“My thanks,” Patrik replied, still struggling to accept that the bishop had surrendered to the English. “Without the bishop’s guidance, what will Wallace do?”
Seathan grimaced. “When Wallace learned of the bishop’s surrender, he sent a missive to Andrew de Moray to bring his troops south. He was unaware John de Warenne was preparing to join forces with Cressingham, but it seems as though God guided his decision.”
“Aye,” Patrik agreed, his mind spinning with the news. The addition of de Moray’s forces would allow the rebels to deal a major blow.
At the continued silence, tension filled the room.
A muscle worked in Seathan’s jaw. “Except, as Alexander told you, we were sent to interceptDubh Duer.”
Weariness settled over him. Aye, he had much to explain. In detail, Patrik revealed how after he’d recovered from near death, he had traveled to Bishop Wishart, begged for forgiveness of his sins, and pleaded to be allowed to continue to help the rebels. Then he spoke of the bishop’s agreement as well as the new name he’d taken:Dubh Duer.
“So you hid behind an alias?” The rawness of Duncan’s words echoed as if a slap.
“I could do no other,” Patrik replied.
Alexander grunted. “You could have. Though I am proud of you for aiding the rebels, instead of daring to face us, tell us the truth, you shielded yourself behind a false name.”
Anger erupted. Patrik shoved himself up; wove. “Bedamned!” he said as Seathan reached out, caught his good shoulder, steadied him. He faced Alexander, fought for consciousness, emotions slamming through him. “Tell me, Alexander, had you known that I lived, would you have found forgiveness after I had drawn blood from your wife, from you? Blast it, I tried to kill you both!” He glared at him. “I think not.”
A flush stained Alexander’s cheeks. “I—”
“What?” Patrik demanded, tired of the deceit, the lies that smothered him like a rag shoved over his mouth. “What would you have done? Do you not think while I lay within the crofter’s bed, the days rolling into months, I had not the time to think out every possibility, time to wish to go back, time to erase the dishonor I took upon myself?”
The scar along Alexander’s left cheek tightened. “And your suffering, reliving how you tried to kill my wife, is that supposed to rectify your actions?”
Sadness washed through Patrik. His legs shaking, he sank on the bed and steadied his hands upon his legs. “Nay. I have no ex-excuse but my loyalty to you.”
“Loyalty?” Alexander grunted. “If trying to kill Nichola is an example of your loyalty—”
“Enough.” Seathan glared from one man to the other. “Arguing will but deepen wounds already made.”
The door opened.
Surprised someone dared interrupt their lord, Patrik glanced over.
A tall man entered, his stride confident, his build that of a warrior. Brown hair, secured by a leather thong, enhanced the hard angles of his face, his cloak of the finest wool, fitting his title—Baron of Monceaux, an affluent English lord, Advisor to the English king on Scottish affairs, and Nichola’s brother Griffin.
The baron’s eyes cut to Patrik, and he paled. Then anger brought crimson slashes to his cheeks. “You live?”
“Aye.” How had they informed Nichola’s brother so fast? Last Patrik knew, as King Edward’s advisor to the Scots, Griffin was in England in discussion with John de Warenne on a pressing issue. He must have traveled north on business for the English crown, or, for the Rebels asWulfe.
Seathan frowned. “Griffin, I thought you were meeting with Wallace?”
“I was, but our talk was interrupted by a missive from Wishart with his intent to surrender to the English.” The baron stepped before Patrik, halted, his legs braced, his face carved with a fierce expression. “Needless to say, with that news our plans changed, and Wallace bade me here. Except,” he drawled, fury slicing through his voice, “I had not expected to find the man who tried to kill my sister.”
Chapter 16
“Saint’s breath!” Patrik shoved to his feet again; once more, the room spun. He braced himself, held the Baron of Monceaux’s damning gaze. “I was a bloody fool for trying to kill your sister, nay worse.” His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe, to steady himself against the flood of emotions. “I regret everything about that day. More than you could ever know.”
Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “A mere apology and you expect me to forgive you?”
“Nay.” Patrik cursed the entire situation, that he’d ever entertained the notion of returning to Lochshire Castle or reclaiming his family. “I expect nothing from you or anyone.” Exhaustion weighed heavy upon his mind, he realized the herbs had begun to work. Aye, surrounded by four warriors, a fitting time for him to be slow of wit. “I was wrong to attack Nichola.”
“Attack?” Alexander moved beside Griffin. “You shoved a knife to her neck and bloody tried to kill her!”
The image replayed like a nightmare in Patrik’s hazy mind. “At the time I believed her unworthy of you and wanted her dead. But I was wrong.” With heart-wrenching sadness, he took in each man, men whom he’d fought beside, men with whom he’d shared his dreams. Remorse balled in his throat. “Worry not, I shall not remain.”
The scar on Alexander’s cheek tightened. “Where will you go?”
