Chapter Thirteen

He stood ready to catch her, hold her, whatever she needed. Pale and shaking, the lass sat on the narrow cot now, looking spent. She pushed back the hood of her sodden cloak. Her tousled braid loosened into ripples of wet gold. Lifting her hands, she covered her eyes.

"Lady?" Concern sagged his shoulders, his spirit. "Tamsin?"

When she looked at him, her eyes were bright, luminous. "Oh," she said, as if in a half-daze. "This is a nice cottage."

"It is." He felt relief at the ordinary remark. But what had just happened? He waited, glancing around the small guest house with its simple bed, straw mattress, woolen blanket, and thin pillow. By the window stood a small table, a bench. One shelf held a cup, a jug, a candle, and a wooden cross hung on the wall beside the small curtained window. Flames flickered in the small stone hearth in a corner, blessedly warm. Tamsin stood and crossed the room to warm her hands at the hot glow.

"Better?" he asked.

She nodded. "I am sorry. Thank you."

He drew a calming breath. "I will fetch your things." He stepped out in the rain to grab the satchels he had dropped, bringing them inside.

She looked up. "That was—that has not happened for a while. A truthy spell, my family calls it."

"Some might call it the Sight. Though the fatigue of the day would explain it too." He frowned. "You should rest. I will go."

"Stay," she said quickly, putting out a hand. "Please stay. If you can."

In answer, he went to her side, wanting to be there if she faltered, and put out his hands to the fire. As warmth eased the dampness he felt, he nudged his arm and shoulder against her, a buttress if need be.

"I am not sure what I said," she murmured.

"Something about fire."

"It must have seemed very odd to you."

"No matter. I just want to know you are fine now."

"I am." Long golden strands, wet and curling, curtained her face.

"You need rest and food. A bit of watered wine, or perhaps a stronger spirit. I can fetch something from the rectory. You say this has happened before?"

"Aye. Not often." She sighed. "My family has seen this in me. Grandda did the same, but he spoke with authority, with power, you see. He had the ear of kings and earls and great men. What comes over me is small by comparison. Few know about it. Grandda once told me that someday I would see things that are true, and not to fear that power. Still, you must think me foolish. Weak."

"I do not. A gift like yours," he said, "may start quietly and grow. If the visions prove true, word spreads. Leaders listen. My cousin is a soothsayer. Lady Isobel Seton."

She gasped. "Of Aberlady? I have heard the name. She speaks to earls and suchlike. I could never do that."

"You could and you may someday, if you are like your great-grandfather. And I think you are," he murmured. "When visions come to Isobel, she pays them heed and gives warning. She married a friend. One day—I could bring you to meet her," he offered. Would there be that day, when he could do such a favor for this lass? He frowned. It might mean a future with her beyond this moment, beyond his sorry promise to a ruthless king.

"I would like that." She ran fingers through her hair. "I am so tired."

"Indeed. This might help." Grabbing the crockery jug from the shelf, he opened it, sniffed. As he thought, it was Holyoak's own uisge beatha, a strong drink made from barley. A little might help bring the lady around, for she seemed dazed still. He poured a dram into a wooden cup and handed it to her.

She drank, then coughed. "Please—do not tell anyone what happened."

"You can trust me."

She looked at him over the cup. "I want to. But I wonder."

"My lady." Liam took her by the shoulders. "Whatever I do elsewhere, you can trust me." He emphasized the words.

"I am grateful to you, but I am cautious. You are a puzzle to me, sir."

"And you," he said, "bewilder me." And enchant me, he thought, spin me round so I do not know what to think. He rubbed her shoulders, down her arms and up. She felt good under his hands. Warm, no longer shivering. She did not pull away, though they stood so close. "Sit," he told her, leading her to the cot.

Seated, she sipped the drink again, then blinked. "Perhaps I would be better off in a convent. If I was a nun, or even an anchorite or a hermit in the forest, people would just think me mad and leave me to my books and my—verses."

"You do not belong in a convent. So the episodes of yours prove true?"

