ring. “Grisel Bucahn said to bring you this and you would offer me protection.”
Recognition flared in the king’s eyes, and his hands tightened on the arms of the chair. “God’s teeth.”
At the emotion in his voice, her own throat tightened. “I will never forget her.”
“Nor I,” he rasped. “She was a fine woman, one to whom I owed my life.” For a moment he studied her, and then gave a curt nod. “I will honor my promise to Grisel and offer you my protection. And your arrival is fortuitous. I am in need of a healer to care for me as well as my men, a position I offer you.”
Overwhelmed by his generosity, she nodded. “I thank you. ’Twould please me to serve you, Your Grace.”
“’Twill nae be easy,” the king cautioned. “Life on campaign is difficult at best.”
“I am well aware of the demands necessary and more than prepared for the task. In addition to my knowledge in the use of herbs, I am proficient with a bow and a dagger,” she said, proud of her skills, a proficiency that’d saved her life many times.
Satisfaction filled the king’s eyes. “Mistress Alesone, ’twould seem we have a bargain.”
Dread eroded her happiness. Though he’d offered her a position along with his protection, neither did he know of her own circumstance. Terrified of admitting her bond to his enemy, she refused to allow the truth to be unearthed later and be labeled a spy. “There is one more issue, Sire. I fear when you know of my lineage, you will withdraw your offer.”
Shrewd eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“I am…or rather, my mother was…” Bedamned! “Lord Comyn is my father,” she breathed, nae wanting the guard at the entrance to hear.
A gust of wind battered the tent.
His mouth tightened, and a tremor slid through her. Please let him look past my heritage.
“You said as a newborn you were left with Grisel?”
Shame warmed her cheeks. “Aye. My mother was Lady MacNiven. While her husband was on Crusade, she went to Comyn’s bed. Upon learning she was with child, she went to Lord Comyn, admitted that she carried his child, and begged him to aid her. Instead, he cast her out. After she gave birth, she had her personal maid, Burunild MacCheine, bring me to Grisel. Then”—Alesone paused and inhaled, lifting her chin—“preferring death over a lifetime of shame, my mother threw herself from the cliffs. As I grew, my father, along with those in the castle, shunned me. Though I hold a blood tie to Comyn, I swear to you I loathe the very name.”
A cinder snapped within the dance of flames.
Face taut, the king exhaled. “My offer for you to serve as my healer remains. But”—the Bruce glanced toward the guard at the door, lowering his voice to a whisper as he turned back to her—“you must swear fealty to me, and never shall you disclose to those loyal to me your father’s identity. Nae all who serve me will be so tolerant.”
Thankful, she dropped to her knees. “Until my death, Your Grace, I swear my fealty, and I shall keep my blood tie a secret.”
The king laid his hand upon her shoulder. “Mistress Alesone, I welcome you.”
* * *
The rush of water filled the crisp morning air and a light mist clung above the land as Sir Thomas MacKelloch glanced toward his knights at the river’s edge. “While you finish watering your mounts, I will climb the knoll and ensure nay one is about.”
His men nodded.
Unless King Robert had moved, they should reach the sovereign’s camp by midday. Thomas tugged his fur-lined cape closer and led his bay up the steep incline.
The frozen ground crunched beneath his steps as he searched the shadows where an enemy could hide.
Overhead, gray clouds moving east slowly smothered the sun.
Snow was coming, a storm paltry to the tempest raging within France.
Two months had passed since the Grand Master had secretly dissolved the Knights Templar, a decree Thomas still struggled to accept. In but a breath, the Order—a way of life he loved—had ceased to exist. Few Templars still in France knew of the decision. For the sake of ensuring their treasures were safely removed and hidden, the Templars’ dissolution was a secret he and the others within the Brotherhood who had sailed from France must keep.
Thomas clenched the reins as he cursed the arrests of the Knights Templar in France. Charges included claims of heresy, idol worship, sacrilegious acts, and more.
Lies.
Falsehoods spewed by malcontents who’d been cast from the Order.
However despicable the allegations, all within the Brotherhood who’d escaped knew their nefarious origin.
King Philip IV.
Plummeting toward financial disaster, in his desperation to replenish his coffers, France’s king had sacrificed the elite warriors who’d protected him over the years.
Thomas jammed his boot into the hard ground and continued up. Naught could change the king’s heinous act. Thank God the Grand Master had received warning of the charges, allowing Thomas and many of his fellow Templars to flee.
Still, too many knights remained in France, including the Grand Master. Honorable men falsely defamed. Thomas swallowed hard. Mere weeks had passed since the arrests had begun, and many Templars had been killed. Before ’twas over, many more would die.
A branch cracked beneath his boot.
He cursed, tugged the reins, and pushed on, ready to reach Scotland’s king, to wield his blade once again for right.
Fragments of sunlight slipped through the clouds, illuminated the few stubborn leaves clinging to their branches overhead. For a moment, the ice-laden shells danced within the current, the fragile brown shimmers warming to amber. The gust abated, and the leaves hung limp like forgotten promises.
Watching a bloody leaf. With the enemy about, a fine way to get oneself killed.
Thomas tugged his mount forward. As he rounded the next tree, the clouds thickened. Gloom settled upon the forest. With a wary eye, he scanned the ridge above. Once he reached the top, he could—
An arrow hissed past, a finger’s width before his heart.
The shaft lodged in a tree to his left.
God’s teeth! Thomas clasped the hilt of his sword.
“Withdraw your blade and die!” a lass’s voice warned.
Furious, he glared at the slip of a woman emerging from the tree line a short distance away. With her skill, neither had she wanted him dead.
A bird’s cry sounded from behind him.
Relief slid through Thomas. His men had heard her, understood trouble was about. Now to keep the lass talking until his warriors seized her. Then, by God, he would
