Page 9 of The Falcon Laird
Kilglassie in Galloway had been Henry’s holding. And the girl in the cage was Henry’s little widow. How ironic that he should come here intending to speak on behalf of his cousin’s widow and end up bestowed with her dower lands.
“Pass this test, Gavin, and I will reward you well,” Edward said, his voice blurred with wine.
Gavin opened his mouth to protest or perhaps question, for he was still astonished, when a loud rap sounded at the door.
“Ah,” the king said. “That will be my commander in that part of Galloway. I sent for him to join us. Let him in.”
Frowning, Gavin went to the oak door and pulled it open to admit a tall knight in a red surcoat. The man strode silently past Gavin toward the king, dropped to a knee and bowed his head.
Gavin sighed, recognizing Oliver Hastings. He had heard the knight was now regarded as one of Edward’s most trusted commanders in Scotland. Hastings had always had a ruthless taste for the Scottish war, he remembered.
“Sir Oliver, you remember Gavin Faulkener,” the king said. “He just came from Paris with the bishops sent by the pope.”
“Sir Oliver,” Gavin said as Hastings rose and turned.
Narrowing his dark eyes, Hastings removed his gauntlets. “Faulkener. Some years since we last saw each other. Berwick, I think?” He turned again to the king, who spoke quietly to him.
Leaning a shoulder against the wall, Gavin waited, remembering John Keith’s remark about Hastings mistreating the Scotswoman in the cage. But Hastings would not even bother with Henry’s widow unless he wanted something specific. What could that be?
He knew Hastings was capable of brutalizing women; he had seen that in Berwick. And he had heard reports of cruel actions Hastings had taken against the Scots on behalf of Edward. Standing there, waiting, he summoned control, schooling his expression, giving no clue to the old rage still simmering within him.
Doubtless Sir Oliver Hastings had forgotten one small Scottish nunnery among the many towns and religious houses sacked in Scotland. Gavin’s mother had been among the women who had died when Hastings’s patrol had sacked that convent eight years ago. Ultimately the blame for that raid rested on King Edward, who had ordered the nunnery closed, but Gavinsuspected that Hastings had acted as an efficient, unquestioning sword arm.
Though Gavin knew his mother’s death was a tragic casualty in a war that he, as Edward’s avowed knight, was obligated to support, the convent raid had occurred while he had been away in France. He had no chance to hear a warning or move his mother. He had received a cool written condolence from King Edward over his mother’s death, and the king had made a brief prayerful penance for the raid. It was said he fined Hastings for the brutality, but Gavin knew it meant little to either Edward or Hastings.
All in the past, Gavin told himself, and pointless to avenge. Naught could be recovered. He sighed and shifted his feet, feeling the tension of bitterness and weariness. His chain mail hung heavy on his shoulders, both physically and perhaps symbolically; he huffed in silence at the thought.
He scowled, waiting, considering the king’s grant of an obscure Gallovidian castle. Edward seemed determined to pull Gavin into the Scottish dispute. He was sorely tempted to refuse the grant and the order, though it could label him treasonous.
But before this night was done, he would step even closer to treason once he found the chance to request that the king release the dying Scotswoman.
“Come with me,my lady.”
Stirred from sleep, Christian felt a hand on her shoulder. “Dominy,” she whispered, and opened her eyes to focus on a young face, round and pleasant, and a pair of deep brown eyes framed by dark braids and a linen head kerchief.
“Aye, my lady,” Dominy murmured. “Get up, now, dear.”
“Do not speak to the prisoner,” a guard snapped.
Groaning, Christian tried to sit up, but failed. The timber slats leaked cold air and light, and the cage swayed slightly asshe fell back down. She drew a raspy breath; her head spun and her limbs felt wobbly. But she was alive. The warrior angel had been only a dream.
Sitting with Dominy’s help, Christian frowned, realizing her feet were warm. Surprised, she noticed a small iron brazier, filled with glowing coals, nearby. It had never been there before.
“Aye,” Dominy murmured. “Someone brought ye a brazier while ye slept. I asked several times that one be given ye, but the guard always said me nay. Who did this, and gave ye better blankets? By the saints, have the Scots sent coin for yer keep?”
“Dame, do not speak to the prisoner,” the guard barked out again.
Dominy turned. “And how am I to wake her, Thomas, d’ye suggest?”
“Well, you’re not to talk to her.”
The woman snorted in disdain and turned back. “Can ye get up, sweet? I’ve brought broth and bread. Thick with onions, the soup is, and hot.”
“Dominy,” Thomas said. “The lady gets only silence by king’s command. It is treason to disobey the king’s orders.”
“Then arrest me too and throw me in with her,” Dominy said. “She might get better care. How can ye stand there each day while she suffers? My husband, bless his departed soul, was a king’s guard too, but he would never have let this happen beneath his very nose.”
“I only follow king’s orders,” Thomas grumbled.
