The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (22 page)

Ansel’s gaze trailed over the herd of shaggy Highland cows as they ambled down from the rolling hillsides where they had grazed for the summer. Herdsmen and their dogs guided the great beasts toward lower ground for their winter pasture in observance of Samhain.

Aye, today was a fitting day to meet with the King of Scotland, for Samhain was the time when the living met the dead.

Dread tightened into a knot in Ansel’s belly. He was little more than a dead man walking this day, like a ghost freed only briefly from its world.

“There it is!”

Niall’s excited cry broke through Ansel’s morbid thoughts. Ansel dragged his gaze away from the cows dotting the hillsides to follow Niall’s pointing finger.

Roslin Castle emerged from behind a grass-covered crest. It sat at the end of a long strip of land that grew increasingly narrow until the terrain fell away on three sides. The castle perched majestically at the end of the narrow spit of land, with the North Sea crashing against the cliffs far below.

Isolda, who rode Eachann with John nestled before her in the saddle, gasped as her eyes fell on the castle. Though Ansel was always struck by Roslin’s impressive location from a defensive standpoint—only the narrow band of land provided access to the castle, which was blocked by a thick stone curtain wall—he’d seen it enough to forget just how strikingly beautiful it was.

Low clouds clung to the top of the four towers within the castle’s walls, and the Sinclair clan crest and colors flapped in a breeze rippling off the surrounding sea. Gulls swooped and glided around the tower, their cries mingling with the crash of the ocean on the beach below.

“It is…beautiful,” Isolda breathed.

Ansel looked up at her from where he walked alongside Eachann. His eyes traced the delicate line of her jaw, her softly parted lips, and the wonder in her pale green gaze.

“Aye,” he said, his heart pinching.

“Come on, Papa,” Niall said, his young voice tight with excitement. “Let’s race there.”

Niall squirmed between Meredith and Fiona atop their horse, at last sliding down to where Burke walked next to the animal.

“And what of yer sister and yer cousin John, Niall?” Burke asked, a gentle reproof in his voice.

Niall blinked, his dark blue eyes considering for a moment. “Perhaps I should take them into the castle instead of race with ye, Papa.”

“Good lad,” Burke said, giving his son a warm smile.

“Mind yer sister, Niall,” Meredith said, handing Fiona to Burke, who set the girl on her feet.

“Yes, Mama. Come on, John.”

Niall looked expectantly at John where he sat tucked against Isolda.

“Do you wish to run along and play with the other children, John?” Isolda asked softly.

Since they had rescued John from Clemont a sennight ago, John had been quiet and had stayed close to either Isolda or Ansel. But in the last few days, he’d played shyly with Niall and Fiona, even venturing out onto the grass surrounding Brora Tower.

John nodded, a soft smile coming to his mouth.

“Aye, Mama,” he said, though before he slipped from Eachann’s back, he gave Isolda a fierce little hug.

As the children darted toward the castle, shrieking in excitement for the Samhain festivities that awaited them there, Burke turned to Ansel.

“Are ye sure ye dinnae wish to tell me what is so clearly weighing on yer shoulders before ye speak to the Bruce?”

As it had for the last sennight, shame carved into Ansel’s chest.

When Ansel, Isolda, and John had returned to Brora Tower from the abbey, they’d been bloodied, shocked, and exhausted. Ansel had explained a simplified version of the course of events to put Meredith and Burke at ease, but he hadn’t spoken of his betrayal of the King.

“Nay,” Ansel said, resignation dampening the heat of dishonor in his veins.

“Ye ken I’ll have yer back no matter what ye have to say to the Bruce, dinnae ye?”

Ansel’s throat tightened with emotion. “Thank ye, Burke,” he said. “Ye are a better brother-in-law than a man could ever hope to gain.”

Burke nodded his acceptance, but Ansel could feel Meredith’s questioning eyes lingering on him. Blessedly, she didn’t push him for more of an explanation for his solemn behavior over the last sennight.

