Brienne tried to force down her fears. Her bold idea to seek him out and ask him about the powers became one of such folly that she could not speak at all. Whose name did she give him? Should she declare her his get or claim the one who raised her?
“Gavin, my lord.”
Both she and Lord Hugh turned at the same moment as the blacksmith strode across the clearing and placed himself between the two of them. She stepped closer to him, but to his side so that she could yet watch the lord. Some look passed between the two men that she did not understand.
“Yours, then?” the lord asked.
Gavin reached out for her hand, which she gave him. ’Twas an expression of possession and belonging. She wondered if the lord would let it stand.
“Aye, my lord. Mine,” Gavin proclaimed in a low but somehow bold tone. Before any other words could be exchanged, the lord grabbed at his own forearm and hissed. When a new flash of pain seared through hers, she fought to keep from doing the same thing.
Lord Hugh seemed to want to say something, but he pulled the reins tightly, causing his mount to sidestep and whinny its displeasure at the tight control. This time the lord released the reins, giving the horse its head. Spinning back toward the keep, he rode off without saying another word. Just when she believed them safe from additional scrutiny, the warhorse rose on its hind legs and spun to face her once more.
“Brienne, you are mine!”
Though no words were spoken aloud, they echoed in her mind. The same words as the one who called from within the flames, but these were in Lord Hugh’s voice. As the dust flew up, the horse and rider turned again and disappeared up the path out of the village.
The rumors about his otherworldly powers must be true—for he had sent those words into her thoughts without saying them. He had touched the same place on his arm as the stinging had affected on her own. Sliding her sleeve up, Brienne watched as the skin there burned away, leaving some kind of mark in its place. Shivering, she wondered at its origin. Gavin turned just then to face her and noticed her arm.
“Ye burned yerself on the flames, Brienne?” he asked, reaching out to touch the now-raised burn.
“Nay, not on the flames,” she replied.
It was hard to deny it, as the singed area now resembled any other burn gained from not tending the fires with care. The intricate pattern disappeared within the patch of reddened skin. Brienne met his eyes and read the doubt in them. He would have lifted her arm had she not pulled away from him.
“ ’Tis well, Father,” she said. If she’d not been looking in his direction, she would have missed the grimace that flashed across his face as she called him “father.”
Without another word, he bent over and picked up both buckets. Gavin did not wait for her or ask her to follow, but she did. But not before looking back at the road to the keep and wondering what other rumors about Lord Hugh were true.
If he had other powers, had she inherited them as well?
ChapterTwo
EARLY SPRING, AD 1286, DUNFERMLINE PALACE, DUNFERMLINE, KINGDOM OF FIFE, SCOTLAND
William de Brus awaited the king’s pleasure, now for the fourth day in a row and with little patience or good cheer about these infernal delays. Still, as his friend Roger reminded him once again, this time for the twentieth time, beggars such as he could not afford to be demanding when it came to the king’s attentions. Called to Scotland by Alexander for a resolution to his problem—the other branch of the de Brus family’s intrusion onto the lands he would inherit at the king’s command—he tried to convince himself that it would be better if he did not anger the king or his ministers.
Standing in the crowded Presence Chamber of the palace, William gazed around at the others who also held out their hands to the king and wondered what their causes were. Would they, or he, be successful in their pleas to Alexander for help? He held one advantage over many of the others, one he hoped would soften the king’s heart toward his request to rid his lands of the other de Bruses.
Roger made his way through the crowds and held out a small, wrapped bundle to him. Peeling it open, William found a steaming pasty. Nodding to his friend, he bit into it. Since he dared not leave and risk being absent when finally called to the king’s chamber, Roger ran errands and brought food for him.
“Any news?” Roger asked.
Biting into the meat pie once more and chewing, he shook his head. After swallowing, he added, “The king is at his noon meal and will hold an audience after for . . . some.”
“The men wait for us at the inn,” Roger said. “Though they grow restless.” A company of twelve men had accompanied him on this journey, all hoping for a place at his board. Twelve knights would be critical in controlling his new lands and in convincing the king to award the title to him.
“Tell them—” William began. The herald’s call interrupted his orders.
“William de Brus! The king will speak with you now. Come forward!”
Heads turned to see who the lucky one was and then began to mutter as their names were not also called. William thrust the rest of the pasty back at Roger as he pushed his way to the other side of the chamber, where the herald waited. He’d forgotten his manners for a moment, and he turned back to Roger and handed him his helm, short dagger, and gloves. It would not do to appear in the king’s presence armed.
It took a few minutes to reach the herald and then a few more to walk down the long hallway to the king’s private chambers. The guards opened the door to him, and the herald announced him to the king.
“Come, William. Eat with me,” Alexander called out as William paused to bow before him. “My lord bishop, this is the son of my cousin, late of Brix in France.”
“I am familiar with the de Brus family, Your Grace,” the bishop of Dunfermline replied, inspecting William from his place at the king’s right hand. William approached the bishop and kissed his ring. He could read nothing from the churchman’s expression, though he surely knew William’s true parentage.
