Amanda Scott (2 page)

Rob said tightly, “You know I had no choice in that. I rode in Sir Edward Robison’s fighting tail when he went to confer with the Douglas about English Border raiders who were becoming increasingly daring.”

“Aye, well, ’tis still a great pity that ye ha’ nowt o’ import to tell us now.”

William looked smug.

Rob remained silent, fighting to retain control of his unpredictable temper. He wondered if they could hear his heart thumping with the effort.

“Well?” his father snapped. “D’ye want the lass or no?”

“You must know I do,” Rob said. “What’s more—”

William interjected lightly, “Ellen’s a snug handful, to be sure.”

“Hold your tongue,” Rob snapped. “Recall that you speak of a lady and that you are no longer head and shoulders taller or four stone heavier than I am.”

“I can still best a stripling like you.”

Rob did not spare him another glance, thinking that whatever else Will had learned during his years of training with the Earl of Douglas, he had not learned chivalry. As far as he could tell, his brother had not changed a jot since they were fifteen and thirteen, when Will had lorded it over him at every turn, even calling him a bairn when he’d cried after their mother’s death. How Rob had hated him then!

On the other hand, Rob thought the Order had taught him all he needed to know in life except one important thing: how to keep his temper in check. Sir Edward Ro-bison, the commander he had served at Dunclathy, would have had something scathing to say about his impulsive reaction four years ago to Will’s teasing, but Sir Edward did not know about that and if Rob had his way, he never would. Nor would Hugo or Michael. His two best friends were ever ready with advice and censure if a man de-served either.

As he struggled to restore calm to his mind, Sir Ian said, “I’m thinking ye can put that lass straight out o’ your head now … ”

William’s expression grew smugger, warning Rob of what was to come.

“… because without more to offer her ladyship than your fine new spurs, I’m thinking she’ll do gey better to marry our Will.”

“She doesn’t want him,” Rob blurted before he could stop himself.

William laughed. “She’s got nowt to say about it. I’m heir to Lestalric, not you, and she’s Lady Ellen Douglas, daughter of the most powerful man in Scotland.”

Rob opened his mouth and clamped it shut again.

“Will’s right,” the baron said. “Moreover, if ye’ve nowt else to offer, ye’re nobbut a damnable disappointment to me and no worth exerting m’self for.”

Longing to reply in kind, Rob kept his teeth tightly together.

Still grinning, Will said, “You cannot have met the lass above three times in your life. If you think she’d want a scarce-tried knight when she can have all that Lestalric offers instead, you’re the same witless fool you were at thirteen, Robbie. Even if she did want you, her father would demand more for her and she would obey him. But it won’t come to that. Ellen has already accepted me.”

Rob looked at his father, but Sir Ian just shrugged.

“Tell me, my lord,” Rob said stiffly. “Had I been able to answer your question about this mysterious secret you think my grandfather told me, what would you have done? If Will has already offered and been accepted by Lady Ellen, then … ”

“Faugh,” his father said. “Had ye done aught to de-serve the lass, I’d ha’ spoken to Douglas about ye taking her instead. A man does what is politic, lad. Will kens that. If ye dinna ken as much after all your fine training, ye dinna ken nowt.”

“So if I had known such a secret and shared it, you would have passed it on to Douglas to gain his daughter for me instead of Will. Is that it? Or would you have let Will tell him, to add to his own stature and assure
his
match with Lady Ellen?”

Arms akimbo now, and chest puffed, Sir Ian jutted his chin and said, “Aye, and what if I had? In troth, I’d ha’ used it to further the Logans’ interest as best it could, and wi’ the right information, I’d ha’ seen ye
both
wed to Douglas lasses. ’Tis nobbut plain fact that any secret your grandsire held, the Douglas
should
ken. ’Tis his right as the most powerful descendant o’ the good Sir James.”

“Then I’m sorry I cannot oblige him,” Rob said with a stiff nod, turning away.

“And where d’ye think ye be going?” Sir Ian demanded.

Turning back, Rob snapped, “I’m bidding you adieu, my lord. I’ll not be back.”

“Aye, well, dinna come back then,” Sir Ian retorted. “And dinna expect nowt from me in the future, either!”

