Chapter 16
“Saint’s breath!” Patrik shoved to his feet again; once more, the room spun.
He braced himself, held the Baron of Monceaux’s damning gaze.
“I was a bloody fool for trying to kill your sister, nay worse.” His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe, to steady himself against the flood of emotions.
“I regret everything about that day. More than you could ever know.”
Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “A mere apology and you expect me to forgive you?”
“Nay.” Patrik cursed the entire situation, that he’d ever entertained the notion of returning to Lochshire Castle or reclaiming his family.
“I expect nothing from you or anyone.” Exhaustion weighed heavy upon his mind, he realized the herbs had begun to work.
Aye, surrounded by four warriors, a fitting time for him to be slow of wit. “I was wrong to attack Nichola.”
“Attack?” Alexander moved beside Griffin. “You shoved a knife to her neck and bloody tried to kill her!”
The image replayed like a nightmare in Patrik’s hazy mind.
“At the time I believed her unworthy of you and wanted her dead. But I was wrong.” With heart-wrenching sadness, he took in each man, men whom he’d fought beside, men with whom he’d shared his dreams. Remorse balled in his throat. “Worry not, I shall not remain.”
The scar on Alexander’s cheek tightened. “Where will you go?”
Patrik gave a dry laugh. “As if where I am is of consequence ? You will nae see me again, on that you have my word. But I will continue to serve Scotland’s cause.” He took a step toward the door; his body trembled from the effort.
“Sit, damn you,” Seathan spat.
Feet braced, Patrik lifted his head as his soul crumbled. “An order, my lord?”
Seathan scowled. “Sit down before you fall.”
“I—” The room blurred. Patrik struggled for words. “I will nae—” Blackness shrouded his mind.
Alexander caught Patrik as he collapsed. “Help me, damn you, Griffin.”
“’Tis fine to see you as well,” his brother-in-law said as he caught Patrik’s other shoulder.
Alexander grunted. “Put the bloody fool back in his bed.” Once they’d settled Patrik beneath the covers, Alexander stared down at the man who had tried to kill his wife, a man he still considered his brother. “The lad has the brains of an arse.”
Duncan walked over, halted beside Alexander and shot his brother a grim smile. “Aye, but then, he always did.”
On an exhale, Griffin stepped to Alexander’s other side. “I would like to have wrung his bloody neck, but ’twas a waste to a man barely conscious.” He cast Seathan a grim look. “Will you allow him to stay?”
“He is our brother.” Seathan paused. “Why has Wallace sent you here?”
“He refuses to allow Wishart to remain in English hands,” Griffin replied. “While he focuses his efforts on the English, we are to free the bishop.”
Alexander nodded. “Wishart is too valuable for the Sassenach to keep, on that I agree.”
“Where have they taken Bishop Wishart?” Seathan asked.
“He is incarcerated at Roxburgh Castle,” Griffin replied.
Seathan grimaced. “What of the Earl of Carrick and Sir William Douglas? The missive Wishart sent stated they were to surrender as well.”
“Robert Bruce has agreed to turn over his daughter as a hostage in his stead.” Griffin paused. “As for Sir William Douglas, ’twould seem no quarter will be given. He was hauled to Berwick Castle.”
“God’s teeth.” Seathan blew out a harsh breath. “We must free him as well. He cannot remain in English hands.”
Darkness clouded Griffin’s face. “I am not sure we have time. Douglas is to remain in Berwick Castle but a short while. During my brief meeting with Sir Henry de Percy, he explained King Edward demanded that once Sir William Douglas was caught, he was to be imprisoned within the Tower of London.”
“To die there,” Duncan growled.
Griffin nodded. “’Tis King Edward’s wish.”
“Bedamned to the English bastard,” Alexander said, all too easily imagining the glee upon the king’s face.
“Aye,” Seathan agreed, “but for now, we must heed Wallace’s orders and save Wishart. After, unless otherwise ordered, we will try to save Douglas as well.”
Alexander grimaced, praying they’d have time to rescue Douglas before he was incarcerated within the Tower of London.
His brother-in-law turned toward where Patrik lay. “I am not sure whether to ask how Patrik is alive or how he came to be at Lochshire Castle?”
“He is the runner that Wishart asked us to intercept,” Seathan replied.
Face pale, Griffin met Seathan’s gaze. “Wishart told me the runner is Dubh Duer.” He paused, stared in disbelief “Dubh Duer is Patrik?”
Seathan grimaced. “Aye.”
“God’s teeth,” Griffin whispered, “King Edward would pay a hefty lot to display his head upon a pike.”
Duncan arched an amused brow at Griffin. “A sum the English king would pay, if not more, for the spy they call Wulfe.”