She rubbed her arm, shivered a little. "Sometimes, aye. I saw my first husband wounded and dead on a field. But I was wrong. He was wounded, aye. But it was weeks before he died. The wound festered despite all we did. My sister came to Dalrinnie to help," she added. "She has the greater gift, I think. Healing. But even she could not change his fate."

"Death is death," he said. "I am sorry. Your sister—did she come here to Holyoak? Gideon spoke highly of her."

"She did. I miss her. I wonder what both my sisters would say of the kerfuffle I have made for myself. Well," she said, shrugging. "Soon you will be free of me and my troubles—and my fits of truth, whatever they may be."

"I am in no rush to be free of you. This day has not brought good fortune to Lady Tamsin. She needs a friend. I will stay."

She smiled faintly. "I do want to trust you. I do."

"And still do not?" He lifted a brow.

"Dare not." She looked up. "The harper said he had a message for me from the king. But he vanished, then returned as a knight, who has not yet told me the message. Is it the same one I heard from Malise? Tell me. Here I am." She sounded bitter, weary.

"Here you are." He wondered how best to proceed. "I assumed, as Edward did, that the Rhymer's daughter was an elderly lady, only to discover the great-granddaughter was the one I need." Need suddenly seemed the right word.

"I suppose I am like Thomas in some ways."

"Far bonnier. I am told you have a book that belonged to the Rhymer. I am to take it from you."

"That book again! Sir Malise wants it too. He showed me a writ and demanded the book. When I refused, he threatened to drag me to the king to recite from memory whatever Thomas wrote. He threatened other things as well." She shrugged again. "So I went out the window."

"Well done. He had an order?" He frowned, remembering the day Edward forced the task on him while Malise insisted he would find the lady instead.

"I saw it. Is your writ the same?"

"Similar, I imagine. I must ask—do you have this thing Edward wants?"

"Tell me why he wants it." Cup in hand, she drank again, her eyes watering for a moment. It was strong stuff, Liam thought. And she was a slight thing.

"Easy, if you are not used to it. As for the book—he said something about it being the key to Scotland. A book of prophecies, from what I understand."

"All neatly put together?" She shook her head. "The key to defeating Scotland? I would not give it to Edward even if I had it. What will the king do if I do not comply?"

"He is Edward of England. What do you think?"

"I think he will force me to his will if he can find a way. But he has already taken Dalrinnie from me. I thought he would banish me to a convent, but he ordered Malise to—" She pushed her hair back, looked away.

"Take the book? What more?"

"The king ordered Malise to marry the widow. Me."

"Marry!" The blow felt almost physical. He went silent, grim. "Though Edward may have thought it a pretty joke on Malise."

"I beg your pardon!"

"I did not mean… Edward thinks you are an ancient crone, you see. Malise knows better but would agree to anything that brings him advantage. Still, I wonder about his orders," he murmured. "How they differ from mine."

"Does everyone know the king's plans for the lady except the lady herself?" she blurted. "Were you told to toss me in a convent if I do not cooperate? Or also told to marry me? Is this some contest for Edward's favor, with me in the middle?"

"I just want this book and have done with it. Edward did say he ought to marry me to the old crone. It was a cruel jest—marrying me to an old woman. Not you," he explained in haste as she gaped at him. "So he made Malise the butt of his joke. Still, it is a surprising order."

She huffed. "'Tis not uncommon for a widow to marry again, you know."

"True. By law, a widow is free to choose. So, why would Edward tell Malise to marry you, unless—ah, Dalrinnie. Did Sir John Witton leave his property to you?"

"He did. Malise knows that marrying me would give him Dalrinnie."

"Under English law, aye. Scots law grants women more rights with property. But your husband's will might not be valid in Scotland. Either way, it is complicated."

"Either way, I had to escape. He meant to send for a priest immediately."

"I see. But Edward has yet to appoint a permanent commander there, and I wonder why he would choose Comyn. Edward told me—" Liam stopped.

"You seem to know a good deal about this, Sir Harper."

