Highland Promise (20 page)

By the next morning, Bethia realized that she had been right. Eric was not going to let her step one foot outside of Donncoill until William was dead. She listened patiently to him explain all she should do and why she was being made a virtual prisoner as she sat in the great hall to eat her morning meal. It was not Eric’s fault, nor was it hers, but she hated it.

The moment he left her, she stood up and started back to her room. It was time to have a good sulk. She winced a little as she walked. Eric’s lovemaking last night had been exhilarating, but a little rough, filled with something very much like desperation. Bethia realized that he was honestly and deeply afraid for her. That seemed to imply that it was a lot more than duty and his promise to protect her and James, which was behind his almost relentless search for William.

She stepped into her room, smiled briefly at Grizel, who was changing the linen on the bed, and went to look out of the window. The men were training hard. She watched Eric and his cousin David fight for a while, the clash of their swords making her wince. Eric was good, quick, and obviously strong, and those traits gave her some comfort. Of course, his cousin was not trying to kill him. Then she saw the pile of weapons being stacked up by the armorer’s shed and tensed.

“They will go soon,” Grizel said as she moved to stand beside Bethia and stare down at the men.

“How soon?” Bethia asked, fear taking the strength from her voice.

“Within a few days, mayhap sooner. They but wait for a few of Lady Maldie’s kinsmen to join them. Peter says the Kirkcaldys are verra eager to fight the Beatons. ’Twas the old laird’s sister who was seduced and abandoned by a Beaton.”

“Aye. Eric’s father and Maldie’s mother. Weel, at least there will be a large, strong army behind Eric when he rides off to let the Beatons try to kill him.”

Grizel smiled faintly. “I am fair sick with worry too, though I think ye have a more clever bite to your words than I do when I spit them out. I spend a great deal of time reminding myself that ’tis a just fight my mon will be joining in.”

“Aye, ’tis just, but ’tis still just land when all is said and done.”

“So speaks one born to own it or marry it. Aye, ’tis just land. ’Tis your laird’s land and ’tis his right to get it back. My Peter fights for ye and for Sir Eric, but he also fights for us, him and me. He marches in this battle because at the end of it is a chance for a better life for him and me and our bairns. A cottage with more than one room. Mayhap a few coins in his purse. A chance for him, and mayhap his son if we are blessed with one, to become more than just another one of the men-at-arms.”

“I didnae think ye had such a hard life at Dunnbea,” Bethia said quietly.

“Nay, it wasnae hard. It was ne’er going to change though. My Peter is near thirty and has ne’er been knighted. When he and Bowen first came to Dunnbea, there was a lot of fighting. They risked their lives again and again to protect Dunnbea and its people.. Aye, they are bastards, but they arenae baseborn men. Their fathers were knights. I dinnae think they expected too much to think that your father would see them knighted.”

“Nay. I was but a child, but e’en I recall how important Peter and Bowen were to the defense of Dunnbea.”

“Weel, they didnae get it. Nay then. Nay once in all the years since. Your father lets Bowen and Peter lead his men, e’en train his men. He thinks them good enough for that, but ’tis clear he doesnae find them good enough to make them knights.”

“But Eric will.”

“Aye, if they serve him weel, he will see them knighted.” Grizel shrugged. “Setting a sir afore their names willnae make them rich, but ’twill make them proud, give them respect e’en from those who dinnae ken them. Oh, I am cold to the heart just thinking of my mon going into battle, but I willnae try to hold him back. He hungers for that knighthood. I willnae deny him the chance for it by shackling him to the hearth with my fears.”

When Grizel left, Bethia sprawled on her stomach on the clean bed and buried her face in the pillow. The battle with Sir Graham Beaton was becoming more complex by the moment. Eric fought to regain his birthright. The Murrays would fight to help him and to rid the neighboring keep of a mon no one trusted. The MacMillans fought for Eric, but also to repay Sir Graham for his lies—lies that had made the laird of Bealachan deny his own nephew. The Kirkcaldys would fight because a Beaton had dishonored one of their kinswomen and because Eric was the half brother to another of their kins-women. The Drummonds would fight for her, for if Sir Eric became laird of Dubhlinn, she would be his lady. Men like Peter and Bowen would fight for honors long denied them—honors that would gain them and their families a better life. Bethia suspected a few others fought for that same reason, just as she suspected some joined the battle out of a pure love of fighting.

