Chapter Three
Robert lay on the ground in the predawn hours, unmoving. Soon he would have to rise to fight another day against King Edward, but as men snored around him still in slumber, he looked up at the stars, contemplating the plan of attack for the day. Since leaving the relative peacefulness of Ireland and returning to Scotland, Robert had seen one hard-fought battle after another to keep King Edward and his son, the Prince of Wales, from gaining control. Today would be no different.
A stick snapped to his right and behind him. He whipped out his dagger and gained his feet in a breath.
“Bruce,” Simon Fraser said, his familiar voice barely audible. “I’ve traveled long and hard to bring someone who wishes to speak with ye.”
“Fraser?” Robert lowered his dagger, sheathed it, and clasped the forearm of his friend.
Niall, who had been on guard duty and must have brought Fraser to Robert, came to stand beside Fraser and said, “Dunnae Fraser look old? I hardly recognized him for the lines creasing his face when he approached.”
Fraser elbowed Niall good-naturedly. “Ye ken I’m still more handsome than ye.”
“As I recall,” Niall teased, “ye tried to capture the attention of my wife, but I’m the one married to her, aye.”
“I dunnae doubt she rues that choice,” Fraser said with a wink.
Robert felt himself grin. The three of them had not stood together joking like this in a long while. The circle of Renegades, as they’d long called themselves, would be near complete if Angus was standing there, but he was on guard duty still. “How the devil did ye manage to get away from the king without suspicion?” he whispered to Fraser, ever aware of the men who slept near. Though they battled by his side, that did not mean there was not a spy among them. After all, Fraser did spy for Robert in Edward’s camp.
“Ye ken I’m sly,” Fraser said, in a hushed, teasing tone. “Come.” Fraser motioned to the sleeping men.
Robert nodded in understanding and followed Fraser into the thick woods where he could see another man waiting. As they drew closer, it became clear that it was William Lamberton, the bishop of St. Andrews and a longtime friend and fellow Renegade. Lamberton had trained with them at Mar’s, but he had chosen to serve the church. Robert knew the calling had come after Lamberton’s young sister had been brutally murdered by an English knight. Lamberton had retaliated and killed the man responsible, but plagued by guilt, he had chosen to obtain peace through words and deeds, not by the sword.
“Lamberton,” Robert greeted the prelate, not using his title as Lamberton had insisted none in the Renegades should be so formal with him.
The bishop smiled and grasped forearms with Robert. “I return from meeting with Edward at his camp. Before that, I was in France. I’ve news important to all of us.”
Robert tensed but not because he did not trust Lamberton. There were few men he trusted more. Lamberton had worked tirelessly, and put himself in peril, to aid the Scottish rebellion without drawing suspicion from King Edward. And he had prevented a complete breach between Robert and John Comyn. After Comyn’s latest failure to send warriors to aid Robert, it was Lamberton who had convinced Robert that to battle with Comyn while already battling Edward would be futile at best, a death sentence at worst.
“The news must be important, indeed, for ye to meet with Edward and then come to us. If Edward’s men have followed ye, ye put yerself at great risk.”
“He did nae,” Lamberton said.
“Ye’re certain?” Niall demanded. “Ye were nae ever good at being stealthy in the woods, if I recall.”
Lamberton snaked his hand out and smacked Niall in the back of the head. “How’s that for stealthy ye clot-heid?”
Niall chuckled as he rubbed the back of his head. “I’m impressed with yer improvement.”
“A compliment I will gladly take,” the bishop said. “Now, before I was interrupted, I was going to say that Edward kens I’m here meeting with ye. It was his suggestion.” The news surprised Robert, but he did not comment, preferring to let Lamberton explain. “He believes—What were his words? Oh, that I might be ‘the voice of reason in that young pup’s unthinking mind.’ He does nae seem to take note that we are of the same age.”
Robert snorted as did Niall and Fraser.
“It’s good for us that he does nae see ye as a threat,” Fraser said.
“And that he believes ye are merely a messenger to convince me of his wishes,” Robert added.
“Aye.” Lamberton smiled. “It’s an advantage, though I do wonder at times should I be offended he’s nae wary of me as he is of ye.”
“Dunnae take offense, Lamb,” Niall teased, invoking the much-hated moniker everyone in their Renegade circle but Robert had adopted for Lamberton when he had joined the church.
