Page 2

That did not sound like his father at all. Forcing his eyes open, Galien knew the reason immediately as it all flooded back to him. He was not a boy of ten but a man of nine and twenty. Neither was he safe on his father’s knee, but in a prison cell.

An English prison cell.

Groaning, Galien watched as the guard tossed a bowl of porridge into his cell. It splattered onto his leg, the guard’s sneer turning into a smile. Bastard. Laughter followed as the light of his candle grew dimmer and dimmer. Galien looked down at the slop, not hungry at all. Not after the beating he’d endured that morning when he and the others had been captured. His companions were nowhere to be seen, and Galien knew three things for certain.

Wallace had gotten away. A fact he could celebrate even if he’d done so before they could warn him about the rumored attack—one that Galien could no longer help prevent.

Second, he knew that the guards would never learn his identity. To allow it would put his family at risk for being so closely associated with the most wanted rebel in Scotland.

And third—he didn’t know when or how badly he would be beaten and tortured as King Edward had often threatened of William Wallace and any of his supporters—but Galien was certain his days for this world were few.

2

“Apologies, Lady Reina. You are not permitted down there.”

Of course she wasn’t. If the rumors were true, there were three Scotsmen in their dungeons, and her parents would never, ever, allow her to be in the presence of even one Scot. Their very adamance about it was the reason she needed, desperately, to get down there. It was the closest she’d ever been to one in her life.

“I was asked to bring this to them,” she said of the tankard in her hand. “We do not torture our prisoners.” The guard didn’t flinch.

“They’ve been supplied with food and water,” he said dryly.

Reina knew this one would be shrewd. She’d almost waited until nightfall to see who would be stationed at the top of the stairs that led down to Anbarth’s dungeons. There were rarely guards here, but now, with three men of such high value in captivity, supposed companions of Wallace, there were nearly as many guards hovering nearby as there were atop the walls. She tried again.

“I know only what I’ve been told,” she said sweetly. “And I’ve been told to bring this belowstairs, to our Scots prisoners.”

He neither confirmed, nor denied, the fact. Reina watched his eyes, however, and they told a different tale. So it was true!

Shoving aside her maid’s warning that they were likely very dangerous men, Reina tried again. It was not as if they would be roaming free down there. Each small cell was securely, and individually, locked. “I am but following orders.”

“Whose orders?”

He would not believe the steward sent her. Or likely anyone, for that matter. Aware it would be unusual for the lord’s daughter to be in the presence of their prisoners, she offered the answers she’d prepared earlier.

“My mother’s.”

Already abed, as she was most days as soon as the sun set, he could not verify her claim. When the prisoners had been brought into Anbarth’s courtyard earlier, a message had been sent immediately to Newcastle, where her father was meeting with the bishop. Once he returned, there was no chance she could question these men.

“Your mother’s?” he asked dryly.

She nodded. He would not verify it, not with her mother already retired. But neither, it seemed, would he allow her to pass. “Give it here,” he said, extending his hand. “I will see the prisoner receives more water,” he added, emphasizing “more.”

Prisoner. Reina had heard there were three men. So that was untrue. Was their origin untrue as well? Asking him would only serve to remind the man that her parents did not allow Reina to associate with any Scots. Not that there was much of an opportunity, even though Anbarth was not far from the border. But it was, aside from Kenshire Castle, the most fortified castle in these parts. Or so Reina had been told. She’d had little opportunity to see much of it for herself.

She had taken one trip to London when she’d turned ten and six. A betrothal ceremony, as it were. But here Reina was nearly four years later, still unwed, still sheltered, and still without answers about her birth. Which was precisely why she was determined to get down to that cell.

“Good eve, Lady Reina,” the guard said, trying to dismiss her. He would not let her pass. As expected, but she was bound, at least, to attempt it.

“Good eve,” she muttered, moving on to her next plan. For that she would need assistance.

She left the keep and marched to the one place she felt most at peace. With the one person she knew had never lied to her. Past the stables and the chapel, Reina greeted the few people milling about at this time and went straight to the building just behind the barracks. One of the most important, in the inner bailey that would be protected at all costs.

Rapping at the door, Reina waited for the door to creak open. When it did, Joan did not hesitate and Reina stepped inside. Well appointed, courtesy of Reina, who would have it no other way, the room was large, but not too large, just as the healer wanted. Since she refused to reside in the keep, claiming it “too drafty by far,” Reina had at least ensured her mentor, of sorts, would be as comfortable as possible.

Indeed, Joan loved her new home. The old one she’d shared with her husband, now passed on, was no longer acceptable. Joan had seen more than seventy summers and could not easily travel from the village any longer.

“I do apologize for disturbing you so late,” Reina started, but Joan waved her hand as if to dismiss her words.

“Sit,” Joan said, speaking to her as a mother might to her daughter. “’Tis about the prisoners, is it not?”