Rivals for the Crown (47 page)

That night she sat in the room, listening to the soldiers below talk and laugh and occasionally sing. Rory's pack lay open before her. In her hand she held a brittle circle of wood, hardly recognizable. But she knew it was the circlet she had woven that night, so long ago, in her grandmother's house. A crown, they'd called it, and bantered about the Oak and Holly kings. He'd saved it, all this time, just as Kieran had said. She held the crown to her lips and wept.

The next day, Isabel stood in a crowd near the entrance to the Black Gate to watch the prisoners held at Newcastle paraded as a Christmas treat. She watched while four men, accused of theft and rape and murder, were led past, and then, the people were told, the Highlander was next.

Rory was tied to the front edge of a cart, his arms spread wide, his legs bound with chains. He was naked, his hair wild and his body bruised. On the cart with him a soldier read out a list of Rory's crimes, and that these crimes held a penalty of death. "Treason," the man said, and the people cheered.

They pelted him with refuse and rocks, shouting threats and epithets at him, swearing vengeance on all Scots, reminding him that King Edward was coming to punish his countrymen. He did not flinch when he was hit, did not look at any of them, but into the distance, his jaw clenched and his eyes glacial. The crowd followed the cart, jeering and throwing more at him, but Isabel stood where she was, her hand over her mouth to stop from crying out. When the parade was finished, he would pass by here again, and so she did not move.

It seemed to take forever, but the prisoners were returned to the castle. The four who walked were coated with filth, but they at least were clothed. Rory's skin was blue with cold. His eyes were closed and he did not react when a rock hit his head. But she could see his ribs move with his breathing. She looked after the cart as it went through the gate. Then, as the crowd cleared, she looked across the road.

And into the eyes of Henry de Boyer.

He nodded but stayed where he was. As did she, until all around her were gone. And then he crossed to her, stopping before her. His expression was impassive. He took her arm.

"Let us talk," he said.

He took her for a meal. He said nothing to her, ordering food for both of them, and mulled wine.

"And plenty of it," he told the serving girl. "My companion is chilled."

He ate heartily while she watched. She sipped the wine, grateful for its warmth, and avoided his eyes. He drained his cup of wine and poured more.

"I was there when he was brought in," he said at last. "There are many here who would have killed him on the spot. Many have lost comrades in arms, and Rory is known as a murderer of English soldiers."

Rory, she thought. He's calling him Rory, as though they are well acquainted, as though they are friends.

"When I heard the story," he said, "I knew you must have been there at the cottage. I'm glad you were bright enough to stay out of sight. But this, Isabel, coming back to Newcastle now, is by far the most foolish of all the foolish things you have done." He leaned forward and grasped her wrist, looking into her eyes. "Why are you here?"

"Because he is."

"Fool! I have been searching for you."

"Why?"

He released her wrist and sat back. "God's blood, but that is a good question! I cannot answer it!"

"Why? We can be nothing to each other now. We have never been anything to each other."

"But you wished it. There was a time that you wished there to be."

"I thought you handsome, Henry. There was nothing more to it than that."

"No, there was something between us from the start."

"No. And even if there had been, you were able to abandon me easily."

"Not easily. I've tried to dislodge you, but still you stay in my heart."

"You chose Alis, Henry. You married her."

"No. Alis chose me. I was fool enough not to see what she was doing. And yes, I married her, but because she lied and convinced me there was a child, not because I loved her. But none of that matters any more. Alis is dead."

"What?"

"She died. In childbirth. And no, it was not my child. It might have been Langton's, but I think you put an end to that. She is dead, and the child with her."

"Do you mourn her?"

"I mourn the death of my idea of her, but I have had years to do that."

"I'm sorry."

He nodded. "So am 1.1 wish I had never met her."

"I remember the day you did."

"So do 1.1 should have stayed at your side. Rory would never have had a chance to creep into your heart."

"He did not creep. He roared into it, like a lion."

"Well, he's a caged lion now."

"And that's how he's been treated, Henry. He was paraded through the city like an animal."

"That is what they do to traitors. The parading is the easiest part. The rest of it is far worse. And while I'm sure he was discomforted—"

"Discomforted! He was naked in December. Horrid things were thrown at him. He had bruises all over him."

"He is alive! Is that not what you wanted? He is not being hanged and
disembowelled
at this moment because I insisted that he should not be given a merciful death here, but be brought to trial in London. Do not give me that look. Think, Isabel! The other choice was instant death. Tell me, which would you have chosen?"

He tore off a chunk of bread and chewed it, then followed it with more wine. He put the cup down with a thud. "I sent word to John Comyn that Rory was arrested. And to Berwick. I have done what I can."

She was close to tears. "Why did you do that?"

"For you. For the man he is. If we were not enemies.. .But we are enemies. And rivals. And I remember both."

"Why are you so angry, then?"

"Because he won you."

"You never tried to win me."

"I meant to."

"But Alis..."

"Yes. Alis." He drained the cup again and once again refilled it. "If he does not live, and I do not think he will.. .could there be anything between us, Isabel? I have lands in Essex. You could live there, far from Langton's reach."

"As your mistress?"

"Or my wife. What difference does it make? You would be safe."

"I do not understand you, Henry."

"I do not understand myself."

He finished his food and his wine. "If you had shown yourself, they would have arrested you as well. Or done things.. .You are being sought for attempted murder of a high-ranking government official. A bishop, for God's sake! Do you have any idea of what they would do to you, a woman, one who tried to cut a man's testicles off? Do you not know that there are men who want to dominate you for your insolence? How can you be so imprudent as to put yourself back within their grasp?"

