A Durable Fire

A DURABLE FIRE

a scottish historical drama

by

Janella Sykes

But true love is a durable fire

In the mind ever burning;

Never sick, never old, never dead,

From itself never turning.

attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh

A Durable Fire

By Janella M. Sykes

Copyright 2013 Janella M. Sykes

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This work or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE: JANUARY 1314 – TWELFTH NIGHT

CHAPTER TWO: THE ROAD TO INVERURIE

CHAPTER THREE: KILDRUMMY CASTLE

CHAPTER FOUR: A HISTORY IS TOLD

CHAPTER FIVE: INVERURIE

CHAPTER SIX: AMENDS

CHAPTER SEVEN: MARCH 1314 – THE BATTLE OF EDINBURGH CASTLE

CHAPTER EIGHT: ABDUCTION

CHAPTER NINE: DELIVERANCE

CHAPTER TEN: A JOINING

CHAPTER ELEVEN: A SERIES OF EVENTS

CHAPTER TWELVE: MERCY

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: DECAMP – APRIL 1314

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: JUNE 1314

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: JUNE 23, 1314

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE AFTERMATH

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

JANUARY 1314 – TWELFTH NIGHT

In the pale half-light of winter dawn the arm which reached from the trees and snagged the horse’s bridle appeared ghostly and insubstantial. Yet the force it exerted, jerking the animal’s head near around, came close to unseating the rider. Indeed, if her gloved hands had not been tightly wound in both reins and mane, Marguerite would surely have tumbled to the earth. Hard pressed to remain in the saddle, it was several moments before she realized that her maidservant’s horse, too, had been seized. And that they were surrounded by roughly garbed men. A bearded man, stocky and barrel-chested, held fast to her mare’s head.

Highwaymen. Marguerite’s hand flew to her waist, searching for the handle of her short sword. Too late she remembered with what haste they had fled Gleniver Castle, and how she had strapped the sword to the saddle behind her. Where it did her no good.

The deep hood of her cloak had fallen back in her struggles to remain astride, revealing her windburned face. The man looked up at her with sudden interest; his eyes widened in surprise, his grip upon the reins slackened. Taking full advantage, Marguerite jerked her mare’s head and pulled free of the highwayman’s grasp. The horse, unused to such rough treatment, rolled its eyes and reared in protest as Marguerite fought to turn and flee.

Another hand, gloved in black leather, seized the reins from her other side, pulling the horse to earth and, this time, successfully unseating her. Cursing as she fell from the saddle and struck the frozen ground, Marguerite rolled to avoid the deadly slice of sharp hooves. Then her upper arm was caught in a painful grasp and she was hauled upright. Head spinning, she found myself face to face with, not the bearded man she had expected, but another man. A younger man, cleanshaven and hard-featured, with eyes that instantly stilled her. Chilling eyes of a flat murky grey. Dazed from her fall, a long moment passed before she realized he was speaking to her, and in the Gaelic of the Highlands.

The fall has knocked her senseless, the greybearded man said, stepping forward and reclaiming her horse’s reins with a firm hand. Perhaps she doesna ken the Gaelic.

The younger man said nothing. His gaze, rude in its intensity, did not waver from her. It was as if he knew her, thought Marguerite, as she finally found her tongue.

What business have you with us, she finally managed to spit out, and in Gaelic, as she struggled to free herself from his grasp. What manner of men are you that you would waylay two innocent women?

He raised one eyebrow. I might well ask the same of yerself, milady. What might be the business of two innocent women, ridin’ so hard on this bitter Twelfth Night? Tis a night better spent abed, safe and warm. The corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. Nae so innocent, I would imagine. If I am nae mistaken, ye’re well used to wearing a weapon.

I am, she said quickly, heatedly, and if we had not fled in such haste, I would have had my sword in hand, and yon fellow would be without fingers now.

He had the temerity to laugh. Milady, tis when we flee in haste that we have most need of a sword in hand.

Behind her, the bearded man snorted yet again, but Marguerite did not take her attention from the man holding her by the arm.

Now why, he wondered, would the Countess of Gleniver flee her lands? And be ridin’ hellbent south? Ye were nae goin’ to England, were ye?

His softly spoken words made Marguerite uneasy. You know me, by sight and by name.

I do.

Then you have me at a disadvantage, sir, for I know you not.

His eyes still rested disconcertingly on her face, but before he could reply, there was a harsh warning shout, and Marguerite was jerked into the forest.

Someone comes, he hissed, and ridin’ as hard as yerself. His quick glance at her was speculative, but he said nothing more.

Marguerite did not resist. She climbed willingly through the bracken, putting as much distance between herself and her pursuer as she could. Whoever these men were, they were some small protection for the two women. She knew who followed so closely at her heels. It was he who had forced her to flee in the night from her home, her land, her people. It was David Comyn, her late husband’s nephew and her sworn enemy. Marguerite was almost grateful to have been taken prisoner by these rough men rather than fall into Comyn’s hands.

