Читать книгу Captive of the Border Lord - Blythe Gifford - Страница 11

The celebration continued long after they had ushered Johnnie and Cate to the marriage bed. Bessie shooed the rest away from the door, enticing them back to the hall with fresh ale in order to give the newlyweds privacy. Back in the hall, dance turned to song. Odd Jock was trying to teach Cate’s hound to sing.

The beast sang as well as Jock, to her ear.

Carwell’s men mingled without incident. Even Rob was chatting amiably as she made one more trip through the courtyard to the kitchen.

Carwell saw her go, but this time he did not follow.

The fog had become a soaking rain and she leaned against the kitchen door, weary, before making a final dash across the courtyard to the tower. The Tait sisters and the servant girl would help her clean up tomorrow, but she had yet to accommodate all of Carwell’s men. Six could sleep in the hall. The other five would have to share the large room on the top storey, but where would the warden sleep?

Rob was sleeping with the men so Johnnie and Cate could have the master’s room. That left only one bed.

Hers.

Pushing away from the door, she eyed the sack of oats where the Tait girl had dozed. It would make a good enough mattress, she supposed.

Rob’s voice and the familiar strains of the Brunson Ballad pulled her back. When he spoke, her brother was brief and gruff, but when he sang, his voice soared.

Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars,

Strong as the wind that sweeps Carter’s

Bar.

Sure-footed and stubborn, ne ’er danton

nor dun

That’s what they say of the band Brunson

Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man

Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man.

Inside the hall, the laughter had quieted. The rest were drifting off to bed. She leaned over to whisper in Carwell’s ear, ‘I’ve a place for you to sleep, if you’ll follow me.’

She spied a trace of weariness in his eyes as he rose and scolded herself, silently, regretting her tart tongue. He was two days’ ride from home and a guest in her house. She must give him no reason to complain of Brunson hospitality.

Opening the door to her room, she shivered. Thinking first of the guests, she had neglected to see to the fire. ‘It is a simple room,’ she said, kneeling to rekindle the flames. He was no doubt accustomed to tapestries and candles and pluckers of lutes. Well, Brunsons prided themselves on their prowess, not their possessions. ‘But I hope it will be satisfactory.’

‘This is your room,’ he said, still standing at the door.

‘Yes.’ She stood, dusting off her hands.

‘I won’t force you to give up your bed.’

‘Well, you’ll not be sharing it with me.’ Her eyes clashed with his.

‘I was not insulting you with that suggestion. Don’t insult me by suggesting I was.’

The words were sharp. Sharper than any she’d ever heard him say. So, it seemed the man did have a temper. And she had just the tongue to provoke it.

She looked down at the floor. That would have to serve as an apology. ‘Take the bed. You are a guest in my house.’

‘An uninvited one. I’ll join my men in the hall.’ He stepped into the corridor and smiled at her, as if to gloss over his previous words. ‘Rest well.’

She pulled down the bedsheets, surprised to see her hand shaking.

And outside the door, she heard what might have been a smothered curse.

When Bessie roused the newlyweds from bed the next morning to join Carwell’s meeting, their drowsy smiles hurt her heart. She hoped they had passed a wonderful night.

The rest of the day promised to be unpleasant.

They gathered with Rob and Carwell in the private area behind the public reception hall. In the centre of the room, a glowing brazier generated feeble protection against the cold.

Carwell looked as if he had slept no better than she.

‘King James,’ he began, ‘was forced to break off the siege against the Earl of Angus.’ Until only months ago, the earl, stepfather to the King, had also been the regent. Now he was the King’s worst enemy. ‘The King blames this defeat on the fact that the Brunson men he called for never arrived.’

She exchanged a quick glance with her brother John. The Brunson men had been doing more important things.

‘In addition,’ Carwell continued, ‘it has come to the ears of the King that Scarred Willie Storwick has disappeared. And may be dead.’

Johnnie and Cate exchanged uneasy glances. Bessie frowned, but bit her tongue. No doubt the King knew because Carwell himself had sent word.

‘No loss to either side of the border,’ Rob said, finally, ‘even if he was English. Would have been hanged long before if you had brought him to justice as you should.’

She expected an argument, or at least an explanation, but Carwell remained silent, his gaze steady. Heavy-lidded eyes gave him a calm look, but they also hid his expression. ‘The King, I am sure, would understand if someone, a Brunson, perhaps, had killed the man in self-defence.’

John shrugged.

Rob shook his head. ‘An attack is the best defense.’

Shush, Rob. But she held her tongue. His words were true enough, but not what the King, or Carwell, wanted to hear.

The warden did not hesitate. ‘Did you attack him?’

She held her breath. Her brother had near said as much.

‘I did not. Though if I had, I’d not be sorry.’

Carwell swung his gaze from Rob and let it rest on John. ‘Did you?’

Cate reached for her husband’s hand.

‘Storwick did not die by my sword,’ John said.

The warden nodded, as if he had known no explanation would be forthcoming. ‘So,’ Carwell continued, ‘can you explain how God, in his infinite wisdom, managed to kill the man?’

He paused, perhaps still hoping someone would. John kept his eyes on Carwell’s, not glancing at Rob or Bessie. Or Cate.

No one spoke.

Finally, John shrugged. ‘Who can fathom how God works his wonders?’

Bessie let out a breath, slowly. An accusation that could not be proven could always be denied. Carwell knew that as well as any of them. Better.

