Circle of Honor (2 page)

“Thank you for this honor, my lord. I shall fight by your side to the end.”

“And fight we shall, sir knight.”

LADY JOAN AND HER YOUNGEST DAUGHTER sat in front of the massive fireplace in the main hall. A crackling fire took the chill off the cold February afternoon and gave sufficient light for handwork. The young woman deftly knotted her embroidery thread and surveyed her work, a scene of Daniel in the lion's den she'd designed herself. She rose from her chair and presented the nearly finished tapestry for her mother's inspection.

“Nicely done, daughter. Why did you choose this particular story to illuminate?”

Gwenyth smiled, pleased to share her knowledge of the Bible. “Because Daniel tells us that victory always belongs to those who do God's will. No matter how difficult the situation, you must trust God.”

“Your life will be blessed if you keep that thought close to your heart. Now, tell me more of your visit to Ruthven. I detect a note of wistfulness when you mention certain of your cousins.”

Gwenyth felt her face grow warm. “I did enjoy their company, Mama.”

“I'm sure you did. With your sisters and brothers all married and gone, it is very quiet here at Dalswinton.” Lady Joan laid her hand on Gwenyth's arm. “'Tis understandable if you miss them, lass.”

“Aye, Mama.” She was especially close to the Ruthven cousins for she'd spent her fosterage with them. In those six years her Aunt Isabella had taught her all she would need to know about caring for a castle and a husband. Her husband.

“And I suspect there is one cousin who is missed more than the others.”

Gwenyth smiled. Edward Balliol, a distant cousin and contender for Scotland's throne, had been a frequent visitor at Ruthven during Gwenyth's recent stay there. Just yesterday he'd come to Dalswinton and offered for her hand in marriage. If Papa gave permission, she might be queen of Scotland one day. To have handsome Edward for a mate and to be a queen surpassed her fondest dreams.

Having composed her expression, she asked, “When will Papa be home?”

“You are anxious for his answer, aren't you? Then you must be pleased with Edward's suit.”

“Oh yes. Yes I am. Do you think Papa will say yes?”

“I believe he will. You are sixteen—'tis time for you to leave the nest as well. Your father and I will miss you, but Edward is an excellent match.” Her mother's smile quickly faded.

“You are worried about the politics surrounding such an alliance.”

“Aye.”

Despite her affection for Edward and excitement at the prospect of becoming his betrothed, she, too, had misgivings. News of an alliance between the Balliol and Comyn families would further divide the loyalty of Scotland's nobility. If Papa were to accept Edward's offer, then he must also agree to withdraw his support of Robert the Bruce's quest for Scotland's throne. She could only imagine Bruce's anger at being denied the crown. “Papa will do what is best.”

“And his women will suffer the consequences.”

She stared at her mother. She'd never heard her criticize Papa.

Lady Joan paced away, then turned to face her daughter from the other side of the hearth. “Don't look so surprised. Your father often makes decisions to obtain land and power without thought to the cost to his children or me. I say this not in bitterness, but so that you will be prepared for your own marriage. Your father and Edward are much alike in this regard.”

Her face must have betrayed her doubts. Mama came to her and put an arm around her shoulders. “I didn't mean to dampen your joy, lass. Edward is a fine man, albeit ambitious. All you can do is love him and pray for God's blessing. You shall certainly have mine.”

She kissed her mother's temple. “Thank you, Mama.”

“Enough serious talk. Finish your embroidery while I see that the servants prepare warm food and a hot bath for your father's return.” She smiled. “I shall await him in my solar, and I promise to encourage him to give you his answer soon.”

After Mama left, Gwenyth stared into the fire, her needlework forgotten. Their conversation had given her much to think about. She was certain that Edward was more interested in her as a person than as a political tool. Wasn't he?

Hours later, a commotion in the bailey signaled her father's return. Still clutching the tapestry, she hurried to her mother's solar. Papa might be persuaded to give his answer yet this evening if she requested it of him.

But instead of her father, she found Edward holding her sobbing mother. “Edward, where is Papa?” she demanded.

“Hush, lass. Come and comfort your mother.”

