Page 14 of The Guardian's Bride
Yet as uncle to Isabella of Buchan and young Earl Duncan of Fife, his voice was important and respected.
“Regarding Bruce’s kinswomen,” said Sir John de Soules, an older knight with a raspy voice and a will like steel, “we demand that Lady Mary Bruce and Lady Isabella, countess of Buchan, be removed from their barbaric cages and taken to better confinement in a castle or convent until Edward agrees to release them back to kin and country, with or without prisoner exchange. Tell Edward that!”
“We all read Longshank’s letter,” countered Gartnait of Mar. “The king refuses the request of the guardians of Scotland that these women, ‘including the countess of Buchan and the wife,daughter, and sisters of Robert Bruce, be taken thence to a place to be given over to the guardianship of Gartnait of Mar, Sir John de Soules, Sir Ingram de Umfraville, Sir Aedan MacDuff, the bishops of Glasgow and St. Andrews, and the sheriffs of Lothian and Dumfries. Such and similar arrangements are not amenable.’” Reading from the letter, he tossed the page, seals dangling, to the table.
“Edward has refused three times. What do we say now?” Sir Ingram asked.
Amid muttered replies, Aedan stood. “Write this,” he said, and walked forward, gesturing toward a clerk brought by Mar, who scratched ink over a used parchment page.
“Since the addressee—Edward—is taking pains to ensure the cruel and unwarranted confinement of Bruce’s kinswomen,” he said, “herein, the Guardians of the Realm of Scotland, lords and regents, request again that the king deliver back to Scotland on good surety the countess of Buchan, etcetera,” he said. “If they are not released to appointed sheriffs by—let us say the first of May,” he suggested, “the Guardians promise and resolve to deliver another letter to Pope Clement the fifth detailing the uncouth behavior and great aggrievances of the King of England toward women and children who have harmed none.”
“Well enough, Aedan,” Gartnait of Mar said. “But Edward is convinced Isabella did grievous harm by crowning our king. He will not release or exchange anyone until Bruce begs the king’s peace. And that will not happen.”
“We will take our chances with a final attempt at diplomatic negotiation. Then—” Aedan paused to give the comments time to settle.
“And then?” John de Soules crossed his arms.
“We rescue them by force. But we would need men standing ready wherever the prisoners are being held—castles and convents. A great number of men.”
“And a great deal of work to pull it off. But MacDuff is right,” De Soules said. “We should send one more letter—and begin to plan assaults to reclaim the women.”
Aedan resumed his seat as the discussion continued and the latest letter was composed. Flexing his shoulders, he felt weary from weeks of traveling. Only a month earlier, he had left the monastery at Holyoak; rather than return to Fife, he had headed south to carry out a promise to Robert Bruce. At Roxburgh Castle, he had seen Lady Mary Bruce only from a distance, huddled in the iron cage displayed on the parapet—a heartbreaking sight. Then he rode up to Selkirk, intending to visit Berwick afterward in an attempt to see Isabella before sailing home to Fife.
Privately he had little hope, despite the influence of the guardian lords and regents of Scotland, that Edward would release the women. The king was so determined to bend the Scots to his will that his mercy was rare now.
But what he had heard earlier in the meeting troubled him greatly: rumors of growing danger for Bruce, loyal individuals, and certain clans—MacDuff among them. Aedan felt more strongly than ever that he must make his way home to look after his kinfolk and secure the treasures he had secreted away.
Much later, his part done, he left the kirkyard while the lords still gathered in the church, intending to ride the mile or two of curving path that led to the town. Puddles in the rutted track reflected moonlight until he entered a deep aisle of shadow that cut through dense woodland. He looked forward to sleep in the tavern where he had hired the horse and paid for a room. A bed under a roof was a luxury these days, though he could fall asleep anywhere.
Still recovering from his injuries, he tired easily, limped some, and ached on rainy days. His wounds were healing remarkably well, though. Just neat pink lines remained of thestitches that had closed the gashes on his leg, forearm, and face, and the scars would fade. He was alive, healing, and grateful for it.
Grateful, too, to the young woman who had saved his life. Without her grace and ability, he would not be here today. She was not a nun after all, and she was kind and lovely. Her name was blurred in his memory—perhaps Rona or Robina—but he still thought of her. He wished he could find her, show her his healed scars, his regained strength. He wished he could repay her somehow.
At Holyoak, fevered and weak, he had watched her, had fastened his deep need to survive on her kindness, her grace, her calm strength. She was part of the medicine that had helped him. Weeks after he left Holyoak, as his head cleared, he felt as if he had fallen a little in love with her.
Perhaps what he felt was not love, but gratitude unexpressed. Yet he felt a glimmer of hope dreaming of the girl. If he found time to return to Holyoak, he would thank them and ask after her. Seeing her again would help him differentiate gratitude from infatuation or more—though he did not expect to encounter love ever again.
Tonight, he was weary, aching, and hungry. He wanted a good stew, a cup of ale watered to his tolerance, a bed, and good dreams of family, home, and the girl at Holyoak.
Then his horse neighed, snorted, lost the rhythm of his step in the lowering shadows. Alerted, Aedan slowed, glanced around, listened. Just the sound of wind through trees, an owl’s cry, the horse’s breath and step.
He slowed again when the horse sidestepped and snorted nervously. Drawing on the reins, he paused the horse in the shadow of the woodland to either side. The stallion he had hired in Selkirk was new to him; perhaps the animal was restive or disliked the dark. Then he heard the hoofbeats.
More than one horse, perhaps three or four; riders were coming at a fair pace. Thankful for his horse’s nervous warning, he spurred the mount onward with still a mile to go. The road stretched past the forest into the open with moonlight showing the way. Soon the hoofbeats were closer.
“Halt! MacDuff of Fife! Halt!”
They were on him even as he bent to the horse’s neck urging a gallop; even as he reached for the broadsword strapped to the saddle; and before he could wheel and defend. Shouting, they surrounded him, weapons drawn. His name, so honored in Scotland and reviled in England, was yelled out. He resisted, but his arm, weakened by the long, deep scar, gave too soon.
Dragged from the horse and thrown to the ground, he rose to his feet with a roar, feet planted wide as he stood taller than the three soldiers in steel helms and red surcoats. Though his scarred leg trembled like a sapling, he stood his ground and slid a hand under his plaid to grasp the dagger hidden there. Even so, one of the three poised a sword tip at his throat, bringing the sting of blood. He froze.
“What do you want?” he growled.
“MacDuff,” one said. “You are a traitor, accused of treason!”
“I am riding to town minding my own business. You mind yours and leave off.” He leaned back, but two sword points pinched his neck. He liked his throat. He stilled.
“You took part in a treasonous act by aiding in the unlawful crowning of Robert Bruce. Your name alone is a crime, so says the king. We have orders to take you down.”