The watery light of dawn did not penetrate the forest; more than once she stumbled in the darkness, her booted feet tangling in her long skirts, falling against the hard shoulder of the man before her. As they moved deeper into the woodland, they were surrounded by silence, the only sound reaching her ears that of her own rough breathing. Their footsteps were muffled by the sponginess of the half-frozen ground; there were no dry leaves to rustle in passing.

At last they stumbled into a small clearing. There, the men quickly gathered some distance away from the women. Marguerite glanced back the way they had come, her stomach heavy with dread. They had been pursued, and closely too. She had been certain they had eluded Comyn’s spies when they slipped unnoticed through the gates of Gleniver Castle and thence into the deep forest of the Borders. She had been mistaken. Fleet as her mount was, she would have been within his grasp by full daylight. It did not bear thinking about. She reached out and squeezed Emma’s arm.

She and Emma were closer than many a lady and her maidservant, and had been since Marguerite had first wed the Earl of Gleniver. It had been Emma who, in the past months, had helped nurse her ailing husband, who had cried tears of true grief at his death, and now, had helped her elude the grasp of David Comyn.

 I did not think him so close behind, Marguerite whispered.

Nor I, Emma replied softly.

They turned as one man’s harsh voice rose in protest. Marguerite was not surprised to see it was the greybearded man, arms crossed and face set. The younger man approached the women.

Milady. Tis nae safe for ye to continue yer journey alone. There are brigands on the road who would do ye harm. My men and I will see ye to safety.

Safety? Emma asked sharply, appraising the man from head to foot. How do we know ye nae mean us harm and seek to only hide yer intentions under the ‘cloak’ of safety?

He paused and cocked an eyebrow at Emma.

Milady and I will be quite safe, she went on. When we reach our destination. We’ve nae need and less desire for yer company, and would just as well be on our way.

Several of the men had paused and listened, with no little interest, to Emma’s tart speech, and then looked to their leader for his reply.

That may well be, madam, he said slowly, amusement glimmering in his voice, but ye shall have my protection, welcome or nae. Politely spoken, but no room for dispute. It was decided. With a nod of her head, Marguerite acquiesced. She had no desire to risk an encounter with David Comyn upon the road.

They rode in silence, northward she thought, out of the forest and into the bleak Lammermuir Hills. Marguerite studied her captor, who sat easily upon a big, raw-boned bay gelding. He was swathed in a thick grey cloak of finely woven wool, beneath which she could see his simple leather body armor. And he was well-armed; Marguerite doubted that the sword at his side was his only weapon.

He was taller than the others, with rough-cut glossy hair that tumbled to his shoulders and the fair Celtic coloring that was so distinctive. A not unhandsome man, she admitted to herself, the planes and angles of his face well-cut, the nose sharply chiseled, the mouth straight and firm. And that forward gaze. He had known her at once, his greybearded companion as well. But how? Who were they?

His men numbered a dozen. Though roughly dressed, their cloaks were also made of good wool and their boots were fashioned of leather, not the lengths of rags wrapped and tied about their feet which passed for footwear amongst so many. Each man wore leather body armor, and carried sword and shield. All were mounted. Knowing the scarcity of horseflesh, this fact alone made Marguerite realize these were not highwaymen at all. They could only be horse soldiers in the Scottish army. She and Emma had barely escaped Comyn only to fall into the hands of Bruce’s warriors. She did not know whether to be frightened or relieved.

As her husband, Donal Randolph, the Earl of Gleniver, had lain dying from a wasting sickness, he had warned her vehemently of his nephew, urging her to be prepared and take precautions for those living on Gleniver land. As he had grown weaker, his warnings had grown stronger: Comyn burned with the wanting of Gleniver but it would only be his if Marguerite were his bride. Or if she were dead. Save yerself, lass he had whispered in his last hours. If all else fails, leave Gleniver. Save yerself.

And so she had, hoping against hope that by fleeing south, across the Border to England and towards the uncertain safety of Edward II’s court, the people of Gleniver would be spared the ceaseless harrying from Comyn and his men. Though the King’s behavior was unpredictable, and, like his father before him, he possessed the uncertain Plantagenet temper, he was known to be a kinder man than the old King Edward had been. That king had been a ruthless regent, satisfied with nothing but total submission. By his merciless tyranny over Scotland he had earned well the title Hammer of the Scots, squashing rebellion by laying much of the Lowland and Borders to waste. But he was dead these past seven years, and Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, had risen up to lead the Scots. More than once, Bruce had come to Gleniver and met with Donal, slipping into the castle. Of what they had spoken, Marguerite did not know; the ever-changing politics of Scotland held little interest for her. But she had known where Donal’s loyalties lay; he believed in Bruce, believed in freedom, and it was surely only God’s mercy that saved Gleniver from the wanton destruction of the English raiding parties.

Now Bruce had much of Scotland in his grasp. It was this knowledge, coupled with Donal’s Scottish loyalties, that made Marguerite uneasy about turning to the young English king. And there was a long history of enmity between the Bruce clan and the Comyn clan. The Comyn’s had cast their lot with the English. It had even crossed her mind - frighteningly - that Comyn might petition the English king for her hand, and thus secure the rich lands of Gleniver for England. Marguerite could only hope that the English king would honor no such request. If only she had known where to find the Scottish King, Robert Bruce, she might have turned to him for aid.

