Chapter Twelve

Breathing in the damp, chilly air, Tamsin rode astride behind Liam, gripping his belt, gown tucked, cloak billowing. She leaned against his back as he set a good pace across rolling moorland under gray skies.

He said little, now again reaching behind to brace her with a steady hand as if he wanted to know she was secure. Looking around, she did not see Sir Gilchrist or Sir Finley. They had vanished over a hill a while ago, taking another route with Roc. Hoping none of them would be pursued, she kept glancing back anxiously.

The monastery was not far now, she knew, for she had traveled this way more than once with a Dalrinnie escort to visit Holyoak. The abbot kindly allowed her to study the books in their small library. Her sister Rowena had gone there occasionally too, assisting in the hospice located there. In that small Benedictine abbey, Tamsin would feel among friends. It would feel like a temporary sanctuary.

Yet, given the strict rules and integrity of the order, the abbot might insist she return to Dalrinnie or stay in a convent. She sighed, suddenly uncertain, still hoping she could count on them as friends when she needed help.

"Is something wrong, my lady?" Liam Seton's voice had a warm resonance that she instinctively trusted. Yet she felt uncertain about him as well.

"Just tired. Are you sure we were not followed by that patrol?"

"They may return to Dalrinnie to report to Comyn. But we are in luck. The rain is lifting and the ice melting." He urged the stallion to a canter.

She clung to his belt, noticing the muscled power of his long legs and the sure guidance he gave the horse. But she also felt urgency thrumming in him like a brooding storm. He seemed driven, determined; she sensed it in his wary glance, in his long silences as they rode. No longer her supposed husband, he was her grim and dutiful escort with a mission to accomplish and little to say.

Drawing her cloak closer, she watched the horizon for the familiar profile of Holyoak Abbey, with its wooden palisade walls and fieldstone bell tower, the whole set on the rise of a hill near a long curving loch. The waters that filled that blue crescent flowed eastward as the Yarrow Water. Beyond lay Ettrick Forest, and on the far side of that vast green sward lay Selkirk, where she must accomplish her mission.

But suddenly she wanted to disappear, never arrive at the monastery, never see Comyn again, never follow King Edward's orders to surrender the Rhymer's work. She closed her eyes, fighting tears, fatigue, frustration.

Seton glanced back as if he sensed that change in her. "Aye?"

"Aye, well enough." She was tempted to tell him her thoughts, craving the tenderness he had shown at the inn. Tears pulled and she dashed them away. She could not submit to some sentimental need to trust a harper, an outlaw, a sometime knight. God only knew what he wanted, for the man did not share his thoughts readily.

She needed desperately to trust someone, and she felt so keenly drawn to this man now that she only felt more frustration. Suddenly she wished he would keep riding fast and far to disappear over the next hill and the next, taking her with him, never stopping until they reached some distant hideaway. If only she could be with him, with his gruff kindness, even his secrets, they could discover trust, freedom, truth between them. Foolish as it seemed, she felt it could be so.

But she was only indulging a dream. He was not the knight of dreams, but a man with secrets. She was on her own and must sort this out for herself, even amid uncertainty.

Then she heard the bell. The sound rang through the air, rich and true, faint with distance. A chill wind streamed past, lifting her braid like a banner. She tucked it away.

"Holyoak's bell," she said, as it rang out again, three more times. "I thought it was telling the hour, but they are still ringing it."

"It is not a call to prayers. They are sounding it against the weather."

"The weather?"

"That old bell is said to improve the weather when rung. It is inscribed for it."

"Inscribed?" She leaned to look up at him. He slowed the horse, varying the pace, adjusting the reins.

"‘Ego sum qui dissipo tonitrua,'" he quoted. "‘I am the one who dispels the thunder.'"

"Truly! Does it work?"

He laughed. "Do you hear thunder? Nay? Then it works."

She laughed too. "You know this abbey well, I think."

"Aye." He went silent again.

At last she saw the foggy outline of the stone bell tower and timber walls, fronted by the crown of a massive tree. Holyoak was named for the ancient giant oak that stood like a sentry outside the gates. Now, its wide canopy was golden with autumn.

"Just ahead now. Faring well, my lady?" He slowed the horse's pace.

"Fine," she said, even as the sleet renewed, pattering mercilessly on her head.

"Aye so?" He glanced back.

"This is the most miserable journey I have ever endured," she blurted.

