Notorious Deception (30 page)

Lightheaded, Fiona struggled to release the breath she was holding. Who was this fierce stranger? Someone Henry knew, yet hardly the friend he claimed. Though their weapons were lowered, there was no doubt this man called Kirkland would fight if challenged. Or insulted?

Fiona pushed away the newest fear that had taken root in her brain, knowing it would be foolhardy to add more drama to an already puzzling situation.

“You're on my land,” Henry declared flatly. “I would have thought that would be a clue to my identity, forgoing the need to attack.”

“We dinnae attack, we surprised ye.” Kirkland's lips rose into a slight grin, but the hardened glimmer in his eyes revealed he felt little mirth.

Henry let out a snort. “You frightened my wife,” he persisted, and Fiona nearly groaned. Why would he not leave the matter alone? They were outnumbered and vulnerable. Did he not realize the danger? “Are you hurt, Fiona?”

All eyes turned toward her. It would be madness to admit the truth, so instead Fiona lifted her chin and smiled. “I'm fine,” she lied, ignoring the throbbing of her wrist.

“I fear I was too harsh in my treatment of ye, Lady Fiona. 'Tis not my usual way to accost a gentlewoman.”

The words were spoken with a gentle flourish, and accompanied by a courtly bow, but the Scot's face remained stoic and impossible to read. Fiona felt her cheeks turn hot and she silently cursed her keen eyesight. If she had not caught a glimpse of the feverfew from the road, they never would have stopped and gotten into this mess.

“Why are you here, lurking in my woods?” Henry asked. “'Tis hardly our usual method of contact.”

“We had to come farther south than we intended in order to avoid some nasty business at Methven. I can assure ye, we willnae be here much longer. Just until we know it's safe to return home.”

Henry's eyes filled with surprise. “You fought at Methven?”

“Aye.” Kirkland's upper lip twitched. “My men did me proud.”

“We were defeated,” one of the brigands declared bitterly.

“We were deceived,” another protested hotly, before spitting on the ground. “The English refused an honorable challenge to meet us on the field of battle, preferring instead to act like cowards, invade our camp, attack at dawn and slaughter us while we slept.”

Henry's eyebrows rose. “No quarter was given?”

“None,” the earl replied, his tone flat. “Most of those who escaped have fled to the Highlands. But I must return home, to defend my lands and protect my people.”

Henry stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So, you've finally decided to pledge your sword to the Bruce? 'Tis a gamble.”

The earl shrugged. “An abundance of caution has kept us under England's thumb fer too long. I might not always agree with his methods, but I believe the Bruce is Scotland's best chance fer freedom. At the very least, we deserve to have our own king.”

Fiona was surprised to see the hint of sympathy in her husband's eyes. It was a well-known fact that King Edward was determined to exert his authority over Scotland and expected the Scots to pay homage to him. As a loyal subject of the King, Fiona had always believed that Henry supported that position.

“Not all your countrymen are in agreement that Bruce is the man who should wear the Scottish crown,” Henry said. “I heard the MacNabs and the MacDougalls fought alongside the English at Methven, against King Robert.”

“'Tis true.” The earl shrugged again, his brows pulling together in a frown. “Led by John MacDougall of Lorne himself. He's driven by blood vengeance and means to have it. Ye'll not find a more formidable foe in all the land.”

Henry snorted. “Sacrilegious murder of one's nephew in a churchyard will do that to a man.”

Fiona crossed herself. She remembered well hearing of this abomination against man and God. Robert the Bruce was one of several claimants to the Scottish crown. He had disposed of his main rival, John “the Red” Comyn, by calling him to a meeting at a church and then killing him.

This barbaric act served to solidify in Fiona's mind what the English believed for decades about their northern neighbors—for all their profession of faith, the Scots were a heathen people. Yet somehow Henry had befriended one?

“The Bruce's cause was just,” the earl admonished. “He and Comyn had signed an agreement to unite the clans and gain independence. To secure the crown fer himself, Comyn saw fit to share a copy of that agreement with the English King. A clear act of treason.”

“Perhaps,” Henry conceded, though his expression remained skeptical. “Though it is now Bruce, and his followers, who are labeled traitors after being defeated in battle. Still, I believe that all men must choose their own path in this life, though it behooves them to remember they will answer to God in the next.”

“My conscience is clear,” Kirkland said coolly, an unmistakable edge in his tone.

Henry was silent as he studied the other man. Finally he spoke. “What do you want from me?”

“Safe haven in yer forest fer a few days—a week at most.”

