Page 69 of The Knight’s Reward

Her aim was true.

Her resolve, even truer.

They spoke of ways to pacify the king, one idea being replaced by another. They had an ally in Lady Sara, who disagreed with her husband, who maintained that Neill had made a terrible mistake. But even she admitted the king’s ire would be unavoidable.

After years of relentless training, competing, proving himself . . . he now faced the most important battle of his life, and it would not take place on any training field.

“Deep in thought, brother?”

He and Geoffrey had ridden out to inspect a new building, a granary that had been commissioned some time ago. As they approached the barbican, returning to Kenshire Castle, his brother slowed and Neill knew his respite from Geoffrey’s lectures had come to an end.

“Aye,” he answered, waiting for it.

“You play a dangerous game with Lady Kathryn.”

As he’d expected. “’Tis no game, brother. As well you know.”

“What, then, is your plan?”

Neill’s silence was his answer.

“You have no plan. The king is unpredictable.”

“Aye.”

“His temper, more legendary than your tournament reputation.”

“Aye.” He knew it well. Once, at court, though he’d not seen it for himself, the king had received unwelcome news from his French emissary smashing a Roman flask dating back to 100 AD.

“What then?”

They rode through the entrance, the guards raising their sword arms to his brother. His brother made a fine earl. Everywhere they went the people of Kenshire welcomed him, offering him the same respect and deference Neill had given Geoffrey their whole lives.

Thankfully, riders from behind interrupted Geoffrey’s interrogation. Two of them, neither bearing colors that would identify them. Both he and his brother dismounted, having reached the inner courtyard, and the riders did the same.

One of them, Neill recognized at once.

“Reid Kerr,” he said, approaching the man.

Toren’s brother extended his hand, and Neill took it. When last the two had met, they’d been enemies. No longer.

“There are few my brother trusted with the message we bring. One best told in private.”

“Come,” Geoffrey said at once, gesturing to the keep. Neill felt the same tingle of anticipation he always experienced before a tourney. The Kerr brother had news of Bothwell. He must.

“I will meet you in the hall,” Reid said to his companion, who left them.

Following Geoffrey and Reid into the great keep, he realized his brother was taking them to the room he’d spied near the entranceway, a rare private space on the same floor as the great hall. No windows graced the circular stone chamber, though two wall torches lit the space. It was empty but for a bench, two chairs, and what appeared to be an abandoned altar.

“That door . . . ,” he said, spying what seemed like one of many secret passageways hidden inside the ancient castle.

“Leads to the chapel. The priest uses this space, but none other.” Geoffrey stopped and added, “You may speak freely here.”

“Bothwell was followed,” Reid said, offering no preliminaries, “and it went as expected. Though he stayed at Brockburg for the remainder of the day, one of his men left immediately after you did.”

“For Edinburgh,” Neill offered.

“Aye. And Bothwell himself followed the next day. He was questioned about his early departure, of course, but he only said he had enough information for the king.”