"Now she speaks truth," he said, and laughed.

Reaching the entrance, Liam dismounted, lifting his arms to help her down. His hands were firm at her waist as he set her on the ground, holding her for a moment when she faltered, her knees trembling with fatigue, toes near frozen in her boots. Then he went to the gate, pulling a rope that clanged a small bell on the other side and would summon a porter.

Soon the wooden doors opened and two monks in black hooded robes stood there, gesturing them inside. "Welcome," said the younger one. "We expected you, Sir Liam!"

Expected him? Puzzled, Tamsin looked from one man to the next.

"Brother Allan, greetings. So my brother and cousin arrived safely?"

"Aye, sir, with Roc." Brother Allan and the older monk turned to Tamsin, smiling.

"Lady Thomasina Keith," Liam said, "Brother Allan and Brother Claude." He took her elbow as they walked into the yard, muddy with rain.

"We are acquainted. Lady Tamsin, welcome," Brother Allan said. The older monk murmured a welcome in French.

"Thank you. Merci," she said to one and the other; she remembered seeing both on previous visits. Brother Allan closed the gate as Liam guided her into the center of the small courtyard, usually neat, but muddied and dreary this cold day.

She glanced around, recognizing the rectory, the chapter house and abbot's house, the large stone chapel with its main entrance outside the palisade, the hospital building at the far end, with an outside entrance as well, along with various other structures that made Holyoak a busy abbey despite its modest size.

Once a haven for her, today it seemed fraught with risk, for she did not know if she would be welcome, considering her situation. There was one monk here, however, who would be a staunch friend, she was sure. She glanced around for him.

"Brother Gideon will be here soon and will be pleased to see you," Brother Allan said. "Sir Gilchrist said the lady will need to rest, and the small guest house is ready. This way, my lady. Such dreadful weather! Do watch your step." The young monk began to lead her across the muddy courtyard.

"Wait," Liam said. "Here is Brother Gideon."

He knew him too? She turned, seeing Sir Gilchrist with a tall monk in a plain black robe who walked with a noticeable limp. He lifted a hand in greeting, the corner of his smile puckered on the left by a deep scar that curved from cheek to chin.

"Lady Tamsin—Liam!" Gideon said. Tamsin saw Liam stride toward the monk, grinning.

"Gideon!" he called, and the two embraced, standing in cold mud and icy drizzle beside Gilchrist Finley came running too, and now all four—knights and monk—were thumping shoulders, laughing, talking.

Tamsin watched in surprise, seeing how well they knew each other, what affection they shared. Smiling faintly, she waited.

On previous visits, Brother Gideon had escorted her to the abbey's library, staying for conversations about the books and texts. He had shared a little about what had brought him to Holyoak, and she had told him a bit about her life as well. He was warm and amiable, frank about the injuries that had landed him in the hospital here, and honest about his decision to become a novitiate, possibly a monk, one day. The avowal process was slow, giving the novice time to think about the ramifications of devoting their lives to God's work. For now, he was moving toward that, acting as a scholar-clerk and working with the abbey's book collection.

And she had been delighted to learn that Brother Gideon had met her sister Lady Rowena when she had visited the abbey hospital. Typical of her sister's curiosity and intelligence, Rowena had been eager to learn healing techniques from the monks who treated and supervised there and to share what she knew.

Tamsin loved Holyoak not just for its books or the connection with her sister, but for her friendship with Brother Gideon. He was knowledgeable, insightful, humorous, and kind, and in his company, she always felt valued as a scholar, a friend, an equal of sorts.

Waiting as the men spoke, she realized then why she had thought William—and Gilchrist, too—so oddly familiar. It was not just meeting the harper before, but more than that.

These men were kinsmen, she saw now. They had to be. They shared similar features, shared smiles, striking blue eyes, handsome faces, and tall, lean physiques. While Liam was dark, Gilchrist and Gideon were blond, though Gideon's hair was precisely shaved. They matched in many ways. Even their voices were similar, velvety dark in deep tones.

But what surprised her most was that Gilchrist and Gideon were identical. Twins, surely. No wonder she had thought her impromptu escort looked familiar. Finley, their cousin, was a sturdy and handsome man too, with brown hair and brown eyes. He was not as tall as his Seton cousins, with a brawny form and a dimpled and irresistible smile.

