Prologue
 

Dear God, who could it be at this hour?

Mary’s heart was in her throat as she hurried down the torchlit stairwell, tying the belt of the velvet robe she’d donned over her night-rail. When you were married to one of the most hunted men in Scotland and the man hunting him was the most powerful king in Christendom, being awakened in the middle of the night to the news that someone was at the gate was sure to provoke a certain amount of panic. Panic that proved warranted when Mary entered the Hall, and the person waiting for her turned and tossed back the rain-sodden hood of her dark wool huque.

Her heartbeat slammed to a halt. Though the woman’s long, golden hair was hidden beneath the ugliest head covering she’d ever seen and her delicate features were streaked with mud, Mary knew her in an instant.

She stared in horror at the face that so mirrored her own.

“Janet, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come!”

England was no place for a Scot—man or woman—with ties to Robert Bruce. And Janet, like Mary, had too many to count. Their eldest sister had been Robert’s first wife; their eldest brother had been married to Robert’s sister; their four-year-old nephew, the current Earl of Mar, was being hunted with Robert’s queen, and their niece was Robert’s only heir. King Edward of England would love nothing more than to get his hands on another daughter of Mar.

Hearing the censure in Mary’s voice, her younger-by-two-minutes twin sister flashed her an unrepentant grin and put her hands on her hips. “Well that’s a fine welcome after I’ve sailed around Scotland and ridden nearly ten miles in nonstop rain on the most disagreeable old nag known to man—”

“Janet!” she interrupted impatiently. Though her sister might seem oblivious to the danger, Mary knew she was not. Whereas Mary chose to face reality straight on, however, Janet preferred to run right over it and hope it didn’t catch up to her.

Janet pursed her mouth the way she always did when Mary forced her to slow down. “Why I’ve come to take you home, of course!”

Take her home. Scotland. Mary’s heart clenched. God, if only it were so simple.

“Does Walter know you’re here?” She couldn’t believe their brother would have sanctioned such a dangerous journey. Mary’s gaze ran over her sister in the candlelight. “And what in heavens are you wearing?”

Mary should have known better than to ask two questions, as it gave her sister a chance to ignore the one she didn’t like. Janet smiled again, pulled back her dark wool cloak, and spread the skirt of the coarse brown wool gown wide, preening as if it were the finest silk, which, given her fashion-loving sister’s penchant for wearing exactly that, made her current choice of attire even more remarkable. “Do you like it?”

“Of course, I don’t like it—it’s horrible.” Mary wrinkled her nose, admittedly sharing more than a little of her sister’s love for fine things. Were those moth holes? “With that old-fashioned wimple, you look like a nun—and an impoverished one at that.”

Apparently that was the right thing to say. Janet’s eyes lit up. “Do you think so? I did my best, but I didn’t have much to work with—”

“Janet!” Mary stopped her before she could get going again. But God, it was so good to see her! Their eyes met, and her throat started to close. “You shouldn’t be h-here.”

Her voice broke at the last, and all traces of Janet’s feigned good humor fled. A moment later Mary was enfolded in her sister’s arms. The tears she’d managed to hold back for the six horrible months since her husband had abandoned her to this nightmare came pouring out.

“You’ll be safe here,” he’d said offhandedly, his mind already on the fight ahead. John Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl, had decided on his path and nothing would stand in his way. Certainly not her. The child bride he’d never wanted, and the wife he barely noticed.

She’d swallowed what little pride she had left and asked, “Why can’t we go with you?”

He’d frowned, the impossibly handsome face that had once captured her young girl’s heart turning on her impatiently. “I’m trying to protect you and David.” The son who was nearly as much of a stranger to him as his wife. Seeing her expression, he sighed. “I’ll come for you when I can. It is safer for you in England. Edward will have no cause to blame you if things go badly.”

But never could they have imagined just how badly things would go. He’d left so confident, so certain of the righteousness of his cause and eager for the battle ahead. The Earl of Atholl was a hero, always among the first to lift his sword to answer freedom’s call. He’d fought in nearly every major battle in the past ten years over the long war for Scotland’s independence. For the cause he’d been imprisoned, forced to fight in Edward’s army, had his son held hostage for more than eight years, and had his lands on both sides of the border forfeited (and eventually returned). But none of that had stopped him from answering the call again, this time to take up her former brother-in-law Robert Bruce’s bid for the throne.

