The Firebrand (39 page)

“Lady Celia?” Adrianne asked, as she gratefully accepted the dress from the older woman and carried it to the bed. She looked steadily at Bridget. “Where am I, if I might ask? And who is Lady Celia?”

“Why, Lady Celia Campbell! You are at Dumbarton Castle, mistress. This castle belongs to the earl of Argyll, Lord Colin Campbell. Of course, Kildalton Castle is the place where the family spends most of their time.” Bridget moved across the chamber to the open window. “’Twas very fortunate that the earl and his wife were here when you arrived. That’s the River Clyde down below.”

“Near Glasgow?”

“Aye, mistress. Not even a couple of hours away, with a good small boat and a favoring breeze.”

As the woman closed the shutter, Adrianne quickly donned the clothes and stared at her visitor. She had heard so much about the powerful Colin Campbell and his influence in Scottish politics. She had also heard so many stories about his courageous wife—the woman warrior who had saved the life of the infant King Jamie in the aftermath of the fatal battle at Flodden Field.

But how had she ended up so close to Glasgow?

“Was I brought here by my husband?”

“Aye, mistress.”

“But I thought...I thought the MacLeans and Campbells are not on the best of terms.”

Bridget averted her eyes. “All I know, mistress, is that there are some things that can bind even the fiercest of enemies.”

“Do you know where my husband has gone?”

“Gone?” The older woman went to the chest and withdrew a shawl of Campbell plaid for Adrianne. “Why, he’s still here, mistress. Lord Colin and Lady Celia have been receiving a number of other visitors for the past week.”

These were the best words that she’d heard the woman utter yet. So, Wyntoun had not been so angry that he’d left her behind. She excitedly pulled on the hose and the soft leather shoes. She had to see him. She had to explain everything. Finding her on board the ship the way he had…there must have been so much confusion.

Master Coll! Her heart sank. The poor old sailor must have taken the brunt of Wyntoun’s anger.

The words she must say all jumbled in Adrianne’s mind as Bridget calmly laced up the back of the dress. Adrianne knew she herself was completely to blame. Aye, completely to blame for loving him too much. She had to see him. She had to explain.

Wrestling her hair into some semblance of order was a challenge. Again, however, the older woman came to her aid, forcing Adrianne to sit while she braided her hair.

“Lady Celia is anxious to meet you in the Great Hall when you are ready. Since arriving from Kildalton Castle, she’s been quite busy, but I know that she expressly asked for you…”

Bridget continued to speak as she worked, but Adrianne’s mind was reeling with all that she had to explain to her husband. He
had
to be angry with her. In stowing away on his ship, she had all but slapped him in the face and said that she didn’t trust him. Indeed, in going along, she’d betrayed his trust.

As the old woman tucked the last strands in place, Adrianne was out of the chair and moving toward the door with a murmur of appreciation. Adrianne paused at the open door just long enough to glance back at the amused Bridget.

“But which way do I go?”

“The levels are a wee bit skimble-skamble at Dumbarton, due to the rock we sit upon. But you’ll find only one flight of stairs going that way. ‘Twill take you down to the first floor. Keep to your right, and you’ll be in the Great Hall before you know it.”

“I cannot thank you enough,” Adrianne replied with a quick smile.

“And pay no mind to the dogs. They’re old but frien…”

The rest of Bridget’s words were lost as the young woman ran down the narrow corridor.

The castle appeared much older than Duart Castle, but from the smell of mortar and whitewash in the air, Adrianne had a feeling the old keep was undergoing repairs. At the top of the stairwell, she almost ran into a surprised serving boy, about Gillie’s age, loaded down with an armful of peat. A black dog trailed after him.

“Good day, mistress!” The lad peered at her over a freckled nose.

“Good day to you, too.” Adrianne smiled, pressing against the wall so the young fellow could get past her.

“Can I help you with anything, mistress?”

Adrianne thought for a moment and then she nodded.

“As a matter of fact, you can. I am in search of my husband, Sir Wyntoun MacLean. Would he be in the Great Hall?”

“Nay, I’ve just come through there, mistress.” The lad adamantly shook his head. “He and Lord Colin and all the other men are still gathered in the armory in the White Tower.”

