Once she was finished, she wrapped the gown and cloak together in a piece of cloth and tied it to the saddle. She mounted, grateful that she no longer had to fight her skirt.
As she approached the battlefield, she could smell the odor again. Now it seemed even worse. Ten thousand Scots, another four thousand English, and why? It had been three weeks and obviously many still lay in shallow graves. She veered away from the battlefield, but the memories had lodged in her head. She feared they would never go away, not any of it. Not the English soldier calling for water, nor her pulling a ring from a dead man’s finger.
She finally passed the battlefield, and the odor faded. She joined a stream of people carrying bodies on horses or in carts.
She stopped one elderly man pulling a cart. A pair of bare feet stuck out from the end. “I am looking for Branxton Church.”
“If ye want to see the Scot King, he’s gone,” the man replied and made the sign of the cross. “His body was taken to London.”
“Is that your son?” she asked, trying to deepen her voice.
“Aye. He joined the English just before the battle. Foolish lad. He was my last.” Then he apparently remembered the question. “Straight ahead.”
Then he turned back to the road, his back bowed with grief. Her heart cried for him, and all the others looking for sons and fathers and brothers. Was someone looking for her Scot?
She turned back to the road. The man had not looked at her curiously.
She continued on as the sun started to dip. People on foot looked at Magnus enviously, or drew their eyes away. Then she reached the church. Grand compared to the small chapel in her village.
She dismounted, tied the reins to the post, and went inside. A handful of people were praying silently. A priest approached her.
“Can I assist you, my son, or are you here to pray?”
“I am hoping ye can help me,” she said. She took the crest from a purse she’d attached to her belt and told the tale she’d rehearsed. “I killed a man on the battlefield. In his dying breath he asked me to return this to his family, but he died before he could tell me what family. I hoped ye might be able to help me.”
She handed the crest to the priest who studied it for a moment. “‘Virtue Mine Honour,’” he read. “But I do not recognize it. You will probably have to go into Scotland to find the family name. I can take it and try to find whoever should have it.”
“Nay, ’tis something I must do myself. I made a vow.”
The priest did not voice the observation that rarely—if ever—did a borderer try to return an item, particularly one of value, but she knew it must be going through his thoughts.
However, he did not say so.
“Thank you, Father,” she said, holding out her hand for the broach, then fleeing as he reluctantly handed it back to her. She wanted no more questions.
She did not have what she needed—a name, a family, a title—but she had her first clue, something to give the Scot for his search. She did not know how she would explain how she discovered it, but she would.
By the time she left the church, it was dark. Magnus was where she had left him, and she gave a prayer of thanks, then mounted. She wanted to ask more people about the crest, but nearly all would be English in search of those killed by the Scots, and those who were not would probably not admit it. She did not like defeat. But more questions might endanger the Scot as much as herself. And she had something.
She had drawn the tower for him, but she had not drawn the letters. Mayhap those words would have stirred something.
Virtue Mine Honour.
Fine words for a noble. Her experience was otherwise, and yet her Scot seemed to reflect them. But then she warned herself that it may have been simply because he was made senseless by a blow to the head. Did character change with a loss of memory?
She was unsure whether to try to ride back this night or not. The sky was cloudy, and the night would be black, too dangerous to ride, even on established roads. But she did not have enough money to rent a room, and even if she did, to do so would be dangerous. Inns put their travelers in common rooms. She did not fancy sleeping in the steel helmet with ten or twelve soldiers.
Mayhap once out of the town, she could find a secluded place to rest until morning. She had the cloak for warmth.
Her decision made, she started back toward the battlefield and all its violence and tragedy. And mysteries. How many families would never know what happened to their sons and fathers and brothers? At least, she had buried Will, had told him she loved him.
Would the Scot’s wife, if there was one, ever know the truth?
She swallowed hard. She had tried her best to discover his identity. Now she feared the only way to do it was to surrender the crest. His escape might well mean the loss of her own.
Chapter 13
R
OBERT Howard limped across the small room.
The more he used his leg, the stronger it became, though the pain was excruciating. He knew he would probably always have a limp.
His host had made it clear that while a guest he was also a prisoner. He spent most of the time walking back and forth in his room and on the third day was able to walk without the crutch.
He searched for memories, but they continued to elude him. When he looked out the long, narrow window at the wall below, another wall would dart into his mind. A thicker wall, and higher. But as he sought to hang on to the memory, it faded away. It was like grabbing a handful of fog.
And the nightmare. The same one over and over again. The man on the ground. The terrible guilt.
While the nightmares plagued his night, Kimbra haunted nearly every waking moment. She and her daughter. Was she all right? If he were to make a mistake, it would be Kimbra and Audra who paid the price.
Then on the third evening, the Charlton visited him.
The Charlton regarded him with something akin to wonder. “’Tis miraculous,” he said.
“Aye,” Robert Howard agreed.
“The physician was convinced ye would be dead by now.”
“So he told me, if I did not let him bleed me.”
“Why did ye not?”
“I had been bled enough by the Scots,” Robert Howard said. “I needed no more by my countrymen.”
The Charlton grinned. “I have often made the same charge. Kimbra is a better healer, but she is reluctant to do anything but provide herbs. Except for Will. And,” he added thoughtfully, “you.”
“I am grateful.”
“One of my riders returned from the Howards. No one knows of an auburn-haired Howard.”
Robert Howard shrugged. “I would not be surprised. I have never met them. Neither do I know whether my mother was blond or redheaded.”
“Sim was known to have bastards,” the Charlton said thoughtfully. “What family did ye foster with?”
Robert Howard had a ready answer from Kimbra’s coaching, a family that had feuded with the Charltons for years, despite the fact that they were both English. “The Forsters. John Forster.”
