Circle of Honor Read online

  He stood before her but looked into the fire as he answered, “Aye, he did.” Then he rested his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “But this is not the time for a wedding. You must take time to grieve. I must leave for England and France to strengthen our alliances in case Bruce actually manages to be crowned king. I will come for you when all is ready, I promise.”

  “And will you kill Robert the Bruce?”

  “His death is assured.”

  “Then I will wait for your summons.”

  ADAM LOOKED ON as Robert the Bruce knelt at the tomb of St. Fillan of Glenlochart, the revered Scottish saint who’d founded a church on this spot in the sixth century. The sacrilege of killing a man on the altar of a church weighed heavily on Bruce. Adam had frequently seen the newly crowned king of Scotland on his knees, praying to his Savior, in the months since that day. Now he knelt on this sacred ground to pray for forgiveness and receive the blessing of the local bishop.

  Just two months ago, before the battle of Methven, Bruce’s army had numbered forty-five hundred soldiers and nearly one hundred knights. But the battle was a disaster, Bruce was nearly captured, and all that remained were the five hundred men and a handful of knights that watched as the bishop blessed him this hot August afternoon.

  Bruce had become a hunted man in his own country. They had spent the last few days in relative safety with a laird loyal to Bruce. The respite had refreshed Bruce’s wife, daughter, and two sisters, who were traveling with them. The presence of the women added to the vigilance of Bruce’s men.

  But last night Adam had rebelled against the months of tension, against the constant need for vigilance, and against the constraints of his knightly vows to shun the sins of the flesh. In high spirits he’d celebrated his twentieth birthday with an excess of strong drink and a willing tavern wench.

  Today the late summer sun seemed overly warm and his head ached. He hoped Robert would soon move into the shade and safety of the trees. And he hoped they’d move before Adam embarrassed himself by succumbing to the dizziness that plagued him.

  As the king prayed, Adam struggled to stay alert. St. Fillan’s tomb lay on lands owned by the lord of Lorne, son-in-law of the murdered John Comyn and one of many who schemed to avenge the man’s death. Despite the danger, Robert had insisted on a pilgrimage to this shrine. The sooner Robert and his troops were gone from here the better.

  Finally, to Adam’s relief, Bruce indicated they should mount up. Once they were through the narrow pass at the head of the valley they would be relatively safe. Adam fought fatigue and dizziness, berating himself for his foolishness. He would be wise to withstand such temptation in the future and vowed to do so if his head would just return to its normal size immediately.

  The horse’s movement gainsaid any relief from the shade, and Adam rode in misery. Just as they reached the narrowest part of Dalry Pass, a screaming swarm of Lord Lorne’s highlander warriors descended on them. The surprise of the attack immediately split Bruce’s troop in half. The attackers slashed at the bellies and legs of the horses with their long Lochaber axes, succeeding in unhorsing several of Adam’s comrades before his befuddled brain could make sense of the noise and confusion.

  Adam watched in horror as three highlanders pursued his friend and comrade, Gordon MacNab. Adam’s mind and body seemed to work in slow motion as he fought his way toward Gordon. Too late. Gordon’s horse went down, and Gordon with him. The highlanders swarmed upon him.

  Adam fought off the man nearest him, turned around, and saw Robert in a desperate effort to divert the attackers from his women. He heard Bruce yell, “Retreat!” Others gathered around the king, but another of Lorne’s men was already upon Adam. With leaden arms and a sluggish brain, Adam slashed and hacked at his assailant.

  A glimpse of Gordon’s body, alone in a motionless heap, gave him pause. Adam struggled to focus through the fog in his aching head. Sudden pain seared through his left arm, and he looked in shock at the gaping wound that ran from shoulder to elbow. Robert appeared beside him then, viciously attacking and slowly making way, pushing Adam’s mount toward the pass and safety. Cowed by Robert’s determined feat of arms and somewhat appeased by their retreat, their pursuers slowed their assault, and Robert and Adam rejoined the rest.

  The women were safe, for now. A number of men were slain along with Gordon MacNab. Of the men who remained, James Douglas and Gilbert de la Haye were among the wounded along with several others, but none as seriously as Adam. Now he wished for the oblivion of his earlier headache instead of the pulsing, searing pain in his arm.