It had been a stroke of luck—or fate—that only a day after they’d returned to Brora from the abbey, Burke had gotten word that a meeting between the Bruce’s most senior warriors and advisors was to take place at Roslin Castle in a sennight. The Bruce himself was even making the trek from the Borderlands under the pretense of celebrating Samhain with Burke’s cousin, Laird Robert Sinclair, one of the King’s closest allies and supporters.

It was the perfect opportunity for Ansel to share all that he had learned about Lancaster’s deception with the Bruce’s inner circle—and to confess to the Bruce in private that he had been willing to betray him. Though Ansel hadn’t expected to be handed the chance to speak to the King a mere sennight after killing Clemont, he was grateful, in a way, that the waiting would be over.

Now he was headed to his fate—whatever fate the Bruce deemed suitable for a man who would have betrayed him.

As they approached the castle wall, Sinclair guards eyed them carefully from the stone parapets. Ansel took hold of Eachann’s bridle and halted him just before the gates. Burke did the same with Meredith’s horse as they waited for approval from the guards.

The gates and portcullis stood open, and the sounds of merriment poured forth from the castle’s yard, but Roslin was still a formidable stronghold. It was Laird Sinclair’s clan seat. Even for a merry fall festival, the guards had to be ever vigilant—especially with the King in attendance.

Though the guards’ gazes snagged on Ansel’s Sutherland plaid, they quickly recognized Burke as Laird Robert’s cousin. Once they were waved through, they crossed under the raised portcullis and into the crowded yard.

Since dusk was fast approaching, a great bonfire had already been lit in the middle of the yard. Children and young people from the nearby village stood eagerly around the fire. Some were carving their initials into chestnuts and placing them on the fire’s outskirts. It was said that if a young lad and lass’s chestnut shells burst at the same time, they were fated to be wed.

As they wended their way toward the stables, Ansel caught sight of a trough of water filled with apples. Young and old alike bobbed their heads into the trough. One lucky woman came up with an apple between her teeth, which would grant her good luck for the long winter ahead. Ansel noticed John, Niall, and Fiona waiting excitedly next to the trough for their chance to capture a lucky apple of their own.

The merriment filling Roslin’s yard only blackened Ansel’s mood further, however. Aye, Samhain was a time to celebrate the end of summer and the start to the darker days of winter. It was meant to be a joyful festival, one of games and pranks.

Yet Ansel could not forget that it was also a time when the border between this world and the next blurred. It was painfully fitting, since the King could decide to go as far as hanging Ansel for treason for what he’d offered to Clemont.

He helped Isolda down from Eachann’s back and handed the reins to a stable lad, his heart heavy. Her gaze lingered on him, an unspoken question in her pale green eyes, but he could not face it now.

“Ah, I see my cousin Robert,” Burke said as he lifted Meredith from her horse. “He has likely already gathered the men. I’m sure they will be most eager to hear all ye’ve learned about Lancaster.”

There would be no more waiting, no more worrying over his fate now. Ansel would tell the Bruce everything—and accept whatever consequence he had earned.

“Robert!” Burke called across the crowded yard. The Samhain revelers parted as the Sinclair Laird, his lady wife on his arm and a girl a year or so older than John on his other side, strolled through the merriment.

Robert Sinclair’s ice-blue gaze landed on Burke, and a broad smile spread across his face. When he reached them, Robert pounded Burke on the back.

“It is good to see ye, cousin!” he said, then offered Meredith a bow.

Lady Alwin, Robert’s wife, set aside formalities and embraced Meredith in a tight hug.

“Where are Niall and Fiona?” Alwin asked as she pulled back from Meredith.

Isolda inhaled sharply at Ansel’s side. Ansel had known Alwin long enough to forget how strange it was to hear an English accent on the tongue of a Highland Laird’s wife. It was likely all the more shocking to Isolda, whose own accent had been a source of trouble on their journey northward.

Alwin’s gaze shifted at Isolda’s gasp. Her blue-gray eyes widened slightly as she took in Isolda standing close to Ansel’s side, but then they began to dance with mischief.

