In the Time of Kings (21 page)

“You see, Roslin, I was a poor knight, always living off the generosity of distant relatives and a few dear friends like Duncan. My father had fallen into debt and left me with little more than a rusty suit of armor and a warhorse with very few useful years left. When the Disinherited were stripped of their lands, I saw an opportunity. I vowed to fight for my king, in the hopes that he would one day reward me. Every year I fought, battle after battle, hoping to win his attention. And I did. But King Robert was very frugal in distributing those forfeited lands. Eventually, I was given a castle in the Orkneys in dire need of repair, and a few paltry holdings to the north, but it was not enough to keep from debt. If anything, I was worse off than before, trying to maintain my estates. Even marrying you to the only daughter of a respectable landowner did very little to keep the moneylenders at bay.”

I’m not buying it so far. People are always desperate to explain why they’ve done bad things. Sir Henry is no different. He’s justifying his actions. And rambling in the process. The longer he goes on, the more pissed I’m getting. “What does any of this have to do with why I ended up as Beaumont’s prisoner?”

“You always were impatient with my stories,” he mumbles. Grabbing the leggings from the pile beside him, he shoves his feet into the toes and stands to pull them up. Then he doffs his nightshirt and replaces it with a dark blue tunic. “A man will say things over ale that he would otherwise never divulge. The guest — Beaumont’s agent — somehow surmised that I was resentful of King Robert’s parsimony, even though I was not. He then began to talk of the rumors of Edward Balliol’s return and how he might lay claim to the throne of Scotland now that our good king was dead —
if
Balliol had enough support from within our borders. So I asked him what he meant by that.”

“What
did
he mean?”

For a minute Henry doesn’t answer. He’s too busy digging through the chest at the foot of the bed, cursing under his breath. Finally, he pulls out a belt and fastens it around his waist. “That there would be land and wealth for those who supported Balliol’s claim to the crown.” As he walks across the shaft of sunlight on the far side of the room, he readjusts his spreading middle over his belt and gazes out the window. “The man returned on three other occasions. There were other discussions. Other promises. I was tempted. Sorely tempted. If Balliol succeeded, I stood to be one of the richest men in Scotland. So I made my decision. When I told you about it, you were angry with me. And rightly so. Because of you, I couldn’t go through with it. But then Beaumont made one last offer. I never believed he or Balliol would follow through on any of their promises, so I made a counter request, Liddesdale — Beaumont’s own lordship — knowing he would refuse me. I was supposed to meet with Balliol, but you volunteered to go in my stead.”

“I was captured. I spent a year in ...” In prison? A dungeon? Another missing piece. For all I knew, I had been a privileged guest of Beaumont’s as he tried to win me over.

“You were supposed to be gone by the time they came to get Balliol.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your arrival at the house where Balliol was staying and the assault on the town that night led by Lord Archibald — they weren’t a coincidence, Roslin. You wanted me to prove I was done bargaining with Beaumont. It was you who proposed the plan for Balliol’s capture. Your mission was to make certain he was there, in that house. You were supposed to be gone from there long before the assault. But Archibald’s men came too early. Balliol escaped — and took you with him.”

“Because he believed I had led Lord Archibald to them?”

“You did.”

“What about a ransom? I assume that’s why they took me.”

“Humph. An astronomical amount. Beaumont knew I couldn’t pay it. I dared not ask Lord Archibald for help. If he had found out about my past dialogue with Beaumont ...” His gaze skipped toward the ceiling and then to the floor before returning to me. “So you see why all exchanges about the ransom had to be done in secret? There was nothing more I could do.”

“Why didn’t you try to negotiate a lower amount?”

“I did. He said ‘no’.”

“So why then was I headed north under guard, if not as an exchange? If you couldn’t raise the ransom, then ...” There are so many holes in his story. What is it that he isn’t telling me? “Were you going to give them information?”

“What information could I possibly have given them that they could not have easily learned themselves? That Scotland is ill-prepared to defend Berwick? I’m disappointed you think so little of me, Roslin.”

As he hobbles out the door, I can see how his shoulders slope downward to the right, how he holds one arm closer to his chest, and the way he drags a foot when he walks. The years have hardened his character; the battles have exacted their toll on his body. After so many brushes with death, so many sacrifices all in the name of Scotland, how can I even think he would turn against his brethren?