“And where is the armory in the White Tower?”

“At the bottom of these steps, you’ll find a door out into the courtyard. If you follow the wall and walk up the hill a wee bit, you’ll see the tower straight on.”

Adrianne frowned, thinking aloud. “If there are others there, then perhaps ‘twould be best if I wait in the Great Hall.”

The serving lad chirped in. “They’ve been at it since mid-morning, mistress, with nary a thing to eat. I’d say by the time you got up there, they could well be out and about.”

Adrianne had to speak with her husband in private. She had to convince him—nay, force him to understand that she hadn’t meant any disloyalty. And perhaps waiting outside—until those men were finished with their meeting—was the answer. She could talk to him there, once the others had all returned to the Great Hall.

She thanked the freckled serving boy and headed down the stairs and out the door of the keep.

The air was crisp, the day bright beneath the afternoon sun. On the far side of the courtyard, a number of sail-like tarps had been hung on wood frames like market stalls, and dozens of warriors milled about three or four cookfires. None looked her way, though, as she followed the wall.

In a few moments Adrianne spotted the tower up the steep hill, though it was hardly white. The stone was the same brownish gray as the rest of the castle, but it was the only tower in sight. There were no signs of anyone leaving the building, and no one stood guard at the base, so Adrianne climbed the hill, hesitating a short distance from the oak door that led into the tower.

The wind was gusting intermittently, and she could feel it cruelly through the wool dress. Even with the shawl wrapped around her, Adrianne was starting to feel a little weak from the exertion of her walk, and the cold was not helping. Running her hands up and down her arms, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

She couldn’t let herself get sick and come down with a fever. This was certainly trouble that she didn’t need to add to her husband’s worries.

She stared at the door of the tower for a moment more and then strode directly to it. Pushing it open, she peeked into the dim entry level of the building. There was no one inside, so—building her courage—Adrianne slipped in, closing the door on a blast of icy wind.

Up a narrow stairway that followed the line of the wall, she could hear the sound of muffled voices. The words were not quite intelligible, but the tones were clear as they alternated between excited and calm, agitated and reasonable. And then she heard Wyntoun’s voice.

Climbing the stairs, Adrianne found herself on a landing outside a stout door of studded and iron-bound oak. No sounds came from the chamber, and she looked up the stairs toward the next level. The oak door in front of her was closed, but the air was warmer here. She gnawed her lip, undecided whether to wait in the warmer chamber or just stay where she was on the landing.

Suddenly, the discussion began again, with a number of men trying to be heard over the others.

Borders…Henry...Percy...

Her family name was one of the words being tossed about, but the gist of the discussion was unclear. And then one deep voice rose above the others.

“We cannot let you go about this alone, Henry.”

There was some rumbling and a smattering of “aye’s” among the group.

“Nichola might have left willingly.”

Adrianne found herself flush against the door, her hands on the latch.

“She would
not
have. Not after our marriage.”

“But she had been taken as a prisoner. Betrayed by those whom she trusted.”

“She would not have gone with that monk of her own free will. She was taken, I tell you!”

Before she knew it, Adrianne was standing inside the chamber. A brawny knight wearing a chain shirt turned with a look of surprise, considered for the briefest of moments, and then stood aside for her to enter. A smell of incense hung in the air. Knights and warriors and priests alike stood and stared at her for a long moment of silence. On the wall, above a storage rack of halberds and spears and swords, a large cross had been hung. Upon it, a blue veil fringed with gold had been draped with obvious care.

Her gaze lingered on the veil, a memory stirring in her brain. A feeling of familiarity tugged at her consciousness…a feeling of trust. She turned her focus on the faces of the men in the chamber.

“I heard you mention Nichola Percy.” She couldn’t stop the strange quiver in her voice. Her knees felt suddenly weak. She took a step forward and spoke more forcefully. “If you have news of my mother, I need to know it.”

Silence was the only reply she received. As she looked from face to war-scarred face, coldness and sometimes disdain were all she could read there.

“The information that my sisters and I received was that she was already imprisoned in England, but now I am hearing something quite different...”

