Authors: Juliana Garnett
The men she had seen earlier were seated in places of honor at the high table. For the most part they were older men, with the cares of their years marking their faces. A few of the names she gleaned were known to her: Sir Robert Boyd, Sir Neil Campbell, and David Barclay—close adherents of Robert Bruce. The others she did not recognize, and one man’s name was not mentioned.
Laughing easily with Robbie, he stood apart from the others, and it was his unusual appearance that caught her eye. Black hair framed a face of naturally pale hue, and he wore a dark green and blue plaid that made his skin look even paler. His eyes were intense and bright, his movements quick.
When he glanced up suddenly, he caught her gaze and grinned, his mobile features taking on a mischievous expression. She found herself smiling back at him, taken with his boyish charm. Perhaps not all the Scots were dour, cheerless men.
Alex took a seat beside her, and noticed the small play. Stretching out his long legs in front of him, he indicated the Scot with a nod of his head. “You have not been introduced to all our guests, milady.”
“No, I have not, though I recognize some of the names in passing.”
Alex laughed softly. “I imagine you do. They are well known to those who fear justice. Sir Robert Boyd, for instance, a more doughty warrior you will not find in England or Scotland. ’Tis said that the Bruce depends as much upon his strong arm as his quick wit.”
The man in question looked up with a smile. “You are too kind, Fraser,” he replied in the same English used by his host. “Do you expect compliments in return?”
“Yea, if you can put down your cup long enough to voice them.”
Sir Robert laughed, and lifted his cup. “In tribute to a worthy warrior and stout heart—who has shared his ale and meat with our empty bellies. May God smile on our cause and our king.”
This was met with raised cups and a rousing cheer from the assemblage in the hall, and Catherine lifted her own cup but did not drink. She felt the gazes on her, but stubbornly refused to relent.
Alex leaned closer to her. “Can you not drink the health of those who will be the victors, milady?”
“I beg pardon for my error. I thought we were drinking the health of Robert Bruce, not King Edward.”
He only laughed, but when she glanced up again, she felt the steady gaze of the tall, dark-haired Scot resting on her thoughtfully. He was the only man not seated; he still stood by the fire, one foot resting on a low bench.
When he saw her watching him, he held his cup high. “If you will not drink to Robert Bruce, milady,” he said in a lisping burr, “then drink instead to the Black Douglas.”
“I will not.” Her fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet. “’Tis said that he is the devil, even more so than Robert Bruce.”
Laughter greeted her remark, and beside her, Alex
said wryly, “Perhaps I should introduce you to our feckless friend, milady.”
An awful suspicion ignited as Alex continued, “May I present Sir James Douglas, late of Castle Douglas, now lord of the realm—or destroyer of it, depending upon which view you believe.”
A slight chill trickled down Catherine’s spine, and she could not help another glance at the young man grinning at her so wickedly. This was the Black Douglas? The man who was said to hold most of northern England in terror just with the invocation of his name? And she had heard that very name whispered by nurses to frighten their young charges into good behavior. She shivered now with remembered tales of his daring exploits that had taken so many good Englishmen from this life, and yet she found it near impossible to believe that this boyish young man with the slight lisp could be the same.…
He swept her a courtly bow. “I am most privileged to meet the Earl of Warfield’s daughter. Are you enjoying your visit to Castle Rock, milady?”
It was such an innocuous question, asked with such placid expectation, that she found herself smiling. “More than you would enjoy your visit to Warfield, Sir James.”
He grinned. “I have no doubt of that. Though once I did chance to meet your father. I do not think he liked me very much.”
“An understatement, I am certain.”
“Doubtless. It was an awkward time for us both, as he was wroth over the mislaying of his kine … a wee failing of mine, that I oft forget to consult the owner before I move his beasties about.”
Robbie MacLeod laughed softly. “Aye, yer reiving and spreaghs ha’ led tae some merry fighting at times, I ken.”
Unabashed, James Douglas shrugged. “’Tis usually the way of it. If good fortune is with me.”
Catherine stared at him in dismay. This young man with the open face and wicked eyes was not at all like the fiend she had always envisioned. Had he really committed such dark deeds?
