In the Time of Kings (14 page)

I’d gladly give up all those things to be with Claire, though.

I want to laugh with her again. I want to hold her hand. Kiss her freckled nose. Listen to her sighs. Twine my fingers in her silken blonde hair, smelling of mint and tea tree oil. Lay beside her and gaze at the stars.

Without her, it feels like a part of my soul is missing.

LONG, LONG AGO

Lintalee, Scotland — 1333

I
’m lucky enough to go undisturbed for close to an hour at supper before someone strides across the room, stops before me and smacks both palms on the table.

“God’s rotten teeth!” The man has hair the color of straw and fair skin which makes the three parallel scars on his neck all the more prominent. “You look incredibly vibrant for someone who’s come back from the dead, Sir Roslin.”

“Thank you,” I mumble. Something about this man screams at me not to trust him. The smile is there on his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Sir Alan.” Duncan nods in acknowledgment. “How are matters in Edinburgh?”

“Fine, last I heard.” Alan plants his elbow on the table and lowers his voice. “Lord Archibald should have anticipated this after he routed Balliol at Dupplin Moor last year. Did he think the man was going to slink off, tail between his legs, and not return for vengeance? I’ve spent the last month on horseback, gathering men and spreading the word. If we can get as many as we expect from the north, we’ll have numbers that will not only rival Edward’s, but exceed them. Time will tell if it’s enough, though.”

“Archibald expected, as all of us did, that Edward would honor the treaty and not enter the country that his sister now calls home.”

“We all know that union was a sham. David and Joan are children. They have no affinity for each other beyond casual friendship.” Alan’s eyes slide to me. Like me, he must be in his late twenties, but unlike me, he isn’t afraid of making himself known here. He’s spent a fair amount of the evening circulating from table to table and seems to be regarded with a certain amount of respect, if not importance. I haven’t been immune to his suspicious glances, however; so when he first approached, I felt a prickle across my skin. The fake smile is gone now, replaced by a sneer. “Perhaps Roslin here can impart some details from the English perspective. After all, he’s spent a year in their company without a word to his father or wife. Sad to say that neither mourned you.”

I wait for Duncan to fill him in, but instead my friend bites off a hunk from a goose leg and starts to chew, ignoring my distress.

“I don’t remember anything from before a few days ago.” I wonder how many times I’ll have to repeat this story.

“So Malcolm told me.” Alan’s fingers curl around my knife and he draws it towards him. With a turn of his wrist, he stabs the tip of the blade into the table top. “But
I
think you do. And Archibald is a fool to trust you. So was Lord James. So was your brother.”

With that cryptic statement, he turns and leaves. The moment he’s beyond earshot, I lean in close and say to Duncan, “What was that about my brother?”

Duncan gulps down a swig of ale, then drags a forearm across his mouth. For several moments, he stares at his trencher, shredding his meat, as if picking at words and trying to figure out how to phrase his reply. “You and your brother William were at Lord James’ side at Teba when the Moors attacked. Lord James and —”

“Wait. My brother’s name was William? Older or younger?” Was this the William Sinclair in my family tree? Reverend Murray had said it was a fairly common name.

“Older by two years. Anyway, Lord James and William rode forward in the vanguard. You, however, hesitated. They both died. Your father never quite forgave the fact that it was you who returned to Scotland, not William. When you arrived home at Blacklaw, he called you a coward and a disgrace to the entire Sinclair clan. You Sinclairs are a stubborn, contentious lot.”

“How do you know I didn’t try to help William and Lord James?”

“Because I was there, Roslin. I saw you hang back. But it was your first battle. You were afraid for your own life. Still ...”

So even he thinks me a coward. Not much I can do about that. A change of subject seems in order. “Who is this Sir Alan? Another brother? Cousin?”

“Not your cousin. The king’s, although only distantly so. Being a Stewart, he thinks himself privileged. I’ve no doubt he spends every moment he can whispering into young David’s ear, sowing the seeds of his influence. However, none of that is your concern. I suggest you keep an eye on him. You’ve far more to worry about from Alan Stewart than the rest of us.”

“Why would that be?”

“He was your wife’s suitor at one time.”

So I already have enemies? I’m liking this place less and less by the minute. “Does this have anything to do with why Malcolm doesn’t like me?”

