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Blackhouse Tower, Scottish Marches, Ash Wednesday, February 22, 1314
ELIZABETH GAZED OUT the tower window, scanning the surrounding countryside. The bitter cold of winter was evidenced by the unbroken swaths of browns and grays painted across the horizon. It seemed there was not one green leaf or colorful wildflower left in the heavily forested hillsides of Galloway. The only wail was of the wind; the distinctive call of the peewits would not be heard for another few months.
Blackhouse Tower, part of the Douglas patrimony restored to her brother by Robert the Bruce, stood on the edge of a burn in the heart of the Ettrick Forest, the wild, inhospitable land that had served as a favorite base of Scots “rebels” from William Wallace to the Bruce. Beyond lay the rolling hills of Peebles, Selkirk, Jedburgh, Roxburgh, and the other important towns that lined the Scots side of the border.
What she wouldn’t do to be in one of them. God, how she couldn’t wait to leave this bleak, desolate place. The endless gray days, the monotony of seeing the same handful of faces day in, day out, the droning quiet. In the city there was always something new. There was always noise, entertainment, and something to be excited about. Here, in their remote forest fortress, the most exciting thing to happen lately had been the completion of a new tapestry to adorn the wall behind the dais. And she didn’t even like needlework!
But not for much longer. Somewhere out there Jamie and his men were harrying one of the last English garrisons in Scotland at Roxburgh Castle, as part of King Robert’s preemptive war against the English. In late October, Bruce had given notice that in a year’s time, he would forfeit the lands of any nobles who still had not submitted to his authority as king. The threat to the nobles loyal to the English had finally forced Edward to act. The English king had responded with a call to muster at Berwick Castle in June.
Bruce was using the intervening months to prepare for the upcoming war. In addition to raiding and securing tribute from the English unfortunate enough to live near the border, the king’s army was laying siege to the crucial strongholds of Edinburgh and—soon—Stirling, as well as sending out small bands of warriors (such as the one led by her brother) to prevent supplies from getting through to the others still in English possession, such as Roxburgh, Jedburgh, Bothwell, and Dunbar. The Bruce did not have the men or resources to lay siege to them all. When Edward II did march north, Scotland’s castles would not be strongholds for the English.
But Jamie was expected to be called to Edinburgh soon to ready for the coming battle, and when he did, he’d promised to take them with him. After the fierce battles that had started the war, it had largely come to a standstill. With thousands of Bruce’s men occupying the city, there was no fear of attack by the besieged English garrison of a hundred men. At least two of Bruce’s sisters would be there, as would the wives of many of his retinue.
Elizabeth couldn’t wait. Edinburgh wasn’t Paris, but it was certainly a vast improvement over the Ettrick Forest.
She scanned the countryside, almost as if she might see a colorful banner or the flash of silver mail beneath a surcoat in the distance. But it wasn’t the blue and white of Jamie’s arms for which she unconsciously looked. Were Edward Bruce and his men nearby as well?
“Watching for someone, Ella?”
Elizabeth startled and turned in the direction of the speaker, her cousin Lady Isabel Stewart, daughter of the hero John Stewart of Bonkyl, who’d died fighting with Wallace at Falkirk, and cousin to the current Steward of Scotland—the 6th—Walter. The 4th Steward had been both girls’ grandfather.
Isabel grinned and continued. “Trying to conjure up Sir Thomas out of all that mist? It’s a long way to see to Edinburgh.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I shall see him soon enough, Izzie.”
Although Isabel was easily placated, the other occupant in the room was not. Joanna had known Elizabeth for too long. They weren’t just childhood friends anymore. Joanna had become her sister-in-law two and a half years ago when she and Jamie had finally married. They’d gone through a difficult time after Joanna’s accident. Elizabeth wasn’t privy to all the details, but she knew Jamie had done something horrible, which Joanna had eventually forgiven him for. Fortunately, almost losing one another had seemed to make their love stronger. They’d been lucky.
Her sister by marriage gave her a very knowing look. “I hear from James that with Randolph laying siege to Edinburgh, Edward Bruce will begin the siege of Stirling Castle soon.”
