Diana Cosby (5 page)

Memories of yesterday rushed him.

De Moray’s refusal.

His debacle of a marriage.

His wedding night spent alone.

Rubbing his face, Griffin took in his bedding scattered about. Not from overuse, but as if thrown about while caught up in a dream. A dream?

No, a nightmare.

His marriage was real, not a delusion from which he could awaken. And standing here was not settling the issues of his unwanted wife, his upcoming meeting with de Moray, or that with his secret contact.

A rough snore sounded from the corridor.

The images of the drunken Scots celebrating his sham of a marriage last eve etched his mind. He grimaced. They’d passed out.

A muscle worked in his jaw as he splashed water onto his face and dried his hands. He tossed the rumpled bedding onto the mattress, dressed.

Through the window a somber blanket of clouds smothered the sun, casting ominous hues of purples and grey upon the earth. The somber colors as if an omen foretelling of emptiness, coldness, and death.

Griffin shook off his unease and focused on the men outside the castle as they tended to their horses, sharpened their blades, or practiced with their swords.

The warriors were on edge, and rightly so. They’d received word that the Earl of Surrey was leading thousands of seasoned English troops north. When the Scots stood their ground at Stirling Bridge, many untrained and holding naught but the weapon in their hand, they would face their opponent greatly outnumbered.

Many would claim the rebels faced sure death, a slaughter in the making. Except they underestimated the courage and the heart of the Scots.

Against incredible odds, Griffin had faith, believed de Moray and Wallace would find a way to outmaneuver the English. They knew the land, how to motivate their men, and with de Moray having trained with the Swiss mercenaries, he held the skill to exploit every opportunity and lead the rebels to victory.

The Scots had not asked for war. King Edward’s greed after the Scottish King Alexander III’s death was the catalyst for this upheaval. Now, confident that mere pockets of resistance remained in Scotland, clad within his arrogance, he’d sailed to Flanders and to yet another battle, leaving the Earl of Surrey to cleanse Scotland of the remaining unrest.

Little did the king or his minions understand the Scots’ determination, nor that true credit for such a well-planned uprising against the English belonged to the Bishop Wishart. King Edward embraced suspicions of the bishop’s loyalty but, against the church and without solid evidence, he could bring no charge.

By the time King Edward returned from Flanders, the fate of this day would be long past. Griffin prayed that given the size of the English force, the planned strategies that he’d pass to de Moray would give the rebels an edge.

God help Scotland if the rebels, standing their ground against the English at Stirling Bridge, failed.

With a heavy heart, he strode to the door. A slight scrape sounded as he removed the wooden bar and edged it open.

Soft snores mixed amongst an errant guttural grunt echoed from the corridor.

Had he expected any man able to crawl to his feet this early after their drink-fed night? With a grimace, he set the bolt aside, opened the door wider.

A man slumped half inside, his red beard laden with an indefinable nasty glaze. With a mutter, he shifted, grumbled, and then let loose a hearty snore.

Griffin shook his head in disgust. The entry and the corridor were littered with casualties of too much drink, some with their bodies contorted into awkward angles, while others lay sprawled with their mouths oozing drool. At least someone had enjoyed the last few hours. He shook his head. Given the reason for their celebration, he would have chosen to spend the night on this side of the door as well.

And belaboring the point changed naught.

With careful steps, Griffin picked his way through the casualties reeking with soured ale and odors he’d rather not identify, thankful when he reached the turret.

He started down the curved steps. With each, the murmur of voices in the great hall increased along with the scent of fresh-baked bread and roasting meat.

A deep hearty laugh sounded near the exit. “Did you see the baron’s face when the lass accused him of leaving her as well as carrying his babe?”

Three paces from the bottom step, Griffin halted. Blood pounding, he waited, willed the man to reveal the name of the woman he’d married.

“Stunned he was,” a second man agreed. “And rightly so. I doubt before yesterday past, the lass ever laid eyes on Lord Monceaux.”