  When they gained some distance, the group paused in a hidden glen, forming a protective circle around the wounded so they could be tended before resuming their flight. Kirkpatrick pulled off Adam’s hauberk and ripped what was left of his shirt.

  “The women . . .” Adam muttered.

  “They are well,” Kirkpatrick replied. Neither man spoke of their fallen comrades as Roger wrapped Adam’s arm tightly in a bandage before shoving him back on his horse. The hours until they reached Loch Dochart and safety seemed like days, and Adam cried out in agony when they finally lowered him from the horse.

  He must have passed out, because the next thing he remembered was lying on a pallet of heather as his somber comrades made camp. When all was in order, Robert knelt beside him and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, my laird,” Adam whispered through parched lips. “I was of little use to you today.”

  “Aye, you made a bad decision last night and paid the price.”

  “Gordon. I couldn’t help Gordon.” Tears threatened, hardly knightly behavior. But tears weren’t the worst of it. His behavior had led to the death of a friend—it could have been Bruce! What kind of knight am I? Forcing himself to look Bruce in the eye, he asked, “Do you believe God will forgive me?”

  Robert didn’t flinch. “Aye, I do.”

  Adam grimaced with pain. When it passed he said, “And you, my king. Can you forgive as well?”

  “I can, Adam. Indeed, I already have.”

  “Then I swear to you that I will avoid strong drink for the rest of the days given to me.”

  Bruce laid a hand on Adam’s arm. “Watered wine will be fine when you are well again, son. But now is no time to be heroic. Whiskey is all we have for pain unless we can find a healer.”

  The pain pulsed through him with each beat of his anguished heart. “You may be right. You’ve been right about many things. Forgive me for failing—”

  “I do. Now waste no more of your breath. You’ve a grievous wound. Best repent of your sins and pray for God’s forgiveness. And his mercy.” Robert gazed at the ground before continuing. “Morogh will take you home.”

  To die. Adam had not thought his wound mortal until now. But the man was right. Few survived such a wound as this. Robert was too good a friend to say the words. But the thought of home, of rest from the constant flight and battle, was enough to allow unconsciousness to overtake him.

  THEY LEFT AT DAWN, and by the time he and Morogh reached Moy, Adam didn’t much care what was poured down his throat so long as it took away the pain. As he slowly, miraculously, recovered at home, he heard of the capture and hanging of Robert’s brother Nigel, of the imprisonment of Bruce’s wife and young daughter, and of Robert’s escape to Rathlin.

  On a chilly December evening, Adam sat before the fireplace in his room at Castle Moy, cradling his useless arm and staring into the flames. He wanted to be at his king’s side, sharing his exile and planning Bruce’s campaign to retake Scotland from the English tyrant. How he regretted that night of sin and temptation, a night that nearly cost him his life and the life of his king!

  If he hadn’t been wounded, could he have made a difference? Might he have been able to protect Bruce’s family from capture? Moreover, had he not imbibed that fateful night, had he slept in camp instead of in a stranger’s bed, would he have detected the attack and saved Gordon and the others?

  God may wel
l have forgiven him, as Bruce had said. But Adam would live the rest of his life with the guilt and shame of his failure at Dalry Pass.

  TWO

  Scottish Highlands, 1308

  THE SINS OF THE FATHER,” Adam Mackintosh muttered as he sat down in one of two massive chairs on the dais. But his father hadn’t sinned; he merely made a brilliant marriage all those years ago.

  Of course, the brilliance of the match depended a great deal upon one’s perspective.

  The great Clan Chattan, for hundreds of years proudly and rightfully led by the Macphersons, now unwillingly followed a man with the surname of Mackintosh. Macpherson resentment had simmered for twenty years, ever since Adam’s mother—the Macpherson heiress—had married the Mackintosh chief.

  Adam Mackintosh, newly named to succeed his ill father as chieftain of this unstable federation, feared that resentment neared the boiling point even as he listened to the toasts raised in his honor this evening. The main hall of the Macpherson keep resonated with the sounds of revelry. Trestles laden with food and pitchers of ale abounded as men in varying degrees of intoxication toasted the new laird. If anyone detected a note of falseness in their praise, none remarked on it.

