Page 20 of The Scottish Bride
As Gilchrist and Finley came toward him, he patted the dog’s head. “So, Roc. We will come back here one day. But for now, the lads will take you to a safe haven, aye?”
His dog was more than dear to him, a valuable creature, and all he had left of the Dalrinnie he knew. The dog was power and calm, his friend. No one knew if all of his dogs had survived the fire that had brought the English in and sealed Liam out. That mystery had near broken his heart. But if Witton and his lady had hunted with large hounds, perhaps his dogs were alive and cared for. He had to trust that.
“Seen enough of your castle, then?” Gilchrist asked quietly.
“For now. Soon I will knock on the gate. Then I will see more of it, hey.”
“Better you did that with a thousand Scots at your back,” Finley said.
“And where are they?” Liam glanced around. The others chuckled. “I will get the book. You take the dog to Holyoak for safety. Then—” He paused. “I will do what I must.”
“We have your back, lad,” Finley said. “Always.”
Liam nodded, throat tightening.
Chapter Seven
Drawing up thehem of her gown, Tamsin hurried down the curving stone steps. There were riders at the gates. Stopping to glance out a narrow window in the turret stair, she saw a group of knights riding into the bailey just as dusk fell. She smoothed her gray gown and the gauzy linen veil that touched her shoulders above her long, thick braid. Patting her keys and embroidered pouch secured on her leather belt—visible reminders that she was lady of this castle—she headed for the great hall.
No one summoned her at the arrival, she realized, because she had naught to do with the garrison. She was just the Scottish widow who inconveniently owned the castle after her husband’s death. But if these men brought orders from King Edward that would change her status, she had to find out.
Pausing at the last step under the flare of a bracketed torch, she heard men’s voices in the great hall, heard the thud of boots over floorboards, thechinkof armor, and calls for ale. Exhaling, anxious, she crossed the small antechamber toward the hall.
Suddenly, she recalled a scrap of a dream from days ago—a breathless sense of running, of darkness and rain. And a curious chanting, someone singing:Married by All Souls Day, married by All Souls... lost and found, chased and bound, married by All Souls...
But it made no sense. That date was weeks away, and she expected to be sent to a convent soon. It was not a truthy dream, she assured herself.
She hurried past a dark corner, an empty chair, past painful memories. In this small chamber, her husband had met with knights, merchants, priests, tenants, and others. On chilly evenings, Witton sat by the fire basket while Tamsin read aloud from an epic poem in French or some other text. She favored Arthurian tales like Galahad or Tristan and Iseult. Witton wanted treatises on hunting and weaponry.
Last March, after he had been wounded in a skirmish, his sickbed had been placed just there. She looked away. Her empty marriage had been an alliance for the Keiths. Now her father and Sir John were both gone, and she waited to learn her fate.
But she was still lady of this castle, and the men arriving this cold, gloomy night would soon know it. She pushed the door open, reminding herself to hold her tongue.
Two years at Dalrinnie had taught her to watch her habit of blunt speech that had so irritated her husband. She had learned, too, not to speak of dreams or visions. She could not prove their truth. Silence, hard-won, became a bastion of safety.
She walked boldly into the room to make her way through the crowd of men, knights in armor, others in surcoats and fur cloaks. Most ignored her as she passed; a few moved aside or nodded a greeting. Some were of Dalrinnie’s garrison, others unfamiliar. To a man, they looked weary and concerned.
“I bring no request—this is a direct order from the king!” The shout came from the far end of the room.
She knew that nasal note of disdain. Sir Malise Comyn, tall, blond, handsome, and deceptively angelic, faced Sir David Campbell across a table strewn with flat and rolled parchments. With Sir Malise stood his brother-in-law, Sir Patrick Siward,lean and dark. Both men had visited Dalrinnie often to conspire with her husband on behalf of England.
Edging her way through the crowd, Tamsin moved past several tall knights who wore chain mail and hefty capes. They were absorbed in discussions, hardly noticing her. Torchlight glinted on steel, pooled on the floorboards, glittered in the ale poured into cups of pewter or shaped wood. She lifted her chin and came closer.
“Sir Malise, if you mean to take this castle—” Campbell began.
“Edward has put me in charge. Here is the writ.” Malise Comyn handed a roll of parchment, ribbons dangling from a wax seal, to Campbell.
Her husband had once said that wherever Comyn went, conflict followed. If Malise had a king’s writ for Dalrinnie, likely he had one for her, too. King Edward had made it clear she would not remain. A convent was tolerable; an unwelcome marriage, worse. Soon she would know.
“Royal orders,” Comyn told David Campbell, his voice carrying over the din of voices. “You must comply. Do not expect Bruce to reclaim this place.”
“Which king would a good Scot choose?” Campbell’s question was bitter and bold. Tamsin had realized long ago that Dalrinnie’s seneschal had reliable judgment and secret loyalties. She hoped he had not stepped too far just then.
“If you are revealed to be a traitor, Campbell,” Comyn muttered, “it will go poorly for you.”
Walking past the central iron fire basket, Tamsin felt the hot glow on her back. Firelight glinted over her golden braid and gleamed along the swords and helmets stacked along a nearby wall as custom required. A large dog resting near the fire basket stood and turned to lope behind her. The leggy hound, rangy but with natural dignity, nosed at Tamsin’s hand.
“Good girl, Oonagh,” she murmured, ruffling the great gray head.