But after suffering two catastrophic defeats on the battlefield Robert’s army was on the run. As one of only three earls who’d witnessed Bruce’s coronation and joined the would-be king in his rebellion against Edward of England, her husband was one of Scotland’s most hunted men.

But so far Atholl had been right: Edward had not turned his vengeful eye on the wife and son the “traitorous earl” had left behind. The son who’d been taken from her before he was six months old to be raised in an English court and had only been returned earlier this year on the condition that he remain confined to their English lands. But how long could they continue to escape Edward’s wrath and the taint of Atholl’s treason? Every day she feared looking out the tower window and seeing the king’s army surrounding them.

She was so tired of living in fear all the time, trying to be brave. She cried against her sister’s shoulder, letting the emotions that she’d fought so valiantly to contain unfurl in hot, choking sobs.

“Of course I had to come,” Janet said, murmuring soothing words until her tears abated. Only then did she grab Mary by the shoulders and hold her back to look at her. “What have you done to yourself? You are as thin as a reed. When was the last time you ate?”

She sounded so much like their mother—gone nearly fifteen years now—that Mary almost smiled. Despite being the younger of the two, Janet had always been the protector. Throughout the disappointment and disillusionment of Mary’s marriage, the taking of her son, and the deaths of their parents, sister, and brother, Janet had been the one to dry Mary’s tears.

She hadn’t realized just how terribly alone she’d felt until the moment she’d seen Janet standing before the fire, soaking wet and wearing odd clothes, but here.

Without waiting for Mary to answer, Janet took charge, calling for one of the servants to bring them some wine, bread, and cheese. Looking back and forth between the two nearly identical faces, the girl didn’t hesitate to follow Janet’s bidding. Mary could only smile as she found herself seated beside her sister with a large platter of food in front of her a few minutes later. Janet had divested herself of her wet cloak and hung it by the fire to dry, but had yet to remove the wimple and veil, which, seeing the big wooden cross hanging around her neck, Mary assumed was meant to suggest she was a nun.

She looked at her sister again, the fear returning. “You shouldn’t have come, Janet. Duncan will be furious that you have put yourself in danger.” She almost hesitated to ask. “How did you manage to travel all the way from Castle Tioram to here without his help?”

Janet’s mouth quirked. “I found a more sympathetic set of ears.”

Their eyes met. It wasn’t hard to guess who she meant. “Lady Christina?”

Their brother Duncan was married to Christina MacRuairi, known as the Lady of the Isles, the only legitimate heir to the Lordship of Garmoran. A powerful force in her own right, Christina wouldn’t hesitate to defy their formidable brother if she believed in the cause.

Janet nodded. “It was her idea to dress like this. She provided the men and birlinn.” Of course, Mary realized. Only Lady Christina’s Islanders would have the seafaring skill to slip right under the nose of the English fleet. “We came ashore just north of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. From there I purchased a horse. Twelve pounds for an obstinate nag that must be older than me and isn’t worth half that! The man will surely go to hell for taking advantage of a nun.”

Janet was so outraged, Mary decided not to point out she wasn’t actually a nun.

“It took me a few hours longer than it should have, but I made it. I passed right by a party of English soldiers and not one of them gave me a second glance.”

Mary was glad she was sitting down. Only her sister would talk about sailing hundreds of miles around Scotland through treacherous waters right through the heart of the English fleet, riding ten miles through war-ravaged countryside, and then confronting the enemy as if it were nothing. “Please do not tell me that you rode here alone?”

Janet looked at her as if she were daft. “Of course not. I had Cailin with me.”

Mary groaned. Cailin was sixty years old if he was a day. Her father’s former stablemaster had been married to their nursemaid, and Janet had had him wrapped around her little finger since they were two. He would protect them both to the death, but he was no warrior.