That thought, and the question of what would become of herself and Emma, kept Marguerite well-occupied the day long, and into the night, for they traveled well after dark had fallen, crossing wild moorland swiftly, only slowing their pace when they came to a bog. When the freezing mist had begun, Marguerite had known a measure of fear, so effectively did the fog smother them. But the men had continued in silence, picking their way in single file across the treacherous ground as if by instinct. Someone had reached for the reins of Marguerite’s mare and she had surrendered them without hesitation, to be led along the track.

 At last she spied the distant wavering glow of torches, faint at first in the thick mist, then brighter. The dim outline of a castle appeared, welcome sight to weary travelers. With firmer ground beneath their hooves and sensing food and safety ahead, the heads of the exhausted horses came up. Those in the lead broke into a trot. Marguerite’s mare, reins still held firmly by, she could now see, her captor, twitched impatiently. With a casual gesture, he sidled his mount beside her and returned the reins to her gloved hands.

Linlithgow, was all he said..

As they approached the bleak stone walls which rose up so starkly before them, Marguerite thought she heard voices, but the fog made sound and shape deceptive. The touch of a frigid hand against her cheek startled her.

Ye are sorely tired, milady, he said, his hand gentle against her skin as his eyes noted her pale bloodless skin. Ye can meet with the Bruce on the morrow.

The Scottish King? He is here?

Aye.

Marguerite turned her attention to the flickering torchlight ahead. The horse’s hooves made a dull sound upon the wooden drawbridge as they rode beneath the great iron portcullis and entered the courtyard of Linlithgow. Mist swirled even here, combining with the uneven light from the wavering torches to make the men and animals appear wraithlike. Rough voices shouted all around, adding to the confusion. Ahead a door opened, revealing a dimly lit Hall in what, she could see now, was not a castle but a manor house. A manor house with a well-fortified stone wall encircling it.

Her captor had dismounted and came to help Marguerite from her saddle. His large hands, sure and strong, slid beneath her fur mantle to grasp her firmly by the waist. The moment her feet touched ground, Marguerite twisted impatiently out of his grasp and strode away towards the open door of the manor house. Though she did not glance behind her, she could feel his gaze heavy on her.

****

The morning was no less foggy than the night before and only marginally brighter. As she washed and dressed in the small chamber to which she and Emma had been led, Marguerite recalled the events of the night before.

Despite the lateness of the hour and the cold, the Linlithgow’s courtyard had been teeming with men. Soldiers, who greeted the men with whom they traveled with familiarity.

And then there had been that man; she recalled with absolute clarity the way his hands had slipped beneath her cloak and grasped her about the waist, pulling her with an easy strength from the saddle and setting her down before him, his hands passing over her hips, before she had pulled away. The memory of his touch unsettled her; her fingers stilled in the braiding of her hair.

A sharp rap at the door ended her musings. She turned as Emma undid the latch to reveal a young lad bearing a tray of food. He flushed beneath their eyes, muttered something unintelligible as he set the tray upon a stool, and hastily retreated.

An amused Emma looked at Marguerite. D’ye suppose ye’re the first woman he has ever seen who was nae a Scot?

More likely the first woman, other than his mother, to whom he has come so close, Marguerite replied with a smile, rising to her feet. Did you take note of the courtyard last night? Tis full of soldiers, but I cannot recall the face of one servingwoman, can you?

Emma paused as she broke a loaf of bread in two. Nay, but perchance it was the late hour - decent women would all be abed at the hour we arrived.

Marguerite tilted her head in thought as she chewed upon the stale bread. Yes, but I think a woman would be ashamed to serve this bread to anyone, she said, setting it down upon the tray, and then surveying the dusty room around her. I also note the decided lack of a woman’s touch in our lodgings.

Emma’s reply was a contemptuous snort, recalling the clean, well-kept Castle Gleniver.

And a small army fills the courtyard, Marguerite went on.

Aye. We’ve been dragged into the midst of it by those brigands, milady.

Another rap at the door ended their discussion.

Come, Marguerite called, rising from the stool as she finished tying a length of ribbon to the end of her braid. She expected another servant, one who would take her to Robert Bruce, if indeed he was actually present.

But it was no servant who entered, but her captor himself. At least, she thought it was him, but how different he looked this morning. Cleanshaven, dressed in fresh kilt and shirt, sword buckled to a wide leather warbelt, he strode into the room. Marguerite stepped back involuntarily, and he grinned at her startled expression.

I trust ye were comfortable, milady. Tis rough lodging.

Marguerite looked from his handsome face to the hand he stretched to her, recalling the feel of it upon her yesterday. He watched as her face, so expressive a moment before, became carefully composed. When she raised her dark eyes to his, they were cool, the eyes of the Countess of Gleniver.

She ignored his outstretched hand. Have you come to take us to the King?

