The Scotsman (37 page)

She drew in a deep, quivering breath. It was all she could hope for at the moment. Nicholas released her arm, and she stood still and sick as he strode to the men by the fire and Alex was freed to sprawl upon the ground. She wanted to go to him, but feared that Nicholas would prevent it and that such an act would make things worse for Alex. She waited, and when finally her brother came back to her, she went silently with him across torn earth that was stained with blood in places. Dead Scots were shoved aside, and she could not bear to look at them. Had it been only a few hours before that these men had laughed and jested with one another? Now they were dead, and she was the cause of that as well.

When Nicholas bade her be seated on a small flat rock just inside the mouth of a cave, she did so without murmur, but fastened her gaze on him as he came to stand
by the untended fire. He clasped his hands behind him to stare at her with a brooding expression.

“Why, kitten?” He sounded baffled more than angry now, and she felt a stirring of hope. “Did he bewitch you? Put a potion in your wine?”

“I do not know.” She paused as she recognized the opening he offered her. “Perhaps. It is as if I have been in a dream since I left Warfield.”
So true, a wonderful dream
.…

“I would not put it past the bastard to drug you with something. They say the Scots have access to such knowledge and do not hesitate to use it.” He looked at her more closely. “Did your food taste strangely?”

“Yea,” she answered with all honesty, “it did. Do you think he used magic on me?”

“Not the magic you may mean, but various enchantments can be effected by certain potions.” His jaw tightened. “He should be put to the sword for that alone.”

Catherine remained silent, but her hands twisted in her lap. She thought of her mother, and how the countess never betrayed emotion, keeping her expression smooth and unlined despite whatever she might have felt. She would have to be more like her, would have to train herself to keep her thoughts better hidden, or she would be ruined. And Alex would die.

Without inflection, she mused aloud, “I am not one to suffer well the torment of any creature, man or beast. ’Tis my nature, but the past days have been torment for me. Do you think I will recover, if what you say is true, Nicky?”

Conflicting emotion chased across his face for a moment as he regarded her, and she thought perhaps she had erred. But then he shrugged, and there was a soft relief in his tone as he assured her that no doubt she would.

“If ’tis true that you were given herbs to render you susceptible to his will, then no doubt you will completely recover in a few days’ time. It has been known to happen. The Turks are adept with such potions, and many were brought back from the Crusades to be used against honest people.”

Bending her head, Catherine nodded. A thousand different ideas flew at her like bats in the night, all swiftly considered and rejected. Whatever she did, she would have to proceed with caution, or she would ruin all. It was painful to think she must deceive Nicholas, when all he had done was love her, but where Alex Fraser was concerned he would not yield. Therefore, she must do what it took to save Alex. This time there was no other choice for her.

Ahead rose the bannered turrets of Bothwell keep, thrusting into the bright sky like a fist. Catherine perched atop a sorrel palfrey that she had been given to ride, staring straight ahead as they neared the fortress. Nicholas studied her silently. He would like to believe that she would willingly abandon the Scotsman, but could not quite convince himself that it was true. Perhaps it was an attempt to save herself more humiliation now that she was taken, or it could be an attempt to save Fraser. Whichever, he would neither challenge her nor trust her.

A soft wind blew, belling out the hood of her cloak so that her bright hair spilled over her breasts. She had not bound it as usual, but left it free. It tangled in the breeze, but absorbed sunlight to glow like copper silk. She was so lovely, her pale face reflecting nothing of her thoughts or ordeal. If he did not know it to be false, he would think her just a maid out for an afternoon’s ride over wooded slopes.

Not by word or gesture had she betrayed any thought
of Alex Fraser, though she had looked away when he had been put still unconscious over the back of a horse to be taken with them. Nor had Fraser yet regained consciousness, though at times he uttered a miserable moan.

Nicholas flinched a little from what had been done to him, but he did not regret it. Fraser should pay, not only for what he had done to Catherine, but what he had done to Devlin lands. Villages had been burnt to the ground, and while it may be true that no man was killed who did not offer armed resistance, it was insupportable that his crops had been ravaged, his livestock driven away, and his people left homeless. It was not the first time, for Robert Bruce had come through his lands two years before and laid waste as well; but the Scots king’s act had been an act of war.

Alex Fraser’s destruction was personal.

And now he had him at last. He just hoped Fraser lived long enough to face the executioner’s grim justice. It would be sweet vengeance to execute both Frasers and de Brus at the same time. That act he would not miss, as he had missed the battle that saw Alex Fraser captured. He had arrived only when it was over, and Beakin’s man Percy was already administering hot torment in an effort to discover Catherine’s whereabouts.

He shuddered. God help him, he had almost felt sorry for Fraser then as the hot iron was applied. Yet even when being most brutally ravaged by the iron, he had not yielded up the information. At that moment, Nicholas had felt an unwilling admiration for the man’s resistance to such cruel persuasion.

But it had done Fraser no good to try to protect her, for Catherine had still been found. It troubled Nicholas, for she had seemed truly horrified when she first saw what had been done to Fraser, then seemed to forget it. Yet she had always been far more tenderhearted than
anyone of his acquaintance. That was one reason he had so often sought to keep her sheltered from the harsh truths of the world.

Yet life oft intruded in the most unkind fashion. He glanced at her again, frowning a little as she rode in serene silence, her face like that of a Madonna.

Bothwell loomed ahead, stone ramparts chewing at the sky, and he spurred his mount to a faster pace. His objective was in sight. Once Sir Alex Fraser was incarcerated in Bothwell’s dungeons, he would escort Catherine safely away. Nor would he let her out of his sight until he had her back at Warfield, for despite his feud with his father, he knew that she would be safe in that formidable fortress. Only then would he return to see justice done, bringing with him to Edward’s court the three prisoners that had so long been coveted.

