The Knight (Highland Guard #7.5)(18)
James shrugged. It wasn’t. He didn’t know how to explain it other than something had struck a chord in him when he’d read that letter. The thing that De Wilton had been reaching for—the thing that had cost him his life—had been a letter from a woman in England. The lady he’d hoped to marry.
Joanna had tried to tell him that De Wilton had a sweetheart back home, but James had been too jealous to believe her.
The lady had written that she would agree to marry the English commander if he could hold “Castle Dangerous” for a year. It was the kind of test the troubadours had sung about, harkening to the great age of chivalry when knights had proved their worthiness on the lists and undertaken other challenges and feats of bravery in the name of love.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Boyd said. “He moved and you acted on instinct. He had no right to ask for mercy in the first place. Were the roles reversed he would have struck you down without hesitation—and become a rich man in the process.”
They all had high prices on their heads, but the Black Douglas’s was higher than most.
“I know.” But James couldn’t deny the guilt he’d experienced on reading the note. So instead of taking the castle by force, he’d offered the English soldiers holed up in the keep terms for surrender. Terms that had included a safe escort and enough money to see them home in exchange for the solemn vow that they would never step on Scottish ground again.
Boyd shook his head and gave him a long stare. “You and Seton with your damned chivalry. Pretty soon you’ll be spouting off knightly codes like Randolph.”
James gave a real shudder. Though the king’s nephew had come around to “fighting like a brigand” as he’d once accused Bruce, Randolph still had his moments of knightly superiority. But James couldn’t wait for him to hear about this latest victory—let him try to top this. “Bite your damned tongue.”
“Does this have something to do with the lass you went to see yesterday?”
“No,” James said flatly, turning sharply away.
But did it? Perhaps a little. He shouldn’t have made a promise to Joanna, but he had, and he would do his best to honor it. She would be distressed by De Wilton’s death, but perhaps this show of mercy would help atone for his mistake.
A moment later, Seton led the prisoners out and James gave the order to light the fires.
As they were without siegecraft weaponry like trebuchets or siege engines, they would burn everything first and assault the weakened walls later with great timber logs, iron bars, picks, and whatever else they could find.
Jaw locked, James watched as the fires scattered around the castle sparked, crackled, and roared to life, building and building with intensity. Smoke filled his lungs and burned his eyes, but still he refused to turn away. He stood and watched as his home went up in flames. As the place that he’d loved more than anywhere else was destroyed. He held his arms tightly at his side, as if to stop himself from reaching for something to hold on to. Joanna, he realized. He wished she were here by his side, her small hand tucked in his. She would understand what he was feeling. She knew what this place meant to him, that the castle was a connection to his father that it felt like he was severing forever. He needed her softness, her kindness, needed to feel her soothing presence by his side.
But at what cost? The sound of her ultimatum still rang through his head.
Maybe he should talk to her? But the way he was feeling right now, he feared what he would say. He feared how much he needed her.
Damn it, he couldn’t marry her—no matter how much he wanted her by his side. How could she not see that? Didn’t she know him at all? Restoring his family’s name and seeing the Douglases brought to greatness was the only thing that had mattered to him for a long time.
A harrowing cracking made him flinch. A moment later the roof of the hall came crashing down. He stared at the smoldering wreckage, unable to swallow the tight ball in his throat.
Only when embers started to fly and the wall of heat became unbearable did he allow Boyd to pull him away. “Come, the men found a barrel of whisky in the storehouse. We return to Park Castle and toast our victory. What say you?”
James hesitated. He’d been drinking all night, and it hadn’t done a damned thing to ease the ache in his chest. He knew only one thing—one person—could do that. Jo would know how to make him feel better. He needed to see her. “I—”
But Boyd cut him off. “What the hell is he doing here?”
James followed the direction of his gaze and saw the party of riders approaching. His mouth thinned. The bright crimson and gold of the riders’ arms blared the newcomers’ identity. The fact that they were making no effort to conceal them spoke of the authority, confidence, and boldness of its leader. James’s thoughts echoed Boyd’s: What the hell was Randolph doing here?
“I don’t know,” he said. “I thought he was with the King at Dunstaffnage.”
A few minutes later, Sir Thomas Randolph and his men drew up beside them in the field overlooking the still burning castle. After jumping down, Randolph drew off his helm and tucked it under his arm, raking his fingers through his crimped dark hair. His gaze met James’s with more understanding than James wished. “I see you’ve met with success.”
James regarded his compatriot and rival with an unblinking gaze. Though by right, they were natural adversaries—both vying for position in Bruce’s retinue—James and he had become friends. For all Randolph’s brash arrogance and knightly pomposity, he was a skilled warrior with a heavy streak of honor in him that might occasionally get him into trouble. They were more alike in that regard than James wanted to acknowledge.