In the Time of Kings (28 page)

When the road curves seaward and the castle comes into view again, it seems no closer than before. I cast a glance behind us to make sure we haven’t been followed, then close my eyes to concentrate on the vision of Mariota.

I hear nothing but the constant roar of the sea and the rhythmic plodding of a single set of hooves on damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, seabirds jeer.

The horse stumbles and my eyes fly open. We’re almost there. I gaze up at the keep. The wall appears empty of guards. The gate stands open. Then, toward the furthest edge of the headland where the cliff is highest, there is a movement. Someone, a woman, stands at the rim of the cliff, skirts flaring and snapping with the buffeting wind, her toes dangling over the precipice. She raises her face and spreads her arms wide, leaning forward into the wind.

“Mariota!” I cry. Duncan slows our mount to look, but I urge him onward, quicker. The horse lurches. Clamping my knees to the horse’s ribs as I let go of Duncan, I cup a hand to my mouth and shout louder. “Mariotaaaa!”

She says something back, but her words are lost to the sea. She’s not even looking our way. Her slender body yearns toward the ledge. Below, waves collide with a mass of jagged rocks, the spray exploding upward and scattering in the wind.

My heart vaults into my throat as I envision her falling, falling, falling.

No, no! Don’t let me have come this far, lived through so much, only to witness her death.

I call her name again as the horse breaks into a full gallop, Duncan’s spurs digging into its flanks. Again, again. My throat grows raw with the strain.

Suddenly, she turns her head toward us, but a gust slams her backward, away from the precipice. She crumples to the ground, her body heaving with sobs.

We clear the gatehouse without alarm, a pair of guards barely stirring at our entrance. With Duncan’s help, I settle to the ground. Then I run, my legs wobbling, through the small gate and along the path — to the point on the headland where Mariota kneels, waiting for me.

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I
pull her to me and hold her tight, my right arm crushed between us. The ache in my shoulder eases with every heartbeat. Her arms hook around my neck as she buries her face against my chest. The wind beats at us, nudging us away from the edge. I lift her hand to my lips to graze her knuckles with a kiss, then turn it over and press the warmth of her palm against my cheek.

“Someone passed by after the battle and said ...” She gazes up at me, her eyes moist with tears. “I had given up. I thought ... that ...”

“That I was dead? So did I. Twice. But for whatever reason, I lived. I guess they wouldn’t have me in heaven, or hell — or the next life, wherever it is that souls flee to when they leave this world. But I’m here now. Very much alive. Very much in love with you.”

A smile graces her lips, but it’s quickly replaced with a frown of concern. “Your arm.”

“Hurts. I won’t lie. But it’ll heal in time.” Although it will forever be my weakness. I know that already.

“And your head?”

“Looks worse than it is.” The scar, I’m sure, will remain for all my life, a reminder of the horror I survived. Sadness creeps over me, threatening to paralyze me whole, and I shake it off quickly. No, I can’t think about it. Not with regret. I tried to change the course of events, but all I did was change my own fate, to whatever end that might bring. Maybe that’s all anyone has control over?

I trace a finger over Mariota’s brow, the rose-pink rim of her ear, the exquisite line of her jaw. How had I not noticed the perfection of her features before? “Come. Let’s go inside, Mariota. I need rest. I need you.”

An understanding flickers in her eyes. She glances down shyly, taking my hand as we turn toward the castle. Her hand fits perfectly in mine. Her head is at the right height so that she can lay it against my shoulder. It is as if we were made from one mold. As if we have always known each other.

More than once in this life I had almost died. Yet Fate has preserved me. When I draw my last breath, it will be not on the battlefield, but in the arms of Mariota, the two of us grown old together.

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M
ariota wrings the cloth into the basin, the trickle of water a sweet chiming in my ears. Leaning forward, she dabs at the skin around the gash at my temple, each stroke a mercy, cleansing.

“Where is Duncan?” She pours me a cup of wine and urges me to drink. “He is not hurt, I hope.”

I down it in three gulps and ask for more. “Asleep in the gatehouse. Or flirting with the kitchen maids. But no, he’s not hurt. Not seriously, at least. I wouldn’t have made it here, if not for him.”