Elizabeth held her expression impassive, although she knew it well. “That is very interesting, but is of no import to me.”
Joanna quirked her brow. “Isn’t it? Hmm.”
Elizabeth didn’t like that “hmm.” Whatever Joanna thought she knew, she was wrong. If Elizabeth spent too much time looking out of windows, it was because she was bored out of her mind and anxious. Not because she was looking—or waiting—for anyone, especially Thommy.
She was curious as to what had happened to him, that was all. Other than hearing that he was fighting with Edward Bruce, Elizabeth had heard nothing from her former friend in three years.
“Is it your argument with Archie that is bothering you?” Isabel asked.
Elizabeth was about to protest that nothing was bothering her, but as they seemed disinclined to believe her, she shrugged. “A little,” she admitted. “It’s hard with both Lady Eleanor and Jamie away. He doesn’t listen to me.”
“Nor to me,” Joanna said with a wry smile. “But I think it is a function of being sixteen and a Douglas male who thinks he knows everything. I remember that time well.”
So did Elizabeth. Her heart squeezed, admitting only to herself how much she missed it. It was before everything had become so complicated. Why did Thommy have to go and ruin everything by trying to change things? It had been perfect the way it was.
She’d treasured the bond between them, and the deep, abiding friendship that had weathered war, distance, and time. He’d been her companion, her confidant, her anchor in a maelstrom. He was her one constant, and along with Joanna, the best part of coming home. Thommy was home to her. Douglas hadn’t been the same after he left.
She’d thought he would always be there. Whether it was rescuing her from a tree when she was six (and saving her from countless bruises, skinned knees, and twisted ankles afterward), providing a shoulder to cry upon after the death of her father at eight, or listening to her teenage tirades against her stepmother after one of their many arguments, he always seemed to know exactly what to say—or not say—to make it better. Even after the worst period of her life, when King Edward had stripped her family of everything after the death of her father, and they’d been forced to beg for a place to stay with relatives—eventually finding it with Isabel’s family—Thommy was the only one she’d been able to confide in about the fear and shame that even now she couldn’t quite forget.
Which was why Thommy’s confession had come as such a shock. If anyone knew how important a good marriage was for her, it was he.
He was her dearest friend. At least she thought he had been. It still infuriated her to think about the way he’d last spoken to her. How dare he be mad at her when he was the one who’d tried to change the rules all on his own! She’d never thought of him like that and had no idea his feelings toward her had changed. She’d just turned sixteen when she’d last seen him, for goodness’ sake. Hardly a time of great perceptiveness in life.
Admittedly, she hadn’t been all that much more perceptive at twenty, and her reaction to his declaration could have been more tactful. Thommy was so infuriatingly proud, and she knew how touchy he could be about any reference to his father’s position in their household. But she’d been stunned by his admission, and the words had popped out unthinkingly.
But what had he expected her to say? What he’d proposed was impossible on every level. She had a duty to marry to increase the power and prestige of her clan.
She’d never thought of Thommy before in terms of rank, but he’d forced her to acknowledge the vast difference between them. Daughters of important nobles did not marry sons of smiths. Not in Scotland—nor in any part of Christendom, for that matter. Only peasants thought of things like “want” and “love”—although thankfully she’d refrained from blurting that out. She could only imagine how he would have reacted to that less-than-sensitive observation. Love was desired in noble marriages, of course, but it was expected to grow, not be the basis of it.
She pursed her mouth. It still grated on her how coldly he’d treated her, and how easily he’d walked away and never looked back. So much for friendship and love.
Still, she hated how it had ended between them. Something about it felt unfinished—incomplete. Maybe that explained the strange restlessness that she just couldn’t seem to shake. She wanted to see him—just to make sure he was all right, of course. She couldn’t bear the idea of him hating her.
Pushing aside thoughts of her former friend, she returned to the subject at hand. “You mean Douglas pigheadedness changes after sixteen? You might tell my brother. Jamie still seems to think he knows everything.” She shook her head. “I admit, I understand Archie’s frustration. Were it me, I would be chomping at the bit to get out of here, too.”