Janet smirked. “He wasn’t too happy to have the top of his head shaved, but he makes a fine monk. I sent him to the kitchens to dry out and get something to eat while you gather your and David’s things. We should leave as soon as we can. I brought a gown for you like mine, although I suspect it will be too big.” She wrinkled her nose again at Mary’s appearance. “Jerusalem’s Temples, Mary, you look as pinched and woebegone as a half-starved sparrow.” Trust her sister to not hold her tongue for the sake of vanity. Mary knew she’d lost weight, but she hadn’t realized how much until she saw her sister’s worried expression. “But it will have to do. I just brought a cloak for Davey; he’s a bit young to be a monk.”

Her son was nine, conceived on her wedding night when she was just fourteen and born while her husband was imprisoned in the Tower of London after his first rebellion. She hadn’t seen her husband for nearly two years after they were married. It had been a harbinger of things to come.

She wanted nothing more than to jump at her sister’s offer, and if it were just her, she would. She’d do almost anything to return to Scotland—almost. But she had David’s future to think about. Atholl’s rebellions against Edward had robbed their son of his childhood; she would not let them take his patrimony. Not if there was a chance they could escape this nightmare unscathed.

Mary shook her head, wanting to cry all over again. “I can’t. I want to, but I dare not. If we attempt to leave England, Edward will consider us traitors, and David’s claim to the earldom will be forfeit. Atholl will come for us when he can.”

She had to believe that. Even with all that had happened, she couldn’t believe he would leave them to face this alone.

Janet stilled, her big blue eyes growing round and wide. “You haven’t heard?”

Something in her sister’s voice alerted her; a chill spread over her skin like a thin sheet of ice. “Heard what?”

“Robert has escaped, fleeing to the Isles with the help of our brother and Lady Christina. But the queen’s party was taken in Tain over a week ago. The Earl of Ross violated the sanctuary of St. Duthac’s and had them arrested.” Mary sucked in her breath at the sacrilege. “That is why I came.”

The blood drained from Mary’s face. “And Atholl?” she said numbly, though she knew the answer.

Janet didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Mary knew her husband would be with the women. He was always with the women. They adored him. He was a hero, after all.

But now it was over. Scotland’s hero earl had been captured. Her heart squeezed. After all the disappointments and all the hurt, she still felt the pangs of the girlish love she’d once borne him. Those feelings had been crushed a long time ago, but the thought of her husband in chains resurrected whatever vestiges of those dreams that remained.

Why, John? Why did it have to end like this? She didn’t know whether she was talking about their marriage or his life. Perhaps both.

“I’m sorry,” Janet said, putting a hand on hers. She had never liked Mary’s husband, but she seemed to understand her feelings. “I thought you knew.”

Mary shook her head. “We are alone here. Sir Adam comes when he can. But he was called to court nearly a week ago—” She stopped, realizing the timing was probably not a coincidence. Had he known?

Nay. Mary shook off the thought. Sir Adam Gordon had done everything he could to protect her and David the past six months, even becoming surety for her son’s release. He was one of Atholl’s closest friends. The two men had fought together for Scotland at Dunbar and Falkirk, and served time together in Edward’s army in Flanders when they lost. Although the two friends had taken opposite sides over the issue of Bruce’s kingship, with Sir Adam loyal to the deposed King John Balliol and siding with their former English allies against Bruce, she knew Sir Adam would do his best to keep them safe.

“We can’t delay,” Janet said. “Christina’s men are waiting for us. We need to be there before dawn.”

Still, Mary hesitated. Atholl’s capture hadn’t changed anything. Or perhaps it made it even more important that they not do anything rash. But waiting to see whether Edward’s wrath would fall on them was a little bit like stepping into a cage with a hungry lion and hoping he didn’t notice you.

What should she do? Mary had little experience making important decisions. First her father, and then her husband, had made them for her. She envied her sister’s independence in a world ruled by men. Janet had been engaged twice, but both betrothals had ended in death.

Janet must have sensed her uncertainty. She took her by the shoulders and forced Mary to look at her. “You can’t stay here, Mary. Edward has lost all reason. There are rumors …”

She stopped as if the words were too painful.

“What?” Mary asked.

Tears filled her sister’s eyes. “There are rumors that he has ordered our niece Marjory to be hung in a cage atop the Tower of London.”

Mary gasped. A cage? She could not believe it, even of Edward Plantagenet, the self-styled “Hammer of the Scots” and the most ruthless king in Christendom. Marjory, Robert’s daughter by their deceased sister, was only a girl. “You must be mistaken.”