Furious, but still struggling to contain it, Rob said, “I
don’t
expect anything. As I’m such a disappointment, you should be glad to see the last of me!”

“Aye, well, I am, then!” shouted Sir Ian.

As he rode away from Lestalric, Rob did not look back, but thoughts of the angry exchange and a strong sense of betrayal continued to plague him, and never more so than when it occurred to him that although the first secret his grandfather had confided to him had naught to do with Lestalric, the second one did.

The key to it lay within the castle itself, and now that he had vowed never to return, he might never learn what that secret was.

Doubtless, though, it was just some family treasure or other. If so, even if he did find it, his father or Will would claim it. Nevertheless, for all his effort to restrain his wretched temper, it had been his undoing again. So, whatever course he took next, it should be one to teach him humility.

On that thought, he knew just where he would go, for although his father and brother had rarely made him feel at home, one family in Scotland always did.

Chapter 1

Stirling Castle, April 1380

T
he Earl of Fife, hereditary governor of Stirling Castle and third son of the King of Scots, sat behind the large desk in his audience chamber, sternly regarding the well-dressed young man who stood before him. Fife was a good judge of men, and this one seemed more confident in his presence than most. Fife’s formidable personality and ever-increasing power intimidated most men—with good reason.

“Who sent you here to me?”

“I came of my own accord, my lord,” his visitor said. “I own, though, that I came to you because I think we can help each other. I am told that, rightfully, you should be heir to the throne of Scotland but must bow to a lesser man.”

“It is true that I am more capable than my brother Carrick will ever be of ruling this country as it should be ruled,” Fife admitted. “However, Robert the Bruce set the order of succession years ago and ordained that it must go to the eldest son.”

“But the Scottish Parliament can alter that order, can it not?”

“Aye, if one could persuade them to do so.”

“I’m told also that you are a religious man, a follower of the Kirk of Rome.”

“That is true enough,” Fife said.

“If the Pope were to support you instead of the Earl of Carrick as the next King of Scots, would that not increase your chances of persuading the Parliament?”

“Aye, sure, but what would his holiness ask of me in return?”

“We seek information about the death of a cousin, the son of my late father’s brother. He disappeared whilst trying to find and return an item of some value to the Kirk of Rome. His own men believe he died at the hands of certain Scottish nobles.”

“What is this cousin’s name?”

“Waldron of Edgelaw, my lord.”

Fife leaned forward. “And these Scottish nobles. Do you know their names?”

“The Sinclairs, my lord, likewise cousins of Waldron on their mother’s side.”

“I did hear rumors about his death,” Fife said, “but my sources told me that from all they could learn, he died in a fair fight. Tell me more of this item he sought and why you think the Sinclairs had aught to do with his death.”

“First let me assure you that if you can aid me, his holiness will be grateful. You may be sure of great financial reward as well as holy favor.”

“Then something of
great
value is involved,” Fife said. “What is it?”

His visitor nodded. “They told me you were astute, my lord. ’Tis true that what Waldron sought was of enormous value, but it does belong to Holy Kirk.”

“Aye, sure, and I’d faithfully see it returned,” Fife promised. “But what is it?”

“Treasure, my lord, stolen from the Kirk nearly a century ago by the Knights Templar. Those who sent me believe the Sinclairs guard it now. Likewise, a woman now in their care but who is soon to marry and depart for the Highlands spent a fortnight with my cousin right before his death. Her name is Lady Adela Macleod.”

Fife was thinking. He said musingly, “Sir William Sinclair was one of the men who attempted to carry the Bruce’s heart to the Holy Land.”

“Aye, sir, and a Templar.”

“Perhaps, but you are the second man in as many weeks to speak to me of hidden treasure. I must think on this. Return tomorrow, and we’ll discuss it further.”

Roslin Castle, Thursday, May 10, 1380

“Smile, Adela. We brides should look happy on our wedding day!”

Lady Adela Macleod turned to her younger sister, Sorcha, who was certainly beaming brightly enough for both of them. But although Adela tried to obey her command, she knew her own smile was feeble at best.

