Page 13 of The Guardian's Bride
“We will confiscate whatever your kinsman gave you.”
“But—Your Grace, he left us nothing of value.”
“More than you realize, it seems. Leave whatever stones you have with Brother Hugo. Anything else in your family’s possession that came from the Rhymer must be delivered here within a month, or it will be collected. Do you understand? Sir Henry, is that clear?”
“Sire,” Henry droned. She heard the tight, quiet fury in his voice.
She felt the unfair command like a blow. Edward was convinced that Thomas had left magical, faery-borne things to his family—and believed he had the right to claim them. Those were special things with unique, even extraordinary traits, items to be protected that must never fall into other hands, especially into Edward’s keeping.
The very air turned tense. Edward was obsessed with prophecies and esoteric knowledge; he needed to control his future through any means, magical, otherworldly, or by force. Since he regarded the Scots as his subjects, he believed whatever Thomas owned belonged to him.
She understood that Edward, sick and growing weaker, might crave a magical charm stone if it could heal him. But Rowena would not give it up at any cost.
“I will leave the charm stones I have, Sire,” she said, meaning the small crystals Una had given her years ago. The Rhymer’s stone was packed in a leather satchel with her things, tucked away in the little chamber she used at Lanercost. Her heart pounded. She felt frantic to fetch it and leave for Kincraig as soon as possible.
“Send the rest,” Edward said. “The clerk will draw up a writ with the orders. Sir Malise will make sure you comply. That way he can—protect the Keiths from further irritating the Crown. Now you may go home, lady. But leave the potions.”
She bowed her head. “Sire.” She would not thank him, her heart pounding with fury and frustration. Henry stood silent beside Gilchrist.
Returning to the table where she had left the vessels, she withdrew the small quartz stones from the purse on her belt and arranged them with the other things. Given Brother Hugo’s smugness, she hoped Edward would demand that the monk use them.
She heard Edward speak to Malise then. “Give us your news,” he rasped.
At the table, Rowena tipped her head to listen and saw Henry do the same.
Sir Malise produced a rolled parchment, which Edward opened and read.
“Damned Scots,” the king growled. “Crowning Bruce was treason. It took you long enough to find those involved. Arrest this man and throw him in Berwick to rot. Take his property. Get a warrant from the sheriff there.”
“Sire, he holds Castle Black in Fife. His nephew is the young earl of Fife, Duncan MacDuff, who is Your Grace’s nephew and ward in Northumbria.”
“That pup! We will not release him. The Fife castle should be forfeited.”
Arranging vials and jars, Rowena felt her heart jump.MacDuff of Fife!
“Sire, a warrant for forfeiture must designate a new owner to keep the property under the Crown’s control. Who shall have it?”
“Take it for yourself if you can. We cannot spare the men to attack it. The clerk will prepare a warrant. What do you know of this scoundrel MacDuff? Wife? Family?”
Just now, Sir Aedan was either on his sickbed or limping his way home to Fife. Rowena sent Henry a frantic glance, and he returned a frown.
“His wife is dead. He has a son. It is in the report, Sire,” Malise Comyn said.
“Throw the son in the dungeon with the father.”
“It is a small child, Sire.”
“Gone soft, Comyn? We confined Bruce’s daughter without harm. Put the boy in a dungeon and make sure he gets milk.”
“The Bruce girl is twelve and in a convent. This boy is too small to be imprisoned. If the Pope hears of it, you will be censured.”
“Damn it,” Edward muttered. “Fine. Take the boy to live with the other Scottish whelp, that so-called earl. Find this MacDuff, arrest him, and take the property. No MacDuff related to the Earl of Fife can be free! Imprisoned, confined—or dead!”
Chapter Five
While the guardiansof the kingdom of Scotland argued around him, rising voices echoing in the small stone church just outside of Selkirk, Aedan sat apart and silent on a wooden bench. He stretched out his left leg, muscles aching hip to knee along the healing scar, aware of the March wind pummeling the shuttered window above his head.
He listened as the men disputed their possible response to King Edward’s most recent letter, delivered to Gartnait, earl of Mar, a high-ranking lord and one of the quieter voices in the room. If they did not find agreement soon, Aedan thought, he would speak. But as an interim guardian in a group of Scotland’s elite lords acting together as regent to govern Scotland, he had a lesser say.