Henry nodded and a chill swept through Fiona. Knowingly harbor wanted men on their land? Was he mad? If it were ever discovered, such an act would surely bring the full wrath of the king down upon them all.

“Henry, we cannot—”

“Quiet, Fiona.”

The sharpness of his tone stung, but she obeyed without further comment, knowing in her heart she needed to trust in Henry's judgment. He was wise and worldly and caring and would do what was best.

Fiona reached down and grasped her husband's hand, squeezing tightly. Her faith in him was unconditional. Yet as she gazed at the broad, powerful shoulders, hard eyes and stonelike expression of the Scotsman who had brought this turmoil into their lives she realized why she was so frightened.

'Twas indeed true that her loyalty and trust in her husband was steadfast. Her opinion of this heathen Scot, however, was another matter entirely.

 

 

Gavin McLendon, Earl of Kirkland, tried to ignore the play of emotions that flitted over Lady Fiona's face when she realized her husband was going to aid them. He swore he could almost hear the spirited objection that sprang to her lips, but somehow she kept it at bay and held her tongue. Gavin could not help but be impressed at her self-control.

He vaguely recalled hearing that the baron's second wife was considerably younger than her husband, but somehow he had not expected her to be so pretty. Beautiful, really.

She had a buxom figure with lush breasts, perfectly curved hips and an angelic face that looked as if it had been carved from marble. Her head was uncovered and a long, thick braid of honey blond hair trailed down the middle of her back, ending at the base of her spine. It made her appear maidenly, innocent; an odd occurrence for a married woman.

Her eyes were an unusual shade of green, vibrant and sparkling with intelligence—a trait he did not often ascribe to the female sex. His own wife, though not a simpleton, would never have grasped the enormity of this current situation on her own.

And if by some miracle she did, she would never have been so calm. Or cooperative.

“How many men are with you?” Henry asked.

“Twenty-five. But most are wounded,” Gavin answered readily, then cursed his loose tongue. After being on the run for nearly two weeks, exhaustion was finally starting to overtake him. Though his relationship with the baron was of long standing, it was never wise to be so trusting.

The tension in the small clearing subtly began to rise. Gavin saw his men look warily from one to the other, their hands drifting down to the weapons at their sides. From the corner of his eye, Gavin noticed Lady Fiona give her husband an anxious glance.

“I will do what you ask of me,” the baron declared. “And provide whatever medical assistance I can for your men. But in turn, I expect a boon from you.”

Gavin stifled a curse. He had never assumed the aid would come without a price, but at this moment in time he had little to give. “Aye. Name yer price.”

“Before the end of summer, I expect you to lead a raid on my village and steal my cattle.”

For the first time in many days, Gavin felt his lips move into a smile. “I'll take the entire herd, if ye want.”

“Most obliging of you, my lord. And don't forget to steal some grain,” Henry added, his broad face breaking into an answering grin. “Though I expect it to be promptly returned and my fields left as they stand.”

“'Tis the usual agreement. The plundered grain returned and the fields left trampled, but not burned.”

“The usual agreement?” Lady Fiona's voice rose to a high, wavering pitch and her chest rose and fell with quickening breaths. “So, you have done this before? And yet, you both act as though it means nothing. I can't imagine that our people share your opinion, Henry. How terrified and helpless they must feel when they are attacked.”

“We attack no one, shed no blood,” Gavin insisted. Her obvious dismay rankled, though he wasn't sure why. He and the baron had done nothing wrong. On the contrary, they had found a way to live in peace and harmony and avoid any suspicion over their secret alliance by outwardly appearing as enemies.

“We devised this agreement years ago. The McLendon clan come under the cover of night,” Henry explained. “They are rarely seen by the villagers.”

She shot her husband a startled look. “And that makes it acceptable?”

“That makes it safe,” Henry countered, his voice rising with impatience. “For all concerned. Our people suffer no injury and nearly all of what is taken is eventually returned. It would look suspicious if we were the only estate along the border to suffer no raids from our thieving northern neighbors. King Edward does not look kindly upon the Scots, but I do not share his belief that they must be conquered.”

“As if ye could,” Duncan said tersely, stepping forward, his hand moving down to the hilt of his sword. “Damn English. Yer a bunch of dishonorable cowards.”

“Duncan!” Gavin pinned his cousin with a cold, hard stare. Duncan was a fine soldier and a loyal retainer; a man not inclined to run from a battle. It had been harder on him than most to accept this defeat, but Gavin could not allow him to jeopardize the one alliance that could save them now.

