Chapter Seven

Drawing up the hem of her gown, Tamsin hurried down the curving stone steps. There were riders at the gates. Stopping to glance out a narrow window in the turret stair, she saw a group of knights riding into the bailey just as dusk fell. She smoothed her gray gown and the gauzy linen veil that touched her shoulders above her long, thick braid. Patting her keys and embroidered pouch secured on her leather belt—visible reminders that she was lady of this castle—she headed for the great hall.

No one summoned her at the arrival, she realized, because she had naught to do with the garrison. She was just the Scottish widow who inconveniently owned the castle after her husband's death. But if these men brought orders from King Edward that would change her status, she had to find out.

Pausing at the last step under the flare of a bracketed torch, she heard men's voices in the great hall, heard the thud of boots over floorboards, the chink of armor, and calls for ale. Exhaling, anxious, she crossed the small antechamber toward the hall.

Suddenly, she recalled a scrap of a dream from days ago—a breathless sense of running, of darkness and rain. And a curious chanting, someone singing: Married by All Souls Day, married by All Souls... lost and found, chased and bound, married by All Souls...

But it made no sense. That date was weeks away, and she expected to be sent to a convent soon. It was not a truthy dream, she assured herself.

She hurried past a dark corner, an empty chair, past painful memories. In this small chamber, her husband had met with knights, merchants, priests, tenants, and others. On chilly evenings, Witton sat by the fire basket while Tamsin read aloud from an epic poem in French or some other text. She favored Arthurian tales like Galahad or Tristan and Iseult. Witton wanted treatises on hunting and weaponry.

Last March, after he had been wounded in a skirmish, his sickbed had been placed just there. She looked away. Her empty marriage had been an alliance for the Keiths. Now her father and Sir John were both gone, and she waited to learn her fate.

But she was still lady of this castle, and the men arriving this cold, gloomy night would soon know it. She pushed the door open, reminding herself to hold her tongue.

Two years at Dalrinnie had taught her to watch her habit of blunt speech that had so irritated her husband. She had learned, too, not to speak of dreams or visions. She could not prove their truth. Silence, hard-won, became a bastion of safety.

She walked boldly into the room to make her way through the crowd of men, knights in armor, others in surcoats and fur cloaks. Most ignored her as she passed; a few moved aside or nodded a greeting. Some were of Dalrinnie's garrison, others unfamiliar. To a man, they looked weary and concerned.

"I bring no request—this is a direct order from the king!" The shout came from the far end of the room.

She knew that nasal note of disdain. Sir Malise Comyn, tall, blond, handsome, and deceptively angelic, faced Sir David Campbell across a table strewn with flat and rolled parchments. With Sir Malise stood his brother-in-law, Sir Patrick Siward, lean and dark. Both men had visited Dalrinnie often to conspire with her husband on behalf of England.

Edging her way through the crowd, Tamsin moved past several tall knights who wore chain mail and hefty capes. They were absorbed in discussions, hardly noticing her. Torchlight glinted on steel, pooled on the floorboards, glittered in the ale poured into cups of pewter or shaped wood. She lifted her chin and came closer.

"Sir Malise, if you mean to take this castle—" Campbell began.

"Edward has put me in charge. Here is the writ." Malise Comyn handed a roll of parchment, ribbons dangling from a wax seal, to Campbell.

Her husband had once said that wherever Comyn went, conflict followed. If Malise had a king's writ for Dalrinnie, likely he had one for her, too. King Edward had made it clear she would not remain. A convent was tolerable; an unwelcome marriage, worse. Soon she would know.

"Royal orders," Comyn told David Campbell, his voice carrying over the din of voices. "You must comply. Do not expect Bruce to reclaim this place."

"Which king would a good Scot choose?" Campbell's question was bitter and bold. Tamsin had realized long ago that Dalrinnie's seneschal had reliable judgment and secret loyalties. She hoped he had not stepped too far just then.

"If you are revealed to be a traitor, Campbell," Comyn muttered, "it will go poorly for you."

Walking past the central iron fire basket, Tamsin felt the hot glow on her back. Firelight glinted over her golden braid and gleamed along the swords and helmets stacked along a nearby wall as custom required. A large dog resting near the fire basket stood and turned to lope behind her. The leggy hound, rangy but with natural dignity, nosed at Tamsin's hand.

"Good girl, Oonagh," she murmured, ruffling the great gray head.