She had hoped that her second wedding, unlike the first, might proceed without undue fuss or drama. However, although she knew that Roslin Castle’s highly trained guardsmen would prevent the kind of trouble that had cut short her first ceremony, she had already seen more fuss and ado than she liked. And she knew that before the day was over, she would see more. Nervously, she fingered the gold chain necklace her mother had given her the year before she’d died.

Sorcha reached to push back a long, thick strand of Adela’s straight honey-blond hair that had managed to slip over her shoulder to the front of her tightly laced golden velvet gown. Letting go of the chain, Adela stood quietly, even submissively. Sorcha’s pearl-trimmed caul and the simple blue, shoulder-length veil that matched her silk gown concealed her own curlier, amber-golden hair.

Adela reminded herself that fuss had been inevitable. Not only were there now two brides and bridegrooms instead of one couple, but when one’s hostess was a powerful countess in her own right, one had to expect such an occasion to merit extraordinary pomp and circumstance. And when one’s younger sister had married the countess’s favorite nephew by declaration a fortnight before, one could scarcely cavil when the fond aunt and one’s own fond parent insisted on a double wedding to sanctify both marriages properly.

Even her father, Macleod of Glenelg, had had little say in today’s wedding plans. His word was law back home in the Highlands, but Adela had not expected him to object to anything, because he planned soon to wed a widow in comfortable circumstances, which included a fine house in Edinburgh, seven miles away. The royal court was presently in residence there, and she knew that Macleod would do nothing that might stir gossip or jeopardize his own nuptial plans.

She had therefore understood from the outset that this wedding would be a grander occasion than her first attempt, which had taken place in the Highlands mere weeks after the death of the first Lord of the Isles. But the result was beyond anything she had anticipated. Her hostess, Isabella, Countess of Strathearn and Caithness, and the rest of the powerful Sinclair family had spared no expense.

Adela had not mourned any lack of splendor the first time. But after all the effort and expense, and in view of her own considerable gratitude, she thought it a pity that she could not feel more enthusiasm for this wedding.

As she waited near the chapel entrance with Macleod and the other members of the wedding party while the small but noble audience crammed into the chamber began to quiet down, she wondered why she did not care more. After all, other than the much larger group of friends and kinsmen unable to squeeze into the tiny chapel but assembling now in the castle’s great hall for the wedding feast to come, nothing but the setting had changed—and Sorcha’s role, of course, and Sir Hugo Robison’s presence today at Sorcha’s side.

Adela’s bridegroom remained the same. And a generous, kind man Ardelve was, too. He was fond of her, she knew, and would make few demands with which she would not willingly comply.

So far, he had asked only that she manage his large household in Kintail near Chalamine, her family home. It was a responsibility that she expected to enjoy far more than the near decade of running her father’s much less manageable household.

Although Sorcha insisted that Ardelve was too old and pompous to make a good husband, Adela liked him. To be sure, he was nearly as old as her father, had been twice married and widowed, and had a grown son older than she was. But his children had raised no objection to the marriage, and his cousin, Lady Clendenen, the wealthy widow whom Macleod intended to marry, stood in the front row now with an approving smile, waiting for the ceremony to begin.

As a result, Adela believed her marriage to Ardelve would be as happy as anyone could wish. So what, she asked herself, was wrong with her? Why did she not feel
something
?

She normally felt things deeply, and she normally expressed those feelings easily. One had to do so, after all, if one was to manage a castle full of servants, let alone to manage such an unruly sibling as Sorcha had been or a father as blustery as Macleod could be. Even the youngest of her sisters, the elusive Sidony, had required just the right degree of Adela’s self-expression. But now—

So lost in thought was she that when Sorcha touched her arm again, she started violently and nearly cried out.

Sorcha’s smile faded to a worried frown. “Pinch your cheeks,” she said. “I vow, you look as pale as chalk. Is aught amiss? Does your shoulder still hurt?”

“Nay, it has healed,” Adela said, ignoring the ache that lingered from an injury a fortnight before. “I’m quite well.”

“You don’t look it,” Sorcha replied with her usual candor.

“Easy, lass,” Sir Hugo said, laying a restraining hand on her shoulder.

Not, Adela mused, that anyone—even the tall, hand-some, imperious Hugo—could restrain her sister unless Sorcha chose to allow it.