"You are brothers," she said then. "All three of you." They turned and smiled.

"Aye," Liam said. "And Finley, our cousin, was raised with us like a brother." He clapped that lad on the shoulder.

Gideon gave her a broad smile. "Lady Tamsin! Pardon me for not welcoming you yet. My kinsmen distracted me." Laughing, he rested a hand on Gilchrist's shoulder. She saw again how very alike they were.

"You know Lady Tamsin, then," Liam said.

"Oh aye," Gideon replied. "A great patron of books and a gracious lady. Welcome back to Holyoak, my lady. We heard of your dilemma today. I am sorry."

"Thank you, Brother Gideon. I am grateful for any help you can extend to me here. I hope Abbot Murdoch will allow me to stay for a little while."

"We will bring it to his attention. He is resting just now. But let us offer you shelter and refreshment. Brother Allan, will you see the lady to—where is the lad?" He looked around.

"Running after the hounds," Gilchrist said, pointing to the other end of the yard, where Allan chased Roc and two other tall, gangly hounds.

"I will show her to the cottage." Liam shouldered the two satchels that he had removed from his horse's saddle.

"Good. I will see when Abbot Murdoch is free to visit with you. He has stayed in his quarters today. Old aches brought on by cold and rain," Gideon explained. "Lady Tamsin, the guest house is ready for travelers who might need it for a night or two. Although—" He glanced at the others. "We send ladies on to a sister priory if they need a longer stay. There are not many convents in Scotland, to be sure, but we will send word ahead to see if Dame Agatha can take you in at Lincluden."

"We would like to stay for a day or two," Liam said. "The lady is set on traveling on to Selkirk."

"Selkirk? Is it so? Well," Gideon said, "we will set pallets for you lads by the hearth in the rectory."

"Thank you." Liam glanced at Gilchrist. "We have other matters to tend to and would not stay for long, I think."

Tamsin listened, smiling, still marveling at the similarities between the men. Suddenly, oddly, they all seemed dear to her, as if she had always known them. Yet they were still strangers. Perhaps her relief and gratitude made them feel like kin and friends.

"My lady." Liam turned. "Let us get you out of this rain." She nodded, aware of her fatigue. He gestured across the bailey toward a small stone cottage with a steep thatched roof, tucked against the back of the palisade.

"You must be hungry, all of you," Gideon said. "Brother Robert, our cook, has a venison stew simmering, a good meal against the chill. You are welcome to share what we have. The abbot will be eager to see you as well. He keeps to his quarters often these days, but he will want to see his kinsmen."

"Kinsmen?" Tamsin blinked. "Are you related to the abbot also?"

"He is our uncle," Gilchrist said.

"Oh! He is a lovely man. I hope he is well."

"Well enough," Gideon said. "I will tell him you are here."

"This way, my lady." Liam gestured for her to come with him across the yard, just as a renewal of icy rain began. He set a hand to her elbow as they rushed along. Behind them, the others ran for cover also.

Liam led her to a covered wooden colonnade that extended from the rectory to the side of the chapel. Sleet drummed on the wooden slats overhead.

"We can wait here." He paused with her there. "Awful weather. I am sorry. It has only made this long day even worse for you."

"A day of challenges, to be sure." She gave a low laugh at the truth of it. "From the moment I went out the tower window, I have done things I might never have thought of doing before. Meeting you and the others, going with you, being hunted, finding that you are—" She stopped, nearly saying "the knight."

"Finding me?"

"The harper," she went on. "And then riding through an ice storm in October—it has been a day of one revelation after another."

"Discovering that you had courage and stamina—was that a revelation to you also? I saw it in you, even if you did not." He spoke gently, reaching out to brush rain from her hood. "What more revelations will this day hold for you, hey?"

"I found I could pretend to be other than I am. Your wife," she explained.

"Was it so difficult?" His smile was a wry twist.

"Aye. It is hard for me to say a falsehood. My grandda called it a truthy tongue, always saying what you think, what you know is true. But it can be a sort of curse." She gave a flat little laugh.

He watched her, the rain shadowing his face. "Rhymer's daughter," he murmured. "If that did not come easy, then well done to you."

"Truly, it was nice, pretending to be your wife. But I prefer truth."

"I have to agree. But listen now." He leaned down. "They believed it, and we needed it in the moment. So was it a mere lie, or a necessary one?"