Janet shook her head. “And Mary Bruce and Isabella MacDuff as well.”

God in heaven! It was almost too horrible to imagine such barbarity—against women, no less. She swallowed, but a lump of horror had lodged in her throat.

Suddenly, her sister turned to the window. “Did you hear that?”

Mary nodded, and for the second time that night her heart jumped in panic. “It sounds like horses.”

Was it too late? Had the soldiers she feared finally arrived? A cage …

The two women raced to the window of the peel tower, a square-shaped defensive structure that was common in the borders. It was dark and still pouring rain, but Mary could just make out the shadow of three riders approaching. It wasn’t until they entered the circle of torchlight below the gate, however, that she saw the familiar arms and her lungs released its vicelike hold on her breath. She heaved a heavy sigh of relief. “It’s Sir Adam.”

But the relief was short-lived. If Sir Adam was here at this time of night, there was a reason, and given her current circumstances, it probably was not a good one.

Her husband’s seneschal admitted him to the Hall a few minutes later. She barely waited for the door to close behind him before she rushed forward. “Is it true? Has Atholl been taken?”

Obviously surprised that she’d heard, he frowned. But noticing her sister behind her at the table, his surprise faded. “Lady Janet,” he said with a nod of his head. “What are you doing here?”

Before her sister could answer, Mary asked him again. “Is it true?”

As he nodded, his rough, battle-weary face sagged. Sir Adam was only forty—the same age as Atholl—but the war had aged him. As it had them all, she realized. She was only three and twenty, but sometimes she felt as if she’d lived twice as long.

“Aye, lass, it’s true. He’s being brought to Kent for trial at Canterbury.”

Mary sucked in her breath. In choosing Kent as the place of trial, King Edward was leaving little doubt of the outcome. Like many Scot nobles, Atholl had significant lands in England, including vast estates in Kent. As such he’d been forced to do homage to Edward for those lands. It was as an English subject that the Scottish earl would be tried.

She crumpled, knowing that the charming Earl of Atholl would not escape the noose this time.

She saw the knowledge reflected in Sir Adam’s face. But she also saw something else. “What is it?”

His gaze slid to her sister’s. “You shouldn’t be here, lass. You can’t let them see you.” He looked back and forth between the sisters. “If I didn’t know you so well, I’d have a hard time knowing who was who.”

“Can’t let who see me?” Janet said, echoing Mary’s thoughts.

Sir Adam sighed and turned back to Mary. “That’s why I came. I rode ahead to prepare you. Edward has sent his men to collect you and David.”

Mary froze. She could barely get the words out. “We are being arrested?”

“Nay, nay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. The king merely wishes to see that you and Davey are provided for.”

Janet made a loud scoffing sound. “ ‘Provided for’? That’s an interesting way of putting it. Is he ‘providing for’ our niece Marjory as well?”

Sir Adam could not hide his repugnance. “Edward is in a rage right now, but he will reconsider when he has calmed down. I cannot believe he would see a young girl put in a cage.” His eyes met Mary’s. “The king does not blame you and David for Atholl’s actions. He knows you have been a loyal subject to him, and David is like a grandson to him, after the better part of eight years in Prince Edward’s household. You and the boy will not be in danger.”

“But what if you are wrong?” Janet said. “Would you bet my sister’s life on the whim of Edward Plantagenet’s temper?” The monarch’s apoplectic fits of rage—a legacy of his Angevin ancestors said to be descended from the Devil—were well known. Janet shook her head. “Nay, I’ve come to take her home.”

Sir Adam looked sharply at her. “Is it true, lass? Are you fleeing England?”

But Mary didn’t answer his question. She looked up at him, silently begging him to tell her the truth. “Does the king mean to make my son a prisoner in another English household?”

She saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Her chest squeezed painfully. Nine years had passed but it might have been yesterday, so sharp were the memories of having her baby ripped from her arms.

Mary made her decision. She would not—could not—let her son be taken from her again. The son who was already more English than he was Scot. She held Sir Adam’s gaze. “Will you help us?”

He hesitated. She didn’t blame him. She hated to ask so much of him when he’d already done so much, but with Edward’s men right behind him, she didn’t have a choice.

