Chapter Fourteen

"She left Dalrinnie in secret? Well done!" Gideon sat with Liam and Gilchrist in the refectory as they lingered over the meal Brother Richard had prepared. "For so quiet and scholarly a lass, Lady Tamsin can be stubborn."

"So I am learning." Liam took a mouthful of the hearty soup. A glance toward the window showed the rain continuing. "Finley has been gone for a while."

"He will take time on patrol to be sure we were not followed," Gilchrist said. "I will take the next turn round."

"Then I will follow after dark," Liam said. "We mean to keep watch, Gideon, in case they ride near the abbey."

"I can come out with you as well," Gideon offered. "Our reverend uncle will allow that in this situation, I think. Lady Tamsin was right to leave Dalrinnie," he went on. "And what a blessing it was to see you lads at the gate with her. We had word of troops heading to Dalrinnie. And I am so thankful that Edward saw fit to liberate you, Liam."

"Just for this odd mission." Liam had explained the king's orders, though he held back some of what he knew.

"I had hoped that someday Edward might restore the castle and appoint you commander."

"I have not behaved well enough," Liam drawled. "He dangled that plum and I had to sign fealty again, but we all know how far his promises go."

"Your authority there would serve us well for other reasons," Gideon said. "I do not admire Comyn, and will say no more on that matter."

"Still working toward forgiveness?" his twin asked.

"Toward peace, at least. This place has a humbling effect on a man. Even me." Gideon shrugged a shoulder. "Working with sacred texts and in the hospital helps remind me life should hold more than revenge."

Liam understood Gideon's deep hatred of Comyn. They all shared it, not just because Sir Malise had captured Liam with Sir Christopher Seton—but because years earlier, he had treated their sister Agatha cruelly. "You have done well at Holyoak, brother. Some would nurse grievance to flame and then burn all in the name of revenge."

"You have been doing that for all of us," Gideon returned.

"I did try to master the temptation," Liam said with chagrin. "But I may incur the king's wrath again over that damnable book, or in stealing a commander's bride—we could all be accused of that. Gideon may have found peace in a penance of prayer, but such does not suit me," he told his brothers.

"Hold on to your anger if it helps Scotland find a resolution to this accursed war. If the day ever comes to forgive, you will know it."

"You do sound like a priest," Liam groused.

"A monk. But I have not yet decided."

"If you feel ready to return, then come with us," Gilchrist said. "We could use you. Our king could use you."

With a soft laugh, Gideon reached for an oatcake and broke it apart. "Our uncle wants to see you. He has news from Ettrick Forest, I think. A messenger came yesterday, but he did not share news with me. He is resting now but says he will see you tonight or in the morning."

"Whatever he needs. Gideon, what do you know of Lady Tamsin?" Liam asked.

"She visited a few times to study books in our library. I have been working as the library-keeper—our uncle entrusted me with the key to the chained volumes. I showed Lady Tamsin our collection, and we talked of texts and books. We are somewhat friends, though I have not seen her since her husband's death last winter."

"She seems a proper lady," Gilchrist said. "Educated, intelligent, courteous."

"Very much. I have never heard her speak ill of anyone, even the English or her English husband. Though she never said it directly, I gather she is loyal to Scotland and Bruce. But aye, a perfect lady born and bred, even if she did go out a window like a thief in the night."

Liam huffed at that, remembering the sight of the lady scrambling down a rope. She had fallen into his arms, then traveled with strangers without complaint. She had even allowed him to kiss her when it would save them all in the moment. He caught his breath at the memory of that and private kisses later, born of something more than lust, a feeling he dared not define.

"She is an interesting lady," he said simply. "How is it she married an English lord? The Keiths of Kincraig have always been loyal Scots."

"Her brother chose to ride for Edward and keeps to it," Gilchrist said.

"I suspect he means to protect his estate and his sisters," Liam said.

"I gather Lady Tamsin's father thought the marriage would protect her and add an ally for his family. She had no say in it," Gideon explained. "She said little of it, though she mentioned that her husband called her his Scottish bride."

"Scotland is full of Scottish brides," Gilchrist said.

"It was not said kindly," Gideon replied. "A Scottish lady in an occupied Scottish castle—she felt distressed. Trapped. It is why she enjoyed coming here to spend time in our library and our scriptorium. She worked on her pages too. She writes a pretty hand, you see," he explained. "And writes verse."

"Did she work on her great-grandfather's parchments?"

"She did."

"Then perhaps she does have this thing that Edward wants."

"Only she can tell you that."

"Therein lies the challenge," Liam murmured.

"Is she drawn to the religious life, to come here often?" Gilchrist asked.

"She is more interested in our library than our piety," Gideon said. "And interested in the work in our hospital as well. Her sister visited Holyoak too, you see. She is a healer of some repute in Kincraig, as I understand. Out of charity, Lady Rowena brings her remedies to monasteries with hospitals. I met her when I was a patient here before Lady Tamsin ever visited. Both ladies," Gideon added, "are beyond reproach. Their younger sister as well, I would guess."

"Lady Margaret," Liam supplied.

"Aye. Each one would be a marriage prize, though only Lady Tamsin's match had been decided before her father's death. One sister had been betrothed, but I believe the fellow died in battle. Sir Henry has the responsibility of finding matches for his sisters now, but he is away. Their marriages must wait."

"Hopefully they are safe there. Kincraig is remote enough to be a lesser target," Gilchrist said. "I believe their uncle is Sir Robert Keith, Marischal of Scotland. Being the Rhymer's great-granddaughters recommends them as well. Aye, Liam?"

