The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (21 page)

A gallant knight to the end, Alex gave her a short bow of his head before leaving her alone. Just as she’d wanted.

A
LEX WAS ALREADY
leading his horse out of the stable—trying not to think about what had happened there the day before—when Pembroke intercepted him. “You will not be riding out with us today. For the next few days I need you down by the river overseeing the loading of supplies onto the ships.”

He had to be jesting. But it was clear he wasn’t.

Alex gritted his teeth until his jaw hurt. After years of being a soldier, he knew how to follow orders, but that didn’t mean he had to like them. Any more than he liked being rejected out of hand—with barely a pause of consideration, damn it—by the woman he shouldn’t want but did.

So much for not thinking about her.

He’d been almost as surprised by his declaration as she’d been. But he’d known as soon as he said the words that he meant it. She might not be the woman he’d pictured, and God knows it was horrible timing with him riding off to war in a couple of weeks, but nothing had ever felt more right.

Except that she’d refused him. Which didn’t make any sense. He knew she felt something for him, so why was she so determined to have nothing to do with him? He might have pressed her, but when she’d compared what was between them to her past experiences, he’d felt something hot, angry, and primitive burgeoning inside him. Knowing how close he was to acting like the barbarian she seemed to turn him into, he forced himself to walk away. The lass could strip away years of deeply engrained chivalry and honor with a few choice words. But if she thought this—whatever the hell
this
was—wasn’t unusual and was anything like whatever fleeting fancies she’d had before, she was out of her damned mind. And he intended to prove it to her. If she thought he would give up, she was soon to be disappointed.

But maybe not as soon as he’d like with his shite job Pembroke was trying to foist off on him.

“Do you have a problem with that, Seton?” Pembroke asked.

Knowing how to follow orders also didn’t mean Alex did so in silence. God knows he’d questioned half of Boyd’s orders whenever his partner had been put in charge of a mission. But Alex wouldn’t keep his mouth shut when he didn’t agree with something. Pembroke, it seemed, didn’t like it any better than Boyd had.

“Aye. The loading of the ships can be overseen by the captain and his men.” Or any one of a dozen men of lesser rank in Pembroke’s command. “I can serve you and the king better by accompanying you. I know the roads between here and Dunbar better than anyone.”

If they were scouting for places the army could be attacked, there was no one who could help more than Alex. Pembroke knew that. They all knew that. Shouldn’t they be trying to take advantage of his knowledge? Did they want to end the war or not?

Christ, what the hell was he doing here?

At times Alex wondered. The ineptitude was getting to him. Christendom might see the English as the “civilized” side, but clearly civilized didn’t mean sensible or rational.

He was supposed to be doing some good, damn it. Somehow when he’d torn his guts out and betrayed his friends to try to put an end to this bloody war, he hadn’t imagined himself overseeing the loading of the cargo. It was drudge work, plain and simple. It was like having one of your best leaders in charge of digging latrines—a waste. How was any of this going to prevent villages from burning and innocents from being caught in the flames?

“It was the king who suggested you for the job. Despenser said as much when he passed on the king’s instructions.”

Alex cursed angrily. He should have guessed. Lady Joan wasn’t the only one who’d made an enemy of Despenser. Apparently Despenser was throwing some of the blame for his failed affair in Alex’s direction. He’d wager the king hadn’t said a word about who would oversee the loading of the cargo. But whatever Despenser had done last week, it obviously involved a meeting with the king.

“I’m surprised that the king thought it important enough to name someone for the task,” Alex said, not hiding his skepticism.

Whatever else he might be, Pembroke wasn’t a fool. He, too, probably questioned Despenser’s message, but apparently had no intention of challenging the king’s new favorite. “Aye, well, if I were you, I’d settle whatever score you have with Despenser, or I suspect you’ll be attracting a lot of notice with the king.”

Alex didn’t know who angered him more: Despenser, for his underhanded attempt to settle personal grievances using his position with the king, or Pembroke, for going along with it even when it was clearly not the best thing to do to prepare for the battle, that if they were to relieve the garrison at Stirling Castle by midsummer’s day, could only be weeks away.

Over the next few days Alex had a lot of time to think about it—and vent his frustration with the carrying of heavy crates and barrels. He had frustration aplenty. Not only toward the woman who practically ran the other direction when she saw him or Despenser for his juvenile vindictiveness and Pembroke for not taking advantage of his knowledge, but also for his continued exclusion from meetings of Edward’s top commanders—meetings that he should be a part of, and had been a part of, until someone suggested he was the damned spy.

He was no closer to exonerating himself on that count either. He’d confronted Sir Adam about his suspicions yesterday, after the older knight returned from the scouting trip near Dunbar that Alex should have been on.

Sir Adam hadn’t been surprised—or offended. “I would have been suspicious of me as well,” he said. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

Not only did Sir Adam have an explanation for being in the priory—it was where his youngest son had been laid to rest when he’d died of a fever exactly a year before—he also provided Alex with information that made it extremely unlikely that he was the spy.

