Elaine woke with puffy eyes and a throbbing headache. She’d cried herself to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, but her numb oblivion hadn’t lasted long. She’d dreamt of Jerome, his rich brown eyes turning liquid with desire, his mouth on hers, kissing away all her pain and sadness.
But when morning light streamed into her chamber, the dream had fled and she’d awoken to the cold reality that whatever they’d shared was over.
What a fool she was. How she’d longed for adventure, to experience the world beyond Trellham’s quiet walls. And hadn’t she found adventure in coming to Robert the Bruce’s court? Hadn’t she experienced more of desire and pleasure and heart-wrenching longing in less than a fortnight with Jerome than she ever had before?
Aye, she’d wanted this, dreamed of the grand escapades she’d lead if only she’d been allowed. Well, she’d gotten what she wished for, and all she was left with was an empty, broken heart.
How could she go back to her old life now? How could she go back to being the coddled, sheltered girl her family saw her as when she’d felt like a woman grown in Jerome’s arms? Everything about her life seemed drab and colorless in the harsh light of morning. She hadn’t even participated in the Bruce’s celebration honoring her family yet, but already she knew that her adventure was over—now that Jerome was gone.
She dragged herself from bed and dressed in a simple green woolen gown, unsure what the day would hold. When she opened her door, she found Finn leaning against the corridor wall, waiting for her.
“There ye are,” he said, eyeing her. “Are ye well?”
“Aye, just…tired.”
“Well, the King has organized a sendoff party for his envoy. We’ll miss it if we dinnae hurry.”
Elaine barely managed to bite back a moan. Saying goodbye to Jerome last night had been hard enough. Seeing him one last time—and having to pretend that her heart wasn’t breaking—would be far harder.
She followed Finn through the great hall and into the dreary, overcast day. The grounds between the abbey and the wooden palisades were swarming with people and horses. Finn hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d spoken of a party. She recognized several of the nobles from the night before, most of whom were already mounted.
At Finn’s whistle, a stable lad approached with their horses. As they mounted, Elaine spotted the King and his envoy—including Jerome.
She ripped her gaze away, but not before she saw the dark shadows under his eyes and the bristle on his jaw. He sat atop his enormous stallion, his face set in a grim frown.
The King urged his horse into motion, and soon the entire crowd was streaming through the opening in the palisades.
“Where are we going?” Elaine asked.
“East along the river, until it is deep and wide enough for sea-faring vessels,” Finn replied. “We are to see the men onto their ship bound for France.”
Elaine sank her teeth into her lip but held her tongue as the entourage trotted eastward.
The hour-long journey stretched painfully. Normally Elaine loved any opportunity to ride Gertie, but now she felt as though she were headed to a funeral.
In the distance, several tall masts rose above the trees lining the river. The King urged the party into a gallop for the last stretch, and before Elaine realized it, they’d all reined in at the riverbank.
Sitting placidly in the middle of the now much wider river were a half dozen ships, one of which was far larger than the rest. No doubt the smaller ships had business of their own if the river was used to connect the region surrounding Scone with the open waters of the North Sea, yet the massive ship, flying the Bruce’s pennants along with the Scottish flag, could only have one purpose.
In numb silence, Elaine dismounted along with the others. Distantly, she heard the King’s voice booming out over those gathered. He was saying something about the beginning of a new era for Scotland, the dawning of a more complete and sovereign freedom, but Elaine couldn’t concentrate on the words, for her gaze was fixed on Jerome.
She’d given up her effort to keep her eyes from him. Nay, instead, she would look her fill—and look her last. His jaw was set hard, a curling lock of dark hair falling against his forehead. He and the rest of the envoy—the bishop, the giant Highlander named Kieran, and William de Soules—stood on the riverbank as the Bruce continued speaking.
A small rowboat darted through the anchored ships and pulled toward the wooden docks built along the bank. When it reached the envoy, the Bruce concluded his speech to enthusiastic cheers from those gathered. Then the four men stepped into the boat and they were rowed alongside the largest ship.
When they bumped into the ship’s wooden hull, a rope ladder dropped and each man scaled it, Jerome going last.
The four stood on the ship’s deck as the anchor was raised and the sails unfurled. Finally, the enormous ship began to move, slowly drifting downriver, where Elaine could see the waters widen in the distance into the North Sea.
She blinked away sudden tears, unwilling to let them blur her last glimpse of Jerome. He stood rooted in place on the deck, his dark gaze cutting across the distance—to her.
She remained frozen for a long time, watching Jerome grow smaller and smaller as the ship carried him away, until at last she realized Finn had been speaking to her.
“…sure to be another grand celebration this eve,” he was saying as he mounted his horse. “Elaine? Lainey? Arenae ye coming?”
She looked up to find his sharp, assessing gaze on her. “I ken ye are sad, lass, but in time…” He faltered, apparently at a loss when it came to comforting a heartsick girl.
Aye, her heart ached, but Elaine forced herself to draw a deep breath. If she didn’t want people treating her like a fragile piece of glass, ready to shatter at any moment, then she couldn’t act like one. She would let herself feel the pain in her own time, but right now she couldn’t simply fall apart. Not when she’d fought so hard to be seen as a strong, capable woman and not a child.
She discreetly dragged her sleeve over her damp eyelashes and mounted Gertie smoothly. As she fell in with the King’s procession once more, she willed herself to remain facing forward—despite the pull of her heart toward Jerome.
* * * *
Despite her determination to set aside her self-indulgent sadness, Elaine couldn’t help but find the evening rather dour.