“How good it is to see you again, Ansel,” she said smoothly. “And who is this lovely young woman with you?”

“Laird Robert, Lady Alwin,” Ansel said stiffly, “May I present Lady Isolda of Embleton.”

Isolda bobbed a curtsy, though Ansel didn’t miss the fact that her eyes remained rounded, presumably over the realization that Alwin was English.

“Embleton?” Alwin said. “I’m not familiar with the place.”

“It is a small town in Northumbria,” Isolda said quickly. That drew a raised eyebrow from Robert and a curious smile from Alwin.

“Perhaps ye can explain things to Lady Alwin,” Ansel said to Isolda. “Robert, I have a most pressing issue to share with the King and the rest of the men.”

Meredith linked arms with Isolda, patting her reassuringly. “Come, Isolda,” she said. “Jossalyn and Rona will be so eager to meet ye.”

“My sisters-in-law,” Alwin said by way of explanation, motioning toward the young girl at Robert’s side. “Go along with the other children, Jane,” she prompted her daughter.

Jane darted off toward the trough of apples, and Alwin took Isolda’s other arm, giving her a warm smile.

“I cannot wait to learn more about the woman who is clearly so…special to our dear Ansel,” Alwin said kindly, guiding the other two women away.

“She’ll be well looked after,” Robert said, turning to Ansel. “I must admit, ye’ve tickled my curiosity.”

“Are the men already gathered?” Ansel asked, dodging Robert’s unspoken question about Isolda.

“Aye,” Robert said, lifting a dark brow at him. “They are all in the solar. We shouldnae keep them waiting.”

“Good,” Ansel said through clenched teeth.

Again, Robert shot him a curious look, but only nodded his acquiescence. He motioned for Burke and Ansel to follow him as he strode toward the castle’s northwest tower.

By the time Ansel had reached the top of the winding stairs that led to the solar, dread sat like iron in his belly.

He dragged in a fortifying breath as Robert and Burke stepped into the solar. It was time to face the men inside—men to whom he would trust his life, men whom he respected, men with whom he’d fought for Scotland’s freedom. Men he’d been willing to betray.

Clenching his fists at his side, he stepped into the room, ready to meet his fate.

The well-appointed solar was nigh bursting with towering Highland warriors.

Laird Robert and Burke approached Angus MacLeod, the aging red-headed giant who was never far from the Bruce’s side. Garrick Sinclair was locked in conversation with his younger brother, Daniel, their dark heads close together.

Ansel’s gaze landed on his closest companions in the Bruce’s army. Finn Sutherland, a distant clan relation of Ansel’s, and Colin McKay, their compatriot despite clan rivalries, were talking quietly with Will Sinclair, Laird Robert’s youngest cousin and Daniel Sinclair’s former ward.

And seated behind Laird Robert’s large wooden desk was the King of Scotland himself, Robert the Bruce.

“Ansel!” The King boomed, standing from his chair. “It is good to see ye.”

Ansel swallowed the tightness in his throat and strode across the room. Several of the others nodded to him and smiled, but Ansel kept his gaze focused on the King. He delivered a stiff bow, though when he straightened, the Bruce extended an arm to him with a smile.

“I am glad to have the opportunity to speak with ye in person about the mission Garrick delivered to ye last month,” the Bruce said. “Yer service goes a long way in these uncertain times.”

“I’d ask ye to hold back yer praise until ye hear what I have to say, sire,” Ansel said.

The Bruce’s russet brows drew together at Ansel’s clipped tone. Though the King of Scotland was a powerful and awe-inspiring leader, among this most trusted circle of men, he preferred to be more informal. Yet Ansel couldn’t find the nerve to be casual as he delivered the information he bore.

“Verra well,” the Bruce said, still eyeing Ansel. “What news, man?”

“Ye all may wish to sit for this,” Ansel began, turning to the others in the room.