"I was part of a conversation in the king's presence." He was not ready to reveal the truth of the situation, but some would do.

"So the harper is a king's man after all."

The answer was complicated. He moved on. "You saw these orders?"

"A roll of parchment with the king's seal and signature. I saw Dalrinnie mentioned, and saw my name, Malise's too. Parts were scrubbed, as when a knife is used to scrape ink away for a correction. It did look hastily made."

"Edward keeps his clerks busy and changes his mind often. There are errors and scrapings on many documents. Did you notice aught else?"

"Malise waved other pages about, maps too, while speaking with Sir Davey, my seneschal at Dalrinnie. You may know that Edward expects Malise to capture Robert Bruce and base the effort at Dalrinnie, since it sits close to Ettrick Forest. They think Bruce's men—perhaps Bruce as well—might be found there."

"Sir Malise could not manage to capture Bruce before. I doubt he could do it now. Besides, it is difficult—even impossible—to find anyone in the depths of the forest."

"You know the forest well?"

He shrugged. "I have spent time there."

"Harper, knight, king's man—rebel too. One of those who rocks back and forth, as many must do. My father, my brother, many good men I have known. You as well?"

He gave a solemn nod. "With good reason. What else did Malise tell you?"

"He warned me of repercussions if I refused."

"He made threats?"

"A cage. I knew what he meant."

He sucked in a breath. "Do not worry. An empty threat." Reassuring her, he wanted to believe it too.

"But should I trust you instead of him, Master Harper? I gave you my faith at Lochmaben, and today. But you too want something from me." He saw a steel glint in her gray eyes. "This supposed book."

"Supposed?"

"I do not own a book of prophecies by Thomas. So there." She yawned.

"But you do have a book of his." Seeing her yawn again, he shook his head. "Later for that. You should rest."

She looked weary. It troubled him to see it. But he had been glad to see her spirit and spark return when she spoke of Malise and doubted the harper.

He took the cup from her—she had emptied the thing, he saw—and stood over her. He knew he hovered, but he needed to just then, to be sure she was fine.

"I do not need a nursemaid, sir. Still, thank you."

"Someone should watch over you for a bit. You have no woman with you, and the monks would be uncomfortable with it. So you have me."

She shoved her hair over her shoulders in a flow of gold. It was long and heavy, trailing to her hips, and he wanted to sink his fingers into that gossamer stuff.

"Sit down. Please," she added. "You are so tall, standing there like that. It hurts my neck to converse with you. That is, if we must keep talking about who has the Rhymer's book. Which I do not," she added.

"You do have a truthy way about you, lady."

"And I see that you are tired, too. Sit." She patted the blanket.

He sat beside her, causing the bed to sink so that she tipped against him. "The Sight tells you I am tired?" He laughed.

"No one needs a seer for that. You have dark circles under your eyes and you look—stormy. Shadows here," she said, touching his cheek. "Creases here." She stroked his brow. "I know I just bring worry to you, and I am sorry. Truly." She leaned in.

"I should have given you food instead of Holyoak's uisge beatha," he mused.

"Did you know your eyes turn dull blue when you are tired? Like bluestone."

"I did not know that." How would he?

"I like them best when they are bright as patches of blue sky. Though I like them all the time. I have not seen eyes quite like yours. It is as if your very soul is right there." She tapped his cheek below one eye. "Just there, watching me."

He shook his head, bemused, bewildered. "You, lady, when you are tired, chatter like a magpie. And your eyes sparkle like crystal—though sometimes they look like thunder. Or is it the drink doing that?"

"Not the drink. You know I liked it," she said, "when we—oh, I should not say."

When they had kissed? The thought flashed through his mind. "I liked it too. Perhaps you should try to sleep."

She sighed and leaned toward him. "I had a thought."

"Now what? You are full of thoughts. I cannot keep pace."

"In a few days, Samhain will be upon us. The eve of All Souls Day," she said.

He lifted a brow in quick comprehension. "A time when strange things may occur. And something strange... just happened to you. The vision?"