Archie wanted to join the fight, but Jamie had refused. Not only was he too young, it was too dangerous. The English would love nothing better than to get ahold of the brother—half or not—of the “Black Douglas.” But Jamie’s promise of “soon” was wearing thin to their sixteen-but-old-enough-to-fight brother, and Joanna and Elizabeth had been left with the difficult task of enforcing Jamie’s orders. Last night she and Archie had argued about it.
“You mean you aren’t?” Joanna said with a laugh. “I don’t think Archie is the only one who wished he could take a horse and ride to Roxburgh—or Edinburgh.”
Elizabeth tried to bite back a smile but failed. Joanna was right. “I do wish Jamie would finish up whatever he is doing at Roxburgh,” Elizabeth said. “I’m not getting any younger. I’ll be four and twenty next month. Now that Jamie has finally found someone who meets his requirements, I want to get on with the wedding.”
“Maybe he can just take the castle for you?” Joanna said dryly. “That will get you to Edinburgh quickly.”
Both women looked at each other and burst out laughing. Jamie’s reputation for taking castles by subterfuge was becoming legend, but Roxburgh was one of the most heavily defended castles in the Borders.
“Well, it might have taken cousin James awhile to find you a husband, but he did find one of the most important men in the kingdom,” Isabel pointed out. “Not to mention a newly created earl. I should hope cousin Walter does half as well for me.”
As Jamie held Elizabeth’s wardship and marriage rights, the young Steward of Scotland held Isabel’s.
Elizabeth flushed with pleasure, not bothering to hide her excitement among her friends. Jamie had done well for her—extremely well. “I can’t believe I will be the Countess of Moray,” she said in a low voice, as if saying it too loud might jeopardize it.
Jamie had proposed a betrothal with Robert the Bruce’s nephew, and Jamie’s close friend and rival, Sir Thomas Randolph. The Douglases were also related to Bruce—through their great-grandfather the 3rd Steward of Scotland—but Randolph was the son of Bruce’s mother’s half sister.
“There is so much to do, I cannot wait to get started,” Elizabeth continued. “It’s been too long since we’ve had the excitement of a celebration to plan for, and since Jamie thinks the king will insist on holding the wedding feast at one of his castles, it will likely be the biggest since he became king. Music, dancing, the best wine and food . . . It will be like being in Paris again. I’ll have a beautiful new dress made—I know just what I want—and matching slippers, and—”
“A husband,” Joanna interjected. “Don’t forget that after this fantastic wedding and beautiful dress you’ll have a husband.”
Elizabeth shot her a chastising frown, refusing to let her sister-in-law dampen her excitement about the prospect of a wedding.
Although nothing had been settled yet, the trip to Edinburgh was a mere formality. She had met Sir Thomas a few times, and there was no reason to think they would not suit. He was handsome and charming enough to make any young woman’s heart race. She scrunched her nose. Hers hadn’t as yet, but she was sure it would once they got to know one another better. More important, as the favored nephew of the king and an earl, he had enough lands to ensure her security for the rest of her life. Neither she nor her future children would ever have to rely on the charity of relatives again.
Aside from the Bruces, there might not be a more important man in the country than Thomas Randolph. Although Jamie might disagree about that. “I would be hard-pressed to find anything to object to in Sir Thomas,” Elizabeth pointed out.
“Aye, he’s a handsome rogue,” Joanna agreed. “As well he knows. Women certainly seem to love him, but do you?”
Elizabeth gave her an odd look, taken aback. “What does that matter?”
It was Jamie’s decision whom she married. Though he would never force her, Elizabeth knew her duty.
“It matters a great deal,” Joanna said quietly. “I know James is excited about the prospect of this alliance, but don’t let him push you into anything. He will want you to be happy—even if you need to remind him of it.”
Elizabeth smiled with understanding. Jamie and Jo were so happy now, sometimes she forgot that it hadn’t always been so easy for them. Jamie had married “beneath” him “for love,” but it hadn’t been without some struggle on her ambitious brother’s part.
