was.
Doubtless, though, it was just some family treasure or other. If so, even if he did find it, his father or Will would claim it. Nevertheless, for all his effort to restrain his wretched temper, it had been his undoing again. So, whatever course he took next, it should be one to teach him humility.
On that thought, he knew just where he would go, for although his father and brother had rarely made him feel at home, one family in Scotland always did.
Chapter 1
Stirling Castle, April 1380
T he Earl of Fife, hereditary governor of Stirling Castle and third son of the King of Scots, sat behind the large desk in his audience chamber, sternly regarding the well-dressed young man who stood before him. Fife was a good judge of men, and this one seemed more confident in his presence than most. Fife’s formidable personality and ever-increasing power intimidated most men—with good reason.
“Who sent you here to me?”
“I came of my own accord, my lord,” his visitor said. “I own, though, that I came to you because I think we can help each other. I am told that, rightfully, you should be heir to the throne of Scotland but must bow to a lesser man.”
“It is true that I am more capable than my brother Carrick will ever be of ruling this country as it should be ruled,” Fife admitted. “However, Robert the Bruce set the order of succession years ago and ordained that it must go to the eldest son.”
“But the Scottish Parliament can alter that order, can it not?”
“Aye, if one could persuade them to do so.”
“I’m told also that you are a religious man, a follower of the Kirk of Rome.”
“That is true enough,” Fife said.
“If the Pope were to support you instead of the Earl of Carrick as the next King of Scots, would that not increase your chances of persuading the Parliament?”
“Aye, sure, but what would his holiness ask of me in return?”
“We seek information about the death of a cousin, the son of my late father’s brother. He disappeared whilst trying to find and return an item of some value to the Kirk of Rome. His own men believe he died at the hands of certain Scottish nobles.”
“What is this cousin’s name?”
“Waldron of Edgelaw, my lord.”
Fife leaned forward. “And these Scottish nobles. Do you know their names?”
“The Sinclairs, my lord, likewise cousins of Waldron on their mother’s side.”
“I did hear rumors about his death,” Fife said, “but my sources told me that from all they could learn, he died in a fair fight. Tell me more of this item he sought and why you think the Sinclairs had aught to do with his death.”
“First let me assure you that if you can aid me, his holiness will be grateful. You may be sure of great financial reward as well as holy favor.”
“Then something of
great
value is involved,” Fife said. “What is it?”
His visitor nodded. “They told me you were astute, my lord. ’Tis true that what Waldron sought was of enormous value, but it does belong to Holy Kirk.”
“Aye, sure, and I’d faithfully see it returned,” Fife promised. “But what is it?”
“Treasure, my lord, stolen from the Kirk nearly a century ago by the Knights Templar. Those who sent me believe the Sinclairs guard it now. Likewise, a woman now in their care but who is soon to marry and depart for the Highlands spent a fortnight with my cousin right before his death. Her name is Lady Adela Macleod.”
Fife was thinking. He said musingly, “Sir William Sinclair was one of the men who attempted to carry the Bruce’s heart to the Holy Land.”
“Aye, sir, and a Templar.”
“Perhaps, but you are the second man in as many weeks to speak to me of hidden treasure. I must think on this. Return tomorrow, and we’ll discuss it further.”
Roslin Castle, Thursday, May 10, 1380
“Smile, Adela. We brides should look happy on our wedding day!”
Lady Adela Macleod turned to her younger sister, Sorcha, who was certainly beaming brightly enough
Doubtless, though, it was just some family treasure or other. If so, even if he did find it, his father or Will would claim it. Nevertheless, for all his effort to restrain his wretched temper, it had been his undoing again. So, whatever course he took next, it should be one to teach him humility.
On that thought, he knew just where he would go, for although his father and brother had rarely made him feel at home, one family in Scotland always did.
Chapter 1
Stirling Castle, April 1380
T he Earl of Fife, hereditary governor of Stirling Castle and third son of the King of Scots, sat behind the large desk in his audience chamber, sternly regarding the well-dressed young man who stood before him. Fife was a good judge of men, and this one seemed more confident in his presence than most. Fife’s formidable personality and ever-increasing power intimidated most men—with good reason.
“Who sent you here to me?”
“I came of my own accord, my lord,” his visitor said. “I own, though, that I came to you because I think we can help each other. I am told that, rightfully, you should be heir to the throne of Scotland but must bow to a lesser man.”
“It is true that I am more capable than my brother Carrick will ever be of ruling this country as it should be ruled,” Fife admitted. “However, Robert the Bruce set the order of succession years ago and ordained that it must go to the eldest son.”
“But the Scottish Parliament can alter that order, can it not?”
“Aye, if one could persuade them to do so.”
“I’m told also that you are a religious man, a follower of the Kirk of Rome.”
“That is true enough,” Fife said.
“If the Pope were to support you instead of the Earl of Carrick as the next King of Scots, would that not increase your chances of persuading the Parliament?”
“Aye, sure, but what would his holiness ask of me in return?”
“We seek information about the death of a cousin, the son of my late father’s brother. He disappeared whilst trying to find and return an item of some value to the Kirk of Rome. His own men believe he died at the hands of certain Scottish nobles.”
“What is this cousin’s name?”
“Waldron of Edgelaw, my lord.”
Fife leaned forward. “And these Scottish nobles. Do you know their names?”
“The Sinclairs, my lord, likewise cousins of Waldron on their mother’s side.”
“I did hear rumors about his death,” Fife said, “but my sources told me that from all they could learn, he died in a fair fight. Tell me more of this item he sought and why you think the Sinclairs had aught to do with his death.”
“First let me assure you that if you can aid me, his holiness will be grateful. You may be sure of great financial reward as well as holy favor.”
“Then something of
great
value is involved,” Fife said. “What is it?”
His visitor nodded. “They told me you were astute, my lord. ’Tis true that what Waldron sought was of enormous value, but it does belong to Holy Kirk.”
“Aye, sure, and I’d faithfully see it returned,” Fife promised. “But what is it?”
“Treasure, my lord, stolen from the Kirk nearly a century ago by the Knights Templar. Those who sent me believe the Sinclairs guard it now. Likewise, a woman now in their care but who is soon to marry and depart for the Highlands spent a fortnight with my cousin right before his death. Her name is Lady Adela Macleod.”
Fife was thinking. He said musingly, “Sir William Sinclair was one of the men who attempted to carry the Bruce’s heart to the Holy Land.”
“Aye, sir, and a Templar.”
“Perhaps, but you are the second man in as many weeks to speak to me of hidden treasure. I must think on this. Return tomorrow, and we’ll discuss it further.”
Roslin Castle, Thursday, May 10, 1380
“Smile, Adela. We brides should look happy on our wedding day!”
Lady Adela Macleod turned to her younger sister, Sorcha, who was certainly beaming brightly enough
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