She leaned forward, holding his gaze. “Sir James, I must ask you if ’tis true that you razed your own castle to the ground to spite the king.”
A reckless light danced in his eyes. “Yea, milady. I did it to tweak Edward’s nose. And to spare more English lives from being lost in trying to hold what is mine. Though I admit that I tire more from the inconvenience of killing such poor soldiers than the joy of doing it.”
The cadence of his words softened the content, and she sat back again. She should be horrified and repulsed, yet somehow she was not. It was true then. This young man who was feared over the breadth and width of England and part of Scotland was no monster, no mythical warrior with powers of darkness, but a youngish, ordinary man—if it was possible to call a man ordinary who had managed the feats of war he had achieved.
And all she could think of in response was a soft “Why?”
“Why?” James Douglas shrugged again, a brief lift of his broad shoulders, a casual gesture. “Because I wouldst rather my ancestral home be naught but a pile of stones than a harbor for another night for ignorant men who seek to destroy that which they do not understand.”
“What is there to understand? We are at war. You follow Robert Bruce’s lead, while Edward rightfully demands your loyalty. It seems a simple enough position.”
“Nothing is ever as simple as it seems.” His lisping words had grown soft, but rather than seeming gentle, he now had the air of a predator poised to strike. “There is an old parable that explains it best, I think. Shall I tell it to you, milady?”
She shifted uneasily, aware of Alex’s tension beside her, but after a moment, nodded. “Yea, if you will.”
Douglas took a sip of his ale, eyeing her over the rim of the goblet for a long moment, then nodded. “Once, a fisherman built a small hut next to the river to keep watch on his nets. He had a bed, a fire, and a single door. It happened that one night when he left to check his nets, he was gone a long time. When he returned, he saw by the light of the fire that a fox had invaded his hut and was devouring a salmon. Stepping into the doorway, he drew his sword and cried, ‘Traitor, thou must die!’
“Brother fox, fearful, saw that he was hemmed in by walls on every side. The only way out was through the door, but ’twas blocked by the man. Yet close by on the bed lay a woolen cloak. The fox seized it in his teeth and pulled it over the fire. When the fisherman saw his cloak burning he hurried to save it, so that the clever fox sprang through the door and escaped.”
Douglas paused, his eyes riveted on her face as he added softly, “The Scots are the fox and the English the fisherman, and we shall escape as cleverly as did the fox in my tale, milady.”
Silence hung heavily in the hall, broken only by the popping of burning logs in the fire and the sputtering of torches on the walls. Captivated as much by Douglas’s intensity as his trenchant tale, she barely felt Alex shift beside her.
“As always, Sir James, you have commanded the rapt attention of the assemblage.” There was a sharp edge to Alex’s tone that penetrated Catherine’s fascination with James Douglas, and she turned slightly to look at him in surprise. His mouth was slanted in a smile that looked all wrong as he regarded Douglas. “Pray, tell us the latest news of Edward’s doings. Has he yet yielded up his foolish notion of relieving Stirling Castle?”
A brief pause, then Douglas shook his head, a sly grin squaring his mouth. “Nay, if anything, he is obsessively pursuing that end. All this last spring and summer, Prince Louis of France sought to achieve harmony between Edward and his barons, but Edward would not forgive Lancaster for his part in Piers Gaveston’s death until his queen prevailed upon him to listen to her brother Louis. Last month Edward relented and accepted a humble apology from Lancaster and his followers for daring to slay his favorite. Now, think they that the odds are in their favor, for ’tis true that they number more than do we.” A shrug expressed his disdain for that fact. “Since we are committed to do battle in June, we must whittle away the English hold on our lands to lessen their advantage. And,” he added with a gleam in his eyes, “I have a plan to effect just that end.”
“Ah, I have no doubt of that.” Alex’s words held an undertone of satisfaction. “Mayhap we can discuss this plan at our leisure after dinner.”
“’Twas my hope, Sir Alex.” Douglas swept a gallant bow in Catherine’s direction, then he moved to a table to allow a squire to offer a ewer of scented water and a cloth to wash his hands.