"It may be impossible to find Bruce," Sir David said. "We have tried."

"King Edward is in a fury over it. Bruce must be caught. And I will not rest until my cousin's murder is avenged."

Campbell turned with a slight smile. "Ah, Lady Tamsin!"

"My lady." Patrick Siward nodded. He was swarthy in the low light, shorter but brawnier than Comyn, a man she knew to be tough, taciturn, but often sensible.

"Sir Davey." She inclined her head. "Sir Patrick. And Sir Malise. Welcome."

"Lady," Comyn snapped. He turned to Campbell. "We know Bruce was moving freely through Selkirk and Galloway and has managed to take back Dalswinton Castle. We do not know where he may go next."

"He could be in the area, hiding in the forest or hills," Siward said.

"Clever and elusive," Sir David replied. "King in the heather, some call him now."

"Coward, I call him," Comyn said. "Murdering my cousin, Sir John Comyn of Badenoch, has increased the conflict, not solved it. We will stop Bruce. I will stop him."

Listening, Tamsin slid her fingers into the dog's collar. She had heard talk of Bruce among the garrison but had not heard of his latest movements. She frowned.

"Edward thrives on fury. It is in his nature," Sir David said. "And he will be furious so long as Bruce's men nip at English heels, ambush king's men, steal back Scottish castles, erode English hold where they can. But only Bruce's small circle knows where he is day to day. No military strategy will find him. You cannot outthink unpredictability."

"We will find him." Malise dropped one parchment and picked up another.

"Bruce is furious too, especially with the cruel treatment of his women weeks ago." Now Campbell glanced at Tamsin. "With pardon, my lady."

"I agree, Sir Davey. Edward's scheme of caging the ladies is heinous."

"They are not all shut in cages, you know." Malise sounded annoyed.

"In the king's mercy, some were sent to convents," Sir Patrick pointed out.

"King's mercy? We can hardly blame King Robert for his anger."

"King Robert, is it?" Comyn gave her a sharp glance.

"His title, sir, whether or not you think it deserved."

He tapped the page under his finger and turned to Campbell. "If Bruce is near here, I will find him. That is why the king put me in command of Dalrinnie."

"Your command?" Tamsin's heart sank.

"This castle is poorly protected." Comyn sifted among the parchments on the table. "Where are the castle orders? Ah." He opened a rolled page. "Here... ‘Sir Malise Comyn is directed to provision Castle Dalrinnie with men and victuals and act with all expedition against the king's enemies and rebels.'" He gave her a smug smile.

"But Dalrinnie is mine, by my husband's will," she argued.

"No longer, madam."

"Lady Tamsin, it is late," Sir Patrick said. "Perhaps you should retire."

"Perhaps join my sister, Lady Edith, who may be anxious this evening." Sir David's expression was grim, his hair silvery in the candlelight. He looked weary.

"I will not be sent to bed like a child. I will wait to hear what pertains to me."

Comyn scowled. "Lady Tamsin, we are discussing important matters here."

Clutching the dog's collar as if she could absorb the animal's calm, Tamsin stifled her reply. She had heard that King Edward regarded Malise Comyn as strong, bold, and loyal. Her late husband said he had distinguished himself as a jousting champion in Edward's court, and his handsomeness made women swoon. Tamsin found him pretty, yet arrogant and knew that his potential came less from stellar character than from a compulsion to take advantage where he could.

"I will wait," she repeated.

"Fine. There is an order, but we will talk about it later," Comyn said.

"I expect to be sent to a convent. Just give me the news."

Malise huffed. "Why a convent?"

"A woman who takes the veil gives up the rights to her property."

"Priories are havens for widows, but Edward can still marry you off as he likes."

"A widow may choose her own. Though my brother may find me a good match."

"Henry Keith!" Malise crossed his arms. "Have you heard from him lately?"

"Not recently. He rides for King Edward and I pray daily for his safety."

"Pray hard, then. He was given a task that will put him in harm's way."

Alarmed, she narrowed her eyes. "Where is he?"

"Go to your chamber." His voice was flat, dismissive.

"Do you know, Sir Patrick?" She turned.

"I have not heard this news, my lady."

She folded her hands. "I want to know what concerns me and mine."

Malise ignored her. "Campbell, show me on the map where you and your men went searching for Bruce." He tapped a page spread on the table.

