The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (27 page)

But she might not have objected to a few tender words afterward. And if she harbored a secret hope that he would remember something so important no matter what, she knew it wasn’t fair.

As soon as Bess had set down the tray and left, Margaret turned to her. “Are you sure you are telling me everything?” She looked furtively at the closed door. “Nothing—”

“Nothing happened,” Joan finished for her. “I told you it went exactly as I planned.” Mostly. “As soon as the sleeping powder took effect, I searched his things and found the missive in his sporran.” She neglected to mention that she was so upset she was halfway down the stairs before realizing she’d forgotten to destroy the seal and had to return to his room. “That’s when I discovered that the seal had already broken off.” Irony, that. Her deception—her seduction—had all been for nothing. “You have nothing to fear. Your secret is safe.”

Margaret studied her face for a long moment, and apparently satisfied, she smiled and heaved a sigh of relief. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear it. You’ve been watching the door so anxiously this morning I thought something had gone wrong.”

Joan tried to return her smile and shook her head. “Nay, everything went perfectly.”

“I’m so glad. I was so worried. I know you and Sir Alex . . .” Her cousin blushed awkwardly. “It couldn’t have been easy for you. Is there any chance—?”

“No,” Joan said, stopping her before she could finish. She couldn’t let herself think like that. She needed to deal with reality.

Margaret held her gaze, perhaps guessing her thoughts. “I don’t know how to thank you. If there is anything I can do?”

Joan shook her head, the gratitude making her uncomfortable. She just wanted to forget it had ever happened.

But how could she when it had been so perfect.

Right. Perfect until she’d drugged him—unintentionally doing exactly what she’d originally planned to do!

“Just promise me you’ll be careful, Margaret. No more sealing missives with special rings.”

Margaret gave a sharp laugh. “You have my word on that.” After a moment, she frowned. “I suspect my days passing messages are at an end for a while anyway. Even before the monk’s capture, I felt . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know, conspicuous maybe?”

Joan leaned forward. “Do you think someone was watching you?”

Margaret shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I suspect it’s because there are so many people around.”

Joan nodded. She’d felt the same. Since she’d arrived at Berwick Castle—which brought back so many bad memories anyway—doing her job had felt more dangerous. For good reason; it
was
more dangerous. As her cousin had said, there were many more people around. There was also Pembroke and Sir Henry increasing the efforts to find the spy.

And then of course there was Alex.

Joan startled as the door crashed open. Her foolish heart lurched, only to drop when Alice came bursting through in an excited flurry of pink satin.

Surprisingly, Sir Henry came following closely behind. Her cousin’s husband rarely made an appearance in their donjon rooms during the day.

She was even more surprised to learn that
she
was the reason for that appearance.

“What do you know about Seton’s sudden departure this morning?”

Joan couldn’t have masked her shock if she wanted to. The color slid from her face. “He’s gone?”

“Aye, he rode out of here this morning on some mission that no one seems to know anything about. He left a message for Pembroke that it was personal, but the earl is furious. He thinks he’s turned traitor again.”

Dear God, was it possible?

Despite a racing pulse, she managed to say evenly, “Has he given any indication that he might do such a thing?”

Sir Henry’s eyes narrowed. “I was hoping you might answer that for me.”

Joan was truly taken aback. “Me?”

“Alice says you’ve been spending time with him. That there is something between you.”

Joan’s gaze slid to her cousin’s before turning back to Sir Henry. “Alice is mistaken, my lord. I have spoken with Sir Alex only a handful of times—and merely in passing. I know nothing of his intentions.” It was painfully true. “Has he given any reason for you to suspect that he might turn traitor again?”

Could she dare hope?

Sir Henry waved the question off. “He’s a Scot,” he said as if that were all the explanation necessary, apparently forgetting that his wife, her sister, and her cousin were as well.

Joan returned her attention to the embroidery in her lap, picking it up once again before saying, “I wish I could be of more help, my lord, but I don’t know anything about where Sir Alex might have gone.”

She was aware of his gaze on her. When he was satisfied that she was not lying, Sir Henry said, “I am glad to hear it. I told Alice there could be nothing of significance between you.” He looked with reproach at his wife. “As your guardian, I am responsible for your wardship and marriage, and Seton is not the right sort of man for you.”

In other words, he wasn’t the weak, ineffectual nobody who would never think to challenge her birthright.

She nodded, keeping her eyes on the piece of half-stitched linen. It was to be a peacock, but all she could see was blue. “I understand, my lord. But marriage is the last thing on my mind.”

It should be the truth.

The next five days were some of the most miserable of Joan’s recent memory. As if Alex’s sudden abandonment wasn’t enough, Alice was suffering from “head-splitting” headaches that were preventing her from sleeping, and she was taking her temper out on Joan, whom her cousin blamed for making her look “foolish” in front of her husband.

Apparently Alice failed to consider that it might be her own constant complaints and dramatic moans of pain that might be keeping her husband away from her bed at night, rather than anything Joan might have done.

In any event, last night had been the first full night of sleep Joan had managed in nearly a week—she refused to think of the first night when she’d gotten no sleep—as she’d finally become fed up with her cousin’s whinging and distemper and given her what was left of the sleeping powder. It was welcome relief. She couldn’t bear to look at the reminder of her perfidy and was glad to be rid of it.

On Friday morning, she woke for the first time to the feel of warmth on her skin and not a high-pitched screech in her ear. The novelty of feeling rested wore off soon, however, as the familiar questions began their daily—hourly—circling in her head.

Where had he gone? Why had he left? Did he intend to return? Did any of it have anything to do with her?