  Leod Macpherson, seated next to Adam, raised his tankard. “Come, my laird. One sip of ale to toast your continued good health.”

  For a brief moment Adam considered ignoring his vow to avoid strong drink. But then he thought of all he’d lost, and might yet lose, because of that night near Dalry Pass, and the temptation faded as quickly as it arose. “I’ll gladly toast to my health and to yours. With water.” Adam saluted his host, all the while wondering how long Leod would wait to challenge him for leadership of the clan. Truth be told, Adam was surprised the man hadn’t done so already.

  Adam leaned back in his chair, the one his host’s wife would have occupied if Leod were married. The lack of a woman’s touch was evident throughout the hall—there were no cloths on the tables, and traces of dried food clung to the surfaces of tables and benches alike. The rushes on the floor gave off the odor of rotting food and undisciplined dogs. Tattered tapestries hung on the walls, in need of a mistress’s needle and thread.

  The contrast to his own home gave Adam reason to be thankful for his mother’s conscientious stewardship of Castle Moy. Grateful his rank afforded him the luxury of a seat with a back to lean on, Adam absently massaged his damaged shoulder. This visit to his clansman’s keep was one of the few times Adam had left his own castle in the nineteen months since he’d been wounded. His ailing father had insisted that a show of strength was needed.

  And that Adam could do, he considered ruefully, so long as no one challenged him to pick up a sword. He picked up his tankard of water instead and sipped from it. He knew Leod would be serving excellent ale, and again came the temptation for just a sip. Keep me strong in my resolve, Lord. There is too much at stake to repeat the mistakes of the past.

  Once more the man urged, “Come, Adam. Share a drink with me. ’Tis an occasion for celebration.” Leod signaled for one of the serving girls to replenish his ale and to bring Adam a cup. Did Leod sense his weakness?

  When she set the cup before him, Adam tried to remember if he’d seen this particular girl before. She must be new, for he was certain he’d have remembered such a winsome face. A wee bit of a lass, she hardly seemed suited to the heavy work of carrying food and drink.

  “Thank you,” he said, though he had no intention of giving in to Leod’s taunt. He pushed the cup to the side and met her gaze for a moment. Her golden brown eyes betrayed a sense of wariness, but he had no time to discern why, for Leod yanked her into his lap. She was no match for his great size, but instead of squealing and flirting like the other wenches, Adam saw fear and panic cross her features. She struggled against him.

  “Be still, you little queen,” Leod demanded.

  She fought all the more, and Leod slapped her, hard enough to loosen the cap on her head and send a cascade of deep russet hair falling about her.

  Adam bit his tongue to keep from chastising Leod. This was, after all, Leod’s hall, and Adam didn’t wish to create any more animosity between them. The disturbance caught the attention of several nearby revelers, and they moved closer to watch the display. Two of Leod’s men-at-arms took seats beside Leod, pounding his back and making lewd comments about the lass.

  To Adam’s relief the confrontation ended as the girl quieted and Leod let her go. “You live and breathe at my pleasure, wench,” he warned, “and you’d do well to remember it.”

  Her downcast gaze and posture seemed to appease Leod’s temper, and he dismissed her. But as she turned from Leod, hastily pinning her hair as she walked away, Adam was astounded at the flash of anger her eyes revealed.

  Something was amiss here. He turned to Leod. “I don’t remember that lass, Leod. Who is she?”

  “My men came upon her yesterday, near Nairn.”

  “She was traveling?”

  “Aye, and her companions deserted her in the melee. Those who didn’t escape have made excellent servants.”

  “Unwillingly, no doubt.” She did not strike Adam as a woman used to the rigors of servitude.

  “The unwilling ones are the very best kind.” Leod and his companions roared.

  Adam laughed, pretending to enjoy the jest. Then he asked, as casually as possible, “What is her name?”

  “Well, if you’re that interested, my laird, you may enjoy her at your leisure.”