Hands curled into fists, Griffin fought the surge of anger. These two Scots knew she’d lied? Knew yesterday he’d never set eyes on the woman before? A sinking in his gut assured him that more than these two men knew the truth—likely everyone in the chamber.

Anger pumped through his veins, a raw, scorching slide that burned through his hard-won calm. His body trembled with the urge to confront the men, to demand why they’d allowed this farce of a marriage.

No, if asked, neither would tell him.

They knew not that he was
Wulfe
, the English noble who worked in secret to aid the rebels. To them he was King Edward’s man, the enemy, which again raised the question of why no one had halted his marriage. However frustrating the situation, he must tread with care. Something was greatly amiss for the powerful men at the meeting yesterday to have allowed such an ill-fated event.

“Lady Rois has made a muck of it this time,” the first man said, his burr deep.

“Lady Rois,” he breathed, savoring the rush of victory in learning this critical fact. He frowned. His secret contact had a daughter named Rois, but never would he have allowed her such foolery. For years he’d met with Lord Brom, who was a man with a clear mind and a firm hand. Though he’d never met his daughter, no doubt she was as rational and clear-sighted as Angus. Besides, Rois was a name common enough. That she was of nobility would make her easy to find.

His mood lighter, Griffin dismissed the name befitting the feisty woman, a woman who if he allowed would linger in his mind. Now, to learn her surname and clan, then he would track her down.

“Do you think her father will save her this time?” the second Scot asked.

“’Tis dealings with the church he will have to do,” the first Scot replied. “But, he is an influential lord with many a connection. And aye, methinks he will save the willful lass.”

Willful? Griffin scoffed. The woman didn’t need to be saved, but held accountable. Not that he would be landed with that task of teaching her responsibility. Her father could keep it. ’Twas a motley-minded fool that allowed his daughter free rein, and according to the warriors’ account, a foolish path she often trod.

Neither did the men’s confirmation her father was powerful yield surprise—since Rois had been allowed entry into yesterday’s war meeting.

Where had her father been yesterday? Not in the chamber to witness his daughter handfasted to his enemy. Even a lackwit would have stepped forward and halted the insane event. Or would he? Unease churned in his gut. With the woman a handful, had he remained silent out of relief at having found someone on whom to foist the responsibility for his daughter?

But who was her father? To end this unwanted union, they would have to meet. And, unless the man was known to him, it would be far from a pleasant affair. As if any occasion since his catastrophe of a meeting with Rois could be deemed affable.

Guilt edged through him. Yes, it could. Last eve he’d found pleasure in her body, her taste, and in the way she’d responded to his touch.

A virgin.

With the way she’d responded to his caresses, he’d assumed she’d had lovers before. A foolish assumption. Except, caught off guard and his body burning hot, he’d followed his instincts.

Instincts? No, desires. He had wanted her every alluring inch. Griffin muttered a curse. And when was the last time he gave in to lust? Not since he was a lad often and six.

“Aye, but did you see the baron’s face when she agreed?” the first man said, breaking into Griffin’s musings. “I wonder what the Sassenach would have thought if he had known that everyone in the chamber had suspicions he had nae seen Rois before?”

Laughter, hearty and whole, rang out. “Aye, furious he would be.”

Furious?
No, furious was too kind a word. The entire time he’d stood surrounded by the Scots, held beneath the warriors’ threatening glares, they’d believed the woman had never seen him before. And when she’d spoken of carrying his babe, they’d thought that a mistruth as well.

Yet, all had remained silent.

Amused at his quandary.

Entertained as they’d witnessed a hated Englishman make a complete arse of himself by his offer of marriage to a stranger. Not one blasted man had stepped forward and halted her foolery.

Which returned him to the question of
why
?

Had his offer left them stunned? Had each man believed that however impetuous in the past, Lady Rois would never agree to this lunacy?

Regardless, ’twas too late to change the outcome. From the men’s discussion, her father was a man who held connections with the church, and could intervene to end this marriage. Nor would he be learning the noble’s name standing here. On a deep exhale, Griffin took the last few steps and entered the great room.