Catherine watched him go with a sense of relief. James Douglas was fascinating, but she found him fascinating in the same way a viper was—threatening and lethal, and much too frightening to endure for long. Alex Fraser was dangerous, but there was a difference, a more controlled menace to him than that which emanated from just beneath the charming surface of the Black Douglas. Sir James would surely be more reckless, would risk too much, and if he failed, would lose all. To her mind, such danger was too engulfing to bear.
She looked down at her still full goblet, frowning. Why had she been invited to the hall? Was there some hidden
motive behind Alex Fraser’s courtesy? Her head throbbed with anxiety and confusion, and she barely looked up when a dish was placed before her. Pottage filled carved pewter bowls, and white bread and cheese garnished large wooden platters in the middle of the table. Roast meat lent a heady aroma to the array of victuals prepared for the guests.
“Are you not hungry, milady, or have you lost the dirk you were lent?”
Alex’s soft query lifted her head and summoned a faint smile from her. “I yet have the dagger, sir. You said it was precious to you, and as I do not have a belt to wear it and did not want to chance its loss, it is in my chamber.”
“Your sense of obligation is impressive.”
There was an edge of scorn to his words that sharply brought her attention to him. “You mock me, sir.”
His eyes rested on her face a moment, smoky with some emotion she could not fathom, then he looked away. “Nay. I mock myself, I think.” Before she could ask what he meant by that cryptic remark, his gaze turned back to her, eyes half-hidden by his thick lashes. “What think you of Sir James Douglas, my lady?”
“His reputation is fearsome.” She frowned slightly at his intense regard. “Is that what you mean, sir?”
“All have heard of the dangerous exploits of the Black Douglas. Yet despite his reputation, ’tis said that many women find him attractive.”
She considered that, then nodded. “Yea, I can easily understand that.”
“Can you? Do you find him attractive as well, milady?”
“Undeniably. But in the same way a sword is attractive, I think. Beautifully formed, yet dangerous and cruel.”
His eyes rested on her for a long moment, but she
could read nothing in his expression. There was a strange tension between them that had not been there a few moments before, a wary regard in his attention that bewildered her. A tiny shiver trickled down her spine and lifted the hair on the nape of her neck.
Reaching out, he lightly touched a curl dangling in front of her ear. “Yet swords have their uses, milady.”
“So they do.” She drew back slightly and his hand fell away. “But I weary of instruments of war, and wouldst yet cleave to peace, if such a thing were to be found in Scotland.”
“Have you met violence within these halls?”
“Nay, not as you may mean. But conflict does not have to be violent to be frightening.”
A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I had not thought you fearful of anything save mortal sin.”
Heat scoured her throat and burned her eyes. “Yea,” she whispered, “and I have courted damnation far too well of late.”
“And regret it, I see.”
A lie stuck in her throat. She wanted to fling, his taunt back in his face, but could not. In truth, she did not regret it, and loathed herself for her weakness.
Alex studied her face for a few moments longer, and when she did not respond, sat back in his chair with a soft oath. After a moment, he turned away to speak to Sir Robert, and Catherine focused on the food before her to escape the measuring stares directed toward her from those in the hall.
Conversation flowed around her in a ceaseless tide, ebbing and flowing, much of it in Gaelic. Even when English was spoken, many of the idioms were too baffling to determine their meanings. Then Sir Neil Campbell leaned forward, his voice gruff as he said in English, “But what can we expect when even the barons are not honorable
enough to keep their pledged oaths? Warfield is a prime example, and I would not be surprised to learn that he believes himself justified. Would you agree with me, Lady Catherine?”
Appalled, she looked up at Campbell. “I would not agree nor disagree, sir. My father never took me into his confidence.”
“But surely you are aware of his tactics, his perfidy in swearing safe conduct, then slaying those whom he had sworn to protect.”
Her hands trembled slightly on the carved handle of the spoon she held. “Again, sir, I must plead ignorance.”
Sir Neil’s brows lowered in a scowl. “Did you not live at Warfield keep? Did you not sup with the earl, and digest treachery along with your meat?”
The spoon clattered against the wooden side of her bowl as she dropped it. “Who is to say what is treachery and what is treason? Here, I have heard only of how you would defy your rightful king with sword and deception, yet you accuse my father of being duplicitous.”