Aye.

She nodded and, as she went past him, his hand itched to touch her. He had very much enjoyed the slightly dazzled expression on her face when he had entered her chamber, dressed in his finery. But her reserve stopped him; she was not a woman to be forced. That much he knew already. So, without speaking, he took her through the narrow hallway to an immense oaken door, standing slightly ajar. His reached around her and pushed the door open.

It was a large chamber, empty but for one man – a man she knew - seated at a table piled high with papers and maps. He looked up at their entrance, then came to his feet, a smile on his darkly handsome face: Robert Bruce, anointed King of Scotland.

Marguerite bowed her head and sank into a low graceful curtsy. He caught her hand, pulling her to her feet as he brought it to his lips in greeting.

My Lady Randolph, he murmured. I trust ye’re well and were treated none too harshly on yer journey?

She sank into the chair the King of Scots gestured to, her captor a solid presence close behind her. I have been treated well, milord, but it does not change the fact that I have been brought here against my will.

Bruce’s eyes lit up with interest as his gaze flicked past Marguerite, to the man standing at her back, before returning his attention to her.

Malcolm tells me ye were bound for England. She felt the full force of his blue eyes.

I sought sanctuary, milord. So her captor’s name was Malcolm.

And why might the Countess of Gleniver seek sanctuary?

Marguerite answered in a calm and clear voice. Since the death of my husband, Gleniver has been deviled by a man who seeks title to the land, no matter the cost.

Who?

My late husband’s nephew, milord. He believes himself rightful heir to Gleniver and would force marriage upon me. David Comyn.

Marguerite felt the startled movement of the man behind her and would have turned to look at him but for the speculative gaze Bruce directed at her. A long moment passed.

Comyn, he said at last, with a certain contempt. The handsome planes of Bruce’s face hardened. David Comyn. He casts his lot with Edward Plantagenet.

Marguerite shook her head. I know little of politics, milord. Truthfully, it seems there is little to know, for allegiances shift more often than the weather.

A wry smile crossed Bruce’s face as he pushed himself away from the table.

Lady Randolph, as ye may have noted when ye arrived last night, a small army resides here with me. Poor though yer knowledge of politics may be, ye surely know we are engaged in battle with England. I am King of Scotland, anointed and crowned. Tis my duty to see to the welfare of Scotland and its people. He looked at her with a hard gaze that stopped the breath in her throat. Yer husband was my friend, a good and loyal Scotsman. Ye inherited land and title under Scots law. I make the assumption therefore that ye call yerself a Scotswoman, loyal to yer Scots king, and twas desperation which caused ye to run for England.

Marguerite did not break his blue gaze, only nodded.

Then ye are fortunate indeed to have encountered this wee lad upon the road, he replied. Else ye’d be called traitor and yer lands forfeit to the Crown. My Crown.

I am no traitor, she stated in a stronger voice.

Bruce’s gaze softened. Nay, milady, ye are nae a traitor. I’ll nae have ye drawn and quartered. I believe ye to be a loyal Scotswoman. Bruce pulled her to her feet. And ye are nae hostage, but guest. Both yerself and Gleniver are under my protection.

She nodded gratefully. Then, if it pleases my lord, I should like to return to Gleniver.

Bruce looked regretfully at Marguerite, shaking his head. Tis nae safe. Yerself and yer lands make an excellent prize. I canna risk either falling into English hands. Tis best for ye to remain under my protection, in the care of my brother.

Brother? Bruce laughed at Marguerite’s puzzled expression.

Come, milady, did ye nae ken his face, for he was at Gleniver many times, wi’ myself and Jamie Douglas.

Aye, that I was, thought his brother, but took care to never be within her sight.

Bruce was looking from one to the other, a bemused expression on his face. So then ye havena been properly introduced? Ye never met, all those times he went to Gleniver? Malcolm – did ye never have the manners to properly introduce yerself to the Countess?

He had not, and could not really say why. Her sudden appearance, there on that rough road in the cold dawn, had been so unexpected. He had known her at once – the few glimpses he’d had of her, watching from the stables at Gleniver in those past times when he had come with his brother or Jamie Douglas – it was not a face to be forgotten. In those times, when he had been naught but the shabby rebel brother of a desperate king on the run – a king without kingdom to rule or army to command - she had been the young Countess of Gleniver, an exotic and beautiful woman wed to wealthy Donal Randolph, an older man. And as for himself - he had been married then.

Well, now was the moment to make himself known to her. He stepped forward and with the same courteous gesture with which Bruce had greeted her, raised Marguerite’s hands to his lips. Allow me to present myself. I am Fitzbruce, Earl of Inverurie, natural son of Robert Bruce, Fifth Earl of Annandale. And half-brother to the King of Scotland.

She could see it now, with the two men side by side. Though Fitzbruce was the taller, with chestnut hair in place of the dark Bruce locks, they bore a marked resemblance to each other. Marguerite retrieved her hand from Fitzbruce’s grasp. She looked to Bruce.

If not Gleniver, then where am I to take up residence, milord?

