The Knight's Bride. Lyn Stone
I go north. I have done with Uncle Angus as well. Neil Broglan is his tanist now, and a good laird he’ll be. I’ve no business wi’ either side of my family.” He cocked his head toward the new grave. “I am here because Tavish Ellerby sent me with orders for his widow. And the news of his death.”
He had nowhere to go after this mission for Tavish. His English father had packed him off to the Highlands, to his mother’s people when he was but a lad. The uncle who raised him there had chosen another nephew, a full Scot, as the next MacGill chieftain. That was as it should be, Alan supposed.
Life as a soldier suited him well enough. However, stubbornness and one strong arm were all he had to offer any cause at the moment. This king of his clearly had no use for either.
“Aye well, I believe you then. ’Tis well known, your love of the truth.” Bruce glanced over at his men. “Some do say you take it to extremes.” Several of Bruce’s retinue nodded sagely and exchanged wry looks.
Alan knew why. He never said what he thought a man—or a woman, for that matter—wanted to hear, unless it was true. Not even when a falsehood would serve him better than a fact. ’Twas a thing all the Bruces depended upon. As had his uncle. Alan took tremendous pride in the one inarguable attribute he possessed and held so dear. He was an honest man.
Only Alan knew the reason behind his one constant and unwavering virtue, and why holding to it had become a near obsession over the years. His father had lied, saying that he would bring Alan home soon. His mother had lied, promising to write to him regularly and come for him when the border troubles eased. His uncle had lied, vowing to the mother that her son would be groomed as the next laird. None of it came to pass. Disgusted with the lot, Alan vowed to himself that he would never visit a lie on anyone, regardless of the price. So, he was known as Alan the True. His reputation had followed like a faithful hound when he left the Highlands. Sometimes it bit him, but for the most part, served him well. As it did now.
The Bruce glanced at the crudely carved device on the stone marker and back to Alan. “Give Ellerby’s lady my condolence. I heard that he fought well. He made plans for the lady and his property, did he?”
“Writ and sealed, sire. Betwixt him and her, I’m thinking.”
“I’d see it, Alan.”
“I think not. ’Tis private word from the deathbed to his beloved.”
Bruce turned away and paced for a moment, then came face-to-face with Alan, looking up, since he was a head shorter. “Give me the letter, Strode. I command it.”
Alan tensed, his left hand closing over his sword hilt.
“Give me the goddamned letter, man, or we’ll take it from you!” Bruce thundered.
“Och, but ye’ve less than a score o’ lads wi’ ye, sire!” Alan remarked.
Bruce tightened his lips. His eyes bugged out for a full second before his crack of laughter shattered the tense silence.
Alan waited, wearing a beatific smile. He knew well the image he presented, even enhanced it whenever he could. The irreverent, overgrown jester. Opponents usually underestimated him because of his demeanor, but not Robert Bruce. The king knew well what lay under the cloak of humour. And would brook no insubordinance concealed by it. Much as he hated to do it, Alan prepared for surrender.
Bruce sobered after a bit and raised an arm, draping it casually around Alan’s shoulders. “Now listen to me, Strode, and listen well. Byelough Keep is important because of its protected location. The hidden caves near it could hide an army. Or a wealth of supplies to keep one victualed. I’ll not have it fall into unsympathetic hands by some whim of a dead man.
“Now then,” Bruce continued, “we could kill you and take the letter. I suspect we would have to. Even should you overpower my wee troop here and escape, I would simply follow you to Byelough and demand it of the widow. You choose.”
Alan considered. Tavish’s lady would be upset enough as it was. Devastated, most likely. A visit from Bruce would hardly provide any consolation, especially given the king’s current mood.
“Verra well, have it then.” Alan reached beneath his wide leather belt and drew out the folded packet, slapping it into Bruce’s outstretched hand. “But I mislike this.”
Bruce frowned as his long fingers broke the amber glob of crude candle wax sealing the letter. “And I mislike you at times, Strode. I ought to kill you for insolence, you know. Might do so yet.”
Silence reigned as Bruce read the words Tavish had written at the hour of his death. A calculating smile stretched his noble face as he finished and refolded the parchment. Then the smile swiftly died. “Kneel!” he ordered in a sharp voice.
Alan knelt, bracing himself as the Bruce raised his steel to the level of Alan’s neck. It hovered just above his left shoulder. He did not want to believe Bruce meant to kill him, but neither could he disregard the fact that he was on his knees with the man’s blade at his throat. A protest seemed cowardly under the circumstances, as well as futile, if the Bruce meant business.
“Could I have a priest?” Alan asked conversationally, holding Bruce’s gaze.
“You’d shock one out of his frock, and I am in trouble enough with the church as it is,” Bruce declared.
“Ah, well, then. Proceed wi’ what ye were about to do.” He hoped Robert only meant to make a point, frighten him a bit. God knew the rascal had a wicked twist to his mind. Then Alan recalled the blow Rob had dealt the English deBohun just before the battle when they rode out one to one. The man’s head bad bounced along the ground like a sheep’s bladder ball while the rest of him rode a ways on down the field. Laugh, the man might, but Bruce never wasted time with idle threats.
Alan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to recall the prayer of contrition, the first bead of the rosary, his mother’s face. Nothing came to mind.
Death held no appeal for him in the best of circumstances, but he had always faced it without fear. Determined to brazen it out to the very end, he looked up at the king and smiled. “I expect ye’ll be sorry for this.”
“No doubt.” Bruce chuckled. Hardly a royal sound, but then he was new to the post, Alan thought.
The sharp edge of steel pressed threateningly against Alan’s jugular for a long, nerve-racking moment. Then Bruce’s voice rang out, “I dub thee Sir Alan of Strode.” The flat of the blade bounced on his left shoulder and gently touched the damaged right. “Serve God, king, protect the weak and strive for right.” He turned the sword, holding the jeweled hilt for Alan to kiss.
Alan tasted the metal-and-emerald surface against his lips, cool and faintly salty with sweat. He welcomed it like a lover’s lips, smacking of honeyed mead. Kiss of life, he mused, barely restraining a shudder of relief. He even prolonged the gesture, bidding for time, since his legs felt too weak to support him just now.
It was not that he had feared dying, he told himself, for had faced death often enough in battle. But dying like this, on his knees, and for no good reason, would have troubled him a bit.
“Ready for the buffet?” Bruce asked, clenching and unclenching his gloved right hand, grinning with new merriment. Alan could just imagine the strength waiting behind that blow. The cuff supposed to help him remember his new charge of knighthood might well render him unable to recall his own name.
“Aye, ready.” He rolled his eyes and puffed out his cheeks. The king’s fist connected with a solid thunk that knocked Alan backward to the ground in an ungainly sprawl.
“Rise, Sir, and do glory to Scotland!” Bruce let out a bark of laughter. “And right that plaidie, mon. Yer own glory’s naked to th’ breeze!”
Alan scrambled to his feet and made a sketchy bow. He was a Sir! He wished to high heaven Tav could have witnessed this farce. He glanced at the cairn under which he’d laid his friend, and then up at the clouds. A unexpected breeze fluttered through the leaves of a rowan