Duncan did not wilt under his glare. For an instant he looked confused and then he mumbled something beneath his breath. His manner still proud, the chastened man released his grip from his sword handle and took several steps backward.

Fortunately, the baron took no offense at Duncan's remarks. Gavin slowly exhaled, blessing whatever reasoning had pushed the Englishman to propose a truce between them, along with a radical plan to ensure its survival. It was a rash act on Gavin's part to agree, but one he had never regretted. Especially now.

“At nightfall for the next five days, I will bring food and drink for you and your men and leave it at the base of this tree.” Henry pointed at the massive oak. “You can hunt for game in my northernmost woods to supplement the fare. I shall keep my men away from the area for the remainder of the week, so you won't be discovered.”

“We will keep to the north.” Gavin attempted a smile of thanks, yet failed, for there was one more thing he needed. It galled him to ask, but it was necessary to improve the chances of survival for several of his more severely wounded men. “Clean linen bandages would be useful, along with some medicine.”

Lady Fiona bit her lower lip. “I have just begun to replenish our supplies,” she said quietly, her voice anxious. “I can give you some linen, but our stores of medicines are low. 'Twould be a waste—”

The baron held up his hand and Lady Fiona quickly fell silent. “My wife will send what we can spare.”

“The medicine will be of little use if none of you have the skills to properly use it,” Lady Fiona snapped.

A glance from the baron had her looking contrite at her sudden outburst, but Gavin wasn't fooled. The firm set of her jaw bespoke of her true feelings on the matter.

“We know enough to drink the potions and put the salves on our wounds,” Gavin offered, attempting to break the tension.

The baron chuckled, along with a few of Gavin's men. Lady Fiona bestowed an obliging smile in his direction, but the look in her eyes was hardly hospitable.

A prickling sensation of guilt washed over Gavin. She had a right to be upset, afraid. They were taking precious supplies, putting yet another burden upon the baron and his household. Gavin wanted to tell the lady that she would not regret her part in this, that in these uncertain times, when loyalties were tested, there was comfort to be found in acting bravely and honorably.

But the sad truth was, he could not.

 

“Are you certain you wish to leave tomorrow, Lady Fiona? I've heard rumors that the King's army will soon be marching north again. Tis hardly the safest time to venture across the border into Scotland.”

Fiona wiped her damp palms against her skirt and forced herself to stay calm as she gazed in the weathered face of the knight standing before her. It had taken her months to formulate this plan and even longer to put the pieces into place. Now that the moment was at hand, she must not allow anything to sway her commitment.

“I believe that King Edward is determined to lead a victorious campaign against the Scots, Sir George. Yet I fear if we wait for a safe time to make this journey, we shall never leave.” She tried smiling, but her lips refused to cooperate, doubt and fear keeping them frozen.

Sir George's dark eyes softened. Though only of average height, he appeared larger, due to his thick, muscular build. The scars on his face and arms were a testament to his years on the battlefield and Fiona knew she was lucky to have a loyal, honorable knight with his skills on her side. It brought a small measure of comfort to her heavily burdened heart, though in truth there was little that could be done to appease the bitterness she felt.

That some called the death of her husband—a year ago on this very day—and the loss of their lands a cruelty of fate was viewed by Fiona as insult. How could an event of such anguishing loss be given such a trite explanation? No, it was not fate that brought such devastation into their lives—it was betrayal.

Fiona was convinced that somehow the alliance Henry had forged with the Scottish Earl of Kirkland had reached the ears of King Edward. Lacking any substantial proof, the King had decided not to outright accuse Henry of any wrongdoing. Instead, he had allowed Sir Roland DuPree, one of his brutish minions, to petition a blatantly false claim to their lands. And when Henry refused to yield the property, Sir Roland and his army, with the King's silent sanction, had stormed the castle and taken it by force.

It had hardly been a fair fight. Fiona closed her eyes and once again relived the nightmare of the fateful event that had destroyed the only happiness she had ever known, forever changing her life.

It had been quiet that night—too quiet. The soldiers who stood guard in the watch towers had died swiftly, their throats slashed to prevent a warning of the impending invasion, to delay a call to arms. Roused from their beds, Henry and his knights had fought bravely to defend the keep and protect the inhabitants, but they were no match for the men who had devised the ruthless attack.

Outnumbered and unprepared, Henry and his soldiers fell one by one. With the tide turned against them, many of the surviving guardsmen laid down their arms and pledged their allegiance to the conquering Sir Roland.

But not Sir George. He had been the first to pledge his sword to Henry's son and heir, ten-year-old Spencer. And it was Sir George who had managed to safely spirit her and Spencer away after Henry had been fatally struck.

