Page 43 of The Falcon Laird
Fergus nodded. “Robert Bruce was near these very hills but a week ago with the small band of men who have been with him since last summer. They live like the lowest outlaws now, out in the heather, taking food and shelter where they can. Hedesperately needs more men, food, weapons, and coin. My older sons are already with him and Iain and Donal mean to join him soon. For now, they are with the men guarding the hills and forests in case the Bruce has reason to return here.”
“What of Robert’s brothers? Thomas, Edward, Alexander Bruce?” She frowned, not sure she would hear good news. “You heard that Neil Bruce was captured at Kildrummy, and hanged at Berwick?”
“I heard,” Fergus said sadly. “But his brother Edward Bruce is with Robert, with others loyal to him including James Douglas and Neil Campbell and the Earl of Lennox.” He laid a hand on her arm. “But your cousins Thomas and Alexander Bruce were caught two weeks ago when they sailed into Loch Ryan.” He paused. “They had hundreds of men, Highlanders and Irish gallowglasses, in many ships. But many were killed or captured. Macdouells, it was, heading a powerful English ambush.”
She gasped. “And my Bruce cousins?”
Fergus sighed. “Executed,” he murmured. “I am sorry, Christian.”
She lowered her head and pressed back tears. “It was Thomas Bruce helped me escape Kilglassie.O Dhia, Fergus! All but one gone, lost to the English.” She had played with her Bruce cousins as a child, when her grandmother, a first cousin to Robert Bruce’s mother, brought them to visit the Bruces at Turnberry Castle. She shook her head sadly. “This war—the price of it—”
“I know. My sons say King Robert was filled with a terrible grief—even spoke of giving up the cause of Scotland, for the price of his brothers’ lives is far too dear. But he will be heartened to know that you have survived and escaped your captivity. He needs to know that his queen and his daughter and the rest of his womenfolk held by the English can survive too, since you were captured last September.”
She nodded. “I heard the guards say, when I was held, that Robert’s queen, his daughter, and his sister, Lady Christian Bruce, are in convents. His sister Mary Bruce and his cousin Lady Isabel of Buchan are in cages like the one I was in. The last I heard, they were alive and well enough.” She sighed. “Fergus, could your sons help me meet with Robert somehow? I would bring him news myself. If he sees me well, perhaps he will feel more assured of their wellbeing.”
Fergus frowned. “I do not know if he will return this way, but I can ask if I see my sons.”
“A quick meeting in a safe place—they could arrange it for me.”
“What of your English husband?”
She shook her head. “We cannot let him know.”
“What if you could bring Robert news of English plans? Since you have an English husband.”
Christian widened her eyes at the suggestion. “I only thought to warn Robert that the English are gathering forces in this area, determined to find him. But spying? I know nothing of English plans.”
“Keep your ears sharp. Gavin Faulkener will have visitors. You could help your king.”
She hesitated. “I do not know if I could do that again.”
Fergus sighed. “So you like this husband better than the last, eh?”
She blushed and looked away. “He is not like Henry, though they were cousins.”
“He looks a reasonable man,” Fergus said. “And part Scots. But part Sassenach too. Do what your heart tells you. But as I tell my parishioners, if fighting the Saracen devils in the Holy Land is not sinful, then neither is it sinful for the Scottish people to resist the English.”
Chapter Eleven
Amelody floatedon the night air, cascading and rising in a sparkle of sound. Gavin left the parapet where he had been watching the hills beyond and went into the tower, realizing the music emanated there. Pausing in the doorway of the small chamber, he watched Christian play theclàrsach.
In the amber light of the low hearthfire, she sat on a stool with the harp tucked at her knee, its base on a lower stool, its rounded upper corner tipped back against her left shoulder. Rapid, graceful, her fingers plucked the brass strings in a delicate, lovely tune.
Nearby, Michaelmas, Will, and Dominy lay sleeping on floor pallets. In another corner, John snored gently. Playing her gentle music, Christian tilted her head, eyes half-closed, her fingers clever and quick on the strings while one foot tapped a soft beat. Striking off, she began another melody without looking up, a sound as quiet and peaceful as a mist in the morning.
Gavin closed his eyes for a moment and leaned against the doorjamb as the music seemed to flow through him, a magical and serene web of sound. He listened, soothed. When Christian let the harp strings ring into silence, he opened his eyes.
“You have an angel’s touch with that harp,” he said. “So very relaxing.”
She looked up. “It is an ancient song called a sleeping tune. They say the Druids used such melodies to work enchantments on others.”
He smiled. “No doubt their spells worked.”
She set the harp upright on the lower stool. “Michaelmas asked me to play while she went to sleep. In my mother’s day, they had a harper at Kilglassie whose task was to play the whole household to sleep. He was a very old man when I was a child, but he was the first to teach me.”
“And you can teach your daughter one day.” He smiled.
“I have taught her some. Taught a Scottish knight too, a friend of—my cousins. Sir William Seton, if you should ever encounter him, is a fine Scots knight and a fine harper. The English, I think, do not see harpers as we do, as guardians of our Celtic heritage in ways that go back to the time of the mists, as we like to say. The English see harpers as…traveling musicians. Entertainers. No different than jugglers. But they were companions of kings in older days and deserve respect in any household.”