Lamberton shot Niall a menacing look. “Mayhap the robes make me seem docile?” he asked, the question seemingly innocent, but then bared his teeth before laughing.
Robert chuckled. “It simply means ye are verra good at the role ye play.”
“I thank ye,” Lamberton said with a mock bow.
“What’s occurred?” Robert asked, knowing something must have.
“The Pope heard an argument from a Scottish envoy funded by the Comyns.”
“Who?” Robert asked, curling his fingers around his sword. “This is the first I’ve heard that we”—he stressed the word we as there were twelve appointed Scottish nobles who decided such things as sending envoys, and he sat among those twelve, yet he had not been informed of a meeting to determine someone going to the Pope—“sent an envoy to ask the Pope to release Balliol from being held in France.”
“Baldred Basset was the envoy,” Lamberton said, his mouth turning down at the corners.
Robert groaned. “Basset lives on coin from Comyn.”
Niall and Fraser spat toward the ground at once in a show of dislike for Comyn.
“Aye,” Lamberton agreed. “Comyn chose wisely when he recruited the man. Basset is a gifted speaker—”
“A silver-tongued snake,” Fraser inserted.
“True,” Lamberton said. “And the snake has persuaded the Pope to allow Balliol to return to Scotland.”
Robert flinched, feeling as if he had been struck. No news could have been worse. “Comyn brings Balliol home to control him.”
“Nay,” Lamberton said. There was an edge to the prelate’s voice Robert had not heard since the day the man had killed the English knight years before. “Comyn told me himself that Balliol will abdicate the throne once again when he has returned to Scotland, and he will nominate Comyn as his successor.”
“God’s teeth!” Bruce swore. “Every word ye speak seals Scotland’s doom and condemns its people!”
“Aye!” Niall agreed.
Robert inhaled sharply. “Comyn as puppet master is bad enough; Comyn as king will do as he pleases without answering to the council. His first order of business will be to destroy anyone who has ever supported me.” Robert thought about all who counted upon him, especially his brothers, Niall, Angus, Fraser, and the few others in their inner circle, and worry made his temples throb. “Who is the more dangerous enemy, then? Edward or Comyn?”
“Edward believes Comyn is—to both of ye,” Lamberton answered. “And for now, I concur. Who can say in another few months or a year.”
“Och!” Fraser growled. “Edward kens Comyn will nae be as easily defeated or controlled as Balliol would be.”
Lamberton nodded. “Aye, he kenned it, and I whispered the thought to him, as well, encouraging him to worry himself about it.”
“For what purpose?” Robert asked, amazed as he often was by Lamberton’s shrewd mind. He was perhaps the most cunning plotter Robert had ever known, and Robert rested easy knowing the Scottish church was just as vehement as he was that Edward not dominate Scotland. He had earned their burning hatred by continuing to introduce English priests to Scottish benefices. As to Comyn, Robert knew well that Lamberton disliked the man—almost as much as he did Edward—for the lack of respect he showed the Scottish church.
Lamberton’s lips curled back from his teeth in an almost feral smile. “For this,” he said, sweeping his hands between himself and Robert. “He thinks it was his idea to send me to ye, Robbie, and for a prideful man such as the king, that is of utmost importance.”
“What plan do ye have in mind?” Robert asked, realizing that Lamberton did indeed have one.
“Edward suggests a temporary truce in fighting,” the bishop said. “He uses winter as an excuse. He sees an opportunity to mobilize a larger army, if ye agree to the truce. He also kens he cannot conquer the north of Scotland without ye. I suggested that ye may be agreeable, having had so much of yer land destroyed and yer people killed—and beleaguered on every side by the threat of Edward himself, Comyn, and now Balliol—to come to his court and finally pay him homage and bend the knee. Or at the very least entertain the idea.”
“Robert will nae ever bend the knee!” Fraser roared.
“Aye!” Niall concurred. “He is nae weak!”
“Calm yerselves,” Robert urged Fraser and Niall in a low voice. “Lamberton does nae truly wish me to surrender,” he explained, his friend’s plan becoming clear. “But pretend that I might?”
“Aye. It will bide time, either for yer father to come to his senses and make his claim for the throne, or—” he set a hand on Robert’s shoulder “—for yer father to die. I am sorry to be so blunt.”
