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Not that undermining him covertly had been rewarded. Indeed, his cousin Haydn’s forced marriage to one of Edward’s favorites had been the king’s not-very-subtle way of bringing Kenshire to heel. Phillipa had been expressly bidden to spy on them, and once he realized she was quietly refusing to do so, Edward would be pacified for only so long.

But this? ’Twas no subterfuge. It was an outright declaration of treason, even if Edyington had once been a Scottish holding. But it was firmly English now. And controlled by a lackey of the king and the king’s own men. Predictably, Conall had firm words for Freya.

“You cannot, must not, do such a thing.”

Predictably, she did not take kindly to his words. “I would not presume to cross the border into Scotland, march into Brockburg Castle, and tell your clan which actions they should or should not take. If your own home had been overtaken, your clansmen and your father murdered, would you simply cower and retreat in response?”

Isaac whistled, not bothering to hide his surprise. Rory, for his part, crossed his arms and waited, enjoying the exchange. If he’d thought Lady Freya beautiful lying in her bed, half clothed, she was even more so now. Passionate. Vengeful. If misguided.

“I would call on allies to our clan,” Conall said, his voice low, “and kill every man who dared such a thing.” He approached Rory. “Godspeed, cousin,” he said, clapping him on the back, and leaned in to whisper, “I believe you will need it.”

Chapter Ten

“As I said, I would stay close, Lady Freya. Perhaps reconsider telling the baron your identity.”

Having ridden all day, eating naught but stale bread and berries, Freya was ready to meet this Baron Whithorn that Rory and Isaac spoke of. When they decided to seek shelter at Whithorn Manor, the discussion had turned to the story they would tell. Rory did not wish to hide his own identity as his name apparently would offer more possibilities for their lodgings. Freya’s identity once would have done the same, before her father had been betrayed by her brother, slaughtered, and Edyington held in the king’s name. Along the border, allies of the king were less welcome than they were in the South. But there was much uncertainty surrounding her now.

“If I hope to gather support to take back Edyington, cowering in the corners will not achieve such a goal.”

She ignored the glance Rory and Isaac exchanged. Soon, the sun would set and she’d no longer be able to see her own hand before her face, certainly not the unsubtle doubts of her companions. She rode next to Isaac with Rory in front of them. Though they came upon few travelers, when they did Rory’s hand reached for his sword every time. It made her think of how quickly he’d dispensed with the guard in her chamber.

He’d been chosen well for this mission.

“Who else was considered as my rescuer?” she asked Isaac.

A man likely ten summers her senior, he was of fair hair that hung past his shoulders. Not a handsome man, but neither displeasing to look at. His beard reminded Freya of her father.

“What do you know of the Brotherhood?” he asked.

“My father knew both families well, though I had the occasion only to meet the Earl of Kenshire before. Never”—she nodded to Rory, who rode well ahead of them now—“his father. I’ve met just one member of his mother’s clan, when I was briefly introduced to the new Lord Warden of the Eastern Marches at the last Tournament.”

The Tournament of the North was held each year, even amidst times of turmoil, and saw both Englishmen and Scots compete. Though there were arguments, and many injuries, the only killings that occurred were typically on the melee field. Remarkably, most put down their weapons outside of the official events. Freya had attended for many years with her father.

“You met Breac, then.” Isaac looked toward the horizon. Indeed, ’twas a lovely sight this time of year. The leaves had turned a multitude of colors. “Son of Alex Kerr. Rory’s cousin.”

“How are they cousins?” she asked, knowing only the two families were intertwined after a long-standing feud that had ended many years ago.

“As you know, Sir Rory’s father is a Waryn, the earl’s brother. His mother, a Kerr, the sister of its clan chief, Toren Kerr. All of the Waryn children, and Kerr family, consider the other cousin. Or aunt, or uncle, whatever it may be. The land between them, which some call the Corridor, gives them safe passage between England and Scotland.”

“I’ve heard of that as well. My father used it often even though he was forced to travel farther east to do so. My mother,” she explained, “was Scottish. They met at the Tournament of the North.” Freya filled the pause that always came with that statement, explaining, “She died in childbirth when I was two and ten.”

“I am sorry for it, and for your father’s loss as well.”

Freya wished to change topics. When she thought of the look on her father’s face that last time in the hall, before she was taken away . . . “Tell me of your story, Sir Isaac.”

“Like you, I’ve an English father and Scots mother.” He smiled. “Such are families along the border.”

“Aye,” she agreed.

“My father served the lord of Bristol Manor since he was but a boy himself. I was raised on its outskirts, fostering with a man named . . . I will not tire you with my life story. You asked who was considered for this mission other than Sir Rory? The answer is none, really. All of the men in the Brotherhood have particular skills that make them worthy adversaries, but there is one who seems to come out of every situation unscathed, no matter its predicted outcome.”

She did not doubt Isaac’s words, but neither did Freya comment on them. She was fairly certain the man in question was listening to them. “Tire me?” she said instead. “You could not do such a thing. I’ve found your kindness most welcoming, sir. I’ve had little of it these past days.”

She hadn’t meant it as a barb directed at the man riding ahead of them, but as her gaze was wont to do, it drifted toward her “rescuer.” He slowed and looked directly at her. Had he heard her words to Isaac?

“Whithorn Manor,” he said, indicating the fortification Freya had spied as she and Isaac spoke. High upon an earthen motte, the keep was easily visible.

Their party grew silent as they rode up to the outer gate. Two guards were stationed there, the large bailey gate closed, as she’d expected.