Page 69 of The Scot

The sobs eventually faded, and her shoulders stopped shaking. Even so, Roysa could not force herself to get up. She was more tired now than she’d been when she woke.

“Roysa?” her sister said softly.

“Tell Cait”—her tongue felt as if it was two sizes bigger than it should be—“tell Cait I am sorry.”

She might need the woman Roysa wanted to be, but certainly Terric’s sister had no use for the one who could not even gather herself enough to leave her bed.

“I am sorry.”

Idalia didn’t move. Roysa wanted to tell her sister how grateful she was for it, but she didn’t have the strength to lift her head. Instead, she kept her eyes shut, hoping, wishing for sleep to take her.

“Roysa.”

She opened her eyes reluctantly, not recognizing the voice.

“Roysa?”

Groaning, she turned toward Terric’s sister, mortified to be seen in such a state by a woman she hardly knew.

“I’ve a tray for you.”

Breathing in the smell of freshly baked bread, Roysa realized she was actually hungry. But hunger wasn’t the reason she sat up. If Cait could collect herself enough to come here, surely she could at least sit up in bed.

“I should be in your chamber with a tray of food.”

Cait stood and fetched the tray from her bedside table. Settling it on her lap, Roysa eyed the bread and pottage hungrily.

“Please eat.”

She did not have to be prompted, but even if she were not so hungry, Roysa would have listened anyway. Cait was small, but her resolve was not.

“’Tis night already,” Roysa commented as she tore off a chunk of bread. “Idalia was here this morn.”

“Yesterday morn.”

“I slept through the whole day. And night?” Was it possible?

Her next question was answered before she could ask it. Cait shook her head. “There’s been no word of Terric. But neither,” she hurried to add, “has there been any tidings from Ulster or Langham. A scout returned this morn with no word of any movement.”

Understandable considering the bridge had been destroyed.

“Did Terric tell you,” Cait said softly, “about when he met the others?”

Her hand froze partway to her mouth. “He told me some,” she admitted.

“It was a hot day. The hottest in many summers. And my first tournament. I was so excited to be there, with my brothers.”

For a woman who had never returned to England after the event she was about to describe, Cait appeared remarkably calm.

“I should have never left the tents unchaperoned, but I did.” Cait looked up, meeting Roysa’s eyes. “Terric had never competed in the tournament before, and he was smaller than others his age.”

Finished with the bread, Roysa attacked the pottage. Her mother would be appalled at her lack of manners, but she was so very hungry.

“I’ll admit I wasn’t confident he could win . . . I could not summon the will to watch. He was not yet old enough to joust or participate in the melee, but even one-on-one with the sword . . .”

She tried to imagine a small Terric and simply could not.

As if sensing her thoughts, Cait sighed. “Young Terric and the man you know are very different, but the boy and the man do have one thing in common. My brother never let anyone keep him down—no matter how many times he was knocked to the ground, he’d get up again. Even as his opponent laughed at him.”