Robert nodded, his throat constricting and preventing immediate speech. He had been estranged with his father for years now, angered by his lack of backbone and his willingness to allow his loyal vassals in Scotland to flounder, but the man was still his father and loyalty and affection remained in his heart.
Lamberton inhaled an audible breath. “Ye would have my backing as king,” the prelate said, “but ye kinnae make the claim unless yer father passes, so that leaves Comyn for the church to back if it comes to it. I will do all I can to prevent it, but of the two evils—Edward and Comyn—at least Comyn is a Scot.”
“Understood,” Robert said, his voice sounding scratchy with the emotion he strove to control. Standing there speaking of his father’s eventual demise did not sit well. “My father failed to fight for the Scottish people when they needed him the most,” Robert said in a near whisper, ashamed to say the words out loud, despite the horrible truth.
“While ye are at Edward’s court gaining us time,” Lamberton continued, “we’ll covertly build our own forces even as he does his, and we can work to bring Wallace home from France to join us in our efforts. Ye’ll be in an excellent position by Edward’s side—even more so than Fraser here—to aid the rebellion. Even as Edward fights ye, he admires ye. It is my belief that he may draw ye into his confidence or boast to ye, and ye can use that information to alert us what he plots, so we can undermine him.”
“Or he may be planning the exact thing with me,” Robert growled.
“He may,” the bishop acquiesced. “Ye must simply be more cunning than he is. Keep yer guard up always.”
Berwick, England
The journey to England from Ireland had been cold with a constant icy wind whipping at Elizabeth from the sea. Still, the weather paled in comparison to the frigid reception she and Lillianna received from her father. They arrived at the king’s court in the early hours of the morning and were immediately taken where he was in the great hall meeting with the king’s advisors.
Conversation ceased at the north end of the great hall as Elizabeth and Lillianna followed the guard into the room. Her father’s gaze flicked over them, and his eyebrows rose disdainfully. Self-conscious of her travel-worn appearance, she smoothed the wrinkles from her gown as her cheeks flamed. Then, realizing what she was doing, she stilled, angry that her father could so easily injure her feelings after all that had occurred and all that she knew of him. Lillianna offered a quick, discreet, sympathetic smile before Elizabeth’s father came near.
He greeted Lillianna with a nod and then said to the guard, “Take Lady Lillianna to her lady’s maid quarters.”
“Lady’s maid?” Elizabeth gasped, seeing Lillianna’s cheeks blotch red.
“Yes,” her father said coldly. “She is here as your lady’s maid. What else did you think?”
Elizabeth gritted her teeth. She had thought, perhaps, her father had made a kind gesture allowing Lillianna to come with her, but she should have known his offer was spiked with thorns. “I thought she came as the lady she is.”
“She is what I say she is and nothing more—as are you.” His voice was hard. “Lillianna, do you have any complaints?” he asked, his smooth voice disguising his true character.
“No, Uncle,” Lillianna said, her voice sweet and complacent. Elizabeth was amazed at her cousin’s ability to hide her feelings.
“Excellent. Off with you, then.”
Lillianna dipped a curtsy and followed the guard out of the room without a backward glance. Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath when her father gripped her elbow and motioned to the other side of the room. “Come. I will talk with you now, as you have arrived later than we expected you to. There is no time to tarry.”
They got no farther than halfway across the room when a tall, broad-chested man with shoulder-length russet hair strode into the room and headed straight for her father.
Her father frowned as the man stopped before him. “Why do you wear a plaid?”
“Bruce would be suspicious if I did nae, and I did nae have time to change. I only just rode in.”
Her father nodded, and she stilled at the mention of Robert’s name. She considered the newcomer. A green gaze studied her intently, making her desire to turn away, but she forced herself to remain still. A smile quivered suddenly at the stranger’s lips, as if he understood his effect on her. His thick lashes lowered to veil his eyes and whatever secrets he hid before he turned slightly to her father.
“Did Bruce accept the invitation?” her father asked.
“Aye. Warily. Bruce is canny.”
Her father darted a look at her and then pulled the man over to the west end of the solar.
Thoughts of Robert and the danger he was in sent an odd tremor rushing through her. She did not understand the effect the man had on her, but she could not deny it, either. When she had encountered him last a heat as intense as the hottest days she had ever experienced had coursed through her the entire time they had spoken. She stared at her father and the stranger, trying and almost altogether failing to read their lips except for discerning Robert’s name flowing back and forth between them.
