“Deliver me from the hot blood of youth,” one man said wearily. “Go to her. Come, the outside is cooler. The passions have more room to expand in the out-of-doors.”
When the men were gone, Roger turned back to Bronwyn. “May I apologize for my countrymen? Their rudeness is based on ignorance. They meant no harm.”
Bronwyn glared at him. “I fear it is you who are ignorant. They meant great harm, or do you consider murdering Scots no sin?”
“I protest! You’re unfair to me. I have killed few men in my life and no Scots.” He paused. “May I introduce myself? I am Roger Chatworth.” He swept his velvet cap from his head and bowed low before her.
“And I, sir, am Bronwyn MacArran, prisoner to the English and, of late, discarded bride.”
“Lady Bronwyn, will you walk with me in the garden? Perhaps the sunshine will take away some of the misery Stephen has foisted upon you.”
She turned and walked beside him. At least he might keep the guards from tossing rude jests at her. Once they were outside, she spoke again. “You speak Montgomery’s name as if you know him.”
“Have you not met him yourself?”
Bronwyn whirled on him. “Since when have I been afforded any courtesy by your English king? My father thought enough of me to name me laird of Clan MacArran, but your king thinks I have too little sense to even choose my own husband. No, I have not seen this Stephen Montgomery, nor do I know anything about him. I was told one morning I was to marry him. Since then he has not so much as acknowledged my presence.”
Roger lifted a handsome eyebrow at her. Her hostility made her eyes sparkle like blue diamonds. “I’m sure there must be an excuse for his tardiness.”
“Perhaps his excuse is that he means to assert his authority over all the Scots. He will show us who is master.”
Roger was silent for a moment as if he were considering her words. “There are those who consider the Montgomerys arrogant.”
“You say you know this Stephen Montgomery. What is he like? I don’t know if he’s short or tall, old or young.”
Roger shrugged as if his mind were elsewhere. “He is an ordinary man.” He seemed reluctant to continue. “Lady Bronwyn, tomorrow would you do me the honor of riding into the park with me? There’s a stream running across Sir Thomas’s land, and perhaps we could carry a meal there.”
“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll make an attempt on your life? I have not been allowed off these grounds for over a month.”
He smiled at her. “I would like you to know there are Englishmen with more manners than to, as you say, discard a woman on her wedding day.”
Bronwyn stiffened as she was reminded of the humiliation Stephen Montgomery had caused her. “I would very much like to ride out with you.”
Roger Chatworth smiled and nodded to a man passing them on the narrow garden path. His mind was working quickly.
Three hours later Roger returned to his apartments in the east wing of Sir Thomas Crichton’s house. He’d come there two weeks ago to talk to Sir Thomas about recruiting young men from the area. Sir Thomas had been too busy with the problems of the Scots heiress to talk of anything else. Now Roger was beginning to think fate had brought him here.
He kicked the stool out from under his sleeping squire’s feet. “I have something for you to do,” he commanded as he removed his velvet jacket and slung it across the bed. “There’s an old Scotsman named Angus lying about somewhere. Look for him and bring him to me. You’ll probably find him wherever the drink is flowing freely. And then bring me half a hogshead of ale. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord,” the boy said, backing out of the doorway, rubbing his drowsy eyes.
When Angus appeared in the doorway, he was already half drunk. He worked for Sir Thomas in some sort of capacity, but generally he did little except drink. His hair was dirty and tangled, hanging well past his shoulders in the Scots manner. He wore a long linen shirt, belted at the waist, his knees and legs bare.
Roger glanced at the man and his heathen attire with a brief look of disgust.
“You wanted me, my lord?” Angus said, his voice a soft burr. His eyes followed the small cask of ale that Roger’s squire was carrying into the room.
Chatworth dismissed the boy, poured himself an ale, sat down, and motioned Angus to do likewise. When the filthy man was seated, Roger began. “I’d like to know about Scotland.”
Angus raised his shaggy brows. “You mean where the gold is hidden? We’re a poor country, my lord, and—”
“I want none of your sermons! Save your lies for someone else. I want to know what a man who is to marry the chief of a clan should know.”
Angus stared hard for a moment, then he closed his mouth with his mug of ale. “An eponymus, eh?” he mumbled in Gaelic. “ ’Tisn’t easy to be accepted by the clan members.”
Roger took one long step across the room and grabbed the mug of ale from the man. “I didn’t ask for your judgments. Will you answer my questions, or do I kick you down the stairs?”
Angus looked at the cold mug with desperate eyes. “Ye must become a MacArran.” He looked up at Roger. “Takin’ that you mean that particular clan.”