Chapter Two

Lochmaben Castle, Scotland

"Keith. Sir Henry Keith," Tamsin repeated. Standing before the constable who sat at a table in the great hall, she folded her hands patiently, though she felt anything but. "I had word he might be here at Lochmaben Castle. Thank you for seeing us."

"Do you know him, Sir Constable?" asked her cousin, Lady Kirsten Douglas, standing beside her. Kirsty's bright smile melted most hearts yet did not seem to affect the constable. But Tamsin was grateful Kirsty had accompanied her here. Their other companion, an older lady, the sister of Dalrinnie's seneschal, rested in another room, exhausted by traveling, despite her insistence on coming along on what she called a foolish mission to find Tamsin's brother.

"We were hoping he would be here, sir. Pray tell us where he is," Tamsin added.

"Keith was here perhaps a fortnight ago." Sir Edmund Merton turned to the clerk beside him who sorted through loose pages and rolls of parchment. "Was that the one who brought a message from the king?"

"Young Scots knight?" The clerk unrolled a parchment. "Aye. Sir Henry Keith of Kincraig. Pledged to King Edward, rides as king's messenger. He brought a letter from Edward here two weeks ago."

"Where did he go when he left?" Tamsin felt disappointment draining her. She and her companions had ridden a half day's journey so that she could inquire about her brother here. Where could she go next?

"Your man is not here," Merton barked.

"Sir Henry is not my man. He is my brother and this is urgent."

"Everyone's business is urgent these days. Go home. It is not wise for Scotswomen to travel alone." His eyes skimmed down, then up. "That plaid cloak does you no favors here."

Instinctively lifting her chin at that and straightening her shoulders, Tamsin pushed back the heavy swing of her long blond braid. Anyone who knew the weft and warp of the tartan she wore might know her for a Keith of Kincraig. She wore it defiantly here, weary of living among English soldiers with all their disdain for the Scots, all their conniving and untruths. Merton seemed to be one of those.

"We have an escort from Dalrinnie Castle," her cousin Kirsty said. "They left on a brief errand but will return soon. An older lady is here as our chaperone."

"Who are you?" Merton gave Kirsty the same up-and-down look.

"Lady Kirsten Douglas of Thornhill." The girl lifted her chin.

"Douglas of Thornhill lets his daughter travel about as she pleases? Trouble will come of that," Merton muttered.

"Our lady chaperone is unwell," Tamsin said. "We would leave here as soon as we can," Tamsin said. Lady Edith had proven a poor traveler, prone to aches and complaints. Just now, she was resting in the small solar above the great hall. Tamsin hoped Sir David Campbell, Dalrinnie's seneschal and Edith's brother, would indeed return shortly so they could all leave Lochmaben, and she could continue her quest to locate Henry as he went from one place to the next for Edward.

The little bit of liberty she retained as lady of Dalrinnie would not last. Once she was outside the castle, she had considered fleeing for better freedom, but she could not endanger her companions. Besides, Sir Davey, for all his loyalty, would be obliged to find her. He and his escort had ridden out only briefly, promising to be back for the women soon. She could rely on their protection.

"Sir Constable," she pleaded, "please help me find my brother."

"As I said, he is not here. Clerk—look through the rolls. See if his name is listed elsewhere with a note of where he went. These ladies have time."

"Our escort is returning to fetch us. We are in a hurry," Tamsin said.

"I am not," Merton said, perusing a document. "So you can wait."

*

Smooth as glass,the waters of the moat reflected sunset and the castle as merchants and servants went back and forth over the drawbridge. Liam Seton narrowed his eyes, leaning a shoulder against an oak, its leaves sheltering him from view. He studied the towers and walls, counted the visible guards, and judged the distance between gate and road to decide how best to get in and out quickly with his prize.

Round towers jutted above sandstone walls overlooking a slope down to the castle loch, with a long view eastward toward the River Annan. On the battlements, sentries—eight at least, helmets glinting in the setting sun—had a wide view of loch, forest, and river. Foursquare strong and well-situated, Lochmaben belonged to Robert Bruce, lately King of Scots—self-declared, so the English insisted. But Edward had wrested Lochmaben from the Scots to fortify it for English use. Robert Bruce, among other fierce intentions, meant to reclaim it along with other Scottish castles.