She nodded thoughtfully. "You said once that truths can be more harmful than falsehoods. Yet Grandda said I must always be truthful. He could never speak falsely."

"And you took it to heart. You are the least false person I know. Every bit of you." Rain slipped through the planks above. He brushed drops off her shoulder. "But playing with truth can be protective. And what is most true is that you cannot go back to Dalrinnie as long as Comyn is there."

She nodded. "Abbot Murdoch may tell me to go back there. He may feel obligated to support the king as well as the Church."

"We will know what he thinks soon enough." Liam's height and solidity blocked the wind, his presence a shelter, his calmness a rock on what had been a chaotic day. "And before I leave here, my lady, I want to be sure that you will be safe."

"Leave? Must you go?" she asked quickly.

"I have some obligations. I promised to see you through the forest to Selkirk, and I will," he added. "But Sir Malise will not give up easily, so it may be better for you to stay in a convent for a while before you visit your friends or your kin."

"I need to go there as soon as I can, and then find my family. If you must leave, I can find another way." But the thought of him leaving felt wrong somehow. Dangerous. A thought nudged at her, as if she had forgotten something important.

"Scotswomen are not safe these days, and that is true. Wait for me to return, Tamsin," he said, using her name intimately. "Can you do that? Have patience with me?"

She nodded. "I am so tired," she said, as it washed over her. "Can we talk later?" Her head felt muzzy, dizzy for a moment, and paused.

"Tamsin?"

She shook her head. "I—I was surprised to learn that Gideon is your brother. He never mentioned brothers, but then he would not." She stretched for something to say, to cover up the odd fatigue coming over her. "He and Gilchrist look like twins."

"Aye. Younger than me by two years."

"And kin to the abbot as well? No wonder you know this place."

"Murdoch is my father's brother. My father is gone seven years now," he added. "Gideon came to Holyoak's hospital three years ago, sorely wounded. He found peace here, and needed it after—well…" He gave a thin smile. "You look tired. Let me take you to the cottage." He gestured toward the little building. "I will ride out with the others soon, but just for a little while. We want to be sure no one followed us here."

"Do not leave," she burst out, grabbing his arm, chain mail hard and cold. His hand slid to hers, fingers cool but enveloping. Fear went through her. She might never see him again, and knew so little of him, with no time to learn more. Something was about to change. Something felt wrong—

"Tamsin?" He gripped her hand.

"Do not ride out now." Her heart pounded. She felt fear, fatigue, and yearning all at once. Her head spun, the strain of the day hitting her like a tidal wave. That was all. She shook her head.

"Lady, what is it?"

"I need to rest. Will I see you before you go?" She should thank him for his help, just that. But she felt off. Her fingers found his skin in the gap under the chain mail. He felt warm, real, honest to his bones.

He watched her. "Tell me what is wrong."

Then the world spun. She stepped back, stumbling. He caught her arm, drew her close. Sleet tapped the wooden canopy overhead; rain blurred the yard. When the words tumbled out, she could not stop them.

"Fire," she whispered. "The yard—the walls—"

"Fire? It is raining like the very devil."

The bailey was awash in sleet and mud, the buildings a dull blur of stone and wood and thatch. Candlelight glimmered in the arched windows of the chapel.

Yet even as she saw the rainy yard, she saw flames dancing high, hot, and yellow across her innermost vision, like a waking dream.

"Fire," she repeated. "I see this place all aflame." She passed a shaking hand over her eyes, trying to wipe away the images.

"Jesu! You are shivering, lass." He pulled her close, his body blocking the wind, his arms around her now. She trembled, head to foot.

"Fire in the oak, at fair Holyoak," she whispered. "Torches at the gate and the tolling of the bell. Gate—watch the gate."

"The monks are cautious of fire, like anyone with house and hearth."

"Beware the gate. The broken gate." Her voice grew hoarse.

"What the devil," he murmured. "You said you were tired. Is it fever? I never should have made you ride so far in this cold and wet." He rubbed her shoulder, pulled her in, his arm around her.

The words roiled through her. "Fire at the oak, at fair Holyoak, men with torches and the ringing of the bell—" She could not look away from the vision inside her head, could not stop the message that poured through her.

"Jesu," he growled, then swept her into his arms. The swift motion halted the cascade of words in her head. She rocked in his arms as he strode through a whipping curtain of rain to the cottage step and booted the door open.