She nodded. "A time when the veil between this world and the Otherworld goes so fine and thin that one may be visited by spirits. Or have visions."

"Just so." What might seem mad suddenly did not.

"Perhaps that happened to me today. Each day closer to Samhain, we are closer to the veil, and I saw something out of the ordinary. Enchantment in the air, you see."

"I see," he murmured. Sitting beside her, feeling her warmth, her arm and shoulder pressed against him, her golden hair spilling over his arm, he felt entranced. Spellbound.

"And then," she said, "you kissed me."

His heart pounded. "I did."

"It felt like magic."

"Did it," he said, his voice gruff, low. He leaned in, his breath meeting hers. This time when his lips touched hers, it was for her alone, with no pretense about it. Her mouth softened under his, and her gentle sound of need surged through him.

She slipped her arms around his neck, and he turned to pull her close, enveloping her, the next kiss deeper, each one renewing with a power, a hunger, that was the very soul of enchantment—unexpected, irresistible, inexorable, dreamlike.

Then he pulled back, stunned in the moment, not sure what had come over him—or her. She was gossamer indeed, this girl. "We should not—"

She spoke in the same moment. "You must think me—so lonely. All turned about."

He soothed his hand over her hair. "I think you are tired. And lovely," he murmured. "I am the one all turned about."

"Samhain is a magical time, I swear to you. Watch what happens in the next weeks. I feel it already."

"I suppose that could explain—is that a knock at the door?" He rose from the cot, and in two long strides, crossed the small room to pull the iron latch. Seeing Brother Allan, he stepped back to allow the monk to enter.

"Pardon me, pardon please," Allan said. He looked from the knight to the lady, and must have sensed something, for a fiery blush spread from his neck to the roots of his red-gold tonsure. "I brought soup for the lady. And ale. And sir, your kinsmen want me to tell you that they are in the rectory and waiting for you to join them for a meal. Gilchrist message is ‘where in hell are you?' Forgive me, I would not have said that myself, but he told me to say so."

"Thank you," Liam said, smothering a laugh. "Food is just the thing for the lady, I am thinking. Lady Tamsin," he added in farewell, as she went pink from her graceful neck to the pale curls spiraling along her brow.

"Sir William," she managed, as he closed the door behind him.

Wiping the emptybowl with a cloth, stacking it with the spoon and cup on the tray, Tamsin heard a quick knock on the door. Hoping that might be Liam returning, she opened the door quickly. Allan her his widest smile.

"I came to collect the dishes, if I may?"

"Of course. Come in." She stepped aside.

He set down a jug and a small packet wrapped in cloth. "Oatcakes, fresh from the griddle, in case you need something more. And watered heather ale. It is mild, good before sleeping. Is there aught else I can bring you, my lady?"

"I have all I need, I believe. Thank you."

"Brother Gideon says in a few days, he may be able to take you to Selkirk."

"That is good of him." Just Gideon? While she would be glad of his company, she felt a quick sting of disappointment that Liam Seton was not mentioned. Perhaps he had changed his mind about going with her. Perhaps she had misjudged his interest earlier. Even so, if she did end up in a convent, she would treasure those kisses, always. "But I will not inconvenience anyone. Perhaps I can make my way there if I could borrow a horse and cart."

"The abbot would not allow it, my lady. He insists you stay for a few days and leave only with an escort. Until then, he has instructed that no one be admitted at the gate unless we know them as friends. He is concerned for your welfare."

"And I am grateful, and I hope I can thank him in person soon." Dare she tell the abbot about her vision and reveal that protected part of her life? He might simply think her mad and dismiss it. Besides, she remembered little of what came to her, as often happened. Something about fire. Perhaps she should take it to Gideon, her trusted friend, although she had never mentioned her ability to him either.

As much as she cherished truth, she hesitated to share what came through her. But now William Seton had witnessed it. Would he tell his kinsmen? She frowned.

"My lady?" Allan brought her back. "The abbot wants to see you, but he has not been well and is taking his time."

"Of course. So Abbot Murdoch is kin to Brother Gideon and the rest?"