Thinking of how Bowen and Peter had been denied honors they had earned long ago brought her thoughts to her father, to her family. Tears stung her eyes as she fully accepted the painful fact that they had never been her family. She had been cast from the nest long ago, but had been too blind, too stupid, to see it. Bethia suspected most everyone else had seen it. It explained the anger Eric often felt toward her parents—the same anger Bowen, Wallace, and Peter had sometimes revealed. That made her feel an even greater fool.

She became so sunk in her misery that it took her a moment to realize that someone sat beside her on the bed and rubbed her back. Even before she turned to look, she knew it was Eric. Bethia hurriedly wiped the tears from her face with the sleeve of her gown,
but she knew it was too late to hide the fact that she had been weeping.

“Does your arm pain you?” he asked as he brushed a kiss over each tear-dampened cheek.

“Nay. Truly,” she insisted when he frowned. “’Twas but a scratch.”

“Did I catch ye in the midst of a verra big sulk then?”

“Oh, aye, a verra big one. So big that I am nay sure how long I have been at it.”

“’Tis time for the midday meal.”

“Jesu!” Bethia scrambled off the bed. “Just let me tidy myself a wee bit first.”

Eric watched her wash her face, smooth out the wrinkles in her gown, and fix her hair. He wanted to ask her why she had been weeping, but was afraid of the answer he would get. Earlier he had seen her watching them training for battle and now he found her weeping. Whenever he tried to speak of the battle to come, she responded by saying she simply suffered a woman’s fears for the safety of those she cared about. He believed her, but felt that was not all of it.

He sighed and admitted that he was a coward. If Bethia still felt the battle was only for land, still felt that it was a wrongful waste of life, he did not want to hear it. Especially not on the eve of battle.

“Tomorrow?” Bethia gasped, sitting up in bed and staring at Eric in shock, “Ye ride to Dubhlinn tomorrow?”

“Aye, at dawn.”

That explains a lot
, Bethia thought as she continued to stare at him. After they had shared a meal at midday, he had disappeared. Her spirits still depressed, she had spent the rest of the day playing with James and sewing clothes for him. When Eric had brought their meal to his room, she had thought it very nice that he had wanted to spend time alone with her. Now she suspected he had wanted to keep her from hearing the talk in the great hall or discovering that the Kirkcaldy men had arrived. It certainly explained the speed with which he had gotten her into bed and the fierceness of his lovemaking. He had probably hoped she would be too sated and sleepy to fully react to his news.

“Lass, what are ye thinking?” Eric finally asked, a little uncomfortable beneath her steady look.

“I am thinking ye are a verra sly fellow,” Bethia murmured.

It took all of her strength, but Bethia subdued her urge to yell at him, to demand that he not go. Her blood ran cold at the mere thought of it, but she had to face the fact that this could be the last night she spent with him. She would not ruin it with tears, pleas, or recriminations.

“Bethia, I have to go.” He frowned when she silenced him with a kiss and tentatively wrapped his arms around her.

“I dinnae wish to speak of it,” she said quietly.

“Ye cannae just ignore this, my heart.”

“Aye, I can for tonight. I wish it gone from my mind.”

“I am nay sure how ye can do that.”

“Weel, ye will have to help me. I want ye to love me into a stupor. I want ye to keep my mind so clouded with passion that I cannae think of anything but you. And I want ye to love me until I fall into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.”

Eric smiled, willing to play her game. It was certainly more to his liking than tears
or arguments. The memories he would take into battle on the morrow would be sweeter too.

“I want ye to love me into forgetfulness,” Bethia said. “Make me so weary that I had best kiss ye fare thee weel now, for I might nay be able to crawl from this bed to see ye leave. And when I do wake up on the morrow, I want to have been so weel loved that my first thought will be the sweet memory of that passion. Can ye do that for me, Eric?”

“Oh, aye, I believe I can,” he said as he nudged her onto her back and kissed her.

“Where is your wife?”

