Page 7 of The Scottish Bride
“Our escort is returning to fetch us. We are in a hurry,” Tamsin said.
“I am not,” Merton said, perusing a document. “So you can wait.”
*
Smooth as glass,the waters of the moat reflected sunset and the castle as merchants and servants went back and forth over the drawbridge. Liam Seton narrowed his eyes, leaning a shoulder against an oak, its leaves sheltering him from view. He studied the towers and walls, counted the visible guards, and judged the distance between gate and road to decide how best to get in and out quickly with his prize.
Round towers jutted above sandstone walls overlooking a slope down to the castle loch, with a long view eastward toward the River Annan. On the battlements, sentries—eight at least, helmets glinting in the setting sun—had a wide view of loch, forest, and river. Foursquare strong and well-situated, Lochmaben belonged to Robert Bruce, lately King of Scots—self-declared, so the English insisted. But Edward had wrestedLochmaben from the Scots to fortify it for English use. Robert Bruce, among other fierce intentions, meant to reclaim it along with other Scottish castles.
Liam had come here for one reason only. Rumor said he might find his quarry here. Just days ago, he stood chained in King Edward’s presence, ordered to find a book. He intended to fetch the thing—but had no intention of bringing it to Edward. He rather thought Bruce might like to have it.
But how the devil was he to snatch an old woman out of this castle, where he had learned she might be—and take her over the hills to find Bruce, wherever he was hiding?
The sun dipped as he waited under the oak. He shifted his weight to flex the knee that still ached somewhat, and he watched a few stragglers and carts crossing the drawbridge. Good. The portcullis was open but would likely close at dark.
Lifting the leather satchel at his feet, he slung it over his shoulder to balance its wedge shape. The strings inside chimed a bit. Tugging his hood down against a breeze and recognition, he walked toward the moat…
Then stopped short when a knight on a dappled charger cut diagonally across his path to block his way. “Halt, you,” the man ordered.
His red surcoat embroidered with gold lions, worn over chain mail and a blue tunic, brightly marked him as one of Edward’s knights. Though not all who rode in Edward’s name wore the lion rampant, this fellow’s surcoat announced his affiliation, even at a distance. But his wooden shield, painted dark blue with three gold shields, stated his family; and the cloth beneath his saddle was a swath of tartan wool crisscrossed in red, black, and gray.
Liam knew shield, tartan, and man. “You, sir, are in my way,” he groused.
“Hey, harper,” said his younger brother. “What is your business here?”
“Coming to Lochmaben in hopes of a welcome.” He patted the sheathed harp.
“Not likely, if they discover the harper’s true name.” Sir Gilchrist Seton regarded him. “I will go with you if you like. They said the Keith lady arrived earlier today. Likely she is still inside.”
“Simple enough to get in and out if the lady cooperates,” Liam said. Gilchrist knew his mission; last night they had met with a cousin to briefly confer at an inn on the Dumfries road, and his kinsmen had offered to help. “You should go about your errand to follow De Valence’s orders.”
“Edward’s general expects Finley and I to report which Scottish castles could be ripe for the plucking. Oddly like your work for Bruce. And it gives us the freedom to see to other matters.”
“Indeed, it does. What is next on your list?”
“After Lochmaben, then Morton, Thornhill, Oliver Castle—”
“Ruined, that one. Burned nearly to glass, and Sir Simon Fraser of Oliver captured and torn to pieces in public.” His stomach turned with grief and anger over the cruel death of yet another friend and compatriot. “The English can have the smoking walls. The place is useless. After that?”
His brother paused. “Dalrinnie.”
“Taken four years back,” Liam clipped out. “No need to go there.”
“Edward has still not decided who will replace the commander who died months back. De Valence wants to know how to take Ettrick Forest from that angle to go after the rebels hiding there.”
Liam felt a muscle jump in his cheek. “The English will try, but they cannot penetrate the great forest.”
“Besides thinning it of timber, aye. Best get up there before they raise the drawbridge and close the gate. The guards will ask why a brawny Scot seeks entrance.” He gestured toward Liam’s plain brown tunic and trews, worn under a shabby leather hauberk studded with iron rings, old but protective. His hooded cloak of dark gray was lined with the same red-and-gray tartan Gilchrist carried. “Where is your knight’s gear?”
“Stored away. I am just a harper looking for supper. And an old crone with a book,” he muttered.
“Pray they do not ask for a tune, brother. Is that your harp, saved from the fire?”
“Aye. The miller at Heatherstane found it and held it for me.”
“Good. Look there—they hung that evil thing recently.” Gilchrist pointed.
Liam had seen it earlier: a lantern-shaped timber and iron structure lashed to the outer wall of a tower. “Mercifully empty,” he growled. “Why is the cage there, if they have no captive? Bruce’s women were captured in the Highlands three weeks ago.”
