leave him. There was no help for it. He would have to trust the boy.
Thomas led the way, urging his own mount and his master’s forward, worried that their forced haste would unseat his lord, more worried that the border rogues who attacked them would follow. He had never traveled this far into Scotland. No Englishman would dare without a full retinue behind him. Thomas was afraid. Scotland was a wild, uncivilized country, filled with men who fought in their bare feet and covered themselves with little more than ragged blankets. Rumors of torture and mutilation flickered through his brain.
He glanced behind at the still, hunched-over figure of his lord. His fear intensified. “Holy God and all the saints,” he prayed reverently, “please don’t let him die. Please help me find shelter.”
Hours later, his prayer was answered. Rising from a blanket of fog so thick it muffled all light and sound was a massive iron gate. Thomas pulled up his mount and sighed with relief. The border code of hospitality was strong. No one would turn away a wounded man.
“Where are we, Thomas?” The voice was thick with pain.
“I know not, Your Grace,” the boy replied honestly. “’Tis the house of a great lord from the size of it.”
Edward, king of England, grunted. The effort required to speak was too great. Once again, he closed his eyes. The lad had done well. If the house was truly the abode of a peer, he had nothing to fear.
Thomas shouted loudly and rattled the gate. It swung open. Guards bearing torches and spears materialized out of nowhere. Thomas waited, his heart in his mouth, as they positioned themselves in a menacing circle around him. He wet his lips. When he spoke, his voice cracked. He stopped and began again. “My lord is hurt.” He nodded toward his king. Instinct told him not to reveal the identity of his master. “We ask for shelter and bandages for his wound.”
Out of the mists came a rider on an enormous white stallion. The human circle parted, and the horseman stopped directly in front of Thomas. He was in full mail. Only his eyes, flat and expressionless, were visible through the slit in his bonnet.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I am Thomas Droune and this man,” he nodded toward the king, “is Lord Durbridge of Surrey. We were set upon by thieves, and his lordship was wounded.”
“For what reason does a gentleman from Surrey travel to the borders?”
Thomas sucked in his breath. He wasn’t proficient at lying, and this man was no fool. “My lord inherited property in Northumberland,” he improvised. “He came to oversee the sale.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as he considered the boy’s answer. It was unlikely and yet possible. The jewels in the lord’s sword hilt proclaimed his wealth. He was also mortally wounded. Most likely, he wouldn’t last the night. “Follow me,” he said at last.
Thomas sighed with relief. His ruse had worked. Still holding the king’s reins, he followed the man across the grounds and into the courtyard. Something at the top of the stone steps caught his eye, something white. He turned to look, and his mouth dropped open. Did angels visit the borders?
“On your knees, knave,” the man ordered. “’Tis the mistress of Traquair.”
Clumsily, Thomas dismounted and fell to his knees.
“These men seek shelter, m’lady,” the man explained to his mistress. “Lord Durbridge of Surrey was set upon by border rogues. He is wounded.”
“Rise, lad,” the lady said. “Bring your lord inside.”
Edward lifted his head as Thomas attempted to pull him from his mount. “Easy, lad,” he mumbled. “I’m not so weak that I cannot stand without a bit of help.”
“I told them you were Lord Durbridge,” Thomas whispered. “This is Traquair House. The mistress bids us enter.”
The king nodded. Leaning heavily on his squire’s arm, he walked around the horses and looked up at Mairi Maxwell. For the first time in his life, Edward I of England, overlord of Scotland, defender of the faith, conqueror of Wales, father of a dozen bastard children, looked at a woman’s face and forgot to breathe.
The bards sang of this woman around a hundred great hall fires. They sang of great beauty and unusual virtue, of eyes filled with mystery and hair soft as silk and black as a crow’s wing in the shadows, lit with a hint of fire in the sunlight. For once, they had not exaggerated. Indeed, they had not begun to do her justice.
Eyes, clear as glass and framed