LONG, LONG AGO

Blacklaw Castle, Scotland — 1333

“P
ennyroyal.”

The leaves of the plant still pinched between my fingers, I look up to see Mariota smiling at me. She stands at the opening in the hedge, wearing a simple gown of pale blue with a plain white smock of some sort over top. She floats between the neat garden beds, bending her head one way, then another. Abruptly, she halts, stoops over and plucks a weed from between the rows. Satisfaction lights her face and she returns her attention to me. “The one you’re holding is pennyroyal. That is, if you were curious to know.”

Pennyroyal
, I think.
Mentha pulegium
.

“I am.” I wander toward her, careful not to intrude into the well-tended beds. The herb garden, bordered by a low hedge, is tucked into the southwest corner of the inner bailey, well shielded from the northern winds of winter and the persistent breeze from the sea. The soil has been worked over with a hoe and the faint scent of manure, used to fertilize, has been renewed by a recent rain shower. “What are all these used for?”

“Many are used by the cook to season the food. Some have medicinal purposes. Others are grown for their aroma: to strew in the floor rushes or on beddings, or to place in little cloth sacks and tuck into our chests of clothes.” She breaks a stem from a spiky grayish-leaved plant and draws it across her upper lip, inhaling. Her mouth curves upward in delight. She extends the stem to me.

I don’t have to smell it to know what it is, but I do. It reminds me of Claire’s favorite soap. “Lavender.” Of the mint family Lamiaceae, genus
Lavendula
, species indeterminate.

“Yes!” she remarks in surprise. “How did you —?”

I point to another plant. “Marjoram.” Then another and another. Latin names flow through my mind, but I avoid those. They wouldn’t mean anything to her. Plants and animals won’t be classified for centuries yet. “Rosemary, tansy, feverfew, spearmint, basil, valerian ... But you already know all these.”

“When ...?” She blinks at me. “When did you learn all the names? Such things never held interest for you before.”

“In England, maybe? I don’t remember. I just
know
them, somehow.” As in years of studying and teaching them to others. I can identify most of the native trees in my area by the color and texture of their winter bark alone.

She tilts her head at me, puzzled by my newfound knowledge. “You have changed so much.”

“For the better, I hope.”

“To me, yes, I think so. But others ... others have noticed things.”

A sentry pacing on the wall walk nearest us pauses, watching as if we’re doing something of interest. Most likely he’s bored. I would be if I were him. I raise a hand to him, a friendly ‘hello’, but he resumes pacing. “Oh. Who?”

Flattening a palm against her abdomen, Mariota turns away. Her head dips slightly. “The Abbot of Melrose has questioned some of your ... habits.”

“Such as?”

“He noticed you feeding your meat to the dogs at supper when he was here.”

“Is that all? I’ve done it since I was a child. The loyalty of a dog is worth twice that of any man I ever knew.” I drift closer to her, so near I could wrap my arms around her. “You like dogs, don’t you?”

She doesn’t answer me. Her shoulders are tensed, her hand still pressed to her middle, as if she’s holding something back. “Be careful, Roslin.”

“Careful of what?” I lean my head close. Her hair smells of spices. Cloves, I think.

She begins to turn back toward me and gasps, startled to see me so close. Her hand flies to her throat. I catch her wrist and pull her to me.

“Careful of what?” I say lowly. “I don’t understand.”

The gardener shuffles through the gate nearest us and comes our way, his tools piled in a little hand drawn cart. Mariota shakes her head at me vigorously. The terrified look in her eyes tells me I need to know. That this is serious.

I put my mouth to her ear. “Come to my room tonight. Tell me then.”

Then I kiss her on the forehead, bow, and saunter away. When I reach the gate, I dare a glance over my shoulder.

The gardener is stooped over, cutting blooms from the yarrow and tucking them into a basket at his hip. But Mariota’s fingers are laced together, knuckles touching her whispering lips, as if in prayer.

––––––––

T
he door clicks shut behind her. I stand moored in place, arms leaden at my sides. A trio of candles flickers on a table by the wall, their golden light too dim to reach into the shadowy corners of the room. All I can see before me are a high four-poster bed ... and Mariota.