The words withered in her throat. Never in her entire life had Adrianne felt more like an intruder than now. Never had she felt more unwelcome—more disliked—even in the company of the abbess on Barra. And yet, these were men who so much reminded her of Edmund Percy, her father. Her gaze fell on the cross again.

Ah…that was it! Women were forbidden here! Adrianne didn’t know how she knew it, but words of admonishment from her childhood rattled in her head.

“She has every right to know.”

The voice, strong and confident, spoke from somewhere to her right. Wyntoun! Adrianne took a deep breath and fought back the tears of relief that were pooling in her eyes. A murmur of surprise rippled through the throng.

“Adrianne and her sisters are the ones who have suffered the most. They
must
be told.”

She didn’t realize that she was trembling until she felt Wyntoun’s warm and steady arm encircle her waist. She felt him beside her, but she didn’t dare look up with the fear of losing what was left of her composure.

“Haven’t these Percy women done enough damage?” Adrianne’s attention was drawn to the hostility in the words and the tone of a gray-robed priest standing near the cross.

“‘Tis hardly fair to blame them for their misfortunes, Sir Peter.” She knew this voice. The same man who had been speaking Nichola’s name earlier. A very familiar voice. She didn’t dare, though, to turn and put a face to the man. “There has been no damage done that we know of. And if there is blame to be allotted, then let it be spread here, among us. Aye,
we
—the Knights of the Veil—must bear the blame for not taking better care of our brother’s kin after his death at the hands of Henry Tudor!”

A rumble of dissension among the group followed his heated words. Like a statue, Adrianne remained where she was. It was a miracle that she could manage to draw a breath.

“Take the woman out of this pious assembly,” one of the older knights called out. “We can send a message to her with whatever information we deem appropriate.”

“Out with the woman!” another shouted.

“The daughter does not belong here.”

“She intrudes on holy work!”

“She stays!” Wyntoun’s sharp words silenced the chamber. Adrianne closed her eyes for an instant to fight away the tears. Her fingers entwined with his at her side. “‘Tis her family that we have been discussing. ‘Tis the very life of her mother that we speak of now.”

“This breaks with all tradition,” chided the priest who had been called Sir Peter. “As a woman, she does not deserve to be given leave to speak before the Knights of the Veil.”

“My wife
is
deserving! Adrianne Percy
deserves
to be standing here with any one of you.” A quiet fury laced Wyntoun’s words. “She is worthy of standing here
instead
of some of you.”

She glanced up to see Wyntoun’s piercing green eyes sweep the chamber.

“She is a woman, true. But she is a warrior at heart. She is a fighter as well as a healer, a guardian of good as her father before her proved himself to be.” As a murmur went around the room, Wyntoun’s words gentled, his gaze resting on individual faces. “We should all be as indifferent to our needs as this woman has proved to be. She is brave, self-sacrificing, and as true to our cause as we each strive to be.”

Adrianne felt a renewed sense of life and energy seep into her as she listened to Wyntoun’s words. She felt his strength pour into her as she continued to hold his hand tightly at her side.

“There was another woman, once, who lived her life to those same standards.” She saw her husband’s eyes focus on the cross and the blue veil. “I appeal to the Knights of the Veil to allow Adrianne Percy MacLean to stay.”

A loud murmur rippled across the chamber.

“I second that appeal.” This time Adrianne turned to look at the knight who had spoken before on behalf of her mother and her family. She couldn’t hide her joy at seeing Sir Henry Exton push through the group and come to stand beside her.

“I also support the appeal,” a deep voice called out from somewhere among the assembly. Adrianne watched as an older, powerfully built Highlander pushed away from an outside wall and made his way toward them. From the elaborate brooch at his shoulder to the confidence in his step, she had a feeling that her latest ally must be Lord Colin Campbell, the earl of Argyll.

As strong as the surge to reject her had been earlier, the swelling current of acceptance was even more forceful—more potent. The faces became a teary blur as the men called out in her support. Adrianne knew, though, that this time was not one for a show of emotions or even for a display of gratitude. This was the time to show the strength that her husband so had eloquently credited her with.