Chapter Eight

Lilias

L ilias woke with a start to sunbeams slicing through a shuttered window, the light falling across her face. Sitting up, she rubbed a hand over her eyes, pushing back her dark hair, loose from its braiding, and looked around. She leaned against plump pillows, all but swallowed up in a huge postered bed draped in golden damask curtains, her knees and feet small bumps under blankets and a pale embroidered coverlet. The thick mattress smelled of lavender and rose petals with a hint of herbs and resinous bog myrtle. The damask curtains let in a wedge of sunlight. Sliding her legs to the edge of the bed, she sat up and pushed aside the curtaining damask. Where was she?

Ah. Trapped. Imprisoned. She remembered now. Days ago—a week or more?—she had been dragged from her horse in a commotion of men and swords and shouting. Tossed over a saddle, she had been carried away on horseback for hours, then dumped over someone's broad shoulder and taken up a torchlit stairway. Terrified, she fought, kicked, shrieking until a hand had clapped over her mouth to shut her up. Pushed into a darkened room, she was tossed on a bed. The man left, and a woman, silent and grim, brought her a drink and some food. Throat dry, she swallowed thirstily. Soon, all had gone blurry and she had slept.

Days had gone by, slow and silent, seeing only the woman, getting few answers to her volley of questions. Where was she, who had taken her, where were her friends? What happened to the men of her escort? The woman said little, shaking her head, asking her what she wanted to eat, if she wanted a book or needlework, if she preferred wine or ale.

"I am thirteen," she said. "Bring me water for my health. If you bring spirits, water them." She was served hot herbal infusions and watered ale. Her head always seemed foggy, so that she slept often and did little. Today she felt that way again.

She shook her head, sitting with stockinged feet dangling from the edge of the great bed. The room was not large, nearly filled by the enormous bed. The walls were whitewashed and plain, but there was a shelf with a few books that she looked through now and then. The raftered ceiling beams were painted in a flowery design that she had all but memorized. A patterned rug covered part of the planked floor. Daylight spilled through the latched shutters covering a tall window.

A fire in a stone hearth made the room feel too warm, with the sun shining bright outside. She wanted to go outside but had not been allowed. On a table, a tray held a glass goblet, a pottery jug, a pewter plate with apples and cheese. In a shadowy corner, a curtain partly concealed a chamber pot and a table with linens and a bowl of water. Near the window, a leather chair was pushed against a table holding a pot of wildflowers.

The room's arched wooden door, trimmed in black iron, was latched shut. She knew the latch was bolted. She heard it every time the woman came in and went out.

Locked in a pretty room fit for a princess. Perhaps they thought she was one. But she was only the eldest illegitimate daughter of the earl who last year had declared himself King of Scots. The title of princess now belonged to her younger half- sister, Marjorie, just eleven years old and a captive in England with her other kinswomen.

Now both Robert Bruce's daughters were prisoners, thousands of miles apart. But Lilias had a better chance of escaping than her half-sister.

Sliding to the floor from the big bed, she went to the table, sloshed the jug contents and sniffed, discovering watered ale. She poured a little into the glass cup, then sniffed the liquid again. The serving woman often gave her something at night that made her feel groggy and vaguely aware of her surroundings. She dipped a finger into the watery ale and touched it to her tongue, then tried to remember what she had learned about herbs and infusions that made one sleepy.

A sweetish, earthy funk traced through the brighter taste of ale. Wrinkling her nose, she thought about what Lady Rowena Keith, Margaret's sister, had taught her about herbs. Valerian! That had an earthy taste. It was a helpful herb unless the dose was too high. One could fall asleep quickly and feel awful upon waking.

She gave the apple an uncertain glance—it could be tainted—and walked the room, bored, trying to be more alert. Using the little chamber pot and cleaning her face and hands, she smoothed her clothing, the same blue woolen gown that Robert Bruce's sister had given her, with the same pale embroidered stockings and chemise that she had been wearing when the escort had been attacked. So her days went. So slowly.

Shuddering at the memory of the attack, she wondered what had become of Lady Margaret and Andrew Murray and the kind knights of the escort. She had learned nothing of them since coming here.

Sitting in the chair, she paged through a book mindlessly and tried to still her fears, trying to imitate the natural calm of Lady Rowena and the courage and spirit of Lady Margaret. She had boldness in her, she knew that, but the days, the fear—and perhaps the herbal infusions—had eroded that.

Hearing the door latch rattle, she folded her hands and straightened her shoulders. She wanted to seem calm and brave and look like a king's daughter. Her father would expect it.

The servant woman who had come every day entered again, wearing a plain dun-colored gown and a white head kerchief that did not obscure her sour expression. Carrying a small jug and a covered bowl, she placed them on the table and poured liquid into the cup. Picking up the other pitcher, she nodded to Lilias.

"My lady. To break your fast."

"What is in the cup? I will not be dosed again. You have been giving me valerian."

The woman raised her eyebrows high. "My lady, there was naught in the drink to harm you. Just a little to calm you."

"Too high a dose. Go to whoever is holding me here," she said, "and tell them I will neither eat nor drink until I know it is harmless."

"If you wish." The woman went to the door, then stopped. "Oh! Sir William!"

She backed away as the door opened wider and a man stepped into the room. He glanced at the servant, then Lilias, frowning. A tall man, dark haired and dark eyed, he wore a long blood-red surcoat with silver embroidery, an expensive garment, with a black tunic and boots. He was a handsome knight, not as old as her father but older than Sir Henry Keith or Sir Hugh Stewart.

"Lady Elisabeth, greetings," he said to Lilias; she had not shared her affectionate name here. Let them call use her formal name. He turned to the servant, who looked discontent. "Dame Brigit, speak. Is there a problem here?"

"Sir, my lady says she will no longer eat or drink for fear of being poisoned."

"That is not exactly what I said." Lilias stepped forward.

He glanced at her, then at the woman. "She is a child and will do as she is told. Dame Brigit brought you food. You will eat it."

"I am being given sleeping draughts against my will."

"You need it, from the ruckus that I heard. You are calmer and should thank the good dame for that."

"She should know a slight girl needs a slight dose. Where am I, and who are you?'

"Sir William de Soulis."

"De Soulis? My father mentioned the name. I thought De Soulis was dead."

"My uncle Walter was killed recently. Why does it matter to a child?"

"When I hear things, I think about them. Why am I in this place?"

"This is Roskie Castle, which belongs to Sir John Menteith, sheriff of Dunbartonshire. You are his guest."

"Guest! I hear the drawbar each time the door closes."

"We must protect you from harm."

"Better if my escort and I had been left alone. Why were we attacked? Where are my men and companions now? Who told you my name?"

"A knight in your escort. Before he died, alas."

"Did you slay him?" She sounded bolder than she felt. Her legs trembled so under her gown that she put a hand on the table to stay upright.

"Child," he said. "Be fair and grateful. Did you forget that Sir John's men tried to save you? You were attacked. You are under the sheriff's protection after a rescue from brigands."

"That is not true."

"A child may see things differently than an adult. You may eat and drink without fear. No one will harm you here."

"A real sheriff would send word to my father. He is—" She stopped, about to say the one name she should protect.

"We know who your father is." He turned to leave the room, beckoning the servant out as well. The door shut, the bar dropped, the latch fixed.