Brown eyes glittered with humor. “As for there being an English lord who shields his true name behind the title of Wulfe,” Griffin drawled, “I often assure King Edward tales of this notorious noble are fables, stories crafted by the Scots to infuse doubt within the crown, that indeed, no such noble exists.”
Alexander gave a rude laugh. “Aye, to save your bloody hide. Pray the bastard never learns that you, his Advisor to Scottish Affairs, are the man he seeks.”
Silence descended in the chamber, laden with knowledge of the dire consequences to those who rebelled against King Edward, and of the challenge in regaining Scotland’s freedom.
Seathan withdrew the leather-bound missive, handed it to Griffin.
The Baron of Monceaux studied the blood red wax impression, flicked his eyes to Seathan. “’Tis indeed the royal seal.”
“Aye,” Seathan replied, “the informant’s daring brand, which he uses beneath King Edward’s nose, and proof we intercepted the runner Bishop Wishart awaited. It is also proof Patrik is Dubh Duer.”
Griffin shook his head. “’Tis unbelievable. We thought Patrik dead, and he has fought alongside us throughout.”
Somberness filled the room, the ache of old hurt joining the slash of new.
Alexander stared at his brother sprawled upon the bed, his face pale.
Time had hardened the broken lad who had come to them after his family was murdered.
Time had tempered the pain, but not Patrik’s anger toward the English.
Over the years their adopted brother had learned to hide his outrage, to mask it with a quip.
Until he’d met Nichola.
Nay, until Alexander had fallen in love with an English lass, a woman who Patrik had stated at the time he’d found unworthy of his brother.
By God’s eyes ’twas a mess, but one they would muddle through.
Patrik was family. A low pounding started in Alexander’s temple.
He rubbed his brow. How could he tell Nichola of Patrik’s regret? Or, should he?
Seathan took the writ, distracting Alexander from his troubling thoughts.
His elder brother met Griffin’s gaze. “Patrik said ’tis confirmation that John de Warenne is preparing to depart and rejoin forces with Hugh de Cressingham before the end of July.”
“God’s teeth, with the Earl of Surrey’s dislike for Scotland,” Griffin said, “King Edward must have ordered him poked with a hot iron to prod him from his estates in Surrey.”
“Aye,” Alexander agreed. “ ’Twould please me to see King Edward’s minion be fool enough to ride into battle with the Earl of Surrey. I would savor the sight of his flesh upon my blade.”
“With his lack of training with a sword,” Duncan said, “he could spear naught but a morsel upon his trencher.”
“Regardless, with his arrogance and believing that the battle is already won,” Seathan said, “I would be more surprised if he did not ride alongside the Earl of Surrey.”
Griffin nodded. “I agree. ’Tis folly to underestimate Cressingham. For a man of illegitimate birth, he has ascended far to become the treasurer of the English administration in Scotland.”
“Mayhap, but the blood of the impoverished stains the bastard’s steps. Nor does he care.” Alexander shook his head. “Nothing will stop the king’s minion from his selfish goals.”
“Aye,” Duncan agreed. “’Tis fitting that behind Cressingham’s back the English label him the Son of Death.”
“And,” Alexander added, “the treacherer by the Scots.”
“Both names testaments to the lengths Cressingham will go to achieve his goals,” Griffin stated, “regardless of cost.”
Silence hummed within the room, thick with tension.
Alexander glanced at Patrik; his brother’s face was ashen, his body wilted within his bed. “What of the lass?”
Confusion darkened Griffin’s gaze. “What woman do you speak of ?”
“When we found Patrik,” Seathan explained, “a Scottish lass, Mistress Cristina Moffat, accompanied him. She told us Patrik saved her from being raped by English knights a few days past.”
“The bloody miscreants.” Griffin paused. “Where is she?”
“Asleep,” Seathan replied. “And nearly as battered as Patrik. When English knights attacked a crofter’s home, Cristina hid their little girl, then later fought off the English knights to save her.”
Surprise shone in Griffin’s eyes. “She killed two knights? Sounds like an amazing woman.”
“She does.” Alexander grimaced. “Mayhap too much.”
His brother-in-law’s gaze narrowed. “Explain.”
“When we found the lass,” Alexander replied, “she was in the forest with the crofter’s child.
Patrik was with her, but trees shielded him from our view.
When I saw Patrik—” Memories stormed Alexander’s mind.
He clenched his fists, the taste of anger still fresh.
“—I lost my head, jumped off my mount and began to beat him.” He shook his head.
“A fact I am not proud of, but all I could think was how he’d tried to kill Nichola. ”
Red slashed Griffin’s cheeks. “Understandable.”