Chapter Seven
Through the hot burn of tears, Thomas stared at his father. The thick mane of white evidence of the years past, the aged weathered lines carved in his face a testament to his strife, and the pale green eyes filled with anguish, suffering he’d caused.
A raw ache built in his chest. If he ever again faced his father, he’d envisioned the encounter a stoic if nae awkward event. A cool measuring look to the other, his father’s scowl as he weighed the man Thomas had become, and a brief verbal exchange. Then, without incident, they would part.
He fisted his hands in the covers as he stared at the man who’d raised him, taught him how to wield a sword, and was stunned after all these years to find a need for his acceptance.
God’s teeth! He was a Knight Templar, had led men into battle, and faced overwhelming odds in combat. Yet, with each moment, the defensive shield he’d carefully built around his heart crumbled.
Dark memories flooded him of the day they’d buried Léod, of the soul-tearing sobs of his mother and her inconsolable grief. Of how through sheer will he’d nae collapsed as they’d lowered his brother’s body into the rain-drenched earth, and with each inch, numb, aching, how he’d cursed that it wasna him who’d died.
However much he wished to turn away, Thomas held. ’Twas his actions that’d caused his family’s torment, and ’twas his guilt to bare. “Father.” His voice wavered within the deafening silence.
The Duke of Westwick’s lower lip began to quiver. “My s-son.”
The pain in his father’s voice drove another blast of misery through Thomas. Clinging to his composure by a thread, he remained silent.
With slow steps, the noble walked over as Nicholai moved to the side.
As he paused before the bed, Thomas noted how the man’s jaw trembled, and that tears pooled in his eyes.
“I…” The duke shook his head. “Never did I think to see you again.” His voice broke at the last.
Again Thomas cursed Nicholai’s intervention. Didna his friend understand he’d done naught but ripped open old wounds, ones that would take many years, if ever, to heal? “I meant to keep away.”
At his rough whisper, anger slashed the frailty in his father’s expression. “I didna teach you to run from your troubles.”
The ache in his chest drove deeper. “At the time ’twas best that I left. I would think, considering everything, you would welcome my decision to become a monk.”
“I was wrong to allow you to escape to the monastery. I believed distance and prayer would help you heal. When I learned you had departed the monastery without a word to anyone in the family…” Aged eyes narrowed. “Your leaving broke your mother’s heart.”
A heart shattered by his brother’s death, except his father refused to accept the truth. “’Twas never my intent to hurt Mother, she had already suffered enough.” His voice trembled, and he silently cursed. “I pray she has moved past the torment I caused.”
The little color in his father’s face drained. “Y-your mother is dead.”
Despair ripped through him, sucking his every thought until his mind blurred with grief. Dead? He looked away, his each inhale dredged with tears, the ache in his soul storming him with ruthless vengeance. When he thought he could speak, utter anything without again falling apart, he turned. “Ho-how?”
“Two years ago she grew ill. Healers tried to save her.” A tremor shook his father’s voice, but he continued. “In the end, there was naught that I, or anyone else could do but pray.”
“I…” Thomas fought for composure against the swell of heartache. Throughout his youth, regardless the cause, he could always turn to his mother. Steadfast, calm when others were frantic, she was the cornerstone that’d held their family together.
That he would never see her again. God’s teeth, how did one respond to such devastating news? Regret was a pathetic offering when one’s soul lay ragged. Yet, he had naught more to offer. “I am sorry.”
Sadness weighed on his father’s face. “While I am sharing tragic news, your sister, Orabilia, came down with the sickness and died shortly after. And a year past, your brother Matheu died in battle.”
Coldness clutched Thomas until he shook. Through the haze of shock, Alesone’s soft sniffle cut through his sorrow.
The surprise in his father’s eyes as he glanced toward her shifted to a scowl.
“Father,” Thomas forced out, doubtful a way existed to salvage this situation. He shot Nicholai a cool look before turning to his father. “May I introduce Mistress Alesone. She saved my life.”
The gruff expression faded. “Mistress Alesone, please accept my deepest gratitude.”
“I…” She gave a shaky nod.
“Alesone,” Thomas said, “may I introduce His Grace, Duke of Westwyck.”
She curtsied. “Your Grace, ’tis an honor to meet you. My deepest regret for the loss of your wife and children.”
“I thank you.” The noble cleared his throat. “I regret your having heard our exchange.”
As did Thomas, more so with Alesone still struggling to cope with the loss of Grisel. Never had he planned for her to know of his past, or to learn that like her, scars tormented his youth.