Perhaps she could get closer, overhear their conversation. She moved slowly to the table near the window, which was also near her father. His gaze drew to her, his eyes narrowed, and he stopped talking. Steeling herself, she sat and put her head on her arm as if utterly exhausted, which was quite true, and she closed her eyes.
Disappointment washed over her when the men spoke in no more than low murmurs she could not discern, but then she heard her father snarl, “Tell me, Fraser, how did it come to pass that Bruce dared to knight William Wallace, a common man, an outlaw?”
Elizabeth inhaled a shaky breath at the vehemence in her father’s voice.
“They fight for the same cause,” the man Fraser said, his Scottish accent heavy. “Bruce kenned that Wallace could rally the common folk, and as I said, Bruce is clever.”
“Wallace is an outlaw!” her father growled again.
“To ye. To the Scottish people, Wallace is a great man who fights to avenge the death of his wife at an English knight’s hands. Bruce saw this and took advantage.”
Elizabeth frowned. She did not think Robert was the type of man who would take advantage, yet she had to admit she knew little of him truly, not much more than his actions of years before and the few words they had exchanged almost two months ago.
“Well,” her father said. She could hear the conceited amusement in his voice. “It seems Bruce woefully misjudged his ally and his own capabilities. Wallace has fled to France, and Bruce is all but defeated. He comes to bend the knee now.”
“Aye, he told me himself he is sick of war.”
Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath at the news. Surely Robert would rather die than give up his fight for freedom. She knew she would. Yet, here she sat. She had come here like a plump pig to be roasted when her plan to escape had been foiled. Given no other choice, she had come. Who was she to judge Robert? Why had she not fought to find another way? She curled her fists as tears stung her eyes.
“Bruce pretends to be so moral, yet here he is, prepared to grovel and become a turncoat to gain back his lands, his wealth, and his titles,” the Scot snarled.
A tumble of confused thoughts assaulted her. Robert was a turncoat? She could not believe it, yet why would this man lie? He had spoken to Robert, it seemed.
“What did Bruce say of his father?” her own father asked.
“He says he still does nae have the mettle to try to take the throne.”
“We know this! Bruce the Younger is the worry for us. He long has been. He is the revered knight. He will outlive his father, and what vexes Edward is that it may not be long.”
“Bruce is ripe to pay homage. Do nae fear. This is from his lips to me. Between ye and Comyn he is surrounded by enemies, and his hatred for Comyn will work to our favor. What of the other part of yer plan? Will ye now tell me what it is?”
“Tomorrow perhaps,” her father said. “I must speak to my daughter before supper and the hour grows near. Take your leave, Fraser.”
“My lord,” the man Fraser said after a long pause, which made her think he had not wanted to take his leave. But footsteps faded, and then the door clicked shut.
“Elizabeth!” her father beckoned sharply.
She righted herself, praying she looked near exhaustion. “Father?” she said with a yawn.
Her father smiled down at her. “You want to regain my favor, do you not?”
An impossible task, she thought bitterly, but realized with shock that his words made hope niggle within her. She was a fool! He merely wanted to use her, but what if…what if he didn’t? Memories of how she had once adored him flooded her, knotting her throat. She swallowed. “I do,” she said.
“Then so you shall,” he said, taking up her hand and patting it. Her heart tugged fiercely. Her father had not given her a loving touch in many long years. She had not realized how much she had missed it. “King Edward has called a temporary truce with the Scots.”
She knew well why after what she had overheard. She nodded, thinking it best.
His gaze seemed to impale her. “I’m certain you recall Robert the Bruce?”
Uneasiness stirred within her chest. “Yes, of course.”
“He will arrive here tonight to meet with Edward, and the king wishes you to personally greet and entertain Bruce.”
“Why?” she asked, knowing full well that her godfather wished to crush Robert, not sup with him. She didn’t understand how simply greeting Robert and entertaining him could regain her father’s favor.
“Because, my dear, you are a beautiful woman, but more importantly, you have one of the keenest minds I have ever known. We need such a mind and such a beauty to gain Bruce’s trust and learn his secrets. He claims to be coming to pay homage and accept the king as his liege lord, but we must know for certain and discover all he might impart to you of the Scottish rebellion.”
Her breath whooshed out of her, and then she sucked it in sharply. “You wish me to seduce him?” She heard herself asking the question, but she could hardly believe it. Surely, her father would not use her so.
