o’ course,” Alan muttered, chipping away at the stone. “Aye, ye had it all, old son,” he grunted. “And ’tis sorry, I am, ye lost it too soon.”
When Alan finished, the outline of a shield listed slightly to one side and the wolfs head he had intended resembled a bitten apple with two leaves. Well, the Lady Honor could replace this if she wished. For now it would serve to mark the place. Frowning at his clumsy effort, he piled up a pyramid of small stones in front to form the cairn. Then he rose, straightened his muddy breacan and shook the kinks out of his legs.
Drawing himself up to his full height, Alan held the hilt of the broken sword high above the marker he had made to cast the shadow of the cross over it. “God keep ye, Tavish Mac Ellerby.”
He thought to say more of a farewell, but the sudden thunder of hooves shook the ground beneath his bare feet. Facing the approaching riders, Alan drew Tavish’s undamaged sword from its sling on the horse and assumed a battle stance. Just then, the wind unfurled the colors held by the advance man.
Lion D’or on a red field. The Bruce.
The party of horsemen surrounded him in a flurry of jingling harnesses and stamping hooves. Alan dropped to one knee and grinned up at the rider on the prancing gray.
“We might have been Edward’s men, Strode. Did it never occur to you to run and hide?” Bruce asked.
Alan threw back his head and laughed. “If there’s an Englisher this side o’ London, I’ll kiss yer beastie’s arse and call him sweeting!”
Bruce dismounted and stretched out his arm for a clasp of greeting. He winced when he noticed Alan’s wound. “We’re collecting Douglas’s men just south of here, and then on to York. My brother told me he gave you leave after our victory, and now I ken why!” Bruce wrinkled his nose at the sluggish red trail still working its way down Alan’s bare arm. “See to that hurt or we’ll be burying you. You’re like to lose that arm.”
Alan nodded once and looked away, over the hills that separated him from Rowicsburg castle. “It will heal. Mayhaps I’ll join ye later.”
“You would see your father first, then?” Bruce asked, more than a hint of warning in his voice.
“I’ll never go to Rowicsburg,” Alan answered with a lift of his chin. “Neither will 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,
