?”
“Both.” He shrugged lightly at her appalled gaze. “Do not tell me that in England there are no natural children born.”
“Of course there are.” She inhaled sharply to stifle words of censure. How could she berate him for deeds such as her own family had committed? For it was true that several babes had been born of Warfield blood without benefit of a priest. It was not uncommon, but she had never seen the children or the mothers paraded through the hall.
Something of her thoughts must have shown in her eyes, for he leaned forward to say softly, “They are my blood, and I will not deny them a place or my presence. They are innocent of all blame in their creation, and I would not have them shamed. While their mothers still live below in Kinnison, my children live here. I see to it that they are welcome in my hall, and are given all that their station in life can provide. None are allowed to slight them. Nor will I censure their mothers unless I care to censure myself, for ’twas of my own free will that I lay with them.”
Catherine stared at him, feeling heat stain her cheeks scarlet. How had he guessed her thoughts? And how was she any different from those two women, save that he had not taken what she was willing to give?
And then, fleetingly, she had the awful thought that she envied them for their freedom in choosing their own destiny, in lying with a man without thought of reprisal other than perhaps the creation of a babe.
Oh, how much she had changed in the weeks since she had been brought to Castle Rock! For as she gazed into Alex Fraser’s clear gray eyes, she knew that she longed to lie with him as completely as those women had done.…
11
Torches flickered on the stone walls, but beyond the bright pools of light loomed shadows black as pitch. Nicholas strode down the dank, narrow corridor behind a guard. Faint, desperate sounds infiltrated the murky halls, oppressing and furtive, like the dry rustling of rats in the walls.
“Do you know which cell?” His impatience penetrated the guard’s silence, and the man turned with a jangle of keys to peer at the metal ring he held up in the wavering glow of a wall torch.
“Aye, m’lord. ’Tis this one.” The guard’s hand shook slightly as he rattled the keys, turning the ring to squint at the selection.
“By all that is holy, man, do you find the right key before I freeze in this cursed hole,” Nicholas muttered in a snarl that earned him a frightened glance from the guard.
“Aye, m’lord. I do be hurrying.”
Nicholas grimaced at the man’s obvious fear. He put a hand on the burly guard’s shoulder. “’Tis too cold for us both in this damp hole. When you have let me in, seek warmth at the closest fire. I will call when I need you.”
“Aye, m’lord.” The guard gave him a quick glance as he slid the key into the hole, then ventured a warning. “Do you be careful, m’lord. I would not trust these Scots savages.”
“They are chained. But I will heed your warning.”
With a grinding grate of metal on metal, the key turned the tumblers in the lock and the heavy wood and iron door opened with a groan. The guard jammed a torch into a holder on the wall so that light filtered into the cell, then Nicholas dismissed him. A fetid odor greeted him as he stepped inside, the ordure of confined men stinging his eyes and nose. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness that cloaked the cell.
Two pairs of eyes glittered in the fitful light, and chains clanked softly. “Welcome, my lord Devlin.”
The Scottish burr grated on his temper, and Nicholas took several steps closer. Adam de Brus stared back at him, unblinking. There was no hint of surrender in that hot-eyed stare, only hate.
“I would ask how you find your lodgings, de Brus, but as ’tis much like the Scottish hovels you are used to, I doubt you would recognize the difference.”
“What else have you English left us, but hovels? You burn field and forest, slaughter our women and spear our children, then think us ungrateful. Yea, ’tis true enough that I find little difference in this stinking hole and the devastation visited upon my homeland, but ’twill not be true for long.”
“No? As intriguing as I find that comment, I shall not take you to task for it. I have come for another reason.”
“More torture?” Chains rattled again, and there was the sound of shuffling straw as de Brus tried to rise. He managed it clumsily, as his wrists were manacled to rings in the wall and tethered by short links. “I am ready. Leave the lad alone this time … he has had more than his share.”
Nicholas was startled. He had not thought torture would be used against them. But as light filtered across de Brus’s face in unsteady shafts, he saw fresh scars and dried blood, cracked lips that looked well chewed. De Brus wore only a thin sherte with a ragged hem that barely covered his privates. A glance toward the boy revealed de Brus’s dirty red plaid wrapped warmly around thin limbs. Young Fraser also showed evidence of harsh abuse, but he, too, struggled valiantly to his feet to face his tormentor, eyes blazing with a hatred far too adult for so tender an age.
