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Rory assumed those circumstances referred to both her mother’s birth and her late father’s proclivity for aiding the Scottish cause.

“My brother fostered in Exeter.” She said no more, but it was enough.

“’Tis said he is a cruel man.”

Freya winced at Whithorn’s words. “He brought the men to our castle gates who hanged my father and ten others,” she said, the words laced with the pain only such an act could provoke. War was war, but that did not lessen the pain in any way.

“When backed against a wall, men have only two recourses. To allow themselves to be skewered against it, or to fight.”

She did not back down. “My brother could have prevented both scenarios.”

“No doubt.” Whithorn shrugged. “Who can predict the whims of men? For the third Lord Hathawaye of Edyington, it seems he cared more for title and land than family. Many would consider his a wise decision, if a misguided one, to involve Edward.” He became more direct. “You seek shelter, which I will provide, in your father’s name. And naught else?”

She hesitated. A long enough pause for Whithorn to guess her thoughts.

Whithorn turned to Rory. “What say you of this matter, Waryn? The Brotherhood sent but one man to her aid? Too few for Lady Freya’s liking, I assume. But one too many not to incur the king’s wrath.”

“You’ve the right of it,” Rory said. “But Edward showed his hand when he bade my cousin to marry the Lord of Sherfield’s daughter.”

“Is it true she holds no love for her father or the king?”

Rory was continually astounded by Whithorn’s astuteness. He might not agree with some of the old man’s ways, but he’d survived this long along the border with good reason.

“Lady Phillipa is one of us.” It was all Rory would say. But it was enough.

“The king will not take kindly to this slight.”

This was the moment Whithorn had been inching toward since Rory sat.

Rory chose his next words carefully. “The winds blow away from Wallace but have not yet found a new champion. In the meantime, we’ve no intention to attract them lest we also get caught in the storm.”

Whithorn nodded toward Freya. “A whisper in the wind that will attract the king’s attention, I’m afraid.”

Rory said a silent prayer and forged ahead. “Lady Freya is no mere whisper, Whithorn. She is the oak that draws the stroke.”

Though Freya seemed to take insult from his reference to the common saying, both understood his meaning. Whithorn, thankfully, laughed. “And yet, you bring her to me? I assure you, I’ve no wish to attract a lightning strike here. I’ve spent my life avoiding one.”

“She can,” Rory said carefully, “be the thorn as well. My advice would be to listen to her plea.”

The thorn that can save you from harm in a storm.

Rory would not offer his own opinion. Instead, he would allow Whithorn to decide how much, or little, aid to offer his companion. As Whithorn questioned her further, Rory watched Freya navigate him as easily as if . . . well, as if she had been doing so her whole life.

As if she were the lady of Edyington. Which she had been, in essence, since her mother died. Perhaps Rory had dismissed her capabilities too quickly. And though his opinion of her chances to best the king’s men without bringing his wrath upon her, and Edyington, had not changed, Rory admired the spirit in which she navigated Whithorn.

Was she the oak or the thorn? Would the storm find and destroy her or would Freya somehow show herself capable of avoiding it despite her incredibly antagonistic plans against the king?

Either way, Rory feared for his ability to not get wet.

Chapter Fourteen

“For a woman who somehow convinced the most skeptical of men to consider aiding her fight, you’ve been quiet these past days. Is it because of Whithorn?” Rory asked.

Freya had spoken more to Isaac than Rory these past three days. During the day, Rory rode ahead of them, scouting. Both nights they’d stayed at abbeys, where she was taken to separate buildings from the men.

“If Whithorn was skeptical, it was only because you made him so.” Even Freya didn’t believe her own words, but she was still annoyed by his lack of support. Rory had claimed he merely spoke the truth without attempting to sway Whithorn’s thinking in either direction. But neither had he offered words of support. Instead, she had been forced to overcome the baron’s reluctance by appealing to the memory of her father, who had always treated well with Whithorn, a fact even the baron could not dispute.

Whithorn would only involve himself or his men if “the winds blew their way.” By the time they’d left, she had been quite weary of both men’s talk of winds and storms. But as Rory said, it was as he had expected. Freya’s retaliation hinged on her grandmother’s actions.