Andrew de Moray stood straight, his lips pursed, every muscle in his body tense right down to the fists clenched at his sides. If only he had a dagger hidden up his sleeve, he’d end Robert Bruce’s reign here and now. It didn’t surprise him that his capture was as Lord de Vere had proclaimed. “Scots are devious, filthy savages”. After the earl had told Andrew he could become a knight, the youth had done everything to ensure he wasn’t mistaken for a heathen Scot. Hell’s bells, he’d been teased by every boy in England, including the servant’s children until he’d declared his fealty to King Edward. True, Andrew may have been born to Scottish parents, but his father was dead and his mother had never been a part of his life. He didn’t even recognize the woman. He didn’t even look like her—not too much, anyway. Nearly a man, Andrew’s choice had been made ages ago. Who had fed and clothed him? Who had allowed him to work with horses—his only true love? Not the matron who claimed to be his mother.
And now the usurper, the self-proclaimed king, sat across the chamber glowering like the tyrant Andrew knew him to be. The Bruce’s eyes drilled through him with the gaze of a falcon. Just what Andrew expected from a ruthless murderer of innocents, an imposter, a backstabber.
“Ye do not bow before your king?” said the imposter sitting on the throne.
Andrew’s gut twisted. “I will not be intimidated by a puppet king.”
The Bruce threw back his head with a belly laugh. “I believe ye have me confused with John Balliol.” Then he leaned forward and jammed his finger into the armrest, his look penetrating, as if he could read all the vile thoughts swirling in Andrew’s head. “I assure ye, I am no puppet, and I am your king. After years of tyranny and bloodshed caused by the English, I have united the Kingdom of Scotland, lands rich with black soil and fat cattle, and nobles who pay me fealty.”
Andrew’s fingernails bit into his clenched palms. “Ye are but a pustule on the face of the great King Edward.”
The man scoffed. “Ye are awfully certain of yourself for a whelp.”
“I am a squire for Sir Robert de Vere. He will make me a knight—”
“Is that so?” The king stood and walked around Andrew. Though Robert Bruce was a good hand or two taller, the young man refused to be intimidated. “Ye ken ye were born into one of the most powerful Scottish families in the kingdom?”
Andrew focused his gaze on the hearth. “That is what I’m told.”
“Where have the bleating swine kept ye all these years?”
“My care has been entrusted to de Vere, the Earl of Oxford.”
“Did he turn ye into a man? Did he feed and clothe ye? Give ye a bed to sleep in and books to read?”
“I was given ample food and my clothing is adequate for a squire.” A memory of being dressed in rags and bone-thin from hunger flashed through Andrew’s mind. Though he’d received little in the way of comforts, his poor treatment as a young child had only served to make him stronger. Andrew’s knees buckled a bit and he curled his toes. Once he’d grown taller, everything had changed for the better. He was on the road to greatness before being captured. And now, the Scots would try to break him—they had no idea how tough he’d become. “I was given a tutor when I was ten.”
“So ye can read?”
“Yes.” Andrew wasn’t about to give this false king the courtesy of answering with “Your Grace” or even a “yes, sir”.
“What other skills did de Vere teach ye?”
“I’m good with horses—the best. I can break them and ride like hellfire. I’m to join the tourneys when I reach my majority.”
“Are ye now?” The Bruce arched an eyebrow with his patronizing smirk. “And de Vere has treated ye like a son, took ye under his wing and given ye the highest quality instruction in all of Christendom?”
Andrew gulped. Blast it all, why must his mouth grow dry at a time like this? “Yes.” Of course, de Vere didn’t treat him like a son…the great earl was teaching Andrew how to be a warrior. Andrew had rarely been inside the enormous castle, apart from the kitchens. Even the two years he’d endured with the tutor were in the kitchens. He slept in the barn with the stable hands and learned his trade from de Vere’s guardsmen—not the man-at-arms, but good, rugged warriors all the same.
I will be a knight for de Vere.
“And King Edward will grant ye lands and riches?” the Bruce persisted.
“In time, he will.” Why doesn’t he understand?
“Are ye certain of yourself?”
“Ah…Yes.” Andrew now clenched his fists so hard his knuckles burned.
“So ye would give up your lands and riches in Scotland to follow a tyrant king?”
Bloody hell! Andrew felt like he was about to burst. The evilest despot in all of Christendom was calling Edward II, a man with impeccable lineage, a tyrant? “Edward is benevolent, and k-kind, and steadfast, and—”
“Ruthless?” bellowed the king, his eyes turning charcoal black.
“No! He is strong.” Blast it all, Andrew’s voice cracked.
“Ye have a great deal to learn afore I recognize ye as a nobleman in this realm. Do ye ken what it means to be a Scot?”
Andrew ticked up his chin in a show of defiance. “Ye mean a backstabber?”
Before he could blink, Robert the Bruce backhanded him across the face. “Insolence!” the man boomed.
The iron taste of blood spread across Andrew’s tongue. But the sting radiating on his cheek infused him with confidence. He’d taken a strike and still stood his ground. Puffing out his chest, Andrew stood taller.
