Rivals for the Crown by Kathleen Givens Page A

she was.
    The building was more than old; it was ancient. Its walls leaned precariously, its roof tiles were cracked and covered with mold. The wood of the doorjambs was riddled with wormholes; the steps that led up from the street were grey and sagging with age. Her father, she knew, would see none of that. He'd see the tall leaded glass windows that faced the street, the ones on the first floor above them, which leaned out over the street, letting lots of light into those rooms. He'd see the bustling street itself and the many
    travelers who had already let him know they would welcome a new place to stay in Berwick. He'd see the freshly painted sign that looked so out of place above the grimy door. He would see the future, and she could not see anything now but an old building that needed years of work. Her father ran up the steps and pushed open the door, ignoring the creak of protest it made as it swung inward.
    "Come in, come in," he said, as though he were inviting them into the royal apartments in London rather than this filthy and empty inn in Scotland that would now be their livelihood as well as their home.
    That's one good thing about the inn, Rachel thought, not moving. It is not in England. But...
    Mama walked gingerly up the stairs, holding her skirts high above her boots, then stepped into the gloom.
    "Well," she said, her voice echoing out the door to where Sarah and Rachel stood waiting. "Well," she said again, in the tone that Rachel knew meant that Mama was not pleased. But she knew, as they all did, that the inn had already been purchased and that there was no sense in protesting.
    "Yes, Jacob," Mama said, "we can make this work. Girls, come in and see. We need your ideas for our new home."
    Sarah glanced at Rachel with raised eyebrows, lifted her skirts high, and entered the inn. Rachel paused, turning to look over her shoulder at the men who patiently waited to carry in their
    possessions, then behind them, at the town of Berwick. Home, she thought, trying out the word. Never, although I may live here the rest of my life. Berwick was their refuge and where they would now live, but it would never be home.
    It was not a dreadful place, this busy port town on the Tweed. None of them wanted to be here, but after two months of traveling and then a week waiting across the river while Papa searched for a place for them to live, they were all grateful that their journey was over. They'd arrived this morning on one of the ferries that constantly crossed the Tweedmouth estuary. She'd gripped the rail of the shallow ferryboat as they'd neared the city, studying it, hoping to find something to admire. She'd found little.
    "Rachel..." She heard her mother calling her from the doorway to the inn. Still she did not move. Below her, Berwick's wooden walls rose from the peninsula on which it was built, Berwick Castle rising higher still above the houses and shops that clustered around the welcoming harbor. The city faced the river rather than the sea, which sheltered its harbor from the harsh storms and tidal flows of the open ocean. Legend said Berwick had been founded by St. Boisel, a Saxon saint, for whom the cathedral presently being constructed had been dedicated 150 years before, but there was little that was saintly about the port that hosted ships from all over the world. How ironic it was that St. Boisel's Day was July 18, the very day that Edward of England had expelled them. The same day King Edward had signed the treaty that bound his son to his sister's granddaughter. But the child queen had died, and while that was sad, Rachel found some solace in Edward's plan being thwarted.
    "Rachel, come in," Mama said.
    Rachel lifted her skirts but paused a moment longer in the street. She told herself not to be so melancholy. They'd survived being ousted from their home, and the journey here, with their possessions intact. Her family had been fortunate. Jacob had been to Berwick years before, had stayed at the inn and