The gazes of the men inside riveted on him. The chamber grew silent. Tension hung in the air, thick and potent like a storm brewing.

“Is Lady Rois abed?” a nearby Scot with his claymore secured at his back asked.

Laughter sprinkled about.

Jaw tight, Griffin met his gaze. Did they know he’d slept alone on his wedding night as well? God’s teeth, at this point, he’d believe anything.

“Lord Monceaux,” Andrew de Moray called.

At his friend’s voice from the front of the great room, relief swept Griffin.

De Moray motioned to an empty chair at his side. “Sit beside me as we break our fast.”

Aye, but he needed a friendly face. Well aware of the distrustful glances of many of the surrounding warriors, he wove his way through the rough mix. As he neared the dais he caught a glint of humor in de Moray and Wallace’s eyes. Unease sliced through Griffin. His friends could not approve of this abominable situation. So why had neither intervened at the woman’s ridiculous challenge?

Once seated, a platter of meat, porridge, and bread was placed before him. A serving woman filled his nearby goblet. “My thanks.” Griffin waited until the woman had left, then he met the gaze of his friend, thankful they were seated out of earshot from the hostile crowd. “Blast it, one would think I had three eyes and four ears.”

De Moray chuckled.

Griffin shot him a hard look. “’Tis far from a laughing matter.”

“’Tis but a touch of levity as we prepare for battle.”

Aye, the days ahead weighed heavy in Scotland’s bid for freedom. Griffin took a drink of wine, set the goblet down. “If I had not wedded the lass, I would share your humor.”

His friend’s smile widened. “I think you and Rois will make a fine pair.”

Griffin choked as he tried to swallow the wine. Coughing, he worked the chunk of bread down. “Fine pair? You both knew I had never seen the woman before.” He pressed his hands on the table, a wedge of anger slipping past. “Why did neither of you stop her?”

His friend wiped his hands and tossed the towel aside. “’Twas nae my place.”

“Nor mine,” Wallace added.

“Not your place?” Griffin asked, sarcasm dripping from his each word. “And whose was it then?”

“The lass’s father,” Wallace replied.

Griffin sat back in disbelief. “Her father was in the room?”

With a nod, de Moray chewed his bread leisurely as if they were discussing a mundane topic such as the weather of the day.

“Then why,” Griffin said, struggling to accept the shocking news, “did
he
not stop her?”

“’Tis a question you need to be asking him.” De Moray lifted his goblet in a mock toast. “With his silence, I am thinking he approved the match.”

Griffin’s mind rolled through the faces within the great room. “I know but a few Scottish lords with a daughter in the chamber. More so, none who would have allowed such misbehavior from their daughter.”

“’Twould seem,” Wallace said, “you didna see the lord who sat at the front of the chamber. He mentioned late last eve when we spoke that you were to meet with him this day.”

It couldn’t be. Throat dry, Griffin worked to accept what de Moray had revealed. “Angus Drummond, Earl of Brom, is Rois’s father?”

A lopsided smile grew on de Moray’s mouth. “Aye.”

“He said nothing,” Griffin rasped, needing to say the words, to find a token of sanity in this chaos. “Lord Brom must have heard when his daughter accused me of taking liberties—of getting her with child.”

“Aye,” de Moray replied, “which is what leads me to believe he approved of the match.”

“God’s teeth.” Griffin picked up his wine, drained it. He’d married Angus Drummond’s daughter! Sweat clung to his brow. Thank God King Edward was in Flanders. It would be weeks, mayhap months, before news reached him of Lord Brom, one of the king’s most trusted Scots, renouncing his oath and having sworn his fealty to Scotland. Or, of Griffin’s marriage to a traitor’s daughter.

De Moray arched a brow. “You are fine with the marriage then?” He took a long drink of his wine. “Happy I am to hear it. She is my cousin, and well I expect you to treat her.”

Rois was de Moray’s cousin?
Griffin managed not to spew the wine. Fingers trembling, he set the goblet on the table. Should he be shocked by the latest twist in this mire of events? Another reason no one had halted their marriage. With her father and de Moray in the chamber, none would question their judgment, nor allow their own anger at the handfasting to interfere.