  Adam quickly regretted his query, for Leod jumped to his feet and went after the girl before Adam’s protest left his lips. Leod dragged the lass to stand before him and shoved her at Adam. Caught off-balance, she toppled into Adam’s lap, and her head connected with his shoulder. Judging from the smirk on Leod’s face, Adam’s sharp hiss of pain did not escape notice, and his mood darkened.

  Hoping to forestall a repeated blow, Adam pulled her against his chest with his good arm. Her tiny frame supported surprisingly generous female curves. He gentled his hold, and yet still she moved. It wasn’t fight he sensed in her, but fear. She trembled.

  What was this?

  Her actions were not those of a coarse wench used to this give-and-take with men, but rather those of an innocent. She would not remain so for very long, not in this keep. Her vulnerability and petite frame appealed to his protective nature, and on an impulse, Adam said, “I accept your offer of the wench, Leod. I shall take her to Moy as a token of your esteem.”

  The maid tensed again in his arms, and Adam released her. She leaped from his lap and stood rooted next to his chair, her posture a jumble of defiance and dismay.

  “She is yours, my laird,” Leod grinned.

  Adam didn’t trust Leod, and the unease he’d felt all evening intensified. He looked back at the girl, but she had masked her emotions. Oddly, her stoic reaction compounded Adam’s desire to see her safely from this place.

  Adam said to the girl, “What is your name?”

  “Gwenyth, my laird.”

  Her voice sounded much more cultured than a servant’s ought to be, but now was not the time to question her. Best to get her, and himself, safely to Moy first. “Then Gwenyth, come the morrow, you shall leave with me to serve at Castle Moy.”

  She looked at him and asked, voice trembling, “And tonight?”

  Bending close to her ear, he assured her. “Nay, lass. You shall sleep alone.”

  “As you say, my laird.”

  Leod cleared his throat. “Show Adam to his room, girl.”

  Adam shook his head. “That isn’t necessary.”

  Stepping closer, Leod gestured to the inebriated men who remained in the hall, including the two leering drunks sitting at their table.

  “She appears to be an innocent maiden, Adam. I can’t guarantee she’ll still be one in the morning.”

  Adam shot Leod a heated look. “Then perhaps it is I who must provide protection, if you won’t.”

  “It matters little to me what you do with her, Adam.�
� His gaze left Adam’s to roam in a leer over the girl, then came back to Adam as if to say Adam wasn’t man enough. Adam’s hands clenched, and he itched to drive his fist into Leod’s sneering face. But if his ability to wield a sword was questionable, his chances in hand-to-hand combat were even less encouraging.

  Seeing no other choice but to escort his new servant from the hall, Adam took her arm and led her to the bottom of the stairs. He turned to her and said, “You may spend the night in my chamber, lass, if you’ll feel safer there.”

  She shook her head.

  “Then show me the way to your quarters.”

  She hesitated, clearly unsure if she could trust him. “I can find my own way.”

  “I’m certain you can. But I will rest easier knowing you are safely abed.”

  With a sigh she capitulated and led him to the cramped space she shared with several other servants. She turned to face him. The torchlight reflected reddish highlights in her hair and golden flecks in her eyes. By heaven, she was lovely.

  She was the first to speak. “Thank you, my laird. You have no doubt saved my virtue, at least for this night.”

  “Your virtue is safe with me, lass. We’ll leave early on the morrow, so gather your things tonight.”

  “Aye, my laird.”

  GWENYTH STARED AT THE HANDSOME MAN who’d so gallantly rescued her from Leod. High cheekbones, deep-set blue eyes, and curly blond hair almost made him pretty, but a strong jaw and masculine nose saved him from such description. Deep smile lines at either side of his mouth were clearly visible on his clean-shaven face.

  He appeared to be a man of honor, and she was grateful that tomorrow he would take her from this keep. His twinkling blue eyes assessed her as well and she wondered what he saw—the noblewoman she was or the servant she pretended to be?

  “Good night, my laird.”

  “Good night, Gwenyth.”

  She watched him walk away, admiring his long-legged stride and the width of his shoulders. His shoulder. She’d bumped his left shoulder and heard his sharp intake of breath. As she straightened her pallet and prepared for bed, she wondered if the injury was old or new. Perhaps she could use her healing skills to help him.