Bruce turned and looked expectantly at the man beside him. What say ye, Malcolm? Shall ye hide the Countess of Gleniver here at Linlithgow to keep her safe from her enemies - and ours – or have ye some other place entirely in mind?

I do, Rob. We shall make for Inverurie come morn.

****

Inverurie. Where was Inverurie? Marguerite was oblivious to the surrounding din, her midday meal untasted before her, her wine goblet untouched, lost in thought. And at the center of her thoughts was the man who sat so close beside her, although the not entirely unwelcome warmth of his body would have made him impossible to ignore. He was to take her to Inverurie, whether she wished it or not.

Brother to the King. Earl of Inverurie in his own right: Malcolm Alexander Robert Balliol Fitzbruce. First her captor, now her protector; both roles unsettling. She wanted to be gone, away from him, back to her life. But Donal was dead and that life no longer existed; this life, this moment, was all there was.

As for Fitzbruce, his frequent glances at her during the meal told him little. Her pale face was without expression, her eyes downcast. Even her hands rested loosely in her lap. Unlike most women, she neither twitched or fidgeted in her agitation. And agitated she was. He could sense it, could feel her displeasure with her situation. But not one outward sign. Fitzbruce felt a grudging respect for her self-control.

The Hall, crowded with rough Highlanders and their only marginally more subdued Lowland cousins, rang with all the noise and commotion to be expected from soldiers. Used to living for the moment, they feasted with gusto upon the platters of fowl and game meats set before them. Awkward young boys rushed frantically to and from the kitchens, arms laden with loaves of bread and trays of pasties and cheese pies. Some of them, taller and stronger than the serving boys but not yet men, walked between the tables, refilling tankards of ale and goblets of wine from huge pitchers. Beneath the feet of the men, lean hunting hounds wrestled for hunks of food, carelessly or deliberately tossed to the filthy, rush-strewn floor. The air itself was thick with the smell of so many unwashed men, combining with the strong odors of boiled onions and roasted meat to form a nearly visible haze in the air.

Little of it penetrated Marguerite’s thoughts. She had retreated within herself, her mind reviewing all that had happened. Bruce had given his command; for him, the matter was finished. And Fitzbruce had seemed almost pleased with his orders, taking immediate possession of Marguerite, ushering her back to her own chamber before she could protest. And now he sat, a solid and imposing presence upon the bench beside her, wholeheartedly enjoying his meal and the raucous company.

Marguerite slanted a glance his way; he was laughing at a bawdy joke which would have brought color to the cheeks of a harlot. But not hers. This talk was mild in comparison to the venomous obscenities which her parents had hurled at each other in the house where she had been raised.

As he downed his ale, Fitzbruce caught the slight movement of Marguerite’s head and turned to her, grinning.

Ye maun forgive these men their bold words, milady - they are unused to the company of a lady, and ye sit so quiet they have forgotten yer presence.

Marguerite dropped her eyes to her trencher. The meat had gone cold, the fat congealed into yellow slabs. Stomach turning, she pushed it away.

Are ye nae pleased with yer meal, Lady Randolph? Shall I send for something more to yer taste? Fitzbruce’s softly spoken words were patronizing, and Marguerite frowned in irritation.

There is naught wrong with the meal. Marguerite drank from her goblet of wine.

Fitzbruce nodded. Ah, milady, ye dinna care to find yerself shackled to me. But tis a situation we can neither change - for good or nay, we maun both follow Rob’s orders - yers to be guarded, mine to guard, until released.

She raised her gaze swiftly, and Fitzbruce was momentarily taken aback by the dark luster of her eyes.

So I shall be released? There was a flash of something akin to relief upon her face before the blank smoothness settled again.

Aye, of course, he replied slowly, when tis safe for ye. Had she thought she would be held indefinitely, he wondered? For years, perhaps, like the Bruce women? But she’d had Rob’s promise to be set free when there was no longer danger for her at Gleniver.

Gleniver is rich land, he said, thinking aloud, and sits near where the English are gatherin’ like flies upon carrion. I wonder that yer lands havena been harried nor castle razed before this.

His words were chilling. Perhaps tis because Gleniver means little to either Scots king or English.

Gleniver is nae small holding, Fitzbruce contradicted. Tis to do with Comyn. He studied her fine face. Ye know that Bruce and Comyn are bitter enemies?

She nodded.

And that the Comyns will do what they can to take the Crown from Rob. He paused for a moment. Tis possible Comyn may have already assured his English King that yer lands are within his grasp, if nae in hand. Aye, think - from Edinburgh south, the country is yet in English hands. Berwick still suffers plundering, though little enough is left of it. Why else would Gleniver, sitting squarely amongst them, be left untouched by any but Comyn himself?