Silent, he nodded. That the Keith sisters were valuable prizes would not escape the attention of King Edward—or Malise Comyn either. But with Sir Henry Keith away, he hoped Lady Tamsin's sisters were adequately shielded from a world in turmoil and suitors seeking advantage.

He clenched a fist, feeling again an urge to shield Tamsin from Malise Comyn and any who might tally her worth, or her sisters' worth, on their fingers instead of in their hearts. He was sure Henry Keith would feel the same way.

"Lady Tamsin praised her husband for sparing men to escort her to Holyoak to visit. Some husbands would have thought their lady's interest in scholarly things to be unimportant."

"He encouraged her interest?" Liam asked.

"Tolerated it, at least. She convinced him to show generosity to Holyoak. He sent coins in her name on high holy days. He honored her."

"Good." Liam was glad to know that the man had respected her. Not that it should matter to him, he reminded himself.

"She was a good wife. When he was sore wounded last February, she sent to us for help. I went there with another monk." Gideon shook his head. "There was little we could do. A vicious wound in an aging man—he lacked the strength. She was left a young widow dependent on the king's whim."

"He has decided to marry her off," Liam said. "Malise has the order."

"No wonder she went out the tower," Gideon said. "She would do well in a convent if it came to that. She has a scholarly inclination. I vow she can write text as beautifully as any monk or nun."

"This love of books is why she insists on going to Selkirk," Liam said. "Friends there, she says." Once she went there, he might never see her again. What then of her, and his growing need to be sure she was safe? What of the grandfather's mysterious book and the king's interest in it?

He swallowed his ale quickly, the taste of the abbey's heather ale light and earthy. Though he had been to Holyoak often enough, he had never seen Lady Tamsin there. Nor had Gideon mentioned her—perhaps because she was the lady of Dalrinnie.

"What do you know of the books the lady owns?" he asked Gideon. "Is there anything of particular value?"

"All books are valuable, especially with the English burning our castles and libraries and carting away chests full of documents to destroy them or haul them south for Edward. I know Lady Tamsin treasures a beautiful wee book of hours and some others. She kindly promised to donate some books to our library when Abbot Murdoch nearly begged her, hearing what she has."

"Did she ever mention a book written by Thomas the Rhymer?" Liam persisted.

"She spoke of his poetry. But a book? Not that I recall. Although—" He paused, shook his head.

"How did Edward find out about Thomas's book, I wonder?" Gilchrist asked.

"Wait." Gideon sat forward. "The day her husband died, I was at Dalrinnie. Sir Malise was there too. I avoided the man. But when it was clear Sir John was dying, I heard Malise tell Lady Tamsin that he would inform the king. He left without waiting for the man to die. He seemed eager."

"He wanted to be the first to tell Edward that Dalrinnie would need a new commander," Gilchrist said.

"Likely so. Perhaps Witton mentioned the book to Malise. They met often, I think, working together for Edward. I know Malise spoke privately with him while the man was ill. If Witton was concerned about his wife's welfare after his death, he might have told Malise she had something valuable, hoping to protect her. He trusted Comyn."

"Malise may have told Edward about the book," Liam said, "but then he let Edward believe the Rhymer's daughter was an old woman."

"He wanted the lady for himself," Gilchrist said. "If Edward knew her real worth, he might have made another decision."

"The lady and her wee book won me my freedom, and I am thankful for that," Liam said. "If she needs help now, I am her man. What now, lads?"

"Liam could take the lady to Selkirk," Gilchrist said. "See what her business is there and if it has to do with any of this."

"It may," Gideon said. "She knows a bookseller in Selkirk."

"Oh?" Liam looked at him quickly.

"He is a bookbinder as well. He came here months ago to see the abbot and mentioned that the lady gave him some pages. But I do not know what they were."

"Curious," Liam said. "I will take her to Selkirk and see what her errand is."

"You can get the book from her there. Steal it if you must," Gideon remarked.

"That does not sound like a priest," his twin said.

"Monk," Gideon corrected.

Later, riding outof the gate in gathering darkness to begin his turn on patrol, Liam lifted a hand in farewell as Gideon stood back from the gate, black hood pulled high, face pale and drawn. Liam felt keenly that his brother wanted to go with his kinsmen, though he only watched them leave.

Glancing over his shoulder, Liam glimpsed the thatched cottage at the far end of the walled enclosure, where candlelight flickered in the window. He felt a subtle tug within, like a taut line stretching between him and the lady inside. Though he had met her weeks ago and again today, they had endured travel, hardship, risks—and impulsive kisses that had taken him by storm. His heart felt like a stiff and hesitating wheel creaking into motion.

Heaven had not favored him much since the day his castle had been taken, the day he had turned away in the rain to vanish into the forest. Hope and contentment vanished, too, when he became a hunted man. In his dedication to the Scottish cause, he had shut away the remnants of his dreams.

Seeing that small light in the window, he felt a glimmer of hope, not just this new chance to reclaim his property, but a sense within as if a locked door had opened a crack.

Leaving the gate and palisade behind, he thought of Lady Tamsin's odd episode, a vision, she had called it, of fire at the abbey. Such things happened too easily with hearths and candle flames a common necessity, but the monks were cautious. Yet she had mentioned men at the gate, as if in attack. Puzzling though they were, her words stayed on his mind.

Heading over empty moorland in misted moonlight, he saw no one about. Peace ruled, at least for now.