Page 72 of The Falcon Laird
He had dreaded the question but wanted to tell her. “She was ill for a long time, an ailment of the lungs. The physicians could do little for her. I even hired Saracen physicians, the most knowledgeable in the world.” He shrugged.
“You loved her very much,” she murmured.
“I loved her,” he said. “Like a friend loves a friend. Like a heart loves a poem. She was young, and there was little fire between us. It was—encouraged, the marriage.” He did not add that Edward’s queen had matched them. “But it was unlike the heat and spark between us, lady. I can tell you that.”
“You have endured a great deal,” she said. “Your mother died in the convent raid, and your wife—I did not know, Gavin. Yet you do not seem bitter or angry about them.”
“I have learned that hearts are too strong to break. And bitterness wastes time.”
“And my heart feels like an old harp, ready to burst.”
He shook his head. “Your heart is strong. You have a fierce spirit in a gentle package.” Again he circled his thumb over her hand. “Do you trust me?”
“I want to. I did, in the abbey. There, I think I—” But she stopped.
“What?” he asked.
“I loved you there,” she whispered. His heart thudded, but he stayed still. “But I thought you were an angel.” She shrugged, half laughed.
“Ah. Others have made that mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was a young knight, new to the court, Queen Eleanor called me Angel Knight. The name stayed with me for years. I did not like it.”
She smiled. “It suits. I thought you were Archangel Michael. And I thought you were Scottish too. But later—then I did not feel I could trust you.”
“And now?”
She looked at him steadily. “My heart does. But my mind says you are English.” She slipped her hand out from under his.
He blew out a breath. “Sweet saints. You have to be the most stubborn woman I have ever known.” He leaned toward her. “I am English. My father was English. But my mother was a Scotswoman, as Celtic as you are. I have both in me. And that is who I am. You and I are more alike than you know.”
“How? I am a rebel. A traitor, so say the English. Deserving of a cage.”
“And I was accused of treason at Berwick.”
She gasped. “Berwick!”
“I spoke out against what happened when no one dared utter the truth to King Edward. Twelve thousand Scottish people—women, children, merchants, not just soldiers in the fight—were slaughtered in the streets over three days. I spoke out and was named a traitor for it.”
“Hastings called you that today. I thought he meant because you hold Kilglassie and he does not.”
“He calls me a traitor no matter how much time has passed since Berwick. There is anger between us for other reasons.” He shook his head. “I paid a price for my rebellious words. I lost my inheritance, my right to live in England, all but my life. I was exiled to France.”
“So you are careful to do whatever your king asks of you now.”
“In part. King Edward made me ambassador in France to hold me there. He will never trust me fully again.”
“Does he have good reason?”
“He does,” he said. “Where the Scots are concerned, he knows I may not follow orders. In such matters, Lady Christian, I may choose to be untrustworthy.”
“Then why would he send you here to Scotland?”
He shrugged. “In part, because his greed for Kilglassie’s gold is strong. He wants to possess it because of the legend. He told me to charm you into telling the truth of the treasure.”
Christian laughed. “Because Henry, and then Hastings, both failed at that. But I do not know the truth of the gold.”
