Page 3 of The Scottish Bride
“Well, we will find another use for you.” Edward leaned back in the carved chair, shivering even in the excessive warmth. Long bony fingers fussed at his elegant tunic; thin white hair, once blond, brushed rounded shoulders; his leonine head trembled. Stretching out long legs in woolen hose, the king, called Longshanks by some, was taller than most men, evenhunched and aging. Yet the years that dulled him physically had only sharpened his wrath toward the Scots.
“Nothing to say? Though I wonder, Sir William,” the king said, “if you might like to have the grant of Dalrinnie again.” His eyes, hard dark blue, fixed on the prisoner.
Liam—the name he preferred in better circumstances—lifted his head and returned Edward’s gaze directly. He knew better than to do that, but so be it. He was in the soup already, having resisted rough interrogation these several weeks of imprisonment. He had lost count of days and weeks. At least he stood in a warm sunlit room in Lanercost Abbey on a pretty September day instead of the damp, dark cell where he had been since early summer. There was that.
But he would not give up what he knew of Robert Bruce, lately King of Scots and now a renegade in the hills. Though he knew more than Edward could imagine, he would keep his silence. If he had to lie or cheat, bargain for his life, or worse, he meant to protect Bruce and the great cause.
He was surprised to be alive, considering Edward’s vicious treatment of the Scots. He was even more surprised to be brought into the king’s presence. But if this was his day to die, he would show Edward yet another Scot who would not yield.
The king shifted and snapped his fingers. A clerk emerged from a corner to hand him an uncurled parchment, which Edward studied.
“Sir William Seton, Baron Dalrinnie,” he read aloud. The page appeared to be a roster of dissenters, Liam saw. The English diligently listed Scottish landholders, titles, and estates to exact punishment and sort traitors from loyalists.
Liam waited. The iron chains and manacles on his wrists and ankles pulled and chafed. The metallic odor was rank on his sweat-coated skin and he felt grimy and slick with filth. He hadnot had a wash or fresh clothing since the day Sir Malise Comyn, curse the fellow, had taken him down.
His hair was too long, unwashed brown-gilt waves gone blackish and stringy; his beard was thick and itchy, his hands dirty. Last night he had dreamed of a hot soapy bath and a tooth-scrubbing, followed by a meal of roast lamb and buttered bannocks washed down with wine of such clarity that he could almost taste each perfect Burgundian grape. He wanted to feel sunlight and rain, smell forest air; sleep in a soft bed with a woman in his arms, warm and curving and kind—
Judging by the king’s expression, such comforts would only come with death.
“Dalrinnie in Selkirkshire, forfeited from you and granted to Sir John Witton. He was in our loyal service but is dead now. You could be just as dead soon.” Edward glanced up. “How many times have you sworn your oath of fealty? Twice?”
He did not answer. Twice sworn, promised, and punished; lesson learned. Edward was a master of petty betrayal.
The old curse on Dalrinnie Castle had done its work again, Liam thought. The prophecy, though his family called it a curse, had been delivered by Thomas the Rhymer to Liam’s great-grandfather, and had proven true for two generations. Now Witton, the English commander who had claimed Liam’s forfeited property, had lost the castle simply by dying. A prize won, a prize lost.
Built by Setons, Dalrinnie would not stay with them until—what was it? Something about a harp. He almost laughed. In his youth, he had learned to play a harp, thinking to beat the curse. But whoever got hold of Dalrinnie next would lose it too.
He ought to feel bitter satisfaction. He only felt wooden and weighed down.
Dalrinnie, Dalrinnie, towers high and walls bold...How did the old Rhymer’s verse go? His head was in a blur.
Still in a muddle, his mind wandered as he awaited the king’s next move. Thinking of his harp, he was reminded of a story heard in his boyhood—the sad tale of the harper Tristan and Iseult, the king’s wife. Here Liam stood, a harper, and King Edward was much like the story’s King Mark—conniving in his power. A wounded king, sickly and cornered and cruel.
Things had not gone well for that tragic harper either, he thought then.
“Forest lords—is that what they call your sort?” Edward brought him back.
Liam glanced through a dark straggle of hair. “‘Laird’ in the Scots, Sire.”
“Ah, your noble forest rebels. We will smoke them out like rats. Laird or lord, the Scots will suffer for being disloyal and obstinate. But you, sir, could be lord of your castle again, should you decide to be useful.”
Liam closed his eyes, weary. Another promise, another betrayal? He was Scottish to his bones and blood, no matter what fealty he was forced to declare. Scottish knights who paid homage to Edward and England often had to look the other way or straddle both loyalties to survive and keep lands and privilege. Some followed their conscience and would defend the Scottish cause to their last breath. Liam was one of those.
He did not want to think about his home, yet mind and body were weary, and thoughts accosted him. He remembered betrayal, remembered walking out of the forest after weeks away to see charred walls silhouetted against the sky.
He had seen soldiers strolling the battlement, carpenters and masons shoring up rubble and making repairs. The attack had occurred while he had been away with William Wallace, a great soul damned for his courage. Those inside Dalrinnie had been killed or captured, and the nearby village of Heatherstane and the kirk had been ravaged too. His betrothed, Lady Beatrix, hadbeen visiting the priest that day, making plans for their wedding. By the time Liam returned, she lay peaceful in the churchyard.
In the village square, he found his name on a parchment nailed to an oak:outlaw, wolf’s head, renegade, traitor.
Cloaked against rain and recognition, he had melted into the forest, hunted and hiding with others, fighting where his sword was needed, sleeping where he found a spot. His anger had banked hot within him, leaving him only ash inside those years.
Offered king’s peace—come back, be forgiven, gain back your lands—he took another oath of fealty to protect his kin and his lands. Yet Edward denied him title and estate again. So he slipped away once more. After Wallace was gone, Liam pledged to serve Robert Bruce, a warrior-lord of steadfast determination, a man with the skills and insight to save and rebuild Scotland someday.
Months ago, Bruce had made an ultimate and dangerous move, killing his rival, Sir John Comyn, for the throne, claiming it for himself. When he went on the run, Liam went with him.
Now he was captured. But just before that, he had fulfilled the new king’s request to bring Bruce’s tenants a certain message, and he had been able to send to Bruce the pledges gathered from those kindly folk. More support would follow, though Liam feared that his capture might prevent that from reaching King Robert.
Standing with the weight of chains on him, Liam would sooner give up his own life than betray Robert Bruce and his supporters to the bitter man who sat glaring at him.