Fear paralyzed her. “Why is she crying?”

“I'm sorry to bear bad news, Gwenyth. The villain Bruce has killed your father.”

For a moment Edward's words didn't make sense. Papa couldn't be dead—he hadn't given them permission to marry. “You are wrong. It isn't true.”

Edward held her mother with one arm and offered his other hand to her. “Come here, lass.”

She ignored his offer of comfort. “How? How did my father die?”

“Bruce stabbed him on the altar at Greyfriars Church.”

A fierce pain gripped her heart and she stared at the tapestry she still held in her hands, at Daniel calmly accepting his fate, trusting God. And she knew that she had nothing in common with Daniel, for she would not accept her father's death as being God's will. Nay, it had been Robert the Bruce's will and ambition that had killed him.

While Edward continued to console her mother, she walked to the solar's fireplace and threw the needlework into the flames. Then she hugged her mother and led her to a chair before asking Edward, “Does our betrothal still stand? Did Papa give you his permission?”

He stood before her but looked into the fire as he answered, “Aye, he did.” Then he rested his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “But this is not the time for a wedding. You must take time to grieve. I must leave for England and France to strengthen our alliances in case Bruce actually manages to be crowned king. I will come for you when all is ready, I promise.”

“And will you kill Robert the Bruce?”

“His death is assured.”

“Then I will wait for your summons.”

ADAM LOOKED ON as Robert the Bruce knelt at the tomb of St. Fillan of Glenlochart, the revered Scottish saint who'd founded a church on this spot in the sixth century. The sacrilege of killing a man on the altar of a church weighed heavily on Bruce. Adam had frequently seen the newly crowned king of Scotland on his knees, praying to his Savior, in the months since that day. Now he knelt on this sacred ground to pray for forgiveness and receive the blessing of the local bishop.

Just two months ago, before the battle of Methven, Bruce's army had numbered forty-five hundred soldiers and nearly one hundred knights. But the battle was a disaster, Bruce was nearly captured, and all that remained were the five hundred men and a handful of knights that watched as the bishop blessed him this hot August afternoon.

Bruce had become a hunted man in his own country. They had spent the last few days in relative safety with a laird loyal to Bruce. The respite had refreshed Bruce's wife, daughter, and two sisters, who were traveling with them. The presence of the women added to the vigilance of Bruce's men.

But last night Adam had rebelled against the months of tension, against the constant need for vigilance, and against the constraints of his knightly vows to shun the sins of the flesh. In high spirits he'd celebrated his twentieth birthday with an excess of strong drink and a willing tavern wench.

Today the late summer sun seemed overly warm and his head ached. He hoped Robert would soon move into the shade and safety of the trees. And he hoped they'd move before Adam embarrassed himself by succumbing to the dizziness that plagued him.

As the king prayed, Adam struggled to stay alert. St. Fillan's tomb lay on lands owned by the lord of Lorne, son-in-law of the murdered John Comyn and one of many who schemed to avenge the man's death. Despite the danger, Robert had insisted on a pilgrimage to this shrine. The sooner Robert and his troops were gone from here the better.

Finally, to Adam's relief, Bruce indicated they should mount up. Once they were through the narrow pass at the head of the valley they would be relatively safe. Adam fought fatigue and dizziness, berating himself for his foolishness. He would be wise to withstand such temptation in the future and vowed to do so if his head would just return to its normal size immediately.

The horse's movement gainsaid any relief from the shade, and Adam rode in misery. Just as they reached the narrowest part of Dalry Pass, a screaming swarm of Lord Lorne's highlander warriors descended on them. The surprise of the attack immediately split Bruce's troop in half. The attackers slashed at the bellies and legs of the horses with their long Lochaber axes, succeeding in unhorsing several of Adam's comrades before his befuddled brain could make sense of the noise and confusion.

Adam watched in horror as three highlanders pursued his friend and comrade, Gordon MacNab. Adam's mind and body seemed to work in slow motion as he fought his way toward Gordon. Too late. Gordon's horse went down, and Gordon with him. The highlanders swarmed upon him.