I’ve been waiting for her all day, pacing a rut in the floor, my mind a maelstrom of fear. Yet my worries melt away at the sight of Mariota. Her red hair is unbound, falling past her shoulders and over the curve of her breasts in a twisting cascade of flame. Instead of a modest high-waisted gown, she wears a clinging white shift, the cloth so thin it’s nearly transparent.

I shouldn’t be looking at her. I shouldn’t, shouldn’t.

She takes a step nearer, and I avert my eyes. If this is only a dream — or a memory — why am I so afraid to be near her, speak to her ... even just
look
at her? What’s wrong with simply appreciating a beautiful woman?

Ah. So that’s it. This is what guilt feels like. As much as I want to get back to Claire, as much as I hope and pray she’s all right, I can’t help but wonder what Mariota looks like beneath her clothes. How she would feel underneath me. God, do I ever wonder.

Here, there is no Claire. Only Mariota. And I am here. Now. With her.

The whisper of skirts draws my attention. Slowly, I raise my eyes. Mariota is a mere arm’s length away. So close, so available. So
mine
, if I want her. I don’t even need to ask. All I have to do is lead her to the bed, lay her down and do as I wish. As my wife in this time, she has a role to fulfill. There are certain ... expectations.

“What does the Abbot of Melrose say about me?” I blurt out. Anything to distract myself from her nearness. But it doesn’t work.

With each breath she inhales, her flesh pushes against the gossamer shift, revealing the fullness of her breasts, the shadow between them inviting my touch. The heat in my body is rising, blood gathering in certain places.

I don’t even realize I’m staring at her
there
until she lifts my chin with her finger and forces me to look into her eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen her this closely, taken her in this completely. It’s impossible to look away now. She’s undeniably beautiful, in a sublime way. Hair the color of copper, falling from her crown in a river of golden fire. I pluck a lock from where it twines against the long curve of her neck, twist it around my finger. Her skin is soft, white as first-fallen January snow. Her lips part slightly, awaiting mine. I turn my head to kiss her, my eyes drifting shut.

Her breath is a whispered promise, in which doubt yields to possibility and restraint gives way to passion. To be present, to live in the here and now, is to abandon control. To trust in tomorrow.

First, I must let go of yesterday. When I do, this moment becomes something more.

The beginning of our forever.

The touch of her lips is like a white hot spark to dry tinder. Electricity zings through my body: sudden, frightening, and glorious all at once. A moment becomes an eternity.

‘I will always love you.’

‘Forever.’

‘And ever ...’

Heaven flies from my grasp. I pull back. My heart is banging inside my chest.

Mariota’s breath comes in rapid gasps. Her hand drifts to her mouth, covering it.

I clutch her hand, pull it away, wanting so badly to kiss her again, to silence the shame clawing at my conscience.

No. No, I can’t go there. I can’t forsake Claire just because it feels right in this moment. Forever means forever.

I force myself to take a step back. But that’s not far enough, not safe. I take several more.

As if I had struck her, she stumbles backward, throwing out a hand to catch herself against the bedpost. Confusion clouds her face.

“Who are you?” Tears brim in her eyes and she blinks them back as she sinks to the bed. “And why are you doing this? Why torment me so?”

In three steps, I’m before her, kneeling. I touch her, just above her knee, and a tremor ripples through her. It rips at my heart to have thrust her away, but I’m torn. I miss Claire and yet ... yet there’s something about Mariota that draws me to her, something deep inside my soul.

“Tell me about that day,” I say, “when we became husband and wife.”

Her fingers flutter nervously over the blanket on which she sits. She swallows, bunches the cloth in both fists. “It was cold, January. I had no sooner stepped off the ship, than I was taken to the great kirk in Orkney —”

“St. Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall?”

Her eyes narrow. “You remember?”

“Just the place, not the day. Go on.”

“There is not much to tell. The bishop held a box containing the bones of St. Rognvald. I kissed the holy relics, but you would not.” She arches an eyebrow at me and then continues. “I was fourteen; you, twenty-two. It was a ... a formal ceremony, but brief. Hardly anyone was there.”