For a man in James’s position, marriage was a duty, and marrying for love opened him to public censure. It offended not just the social order but was viewed as giving in to lust rather than honor. Elizabeth blushed. Who would have thought her fierce, strong brother would neglect his duty for base desires?
Although Jamie had weathered the scandal well, he could afford to do so with the king’s rewards, and Elizabeth knew her duty. Unlike her brother, she did not have the ability to fight her way to greatness with a sword. Her only path to a secure future was through marriage.
Of course she didn’t begrudge her brother his happiness—and she loved Jo like a sister—but that path was not for her. “What you and Jamie have is rare, Jo. It’s not like that for most women in our position. Nor is it something that has ever been important to me. I’m not romantic like you are. But don’t worry, I’m sure I will come to love the earl well enough. What’s not to love?”
Joanna looked at her as if she wanted to argue, but decided not to press. Instead one corner of her mouth lifted. “Plenty, if you listen to James. Although until you are safely wed, I expect he’ll be singing his praises.”
Elizabeth laughed, having heard more than one of her fearsome brother’s tirades against the “pompous” knight, when Randolph had bested him at something. The men were fierce rivals, always trying to one better each other in feats of battle, but surprisingly also were good friends.
“I can’t wait to meet this paragon,” Isabel said. “If half the things I’ve heard about him are true, he must be an impressive man.”
Izzie would get her wish sooner than they anticipated. As if on cue, the sound of hoofbeats below signaled the arrival of a rider.
A few minutes later, Joanna was holding a message from Jamie in her hands. Her eyes bulged as she started to read it, and she muttered something like “God in heaven!” Elizabeth was concerned until her sister-in-law started to laugh.
“What is it?” she asked.
There were tears of joy and pride in Joanna’s eyes as she handed the parchment to her. “Read for yourself, but your future husband isn’t going to be very happy when he hears about this.”
Elizabeth read it in stunned disbelief. Near the end she let out a cry that mirrored Joanna’s and threw her arms around her in celebration. Jo was right. Randolph wasn’t going to be happy. He was almost two months into his siege on Edinburgh Castle, and James had just taken Roxburgh Castle in one night.
They laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. The miraculous feat that they’d jested about moments before had come true. Jamie had done the impossible once again. In a move that no one—including the Bruce—was expecting, he’d seen an opportunity and had taken the castle by subterfuge the night before during the Shrove Tuesday celebrations.
And almost as wonderful to Elizabeth’s mind, after seeing to the destruction of the castle, her brother would arrive at Blackhouse within a fortnight to escort them to Edinburgh.
Overjoyed, Elizabeth went to share the news with Archie and her youngest brother, Hugh.
She only found one of them.
The bastard was toying with him. Thom attacked from the left and then from the right, but each time the captain deflected Thom’s sword with a deft twist of his hands, first slapping—hard—the flat of his blade to Thom’s shoulder and then his thigh. Letting him know that were they not sparring, his blade would have cut.
Thom didn’t need to look at his opponent’s face to know that he was gloating. The captain had been his enemy since Thom had stopped him from accosting Eoin MacLean’s wife last year. The bastard should be thanking him. The captain—Sir John Kerr—had suffered a beating at MacLean’s hands, instead of the slow death he would have had had Thom not intervened before he did more than grope.
But the captain didn’t see it that way, and he looked for any opportunity he could to make Thom look bad—especially, like now, when their lord was watching.
Over the past three years Thom had quietly been making a name for himself, and Edward Bruce, Earl of Carrick, had taken notice. The king’s only remaining brother had taken a personal interest in Thom’s training, and let him know that despite his late start and humble beginnings, Thom could rise high in his army. This offended the captain’s sense of order, and the earl’s favoritism only increased his resentment.
Thom had suffered for it. And not just from the captain. For the past three years he’d been subject to every kind of humiliation, heard countless crude comments about his birth, and endured every kind of drudgery and physical demand that were calculated to wear him down—to prove that a “peasant” couldn’t compete with men who’d been born to the battlefield. He’d wanted to quit more times than he could remember—usually when his bruised and battered muscles were burning, sweat was pouring from every orifice of his body, and he had taken another mouthful of dirt—but the thought of returning home in defeat had always stopped him. So he’d suffered and endured and eventually he’d earned their grudging respect. Most of them, at least.
