Blythe Gifford - Return of the Border Warrior

He cursed himself for a fool. Instead of easing Rob’s decision, he’d forced it. ‘And join the king after?’ If they found the man quickly, they could still meet the king in East Lothian by early October, though John would have to soothe his sovereign’s temper when he discovered they’d taken vengeance against an English Storwick.

‘I’ve not decided.’ Rob’s lips curved, less in a smile than in a sneer.

Not a defeat, then. Rob had not said no.

‘Ride with us, Johnnie. That is, if you’re not a fazart.’

Fazart . The worst kind of coward.

John stood now, shaking his head. It wasn’t death that he feared. ‘I will not join you in vengeance. Not when I promised the king I would stop it.’

Rob, who rarely smiled, did. ‘Ah, and promises must be kept, eh?’

A rueful smile touched John’s lips and, for a moment, they shared it. ‘Perhaps I’ve a drop of Brunson blood after all.’

‘What happens,’ Rob said, finally, ‘if you can’t keep it, your promise to the king?’

He had not faced that unpleasant prospect before. ‘If I’m a careful and lucky man, I’ll never lay eyes on King James again.’

‘And if you’re not?’

John liked the king and the king liked him, but he did not fool himself. Friendship and sentiment did not rule a king, not even this one. He’d cut down any enemies who stood in his way.

And any friends, as well.

‘If not, my happy life could be a short one.’ That was the fact of it. Now Rob knew.

John wondered whether he’d care.

His brother crossed his arms and shook his head. ‘Then I can only wish you luck, Johnnie. And that you enjoy it while you can.’

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