Eric grinned slowly at Maldie and Balfour, then at Nigel, who stepped up to join them in front of the door to the keep. He could tell by the looks upon their faces that they feared Bethia was making a show of her disapproval. They had all discussed her feelings and they all sympathized, but he also understood his family’s opinion that she should at least make an effort to appear as if she fully supported him. Although he would like that too, would be elated if she gave him her complete, heartfelt support, he could still find some enjoyment in telling his family exactly why Bethia was not there.

“Gisele isnae here,” Eric pointed out, unable to resist teasing them a little.

“Gisele is verra pregnant,” Nigel said. “She still sleeps. I didnae feel inclined to linger for the hour or so it would take to wake her.” Nigel smiled faintly when Maldie laughed and his brothers grinned.

“Ah, weel, my wee wife is asleep as weel. Aye, and I think it would take an army to rouse her.”

“Is she with child too?”

“Not that she has told me. Nay, I fear this exhaustion is caused by my dutiful fulfilling of her request.”

Balfour rolled his eyes. “So, ye said fare thee weel to your lady in the same manner so many others did. Nay need to boast.” Balfour gave his very alert wife a mock frown. “Ye look verra wide awake,” he grumbled. “Do ye resist my vigor?”

“I suspect she didnae ask ye to love her into a stupor.” Eric nodded at the stunned looks upon their faces. “Aye, no jest. She specifically asked me to love her into a state of mindless exhaustion. I, being a kind, dutiful husband”—he ignored his brothers’ grumbles, which contained several coarse references to wee lads choking on their own vanity—“complied. Indeed, once she succumbed to exhaustion, she said that I had done weel and that she was indeed so exhausted she probably wouldnae be able to lift an eyelid until weel after the battle was o’er and won.”

“Let us pray ye havenae done so weel that ye have no strength left to wield your sword against Sir Graham,” Nigel said, nudging Eric toward the horses Bowen and a stableboy held ready for them. “Mayhap we could ask Beaton to hold back until ye have had a wee rest.”

Maldie distracted them from their bickering by kissing each of them on the cheek and wishing them luck. A moment later, they were all riding out the gates of Donncoill. With dawn’s light painting everything with soft, warm colors, it was hard to accept that, within a few hours, they would all be caught in the midst of a battle, facing death and dealing it out to others. Eric felt a strange mix of exhilaration and sadness. He knew the former was that strange, taut excitement all men of battle felt when they faced a good fight. Some of the latter feeling, however, was undoubtedly due to Bethia’s lingering disapproval.

As he rode, he tried to push aside his hurt over her refusal to accept what he was doing. A few times she had even made him question his reasons for what he was about to do. Yet search his heart as he would, he found no taint of greed. Eric did not believe Bethia saw any there either. Dubhlinn was his. He could bring the lands back to the prosperity they had once enjoyed before too many venal lairds had bled them dry. Eric
felt Bethia had to agree with that too.

Yet she still offered him no clear sign of support. It made no sense to him. He was not sure why it troubled him so, even hurt him. He was right. The fight was just. That should be enough to satisfy him no matter what whim his wife clung to.

“For a mon who spent a long night dutifully pleasuring his new wife into a mindless stupor, ye have a verra dark look upon your face,” Balfour drawled as he rode up beside Eric.

“Mayhap he is just recalling that it wasnae his wondrous skills as a lover that sent her into a deep sleep,” Nigel said as he flanked Eric, “but that knock upon her head when she slammed into the headboard as he was so vigorously pleasuring her.” He grinned when Balfour laughed.

“Such wits.” Eric sighed and shook his head. “I fear I was just feeling a wee bit sorry for myself because I have failed to win Bethia’s respect.”

“What makes ye think ye havenae got her respect?” Balfour asked.

“She still hasnae supported me in this.”

“Does she condemn ye for it in word or deed?”

“Weel, nay, but—” Eric began.

“I havenae seen her looking at ye or acting toward ye in any way that would make me think she lacks respect for you. Have ye, Nigel?”

“Nay.” Nigel half smiled at Eric. “Ye might have tried talking to the lass for a wee bit first last night.”

Eric grimaced. “Aye, and I thought I would, but when she asked me to love her into a stupor so she wouldnae e’en think about the morrow, I was distracted.” He briefly grinned as his brothers laughed, then he sighed and shook his head. “In truth, I wanted to be. Part of me wanted the truth of her feelings, but a greater part didnae want to hear it.”