Marguerite turned to look fully at Fitzbruce, his words making terrible sense to her. Why else indeed? she answered slowly. It has always been his men and none other who have tormented the crofters or burnt the fields. I have been so frantic for Gleniver that I have not paused to think on why the English army had not come to call. Her face hardened and her lip curled, an expression which spoke volumes to Fitzbruce. Riding to England for sanctuary was foolish. I would have been wed to Comyn in an instant, and Gleniver forfeit. Donal would be ashamed - all would have been lost but for our chance meeting upon the road. She laid her hand upon his arm, its coldness penetrating the rough cloth of his shirt. And a sudden warmth in her eyes quickened his breath.

But for you, I would have lost Gleniver. I thank you for that.

Like an untried lad, Fitzbruce was struck speechless beneath her warm dark gaze. Gone was her aloof expression, replaced by a brightness which made her beauty blaze. This, he thought, was what the old Earl had lived with, had seen every day. Though the man was naught but bones in his crypt, Fitzbruce envied him still.

I am glad to have been of service, milady, even unknowingly, he replied, at last finding words. I only hope that ye nae longer regard me as captor, but as yer appointed protector.

Well, tis no easy thing for me to lose my freedom, no matter the cause, Marguerite replied quickly, and I forewarn you, I shall be no end of trouble. I treasure my liberty and yield it willingly to no one. Subjugation is a bitter morsel to swallow.

The hardness of her last words took Fitzbruce by surprise. Milady sounds as though she has suffered imprisonment in the past, he said, arching one eyebrow. I canna believe that Gleniver was a cruel husband - ye have spoken of him with respect and affection.

No, I speak not of my late husband - indeed, it was he who made a gift to me of a freedom which I never dreamt existed. No, she went on slowly, shaking her head, her long lashes dropping to conceal any expression in her eyes, twas the house of my father of which I speak. Humiliation was served daily at his table. Fear was my nursemaid and closest companion. Until I married. She took a deep steadying breath which caught in her throat when she glanced at Fitzbruce.

His grey eyes were no longer without depth, but gleamed silver. She could not remember a man ever looking at her that way.

And he had never looked at a woman in such a way. He saw her jaw tighten, and tension in the slender column of her throat. The sudden flare of brightness in her dark eyes held him.

From her place near the wall, Emma had been watching the exchange between Marguerite and Fitzbruce. Alarmed by the sudden intensity between them, she moved swiftly to retrieve her mistress. Marguerite caught the movement of Emma’s approach from the corner of her eye, breaking the spell between herself and Fitzbruce. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks and slipped from the bench, too aware of the man beside her rising to his feet as well. His hand reached for her, but she was too quick. Not daring to meet his eyes, she made a soft murmur of excuse and fled to the protection of Emma and her chamber.

****

The night brought with it a frigid damp that penetrated to the very marrow of a man. It was a night to be seated before a roaring fire, a cup of whiskey in his hand. But the cold was only one of the reasons Fitzbruce strode so restlessly upon the parapet; the other he could scarce admit to himself. Barely able to see more than a sword’s length before him because of the dense clammy fog, he paced back and forth.

Marguerite, Countess of Gleniver: his mind spoke the words quite clearly and conjured up the image of her pale face with its brilliant dark eyes. She was but a woman - the widow of a noble, and foreign born as well! And perhaps an English sympathizer - but his mind rejected that last thought outright. She had been truthful in her reasons for flight, and Rob had accepted her fealty. Fitzbruce had been charged with her safety. A task, one that he would see well done, as he did all his duties. Then why, he asked himself, stopping dead in his tracks, was he so unsettled? By her? A woman? A footfall to his left diverted Fitzbruce; someone approached through the mist.

Malcolm, came the gruff voice, and then Gordon Balliol’s greybearded face appeared. Here, lad, on a night such as this, ye need to weet yer thrapple. He held out a bulging skin to his nephew. Fitzbruce took it wordlessly, pulled free the stopper, and drank the raw whiskey thirstily, grateful for the sudden burn in his throat and belly. Balliol leant against the parapet wall, staring outward, though there was nothing to be seen.

So, we’re for Inverurie, he finally said.

Aye. Fitzbruce replaced the stopper and waited. His uncle – for the graybearded man was his uncle, his mother’s brother and his longtime companion - had come to say something and would say it plainly and in his own time. When silence descended and stretched between the two men, Fitzbruce still waited, though he began pacing once more. Whiskey did little to keep the hands and feet warm. After some time, the older man grunted and, turning, reached for the skin of whiskey. Fitzbruce handed it to him, and watched as Balliol took a hearty draught, bracing himself for what was next to come. He did not wait long.

Keep clear o’ the lass he growled, and he did not need to explain it was of Marguerite that he spoke.

Ahh. Fit to be Gleniver’s lady, but I am nae good enough.

Pfaugh, he was an auld man, and mairried her for reasons of his own. And herself, with naught to lose but waitin’ for to be a wealthy widow! Tis said was her hand ruling Gleniver these past years, and himself glad enough to let her just for the pleasure of havin’ her in his bed. Balliol’s mouth tightened.

Ye canna blame the man. She is a rare beauty, Fitzbruce said, his voice still steady.

Aye, well, mebbe, he conceded grudgingly. Jamie Douglas has said as much for years now. But ye’ve more reason than most to nae trust a woman - whisht, ye thought Joanna herself an angel, and would hear naught a word agin her ‘til too late!