"Sir, 'tis courtesy to answer the lady," Sir David said.

"Since you will insist, come here." Malise took her arm in a firm grip. "We will talk now. Silence that hound, will you."

Tamsin hushed the growling dog, curling her fingers tighter around Oonagh's collar. As Malise pulled her toward a shadowy corner, the canny hound pressed between her and the knight.

Malise loomed over her. "Dalrinnie is mine now. You need to understand that."

"But my husband left the grant to me." Flexing her fingers in the dog's gray coat, she felt Oonagh lean into her, protective, trembling with stilled power.

"Would you question Edward of England?" He gave her a thin smile. "I was in a private audience at Lanercost while he decided the fate of Dalrinnie and its widow."

"I would think the king would prefer a more experienced commander here."

He bristled visibly. "This location is crucial, being so near Ettrick Forest. And I assisted your husband often in the effort here. He took me into his confidence. I came here often and did what I could to help."

She gave a bitter laugh. "He thought well of you. But when he lay dying, you rode off to the king carrying tales. Now you return as its commander. That seems deliberate."

"You wound me, madam. I took the news to the king in haste."

"You hurried so he would decide in your favor." Breathing fast, she felt sparks rise within. Silence, she told herself.

"I thought only to protect you. A lady alone needs a friend." He smiled again.

Once that charming smile would have fooled her. Now, she felt wary. "I am protected enough."

"Sir David? Your absent brother? I doubt it."

"Tell me the king's decision."

"Very well. I am directed to strengthen this castle—and marry the widow."

"Marry?" Her stomach knotted. The dog growled, bumped against her.

"I have the king's writ and seal upon it." He waved the rolled document still in his hand, ribbons fluttering from its glossy wax seal.

"Show me." He unrolled it quickly and closed it again, but she glimpsed her name, his, and the king's signature. A messy document, she saw, with blots and words crossed out or scraped away. "That looks written in haste."

"In times of war, decisions are made quickly."

"And if I refuse the order?"

"You cannot. As a widow, the king is your guardian and protector."

"I am Scottish. We do not recognize Edward as king."

"Is that a clever argument—or an admission of treason?" He took her arm again. Oonagh ruffed at him, but Tamsin soothed her with her free hand.

"Not treason. Truth."

"Marriage will benefit you. Your property is in my keeping now. You will stay in your home. Any woman wants that. But this must be done quickly." He waved the parchment.

"Banns take weeks," she protested. The blood pounded in her brain. Married by All Souls, lost… bound… She did not want that to become true.

"An exception has been made because Edward believes John Witton's widow is old and will not last long. He seemed to enjoy yoking me to a crone." He grinned. "I did not tell him that widow is young and lovely, with more to offer than property." His fingers caressed her upper arm and grazed down the side of her breast. She angled away. The dog growled again.

"Hush, Oonagh." She wanted to order the dog to pounce instead. Oonagh was a gentle creature, but on hind legs she stood taller than most men, and her powerful jaws could take down a wolf.

Heeding the dog's warning, Malise let go. "I will have Dalrinnie. And you. Trust that. I care for you, my dear. I always have, ever since you were Witton's young bride."

He said it so gently that Tamsin wanted to believe him—but she knew he could turn this way or that as it suited him. And just now, she was uncertain, fearful. After all, this offer was just another form of imprisonment.

Yet this marriage would allow her to stay at Dalrinnie, where she had a home apart from the garrison, had run a household, had found peace to work on her manuscript pages—the jumble of writings, poems, prophecies, and scraps of thought that old Thomas had entrusted to her, which she was slowly, carefully, copying over in neat pages. Because of her work, she was almost tempted to relent and stay. The alternative was a convent, and though she could write there, the rest of that life was not genuinely to her liking.

Malise sensed her moment of faltering, for he pushed the dog aside to take Tamsin's waist and pull her toward him. Oonagh tried to nudge between them as Tamsin pushed against his hard chest. He pulled her so close that she felt his need for her, a heavy pulse between them. Oonagh barked, gruff and low.

"Call off that hound before I have it killed for disobedience."

That ended any thought of relenting. "Leave my dog be," she snapped. "Oonagh, sit, girl! And sir, get your hands off me. You frighten me. Repulse me. And I will not marry you," she said, quiet and fierce.

"You do have a sharp tongue. Sir John once said his wee Scottish bride looked like a saint and was as biddable as a little demon. He was right."