“Perhaps you should stick to the hammer,” the captain taunted. “The sword is the noble weapon of a knight. Brute strength won’t get you very far if you don’t learn how to use your edge.” Thom was used to the snide remarks about his birth and didn’t rise to the bait, which only served to annoy the captain. “Again,” Kerr (or as the men aptly called him, “Cur”) demanded, holding his sword out in front of him in a defensive position. Thom clenched his jaw and raised his hands to the right of his temple, preparing to attack.
“Don’t think so much,” one of the men gathered around watching suggested.
It was exactly Thom’s problem. He was not without strength or skill, but even after three years of constant training, he had not found the instinctive movements that seemed burned into the muscle of men who’d held a sword since youth.
As much as Thom hated to say it, the captain was right: brute strength would only take him so far. Which was why he was subjecting himself to Kerr’s humiliation at every opportunity. The captain might be a bastard, but he knew how to wield a sword.
Thom didn’t want to just be good, he wanted to be among the best. If that meant cramming fifteen years of training into a handful of years and listening to the captain’s slurs and taunts, he would suffer it gladly. He would do whatever it took.
With grim determination, Thom heeded the advice of the man who’d spoken and tried not to think too much as he stepped forward. He turned his hands, as if he meant to swing underhanded across, but then at the last minute, he rolled his wrist and used a downward motion. The captain was too good to be fooled. He blocked the blow, but when he did, Thom reacted, using the edge of the blade to roll over the captain’s sword and tap his ribs, signifying a cut.
Thom betrayed none of his satisfaction, but it was there in Kerr’s furious expression.
A few of the men clapped and cheered. Despite his rank, the captain was a crude braggart and not popular around camp.
The most important spectator clapped among them. When he finished, Carrick called Thom over. “Not bad, MacGowan. I see you are improving in your sword skills.”
Thom accepted the compliment with a nod. “The captain has taught me much.”
Carrick lifted a dark brow. “I see you’ve learned some diplomacy as well. You may become a knight yet.” His mouth twisted with amusement. “Assuming your horsemanship skills have progressed, that is?”
Thom didn’t bother hiding his grimace. His lack of fondness for horses (and theirs for him) wasn’t exactly a secret. He rode, but through sheer grit and determination. “I’m afraid not, my lord.”
Carrick laughed uproariously and clapped him on the back. “We’ll find you a sweet filly to tame yet. Which reminds me . . .” He gave Thom a knowing look. “You made quite the impression on our hostess with your heroics a few days ago.”
Thom winced a little at Edward Bruce’s attempt at humor. Like most men in camp, Carrick could be crude when it came to talking about women. Big Thom would have skinned him alive, if he’d heard Thom say half—a quarter—of the things that were said about women at camp. Thom might be of low birth, but he’d been raised to treat lasses—all lasses—with respect. Despite their supposed code of chivalry, from what Thom had seen, not all knights took it to heart.
But Carrick wasn’t all bad. Thom knew that many men didn’t like the king’s second-in-command, but he wasn’t one of them. Edward Bruce could be hotheaded and impulsive, but he was also bold, fierce, and aggressive on the battlefield. If he was in the shadow of his older brother and at times jealous, perhaps Thom understood. He knew what it was like to always be looking up.
“It was nothing, my lord,” Thom said.
“Well, Lady Marjorie doesn’t think so. I wish I’d seen it. Did you really climb all the way up there?” The earl pointed to the spine of the pitched roof of the tower house.
Rutherford Castle was of the simple stone peel tower construction that was common in the area. It had served as a base for the earl and his men as they raided England and harried the garrison at Jedburgh to prevent any provisions from getting through.
“It’s easier than it looks, my lord.”
Edward Bruce glanced at him as if he were crazed. “How the hell did the cat get up there anyway?”