Bedamned, now wasna the time to linger on such troubling thoughts. With his father’s fealty, he couldna risk him learning of Alesone’s importance to Comyn. “I am escorting Mistress Alesone. En route, we were attacked, and through good fortune, we ended up here.”
A grim line settled on the duke’s mouth while he studied him. “Once healed and with Mistress Alesone delivered, did you intend to come home?”
He damned the question, nor would he avoid the topic. If naught else, he owed his father this truth. “Nay.”
The cool expression on his father’s grew fierce. “Where are you headed?”
Long seconds passed.
Shrewd eyes held his. “Blast it, Thomas, is the destination of such secrecy?”
Tingles prickled Thomas’s skin. “’Tis naught anything I can discuss further.”
The duke’s mouth thinned. “As I rode into the outskirts of the monastery,” he said, his words calculated, “I was halted by Comyn’s men. They seek a man and”—his gaze shifted to Alesone “—a woman.”
She gasped.
“I take it,” his father said, his words ice, “’tis the two of you they are after?”
Thomas muttered a silent curse, glanced at Nicholai before facing his father. Blast it, he should have warned her of his father’s loyalty. “Aye.”
Face grim, the monk stepped beside them. “Your Grace, your son and Mistress Alesone are beneath the church’s protection.”
“Father,” Thomas said, his head pounding and grief distorting his ability to select his words with care, “’tis best if you leave.”
Veins throbbed in the elder’s head. “By God, I am nae going anywhere until I find out the reason Comyn’s men want you!”
* * *
Distraught by the conflict between father and son, and further troubled by how pale Thomas had become, Alesone stepped forward. Within the frustration and anger, neither had she missed the silent yearning in Thomas’s eyes, the same reflected in his fathers. Though strife had torn their family apart, she refused to allow her situation to be the reason for continued conflict.
“Comyn’s men are here because of me, Your Grace.”
The Duke of Westwyck’s hard gaze leveled on her, the intensity reminiscent of his son’s. “Why?”
“’Tis nae your concern,” Thomas snapped.
Aged eyes narrowed. “I asked Mistress Alesone.”
Thomas shot her a warning glare.
With her father’s claim of the blood tie and offering gold to whomever captured her, her vow to King Robert was void. “Lord Comyn is my father.”
Shock paled the noble’s face.
“Alesone,” Thomas growled, “the duke’s loyalty is to Lord Comyn.”
She froze. The reason Thomas’s hadna answered. What had she done! Refusing to show fear, she angled her jaw. “Neither will I return to my father.”
Nicholai cleared his throat. “A choice sanctuary within the monastery provides her, Your Grace.”
“Father,” Thomas warned, “you willna interfere. Mistress Alesone is beneath my protection, a pledge I will die to keep if necessary.”
The duke’s eyes strafed his son. “Which I see that you have almost done.”
“’Twould seem,” Thomas said with soft violence, “there is little more to be discussed. ’Tis best if you go.”
Regardless of the cause that’d torn Thomas’s family apart, Alesone’s heart broke at how after all of these years, and with silent yearning in his eyes, he pushed his father away. That the duke had rushed to see him when he’d learned his son was nearby spoke volumes.
Didna Thomas realize the gift he held, a bond however frayed, with time and nurturing, could be repaired? A relationship with her own father she would never experience.
“To have sent such a large contingent,” the duke said, “you have upset Lord Comyn greatly.”
Shame filled her at the truth. “He has offered a significant reward of gold as well.”
“Alesone,” Thomas hissed. “Dinna say more.”
A decision she would heed if nae for the flicker of longing she witnessed every time the duke had looked upon his son, a need Thomas was working hard to ignore. Aye they were related by blood, both men of the same stubborn ilk.
“Your Grace, any right my father had to my welfare or loyalty has long since died.” She angled her jaw. “Nor will I return to him.”
Appreciation shimmered in the noble’s eyes. “Neither would I expect you to.”
At the pride in his father’s voice, Thomas stilled. God’s teeth, what was going on?
Tiredness settled on the duke’s aged face, and the ire of moments before faded. “When Brother Nicholai sent a runner with news of your arrival…” He shook his head. “’Twas as if an answer to my prayers.”
Skeptical, Thomas remained silent.
“When I learned you were wounded, I couldna ride here fast enough.”
The sincerity in his father’s admission left Thomas off balance. Need, deeply buried inside screamed in his mind to admit he’d yearned to see him, but guilt-ridden over the strife he’d caused, he shoved the confession aside.
When he didna reply, tense lines settled on his father’s face. “I willna go without you. I lost you once, and by God I refuse to lose you again.”
The words Thomas had longed to hear wilted beneath his shame. “With our fealties opposed to the other,” he forced out, “it canna be otherwise. You must leave.”
