Page 11 of The Scot

Chapter 6

“Ilove the snow.” Idalia had just walked into her room, but she’d paused at the window, looking down at the tufts of white collecting beneath them. It reminded Roysa of their childhood, of the snowstorms they’d played in together, only to run inside and drink warm beverages by the fire.

Oh, she’d missed her sisters.

“As do I,” she agreed. “Thankfully, it held off for my journey.”

Idalia crossed the room to her. “You missed the morning meal.”

“Aye.” Roysa and her father had always been the first to rise at Stanton. Of the three daughters, she probably had the closest relationship with him because of all of their early morning discussions. But neither Idalia nor Tilly had ever resented the fact.

“I still cannot believe you’re here.”

She looked at her sister with fresh eyes. Something had changed about Idalia—and then the truth struck her.

“You are happy.” Her sister had told her it was so in her letters, of course, but now she was seeing it for herself.

Idalia smiled. “Aye, very much so. You will adore Lance as much as I do.”

Roysa already liked him. The former blacksmith looked at her sister in a way she’d never seen her parents look at each other. And they’d had a long, mostly happy union.

But their love was the kind that grew from companionship, from being forced together. Her sister’s was a different kind of love entirely.

She hugged her then, so very happy that Idalia, at least, had not been fooled about the man she was marrying. If only one of them could have happiness, she would have gladly given it to her sister. Closing her eyes, she rested her head on Idalia’s shoulder.

When Roysa finally pulled away, she allowed her sister to wipe an errant tear from her cheek.

“’Tis I who should be caring for you.”

Idalia turned back to the window. “You’ve done so for many years. But with mother’s illness . . .”

Roysa winced, anger at Walter bubbling inside her. He’d pretended to care for her, but the illusion had faded quickly. No man who truly loved a woman would not allow her to visit her gravely ill mother. She could never forgive him for that. Dead or nay.

“It was not your fault.”

She disagreed but knew better than to say so. “I should have been there,” she said simply.

Idalia reached out to touch the glass. “Your duty was to marry.”

Roysa placed her fingers above her sisters, pressing the pads to the cold glass. “Father would never agree to such an expense.”

They both dropped their hands at once.

“Nay. He would sooner incur the expense than agree to allow you a choice of suitors.” Idalia looked straight at her. “You never had a choice, and because of it, convinced yourself you were in love with Walter. I’m sorry for it, but please do not blame yourself. For mother, for your marriage. For any of it.”

“Not even for feeling relief at Walter’s death?” She let the words hang between them.

“Not even for that.” There was no surprise in Idalia’s voice—she’d guessed at her feelings if not the reason for them.

They watched the flakes cover the castle walls, the ground below.

“So . . . why are you here?” Roysa asked.

Idalia took a deep breath as if preparing for a long story. “You know how many of the barons, including father, are displeased with the king?”

“Of course.” She probably knew as well as anyone her father’s opinion of King John. Of the cruel taxes that had forced some of his people to give up their ancestral land. Of his failed campaign at Bouvines, a battle none of his men had wanted. Her father had said it was King John’s single worst decision—one that ensured some of his staunchest supporters would desert him.

“Opposition has been gathering for months. An order of knights was formed. Lance, Terric, and two men you have not met.”