The eight warriors pulled heavy wooden chairs away from the tapestry-hung walls and formed a little circle in front of Ansel and the Bruce.

As the Bruce took his seat behind the large desk once more, Ansel cleared his throat.

“As most of ye likely ken, the King has been in contact with the Earl of Lancaster,” Ansel began.

He quickly explained the Bruce’s mission, for Garrick and the others who worked closely with the King already knew of his assignment. But when he told them that the man he’d been sent to protect was in fact a mere lad, and that Isolda was the lad’s mother, the eyes fixed on him sharpened.

Ansel explained that Isolda had sent John into hiding, fearing that Edward sought to harm him. He told of the attack by Clemont and his men on Dunstanburgh, and their flight into the Scottish Lowlands, and eventually the Highlands.

When he reached the point in his tale when Clemont struck at the abbey, several chairs creaked as the men leaned forward.

“Clemont told me who hired him to kill John and Isolda,” Ansel said. He dragged in a breath. “It was Lancaster.”

“What?” The Bruce jerked to his feet, sending his chair scraping loudly across the stone floor.

“It makes sense if ye consider it,” Ansel said. “Lancaster is angling for the English throne. How many times has an inconvenient bastard thrown an entire line of succession into question—or led a revolution against those in power?”

“And ye believe the word of a bounty hunter?” Laird Robert said sharply, his brows lowered.

“Aye, for Clemont had no reason to lie. He was naught more than a hired hand. If he had any loyalty at all, it didnae lie with Lancaster—it was with the man he said employed him, the man Lancaster likely contacted to arrange for an assassin.”

Muttered curses filled the room.

“Lancaster thought to position himself as an ally to the Scottish cause for freedom,” Ansel said when the solar fell quiet once more. “But he used ye, Robert.” He turned to the Bruce, holding his gaze. “The alliance was a façade, at least in part to rid himself of his son—and he sought to conveniently deprive ye of a trusted man in the process.”

The Bruce dragged a hand through his red-brown hair, which had long ago turned gray at the temples.

“And though Clemont gave me no indication of who his real employer was, or how large an organization he was part of, Clemont was undeniably skilled. He claimed to have access to trained warriors as well,” Ansel went on grimly. “This organization of bounty hunters could be just as dangerous as Lancaster, for any Englishman with enough coin could hire an assassin of his own to hunt down Scots involved in the cause.”

Ansel’s gaze locked with Garrick’s. “That is likely what happened to Sir William of Airth, God rest his soul.”

The room fell into a somber silence for a long moment. The Lowland lord’s dismembered remains had been enough to motivate Ansel’s mission a month ago. Now it was clear that they all stood against even larger and more powerful forces than they’d first suspected.

“So ye are saying that no’ only is Lancaster a wolf in sheep’s wool, but that he is in league with some unknown force of trained assassins who can be bought to target anyone if the price is right?” Garrick asked, leaning forward intently.

The Bruce slowly lowered himself into his chair, his mouth tight. 

“Aye,” Ansel replied at last.

“This is what the war for freedom has become,” the King said quietly. “The English willnae likely meet us on the open battlefield again. Yet that doesnae mean we have won.”

Daniel, the youngest of the Sinclair brothers, had remained silent, but now he spoke up. “How are we to face such warfare? How shall we defeat an unknown enemy, one who will strike in the night at soft targets—individual men, and even women and children—rather than wage war soldier against soldier?”

Garrick rose slowly to his feet. He had targeted countless enemies of Scotland for nearly a decade, his bow known to be among the deadliest in all of England or Scotland.

“We’ll meet this new war as we always have, Brother,” he said, though his gaze brushed across all those gathered in the solar. “Our own way.”

“And what is that way, lad?” Angus, the old red bear, said, crossing his arms over his barrel chest.

Garrick swung around to face Ansel once again.

“Ansel managed to keep Lancaster’s son alive and kill Lancaster’s hired man,” Garrick said. “Even no’ kenning what he was up against.”

