Prologue
September 1306
Ponteland Castle, Northumberland, English Marches
Dear God, who could it be at this hour?
Mary’s heart was in her throat as she hurried down the torchlit stairwell, tying the belt of the velvet robe she’d donned over her night-rail. When you were married to one of the most hunted men in Scotland and the man hunting him was the most powerful king in Christendom, being awakened in the middle of the night to the news that someone was at the gate was sure to provoke a certain amount of panic. Panic that proved warranted when Mary entered the Hall, and the person waiting for her turned and tossed back the rain-sodden hood of her dark wool huque.
Her heartbeat slammed to a halt. Though the woman’s long, golden hair was hidden beneath the ugliest head covering she’d ever seen and her delicate features were streaked with mud, Mary knew her in an instant.
She stared in horror at the face that so mirrored her own.
“Janet, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come!”
England was no place for a Scot—man or woman—with ties to Robert Bruce. And Janet, like Mary, had too many to count. Their eldest sister had been Robert’s first wife; their eldest brother had been married to Robert’s sister; their four-year-old nephew, the current Earl of Mar, was being hunted with Robert’s queen, and their niece was Robert’s only heir. King Edward of England would love nothing more than to get his hands on another daughter of Mar.
Hearing the censure in Mary’s voice, her younger-by-two-minutes twin sister flashed her an unrepentant grin and put her hands on her hips. “Well that’s a fine welcome after I’ve sailed around Scotland and ridden nearly ten miles in nonstop rain on the most disagreeable old nag known to man—”
“Janet!” she interrupted impatiently. Though her sister might seem oblivious to the danger, Mary knew she was not. Whereas Mary chose to face reality straight on, however, Janet preferred to run right over it and hope it didn’t catch up to her.
Janet pursed her mouth the way she always did when Mary forced her to slow down. “Why I’ve come to take you home, of course!”
Take her home. Scotland. Mary’s heart clenched. God, if only it were so simple.
“Does Walter know you’re here?” She couldn’t believe their brother would have sanctioned such a dangerous journey. Mary’s gaze ran over her sister in the candlelight. “And what in heavens are you wearing?”
Mary should have known better than to ask two questions, as it gave her sister a chance to ignore the one she didn’t like. Janet smiled again, pulled back her dark wool cloak, and spread the skirt of the coarse brown wool gown wide, preening as if it were the finest silk, which, given her fashion-loving sister’s penchant for wearing exactly that, made her current choice of attire even more remarkable. “Do you like it?”
“Of course, I don’t like it—it’s horrible.” Mary wrinkled her nose, admittedly sharing more than a little of her sister’s love for fine things. Were those moth holes? “With that old-fashioned wimple, you look like a nun—and an impoverished one at that.”
Apparently that was the right thing to say. Janet’s eyes lit up. “Do you think so? I did my best, but I didn’t have much to work with—”
“Janet!” Mary stopped her before she could get going again. But God, it was so good to see her! Their eyes met, and her throat started to close. “You shouldn’t be h-here.”
Her voice broke at the last, and all traces of Janet’s feigned good humor fled. A moment later Mary was enfolded in her sister’s arms. The tears she’d managed to hold back for the six horrible months since her husband had abandoned her to this nightmare came pouring out.
“You’ll be safe here,” he’d said offhandedly, his mind already on the fight ahead. John Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl, had decided on his path and nothing would stand in his way. Certainly not her. The child bride he’d never wanted, and the wife he barely noticed.
She’d swallowed what little pride she had left and asked, “Why can’t we go with you?”
He’d frowned, the impossibly handsome face that had once captured her young girl’s heart turning on her impatiently. “I’m trying to protect you and David.” The son who was nearly as much of a stranger to him as his wife. Seeing her expression, he sighed. “I’ll come for you when I can. It is safer for you in England. Edward will have no cause to blame you if things go badly.”
But never could they have imagined just how badly things would go. He’d left so confident, so certain of the righteousness of his cause and eager for the battle ahead. The Earl of Atholl was a hero, always among the first to lift his sword to answer freedom’s call. He’d fought in nearly every major battle in the past ten years over the long war for Scotland’s independence. For the cause he’d been imprisoned, forced to fight in Edward’s army, had his son held hostage for more than eight years, and had his lands on both sides of the border forfeited (and eventually returned). But none of that had stopped him from answering the call again, this time to take up her former brother-in-law Robert Bruce’s bid for the throne.
But after suffering two catastrophic defeats on the battlefield Robert’s army was on the run. As one of only three earls who’d witnessed Bruce’s coronation and joined the would-be king in his rebellion against Edward of England, her husband was one of Scotland’s most hunted men.
But so far Atholl had been right: Edward had not turned his vengeful eye on the wife and son the “traitorous earl” had left behind. The son who’d been taken from her before he was six months old to be raised in an English court and had only been returned earlier this year on the condition that he remain confined to their English lands. But how long could they continue to escape Edward’s wrath and the taint of Atholl’s treason? Every day she feared looking out the tower window and seeing the king’s army surrounding them.
She was so tired of living in fear all the time, trying to be brave. She cried against her sister’s shoulder, letting the emotions that she’d fought so valiantly to contain unfurl in hot, choking sobs.
“Of course I had to come,” Janet said, murmuring soothing words until her tears abated. Only then did she grab Mary by the shoulders and hold her back to look at her. “What have you done to yourself? You are as thin as a reed. When was the last time you ate?”
She sounded so much like their mother—gone nearly fifteen years now—that Mary almost smiled. Despite being the younger of the two, Janet had always been the protector. Throughout the disappointment and disillusionment of Mary’s marriage, the taking of her son, and the deaths of their parents, sister, and brother, Janet had been the one to dry Mary’s tears.
She hadn’t realized just how terribly alone she’d felt until the moment she’d seen Janet standing before the fire, soaking wet and wearing odd clothes, buthere.
Without waiting for Mary to answer, Janet took charge, calling for one of the servants to bring them some wine, bread, and cheese. Looking back and forth between the two nearly identical faces, the girl didn’t hesitate to follow Janet’s bidding. Mary could only smile as she found herself seated beside her sister with a large platter of food in front of her a few minutes later. Janet had divested herself of her wet cloak and hung it by the fire to dry, but had yet to remove the wimple and veil, which, seeing the big wooden cross hanging around her neck, Mary assumed was meant to suggest she was a nun.