“Everything. Malcolm was fostered in Alan’s household. They’re closer than blood brothers. As far as Malcolm’s concerned, you were a poor catch and Mariota — meaning Malcolm, as well — would have fared better had she married Alan.”

Things are beginning to make sense now. Too much sense. And it doesn’t bode well for Roslin Sinclair.

I’ve never been much of a drinker before, but tonight I drink until my nerves ease. I’m not the only one indulging. Everyone is talking more loudly, laughing and smiling, some even break out in song. Their words overlap in an unintelligible buzz as feet stomp and hands clap and tankards are refilled. I eat and drink until my stomach aches and I’m sure one more spoonful of custard will make me hurl.

A serving girl leans over my left shoulder and pours my friend another drink. Her hair hangs in long black tendrils over her back and shoulders, but as she pushes it back and turns toward me, smiling, I glimpse bare white shoulders above deep cleavage. Without warning, Duncan grabs her around the waist and pulls her into his lap, nearly upsetting the bench we share.

She laughs and slaps him playfully across the chest. “None of that, m’lord,” she teases, tapping him on his whiskered chin with a fingertip. “You always did presume too much.”

“How many times must I propose to you, Jean, before you’ll make me a happy man?”

“Fancy me all you like, Duncan of Abernathy, but you already have one foot in the grave. Besides, you never did offer to make me your wife, as I recall. An invitation to bed is not a proposal for marriage.”

He fingers the laces at the front of her gown as if to tug them loose. “What will it take, Jean? Let me steal you away from Lintalee. I’ll give you a room of your own if —”

“Again,” — she jabs her finger at his broad chest — “you presume too much. I like it here and I’m not interested in being your bedmate. Once was enough. You’re older than my father. But your friend here ...” She wriggles free of his hold, then squeezes into the space between us. “Perhaps he’d like some company?”

“No, I ...” I fight a shiver as her finger trails along my arm from wrist to elbow and back again. She doesn’t have the prettiest face I’ve ever seen, but she’s certainly well endowed. I can understand Duncan’s attraction to her. The whole scenario makes me think about the study that said consuming more than two alcoholic drinks makes everyone in the room seem better looking and affairs are more likely to happen when people are drunk. Did they really need to invest money in a study that’s common knowledge? I gaze into my empty cup, wondering how many more of these I’d have to down before I would lose my inhibitions and lapse into adultery. “I’m sorry, but no.”

A pout frames her mouth. Instead of being deterred by my refusal, though, she seems to take it as a challenge. She traces the arch of her foot along my calf, her fingers wandering up my thigh. I draw back, unsure of what to do. I’ve never had a woman be so forward before. She twists around and slides onto my lap, a suggestive moan escaping her throat. Her bosom is right at my eye level.
Holy sh—

Duncan clears his throat. “My lord?”

I can’t move. Not sure if I should. Should I ignore her? Ask her to stop? Throw her off? If I had joined a fraternity during my college years, I might have some experience in this realm. As it is, I have none. Some women may have thought me cute, in that sad puppy dog kind of way, but they generally didn’t throw themselves at me. If they’d even tried, I would have slunk away out of embarrassment.

“My lord?” Duncan says more insistently.

“What is it?” I practically gasp. I’m somewhere between embarrassed panic and involuntary arousal as she arches her back and then rocks forward.

“There.” He points to the end of the hall near the doors.

The light is so dim there it takes me a few moments to focus enough to see that it’s a woman. A very young woman and a very,
very
beautiful one at that. Golden red hair dangles over one shoulder in a long braid that reaches her hip. Her complexion is fair, but there’s a rosy blush to her cheeks that hints of the sun’s touch. Something about her sparks a flicker of familiarity in me, a sense of ...

Suddenly, I
know
why I’m here, in this place and time. To find her.

Abruptly, I shove Jean to the side with both hands as I stand, landing her in the lap of the man next to me. Wrapping his arms around her, he roars with delight and smothers her neck with kisses. She squeals in protest, but soon she’s laughing, too — loudly. Their rollicking captures the attention of everyone within earshot, including the lady near the doors. As she begins to unclasp her riding cloak and turns in our direction, her face goes deathly pale. Her knees wobble, but before she can faint, another woman catches her by the elbow and braces against her.