Sobbing and in shock, Fiona, her maid, and Father Niall had followed Sir George through the dank, musty, secret escape tunnels that ended outside the bailey walls. Together, Fiona and Father Niall carried a badly injured Spencer on a makeshift stretcher, each moan uttered from the child's pale lips a fresh pain in Fiona's bruised heart.

The fear had been almost paralyzing. Even now Fiona could still smell the dampness, hear the skittering sounds of the rats in the tunnel and the clash of swords from above as a few brave men fought on.

The tunnel ended in a cave and they hid there for what felt like hours, while Sir George scouted ahead. Finally, he returned, stolen horses in hand. Just as dawn was starting to break, the weary group rode away, ears attuned to the sounds of pursuit.

Thankfully, no one followed. In her greatest time of need, Fiona had no choice but to turn to her eldest brother, Harold. They arrived at his keep six days later, exhausted and in shock. He had hardly been gracious in receiving them, but at least he had not denied them sanctuary.

“Sir George! You're here!”

The boyish voice rang out with pure delight. Fiona turned and watched Spencer make his way across the crowded bailey. Her heart jumped with worry as it became necessary for the boy to move with speed and agility to avoid the carts, animals and people hustling through the courtyard.

Even from this distance she could see how badly Spencer limped. The broken bones of his right leg, an injury suffered during the attack, had fused together at an odd angle, leaving it shorter than the left leg. It was a constant reminder of what they had endured, of what had been broken that could never be restored.

As Spencer drew closer, one of the castle hounds suddenly darted in front of him. His balance compromised, the boy's face contorted into a grimace as he stumbled and fell. Fiona gasped, biting her lip until she tasted blood. No, she refused to cry out, to show any outward sign of distress. The last thing Spencer wanted or needed was her pity—he got that in buckets from others.

More than anything else, her child needed her to believe in him, needed to know that she had faith he would overcome this physical infirmary; that he would one day be whole again. And by God, no matter how difficult it was for her, she would give that to him.

Arms flailing, Spencer shoved the hound, who was now trying to lick his face, pushing the animal away. Though it was only a few seconds, to Fiona it felt like hours, as she watched the boy lay flat on his back, panting with the effort it took to right himself. Finally, with slow deliberate movements, Spencer rose to his feet. His misshapen grin of triumph when he regained his balance wrenched at Fiona's heart. Swiftly, she brushed away her tears, replacing them with a confident, supportive nod.

A nod her son answered with one of his own.

“After these many months, I had hoped the boy would be stronger,” Sir George mussed, his eyes narrowing with worry.

“He improves each week,” Fiona replied sharply.

“Can he wield a sword?”

“Yes.”

“With authority?”

Fiona skewered the knight with a piercing look. “He's barely eleven years old.”

“He began learning how to fight at his father's knee when he was but a lad of five,” Sir George responded. “I supervised the making of his first wooden sword myself.”

“My brother has refused to allow Spencer any time on the practice field,” Fiona replied, embarrassed to admit her own flesh and blood had so little confidence in Spencer's abilities. “Father Niall works with him, but the priest's skill is limited. With the proper training, I know Spencer will be able to compensate for the weakness in his leg. All he needs is the opportunity.”

Sir George took a breath. “If the lad cannot be trained here, then perhaps he can be fostered at another castle?”

“Believe me, Sir George, as much as it would pain me to be separated from him, I have tried to find him a place. Father Niall helped me compose the letters I sent to all the holdings in the area, both large and small.” Fiona felt her face flush with heat. “No one will take him.”

Sir George's eyebrows rose. “No one?”

Fiona frowned. She had begged her brother to intervene and when he refused, she had taken matters into her own hands. Though possessing only a rudimentary knowledge of reading and writing, Fiona had put all her efforts into the task of securing a future for Spencer. Yet even with Father Niall's aid, it had taken her hours to write those letters.

Waiting had been the hardest part. For as each reply—and rejection—was received, hope for Spencer's future had slipped further and further away. Now all that was left was the reality of her situation. No one was going to come to their rescue and willingly take up Spencer's cause.

They would languish in her brother's castle for the rest of their lives—an unwanted burden with no true place or purpose. For Fiona, the idea was equally repellant and terrifying and completely unacceptable.

What had started as a mother's duty to protect her child was now a compulsion for Fiona, burning like a fire within her chest. She would give her own life if it prevented any further harm from coming to the boy. But she was greedy in her wishes and dreams, wanting more than mere survival for Spencer. She wanted him to thrive, to flourish, and when the time was right, to regain his birthright.

