Chapter One

September 1306

Lanercost Abbey, Northern England

"So you refuse to speak," the old man rasped. Through flickering firelight, his rangy old bones draped in red wool, King Edward sat in a leather-slung chair and glared hard at the prisoner.

Sir William Seton, dispossessed baron of Dalrinnie Castle and environs in Scotland, stood silent, wrists and ankles wrapped in chains. Sweat trickled down his back and dampened his brow. The blazing hearth, together with the afternoon sunlight angling through arched stained-glass windows, made the room stifling. Motionless, without reply, he watched dust motes float in a wedge of light.

He had no reason to answer. It would not gain back his castle, held by the English now; it would not restore those he loved who had died; nor would it free him, a captured Scotsman, a knight, a rebel. Raising his head, he gazed at the king.

"Well, we will find another use for you." Edward leaned back in the carved chair, shivering even in the excessive warmth. Long bony fingers fussed at his elegant tunic; thin white hair, once blond, brushed rounded shoulders; his leonine head trembled. Stretching out long legs in woolen hose, the king, called Longshanks by some, was taller than most men, even hunched and aging. Yet the years that dulled him physically had only sharpened his wrath toward the Scots.

"Nothing to say? Though I wonder, Sir William," the king said, "if you might like to have the grant of Dalrinnie again." His eyes, hard dark blue, fixed on the prisoner.

Liam—the name he preferred in better circumstances—lifted his head and returned Edward's gaze directly. He knew better than to do that, but so be it. He was in the soup already, having resisted rough interrogation these several weeks of imprisonment. He had lost count of days and weeks. At least he stood in a warm sunlit room in Lanercost Abbey on a pretty September day instead of the damp, dark cell where he had been since early summer. There was that.

But he would not give up what he knew of Robert Bruce, lately King of Scots and now a renegade in the hills. Though he knew more than Edward could imagine, he would keep his silence. If he had to lie or cheat, bargain for his life, or worse, he meant to protect Bruce and the great cause.

He was surprised to be alive, considering Edward's vicious treatment of the Scots. He was even more surprised to be brought into the king's presence. But if this was his day to die, he would show Edward yet another Scot who would not yield.

The king shifted and snapped his fingers. A clerk emerged from a corner to hand him an uncurled parchment, which Edward studied.

"Sir William Seton, Baron Dalrinnie," he read aloud. The page appeared to be a roster of dissenters, Liam saw. The English diligently listed Scottish landholders, titles, and estates to exact punishment and sort traitors from loyalists.

Liam waited. The iron chains and manacles on his wrists and ankles pulled and chafed. The metallic odor was rank on his sweat-coated skin and he felt grimy and slick with filth. He had not had a wash or fresh clothing since the day Sir Malise Comyn, curse the fellow, had taken him down.

His hair was too long, unwashed brown-gilt waves gone blackish and stringy; his beard was thick and itchy, his hands dirty. Last night he had dreamed of a hot soapy bath and a tooth-scrubbing, followed by a meal of roast lamb and buttered bannocks washed down with wine of such clarity that he could almost taste each perfect Burgundian grape. He wanted to feel sunlight and rain, smell forest air; sleep in a soft bed with a woman in his arms, warm and curving and kind—

Judging by the king's expression, such comforts would only come with death.

"Dalrinnie in Selkirkshire, forfeited from you and granted to Sir John Witton. He was in our loyal service but is dead now. You could be just as dead soon." Edward glanced up. "How many times have you sworn your oath of fealty? Twice?"

He did not answer. Twice sworn, promised, and punished; lesson learned. Edward was a master of petty betrayal.

The old curse on Dalrinnie Castle had done its work again, Liam thought. The prophecy, though his family called it a curse, had been delivered by Thomas the Rhymer to Liam's great-grandfather, and had proven true for two generations. Now Witton, the English commander who had claimed Liam's forfeited property, had lost the castle simply by dying. A prize won, a prize lost.

Built by Setons, Dalrinnie would not stay with them until—what was it? Something about a harp. He almost laughed. In his youth, he had learned to play a harp, thinking to beat the curse. But whoever got hold of Dalrinnie next would lose it too.

He ought to feel bitter satisfaction. He only felt wooden and weighed down.

Dalrinnie, Dalrinnie, towers high and walls bold...How did the old Rhymer's verse go? His head was in a blur.

Still in a muddle, his mind wandered as he awaited the king's next move. Thinking of his harp, he was reminded of a story heard in his boyhood—the sad tale of the harper Tristan and Iseult, the king's wife. Here Liam stood, a harper, and King Edward was much like the story's King Mark—conniving in his power. A wounded king, sickly and cornered and cruel.

Things had not gone well for that tragic harper either, he thought then.

"Forest lords—is that what they call your sort?" Edward brought him back.

Liam glanced through a dark straggle of hair. "‘Laird' in the Scots, Sire."

"Ah, your noble forest rebels. We will smoke them out like rats. Laird or lord, the Scots will suffer for being disloyal and obstinate. But you, sir, could be lord of your castle again, should you decide to be useful."