Adam fought off the man nearest him, turned around, and saw Robert in a desperate effort to divert the attackers from his women. He heard Bruce yell, “Retreat!” Others gathered around the king, but another of Lorne's men was already upon Adam. With leaden arms and a sluggish brain, Adam slashed and hacked at his assailant.

A glimpse of Gordon's body, alone in a motionless heap, gave him pause. Adam struggled to focus through the fog in his aching head. Sudden pain seared through his left arm, and he looked in shock at the gaping wound that ran from shoulder to elbow. Robert appeared beside him then, viciously attacking and slowly making way, pushing Adam's mount toward the pass and safety. Cowed by Robert's determined feat of arms and somewhat appeased by their retreat, their pursuers slowed their assault, and Robert and Adam rejoined the rest.

The women were safe, for now. A number of men were slain along with Gordon MacNab. Of the men who remained, James Douglas and Gilbert de la Haye were among the wounded along with several others, but none as seriously as Adam. Now he wished for the oblivion of his earlier headache instead of the pulsing, searing pain in his arm.

When they gained some distance, the group paused in a hidden glen, forming a protective circle around the wounded so they could be tended before resuming their flight. Kirkpatrick pulled off Adam's hauberk and ripped what was left of his shirt.

“The women . . .” Adam muttered.

“They are well,” Kirkpatrick replied. Neither man spoke of their fallen comrades as Roger wrapped Adam's arm tightly in a bandage before shoving him back on his horse. The hours until they reached Loch Dochart and safety seemed like days, and Adam cried out in agony when they finally lowered him from the horse.

He must have passed out, because the next thing he remembered was lying on a pallet of heather as his somber comrades made camp. When all was in order, Robert knelt beside him and shook his head.

“I'm sorry, my laird,” Adam whispered through parched lips. “I was of little use to you today.”

“Aye, you made a bad decision last night and paid the price.”

“Gordon. I couldn't help Gordon.” Tears threatened, hardly knightly behavior. But tears weren't the worst of it. His behavior had led to the death of a friend—it could have been Bruce!
What kind of knight am I?
Forcing himself to look Bruce in the eye, he asked, “Do you believe God will forgive me?”

Robert didn't flinch. “Aye, I do.”

Adam grimaced with pain. When it passed he said, “And you, my king. Can you forgive as well?”

“I can, Adam. Indeed, I already have.”

“Then I swear to you that I will avoid strong drink for the rest of the days given to me.”

Bruce laid a hand on Adam's arm. “Watered wine will be fine when you are well again, son. But now is no time to be heroic. Whiskey is all we have for pain unless we can find a healer.”

The pain pulsed through him with each beat of his anguished heart. “You may be right. You've been right about many things. Forgive me for failing—”

“I do. Now waste no more of your breath. You've a grievous wound. Best repent of your sins and pray for God's forgiveness. And his mercy.” Robert gazed at the ground before continuing. “Morogh will take you home.”

To die. Adam had not thought his wound mortal until now. But the man was right. Few survived such a wound as this. Robert was too good a friend to say the words. But the thought of home, of rest from the constant flight and battle, was enough to allow unconsciousness to overtake him.

THEY LEFT AT DAWN, and by the time he and Morogh reached Moy, Adam didn't much care what was poured down his throat so long as it took away the pain. As he slowly, miraculously, recovered at home, he heard of the capture and hanging of Robert's brother Nigel, of the imprisonment of Bruce's wife and young daughter, and of Robert's escape to Rathlin.

On a chilly December evening, Adam sat before the fireplace in his room at Castle Moy, cradling his useless arm and staring into the flames. He wanted to be at his king's side, sharing his exile and planning Bruce's campaign to retake Scotland from the English tyrant. How he regretted that night of sin and temptation, a night that nearly cost him his life and the life of his king!

If he hadn't been wounded, could he have made a difference? Might he have been able to protect Bruce's family from capture? Moreover, had he not imbibed that fateful night, had he slept in camp instead of in a stranger's bed, would he have detected the attack and saved Gordon and the others?

God may well have forgiven him, as Bruce had said. But Adam would live the rest of his life with the guilt and shame of his failure at Dalry Pass.