"Rory is here."

He shook his head and sighed heavily.

"When will he be taken to London?" she asked.

"I don't know. Not before Christmas, perhaps as late as Epiphany. I do not know. Do not cry, Isabel. God's blood, I did what I could by sending those messages, and I may be discovered for it. It's only that war is in the air that I might escape notice. War is a grand time for advancement. My career could soar."

"How wonderful for you."

"I knew you would not thank me."

"I do thank you, Henry, for sending those messages. But you should know that we are pledged to each other, Rory and I."

"I thought as much. How long has he been here with you?"

"We had one day."

He laughed quietly. "One day. So had I found you a week ago

"Nothing would have changed. He has my heart, Henry."

"And I hold your life in my hands. Remember that, Isabel."

"I do. And I hold your career. And possibly your life. Langton will kill me, but what will he do to you for aiding me, Henry?"

He blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. "So. Sweet Isabel is gone and leaves me with a vengeful woman who seems to forget that I risked all I am and have for her safety, not once, but again now."

"I forget none of that, Henry. I owe you my gratitude, and you have it for that night in Berwick. I have often wished to thank you."

He finished his wine, then threw coins on the table and pushed his bench back. "Do you want to see him?"

"Is it possible?"

His smile was sardonic. "I am one of King Edward's own knights. Of course it is possible."

Isabel tried to remain calm as they entered the Black Gate. She refused to look up at the portcullis, nor at the guardrooms, full of men, on either side of the passageway. A guard led them across the outer bailey and up the stairs to the Great Hall, passing them on to another guard, who took them through the hall and to the spiral staircase. The ground floor was a storage room lit by flickering torchlight that did not penetrate past the casks and barrels filling most of the room.

"He's in the cell at the end," the guard said.

Isabel and Henry followed him down an aisle between the stacked casks of wine. The air was colder here, and still, as though the world were very far away. In the first cell were the four men who had been paraded earlier with Rory, watching them with sour expressions. The guard stopped in front of the next cell, gesturing to the wooden bars before them, some cracked and broken, some missing altogether. "He did this last night. We had to chain him up."

Henry took a step forward and looked into the cell, his face impassive. Isabel moved to his side and looked into the cell. Rory's arms and legs were chained to the stone wall at the other end of the cell. He wore only a long linen shirt, his legs bare below it. His jaw was tilted up, his eyes closed, his hair pale against the dark stone, his face in shadow, but there was enough light to show her that the filth thrown at him still coated his legs and throat.

"Rory," she said.

He did not move.

"Rory."

He was sure he was imagining her voice. He hoped he was. He did not want to believe she was here and not heading for Scotland, that somehow she'd been captured, too. And all that that might mean.

"Rory."

He opened his eyes. Isabel stood next to Henry de Boyer just outside his cell. He closed his eyes, his stomach roiling. Was there no end to this day? For de Boyer to bring her, to see him thus... It was suddenly all too much. She could not be here, not when they'd risked so much to get her out of danger. He closed his eyes, willing this to be a dream.

"Rory. My love, speak to me."

"Isabel," he said, his voice hoarse and strained. "Why are ye here?"

"I am here because you are here."

He was too weary to speak. All that effort and she was here.

"Henry," she said. "I need to go to him. Please have the door unlocked."

"You are joking," de Boyer said.

"No. You must have him unchained. He cannot stay like this."

"I cannot have him unchained," de Boyer said.

Her voice was calm. "I ask only that you have him unchained from the wall, not that you take all the chains from him, only that he be allowed to lie down or to sit. Look how exhausted he is."

"Isabel, he is in prison for crimes against the crown. We cannot

She cut across his words. "I must be allowed to take that filth off him. He was paraded like a beast. Do not make him live like one. At least let me wash the filth from him."

There was silence. Then the sound of a key in the cell door, and the creak of the door opening. Rory opened his eyes again. The guard was gone. De Boyer moved into the cell, and Isabel followed. She stopped before him and put a hand to his cheek.

"My love. Rory," she whispered. "I'm so sorry you have to suffer this. I cannot bear to see you this way."

"Isabel, why are you here in Newcastle again? Has he arrested

ye?"

"No. I came back to find you."

She put a finger to his lips. At her touch his emotions flared. He should be protecting her, not chained like a mad dog, like an inadequate failure.

"I do not want to be where you are not," she said. "I do not want to live if you do not."

The guard returned, carrying a basin of water and a cloth. He placed it on the floor at Rory's feet and stepped back, watching, with Henry, as she immersed the cloth in the water and twisted it in her hands.

"Isabel, I am too filthy for ye to touch."

"Hush. It's cold, love, but you'll be clean."

Her touch was gentle. He closed his eyes, his emotions warring within him. He was unwilling to watch De Boyer and the guard watch her. She wiped the filth from his face first, with soft fingers pushing his hair back from his face, then from his throat. She pulled the shirt open, washing his neck and shoulders. Then open more, to clean his chest and sides, her hands moving behind him to his back. He could smell her scent, could feel her breath on his skin as she leaned close.

Rory willed his body not to respond as her hands roamed over him, but her touch brought back the memories of their lovemaking far too vividly. He opened his eyes to drive the images from his mind. Henry had turned away, his back to them, his stance stiff. But the guard watched with rapt attention, and Rory focused on the