The one thing she knew was that he had not returned to the Bruce fold. She’d managed to get a message to her compatriots, and her answer had arrived yesterday. Seton was not in Scotland.

She hadn’t really believed it possible, but the disappointment had been surprisingly acute.

So where was he? And why, even after nearly a week, did his leaving without saying a word still hurt so badly? He’d been so upset after. Did he despise her? Blame her? Or was he just avoiding her?

Joan didn’t think so. Alex might have betrayed Bruce and the Guard—she knew him well enough to know that he must have had a reason—but he was not a coward.

With Alice still blissfully asleep, Joan crept out of her room and made her way to the Hall to break her fast. Margaret was already seated at one of the trestle tables, and Joan joined her. They spoke of nothing of import—and certainly nothing about their “treasonous” activities—but simply knowing that someone knew the truth was not only relaxing but oddly comforting. Joan wasn’t alone, and for the first time, she realized how much she’d missed having a friend. A
real
friend—one whom she didn’t need to deceive.

They were walking back to the tower to check on Alice (“Must we?” Margaret had groaned) when they heard the guards on the rampart call out excitedly that the king’s banner had been sighted.

The two women shared a look of dread. They knew well what the king’s arrival meant. The war that had largely taken a position in the back during the seven troubled years of Edward II’s reign had finally moved to the forefront. The English king was determined to defeat Bruce, and the definitive battle that the Scots had sought to avoid for years was drawing closer.

Joan and Margaret, joined by what seemed to be most of the castle occupants, raced up to the southern rampart (as the king was traveling from Newminster) to catch a glimpse of what was sure to be a magnificent procession.

They were not disappointed.

“Good God in heaven.” Margaret had uttered the blasphemy under her breath. “Have you ever seen so many carts and banners? It must go on for miles.”

It was not an exaggeration. The train of knights, men-at-arms, and their attendants, along with the carts of provisions, stretched like a long, colorful snake for as far as the eye could see.

“I’ll give him credit,” Joan said in a voice that only her cousin could hear. “Edward might not be half the commander that his father was, but he certainly knows how to look like a great general. Hail, Caesar!”

Margaret laughed. After a moment, her cousin added, “But it is something to see, is it not? All those banners flying in the wind, the colors of the surcoats as brilliant as jewels, and the silver of the mail shimmering in the sunlight . . . it’s like a giant treasure chest.”

It was true. The vast display of wealth, strength, and power was awe-inspiring.

It was also daunting as the realization of what they faced struck: the most powerful army in Christendom against a force of largely pikemen and foot soldiers.

Margaret must have come to the same realization, as she, too, fell silent.

Only when the procession of knights mounted on the fierce warhorses—clad in the same color and mail as their riders—drew close enough to make out the symbols of their arms did Margaret say, “Do you see them?”

Joan shook her head. She’d already been looking. She’d seen the squabbling earls of Gloucester and Hereford, but nowhere did she see the red and gold arms of Lancaster, or the arms for his fellow recalcitrant earls of Warwick, Lincoln, Arundel, and Warenne. “I don’t think they are with him.”

She heaved a huge sigh of relief. If England’s mightiest earl and his cohorts did not answer Edward’s call, Bruce would be facing considerably better odds—better as in horrible, not catastrophic.

“We’d best go down and take our positions,” Margaret said. “I’m sure my sister is already wondering where we are.”

Joan was sure she was right. She was also sure Alice would be furious that Joan wasn’t there to help her pick out her gown this morning.

She was right about that as well. But fortunately, the first of the king’s party rode through the gate, forestalling her scolding.

At times Joan almost envied her cousin. What must it be like to have your only thought be the color of your gown? To have your only worry be whether you looked your best? To have your own desires be all that mattered?

Vanity was simple and uncomplicated in a way that Joan could only imagine. Subterfuge and secrecy had played a part in her life for so long she’d forgotten what it felt like to not be on guard.

As the seemingly endless stream of knights rode through the gate, there were plenty that Joan recognized, including Edward’s seneschal and captain of his household knights, Sir Edmund de Mauley, and one of the most famous knights in Christendom, the man reputed to be second only to Robert the Bruce, Giles d’Argentan. Riding not far behind him was the king himself in his red surcoat emblazoned with the three lions passant in gold.

Tall like his father and blessed with an unusually handsome face, King Edward II certainly looked the part of a king and great knight. But appearances in this case were deceiving. Though reputed to be an excellent sportsman and capable soldier, Edward had yet to live up to the expectation of his kingly robes. He was a weak monarch made weaker by the influence of his favorites.

She was so busy studying the king that she failed to notice the man who rode in behind him. Only the sudden ripple of whispers racing through the crowd and Margaret’s elbow in her ribs alerted her to his presence.

At the sight of the yellow surcoat with the red wyvern, three crescents, and royal double tressure, her breath and heart caught somewhere in her throat.

“Seton is with the king?” she heard Sir Henry exclaim in outrage from a few feet away. “Why did I know nothing of this?”

Joan was curious as well, but the answer would have to wait.

Although perhaps not for long. Alex seemed to be scanning the crowd looking for someone. When his eyes locked on hers, she realized who it was.

The fierce intensity in the dark blue depths caught her in a hold from which she could not turn. Her skin prickled as every one of the tiny hairs on her arms seemed to stick up. Was it alarm, awareness, or a combination of both?

Something was happening . . .

After dismounting, Alex said a few words to the king and headed right for her. Her heart pounded hard in her chest, and she didn’t take a breath for the entire time it took him to close the distance between them—even then it came out shallowly and unevenly.