“Who is that, Duncan? Do I know her?”

“That, my lord, is Mariota ... your wife.”

LONG, LONG AGO

Lintalee, Scotland — 1333

M
y mouth goes dry. I grab my cup, bring it to my lips and tip it up, but the damn thing is empty. So I steal Duncan’s and in three big gulps drain it halfway. Had she not seen me, I might have ducked behind the four men standing behind us and sought out some hiding place. But I’m frozen where I am, transfixed.

An eternity passes before she takes the first step toward me. Her movement jars me from my trance and I notice Alan and Malcolm on the other side of the hall, rising from their seats and starting toward her. That alone compels me to go to her before they do.

I reach the end of the table as fast as I can and stop before her. Her breaths are coming in rapid, shallow intakes. Eyes downcast, she stands an arm’s reach from me, the short distance as solid as a wall. Her hands still clutch at the edges of her cloak, as though she needs it for a shield.

“Roslin.”

Although her voice is only a whisper, I still hear it clearly despite the drunken bellowing and bawdy song. I’ve heard it before — although I can’t recall exactly when — in that silver haze between dream and waking. Heard it as clearly then as I do now.

I drift closer. I’m not quite sure where the courage comes from, but I lift her chin and look into her eyes. They’re the color of damp moss in a wooded glen, of fully unfurled leaves in summertime, of a grassy hill after a quenching rain.

For a moment, I lose all awareness, of everything and everyone — until Archibald intrudes on the space between us.

“Lady Mariota?” He plucks up her hand and grazes her knuckles with a kiss. “You look well. To what do we owe the honor of your unexpected arrival?”

“Thank you, my lord.” She dips her head. “I came to tell you that Sir Henry ...” — she flashes a nervous look at me — “Sir Henry was unable to come at your summons. He fell from his horse and injured his back. But already he is mending. He expects to be back riding before the week is out.”

“Unfortunate, but I’m glad it wasn’t more serious. Why did he send you, though?”

“I came to visit your wife and sons. She extended the invitation last Christmas. But I wasn’t expecting so many ...” — she glances shyly about the hall, looking like a doe that’s ventured from the cover of the brush — “people. I shall return to Blacklaw first thing in the morning.”

“Nonsense. You’ll stay as long as you like, unless ...” He looks at me, smiling with a secret purpose. “Perhaps after a few days, Roslin and Duncan could escort you back to Blacklaw? They’re going there anyhow.”

I glance at Mariota, hoping to gauge her reaction, but she avoids meeting my eyes.

“Of course, my lord,” she says. I sense, however, that she isn’t overly thrilled by the prospect of spending so much time with me.

“Perhaps the lady would be safer here?” I offer. “And surely your wife would enjoy the company?”

“She’ll have to make do with just a few days,” he replies firmly. “Besides, you won’t get much privacy here, not with this boisterous lot. The two of you have been parted for far too long, as it is. Now,” — he grabs Mariota’s hand and drags her closer to me — “look a little happier, will you? You’re the only two in the entire hall who look so morose, like you’ve both seen ghosts. In your case, Lady Mariota, I suppose it seems you have.”

As he makes to pass me, he leans in close and whispers loud enough for Mariota to hear, “I have a spare private room for you. The bed is small, but my guess is you two won’t need the extra space.”

Mariota’s cheeks redden. Her reaction is telling. She and Roslin ... me, we haven’t been together often, if at all. We are, in effect, strangers. This scenario is becoming more awkward by the second.

I do the only thing I think will help. I offer her a seat beside me, but she declines. Instead, she seeks out Archibald’s wife, Beatrice. The stares intensify as she walks from me. Humiliated, I keep my head down as much as possible. When I look for her a short while later, she’s already gone.

Drunk, tired, I spend the night alone as rain pounds on the roof overhead and thunder shakes the ground.

––––––––

W
ater drips onto my forehead. I wave an arm and turn my face aside, sputtering as I sit up. “What the — ?”

A thin slat of sunlight pries around the partially closed door’s edge. Duncan looms over me, sporting a scowl. He plunks the cup he’s been holding over me down on a stool — the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the bed, if one can call it that.