The night before Sir Adam had returned, a group of soldiers had stopped a monk after a night of revelry in town “to have some fun with him.” Alex’s mouth hardened. In other words, they were harassing him. “The monk seemed to be holding his pouch too tightly and grew agitated when they asked what he was hiding. It turns out he was carrying a missive with the approximate number of troops at both Wark and Berwick, including a breakdown of infantry and cavalry, as well as the names of all the barons who have arrived so far and the size of their retinues. My name was on it, as was yours.” But unlike Alex, Sir Adam had not been to Wark, making it unlikely that he had passed on the information. Sir Adam paused significantly before continuing. “There was also a mention of who had not yet arrived.”

Alex grimaced, knowing Sir Adam was referring to the earls who had not answered—and might not answer—Edward’s call to muster.

“Aye,” Sir Adam said, reading his expression. “I’m sure Bruce would like nothing more than to know that Lancaster and his fellow earls—and their cavalry—will not be joining the campaign. Although if it encourages King Hood to stay and fight and not scurry off into one of his fox holes, I almost hope they do not show.”

Alex hadn’t thought of that, but Sir Adam might be right. One of the reasons Alex had gone over to the English was because raids, skirmishes, and ambushes weren’t getting them anywhere anymore. The pirate warfare, the so-called dirty war that Christendom accused Bruce of fighting, could only take them so far. The righteousness of Bruce’s cause would only be proved one way: by fighting like a knight—in other words, by a pitched battle of army versus army. But that was something Bruce had adamantly refused to do to this point. Would the earls’ absence change his mind? Could Bruce finally be brought from the trees and fox holes of ambuscade to the battlefield?

Alex didn’t think so—Bruce had been adamant on this issue whenever Alex had brought it up—but he supposed if the odds were enough in his favor it was possible. But against such a powerful army, even without the earls, would Bruce ever think the odds in his favor?

“But this is interesting,” Sir Adam added. “The note mentions Despenser’s mission, but that is all. No details are given.”

That was interesting. Whoever it was had probably not been at the meeting last week. That he hadn’t probably only made them suspect him more.

“I assume the monk was questioned further,” Alex said, referring to who might have given him the note.

Sir Adam nodded. “Fortunately, he did not require much encouragement.”

Torture was not uncommon on either side, but Alex didn’t like it. To him it was the very antithesis of chivalry and beneath the dignity and honor of a knight. Torturing a churchman—or woman for that matter—was even worse. The “do whatever it takes” and “ends justify the means” attitude wasn’t reserved just for Scots. The English fought just as dirty, they just hid it beneath fine surcoats with colorful arms.

Right and wrong had always been so clear to him. Did anyone actually believe the vows of knighthood and code of chivalry anymore? Sometimes he wondered whether he was the idealistic relic that Boyd had so often accused him of being. It was not a little disconcerting.

“
Un
fortunately,” Sir Adam continued, “he was unable to provide much information. He claimed to be just a courier. Messages were left for him in the confessional and he picked them up and delivered them to another confessional in Melrose.”

Alex nodded. It was consistent with the practice Bruce had employed a few years ago. The “couriers of the cloth,” as Bruce called the monks and nuns who delivered messages and passed other important intelligence, were an important part of Bruce’s intelligence network.

“So the monk never saw the person who left the message?”

“He claims not.”

“I suppose that would be too much to ask.”

Sir Adam smiled at the wry comment. “Whoever it is, they are careful. They’ve been doing this for a long time and aren’t likely to make a mistake.”

“People always make mistakes.” Alex paused, an idea forming. “Although since we don’t have much time we might have to encourage them into making one.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

“I’m not sure yet. But I’d like to see the note. Who has it?”

“The soldiers brought it to Pembroke. I assume he still has it.”

It didn’t escape Alex’s notice that Pembroke hadn’t told him anything about it even though he was supposed to be searching for the spy.

When Alex confronted him about it later that day, Pembroke wasn’t surprised that Alex had learned about the captured communiqué and didn’t object to Alex studying it. He handed him the folded piece of parchment with the broken wax seal. “It won’t do you any good,” he said. “There are no identifying marks. It’s basically a list.”

The English commander was right—there was nothing personal on the parchment, not even a greeting—but Alex took it anyway. Something bothered him about the handwriting, and he wanted to look at it a little longer.

By Friday, when he was done with his job to oversee the loading of the cargo, he was no closer to figuring out what was bothering him. About the note, that is.

He knew exactly what else was bothering him, and when he saw her walking back from the village—alone, damn it—he decided he’d waited long enough.

Joan didn’t delude herself that the dark, brooding stares she’d been the subject of for the past few days meant that Alex would heed her request. Or that she would be able to avoid him forever. She sensed he did not give up easily.

But he had given up before, hadn’t he? On Bruce and on the Guard. Eventually he would give up on her; she only had to make him see that she didn’t need a knight in shining armor to ride to her rescue.

For that was what this was about. She’d reached that conclusion over the past few largely sleepless nights trying to figure out what had motivated his declaration, and what he saw in her. As far as he knew, she was a dispossessed, illegitimate daughter of a rebel who’d shared the bed of more than a few men—hardly the type of woman a man would be anxious to have for a wife.

But Alex was a natural protector, and he obviously saw her as in need of rescue. His honor wouldn’t permit him to walk away, even if she clearly was not the sweet, innocent lass he surely had thought to find for himself. She suspected his friendship with her mother was also playing a part. Maybe he thought that by “saving” Joan, he was making reparations to her mother.