suffered a greater loss than your husband or Jane’s. Where is your mount?”
“I left her at Pipers’ Hill yesterday.”
George Gordon, the earl of Huntly, reached down to lift her to his saddle. “We shall find her, and then I’ll escort you home.”
The men around him murmured angrily. “She is evil, Huntly, a weaver of spells, a witch,” one of them said. “The king would be alive today if she had not cursed the battle.”
George sighed. He had been educated in Italy and spent three years as ambassador to France. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that his fellow Scots were not all enlightened men. “The king would be alive today if he’d listened with his head,” he explained patiently. “Surely you don’t need a witch to tell you that an army of five thousand has little chance of victory against one four times as large?”
Another man spoke. “What of Bannockburn? The odds were greater against Robert the Bruce.”
George’s thin lips twisted contemptuously. “Jamie Stewart was not the Bruce.”
Sir David Lyndsey opened his mouth to speak, but Huntly’s raised hand silenced him. “The flower of Scotland died yesterday, m’lords. Our minds should be occupied with more pressing matters. After I escort Lady Maxwell to her home, I shall ride for Strathbogie and do what I can to save my lands. I suggest you do the same.”
The men looked at one another, nodded, and turned their horses northward. Sir David was not convinced, but now he was alone. At last, he too turned his mount and rode away.
“You might at least have thanked me,” said George wryly as he watched the last survivors of Jamie’s army disappear over the hill.
“For what?” asked Jeanne dully.
“For saving your life. They wanted to hang you.”
“It no longer matters what happens to me.”
After a moment of startled silence, George swore long and fluently. “You little fool,” he said at last. “What of your son, the heir to Traquair, and the child you carry within you?”
Tears welled up in her eyes, spilled down her cheeks, and dripped off the end of her nose. “You don’t understand,” she said.
“Of course I understand. Do you actually believe no one else has suffered? There isn’t a family in Scotland who won’t mourn a loved one this day.” His fingers bit painfully into her shoulder. “Come, Jeanne. Our fight is just beginning. I expected more of you than this.”
“Why?”
“Not so very long ago, we were betrothed,” he reminded her. “’Tis a grave disappointment for a man to learn he was so lacking in judgment as to love a woman who wished for death in times of trouble.”
Jeanne turned to look at him, her eyes wide and troubled. “You’re a good man, George. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
He shrugged. “I survived my pain and so will you.”
“It isn’t the same.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Of course not,” she said angrily. “John was my husband, the father of my children. You have a wife. How can you compare what we had to the love you share with her?”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Of course, you are right,” he said at last.
She knew he didn’t believe anything of the sort, but the argument was over and she was grateful. It made her uncomfortable to be reminded of the disgraceful way she’d treated George. There had been no help for it, but it embarrassed her nonetheless.
He left her at the gates of Traquair. The journey home took longer than usual because they stopped several times to eat. George remembered her condition and watched carefully for her skin to pale and the blue color to appear around her lips. The first time it happened, only minutes after they’d found her mare, he’d given her food from his pack. After that, whenever a croft or farm loomed in the distance, he insisted they refurbish their supplies.
Jeanne was grateful for his solicitude. The weight of the child and the effort of keeping her emotions under control had taken their toll. She was exhausted. Without George, she would never have managed the journey.
***
For days after her return, Jeanne searched once again for the stone. She found nothing. Each time, she’d ventured further into the darkness of the same tunnel, only to be disappointed again and again. She was sure she remembered the way. The passage was the same, as was the staircase with its irregular stone steps, but the light was gone and the room with it. It was as if it had never existed outside of her own mind. Finally she