Not for the first time, Nicholas felt a wave of shame at his father’s actions. Adam de Brus was a man
full-grown, but this lad could not be much more than thirteen or fourteen, too young to be much of a threat. Old enough to bear arms, perhaps, but immature enough to be bested easily by any man able to wield a sword. No, Fraseas brother should be sitting around a fire listening to tales of war, not enduring the hardships of torture and imprisonment. It was galling that Scotland’s refusal to accept their rightful overlord led to its youth being slaughtered like helpless sheep.
He turned back to Robert Bruce’s kinsman. “I want from you what no torture could extract, de Brus. Guidance.”
Incredulous laughter greeted this comment as Adam de Brus stared at him in the capering light. “Guidance, my lord Devlin? What game do you play now, I wonder, to come and taunt me with such blather.”
“’Tis no game, de Brus.” He moved closer, choking a little on the stench of filth and unwashed body. The straw at his feet was heavily soiled and matted in clumps.
When he kicked at one of the dirty mounds, it let out a squeal and scuttled away. De Brus laughed softly.
“You have annoyed my pet, Devlin. Or my dinner, should I be fortunate enough to snare the beastie.”
Bile rose in his throat as Nicholas looked up to meet de Brus’s ironic gaze. “Tell me what I need to hear and I can promise you better fare, de Brus.”
“Can you promise our freedom?”
His brow lowered at the mocking reply and he shook his head. “Nay, I cannot. It would be a lie to say I could.”
“What ho, an Englishman who is reluctant to lie? Can this be possible?”
“At times.” His mouth quirked in a faint smile as he regarded de Brus. “As in Scotland, it depends upon the man.”
For a moment de Brus stared at him. His hands opened and closed, and dull light glinted off the iron manacles around his wrists. Then he said tightly, “What advice do you seek, Sassenach?”
“Information about Alex Fraser.”
The youth’s head jerked up, and he snarled something fierce in Gaelic, but de Brus shook his head and replied in the same language. After a short, heated discussion, his eyes shifted back to Nicholas.
“Tell me what counsel you seek about Alex Fraser, and I will tell you if I can answer it.”
“Fraser holds my sister hostage against the return of you and the boy. It is unlikely that the earl will agree to an exchange. I want to know what may persuade Fraser to release Lady Catherine unharmed.”
Soft laughter greeted his words, and Nicholas waited without reaction. It was said de Brus was hot-tempered but had a fondness for children and women, and he prayed it was so. For no other reason would he have swallowed his pride to come here, defying his father’s orders and his own belief in his king. But something must be done, for time was growing short and he feared for Catherine’s welfare.
Again, the young Fraser growled something in Gaelic, and again de Brus replied. This time, it was Fraser who responded to Nicholas in a hoarse burr: “Alex willna gi’ up tha’ which he doesna want tae gi’ up, Devlin. ’Twill do ye no good tae offer less than he demands. ’Tis a waste o’ yer time tae try.”
Nicholas drew in a deep breath that stank of despair and dampness. “I thought a letter from you might persuade him to consider ransoming the lady. I can do nothing about your freedom, but I can better your circumstances here.”
The boy laughed. “Wha’ more can we ask? We hae water, a roof o’er our heads, and fresh meat should one o’ the rats come too close.”
Beneath fierce bravado, a tremble lurked, and Nicholas recognized weakness. But he merely shrugged as he moved to the doorway and halted in the opening. “Mayhap you have forgotten what roasted mutton smells like. And hot bread, and flagons of ale. After I remind you, we will talk again.”
He left then, the echo of the slamming cell door a hollow ring in his ears as he moved back down the narrow corridor. Such human misery, such squalid quarters—and he had never given it a thought while dining above with fine linen and endless courses of meats and breads. It moved him to pity, but not to surrender. Whatever it took, he would find a way to retrieve Catherine.
Once de Brus and young Fraser had ample time to breathe in the tempting aromas of roasted meat, bread, and stews, he would return and see if perhaps they were more agreeable. It would be another kind of torture, to see and smell the food placed just out of their reach, and perhaps harder to bear than that which the earl had visited upon them.
It occurred to him as he mounted the narrow winding staircase that led upward that he had more of his father in him than he would like to acknowledge. For he knew that he, too, would be ruthless in achieving his purpose.
“Checkmate, milady.” Alex leaned back in his chair, gazing at Catherine with satisfaction. Her face was flushed pink where her palm rested against her cheek as she focused upon the chessboard. Long, slender fingers toyed with the carved playing piece, and her brows knit in a frown.