“Weel, I think ye worry o’er it all far too much,” Balfour said. “Just because she doesnae want this battle fought, doesnae mean she lacks respect for you or questions your reasons. Maldie said Bethia is verra adament in saying that ye are nay like that bastard William nor are ye akin to Sir Graham in any way. And where did ye e’er get the idea that she should support everything ye do or agree with all ye say in every matter just because she married you?”

“That isnae it. I have ne’er expected that. Nay, nor would I wish for it. ’Tis just that I have worked for this for half my life. Every letter written, every petition sent, every visit to the king’s court, and every alliance made was made with the thought that this day would come. I have grown to monhood struggling to gain this right. ’Tis all part of being recognized, I suppose. Aye, and I have tried to get it all by peaceful means. I suppose I wanted Bethia to understand all of that, wanted her to be a full partner in the culmination of thirteen years of work.”

“Mayhap she will be, once she kens that the end of the fight willnae leave ye, or the others she cares for, dead or wounded.”

“Be at ease,” Nigel said. “Set your mind on beating Sir Graham as cleanly and as quickly as possible. Put aside your concerns about how Bethia feels until later. She will still be at Donncoill. The lass may not have wished ye to go and fight this battle, but I ken, without a doubt, she will be waiting for ye, wanting ye to come back to her, with open arms. Sir Graham, however, will be waiting for ye with a sword and arrows.”

Eric stared at the men lining the parapets of the tightly barricaded Dubhlinn and cursed. All during the ride to its gates, he had nourished the small hope that Sir Graham would give up peacefully. In the last message he had sent only three days earlier, he had given the man one last chance to surrender the lands as ordered by the king. He had even listed all of his allies. Even the realization that so many clans had banded together against him had not made the man see reason. The man clearly intended to cling to the death to lands he had so decimated Eric doubted they could produce enough coin to pay his hirelings. Eric could not blame Bethia for questioning such insanity.

“He means to stand and fight,” Nigel said, scowling toward the walls as he tried to judge the strength of the keep. “It willnae be easy to get inside those walls.”

“Nay, but we must,” Eric replied. “Mayhap, if we strike first and hard, hurting him sorely, some of his hirelings will decide that he isnae worth dying for.”

“Aye,” Balfour agreed. “’Tis worth a try. Only a brief one though. I cannae stomach using men as nay more than arrow fodder. If we dinnae see an immediate weakening, I will stop the assault.”

“Agreed,” Eric said, fully agreeing with Balfour’s opinion. He had always been sickened by the wasteful hurling of men against well-manned walls until the dead piled up so high at the foot of the walls the callous laird could simply climb that pile and step over the ramparts.

The first assault upon the walls of Dubhlinn was indeed swift and brutal. It was ended just as swiftly because the men were met with a thick shower of arrows. Fortunately, few were lost or wounded, for they had been well trained in how to use their heavy shields. Getting up and over the walls while holding a sword and a shield over one’s head was impossible, however.

Next they tried the siege weapons they had brought with them. The boxed-in ladders saved the men from the deadly sting of the arrows, but proved no defense against fire, boiling water, or scalding oil. A few more men were lost before the retreat was called and heeded. Eric knew their refusal to waste men’s lives was seen as a weakness by Sir Graham, one to be used against his attackers, but Eric could not regret it.

“It appears we will have to lay siege,” Sir David said as he walked up to where the Murray brothers stood glaring at the solid walls of Dubhlinn. “If we cannae beat them, we must wait them out.”

“He is weel prepared for an attack,” said Eric. “He may be weel prepared for a siege.”

After glancing around at fields that had obviously seen little or no care for a long time, David asked, “With what?”

“Aye,” Nigel muttered after he too looked around. “Dubhlinn has slid deeper into ruin than I would have guessed. Are ye sure ye want the place?”

“’Tis mine.” Eric muttered a curse and, lifting his helmet, dragged his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “By refusing to heed the king’s decision, Sir Graham commits treason. He is a dead mon already.”

“Then mayhap we should alert the king to his transgressions, and let the king’s army come and tear him out of there.”