‘His death is a mystery,’ Rob said, ‘but the English dogs will come across the border soon enough to seek retribution. And we’ll need every Brunson man here when that happens.’

Bessie had no trouble deciphering Carwell’s fleeting look this time.

Anger.

‘Justice and punishment on this side of the border are my responsibility,’ Carwell said. ‘Not theirs.’

‘I wish you had remembered that earlier,’ John said. ‘When you had Storwick in your hands.’

Before he could shield his expression, she caught a glimpse of the anger again.

Just as quickly, he masked it.

‘I’m well aware of my duties.’ The arched brow and the crook at the corner of his mouth were well short of a smile. ‘And as you say, the man was a menace to the English as well as the Scots. I believe the English Warden is giving prayers of thanks along with those for Storwick’s immortal soul.’

They exchanged cautious glances, then Bessie sent up her own prayer.

Justice and punishment are my responsibility. He had not travelled for two days to confirm what he already knew. ‘So why are you here?’

The man’s eyes held hers, for a moment, and she had the disquieting feeling that he could see behind her eyes.

She closed them against his gaze, as if that could stop him from seeing the truth.

When she opened them, he was looking at her brothers again.

‘Those of us who live on the Borders understand God’s mysterious ways. The King seeks earthly explanation. And blame. Right now, he blames you. For all of it.’

‘A few Brunson men wouldn’t have won his siege for him,’ John said. He had told the family as much. At sixteen, the King was no expert in the art of war.

Carwell raised his brows. True or not, this was not what the King wanted to hear. Or would choose to believe. ‘Yet I sent every man I could spare to fight by the King’s side.’

The rest had fought beside Brunson men in the chase for Willie Storwick. Carwell, she noticed, managed to keep both the King and the Borderers placated. Most of the time.

‘But you,’ he continued, looking at John, ‘refused the King’s command to send Brunson men. You’re suspected of killing an Englishman. And now you’ve married without bothering to inform the King, let alone seek his permission.’ He sighed. ‘The only man in Scotland the King hates more right now is the Earl of Angus.’

John sighed. He had been as close to the King as a brother. Once. They had known there would be repercussions when he chose kin over king.

Still, his family were glad that he did so.

‘You have one chance to redeem yourselves,’ Carwell said. ‘The King has demanded all men loyal to him to take a Great Oath.’

‘To him?’ John asked.

He shook his head. ‘Against Angus. Pledging you will do everything in your power to destroy the man.’

Something the King had so far failed, utterly, to do.

Bessie looked to Rob. As head man of the Brunson family, the decision would be his.

‘I’ve no love for Angus or his kin,’ he began. ‘But I’ll take no oath against a family that’s done mine no harm.’ He didn’t take his eyes from Carwell. ‘There are enough who have.’

Carwell’s careful calm broke. With an exasperated sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Take the oath, for God’s sake. He’s going to be angry enough when he learns that Johnnie has married.’

Rob and John shook their heads at the same moment, at the same angle, and she smiled, seeing her father in them both. Seeing her family as one again.

‘An oath is a sacred thing,’ John said. It was one of the lessons coming home had taught him. ‘We’ll not take one for the King’s pleasure.’

She saw Carwell straighten his shoulders, as if all that had come before was only prelude. She held her breath, waiting for him to speak of why he had come.

‘Then you give me no choice. As warden, it is my duty to secure a pledge of peace from the Brunson family. Something to ensure your future good behaviour.’

‘Since our past has been so reprehensible?’ she said. Who was this man to demand oaths and pledges? ‘If we won’t swear an oath, why would we give a pledge?’

But John, who knew the ways of the King, understood it first. ‘It’s not words the King wants. It’s a hostage.’

‘Hostage is a harsh word.’ There was Carwell’s smile again. She was beginning to hate the curve of his lips.

‘If we displease him again, the King’s treatment will be harsher,’ Johnnie said.

Rob, Bessie, Johnnie and Cate looked at each other.

‘I should go,’ John said. ‘I’m the one he knows.’

The one who failed him.

‘He won’t like what you have to say,’ Rob answered.

John sighed. ‘I can face that.’

Shaking his head, Black Rob looked all of his name and more. ‘He’ll make you face it at the end of a rope, Johnnie.’

No. Her heart quickened its beats. Not Johnnie. Not when he had finally come home, not when he was just wed.

His bride threaded her fingers with his. ‘If you must go, I will go with you.’

Rob rose, trying to tower over the situation. ‘I won’t let you.’

‘But I promised the King when I came—’

Carwell jumped into the middle of the argument. ‘You, then.’ He pointed to Rob. ‘If the head man of the Brunson family went to court and gave his oath, the King would—’

‘Bah!’ Rob said. ‘I’ll give no man an oath that would prevent me from protecting my kin.’

Not Rob. She held her breath. Rob would bend his stiff neck for no one. Not even a king. He would only make things worse for himself. For all of them.

Her youngest brother rose. ‘We’ll think on it.’

That was Johnnie. Saving face. Buying time.

But time would not change facts. Her father had died less than three months ago. Rob had taken his place as head of the family. Johnnie was home and happy.

Her brothers, Cate, the family she loved so much her heart hurt to think of it, needed to be left alone, not torn apart and sent away.

Carwell rose, his courtier’s grace clashing with the harsh set of his brow. ‘Don’t think too long,’ he said. ‘The King is not a patient man.’

She felt herself rise from the stool and stand on her own two feet. No. She would not let him do this.

‘It will be me, then,’ she said. ‘I will stand surety for the Brunsons.’