Grief swept over Wallace’s face for the space of a breath before murderous rage replaced it. “I thank ye. The English are suffering for the murder of my wife and will continue to do so. And ye are?” His curious gaze took in both Robert and Niall.
“Niall Campbell.”
“Carrick,” Robert said, giving only his title, as was customary.
“Ah, Bruce,” Wallace said, ignoring the given title. “Word of yer deeds have been brought to us by a messenger from Lady Moray.”
Robert nodded Wallace grinned. “Seems ye made a friend in the lady and she thought to save yer head should anyone want to take it off.” He gazed intently at Robert. “Why have ye come here to us?”
“To help retain Scotland’s freedom, just as ye, Wallace.” Wallace looked unconvinced, so Robert added, “I’ve heard some things about ye as well.”
“Aye? What do they say?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.
“That ye fight like a brute beast.”
Wallace chuckled. “How would ye have me fight?”
“To win,” Robert replied easily enough.
Wallace set a large hand on Robert’s shoulder. “I do believe ye are the first noble I’ve met that I have actually liked,” Wallace said, winking at Robert. “Let us see if my opinion is enough to keep yer head on yer shoulders.”
Robert nodded and fell into step with Niall by his side behind Wallace. Wallace entered the room of disagreeing Scottish nobles and rebels, and when Robert and Niall followed all arguing ceased, chairs scraped, and the singing of swords being unsheathed filled the air.
England
Elizabeth pressed her hands against the cold glass of her bedchamber window, which overlooked the beautiful gardens at the king’s court. Her breath caught when her father and the king turned to look up at her as one. She scurried back from the window and bumped into the table behind her. The vase teetered, and she lunged for it, catching it before it hit the floor. But her foot slid out in front of her, and she went down with a hardthud, the breath whooshing out of her and the water in the vase spilling down the front of her gown.
She sat there with her bottom pulsing in pain, and her mind awhirl with horrid possibilities about what punishment the king was demanding her father dole out after what she’d done at the Moray’s castle. Banishment from her parents, her brothers, and sisters to some remote place? A nunnery for life? She shuddered. She may only be twelve summers, as her mother and older sister always loved to remind her, but she did know some things, contrary to what they seemed to believe. She understood fully that she had far too much zest for life to spend hers in a nunnery or someday be a docile wife, for that matter. She inhaled a long breath and tried to slow her racing heart. Her father loved her. He would reason with the king. He would protect her.
Wouldn’t he?
Worry niggled at her as she set down the vase beside her and drew her legs to her chest, shivering with a chill of which she could not seem to rid herself. The memory of her father giving the order to burn men alive filled her mind. There had to be some explanation. There simply had to be. Because if there was not, then her father was not the man she believed him to be. And if he was not good and honorable, then how could she trust he’d protect her?
Still quivering, she set her palms to the cold, wet floor and scooted over enough to see in the slash of sunlight coming through the window. She could recall her father’s face just before he had locked her in this bedchamber, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Never had she seen such rage from him. He’d been nearly purple and unable to speak, and it said a great deal that he had not come to see her even once in the past sennight, nor had he allowed her out of her bedchamber. She had thought he would have by now. In fact, she had been sure he would visit so he could tell her he was vexed, very vexed, but that he loved her and had been compelled somehow to give the horrific order to burn the men.
She twined her hair around her finger, her agitation increasing. She was not sure how much longer she could endure being locked in here alone. The only person she had seen since returning home was the chambermaid who brought Elizabeth a tray of food three times a day and emptied her pot. She let out a ragged sigh. Perhaps she should be grateful she was being fed. She began to rock back and forth, going through the events which had led her to disguise herself as a squire and ride out with her father, his men, and Lord Carrick, Robert the Bruce.
It had been two things truly. She’d been irritated that her father had dismissed her request to ride with him that day so completely, loudly, and publicly. She’d not known the “mission,” but she had known she wanted to be part of it, and she could not see why she should not. Father had always allowed her to do things other girls did not. She rode as a man did, she spoke her mind, and she had even accompanied her father and his men on hunts.
The other compelling factor had been Lord Carrick himself. She had not met him, though the young man had been at court for some time. He was always surrounded by other lords and lavishly dressed women batting their eyelashes at him, but it was the way his dark gaze looked through the ladies and the simpering lords as if they were not there—or perhaps as if he wished to be anywhere but there himself—that intrigued her so. Once she had overheard her father tell the king that Bruce concerned him. He feared the young lord harbored secret compassion for the wretched Scots’ cause. Those words had burrowed into her heart, for she secretly thought that it was wrong of her godfather to try to make himself king of a land to which he had not been born, to a people who did not want him as their king. She did not dare utter such a thing out loud, of course; even she knew it was foolish toalwaysspeak one’s mind.
A soft tap came at the door followed by, “Elizabeth?” in a low, worried murmur.
Elizabeth jumped to her feet at her cousin’s voice, nearly slipping in her haste. “Lillianna!” she cried out, pressing her palms to the thick, dark wood of the door. Never had she been so happy to hear her dearest friend’s voice.
Lillianna was more of a sister to Elizabeth than her three true sisters were. Lillianna was the only female Elizabeth knew who shared her leanings toward things that were considered restricted to women—riding as a man, archery, swimming, and learning more than how to select food for supper and embroidery. Her cousin also was an excellent eavesdropper, a talent she’d taught Elizabeth when Lillianna had come to live with them two years ago after the death of her mother.
“I’m so glad to hear your voice!” Elizabeth said. “What news do you bring? Is it terrible? Am I to be banished? What did you learn?”
“Not very much, I’m afraid,” Lillianna moaned. “Whatever has been decided about your fate has thus far been discussed behind doors too thick for eavesdropping. I’m not even supposed to be here. Your mother and father expressly forbade me from coming to see you, and Aveline has been trailing me, keeping watch.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes at her sister older Aveline being her usual perfectly awful self. “How did you manage to escape her?”
Lillianna snickered. “I told her Guy de Beauchamp wished to see her in the solar.”
“Oh, Lillianna!” Elizabeth laughed, feeling so grateful for her cousin and only true friend. “Aveline will be livid when she learns you tricked her. She has a tendre for Lord de Beauchamp. Though I cannot see why. There is something about him that unsettles me.”
“Perhaps it’s the way he is always staring at you as if you are a great treasure he wishes to add to his collection when you become of age,” Lillianna said sarcastically.