Liam had come here for one reason only. Rumor said he might find his quarry here. Just days ago, he stood chained in King Edward's presence, ordered to find a book. He intended to fetch the thing—but had no intention of bringing it to Edward. He rather thought Bruce might like to have it.

But how the devil was he to snatch an old woman out of this castle, where he had learned she might be—and take her over the hills to find Bruce, wherever he was hiding?

The sun dipped as he waited under the oak. He shifted his weight to flex the knee that still ached somewhat, and he watched a few stragglers and carts crossing the drawbridge. Good. The portcullis was open but would likely close at dark.

Lifting the leather satchel at his feet, he slung it over his shoulder to balance its wedge shape. The strings inside chimed a bit. Tugging his hood down against a breeze and recognition, he walked toward the moat…

Then stopped short when a knight on a dappled charger cut diagonally across his path to block his way. "Halt, you," the man ordered.

His red surcoat embroidered with gold lions, worn over chain mail and a blue tunic, brightly marked him as one of Edward's knights. Though not all who rode in Edward's name wore the lion rampant, this fellow's surcoat announced his affiliation, even at a distance. But his wooden shield, painted dark blue with three gold shields, stated his family; and the cloth beneath his saddle was a swath of tartan wool crisscrossed in red, black, and gray.

Liam knew shield, tartan, and man. "You, sir, are in my way," he groused.

"Hey, harper," said his younger brother. "What is your business here?"

"Coming to Lochmaben in hopes of a welcome." He patted the sheathed harp.

"Not likely, if they discover the harper's true name." Sir Gilchrist Seton regarded him. "I will go with you if you like. They said the Keith lady arrived earlier today. Likely she is still inside."

"Simple enough to get in and out if the lady cooperates," Liam said. Gilchrist knew his mission; last night they had met with a cousin to briefly confer at an inn on the Dumfries road, and his kinsmen had offered to help. "You should go about your errand to follow De Valence's orders."

"Edward's general expects Finley and I to report which Scottish castles could be ripe for the plucking. Oddly like your work for Bruce. And it gives us the freedom to see to other matters."

"Indeed, it does. What is next on your list?"

"After Lochmaben, then Morton, Thornhill, Oliver Castle—"

"Ruined, that one. Burned nearly to glass, and Sir Simon Fraser of Oliver captured and torn to pieces in public." His stomach turned with grief and anger over the cruel death of yet another friend and compatriot. "The English can have the smoking walls. The place is useless. After that?"

His brother paused. "Dalrinnie."

"Taken four years back," Liam clipped out. "No need to go there."

"Edward has still not decided who will replace the commander who died months back. De Valence wants to know how to take Ettrick Forest from that angle to go after the rebels hiding there."

Liam felt a muscle jump in his cheek. "The English will try, but they cannot penetrate the great forest."

"Besides thinning it of timber, aye. Best get up there before they raise the drawbridge and close the gate. The guards will ask why a brawny Scot seeks entrance." He gestured toward Liam's plain brown tunic and trews, worn under a shabby leather hauberk studded with iron rings, old but protective. His hooded cloak of dark gray was lined with the same red-and-gray tartan Gilchrist carried. "Where is your knight's gear?"

"Stored away. I am just a harper looking for supper. And an old crone with a book," he muttered.

"Pray they do not ask for a tune, brother. Is that your harp, saved from the fire?"

"Aye. The miller at Heatherstane found it and held it for me."

"Good. Look there—they hung that evil thing recently." Gilchrist pointed.

Liam had seen it earlier: a lantern-shaped timber and iron structure lashed to the outer wall of a tower. "Mercifully empty," he growled. "Why is the cage there, if they have no captive? Bruce's women were captured in the Highlands three weeks ago."

"Some of the Scottish ladies are caged in such devices, but I have not heard of plans for a captive here. The cages are a taunt meant for Bruce, saying he cannot protect his women."

Deep as it shocked him, Liam could not take his gaze from the ugly thing. "And they call Edward a paragon of chivalry," he drawled. One of the captured women, a cousin of Bruce, was a friend, the very lady who had taught Liam to play the harp years before. He lacked her skill but did well enough, and he was even able to guise himself as a musician when needed. Like now.

