LITMIR.BIZ

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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 have answers. “I am nae a threat.”

      “Remove your hand from your weapon, state your name and your loyalty.”

      Bloody damn. Unsure if her fealty was to Comyn or the Bruce, a wrong answer could hold a fatal consequence. “Sir Thomas MacKelloch.”

      “Release your sword and state your loyalty!”

      A hand flashed to his far right, alerting him that his knights had surrounded her and were closing in. “Lass, I am but passing through.”

      Another arrow whipped past, sliced the first straight down the center.

      He stared at the severed shaft in disbelief. An expert archer, he was proud of his ability and could match her skill, a level of proficiency held by few. Who was this lass? More important, why was she so close to King Robert’s encampment? God’s teeth, if her intention was to kill the Bruce, with her accuracy she would need but one attempt.

      With quiet steps, his knights crept behind her.

      “I would be asking for your loyalty as well,” Thomas said.

      With a panther’s grace, the slender archer drew back her bowstring.

      His knights lunged.

      The woman screamed as Rónán caught her hands and jerked them behind her back. “Release me,” she demanded, her legs kicking out with dangerous accuracy.

      Rónán held tight.

      Aiden retrieved her bow while Cailin made a quick search.

      Cailin removed several weapons hidden within her garb, then held up the dagger she’d hidden in her boot. “A sgian dubh.” He scowled. “The lass is well armed.”

      Furious at placing himself and potentially his men in danger, Thomas stormed over.

      Blond hair tugged free from her braid and whipped against her comely face.

      “Who are you?” Thomas demanded.

      Bewitching moss-green eyes narrowed.

      Though impressed by her daring, he wouldna have his question go unanswered. “Your name.”

      The woman twisted to free her arm; Rónán held firm.

      “Alesone MacNiven.”

      “Why did you threaten me?”

      “I only sought your name and loyalty, ’twas far from a threat.”

      Thomas grunted. “You have an intriguing way of asking. Whom are you loyal to?”

      Fear edged her eyes.

      A dose of nerves would serve him well. “Tell me, by God, or I will haul you before King Robert and expose your plans to assassinate him.”

      At his words, her face paled. “Never would I harm Scotland’s king.”

      “You are loyal to the Bruce?”

      She nodded. “I am his personal healer and under his protection.”

      An

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