“Henry was never openly accused of treason, but 'tis common knowledge that the King did nothing to prevent the attack on our lands,” Fiona said. “That, coupled with Spencer's injury, has made it impossible to find a nobleman willing to foster him, to give him the proper training needed to attain knighthood.”

Sir George stared at her somberly. “Have you considered the boy's future might lie with the church?”

“Oh, Sir George, not you too,” Fiona said, bristling at the remark. “'Tis bad enough that I must listen to my brother harp upon how Spencer's infirmary makes him fit only for a priestly life. I expected more from you.”

Sir George bowed his head. “I only want what is best for the boy.”

“As do I,” Fiona huffed, though there were moments she had questioned her own motivation. Was her need for revenge putting Spencer in a dangerous position? Should she listen to men like Sir George and her brother who were so certain the only course for Spencer was a life of spiritual devotion?

Feeling a twinge of uncertainty, Fiona watched Spencer finally make his way to their side. His smile was wide and genuine as he embraced Sir George. It renewed her spirits to see the boy so happy. And renewed her determination. She refused to languish here at her brother's keep, wasting precious time. She would not quietly accept the future that others wanted to foist upon her son. She would fight for the future he deserved.

Had not Father Niall himself reluctantly agreed the boy had no true calling to be God's servant? And when further pressed, the priest had added that he highly doubted Spencer would be happy living a quiet life of faithful devotion.

Seeing the hunger and longing in Spencer's eyes when the men were training was proof enough of the boy's true desires. He deserved to inherit his father's lands, to lead and protect their people. Somehow, someway, Fiona was going to make certain he had the chance.

“Will we be ready to leave soon, Sir George?” Fiona asked.

The answering silence from the knight was disturbing. Fiona suppressed a shiver of alarm. If Sir George abandoned them now, they would be stuck here for months. Maybe even years. So great was her distress, Fiona failed to notice her brother Harold sauntering smoothly across the bailey toward them.

“Ah, I see your chivalrous knight has finally arrived.” Harold halted beside her. Arms crossed, booted foot restlessly tapping, Harold's narrowed gaze slowly swept from her to Spencer, and then rested speculatively on Sir George. “Good day to you.”

“My lord.” Sir George favored Harold with a curt nod before turning toward Fiona. “The preparations for our journey are nearly complete. If it pleases you, Lady Fiona, we will depart tomorrow at first light.”

Spencer tilted his head in interest. “Am I going, too?”

“Yes, of course.” Fiona smiled. He looked so young, so eager. With great effort she resisted the urge to run her hands affectionately over the lad's dark curls, knowing the gesture would embarrass him in front of the other men. “Sir George and his men will escort us north, to the Abbey of St. Gifford, so we may visit the holy shrine.”

Harold scoffed. “I don't know why you insist on traveling such a great distance to pray. The Brothers are not known to perform miracles or cure the infirmed.”

“Harold!” Fiona felt her ire ignite, not only at her brother's words, but the smirking expression on his face. “We have no need of cures or miracles.”

Her brother's perceptive eyes narrowed further. “Then why go at all? Why travel these dangerous roads?”

Fiona swallowed. Lying had never come easily and with so much depending upon keeping her true plans secret it was hard to find a response. But find one she must. “I need to show proper respect for the anniversary of Henry's death. A retreat of prayer and reflection seems fitting.”

“My chapel is at your disposal, as is my priest. Hell, your priest still resides within my keep. Are these two holy men not enough?”

“I need to show proper respect,” Fiona repeated, forcing humility into her tone. Why was her brother taking such an interest in her now? He had hardly been welcoming when she arrived a year ago, dazed and shocked and desperate. His lack of attention and concern had been hurtful, and even more upsetting was the eventual realization that her brother's feelings would not change.

'Twas obvious he had little use for Spencer, with his infirmary, and even less for her, a widow with no dowry. Harold's neglect and disinterest was one of the reasons she was making this journey. No longer could she tolerate the bleak, barren future her brother saw for her son.

“A holy pilgrimage is a fitting tribute for the Baron,” Sir George interjected. “I am proud and honored to be of service to Lady Fiona.”

Harold sniffed and Fiona could see the resistance in his eyes. And while she certainly appreciated Sir George's support, she feared the knight's agreement with her had further angered her brother.

“Sir George informed me earlier this year he intended to make this pilgrimage when the weather turned warmer. It made sense that Spence and I join his party,” Fiona said, trying to shift the focus of the conversation. “You and your knights have far more important matters to occupy your time or else I would have asked for your assistance.”