Thom shrugged. “Lady Marjorie said one of the children was chasing him around the ramparts and the cat was trying to escape. He was probably too scared to try to come down.”
“I wonder why,” Carrick said dryly. “I sure as hell wouldn’t risk my neck for a cat, but Lady Marjorie is grateful. Very grateful. The lovely widow has requested that you be among the men to provide her escort to her lands in Yorkshire.” When Thom didn’t immediately respond, he added, “She specifically asked me what your position was in the army, and whether you were wed. I told her you were one of my most promising soldiers, and that you were as yet unmarried. The lady is definitely interested. Move your pieces right, and you’ll capture your ‘queen,’ and be lord of this castle in a few months.”
With the amount of attention Lady Marjorie had been showing him the past few days—and the suggestive touches and brushes—Thom wasn’t completely surprised by the earl’s news. “Thank you, my lord. I will do my best. When do I leave?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“You do not need me here for the raids?”
Carrick shook his head. “We’ll be leaving for Stirling by the end of the week. You can meet us there.” The earl paused, eyeing him thoughtfully. “You surprise me, MacGowan. I thought you would be more excited by the prospect of a rich wife. You’ve made no secret of your ambition. The alliance will elevate your standing among the men and make your path to knighthood much easier. ’Tis a good match. Better than most in your position could hope for—although I suspect your countenance helps. I’ve noticed how popular you are with the lasses.” Thom withheld comment, as there wasn’t much to say about that. Carrick frowned. “Is there another match you hoped to make?”
Thom shook his head. “Nay, my lord. I am pleased—very pleased,” he added, furious at himself for his reaction. Carrick was right: he should be cheering from the rooftops at his good fortune. Lady Marjorie Rutherford was the widow of a respected knight with significant dower lands on both sides of the border, including this castle near Peebles. For a man in his position, it was a good match—a spectacular match—indeed.
If the lady herself was a little bold in her advances and reminded him of the feline to which she was so attached (more than her children, he couldn’t help noticing), she was reasonably young, attractive, and, from what he could tell, an excellent chatelaine. Lady Marjorie was more than he could have hoped for.
He wasn’t a lovesick fool anymore. A broken heart had proved to be a powerful eye-opener, curing him of all his illusions. He knew exactly where he stood, and what he needed to do to move up the ranks. A good marriage—a good alliance—was part of that.
Elizabeth had taught him well. Thom didn’t think much about the past. He’d moved on. But when he did think of her, it was no longer with anger and hurt. It was no longer a raw, festering wound upon which the slightest touch would make his insides scream in agony. Nay, now it was more of a dull sense of loss and disappointment. A hole in his heart that would never be filled.
Not that he blamed her. He must have been half-crazed to ever think she would look at him as a potential suitor—even if she had returned his feelings. Elizabeth wasn’t the widow of a minor baron. She was a Douglas. With everything that meant.
His mouth fell in a tight line. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to put all of his past or all Douglases behind him. It seemed like every time he turned around, he was running into his former friend-now-nemesis or being forced to listen to some tale of whatever amazing feat the Black Douglas had managed on the battlefield. He was damned tired of it.
Joanna might have forgiven “Sir” James, but Thom wasn’t as forgiving.
Perhaps the journey to Yorkshire would prove a boon in more ways than one. In England the Black Douglas was feared, not revered, playing more the role of bogeyman than great hero.
“I will be ready, my lord, and I look forward to escorting Lady Marjorie,” Thom said with much more enthusiasm this time. “You can be assured, I won’t waste this opportunity.”
Carrick nodded. “Good. Resume your training.”
A squire ran up and handed a missive to Carrick as Thom started to walk away. He took only a few steps before Carrick called him back. “MacGowan, wait.” He finished reading the piece of parchment and lowered it. “I’m afraid your pretty widow is going to have to wait.”
“My lord?”
“It seems Douglas has performed another miracle.” If there was anyone who enjoyed hearing about Douglas’s feats less than Thom, it was Edward Bruce—and perhaps Thomas Randolph. “He’s taken Roxburgh Castle, and we’ve been ordered to help him destroy it.”