"Their uncle, aye. A sister is abbess at Lincluden. Another uncle, a Macnab like Finley—their mother's family—is a priest who follows the old Scottish church, as some do. Father Fergus has a wife and a large family and tends a parish in the remote hills."

"Truly! I thought the old ways of the Scottish Church were all but gone."

"Some still keep it, and some Scottish bishops turn a blind eye to country priests practicing the old ways, because they serve the people in the hills well, celebrating the sacraments and teaching them the lessons of the Church. Abbot Murdoch began as a priest of the old ways, then joined the Benedictines. He has been abbot here for years."

"How long have you been here, Allan? I have seen you about, though we never had a chance to talk."

"Since I was eleven, madam. I will be a full monk someday." He beamed.

"Brother Gideon will soon become one too, I imagine. I never knew he had brothers, though we chatted often." She smiled. "Will you have an oatcake? There are too many here for me." The lad, tall and rangy, looked like he had a good appetite.

"Thank you, if you do not mind, my lady." He accepted one and took a great bite. "So good," he mumbled. "Brother Richard is an excellent cook. Aye, having his uncle here was a help to Gideon," he said, chewing. "When he first came here, he was sorely wounded in the head and leg. They sent me running for cloths, hot water, and spirits that day and I was glad to help. He stayed, and felt drawn to the peace of our brotherhood and the good work we do here."

"To be so wounded, how awful. Was Brother Gideon a knight like his brothers? Forgive me," she said, realizing she was peppering him with questions. "I am curious about the Setons. They have been kind to me."

Allan crunched, swallowed. "Aye, he was a knight, one of the Setons of Dalrinnie."

Wrapping the oatcakes, she paused. "Setons of Dalrinnie?"

"Surely you heard of them, being lady there. And the Setons are your friends."

"I knew that Setons held Dalrinnie, but there are many of that name in the area." And William—Liam—had dismissed her questioning earlier. Was his connection to Dalrinnie closer than he would admit?

"True, there are many Setons in Selkirkshire. Abbot Murdoch is a Seton as well. But forgive me, my lady, I should not speak of matters that do not concern me. I would not want to have to confess that to our abbot." He took up the tray. "Do you need aught else? Blankets? Candles? We keep good beeswax candles here for guests, on the shelf there. Tallow smokes so."

"Thank you. Oh, one request. Could I visit the library and perhaps use a desk in the scriptorium? I have done so before."

"I am sure it is fine, but I will ask Brother Gideon." He gave an awkward bow and closed the door.

The Setons of Dalrinnie! She spread a hand over her chest and took a breath. Were Sir William Seton and his brothers the Setons of Dalrinnie? If so, he wanted more than the Rhymer's book—he wanted the castle too. Nor had he mentioned this to her. Was that dishonest, or deeply reserved? She shook her head, confused.

Then her temper, often quick, rose like steam. If he wanted book and castle both, he could just return to Edward empty-handed. He could fight Malise Comyn for them and leave her out of it. She did not care. She would not comply with any of this.

But she did care, far too much already. Sinking to the bed, she put her head in her hands. He had kissed her—she had kissed him. And he had seen a vision come over her when she was not even sure what she had said. Would he report that to Edward too?

The reminder of the Setons of Dalrinnie turned her dilemma on its axis. Not knowing what William Seton wanted, she dared not trust him now.

Perhaps the Dalrinnie widow seemed ripe for the picking, between Edward's demand of the book and the temptation of Dalrinnie Castle. She had been lonely and vulnerable, wanting to believe in William Seton as the strong, kind, beautiful knight from her dream. She had made a fool of herself.

But she was certain his kindness was genuine, and those kisses were not false. Not at all. She felt it in the very core of her being. Yet he had not shared the truth with her when he could have. If he was a Seton of Dalrinnie, he could claim all from her.

Pressing a trembling hand to her head, she knew she must reach Selkirk soon and retrieve Thomas's writings. Only her kin should have them.

As for William the harper-knight, she must be cautious. He might be more of a threat than she realized.