Unlike his father, it was not power that he wanted, but vengeance. Blood recompense for the wrongs that had been done him by Fraser and the Scots that had ravaged his lands for so long. God willing, he would soon have it.

A challenge was issued by the sentries on the wall of the gatehouse, and when it was answered, the bridge was slowly lowered to allow them entrance. Hooves clattered on thick wooden planks as they crossed, and the grinding of the metal gate being lifted was loud. They passed beneath the jagged teeth of the gate and into a bailey, where their horses were taken.

Nicholas moved to help Catherine, but before he could reach her she had dismounted with dainty grace and stood silently. His hand fell to his side, and he frowned. The castellan of Bothwell Castle, Sir Walter FitzGilbert, came to greet him. A Scot loyal to the English, he gave the orders for the disposal of Devlin’s prisoners.

Gesturing toward Alex Fraser, who was half-conscious
now and suspended between two burly men-at-arms, Nicholas said, “Take special care with that one. I want him alive for a while longer.”

Grinning, Sir Walter nodded. “Aye, milord. He will be given our best chamber. Double chains?”

“Yea, wrists and ankles. Tether him well, for King Edward will greatly appreciate his presence at an execution soon.”

Sir Walter laughed. “There will be many to join him ere long, milord. Once we have finally taken Scotland back from these rebels, every tree will have fresh fruit dangling from ropes.”

Nicholas smiled at the jest and moved to take Catherine with him into the keep. Beakin would see to the placement of his men. The man was efficient and conscientious in his duty, a true value to him of late. Not many were left after the depredations visited upon Devlin, but it was Beakin who had rallied what he could of the garrison and gotten them to safety after seeing how it would end. And it was Beakin who had managed to track Alex Fraser and arrange the ambush that netted him the Scot as well as Catherine.

Yet as he escorted his sister up the stone steps to the forework of the keep, he could not help but think that she was not as docile and accepting as she seemed, for there was a taut set to her jaw and an occasional glitter in her eyes that forebode mutiny. He had seen it too often not to recognize it now. Yea, she would have to be closely watched or Alex Fraser might still cheat King Edward’s executioner.

It hurt to move. It hurt to think. Alex wished sleep would come again, so he could escape the constant torment. At times it felt as if the iron were searing his skin anew, but ’twas only the reopening of a lesion that pained him.

Shifting when the pain grew too bad in one position, the clank of heavy metal chains rattled against the wall next to his ear. Iron manacles circled his wrists and his ankles, with a length of chain stretched between them and fastened to a huge metal ring in the wall behind him. He could move his arms to rest them on the floor, but could not reach his legs below the knee. The stone wall was cold and damp, the straw filthy. Sharp stalks jabbed into his legs in tiny annoying pricks, and occasionally found a raw welt or open abrasion.

While he regretted his capture and the loss of good men, he worried most about Catherine. Despite the assurance of a slow death, if he had to be taken, he was glad it was by Lord Devlin, and that he had come upon them before it was too late. Devlin would ensure that his sister was safe, and that was the best possible fate left for
her now. He was as good as dead, and so were Jamie and certainly Adam de Brus. He dreaded the death that awaited him, for it would be the same grisly end as had been visited upon William Wallace, three of Robert Bruce’s brothers, and countless Scots earls and barons. He would much prefer dying in battle than for the entertainment of kings, nobles, and common crowds.

But the choice was no longer his. There would be no quarter given. No regrets asked.

And yet, and yet … he could not stop a deep stab of regret that he had not told Catherine how he felt about her. It would be foolish to have done so, for he had always known how it would end, but there would be a certain solace in saying the words aloud to her. Too late now, of course.

Had she seen what they did to him? He hoped not. Though he had not cried out, clenching his teeth until his tongue was too swollen to use anyway, it was a shaming thing to have lost the battle and been rendered so helpless. It was not the way he would have her remember him—fainting from the agony of the hot iron on tender flesh. If Devlin had not arrived when he did, no doubt Percy would have unmanned him ere long.

Resting his head against the wall behind him, he stared up at the gloom of the ceiling. Faint light streamed through bars high up on the wall, and in the bailey outside his cell he heard the distant sounds of voices and laughter. He was alone. None of his men were near, and he wondered if he was the only survivor or if the others had already been executed. This slow, agonizing wait was worse than ten deaths.

Ah, Christ above, would Catherine come to see him executed? He prayed she would not. He would like to see her just one more time, to tell her that he loved her. And if she loved him, he would ask her to grant him the
mercy of refusing to watch him die. But that was impossible. She would never be allowed so close to him.

The bars of light crawled across the cell floor as the sun rose higher, until they slanted over his face and he blinked against them. It was the only time of day that he felt, even for a brief moment, the warmth of the sun. Too swiftly, it would leave and he would be in darkness again. There was a comparison to his life somewhere in that gloomy thought, he mused wryly. Infrequent splashes of warmth all too swiftly taken away: his mother and father. Jamie. Christian and Sarah. Catherine … not, perhaps, as the others had been taken away, but gone to him just as finally.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside his cell and he turned his head toward the door, always expecting the key in the lock that would signal the beginning of the end. Food came once a day, just after first light, but never any visitors, so the days were long as he waited for the moment when he would be taken out to his death. His muscles tensed painfully as the steps drew near, then paused outside his door. A knot formed in his belly, icy cold and hot at the same time, and when he heard the metallic click of the lock’s tumblers, he knew that his wait was at an end.