The bedchamber in the southeast tower where I lay is small, scant on comfort, but tidy. A pair of candle stubs, an empty cup and a pitcher sit on a tiny round table, underneath which is a stool. Mariota’s personal belongings are neatly tucked away in the rough-hewn chest next to the door. The bed itself is narrow, but comfortable and covered with a light woolen blanket.

“Why did you sleep here, of all places?” I ask her, as she hands me my third cup. “Surely there are grander rooms in this castle.”

“Larger ones, yes.” She inclines her head toward the window. “This one has the best view of the southern road. And the sea wind blows strongest through this window. I often couldn’t sleep at night, so I would sit on the ledge and look out, to watch for you in the moonlight.”

It takes an hour to carefully peel the layers of armor from my battered body and then more time for her to coax me to shed the clothing underneath. I can barely sit upright, let alone stand. I want to sleep, she knows, but if I let myself slip away before undressing and ridding myself of the blood and grime of battle, it’ll dry to my flesh with the toughness of a rhino’s hide. Sleep, although welcome, will have to wait.

Neither is this a time for many words. What would we talk about? My father? No, she must gather that since I have not spoken of him that he didn’t make it. The battle? I’ll never recount it to her. Better to forget it, to look forward. Should we talk of the future then? No, we don’t need to. That’s understood. We’ll grow old together, have a herd of children.

With every loving stroke of her hand, every smudge of dirt and speck of blood wiped clean, I leave the past — and the future — behind.

Only this moment matters. Only her. Mariota. My wife.

In this life, she alone is my one true love.

She offers me more wine and bread. If I drink any more, I’ll float away. My hunger, however, has returned in full force. Devouring the bread greedily, I take a few sips of the wine to wash it down. I lay back again and she resumes washing me. Time loses meaning. There is only this moment. Only us.

Wine flows warmly through my veins, not dulling my senses, but heightening them. The pressure of her fingertips is light, her movements meticulous as she sweeps over my body in slow spirals, beginning at my face and working her way down my neck, my arms and chest, pausing at the ridge of my hipbones. My lower waist is covered with a sheet. I’m beyond being modest, but I know now what I want: her. Yet I won’t rush her toward the moment. It will happen when she’s ready.

Which, evidently, is now.

She inches the sheet back to reveal my bare leg nearest her and dips the cloth in water again, then draws it slowly down my hip and onto my thigh. Every gentle movement sends a wave of energy pulsing through me. A few hours ago I could hardly stay awake. Wouldn’t have cared if I had fallen to the ground and slept for days. Now, I am renewed.

A shudder spreads from my groin up through my abdomen and chest, finally settling in my shoulders. Each time she lifts the cloth and rubs it over my skin, I become more and more aroused. My shoulder still hurts like hell, but I want her, badly. And she isn’t exactly being demure.

I take the cloth from her, dropping it to the floor. Her breath hitches as I pull the sheet back. She looks away a moment, then glances shyly at me.

“I would like to get to know my wife better,” I say, trailing light fingers down her neck to her collarbone. “Let me prove I am no heretic, Mariota.”

Slowly, she rises. She looks like she might bolt. God knows I’m in no state to chase her down. Counter to my fears, she begins to undress. With each garment she removes, her eyes flick to mine, lingering a little longer each time. Finally, she stands unclothed before me, intoxicating, perfect in every way.

Mariota takes a step, a single hesitant step toward me. Tears glimmer in her eyes. Is she afraid of how it will be this first time?

I flash my palm at her. “Is this what you want?”

She nods, smiling faintly. “I have wanted this since I first saw you. I have wanted this every time you were near, every time you drew away from me, every time you left, every night you were not with me. I always knew you would return to me, that we would be ... together.” The last word suggests more than mere companionship. Her eyes full of wonderment, she looks me over. “All I had to do was wait for you.” She climbs onto the bed and kneels beside me, stroking my cheek with her hand, bending so her mouth is close to mine. “I love you, Roslin. I will love you for all eternity, from this life onward.”

LONG, LONG AGO

Blacklaw Castle, Scotland — 1333

M
ariota lays with her head on my chest, her body still except for the gentle rise and fall of her ribs beneath my arm.