Tonight, she and the other families most loyal to the Bruce were to be honored, yet as she donned her blue silk dress—the same one she’d worn last night—and entered the great hall, the festive atmosphere seemed hollow. The same nobles milled about chattering and preening in anticipation of the Bruce’s arrival. The same snippets of conversation drifted to her—of castle improvements and the latest brocades and what might be done with all the new lands they were to receive.
When she’d dreamed of aiding the Bruce’s cause, even in a small way, she’d imagined urgent communications, delicate negotiations, or even life-or-death circumstances in which she would rise to the occasion, doing her part to help in the fight for freedom.
Surely she should be grateful that she was at the King’s court for a feast rather than on some battlefield or in enemy territory. Still, the sense that she was meant for something greater stirred in the pit of her stomach once more.
It was a silly thought, for she had no special skills or abilities, no talent for fighting or healing or spying. All she knew was she was capable of more than discussing the latest fashions with fellow noblewomen.
If she were honest, she would admit that at least half of her glum mood was because all the spark, the light, the energy seemed to have disappeared from Scone Abbey with Jerome’s departure. But nay, she would not dwell on that, else she forget to savor what little excitement remained for her at Scone.
As usual, Finn sat with the Bruce on the raised dais, no doubt speaking of far more fascinating and imperative matters than the nobles milling around the hall. But it was not Elaine’s place to insert herself into military or political concerns, so she skirted along the walls, trying not to draw attention to herself as she observed the others.
She sidled her way to the back of the hall where the row of corridors leading to the rest of the attached chambers lay. Just as she was about to pass the first of the arched passageways, she faltered.
A voice drifted from the shadows in the corridor beyond—a voice she would never forget.
David de Brechin.
She hadn’t noticed him in the Bruce’s farewell entourage that morning, but she knew he was still a guest of the King. After all, he was clearly a close companion of William de Soules. Besides, de Brechin had been one of the nobles to add his seal to the Declaration of Arbroath, though she hadn’t heard his name mentioned among those receiving more land this eve.
Elaine hadn’t wanted to make his unwelcome kiss known. Although it had been no lighthearted game, as he’d first pretended to Jerome, the fact that she hadn’t seen him all day led her to believe that Jerome’s warning to stay away from her had sunk in.
Still, she wanted naught to do with him, and certainly didn’t want to run into him in the same corridor where he’d cornered her last eve.
She turned to make a hasty retreat to the other side of the hall, but then his words reached her and she froze.
“…but the Munro lapdog may prove a hindrance.”
His voice was so low that Elaine could barely pick it out, yet some instinct made her certain—he was speaking of Jerome.
Someone else must have been in the shadows with de Brechin, for she heard a second male voice, but she couldn’t make out his words.
“Nay, we’ll wait for word from de Soules,” de Brechin replied firmly. “He’ll handle Munro and the others.”
Handle? Elaine’s heart leapt to her throat. What could that mean—other than the terrifyingly obvious?
She forced herself to focus. De Brechin had mentioned de Soules—that could be none other than William de Soules, who’d just departed with Jerome and the others bound for Avignon. She racked her memory of their meeting the night before. De Soules was accompanying the envoy because he had French connections, but what did that have to do with handling the others?
On silent, slippered feet, she crept closer to the corridor passageway, straining to hear over the hammering of blood in her ears.
“…now that the plan has been put into motion,” de Brechin was saying. “The Bruce willnae realize until it’s too late to stop us.”
The other man murmured some response, and then she heard them bid farewell. In a panic, she stepped away from the corridor’s entrance, her gaze darting around for somewhere to hide. As footfalls echoed closer in the corridor, she dashed to the nearest hanging tapestry, pretending to study it intently.
Behind her, she heard de Brechin step into the great hall. She held her breath, praying he didn’t notice her. The noise from those gathered in the hall swallowed the sound of his boots on the stones, and she couldn’t be sure if he’d continued on or was approaching from behind.
Time stretched, but when his hand didn’t close on her arm and spin her around, she dared a peek over her shoulder. De Brechin was casually making his way through the hall, nodding to a few lords and ladies as he passed. He smoothed back his sandy blond hair, that practiced smile fixed on his face.
She watched him until he reached the front of the hall and casually slipped through the double doors. When he was at last out of sight, she rushed to the raised dais.
Both Finn and the Bruce lifted their heads at her approach, the Bruce wearing a curious expression and Finn his usual scowl.
“Sire, Finn, I-I must speak with you,” she breathed. Her mind raced like a runaway horse with all she’d heard, but one thing was clear—Finn and the Bruce needed to know.
Finn’s frown deepened as he looked at her. “Something is wrong.”
The Bruce’s light expression slipped. “Come, lass. Let us speak somewhere private.”
Resuming a relaxed air, the Bruce stepped down from the dais, Finn and Elaine in his wake. Elaine hardly noticed where they were headed as they crossed the hall to the bows and curtsies of those gathered. They slipped into one of the corridors and wound their way to a small but well-appointed chamber she could only assume was for the King’s private meetings.
Once the door was closed behind them, the Bruce motioned to one of the plush upholstered chairs, but Elaine shook her head, too filled with anxiety to sit.
“What is it, Lainey?” Finn demanded without preamble. His balled fists revealed his own sudden nerves.
“I-I just heard something,” Elaine began, trying to organize her swirling thoughts. “In one of the corridors. David de Brechin was speaking to another man—I’m not sure who—about…”
She hesitated, racking her mind for some indication that she was wrong, that she’d been terribly mistaken about what she’d heard, but none came. At last, she finished.
“…About treason.”