His moment of hesitation didn’t last long. “You are determined to do this?”

She nodded. Atholl wasn’t coming for them. It was up to her now.

He sighed in a way that told her he did not agree but recognized the futility of argument. “Then I will do what I can to delay them.” He turned to Janet. “You have a means of transport.”

Janet nodded. “I do.”

“Then you’d best gather David and be gone. They will be here any minute.”

Mary threw her arms around him. “Thank you,” she said, blinking up at him through watery eyes.

“I will do whatever I must to see you safe,” he said heavily. Mary’s heart swelled with gratitude. If only her husband would have done the same. “I owe Atholl my life.”

Though Sir Adam’s father had fallen on the battlefield at Dunbar, her husband’s heroics had enabled Sir Adam to escape. Once she’d been proud of her husband’s feats of bravery and battlefield prowess. But her pride hadn’t been enough for him. Admiring such a man from afar was very different from being married to one.

She donned the garments Janet had brought for her—which were indeed too big and hung on her like a sackcloth—and went to wake her son. If her sister noticed the wariness in the boy’s eyes when he looked at his mother, Janet didn’t say anything. It would take time, Mary told herself. But after three months, David still pulled away from her touch. Perhaps if he didn’t look so much like his father it wouldn’t hurt so much. But except for having her light hair, the lad was the image of her handsome husband.

Fortunately, David didn’t raise an objection to being woken in the middle of the night, covered in a scratchy wool cloak, and rushed out into the stormy night. Being raised in England as a virtual prisoner—albeit a favored one—had made him very good at keeping his thoughts to himself. Too good. Her young son was an enigma to her.

Cailin swept her in a big bear hug when he saw her. She had to bite back a smile. Janet was right; with his round, jovial face and equally hearty belly, he did indeed make a good monk.

Exchanging the horse Janet had purchased for two in her own stables—she would ride with Davey, and Janet would ride with Cailin—they set off toward the eastern seaboard.

It was slow and treacherous going, the road muddy and slippery from all the rain. The rain was too heavy to keep a torch lit, so it was also difficult to see. But far worse was the constant fear, the taut, heightened senses and frazzled nerve endings set on edge, as they sat readied on constant alert for the sounds of pursuit.

Yet with every mile they rode, some of the fear slipped away.

She knew they must be close when Janet confirmed it. “We’re almost there. The birlinn is hidden in a cove just beyond the bridge.”

Mary couldn’t believe it. They were going to make it! She was going home. Scotland!

But as they crossed the wooden bridge over the River Tyne, she heard a sound in the distance that stopped her cold. It wasn’t the pounding of hooves behind her that she’d feared, but a clash of metal ahead of her.

Janet heard it, too. Their eyes met for a fraction of an instant before her sister flicked the reins and jumped forward with a strangled cry.

Mary shouted after her to stop, but Janet, with Cailin behind her, raced ahead. Mary tightened her hold around her son in front of her and surged after her, plunging into the darkness, the sounds of battle growing louder and louder.

“Janet, stop!” she shouted. Her sister was going to get herself killed. Somehow the English must have found the Islesmen, and their sister-in-law’s clansmen were fighting for their lives.

Fortunately, if Janet wasn’t thinking rationally, Cailin was. He forced their horse to slow, enabling Mary and David to catch up to them.

Janet was trying to wrest the reins from the older man. “Cailin, let me have those.” Mary was close enough to see the frantic wildness in her sister’s eyes. “I have to go. I have to see.”

“You’ll not help the men any by getting yourself killed,” Cailin said sternly—more sternly than Mary had ever heard him talk to her. “If you get in the way, they’ll think about defending you, not themselves.”

Janet’s eyes filled with tears. “But it’s my fault.”

“Nay,” Mary said fiercely. “It’s not your fault, it’s mine.” And it was. She never should have let it get to this. She should have fled months ago. But when it was clear Bruce’s cause was lost, she’d trusted her husband to come for them. Had he spared a thought for what would become of them, when he raced off to glory?

“Who is fighting, Mother?” David asked.

Mary looked into the solemn upturned face of her son. “The men who brought your aunt to us.”

“Does that mean we aren’t leaving?”

Her heart pinched, hearing the hint of relief in his voice. But could she blame him for not wanting to leave? England was the only home he’d ever known.

