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Kelmet replied. “The news came from King John himself. There was a witness. The baron is dead.”
    “God rest his soul,” the priest intoned.
    Lady Johanna burst into tears. Both men hurried forward. She warded them off by backing up again. They stopped, uncertain now what to do. They watched as the broken-hearted woman turned away. She stumbled to her knees, crossed her arms over her stomach, and doubled over as though she’d just received a hard blow to her middle.
    Her sobs were soul-wrenching. The men let her vent her desolation for long minutes, and when she was finally able to regain a little of her control and her sobs had lessened, the priest placed his hand on her shoulder and whispered words meant to comfort her.
    She didn’t brush his hand away. MacKechnie watched as she slowly regained her dignity. She took a deep calming breath, mopped her face with the linen square he handed her, and then allowed him to assist her to her feet.
    She kept her head bowed when she addressed the men. “I would like to be alone now. I must . . . pray.”
    She didn’t wait for their agreement but turned and walked to the first pew. She knelt down on the leatherpadded kneeler and made the sign of the cross, signaling the beginning of her petitions.
    The priest went outside first. Kelmet followed. He was just pulling the door closed behind him when his mistress called out to him.
    “Swear it, Kelmet. Swear on your father’s grave my husband is truly dead.”
    “I swear it, m’lady.”
    The steward waited another minute or two to see if there was anything his mistress wanted from him and then pulled the door completely shut.
    Johanna stared at the altar for a long, long while. Her mind was a riot of thoughts and emotions.
    She was too stunned to think reasonable thoughts.
    “I must pray,” she whispered. “My husband is dead. I must pray.”
    She closed her eyes, folded her hands together, and finally began her prayer. It was a simple, direct litany that came from her heart.
    “Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God.”

CHAPTER 2
    The Highlands of Scotland, 1207
    The baron obviously had a death wish. The laird was going to accommodate him.
    The MacBain had heard through the intricate gossip vine four days before that Baron Nicholas Sanders was making his way up the last steep, winter-covered hills to the Maclaurin holding. The Englishman wasn’t a stranger and had in fact fought by the MacBain’s side during a fierce battle against the English infidels who’d taken root on Maclaurin land. Once the invigorating fight was finished, MacBain had become laird over both his own followers and the Maclaurin clan; and as their new leader, he made the decision to allow Nicholas to stay on long enough to recover from his rather substantial injuries. MacBain believed he’d been very accommodating then, damned gracious too, but for good reason. As grating as it was to acknowledge, Baron Nicholas had actually saved MacBain’s life during the battle. The laird was a proud man. It was difficult for him to say thank you, actually impossible, and so, in appreciation for saving the laird from an English sword aimed for his back, MacBain didn’t let Nicholas bleed to death. Since they didn’t have anyone experienced in the ways of healing, MacBain personally cleaned and wrapped the baron’s injuries. His generosity hadn’t stopped there, although in his mind he’d repaid the debt sufficiently. When Nicholas was strong enough to travel, the MacBain had let him have his magnificent horse back and gave him one of his own plaids to wear so he would have safe passage on his return to England. No other clan would dare touch a MacBain, so the plaid was actually better protection than chain mail.
    Aye, he’d been hospitable all right, and now the baron was determined to take advantage of his good nature.
    Damn it all, he really was going to have to kill the man.
    There was only one bright thought that kept his mood from going