“Scotland is a land of lush moors and mountains that touch the sky.” The Bruce spread his arms wide. “Scotland is a land skirted by tempestuous seas and sculpted by the rush of the north wind. Her people are hardy and hard working. They fiercely protect clan and kin, and hold dear their honor. But do ye ken what a Scotsman holds dearest in his breast?”
Andrew shook his head, the palms of his hands clammy.
“Freedom.” The Bruce stopped and stared, his gaze penetrating to Andrew’s soul. “Freedom, lad. We’ll not be bowing to a ruthless overlord—a man who murders and rapes pregnant women and impales hard-working farmers on wooden spikes.”
Andrew gasped. “He would nev—”
“Silence!” The Scottish king slammed his fist into his palm. “Ye are but a whelp and ye have nay seen the atrocities carried out in the name of England. Ye have been mollycoddled and protected by a villain who claims he will make ye a champion.”
“He will!”
“Aye? But he canna make ye a great man—a nobleman who will take his seat beside a king, paying fealty, and, in return, given leave to gain riches off his lands and to lead his clan. A young noble could gain honor, could rise to be a legendary knight, could lead his people to become the greatest clan in the north.”
Andrew gasped when the Bruce’s gaze again met his. Even gooseflesh rose across his skin.
“But such honor is reserved for the best of men. Not for lovers of tyrant English kings and definitely not for young pups who ken no manners.” The king sauntered so close, his breath rushed through Andrew’s hair. “Ye didna bow to me and ye didna use my proper address. Not once.”
Andrew looked to his toes and tried to swallow. His skin pricked, his face felt too damn hot. If only he had a knife, he’d plunge it—
The self-proclaimed king lowered his voice. “The next time ye come before me I will make my decision as to how I will dispatch your lands. I hope ye’ve grown a pair of cods by then.”
Christina stepped from the stairwell just as six heavily-armed guards escorted Andrew from King Robert’s solar.
“What is the meaning of this?” She looked from one to the next. “My son is no criminal!”
“Lady Christina,” bellowed the king from within. “Come here and shut the door. I need a word.”
She swept into the solar with a fire igniting in her belly. Her son might be a bit misguided, but that was not his fault. It was the fault of the English despots. Treating Andrew like a criminal would only serve to distance him further from his country and kin. “For the love of honor, Your Grace. Six guards?”
King Robert glowered, standing naught but a foot away. “The lad needs to learn a modicum of respect.”
“He is confused.”
“That is an understatement. He is unhinged. I have no doubt if Andrew had the use of a weapon he wouldna have hesitated to use it, just like he did on your champion.”
The walls closed in around her. “He doesna ken what he’s doing. The English have brainwashed—I mean, they have filled his mind with falsehoods and hogwash.”
“I think ye are not being truthful with yourself.” King Robert threw up his palms. “This situation is dire. The lad may never come around.”
Wringing her hands, Christina’s heart hurt so badly, it nearly burst. “Please. I’ve waited three and ten years to have my son home. He needs time—time in the country away from court and away from this bloody border for certain. Ye ken as well as I we could fall under attack at any moment.” She steepled her fingers and pressed them to her lips in a praying motion—praying that God would place the right words in her mouth. Words that would buy precious time. “Please, my king. I had hoped to spend Yule at court afore we returned to Ormond Castle, but now I see we must haste away from here at once. Two or three years growing to love his clan and kin will set my son to rights. Of that, I swear to ye.”
The Bruce sat in his chair and scowled. “I havena three years. By God, a year stretches me to my limits.”
Christina’s heart fluttered. Could there be a chance? She kept her fingers touching her lips while she listened.
“Ye ken I need a strong leader at Ormond Castle. I need a man—a warrior who can defend our northern shores from attack be it from English or Norse. I need a man like your late husband, God rest his soul.”
Christina wanted to wail and crumple into a heap. What she wouldn’t do to turn back the tides of time so that Sir Andrew Senior would have lived, so that her son would have been raised with a father who was a strong example. So that her son would have no doubt as so who he was and learn to hold dear the clan he was born to protect.
Slowly she lowered her hands to her side, stretching tall and showing nothing of the quivering nerves making her heart race. “I give ye my word. Allow me to take my son home. To show him the beauty and grandeur of his lands. To prove to him how deeply a mother’s love runs. Please, please, please, for Andrew is still only a child.”
“A child who should be well on his way to becoming a man.”
Christina gave a single nod. “A child who has been held captive for so long he kens nothing else.” She would not back down, not when she was so close to purchasing time.
The king drummed his fingers—still eyeing her with intelligence and cunning. “I give ye until Christmas next. Ye will come to court and bring the lad before me. If he has not accepted his lot by then, I shall have nay other choice but to grant the lands north of the Moray Firth to a trustworthy and stalwart nobleman.”
Blinking back tears, she bowed her head. “Thank ye, Your Grace.”
“Make no bones about it, Lady Christina. I will also grant your hand to that same nobleman. Ye have royal blood running through your veins, a lineage more important to the kingdom than any one subject. Do ye understand?”
She curtseyed, keeping her head bowed. “My service shall always be for my king and for Scotland.”
He thumped his fist on the armrest. “Aye, then ye’d best make certain your son believes the same in short order.”
“It will be done, Your Grace. With so much at stake, given your leave, the de Moray guard and I shall depart at dawn.”