The Charlton grumped his displeasure.
“I was happy to leave them,” Robert Howard added.
“Cedric is suspicious of you,” the Charlton probed.
“I did not like him, either,” Robert Howard said. “I heard he did little fighting during the battle.”
Charlton shrugged. “He fights for gold. He sees no honor in anything else.” He paused. “Ye must feel the same, having fought in France.”
“And Spain,” Robert Howard said. “I like adventure.” He thought he probably had. He found he did now. If it were not for Kimbra’s safety, he may well have enjoyed this challenge of matching wits.
The Charlton left then, but Robert Howard—the man he was now—knew he had not entirely satisfied his host.
The next day, the Charlton appeared again with a servant carrying a tray with a pitcher of ale and two cups. In the Charlton’s hands were a chessboard and a wooden box containing intricately carved chessmen.
“Do ye play chess?”
God’s tooth, but he wasn’t sure. Yet the board looked familiar enough. Why could he remember things and not remember his name, or his family’s name, or from where he came?
He nodded, wanting the company and the challenge, even as he realized every moment he spent with the man meant risk.
“God bless ye, lad. No one around here is a challenge.” The Charlton put the board down on the table and opened the box. His gout-swollen fingers moved the chessmen rapidly into place, but no more rapidly than Robert Howard did. He knew where every piece went. King. Queen. Rooks. Bishops. Knights. Pawns.
Robert had the white and moved the first pawn. The next move came automatically, and his mind sped several moves ahead, as his opponent took time to consider his.
How did he know how to play? Who had taught him?
In fifteen more moves, he knew he could checkmate the Charlton. He was not sure he should do that.
“Do not humor me,” the Charlton said as if he knew exactly what his opponent was thinking. “I do not like losing, but I like being patronized even less.”
Robert Howard took him at his word. “Checkmate.”
The Charlton looked at the board with amazement, obviously trying to figure out exactly what had happened.
“There is a lot of time between battles,” Robert explained, not sure at all whether his explanation was true or not.
The Charlton’s gaze pierced him. “Ye had little to wager, but ye won, and ye may choose a boon.”
“A book.” A book in English for Kimbra.
By God, he
would
see her again.
“Ye can read then?”
“Aye.”
“How?”
He wished to the devil he knew.
“A priest taught me.”
“Ye are a man of many talents, it appears.”
Robert Howard said nothing.
“So be it. And ye will join us in the hall this night for supper.” The Charlton rose, considered him for a moment, then said softly, “I hope ye do not disappoint me, Howard.”
K
IMBRA stayed away from the tower as long as she could.
She visited Jane and heard that the Howard was still at the tower. Cedric had returned from searching the border for fleeing Scots. The English soldiers were leaving the area. A brief truce had been declared locally, allowing Scots to come and carry off their dead.
Scots.
There would be Scots in the area.
Was
her
Scot aware of that?
Mayhap one would know the crest.
As always, the thought brought mixed emotions. For his sake, she wanted him to find his family. But then he would no longer be her Scot.
“Is naught being said about Mr. Howard?” she asked.
“Oh, Cedric has a great deal to say, especially since the Charlton has invited Howard to sup with him, but he is careful. It appears, according to Jock, that the Charlton has taken a liking to yer guest.”
She probably should be surprised, but she wasn’t. Hadn’t both she and Audra been taken with him? Cedric hadn’t, because he’d sensed a threat to himself and his ambitions. But there was a very real danger to the Scot as long as he stayed at the peel tower, particularly if the Charlton was taking an interest in him.
She had to see him.
She left Jane’s with Audra, and the two of them rode home on Magnus. It was noon, two days after returning from Branxton. She hurriedly gathered some herbs for the Charlton and folded Will’s jack into a bundle.
Would the Charlton recognize it as once belonging to Will?
But so many on the border looked alike.
She would have to take a chance. If the Charlton did recognize it, she would merely say that Robert Howard’s armor had been destroyed beyond repair.
She had just enough time to reach the Charlton tower and return before dark.
Audra was joyful at the possibility of seeing her friend again. She paced restlessly, Bear beside her, until Kimbra lifted her into the saddle.
Kimbra’s heart raced ridiculously as they neared the tower. She feared doing something that might expose him, yet she had to judge for herself how well he was doing.
The first person she saw on entering into the barnekin was Cedric, who was mounting his horse. His eyes undressed her as he rode over to her. “I was on my way to visit ye.”
Bear growled.
“Ye still have that hound?”
“He is my daughter’s dog. No one will touch him.”
He arched an eyebrow, and she knew she would have to watch the dog.
“I wanted to warn ye. The Armstrongs are raiding again now that most of the king’s army has left. Ye should not be alone. Ye should think of yer daughter.”
“I am,” she said sharply.
“Ye best not have interest in the Howard,” he said.
“I have no interest in anyone.”
“There is something wrong with him, and I will prove it to the Charlton.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Ye will,” he said, then added, “I will wait for ye and accompany ye back to the cottage.”
“We need no such assistance.”
“I think the Charlton would want to know ye are safe, Kimbra.”
“I will be a while.”
“All the more reason for a guard. It will be nigh onto dark.”
Better alone in the dark than with him.
A groom came out then and took Magnus’s reins. Kimbra lifted Audra down, then dismounted. She untied the jack from the back of the saddle.
Be indifferent, she told herself.
’Tis only the return of an item. Nothing more.
She was escorted up to Thomas Charlton’s room, while a maid took Audra to the kitchen for a sweet. “Hope ye brought something to soothe him,” said his man. “He be in a foul mood.”
The Charlton was indeed scowling when she reached him. His ankle was stretched out in front of him, swollen and red and obviously painful. “I brought you some more bay leaves. I will brew some if you like.”