Fitzbruce raised his hand, ending his uncle’s tirade. His dead wife was not a person about whom he wished to think, the bitterness of her betrayal still fresh.

She isna Joanna, was all he said, turning away.

Ye didna think Joanna was Joanna, Balliol replied sourly. And tis the same man pursuin’ yer Countess that cuckolded yerself-

Enough, Fitzbruce growled.

Nay, tis nae enough! This is nae the time fer courtin’, Malcolm! Or has it slipped yer mind that we are at war with yon English King – the same English King yer lady was ridin’ towards! And her tale about Comyn - d’ye believe her, lad?

Fitzbruce’s thoughts hurtled back to when they had seized Marguerite upon the road. She had been riding hard and travelling light; there had been no doubt she had been in a race against time. And there had been someone close behind her - giving chase? - or riding to join her? No, he remembered well the brief flash of terror in her eyes when his man had warned of riders approaching fast. She had given no resistance, but scrambled willingly into the forest for cover.

Aye, uncle, I believe her. The Countess has no love for Comyn, he said, swallowing hard against the remembered rage and shame of his past. And Joanna – aye, Joanna made me cuckold, but Joanna was willin’, the bitch. The Countess - nay.

Balliol swigged once again from the whiskey skin. Ah, weel, time alone will be the judge of this matter.

Aye. And Fitzbruce turned away from Balliol, staring off into the dense wet gloom, firmly putting Marguerite’s image out of his mind.

CHAPTER TWO

THE ROAD TO INVERURIE

Dawn came late, as was its wont in the dead of winter. The little light it might have provided was obscured by the swirling icy fog. There was as yet no snow, but a trek northwards would bring it soon enough. She and Emma rode side by side in silence, their fleet mares replaced by sturdier mounts, better able to carry a person across the rough terrain. Around them, Fitzbruce’s men dissolved and then reappeared in the thick mist, bodies swathed in heavy plaids. But for the sound of her own breathing, the silence was total - the dense murk obliterated even the quiet footfalls of Marguerite’s horse. It was as though all about them the world had vanished.

Last evening, after a message from Fitzbruce informing her they would leave at first light, she and Emma had packed their few possessions and settled down to sleep. But she had not slept well. Thoughts of Fitzbruce had troubled her. The passion on his face in that one moment had arrested her. Try as she might, she could not put that moment from her mind.

It had been a cheerful serving boy, dirty of face and ragged in dress, who had come for them this morning, leading them through the cold hallway and into the dung-strewn courtyard, where a party of men, already mounted, impatiently awaited them. Fitzbruce was surely among them, she knew, but it had been impossible to tell one man from the next.

Though surprised and dismayed, nothing had shown upon Marguerite’s face when, instead of her well-bred mare, a stocky barrel-chested gelding had been brought forward for her. The animal had stood patiently as she mounted and took the reins. Her baggage had scarcely been fastened to the saddle behind her before the horses had turned in unison. Once again she had ridden beneath the spiked iron portcullis. The grey battlements had disappeared behind them almost instantly as they began their journey north.

Now, several hours had passed; surely it was midday, Marguerite thought. Their pace had been steady, the ground fairly even. The fog had lessened enough for Marguerite to see most of the men in their party, although which of them was Fitzbruce she still could not tell. But the cold damp had numbed her fingers and toes and sharpened the ache of hunger in her stomach.

Beside her, Emma fumbled with her bag for a moment, then, cocking a half-smile at Marguerite, she passed her a flat hard oatcake. Marguerite, too chilled to respond but grateful, nodded and gnawed at the food. She had ridden many a time in worse weather than this, recalling her frequent rides across Gleniver land. Ah, but those times, Donal had been at her side and she had known her destination. And in the end, they had always returned to the warm sanctuary of Gleniver Castle. Unlike today. Her situation, her powerlessness, boiled within her, but provided no warmth.

In so short a time she had lost all that had ever mattered - first husband, then home. Every day of the six years spent as Donal’s wife was precious; Marguerite was fully aware of how she had been cherished by Donal Randolph. She had returned the older man’s feelings with, if not great passion, then with a deep and abiding affection. No one before had treated her with kindness. Prior to her marriage, she had been starved for tenderness; indeed, she had not known that such gentleness and love could exist between two persons.

He had saved her in her moment of greatest humiliation. When the Earl of Gleniver had stepped forward to claim her hand in marriage, refusing her dowry and dismissing the greedy repulsive person of her father with a heavy purse of gold coin, she had thought his weathered face to be the very face of benevolence. Time had proved her correct. As his wife, everything within her that had been stunted and dwindling had flourished. Marguerite had found delight in each passing day, days that surpassed all the imaginings of her dark childhood. And in turn she had brought great joy to the last years of Randolph’s life.

True, passion had not been the foundation of their marriage, but it had not mattered. Marguerite and Randolph had shared strong affection and deep respect which, with his death, left her raw and aching with grief. And now to come to this, she thought, her happiness torn from her with the same capriciousness with which it had been given. Lost in thought, Marguerite was not aware of the rider at her side.

