“My lord.” The stranger stepped forward as the earl released his wife. “My name is Donal Stewart. I am in the service of the Earl of Moray, who has sent me to Duin. Ye are suspected of treason against His Most High Majesty, James the Sixth.”
Angus Ferguson’s jaw dropped in surprise. “I hae committed nae treason,” he said. “The Fergusons of Duin are peaceable folk, and loyal to their ruler.”
“Ah, and therein lies the problem. Which ruler do ye acknowledge? The royal whore, Mary Stuart, or King James?”
“He who holds Scotland is my king,” the earl said quietly.
“Ye hae been in France,” Donal Stewart said.
“Aye. I went to sell a bit of property I had inherited from my mother’s family,” Angus answered.
“Where in France exactly were ye?” Donal Stewart asked him.
“In Brittany, near Saint-Brieuc, a village called Mont de Devereaux.”
“To whom did ye sell yer property, my lord?” Moray’s man inquired.
“To a well-to-do local merchant, one Monsieur Claude. He wanted it for his second son and his son’s family,” the earl answered. “Why do ye ask?”
“Ye did not sell yer property to an agent of the de Guise family, my lord?”
How the hell had Moray learned of the de Guises’ attempt to subvert his loyalty? Angus wondered. “When I went to France I was told there was but one buyer for my land, Monsieur Claude. But when I met with him and the village magistrate, there was another man, Monsieur Reynaud, in the employ of the de Guise family. He offered me double what the property was worth. In exchange I would carry a message from them to Mary Stuart. I refused. I am nae a traitor, sir.”
“Yet ye came home through England,” Donal Stewart noted.
“Aye, I rode the French coast north to Calais, seeking a vessel to either Berwick or Leith. It was quicker than retracing my steps from the cove beneath this castle to France,” the earl explained. “I dinna wish to be away from my family any longer than necessary, but I carried nae message for Mary Stuart. How would I have gotten it to her if I did?”
“Where are the monies ye obtained in exchange for yer lands, my lord?” Donal Stewart asked him.
“They were to be placed with my bankers in Paris for the use of my brother James, who is a priest in Rome, and my sister Mary, who is in a convent in Spain.”
Another man entered the hall and whispered something to Donal Stewart. The Earl of Moray’s messenger seemed disturbed by what he heard, but then he looked up. “A packet sealed with the de Guise crest has been found in yer saddlebags, my lord, along with a small bag of gold coins. What say ye to that?”
“I have absolutely nae idea how they got there,” Angus Ferguson said. “The château’s servants packed my saddlebags. I used only one of them in my travels. I never looked in the other, but as God is my witness I did not take the de Guise commission.”
Annabella was pale with shock. She believed her husband, but someone had incriminated him. Why?
“Who would seek to make ye look guilty?” Donal Stewart asked him.
“I dinna know,” Angus Ferguson said. “The Fergusons hae no enemies, for we hae carefully avoided entanglements wi’ our neighbors for centuries.”
“If ye canna prove yer innocence, my lord, I hae no choice but to arrest ye for treason against His Majesty, King James,” Donal Stewart said. His tone, however, was very reluctant. There was something about this man that made him believe that he was no traitor, but his instincts weren’t enough. He needed hard evidence. “Ye rode from Brittany along the French coast,” he said. “Where did ye shelter at night, my lord?”
“Sometimes I slept rough,” the earl replied. “At other times I came upon public inns, or a farmer would allow me to shelter in a barn.”
“I suspect someone means ye harm, my lord,” Donal Stewart told him. “Did ye quarrel wi’ anyone on yer journey? Did anything unusual happen that ye recall?”
Angus’s brow furrowed. Then he said, “I do recall a fellow who rode too close to me upon the open road. He bumped my animal more than once, but apologized, claiming that he was having difficulty getting his own horse under control. Eventually he rode on and I thought nothing further of it.”
“I must send to my master for his instructions as to what should be done in this matter, my lord. In the meantime, rather than take ye off I will house ye in yer own dungeon. Nothing will be denied ye there. Neither food, warmth, nor company.” He turned to where his own men were standing. “Escort the earl to his cell,” Donal Stewart said.
“Oh, please, Master Stewart, let my husband remain in his own apartment,” Annabella pleaded. “The cellars are so dank. Angus will get an ague.”
But Donal Stewart shook his head in the negative. “Nay, madam, I can monitor his whereabouts far easier in his dungeon.”
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” the earl assured her.Damn!He wanted a bath. He hadn’t properly washed since he had departed Duin some weeks ago. He wanted his own bed, for he was tired of the hard earth, hay piles, and flea-infested inns. But most of all he wanted to hold his wife in his arms after several hours of very satisfying lovemaking. But he wasn’t going to have what he wanted. Grimly he followed Donal Stewart’s men.
“Braziers! At least two, and the fuel to keep them going.” Annabella was already giving orders. “And a feather bed and a comforter. He must have candles.” She turned on Donal Stewart. “I shall hold ye responsible if he gets sick!” she said angrily. “Whatever my lord Moray thinks he knows, my husband is nae a traitor!”