God, how they’d failed him!

She didn’t answer him directly, but looked at her sister. “We have to go back before we are discovered.”

They would never be able to make it to Scotland on their own.

“Don’t give up yet, lass,” Cailin said. “The MacRuairis know how to fight.”

But how long did they dare wait?

The decision was made for them a few moments later when they heard the sound of horses coming toward them. The English were fleeing! But unfortunately, the soldiers were headed for the bridge, and they were right in their path.

“Hurry,” Mary said. They raced back toward the bridge before they ended up in the middle of the fleeing Englishmen and the Islesmen, who from the sound of it were pursuing them.

She had just made it to the other side of the bridge when she heard Janet cry out behind her. Mary looked around just in time to see Cailin fall off the horse, landing with a horrible thud on the wood planks.

Everything seemed to happen at once. Janet pulled to a stop, jumping down in the middle of the bridge to help him. Cailin had landed facedown, an arrow protruding from his back. Mary glanced behind her sister, seeing the hillside they’d just escaped now swarming with men. The fierce war cries of the Islesmen pierced the night air. The pursuers had caught up with their prey, and the riverbank had become a battleground.

Mary yelled through the din of swords to her sister. “Leave him! You have to leave him.” The English were heading straight for her, trying to evade the Islesmen. Janet was going to be trampled.

Their eyes met, spanning the distance of the forty or so feet that separated them. Mary knew Janet wouldn’t leave Cailin. She was trying to lift him under the arms, but struggling under his weight.

Mary turned her horse, intent on forcibly dragging her sister off that bridge if she had to, when she thought she heard a voice shout “no” behind her. But then her horse reared as a terrifying boom shattered the stormy night.

She screamed, clenching David and holding onto the reins for dear life, trying not to slide out of the saddle. She’d nearly gotten the animal under control when a blinding flash of light crashed on the bridge before her. Lightning? And the strangest thunder she’d ever heard.

Oh God, Janet! She looked in horror as the bridge seemed to burst into a ball of flames and her sister disappeared from view. The last thing she remembered was holding her son in front of her as they pitched backward off the horse.

When she woke hours later, warm and dry in her bedchamber, at first she thought it had been a bad dream. But then she realized the nightmare had just begun.

Cailin was dead and her sister had vanished, presumed dead after being swept away in the river when the bridge collapsed. The voice she’d heard had been Sir Adam’s. He’d arrived just in time to see her fall. David had been unharmed, but Mary’s head had struck a rock, knocking her out cold, and her back was badly bruised.

But her injuries were the least of her problems. If not for Sir Adam their next few weeks would have been precarious indeed.

Protecting Mary from Edward’s anger by the lie that she’d been forcibly taken by Bruce’s men, Sir Adam made a plea to the king that she be allowed to recover before making her journey to London. Thus, it wasn’t until November that she and David were brought before the king. She’d had nearly two full months with her son before he was once again taken from her and imprisoned in the Prince of Wales’s household to serve as a yeoman.

She left court, returning to Ponteland (where she’d been ordered to remain) on the fourteenth of November, one week after the Earl of Atholl was hanged from an elevated gallows as befitting his “exalted” status—King Edward’s cruel response to her husband’s reminder of their kinship. Leaving the city, she was careful not to look up as she passed under the gatehouse of London Bridge, where her husband’s head had been impaled on a spike beside those of the other Scottish traitors (or heroes, depending on which side of the border you lived on) William Wallace and Simon Fraser.

The handsome, gallant knight had raised his sword for the last noble cause. Mary had put her love—or was it youthful infatuation?—for Atholl behind her a long time ago, so the depth of her sorrow took her by surprise. But along with her sorrow was anger at what he’d done to them.

She was fortunate, it was said, not to be sent to a convent like the other wives and daughters of traitors. Her “loyalty,” the king’s fondness for her son, and Sir Adam’s surety had saved her. If not for the vows she had made to herself, she would have welcomed the quiet solitude of a nunnery, free from the tumult of a war that had taken her father, brother, and now her husband. But she vowed to see their son restored to his father’s earldom, and to never stop searching for the sister who in her heart she refused to believe was dead. The life she knew, however, was gone.