Then she sighed and looked up at him. “I concede.”
He grinned. “Concede or no, the game is done. And now my prize.”
Despite a mutinous set to her mouth, she took a deep breath and said firmly, “King Edward is a—”
“Caitiff and a bogle …” he supplied when she faltered.
“Caitiff, bogle, and skyte. And Robert Bruce—”
“King Robert.”
She scowled at his interruption, but said, “King Robert is a braw….”
“Callant.” He grinned. “A pretty man, brave and stalwart and true. Say it.”
Rebellion glittered in her eyes, and she muttered the words so quickly they came out as one. When he nodded with approval, a flicker of amusement tugged at her mouth.
“You are not easily pleased, sir.”
“Nay, I am not. Nor am I easily beaten at chess. You are a lovely player, but a poor one, milady. You must learn patience and strategy before you can hope to win.”
Lifting her cup, she took a sip of wine, gazing at him over the rim. A branch of candles cast flickering light over her face. There was something softer about her of late, a new bearing that intrigued him. She still argued with him about the merits of English politics, but there was a difference. Somewhere in her deep violet eyes lurked a new respect for him. It was as intriguing as it was baffling.
And disturbing.
It had caught him off-guard, this new softness she presented, and the erratic tenderness that he had begun to feel for her. That was the most disturbing, that he found himself weak enough to be susceptible, to let her under the guard he had kept intact for twenty-nine years. Few had pierced his barriers and forced him to care, and those were kin to him by blood. For this one female—a daughter of the enemy—to manage it was daunting.
She sat back on the stool, rolling the pewter goblet between her fingers, still studying the chessboard. “It seems to me that you made an unwise move, sir. How did you yet win by giving up your bishop?”
“To win, one must be willing to sacrifice. Even the queen if necessary.”
“But not the king.”
He smiled. “Again, the victor must weigh all risks and advantages before making such decisions.”
Her brow lifted. “Are we still speaking of chess, Sir Alex?”
“I am. But I sense your mind strays to other topics.” She was so obvious at times, and yet he could not decipher her reasons for her actions. Female mystery and lucid honesty, a lethal combination.
“What of my father?” she asked softly. Her eyes caught his gaze and held it. “Has there been no word?”
“You know there has not.” It was a sore subject with him. Near two months had passed without the arrival of an envoy, only a single message sent by courier to inform him that the earl still waited on his monarch’s reply. He was left with the untenable option to either do as he had warned Devlin he would do, or accept defeat. Neither was tolerable.
A slight frown puckered her brow again, and she traced the goblet rim with a fingertip, slowly, studying the liquid inside the glazed cup as if it held a secret she wish
ed to know. A log popped in the fire. Gray light barely lightened the glazed windows of the small chamber filled with books.
After a moment of silence, she gave a soft sigh. “On the morrow, ’twill be the feast day of Saint Nicholas.”
“Yea. ’Tis not long now until the celebration of Christmas.” He hesitated, thinking he knew what must distress her. “’Tis customary to observe certain rituals, milady, which I am certain are familiar to you. There will be dancing, singing, feasts and merriment, and on the day of Christ’s birth, a special mass said in the chapel by Father Michael or another visiting priest.”
“Advent has begun,” she murmured, and glanced up at him again. “But ’tis not that which pricks me, sir, though I am glad that there will be familiar festivities. On the morrow, it is my brother’s feast day as well.”
“Ah. Nicholas.”
She nodded. “Yea. I realize you hold no fondness for him, but he has oft been the only light in my life. I miss him. This will be the first we have been apart on his feast day, save one year when he was still being fostered by the Earl of Hereford.”
Alex’s jaw tightened. “Hereford. The de Bohuns have been a thorn in Bruce’s side for far too long. ’Tis to that family that Edward I gave Bruce’s lands of Annandale and Carrick when he was deseisined and a hunted fugitive.
Now that Edward’s monstrous pup is king, he has given the Bruce domains in Essex to the de Bohun family, as well. They are accursed.”
“Did you not say that ofttimes a queen must be sacrificed to yet win all? Perhaps this is the same.”
He stared at her. There was no mockery in her tone or face. “Do you equate ancestral lands with chess, milady?”
“Nay, but I do compare strategy. It is the same, I think, with war. Am I right? Is not war just another, more deadly form of chess?”
She surprised him as much as she irritated him, and he rose from his chair. “Yea, lady, but with much larger stakes than an idle wager.”
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