If ye’re tired, milady, we can rest awhile.

Fitzbruce had startled her and she shot him an unguarded glance.

Are ye well, Lady Randolph? he asked, bending towards her.

I am, only fearful for Gleniver and its people.

Aye, well, in these times, they must shift for themselves.

But tis my home. Sensing she had given away more of herself than she had meant to, she cast Fitzbruce a brief, apologetic smile which did not reach her eyes.

He probed no further, but glanced at the partially nibbled oatcake in her gloved hand and grinned. Perhaps milady would care for some wine with her meal? Or, if ye’ve the stomach for it, the local brew. Would ye care for a taste of barley bree, Lady Randolph? Tis a powerful warming drink.

Ah, I have seen too many crofters knocked senseless by the ‘powerful warmth’ of your barley bree to take a sip of it myself, she answered lightly, knowing full well the strength of the whiskey to which he referred.

Fitzbruce laughed. Ah, well, tis only Border men who can be knocked senseless by whiskey - twould take a grand sight more indeed to fell a Highlander. He turned in his saddle, reaching for a skin fastened behind it. As it so happens, I have here some of our local brew. Can I tempt ye, milady? He held the skin aloft, a rakish grin on his unshaven face. In the grey light, his eyes were opaque, without the dangerous gleam of the evening before.

Marguerite was too cold to defend herself from his light mood. I’m sure I shall regret answering your challenge, Fitzbruce, she replied, but pass your barley bree to me - I shall sample a taste and, God willing, be a stronger woman for it!

Fitzbruce passed the skin to her, their gloved hands brushing for an instant. She had called him ‘Fitzbruce’ - the sound of her voice speaking his name had a powerful affect upon him. He watched her hungrily as she raised the skin to her lips, the white column of her throat exposed to his eyes for a moment as she tilted her head back to drink. From nowhere, desire rushed over him; he wanted to press his lips to that same white throat, to taste the soft pale skin, to hear her murmur his name in her softly accented voice.

Her choking broke his reverie, and he watched with amused sympathy as she coughed away the burn of the whiskey. With flushed face and scolding eyes she looked accusingly at him, roundly cursing him with a look as her voice could not yet do.

Milady doesna care for whiskey? he asked politely, brows raised inquiringly.

Marguerite laughed, a sound that once more sent desire coursing through Fitzbruce. His uncle had spoken true - he’d best be on his guard against this woman.

Marguerite turned and passed the skin of whiskey to her maid. Emma drank freely, and was soon sputtering herself, before choking out a laugh. Their laughter attracted interested glances from the men, who pulled their mounts closer to those of the women. From there, it was a simple matter for Emma to pass the whiskey to one man, and he to another, until it had been passed around and returned, noticeably lighter, to Fitzbruce’s hands.

He looked askance at the nearly empty skin, and despite a quelling glance at his men, was the recipient of several broad jests questioning the virility of a Scotsman who could not keep a good hold on his whiskey. With a gesture he dispersed the men before turning to Marguerite, praying she had not understood their broad Gaelic. Her amused glance, and Emma’s barely concealed grin, told him the women had understood very well the good-natured insults which had been hurled at him.

Tis all the fault of yer servingwoman, he said quickly, and was rewarded with a quick raising of their eyebrows. Aye, if she hadna passed the whisky to another, I wouldna be in fear now of running dry long afore we reach Inverurie.

The mention of their destination caught Marguerite. And how far would that be?

Aye. Well. Fitzbruce shifted in his saddle. With this weather, I canna tell ye for certain. If we nae leave the saddle today, we may be lucky and reach Kinross by nightfall. Then twill be up past Scone and across the River Tay, through Atholl. Past that point, through Mar to Kildrummy Castle, there is more safety. My sister is the widow of the Earl of Mar.

Your sister? Will she be at Kildrummy? Marguerite was beginning to wish she had been more attentive when Donal spoke of Scotland’s politics. But the endless battles and shifts of power and allegiance, not to mention the complex clan relations, had been of little interest to her, not being Scottish born, and so she remembered little of what he had said.

Fitzbruce made a sound in the back of his throat, and when he spoke, the words twisted bitterly. Christian is a prisoner of the English, and has been for nigh on eight years now.

Along with Robert Bruce’s wife, Elizabeth, and daughter, Marguerite recalled. Other women, as well - another sister, she thought, and a countess - Bruce’s lover?

Fitzbruce spoke again, without the underlying current of hatred. Once we are past Kildrummy, twill nae be far to Inverurie. Tis a land of thick forest, rough goin’ in the snow, and this mist will surely be snow further on. So I canna say more than we have some days in the saddle afore us.

The thought was sobering. Marguerite felt the cold keenly.

Tayside is yet a place we maun move with care, Fitzbruce went on. "Twas Comyn land, afore the cleansing, ye ken. I wouldna bet against there still bein’?some who would welcome the chance to slay a Bruce. My brother