Ansel swallowed the denial that rose in his throat. Aye, he’d saved Isolda and John and defeated Clemont, but at the cost of his honor. He would tell his King the truth, but he would wait until they were alone to do so.

“What are ye saying, Garrick?” the Bruce interjected.

“That if the English wish to carry on this war behind closed doors and under cover of night, perhaps we should do the same,” Garrick said. “We’ve never been afraid to set our own rules of battle.”

Several of the men nodded slowly. Other than Will Sinclair, who had been too young to fight in the early years of the rebellion, they’d all learned the Bruce’s unusual tactics of striking the English when they least expected it and avoiding battlefields where the Scots had been outnumbered and out-supplied. In that way, they had chipped away at the seemingly undefeatable English army until Bannockburn had seemed to turn the tide in the Scots’ favor at last.

“If the English want to strike at individual marks and hire assassins rather than soldiers,” Garrick went on, “then perhaps we should form a group of our own—a force of men who can protect those targeted by the English.”

Murmurs once again broke out among the men, but this time the tinge of excitement was unmistakable in their voices. Ansel, too, felt an unbidden swell of hope at Garrick’s suggestion. This new kind of warfare—of slinking and lurking, never striking in broad daylight—was infuriating to the men of action who filled the solar. But perhaps what Garrick spoke of was a way to take charge of the secret war that still raged between the English and the Scottish.

“Ye mean a corps of bodyguards?” Angus asked, raising a shaggy red brow.

“Aye, why not?” Burke replied, nodding to Garrick.

Angus huffed. “I dinnae ken about ye lads, but I am too old for all that.”

“I hate to throw cold water on ye all,” Laird Robert added. “But most of us are family men now, with responsibilities to our own people and clans in addition to our duty to Scotland and our King.” To soften his words, Robert lowered his head to the Bruce.

“Are ye saying ye’re too old as well? Ye havenae even cracked two score yet,
elder
brother,” Daniel shot back at Robert, drawing chuckles from the others.

Yet Daniel sobered with the others as they considered Garrick’s words. As Laird Robert had said, many of the men present, including Daniel, were married and fiercely devoted to their families. Like the Bruce, some had gray hair dusting their temples.

Finn, whose features were darkened with his usual stormy scowl, stood slowly. “I dinnae have a family beyond the one I have found in the Bruce’s camp,” he said slowly. “I would like to be a part of such a corps if it means thwarting the English and protecting the innocent in the name of the King and freedom.”

The room suddenly grew sober at Finn’s words.

“As would I,” Colin said, standing alongside Finn. Colin crossed his arms over his broad chest, bobbing his sandy head to the Bruce.

“And I,” Will Sinclair added, rising to his feet with the other two. Will was barely more than a score in years, yet he’d earned respect among the Bruce’s men for fighting valiantly at Bannockburn.

“Ye lads will require training,” Laird Robert said, eyeing them. “This is a threat ye’ve never faced before.”

“I can help with that,” Garrick said.

Daniel stood and clapped Burke on the back. “We all will.”

Once again, the Bruce rose to his feet behind the large wooden desk. The gathered men fell silent as all eyes locked on the Bruce.

“Ye all make me proud to call myself yer King,” he said, his voice low. “A corps of bodyguards to thwart England’s attempts to conduct covert war through targeted hits, eh?” He rubbed his reddish beard, a little smile coming to his mouth. “Aye,” he said at last. “That will do.”

“We’ll need more men, of course,” Laird Robert said. “A few well-chosen warriors we can trust. But that shouldnae stop us from going forward with training for ye.” He nodded to the three who had volunteered.

“Let us reconvene tomorrow to hammer out the details,” the Bruce said. “For now, the Samhain bonfire awaits. This is a night to celebrate, indeed.”

As the men began filing out of the solar, Ansel turned to the Bruce.

“There is one more thing, sire,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Something I must tell ye—in private.”

The Bruce motioned for Ansel to sit again, but he declined. Nay, he would meet his fate on his feet.

Ansel swallowed hard. The time had come to confess the truth.