Liam closed his eyes, weary. Another promise, another betrayal? He was Scottish to his bones and blood, no matter what fealty he was forced to declare. Scottish knights who paid homage to Edward and England often had to look the other way or straddle both loyalties to survive and keep lands and privilege. Some followed their conscience and would defend the Scottish cause to their last breath. Liam was one of those.

He did not want to think about his home, yet mind and body were weary, and thoughts accosted him. He remembered betrayal, remembered walking out of the forest after weeks away to see charred walls silhouetted against the sky.

He had seen soldiers strolling the battlement, carpenters and masons shoring up rubble and making repairs. The attack had occurred while he had been away with William Wallace, a great soul damned for his courage. Those inside Dalrinnie had been killed or captured, and the nearby village of Heatherstane and the kirk had been ravaged too. His betrothed, Lady Beatrix, had been visiting the priest that day, making plans for their wedding. By the time Liam returned, she lay peaceful in the churchyard.

In the village square, he found his name on a parchment nailed to an oak: outlaw, wolf's head, renegade, traitor.

Cloaked against rain and recognition, he had melted into the forest, hunted and hiding with others, fighting where his sword was needed, sleeping where he found a spot. His anger had banked hot within him, leaving him only ash inside those years.

Offered king's peace—come back, be forgiven, gain back your lands—he took another oath of fealty to protect his kin and his lands. Yet Edward denied him title and estate again. So he slipped away once more. After Wallace was gone, Liam pledged to serve Robert Bruce, a warrior-lord of steadfast determination, a man with the skills and insight to save and rebuild Scotland someday.

Months ago, Bruce had made an ultimate and dangerous move, killing his rival, Sir John Comyn, for the throne, claiming it for himself. When he went on the run, Liam went with him.

Now he was captured. But just before that, he had fulfilled the new king's request to bring Bruce's tenants a certain message, and he had been able to send to Bruce the pledges gathered from those kindly folk. More support would follow, though Liam feared that his capture might prevent that from reaching King Robert.

Standing with the weight of chains on him, Liam would sooner give up his own life than betray Robert Bruce and his supporters to the bitter man who sat glaring at him.

"Seton," Edward said. "What do you know about the stabbing of John Comyn?"

So that preoccupied the old king. "Happened in a small kirk in Dumfries," Liam drawled. "Other than that, I know nothing of use. I have said this repeatedly."

"You were seen there, I hear."

"Only Bruce and Comyn were inside that church, so only Bruce knows what happened." He felt filthy, hungry, tired, resolute. What was Edward after here?

Edward turned a page. "We see you applied for a pardon and the return of your castle three years ago in exchange for entering the king's peace."

"But you did not honor your promise in return for my oath."

"You betrayed our trust." Edward shrugged. "Kin to Christopher Seton, aye?"

Sharp as a knife, the words cut. Liam drew a breath. "Aye." And proud to admit it.

"You do not want to suffer his fate," Edward murmured.

Liam did not answer. His cousin, taken in the same skirmish that had landed Liam in Carlisle's dungeon, had been cruelly executed. But Christopher had been married to Bruce's sister, Lady Christian, who was herself Edward's prisoner now. Liam was a compatriot, but not kin. So far, that had spared his life.

Just weeks ago, Bruce's women—his queen, his young daughter, two sisters and two cousins—had been captured in the Highlands, where Bruce had sent them in hopes of safety. Liam, Christopher, and others had ridden to their rescue to no avail. The women had been taken south. Now Bruce's queen and his daughter—not yet twelve—and a sister were in English convents; his other sister and a female cousin were confined in iron cages specially constructed for them at the king's order, displayed at Roxburgh and Berwick. Christopher Seton, as well as Bruce's brother Neil and other staunch followers, had been publicly and horribly executed. Liam and others had escaped.

Liam felt sick with rage over it. He looked away, nostrils flaring, fists clenched. Standing here wrapped in chains, he felt helpless. But nothing could be done for the dead, or the captured women either, no matter how much he wished he could help.

"Tell me, Seton," Edward went on, "would you like to regain your castle?"

Silent, Liam slid a flat stare toward him.

"If you want it, then find me the Rhymer's daughter."

That surprised him. "Rhymer's daughter?"

"Thomas the Rhymer. Surely you have heard of him."

"Dead years now. What of his daughter?"

"She has a book that belonged to her father and I want it. She is called Lady Thomasina Keith. Find her and get that book from her. She would be quite old by now. It should be easy enough."

Go after an old woman for a book? Edward was losing his mind, as had been rumored for years. "Perhaps if you ask nicely, she will send her wee book along."

"Insolence does not help you. Fetch the thing and bring it here."

"Where would I find this old daughter?"

"Dalrinnie."

So Edward would send him back to his forfeited home to accost an old lady. "You are certain she has this thing?"

"You dare question this?" Edward growled. "Get the book. You might regain Dalrinnie if you come back into king's peace. We could use your knowledge. But there are conditions and consequences should you refuse."

He could guess the consequences. "What conditions?"

"God's wounds, he is as obstinate as the rest of his kind," Edward muttered. "Be glad you are still alive."

"I am."

