She’d wanted emotion, but not like this. Mary hoped her horror didn’t show. “Your father fought for what he believed in, Davey. He wasn’t a traitor to his people. To your people.”
It was strange to defend Atholl after so many years. But no matter what he’d done to her—to them—he had been a great patriot. She wanted Davey to see that. Time and her marriage to Kenneth had erased some of the bitterness and given her perspective.
He sniffed his nose as if at something unpleasant. The so thoroughly English mannerism took her aback even further. “My people are under the influence of a usurper. Once Bruce is defeated, they will see the truth.”
Kenneth had been right, at least in this. There was nothing Scottish in her son. My God, how she’d failed him! She’d made a vow to fight for his heritage, fight for his patrimony, but she’d ignored the most important part: his identity. He was a Scot. His father had been executed fighting for Scottish independence, and Davey was “Dear cousin Davey” to the men who’d done so.
Suddenly, Kenneth’s question last night came back to her. What would she have done, had she been asked? Listening to her son, she knew the answer. She would have stood behind Bruce. She’d believed in Robert as much as Atholl had. That belief was buried under years of fear and making do, but it was still there. Atholl should have protected them better, he should have given her a say in her future, but she could not fault him for his allegiance to Bruce.
“My sister was married to that ‘usurper,’ David. Robert is a great man—one of the greatest knights in Christendom,” she added, knowing what was likely to impress him. “I should like you to meet him. I think you would like him.”
“I will meet him. Across a battlefield.”
“He would like to have you back in Scotland.”
He frowned. “How do you know this?”
“He told me when I was there.”
“I will be. When we win.”
Mary knew she had to tread carefully. But it was his life at stake; he deserved some say in it. “You aren’t English, you know that, don’t you, Davey? You are a Scottish earl. You belong in Scotland. Wouldn’t you like to go home? To see the lands of your ancestors?”
He looked at her as if she’d just uttered treason, which perhaps she had. “Why are you saying this, Mother?”
She paused, debating how much to tell him. In the end, she decided she’d said enough. Why was she pressing her son for an answer, when she didn’t even know her own?
She smiled. “Don’t pay me any mind. I’m in a maudlin mood.”
He stared at her for a long moment and nodded.
Standing, he walked over to the window. “That’s strange.”
“What?”
“Sir John is approaching with at least two dozen men.”
Mary’s heart dropped.It’s probably nothing, she told herself. But every instinct told her otherwise.
Twenty-five
Kenneth followed Clifford’s party for hours. He’d expected them to take the road southwest along the border to Jedburgh, but instead they took a path due west toward the town of Biggar, skirting the dangerous Selkirk Forest, which was controlled by Bruce’s men under the command of Sir James Douglas.
Where the hell were they going? Continuing on this road up the Clydesdale would take them to Bothwell Castle, just south of Glasgow. He stilled. Bothwell Castle, where the English garrison could easily be supplied by Clifford’s border castles of Carlisle and Caerlaverock.
His senses hummed. He was on to something; he knew it. What if the reason there didn’t seem to be enough supplies going north to Edinburgh was because that wasn’t the path they were going to take? What ifthiswas the path? What if Bothwell, Rutherglen, and Renfrew were the English-held castles that would keep the English army supplied and protected on their Scottish campaign?
It felt right, but how was he going to prove it? All he had was his gut to go on.
But Clifford wasn’t accommodating enough to hand him conclusive proof today. When the small party turned around near midday to return to the castle, Kenneth followed. The ride to seemingly nowhere only served to further convince him that it had been a scouting mission in advance of the army.
But he needed proof, damn it. Was it too much to ask for a nice, colorfully drawn map to fall into his hands? If only spying were that easy.
It was nearing dusk by the time Clifford’s party rode through the gate of Berwick Castle. Kenneth waited a short while before following.
He was expecting to have to do some explaining for his absence, but as he neared the gate, he wondered if it was going to take a lot more than that.
He heard the call go up when the men who were keeping watch from the battlements above sighted him. Was it his imagination, or had the air suddenly become more charged? Were the men at the gate nervous? They seemed to purposefully not meet his gaze, and more than one hand was gripping the hilt of a sword. He was beginning to get a bad feeling—a very bad feeling—about this.