"We can only pray Bruce's ladies remain safe until they can be rescued," Gilchrist said, "since King Edward refuses to negotiate their release. Edward intends to make examples of them. Beware, lad. It is a miracle you escaped his temper after you were captured."

"Edward is more interested in this mysterious book than he is in me. So I am pledged to serve again, under duress." He had not told Gilchrist of the threats to their kin or his need to protect them. Nor would his latest pledge change his innermost loyalty and dedication to the cause of Scotland and the Scots. Liam had found a stronger purpose after his lands had been forfeited. There was some benefit to outlawry.

"See you soon." Gilchrist lifted the reins to turn his charger. "If the guards ask, tell them I questioned you and found you harmless. Though you look a suspicious rascal to me. Go find the lady and bring her out."

Liam shifted the leather bag. "Old as she is, this may take time."

"Be careful. Edward is furious, berating his commanders because Bruce has not been captured. He vows all will suffer if the Bruce is not taken soon."

"When I find this lady, I mean to bring her to Robert, not Edward. If Longshanks wants this book, Bruce will find it equally interesting. Perhaps it will help the cause."

"What is this book?"

Liam shrugged. "Some bit of prophecy, perhaps. Edward is growing old and weak. He may depend more on such things if his reason is failing."

"This old woman is the Rhymer's daughter? Any daughter of his would be long in the tooth by now. They do say Thomas the Rhymer was stolen away by the Queen of Faery," Gilchrist mused. "When he returned home, he had the gift of prophecy."

"Fireside tales." Liam had left belief in faery magic behind in childhood.

"If this crone is a seer like her kinsman, perhaps she knows when this accursed war will end. That would help us all. Well, try not to get caught up there."

"Good advice." Liam waved a hand and walked away.

Exaggerating his limp, he crossed the drawbridge behind a brewer's cart laden with barrels. As two sentries at the tower gate stopped the brewer, Liam hunched his shoulders to lessen his height and brawn, needing to look more a traveling musician than a Scots warrior.

He could be recognized, he knew. Though released by the king, he was not pardoned of other offenses. Sir William Seton was an outlaw due to his forfeiture, his actions, and the company he kept. While most would not know him on sight, word was out about a brawny Scot with Nordic-blue eyes. He tucked his hood over his brow.

One sentry held up a hand. "Your business?"

"I am Wat of Selkirk, sir, a harper, hoping to barter tunes for supper and a bed." Just a man, just a town.

"What did yon knight want with you?" The taller guard gestured toward the road.

"He questioned me and saw no harm in me trading music for supper."

The sentry scowled. "We do not need music here. Go away."

Liam pointed to the brewer's cart now rumbling into the bailey yard. "A garrison needs music on a night when there is fresh ale."

"Eh, true. We should let him in," the stocky guard said.

"Strapping lad like that should be fighting for the king," the other replied.

Liam gave a thin smile. "I did. And was sore wounded in Edward's service. My harp earns my way now."

"Go on, then. Find the constable of the castle. He will decide." The tall guard pointed. "But be out by midnight, even if you find a chit to share a blanket."

Liam chuckled. "Is there much chance of that?"

"There are few women here and none that would swive a harper," one guard chortled. "There are two fine Scottish ladies inside, but neither would look yer way."

"Three Scottish ladies, but one is an old bird," the shorter guard amended.

Old bird? Was she the one he sought? Liam waited.

"They should be thankful we did not toss them into the cage," the other griped.

Liam sucked in a breath. "Harsh punishment for a female."

"King orders it, we do it. Go inside!"

The bailey was a crowded and noisy yard where servants, soldiers, merchants, clerics, knights, and noblemen tended to errands or clustered in conversation. Seeing the brewer removing kegs from his cart, Liam lifted a hand as he walked past.

"A Scotsman?" the man asked low. "We watch out for one another, hey."

Liam nodded and headed for the stone keep that soared over the yard. He paused, anonymous amid the commotion, noticing sentries, doorways, pathways, barriers. The best chance of finding the Scotswomen here was in the keep, its main door accessible by an open timber staircase.

He headed for the steps.