“Griffin?” de Moray asked.

“I must speak with Angus immediately,” Griffin replied.

Wallace laughed. “One would be thinking you would still be abed with your wife.”

If Wallace or de Moray knew that his wife had escaped, never would he live it down. “There is much to do before I return to England.”

De Moray sobered. “Aye.”

Relieved the topic of Rois was set aside, Griff in turned his thoughts to a more serious matter. “Sir Andrew, when King Edward learns you refused his offer to replace your father in the tower, he will be furious.”

“Aye.” De Moray’s eyes narrowed. “Dimwitted he is if he believes me foolish enough to walk into the Tower of London. He thinks to lure me by sending his seal upon a letter for my safe passage and my father’s plea.” He grunted. “King Edward cares little about my father supporting him in battle.”

“Indeed,” Griffin agreed. “He has received word of your success in sweeping through the Highlands, and now moving troops south. He wants you stopped.”

De Moray wadded the cloth before him, tossed it aside. “He can rot in Hades.”

“An opinion I share.” Griffin held de Moray’s gaze. “But eventually he will learn of your refusal to replace your father.”

“And because of it, my father will remain in the Tower of London.” De Moray rubbed his face, shadows haunting every crease. “I very likely have sentenced my father to his death.”

“No,” Griffin said, his words firm. “Any guilt lies upon King Edward. Since his wife’s death, he cares not who suffers due to his decisions, or who he kills.”

“Aye,” Wallace agreed. “All the bastard cares about is power, to claim yet another country.”

His lips a thin line, de Moray thrummed his fingers upon the goblet. “Even if I had agreed, think you he would have nae ensured an accident during battle to guarantee my father’s death? Or, ensured that I never would be allowed to leave the tower alive?”

Griffin nodded. “With each passing year King Edward grows colder, and if possible, angrier.”

“More so,” Wallace agreed, “as his son is far from the heir he wishes to pass the crown.”

King Edward’s rants on his son’s incompetence echoed in Griffin’s mind. “Edward II will never be the leader his father is.”

De Moray’s eyes met Griffin’s. “But King Edward’s mood or his son’s affairs are nae our immediate concern. That would be Stirling Bridge.”

Griffin nodded. “Aye. The reason I have come.”

De Moray stiffened. “You have more information?”

“I have.”

Wallace nodded, rose. “Come, let us talk in private.”

In silence, Griffin followed the men, aware that once they’d finished, he would face another tense meeting, that with Lord Brom.

 

Rois stepped into the solar and paused. Her father sat upon his carved stool near the hearth inspecting his sword before securing it within its sheath. Images of him over the years as he’d greeted her each morning swamped her, his smile, the twinkle in his eyes, his warm laugh.

This morning he prepared for war.

She swallowed hard, fought the swarm of emotions as she closed the door. “When do you leave?”

At the roughness of her words, he looked up, the frown furrowed in his brow exposing his worry.

Tears burning her eyes, she remained by the entry. If she went to him now, hugged him, she would break down. He needed her strong. That she would give him.

Her father set his weapon aside. “On the morrow.”

Fear rippled through her. “I thought ’twould be a few days yet.”

“Things have changed.”

She clenched her hands at her sides. “I shall keep you in my prayers.”

Tenderness cut through the worry upon his weathered face. He walked over. “As I you.” He hesitated. “If I do nae return—”

“You will.”

“Lass. There are no guarantees in battle, more so when reports are that King Edward has sent north the Earl of Surrey, who leads thousands of troops.”

She started to speak, but he interrupted, “Nay. You will hear me out.”

Fear wound through her with a numbing coil. Hear him out?

“It is time you have a man to protect you, one who will be there if for some reason I do nae return.”

Her heart slammed in her chest. “Da—”

“’Tis nae the time to allow emotions to guide us, Rois. Our choices must be made through wisdom, and through the necessity of reality.”