If only Claire could live long enough for the baby to be born, then there would be something of us left in that world. But I’ll never know.

I’ve finally let go of hope. Hope that Claire had lived, that she would get better. Hope that I would ever return. I’ll always love her, but there’s no sense in mourning her loss, the child she carried, or my old life forever.
This
is my life now. I’ve found new courage in this crude lifestyle, learned to live by facing death, learned to love again by having lost.

Odd how we discover the strength within ourselves only when we need it as a last resort. I would have never thought myself so brave, so unbridled, had I never been thrown into this primitive madness.

Evening edges toward night and still I don’t move. There’s too much comfort lying here with her in my arms. Sleep tugs at my eyelids and I let them drift shut. But soon, the memory of battle echoes in my ears: the shouts building to a roar, the rumble of weapons striking shields, the cries of the dying.

I open my eyes and the sounds fade away. A breeze gusts through the window, rattling a wooden cup that sits on the ledge. The last candle sputters, then goes out. In a world of half-light, the edges of shapes blur with shadows. Night has passed and dawn arrived.

In the distance, I hear a shout. My heart jolts in alarm. Have the English come this far north? I sit up, causing Mariota to mumble at the disturbance.

“Shhhhh,” I tell her. I slip from beneath the covers and begin toward the window.

“Roslin? Come back to bed.”

Glancing out the window, I can see the road is clear, but from here the view to the gatehouse is obscured. I return to Mariota and tuck her hair behind her ears, whispering, “Someone’s here.”

Yawning, Mariota stretches her limbs. “The door is barred. They’ll not disturb us.”

“No, outside. At the gate.”

She sits up, the sheet falling free of her body. “Who?”

The English, most likely. They’ve come for me. To take me back to England. But why? What use will I be to them now? Henry Sinclair is dead. So are Archibald and thousands more. The Scots are beaten. Many years will pass before we can hold our own against them again.

I reach for my clothes and begin to dress. “Can we defend the castle, Mariota? Can we keep them out?”

Slipping her chemise over her head, Mariota speaks rapidly. “There are only four guards left. The rest went to join Lord Archibald. They never came back.”

And never will. But I don’t say it. She’ll learn of the catastrophic losses in time.

We have to get out of here. Run.

Mariota is clothed before I am. She helps me into my shirt, taking care not to hurt my shoulder. I leave my chainmail and arm plates where they lie and claim my sword, pausing to run my thumb over the ruby-eyed serpent coiled in its pommel. There’s no time for anything more.

Blood hammering in my ears, I unbolt the door and fly through the corridor. Mariota’s lighter steps echo mine. I race down the spiral stairs, my sword held loosely in my left hand, my elbow stuck out to touch the wall as a guide, my vision barely adjusted to the darkness.

As I burst through the bottom door and into the morning light in the bailey, what strikes me is the odd quiet and lack of alarm. There are no English here. None. But the man who appears before me is just as much my enemy as any Englishman.

Alan struts toward me, pulling his sword free as he nears.

I level my weapon at him, but in my left hand it feels strange, unwelcome. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to collect you, Sir Roslin.” A wicked smirk crosses his face. Half a dozen men are seated on their horses behind him, including Malcolm, but they keep their distance, as if he’s already informed them that this fight is his. “To take you to King David.”

“For what? Can’t you see I’m injured? I barely made it here. Go on to Edinburgh. I’ll come when I’m able.”

“There’ll be no need by then. We must get David out of Scotland. Edward and Balliol will send their men throughout the country, demanding fealty. I imagine you’ll be among the first to capitulate. That’s why you want to stay here, isn’t it? You’re waiting for them to come so you can offer your services in return for promises of land and position. It’s what your father planned all along.”

“You’re wrong, Alan. Now go to Edinburgh. Keep the king safe. I’d only slow you, as I am. For now, we all need to survive, what few of us that are left. In time, we can fight again.”

“Help me get the king to France,” — he closes the last few steps — “or I’ll expose you for the traitor and heretic you are.”

“I’m neither of those things. You know that. I went to Annan to help capture Balliol.”

“Then you’re a Cathar,” Malcolm says with disdain. He slides from his saddle to stand behind Alan. “You have been since before you went to Spain with Lord James.”