voice. “Do ye think they’re part of the coup to overthrow King Richard?”
Alan nodded in response. “Aye, I overheard one of their servants speaking to another noble’s squire about the impossibility of one hundred and fifty thousand marks being raised to ensure his release.”
King Richard, the true king of England, had been taken captive by the Holy Roman Emperor as he returned home from the last Crusade. Already John had tried to claim that his brother had died on the journey, a lie told in an attempt to claim the throne.
The Scottish were notorious for having a tumultuous relationship with the English. While John had the backing of France, a country whose loyalty had recently extended to Scotland, it didn’t surprise Cormac one bit that the Rosses would stoop to such a level as to overthrow a king for their own benefit.
“I’m sure comments on the attempt to raise funds for the ransom warranted a few grumbles.” Cormac snorted.
Alan rolled his eyes in agreement. Nobles were feeling the emptiness in their own purses in light of Eleanor of Aquitaine’s attempt to scrape together the funds to recover her son, King Richard.
“Was there anything else?” Cormac asked.
Pip leaned heavily against Alan’s leg, resulting in the mercenary stretching a hand down to pat his dog. “Nothing for now.”
There would be more, of course. They both knew it. Treachery often ran deep and had more tunnels than a termite’s nest.
“Ye did a fine job, Alan.” Cormac nodded his appreciation toward his new mercenary.
Alan’s face lit up, and his skinny chest puffed out. “I’m glad to have pleased you, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Cormac folded his arms over his chest and watched the crowd dancing wildly to an English tune he was unfamiliar with. “Inform Duncan and Lachlan of what ye’ve told me and keep an eye on the Ross clan, especially Brodie. And if ye hear from my brother, ensure he knows as well, aye?”
Alan’s jaw set with determination, and even Pip straightened to attention at his master’s side. “I won’t let you down, sir.”
Something about Lady Isolde being promised to Brodie still churned in Cormac’s gut. Aye, her brother was defending her honor now, but why?
Cormac recalled the scene where Lord Easton had challenged Brodie, the way the English lord had clenched his slender hand into a fist after having removed his gauntlet. The action stuck in Cormac’s mind for some reason, and a note of unease nipped at the back of his mind.
There was something amiss.
While he didn’t know what it was exactly, he vowed to arrive on the practice field the following morning in time to watch the battle for Lady Isolde’s honor. While there, he would try to convince the earl to allow him to fight instead.
That failing, he wanted to be there to ensure the Englishman didn’t get killed. And if he did, at least someone could be there to protect Lady Isolde. Regardless of how the events transpired the following day, Cormac knew blood would be shed. He only hoped that not too much of it belonged to the Earl of Easton.
7
Isolde’s trepidation about her upcoming battle with Brodie did not diminish through the night. In fact, it increased from a tumble of thoughts to a tumultuous storm of worry.
She was awake long before the gentle creaks and murmurs of the servants moving about began. Her stomach roiled with unease, and her head ached with the discomfort of a sleepless night.
Matilda drew open the bed curtain and peeked in at her. “My lady, ’tis time.”
Isolde removed herself from the bed and allowed Matilda to gently wash her face and comb her hair before preparing her for the fight. It did not escape Isolde’s notice that Matilda’s brows were drawn together as though she were in physical pain.
“Are you certain you must do this, my lady?” Tears shone in the maid’s eyes.
Isolde notched her chin upward with determination. “I am certain I have no other choice and that I have been well-trained for this moment.” Mayhap her bravado in front of Matilda might pass off onto her own awareness.
Isolde could use all the confidence she could muster.
Matilda did not protest Isolde’s decision again as she dressed her mistress in Gilbert’s armor. Though the padding beneath the chainmail had been set in cedarwood to help remove the rank of stale sweat, the mustiness still rose over the metallic odor of chainmail. And beneath it all was the coppery tinge of her own fear.
She settled the