The duke shook his head. “Nay.”
Blast it! “Father ’tis—”
“After the death of Margaret, the Maid of Norway,” the duke cut in, “Robert Bruce was furious when The Guardians of Scotland refused to recognize his grandfather’s claim as overlord to Scotland. King Edward twisted the law, ensured by whatever means necessary that his authority was recognized. Furious, I approached Bishop Wishart in private.”
Thomas stared at his father in disbelief. “You confronted one of the Guardians of Scotland?”
“Aye, I informed Bishop Wishart that I was appalled by the treachery that he as the other Guardians of Scotland had allowed by King Edward I’s hand. Further, I refused to swear fealty to John Balliol. But”—he gave Thomas a measuring look—“the bishop explained that when he’d learned how England’s king had skewed any chance of Robert Bruce, the Competitor, claiming the crown, he arranged a secret meeting with the Guardians of Scotland. There, they made plans for Scotland’s future, one that didna include King Edward I. Wishart beseeched me to appear loyal to Balliol, and in secret to conspire with him to ensure the Bruce gained his rightful crown.”
Thomas stared at his father in disbelief. “You have been loyal to the Bruce throughout?”
The duke gave a curt nod.
“Never did you say anything,” Thomas whispered.
Sadness touched the duke’s face. “I had planned on informing you the evening after you had become a squire.”
The day he’d killed his brother. After a desperate search for Léod in the river, Thomas had run to the castle. Frantic with the news, everyone had joined the search. With the last rays of the sun fading from the sky, they’d found his brother’s body downstream, bloodied and shoved against the rocks.
“After”—his father’s throat worked—“’twas nae the time for such news.”
Guilt piled atop the already immense amount. The following day they’d spent burying his brother.
“Then you approached me about entering the monastery.” The duke’s eyes dark with anguish held his. “I cursed your self-condemnation, but you wouldna listen to anything I said. When you requested to become a monk, with the monastery but a half-day’s ride from Dair Castle, once a month or so had passed, I had planned to visit and tell you the truth.”
“Except when you arrived,” Thomas said, the blackened memories rolling through him. “you discovered that I had left.”
His father gave a weak nod. “I didna know where you had gone.”
Thomas glanced at Brother Nicholai.
“I swore that I would never share your destination,” his friend said.
Like the wind removed from his sails, Thomas sagged back, pondered his next move.
Shrewd eyes held his. “I would think,” the duke said, “you would be pleased to know of my loyalty to Robert Bruce’s grandfather, one that has transferred to our king.”
He was, except his allegiance complicated everything. ’Twas simpler when his father supported the enemy, a solid reason why he must remain away. Now he had naught but the guilt of his brother’s death.
“The news is a relief,” Thomas admitted, “but it changes little.”
The strain on his father’s face softened. “It changes everything.”
If ’twas only so easy.
The duke faced the monk. “I will be taking my son home.”
“God’s teeth,” Thomas hissed. “What of Lord Comyn’s men?”
“A simple enough task,” his father said. “I will ride to Dair Castle and return with a contingent of men for an escort.” He faced Alesone. “Mistress Alesone, as my son is charged with your safety, you will accompany us and, if you wish, care for him until he is healed.”
* * *
Alesone held the noble’s gaze, moved by his love for his son, saddened how Thomas’s replies exposed that he remained mired in guilt. “I thank you, Your Grace, I am honored to be your guest.”
Panic flickered into Thomas’s eyes. “Your intervention is unnecessary. I am receiving proper care here.”
“You will go,” the duke said with quiet authority. He turned on his heel and strode out.
The monk followed.
Flames flickered in the hearth as the soft thud of the door echoed in the chamber.
On unsteady legs, she walked to the chair.
“You havena broken your fast this day,” Thomas said, his voice ice, “a task you should see to.”
Alesone arched her brow in defiance.
“I wish to be alone.”
She sat. “Why do you push your father away?”
“You dinna understand what happened.”
At the hurt in his voice, an ache built inside. “Then tell me.”
Anger slashed his face.
“Do you think you are the only one that lives with guilt for the death of someone you loved?” she demanded, the ire she’d buried deep breaking free. “If I hadna brought Robert Bruce’s man to our hut, never would Grisel’s life been placed in jeopardy. How do you think I feel knowing that because of me, she was beaten, raped, and murdered?”
“You willna blame yourself! Your decision was one that anyone loyal to our king would have made.”
“Knowing that and accepting the reality isna easy. A fact you well understand.” She swallowed hard. “Tell me, how does one find forgiveness?”
“I dinna know,” he rasped, his voice breaking at the last. “I-I am unsure if ’tis possible.”