"He said that?" Unaccountably, she felt hurt.

"But I like a spirited woman. You will not bore me." Malise glanced down at her breasts, pressed against him in the forced embrace. "We will get on well. You will have a virile husband who can put sons in your womb. The old man never did that for you."

She pushed in his arms. "No local priest would perform a marriage that I refuse."

"Then I will find one who will, and we will do this tomorrow."

"Let go!" Beside her, Oonagh made a threatening sound at the base of her throat. He let go suddenly. Tamsin stepped back, the dog buttressing her again.

"Listen well," Malise said. "I wonder what your kinsman, that old soothsayer, would tell you now. Will your brother survive? Are your sisters safe? Who will you marry? Sir John spoke of your kinsman. He said you are very like him. Prophecies, he said. Visions. Interesting."

Tamsin masked her surprise and a trickle of fear. "I do not know what you mean."

"Rhymer's daughter. That is what John said your family calls you. Is there a reason for that, other than kinship?"

She stood silent, heart pounding.

"So you do not admit to a gift of prophecy? Your husband said you have the tendency. He was not keen on it. But I rather think the king would be interested to know you are very much like your great-grandsire. He likes—to know the future."

"I cannot do that." Not that I understand myself. Certainly not on command.

"The king would be pleased. But he thinks you are an old woman." He laughed. "When he finds out—well, you can win his favor."

"I do not want his favor." She smoothed over her arms where he had gripped her.

"And if he wants me to marry you, he will be disappointed."

"Not just that. He wants the Rhymer's book."

She looked up, stilled, her heart pounding. "Book?"

"Your husband said you possess a certain book. Edward wants it."

Inwardly she reeled, grateful that Oonagh buttressed her. "Which book is that? I have many."

"Sir John said you have a book of the Rhymer's prophecies. Edward wants it. In return, you will have his thanks."

"He cannot order me to give up my books."

"But I can. A husband has the right to his wife's possessions."

"Sir John misunderstood what I have. Just a few of Thomas's songs and poems. Only a bard would be interested in those." Her mind raced. Something told her not to reveal that what she had was a collection of Thomas the Rhymer's prophecies, written on scraps of parchment and cloth over the many years of his life.

What had Sir John truly known of her work? He rarely asked what she worked on with her pages and inks. She thought he understood only that she wrote about her great-grandfather. He had called her a little monk and left her to it.

The harper,she thought suddenly. The man who had died—he had wanted something too, had a message for her. Did it also have to do with the Rhymer's work? Her heart pounded. She had given old Thomas her solemn promise to care for his work, to prepare clean pages, to protect his legacy. His family's legacy. Edward of England had no right to that. Only Thomas's kinfolk had the right.

"Give me the pages of the Rhymer's prophecies." Malise moved toward her.

"I do not have them," she blurted. "I gave them to a bookseller for the pages to be trimmed and bound." That was true. She had given the bookman a sheaf of pages to preserve for her family. Only for them.

"Where is this fellow?"

"I—I think he has a shop in Edinburgh," she said, flustered. "Selkirk too. He promised to deliver the book when the work was done."

"You lie," he ground out.

"I never lie." She stared, direct and defiant. She had said too much, she realized. But the Rhymer's blood flowed in her veins. Truth ran through her very being.

"A bookseller who also binds books should be easy enough to find in those towns. If I cannot get the pages, I shall bring you to Edward to prophesy for him."

She drew a shaky breath. "A lot of trouble for a few songs. We are done here. Good night, sir." She began to move away, the dog with her. Malise grabbed her arm again, and Oonagh gave a throaty woof.

"Listen to me," Malise said. "We will marry, or I will burn Dalrinnie to the ground. We will marry, or I will see the Keiths destroyed." His eyes went cold. His grip tightened. "You will tell the king what he wants to know—the defeat of Scotland. And, devil take it, I will have that book of you soon."

"Let go." She wrenched away, surprised he allowed it.

"Sir Malise." Siward approached. Tamsin looked up in relief. "Sir, we would ask for your opinion on this map." He glanced at Tamsin. "My lady?"

Campbell was just behind him. "My lady, you look pale. You should rest."

"Aye. Thank you. Good night," she said in haste, turning away. The dog followed.

"Sir Malise," Campbell said behind her. "The lady seems upset."

"The king's orders surprised her. But his decision is in her best interest."