“Your Majesty,” Catherine MacFarlane spoke up. “When will Lady Laurel wed? My father wishes me to marry before the first snow. Will my wedding be delayed?”
Laurel sucked in a breath. The ladies had been loudly whispering their accusations since they left the keep, but Catherine voiced the question they all wished to ask, even Laurel.
Queen Elizabeth looked at Laurel as she addressed the women who gathered around her. “Have you ever seen a fox caught in a trap? It hisses and snaps at anyone who comes near, even those who try to help. Why? Because he’s ensnared and no longer free, no longer trusts what is around him. The fox will chew his own leg off rather than be a captive. But the fox eventually succumbs whether he remains in the trap or alone in the woods. When a kindly soul comes along, the fox would do well to wait and watch. He might just gain his freedom with far less pain.”
Laurel swallowed and gave a single jerky nod. While several other women chatted amongst themselves, trying to sort out the queen’s metaphor, Laurel understood its meaning. But she feared she’d been in the snare so long that there were no kindly souls left who would risk her hissing and snapping. But Sarah Anne’s voice pierced any solace Laurel might have found in the queen’s words.
“But that still doesn’t tell us when Laurel will be gone.” Sarah Anne narrowed her eyes and curled her lip in disgust as she looked at Laurel. “After more than half a score of years here, isn’t it obvious she’ll be a spinster? Why punish us?”
“Lady Sarah Anne, is there someone proposing to you soon?” Laurel asked in a saccharine tone. She held her hands over her chest in mocking delight and excitement.
“Well, no,” Sarah Anne confessed. “But it’s still not fair.”
“On that we agree,” Laurel muttered. Queen Elizabeth turned away, and the women continued their promenade through the late summer blooms. As they made their way across the bailey to retire to the queen’s solar, Laurel noticed a mountainous man with dark hair watching the ladies. It was clear he was a Highlander from the plaid wrapped around his waist and his billowing leine, but Laurel wasn’t close enough to make out the blue-and-green pattern. He could have been from any number of clans, but she thought she recognized him. He walked away before she drew near enough to tell.
* * *
“Laird Campbell of Glenorchy,” King Robert greeted Brodie. The men had fought alongside one another countless times over nearly two decades, and Brodie had saved the king’s life on at least three battlefields. But the king could say the same about Brodie. They’d been friends since their youth, even though the king was a handful of years older than Brodie. The king’s younger brothers were closer in age to Brodie. He’d had more than one adventurous night out in Stirling with the Bruce’s blood-brother and adopted brother, both named Edward. The latter was married to Elizabeth Fraser and had a passel of children, and the former died only recently, three years after being crowned the High King of Ireland.
“Your Majesty,” Brodie responded with a grin. “You’re looking younger by the year.”
“And you—” King Robert snorted “—don’t.”
“You wound me, my liege.” Brodie took the seat offered to him, and Robert the Bruce settled into the one beside him.
“The queen and I were sorry to hear aboot Eliza.” Robert watched Brodie, whose expression barely shifted once the grin slipped away. “I understand why you seek remedy to the harm done to your clan and the MacMillans.”
“But?” Brodie didn’t care for how noncommittal Robert’s tone sounded.
“You’ve admitted that you never consummated the marriage. You’ve already returned the dowry. The MacMillan has a stronger leg to stand on than you do, Brodie.”
“And the alliance that we were supposed to form? The access and lands I was to receive? I’m not to be aggrieved aboot that?” Brodie demanded.
“You don’t need the land,” Robert reminded him.
“That doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have benefitted my people,” Brodie countered.
“You sound like your father.”
“He was a fine mon,” Brodie murmured before looking away. His father died several years ago, but he’d been among the king’s closest confidants, and while Brodie hadn’t often agreed with his father’s policies toward their neighboring clans, there had been respect between them. He’d turned his head not to hide grief, but to hide his annoyance.
“He was. But didn’t always know when to accept that he had enough. You have all Glenorchy now. The MacGregors have little left to claim as their own. Must you expand to the south as well?”
Brodie remained quiet, choosing to believe it was a rhetorical question, knowing the king wouldn’t appreciate his answer. Robert frowned but nodded.
“The Lamonts will make restitution to you, but you will have to accept the lost dowry and land.”
“I can live with that, Robert,” Brodie said, keeping his voice low. “What I can’t live with is the Lamonts believing they can cross onto my land and attack my people. We were nowhere near their border. They were nearly two days’ ride onto my territory. This wasn’t some reiving that went badly. They attacked to kill me and Eliza. They won’t be satisfied with trying to end my alliance with the MacMillans. If aught, it’s strengthened it. But what aboot the next time I try to bring a wife home?”
“Do you have someone in mind?” King Robert asked.
“I’m considering it, but I haven’t made any offers,” Brodie hedged.
Robert studied Brodie for a moment, and Brodie dreaded what would come of the king’s cagey expression. “Do you intend to find a woman here at court?”
“Possibly.”
“None may marry until Lady Laurel Ross is wed. Had you heard?” King Robert pressed.