“We would still have to lay siege, holding the place and the traitor inside until the king’s men could arrive. And I have fought in the king’s army. They willnae leave much standing nor have a care for the innocent. ’Twill nay be only Sir Graham whom they will
consider a traitor, but all who are a part of his clan, whether they actually fight for him or cower in hiding, praying they will survive this.”

“They are nay all cowering,” Bowen said as he approached them, a plump, gray-haired woman walking steadily at his side. “This be Mistress Leona Beaton. Been a maid at Dubhlinn all her life.”

“Aye,” the woman agreed. “Began my training when I was but a wee lass of seven years. So ’tis forty years now that I have spent behind these cursed walls.”

“So ye were a maid when my mother was there?” Eric asked.

“If ye be Sir Eric, aye, I was.”

Apologizing for his lack of manners in not introducing himself and the others, Eric hastily rectified the omission. “Ye have been here through it all then?”

“Aye. I was still but a child when your father killed the old laird, your grandfather, and I was here when ye Murrays killed that evil mon, may God forgive me for speaking ill of the dead.”

Although his claim had been accepted, Eric knew it was mostly because of the support he had finally rallied to his side. Many still questioned his legitimacy. This woman spoke as if she knew the truth and Eric felt excitement tingle through his veins. Such a witness, a Beaton by birth, and one who had born witness to so many years of ill deeds by her lairds, would silence most of those lingering doubts.

“Ye called Sir William Beaton my father. Do ye do so only because the king now gives me the right to the land?”

“Nay, laddie. My eyes told me the truth years ago. I was maid to your mother. Beaton ne’er kenned it, but I kenned all about your poor, sad mother’s affair with that rogue, the old Murray laird. I also kenned when it ceased. There was but a verra wee chance that ye were seeded by that rogue. I slipped into the birthing room to steal a wee peek at you after ye were born and saw the mark ye carry. That mark told me clearly that ye were Beaton’s son.” She brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand as she added, “’Twas the last time I saw ye or your mother alive until ye were captured that time thirteen years ago.”

“Ye ken the mark I carry? Ken that it is the mark of a Beaton?”

“Of a Beaton laird,” she said firmly and nodded. “Aye. I had the bitter misfortune of seeing it on your father several times, though he ofttimes tried to hide it. The mon treated the women unfortunate enough to be within the walls of that keep as if they were his own private breeding stock. I bore the bastard three daughters, two of whom still live. Their close blood relationship saved them from this laird’s attentions, but he did naught to keep them safe from his men. That sad brutality took the life of one of my lasses and has hurt my other two in their minds and spirits—and given them two bastards each.”

“I am sorry for the wrongs done to ye and yours,” Eric said quietly, knowing he had had no part in it all, but feeling the pinch of guilt because he shared blood kinship with the commiters of those crimes. “More half sisters,” he murmured and smiled faintly.

“Aye, eight of them within those walls and a few more in the village. A few nieces and nephews too. I am sorry I couldnae save ye, lad. I tried. When I realized what had been done, I slipped away to find ye, but the Murrays had already done so. I admit I did naught to correct your father’s belief that ye were a bastard. I felt ye were safer where ye were, especially after he murdered your mother and the midwife. When I learned how ye sought your birthright, I thought to help ye. I planned to go to the king myself and affirm
your claim. I couldnae. This laird kens that he sits upon a stolen seat. He would let none leave Dubhlinn. If any slipped away, he was cried a traitor and his family suffered for it. I watched Sir Graham have a mon and his two wee sons slain before the mon’s wife because she had slipped away to visit kinsmen and was gone but two days. I couldnae risk my daughters’ lives, nor those of their bairns. I just wasnae that brave.” She shook her head. “That poor woman stood in that bailey and stared at the bodies of her loved ones for hours; then she slashed open her wrists and laid herself down beside them and died. I feared there was no end to the darkness at Dubhlinn, then the word came that the king had given it all to you, that ye would be our new laird. And so I have waited. Now I can help you.”

The tale she told so shocked and moved Eric that it took him a moment to find enough voice to ask, “How, mistress?”

Mistress Leona smiled. “I shall get ye inside those walls the same way I got myself out.”