62

We are twice armed if we fight with faith.

PLATO

Everard rode down the High Street to the Canongate mansion as if in a trance. Edinburgh’s town guard roamed, seeking cutthroats and vagabonds in the myriad wynds and closes, but Everard was only aware of the weary horse plodding beneath him and his own shattered situation.

Boyd usually followed close on his heels, always on the lookout for trouble in the wee small hours. But no other rider plodded alongside Everard until, in a huff, Boyd caught up with him.

“Milord—” The words came in winded bursts. “Ye ken the blether around the castle? That the Landreth lass and her faither found ye out and betrayed ye to curry favor with the king.”

Everard looked hard at him, weighing the ugly accusation. “I dinna doubt it.”

A lantern burned at the front of the townhouse, and Boyd’s loud pounding of the iron knocker roused the butler. A stable lad saw to the horses, saying little as if sensing their mood.

Everard entered the hall with a few wooden words of greeting, inquiring about Bernard.

“Your brother is abed,” the housekeeper said. “He sent word to London about the countess’s removal from Edinburgh. Did the message never reach you?”

“Nay,” Everard said, jaw clenched. He went up to his bedchamber, knowing sleep could not be had this night even though he was stretched at the seams with exhaustion.

Every nook and cranny seemed full of Blythe. Blythe as she’d been at their last visit. Blythe dining with him. Blythe roaming the garden, the summerhouse particularly. Blythe in the library, where they’d overcome their hesitations and indulged in a heated embrace. Blythe who’d kept him up half the night with the realization he’d finally found his countess.

Never had he anticipated this turn of events.

A knock at the door admitted a footman with a tray containing whisky. He disappeared again as the clock struck one. Everard looked away from the window to the aqua vitae, his legs splayed out in front of him, his bulk sunk into the Windsor chair. No amount of spirits could dull the ache that twisted and writhed inside him.

He was a warrior without a weapon. A noble without a plan. A besotted husband in need of his bride. He did something he hadn’t done since his mother died.

He wept.

Stirling Castle. ’Twas said to be akin to a large broach clasping Highlands and Lowlands together. Blythe mulled its hilltop perch and immense gatehouse with a growing desperation. It seemed the twin of Edinburgh Castle, another grey stone bully atop a cliff overlooking a picturesque watercourse she had no name for.

“’Tis the River Forth, milady,” Mari said.

Travel there had taken two days over bad roads that left Mari ill and Peg wheezing. Hot and cold by turns, Blythe sat wordless in the lurching coach. She was a state prisoner, the mounted guard all around her making her feel like a criminal. Ashamed, hunted, and reviled.

As the coach approached the castle, Peg slammed the window shut, her mood more volatile the longer they were away from Wedderburn. For truly, were she and Mari not captive too? Blythe had entreated her Edinburgh gaoler for both women’s release, but her plea was ignored. And though she wanted them to go free, she was exceedingly glad of their company. Peg was more zealous watchdog while Mari was more lamb, the one forever watchful, the other comfort and consolation. Both of them sorely needed.

“I wouldna dream of leaving ye, mem,” Peg told her between fits of fury.

“Nor would I, Lady Wedderburn,” Mari said quietly. “We shall share yer captivity—and yer return home. His lordship would expect nae less, nor would we.”

Blythe tried to bring her wayward thoughts to heel. What would her father do once he learned of her plight? Surrender himself? And Everard? His pleas to the king may well have met with resistance. She could only imagine what would happen upon Everard’s return to Edinburgh to find her gone. She sensed her whereabouts would be denied him.

When the coach rolled to a sudden halt, Blythe emerged into a stony courtyard, the sunlight lifting her spirits. There seemed to be some confusion among her guards, and she and her maids were made to wait while a soldier summoned someone within the castle.

In time, a tall, spare officer with russet hair appeared, flanked by two shorter men. His grey eyes met hers briefly, and then he gave a small bow. “Lady Hedley, I am told.”

Captain Agnew stepped forward. “Now the Countess of Wedderburn, Colonel Campbell.”

Straightening, Campbell regarded Blythe with thinly veiled surprise. “Is that true, your ladyship?”

“My husband is indeed Lord Wedderburn.” She gave a nod, hoping she appeared more dignified than she felt. “We were recently wed in Berwickshire.”

That date was easily recalled. Who could forget one’s wedding day? But all the days since were a beleaguered blur.

“Has your husband any knowledge of your presence here?”

“I think not, sir. We were lately parted at Edinburgh Castle against our will. He rode on to London to meet with the king about my release.”

Campbell turned aside to confer with the captain in low tones. She understood but a word here and there, new worries fraying her strength. At last he gestured to the three-story building to the left of the gatehouse. “Show the Countess of Wedderburn to the royal apartments.”

At that, all seemed to regard her with new respect. These men were soldiers. Did they know Everard? Perhaps they had fought alongside him in the long war on the continent?

“So ye shan’t be lodged like a common criminal,” Peg said beneath her breath as they were escorted inside the castle.

“Such bodes well indeed, milady.” Mari trailed behind her, relief trumping her obvious exhaustion.

Faded tapestries. Furniture spanning several centuries. Their heels tapped against the old wooden floorboards as they walked from room to room. Though she was thankful to be free of the cramped carriage, Blythe’s stomach rumbled. What she’d give for a cup of tea and a bath.

She tried to put down the lovely image of her rooms at Wedderburn Castle. Though royal, these apartments were old and smelled of dust and disuse. She’d not shared Everard’s chambers yet, and the longing she felt each time she thought of him tightened.

Peg, ever efficient, asked for hot water and tea before the guards left them. In time a maidservant appeared, bringing more than what they’d asked for. Blythe thanked her, good manners never amiss. She’d not be thought haughty but obliging, whatever their circumstances.

A tray held meat, cheese, bread, and the largest teapot Blythe had ever beheld, steam curling from its pewter spout. After washing, the women all but fell upon the fare before them, a veritable feast compared to the inedible victuals of Edinburgh.

Finished eating, Blythe went to a window, familiarizing herself with her surroundings and wondering if Stirling was as old as Edinburgh Castle. Stone lions and unicorns decorated the roof’s ridge, and across from her sat a bright yellow building within castle walls, resembling a Great Hall. It stood out like a merry monarch among all the somber stone.

“Yer smitten with the color, nae doubt,” Peg said. “Fit for a king or queen.”

“A royal ochre, yes,” Blythe replied. “’Tis startling against all the drab.”

Her gaze traveled around their royal apartments, all her book learning returning to harass her. Stirling Castle was haunted, some said, by Mary, Queen of Scots, and her women attendants, the four Marys.

Blythe shivered, wishing for a fire in the hearth. This might well be the room of her doom. Hopelessness hung in the air along with a chill sense of foreboding. It gripped her like the fiercest of talons, making inroads where none had been before. She pressed cold fingers to her temples. She would go mad thinking such thoughts. She must not give way to the spirit of fear.

Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.