Prologue
Gud Robert Boyd, that worthi was and wicht
(Good Robert Boyd that worthy wise and strong)
—Blind Harry,The Wallace
Kildrummy Castle, Scottish Highlands, October 1306
Killed?Rosalin nearly choked on a bit of beef.
“Are you all right?” her brother asked, leaning over to pat her on the back.
After a burst of coughing, she took a sip of sweetened wine and nodded. “I’m fine.” Seeing his concern, she managed a smile. “Really. I’m sorry for the disturbance. You were saying something about the prisoners?”
Her attempt at nonchalance didn’t fool him. He frowned. He’d been speaking in a low voice to her guardian, Sir Humphrey, on his other side, and the conversation obviously hadn’t been meant for her ears. She blinked up at him innocently, but Robert, the first Baron de Clifford, hadn’t become one of the most important commanders in the war against the rebel Scots because of his rank and handsome face—although he certainly possessed both. Nay, he’d risen so high in King Edward’s estimation because he was smart, loyal, and determined. He was also one of the greatest knights in England, and she was fiercely proud of him.
Even if he was entirely too perceptive.
“An unfortunate accident, that is all. Part of the wall collapsed when the prisoners were dismantling it. Two of the rebels were crushed by the stone and killed.”
Her heart jumped to her throat and a small cry of distress escaped before she could help it.Oh God, please don’t let it be him!
Aware of her brother’s watchful gaze, she attempted to cover her too concerned reaction with a maidenly, “That’s horrible!”
He studied her a little longer, and then patted her hand. “Do not let it distress you.”
But shewasdistressed.Deeplydistressed. Although she certainly couldn’t tell her brother why. If he learned about her fascination with one of the rebel prisoners, he would send her back to London on the first ship, as he’d threatened to do when she’d arrived unexpectedly a week ago with her new guardian, Sir Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford.
“Christ’s Cross, Rosalin! This is the last place in Christendom suitable for a young girl.”
But the opportunity to see Cliff had been too tempting to resist. With her in London and her brother fighting the Scottish rebels in the North, it had been nearly two years since she’d seen him, and she missed him desperately. He, Maud (Cliff’s wife of eight years), and the children were all the family she had left, and if she had to venture into Hades to see them, she would. Maud would have made the journey with Rosalin and the earl’s party, but she’d just discovered she was with child again.
“I don’t understand why the wall is being dismantled in the first place,” Rosalin said. “I thought we won the war?”
Her distraction worked. Cliff loved nothing more than to talk about England’s great victory. Robert Bruce’s bid for the crown had failed. The outlaw king had been forced to flee Scotland, and the English were now occupying most of Scotland’s important castles, including this one, the former stronghold of the Scottish Earls of Mar.
“We did. Robert Bruce’s short-lived rebellion is at an end. He might have escaped the noose set for him at Dunaverty Castle, but he won’t find refuge in the Western Isles for long. Our fleet will find him.” He shrugged. “Even if they don’t, he only has a handful of men left under his command.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But aren’t they Highlanders?”
Her brother laughed and tweaked her nose. Though sixteen—nearly seventeen—was much too old for tweaking, she didn’t mind. She knew just how fortunate she was to have a brother who cared for her so deeply. Not many fourteen-year-old boys would have bothered themselves with a four-year-old sister on the death of their parents, but Cliff had always watched out for her. Even when they were both made wards of the king, he always made sure she knew she was not alone. If he sometimes acted like more of an overprotective father than a brother, she didn’t mind. To her, he was both.
“They aren’t bogeymen, little one. Or supermen, no matter what you might hear at court. They might fight like barbarians, but when they meet the steel of an English knight’s sword, their blood runs as red as any other.”
As she wasn’t supposed to be watching the prisoners, she refrained from asking why they were kept so heavily guarded then.
Her brother turned back to Sir Humphrey, and Rosalin bided her time, waiting for the long midday meal to come to an end before racing up to her chamber in the Snow Tower.
Usually she delayed her return to her chamber as long as possible. Cliff had permitted her to stay in Scotland at Kildrummy only under the condition that she keep to her room except for during meals and chapel (he didn’t want there to be any chance of her coming into contact with one ofthem), and the small chamber had begun to feel like a prison. (When she protested that it wasn’t fair, the other ladies in Sir Humphrey’s party weren’t being confined, he replied that the other ladies were not his sixteen-year-old sister!) But right now all she could think about was the window that looked over the courtyard and shield-shaped curtain wall. The same curtain wall that had collapsed and killed the two prisoners.
Her heart raced as fast as her feet as she climbed the seven—seven!—flights of stairs to the top level of the luxurious tower. The Scots might be “rebellious barbarians,” but they certainly knew how to build castles, which was one of the reasons King Edward was so anxious to have Kildrummy destroyed. The “Hammer of the Scots,” as King Edward was known, was making sure no other rebels could use the formidable stronghold as a refuge in the future.
Bright sunlight filled the room as she drew open the heavy door of the lord’s chamber and tore past the enormous wooden bed, the half-unpacked trunks carrying her belongings, and the small table that held a pitcher and basin for washing. Heart now in her throat, she knelt on the bench under the window, leaned on the thick stone sill, and peered through the fine glazed window to the courtyard below.
She knew it was wrong, and her brother would be furious to discover her fascination with the rebel prisoner, but she couldn’t help it. There was something about him that stood out. And it wasn’t just his formidable size or his handsome face, although she had to admit that was what had attracted her initially. Nay, he was…kind. And noble. Even if he was a rebel. How many times had she watched him take the blame (and thus the punishment) for one of the weaker men? Or shoulder more than his share of the burden of the work?
He couldn’t be…