Edward gestured, and a servant stepped forward to pour a cup of wine, dark red sparkling in the light. The king slurped as he studied parchments. He seemed to have forgotten the prisoner.

"Send a message to this fellow." Edward handed a page to the clerk. "Tell him I want his best hawk for my next hunt. They say his birds are the finest in Scotland. If he refuses, I will have them all."

"But Sire, the physician forbids you to ride or hunt."

"Get me the damned bird! I will hunt again when I feel better. See it done."

"Aye, sire. Also, the knights you summoned are waiting outside."

"Let them in."

Waiting, Liam shifted his weight to his right leg, easing the ache in his left knee; imprisonment had slowed his recovery after the attack that had nearly killed him.

A door opened at the periphery of his vision. Two knights entered, chain mail chinking, one in a red surcoat emblazoned with Edward's golden lions rampant. The other knight wore a bright blue surcoat embroidered with three golden sheaves. Liam knew that insignia too well.

Each man dropped to a knee, greeting the king, then stood as Edward conferred quietly with them. Liam clenched his jaw and watched the knight in blue—Sir Malise Comyn, the one who had taken him down, causing him to stand in chains in this room.

Tall, blond, and handsome with a deceptively angelic face, Sir Malise was first cousin to Sir John Comyn, murdered claimant to the Scottish throne. Malise had given his fealty wholly to Edward, pandering for favor, Liam remembered. After his cousin Sir John's murder, Malise aligned himself further with Edward by demanding vengeance.

Liam knew Comyn's arrogance and his sword arm too well. The blow to his head from the flat of the man's sword had healed and his knee was healing too. Christopher and others were gone, deaths that should darken Malise's soul. Yet the man did not even glance at Liam now, as if none of it mattered.

"The lady of Dalrinnie?" Comyn said. "Sir John's widow. I know her. I can do this for you, Sire."

"Be quiet. Stand over there." The knights obeyed, stepping back. Despite age, Edward of England had a powerful presence, a calculating lawyer's mind, and a petty nature that had ripened to a dogged, relentless brutality toward the Scots.

Edward turned on Liam again. "Seton! Do you agree to find this lady and fetch what she possesses?"

"I am thinking about it." Liam shrugged.

"Ingrate," King Edward snarled. "I ought to marry you to this old crone. That would be an unpleasant punishment, I vow." He laughed, short and harsh.

"Sire. Your Grace. If I may," Malise Comyn said, "I know this lady, as I said. I will do this for you. You cannot trust that man." He jabbed a thumb toward Liam.

"I have not yet decided what you are to do, Sir Malise."

"I implore Your Grace—"

"Silence!" Edward held up a hand. "Seton! If you are a canny Scot, and I think you are, you will renew your loyalty to the Crown. Scotland is a losing cause. Fetch this woman's book and prove your worth again. Earn the right to command Dalrinnie."

Liam huffed. "A book in return for a castle?"

"Or you could be dispensed with, here and now."

Sir Malise shifted a gauntleted hand to his sword hilt. "Sire, let me help."

Skin prickling, senses on alert, Liam felt the trap closing. Too many Scots who were lured into king's peace seemed to provoke the king's ire immediately afterward.

"Sir William knows Selkirk and that damnable Ettrick Forest, full of rebels. That could be invaluable." The king peered at one of the parchment rolls on the table. "You have family in Dumfries and Selkirk?" He smiled. "A monk, an abbot, an abbess?"

Ah, there it was. Liam fisted a hand, iron chinking. His brother, his uncle, his sister—along with another brother and some cousins, all the kin he had left. "They are dedicated to the service of God and the Church. They pose no harm to anyone."

"Every Scot poses harm. You do know we recently captured Robert Bruce's kinswomen." When Liam did not answer, the king continued. "I ordered cages made for some of the Scottish ladies. One cage is still empty. The old lady of Dalrinnie would fit in it if she does not give up the thing I want."

Locking an elderly lady in a cage was not beyond this king. Liam waited.

"You know the region. And Bruce's plans. Get the book, bring that and news of Bruce with you, and you may enter our good graces again."

"I know nothing of Bruce's actions."

"But you can find out easily enough. Especially if a certain abbey and convent were to burn," he said, "with all inside."

"The Church might want an explanation from you," Liam said. "God, too."

"Sire, I beg you to listen," Comyn interrupted.

Edward rounded. "You were tasked with finding Bruce and made poor work of it. Someone else will have to do it now."

"But Sire, this man? I will bring you this book and Bruce too. I swear it."

"A book that could end this war is too valuable to entrust to you."

A book that once belonged to Thomas the Rhymer, end the war? Liam frowned. But it was the frustration on Comyn's handsome face that decided him.

So Edward wanted this book. If Liam could get his hands on it, he would take it straight to Robert Bruce.

"Sire, send me," Comyn was saying. "You cannot trust this outlaw. Even if you harmed his kinfolk, he would not—"

"Such eagerness is annoying. You stand to lose what favor you have."

"Your Grace, I will go to the lady of Dalrinnie—"

"Sire." Liam raised his voice. "I will do what you ask."