“Yes,” he said, the word clipped. Its implications for the last bit of hope she had held that her father loved her were disastrous.
His admission tore through her and left her shaking. The coldness started in her lips but swept through her body like a wintry gale. She curled her hands into fists, anger beating hard within her. “No.”
Her father’s gaze grew flinty. “You dare to tell me no?” His voice lashed at her like a whip.
The coldness that had swept through her turned positively chilling. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and a shudder of fear coursed through her. She licked her lips, which tingled with shock like the rest of her body. “Yes. Put me in the dungeon, beat me if you will, but I will not whore for you.”
Her father’s hand came to her chin in a blur and gripped it, much as it had years before. She heard herself whimper with the pain, yet she was determined to refuse. “You can hardly be a whore if the man is your husband.”
“Husband?” Her mind reeled, and the room seemed to tilt. “You and King Edward would have me wed Bruce to be in a position to betray him?” Her words were barely above a whisper. Her tongue felt thick with the anxiety spiraling through her.
“Possibly,” her father said, releasing his grip on her. “The king has not yet decided for certain, but you will seduce the Scot. If you do not become his wife, Edward will give you another.”
“G-give me?” she sputtered. She did not want to be assigned a husband. She did not want to marry any man her father or the king chose. The room seemed to be growing smaller and hotter. She backed up a few steps and stumbled into a chair, catching herself with her hands. “I won’t do it. I cannot.”
“You can and you will. Or you will find yourself imprisoned. There is an iron cage in which you will be placed and left for one year for each Moray you rescued. My count was twenty.”
The betrayal took her breath, wrenched her gut, constricted her throat, and threatened to bring her to her knees. Tears burned behind her eyelids, but with a force of will, she stopped them. “I do not care,” she said, meaning it. “I would rather die in an iron cell than go through life without freedom, with you and the king commanding my every breath!”
“You have no freedom!” he roared. “I told you so years ago, and still you do not seem to realize it!” He was in front of her with her upper arms tight in his grip before she realized what was occurring. “You push me too far, Elizabeth, and now you will see. You will understand. Lillianna has been put in the dungeon.”
“What?” she gasped. “You said—”
“A ruse,” he interrupted. “I thought you might be troublesome, and you are, so I took a precaution. You will bring me what I desire, which is the king’s eternal gratitude when I help him tame Bruce and win the throne of Scotland.”
Bile rose in her throat. She was trapped, her hand forced. There was no way she could get Lillianna out of the dungeon with it so heavily guarded, and she would never flee without her cousin. “You cannot keep her there,” she said desperately. “It is riddled with disease. She could die.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Remember that, for she will only be released from the cell when you show me you are compliant. She will secure permanent freedom the day you either marry Bruce or wed whatever damned man I tell you to. Do you understand?”
“I do,” she whispered, such bleakness washing over her that her thoughts felt muddled. She did not know Robert well, but she believed she knew enough of him to understand that if the man ever discovered she had seduced him and married him at her father and the king’s behest, he would be unforgiving. She would not fault him for it, either. Yet, she had no choice.
Her father released his grip, and she rubbed her pulsing arms. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair as he swept his gaze over her, assessing. “Bruce has not a single castle left fit to live in. His tenants and vassals have deserted him or been killed or have gone into hiding. His power is dwindling. The Scottish lords cannot agree on anything, and their constant division between Balliol and Bruce’s father leaves them weak. If Bruce is wise, he is coming here to truly relinquish his place in the rebellion and join Edward. You will discover his thoughts and his plans whether simply in his bed as his whore or as his wife. Or Lillianna will suffer.”
“I understand,” she said, though her lips were numb and forming words was difficult. She thought for a moment of the man she had encountered in Ireland and also so many years before at Moray Castle. She had believed him to be fierce, brave, and honorable. No man who was these things would abandon his people when the fight became difficult. Could she have been wrong about Robert? She had but to look at her father to realize she could have, indeed, horribly misjudged Robert, just as she had misjudged her father. If Robert truly was honorable, then she might well play a key role in destroying him and toppling Scotland’s rebellion for good. And if he was prepared to become a turncoat simply to regain the lands, title, and wealth he had lost, then she could be forced to join her body with a man she found despicable to save Lillianna. There was no good path for her. She feared she would not be able to seduce Robert, and she also feared she would.