Читать книгу His Border Bride - Blythe Gifford, Blythe Gifford - Страница 12

Gavin let go of her wrist, resisting the feeling of loss. He wondered how much the man had seen.

And heard.

Well, death might be a welcome escape.

‘Now raise your hands and turn around.’

Slowly, Gavin did, assessing the man up close for the first time. The baron was broad and gnarled and lean with years of work and war.

‘Am I speaking to another Carr?’

‘You’re speaking to the Carr,’ he snarled.

He was careful with his smile, but he looked over at her, gratified to see she was flushed. ‘I thought Clare was a Carr.’

‘Out of my loins.’

He caught the hint of pride. ‘Well, Mistress Clare invited me in.’

‘And tell me why I should let you stay.’

‘Is your daughter’s word not reason enough?’

‘I gave you no promise. I said—’

‘Quiet, daughter.’ His sword never wavered. ‘She let you in, but you didn’t tell her the whole truth about yourself.’ The man’s sword touched his throat. Gavin swallowed, feeling the cold point against his skin. One quick thrust and he’d be a dead man.

‘I told her I had Scots blood. If you know my story, you know that’s true.’

‘Would you swear you didn’t kill those people?’ Clare asked.

He hesitated. Men would think what they liked of him. He had learned long ago not to care and no longer wasted breath trying to change their minds. Now, this woman, like all the rest, seemed to believe the worst.

Only this time, it mattered.

‘I would.’ He started to lower his arms.

‘Keep your hands up,’ she said. ‘Swear you won’t harm us?’

Did she really think he’d set fire to the place? ‘I swear.’

‘And that you won’t open our doors to the Inglis,’ her father added.

‘I swear it.’

‘On a knight’s honour?’ she prodded, not trusting him even now.

‘On my knight’s honour.’ Words that meant much to her and nothing to him.

Carr lowered his sword, though his suspicious stare didn’t ease. Gavin let his hands drop, slowly. ‘So I can stay?’

‘I’m still thinking on it,’ the man replied sharply. ‘What do you want and why are you here?’

To find peace, he thought. Vain hope. There was no truce for the war within. ‘I’m just a poor knight between wars, seeking shelter and a lord to serve.’

‘A few weeks ago you served the King of the Inglis. Why should I trust you to fight with the Scots?’

‘Half my blood’s as Scottish as yours.’

‘And the other half is as Inglis as Edward’s.’

Her voice came from beside him. ‘And which is the stronger?’

He wished he knew. Sometimes, he felt as if blood was at war with blood, tainted by his father’s sins. ‘As long as I serve you, it’s my Scots blood that will be speaking.’

‘Be sure of it.’ The baron stepped closer and Gavin caught a whiff of a warm hearth and a welcome pint. Things he hadn’t seen for a long time.

‘Aye. You have my word.’

‘And why,’ she asked, ‘should we trust your word?’

Silent, he gave no answer. Trust could only be earned, not promised.

The baron squinted at him and motioned Clare to the stairs. ‘Leave us, daughter.’

‘But, Da—’

‘You asked for time alone. Give me the same.’

He wondered, as she picked up her dagger and turned towards the stairs, what she’d wanted from those moments alone with him. And whether she’d got it.

Carr leaned against the stone wall, his eyes searching the dark hillside. ‘Why are you here, Fitzjohn? The truth.’

‘I was born here. And now I’ve come home.’ Or at least, he’d come looking for home again. ‘England wasn’t …’ He let the word drift, then shrugged. ‘It wasn’t that.’

An owl hooted and then was silent, giving its prey no more warning.

‘If I let you stay, Fitzjohn, you must know that if anything suspicious, anything at all, happens while you’re here, I won’t ask any questions. I’ll just kill you.’

That was progress, Gavin decided. ‘Do I scare you that much?’

‘You don’t scare me at all.’

‘No?’ He scared the daughter, though she tried not to show it. ‘I’ve a dangerous reputation.’

The old man gave a snort. ‘Well, so have I. And I’ve had longer to earn mine.’

They both grinned then. And he felt a kinship with the man, something he’d never felt on either side of the border. He wondered what his life might have been like, if he’d had such a father.

‘Well, if you’re as clever as you are dangerous, you’ll put me to work doing something more than sweeping the mews and hooting at owls.’ He watched the man’s face for clues and saw none. ‘You could use a seasoned man.’

‘You think so?’ He looked as if he didn’t care what Fitzjohn thought.

‘Well, at least you could use one who understands that you don’t meet an army in the field when you can defeat them in the woods.’ The comte had spent the afternoon whining about Douglas’s tactics, as if how the war was fought was more important than whether it was won or lost.

The old man’s grin split his face. ‘He’s a pompous, puffed-up idiot, the Frenchman. You said it sure.’ He studied Gavin’s face. ‘I’ll think on what you said.’

‘Dangerous men don’t need to think long.’

‘What’s the hurry?’

He couldn’t escape war here. But maybe he could hide from it long enough to stitch up the worst of his wounds. The ones people couldn’t see. ‘I’ve been away ten years. It’s time I reclaimed my Scots side.’ When he had left this land, he had lost a piece of himself. Now, he hoped it was still here where he could find it.

‘Can you live up to it?’

‘Do I have to kill someone to prove it?’

The man stared at Gavin a long time without a word.

‘Not yet,’ the old man said, finally. The determination in his eyes matched his daughter’s. Gavin hoped the old man would come to a better conclusion than she had. ‘But there’s six red cattle on the other side of the hill on Robson land that used to live in the pen leaning up against our wall. If they were to come home, you and I might have more to talk about. A lot more.’

And their shared smile was as strong as a handshake.

As the men in the corner of the Hall rolled their dice, Clare rearranged her patterns one more time, trying to fit a new hood, jesses, and bewits for Wee One’s bells on her last piece of Flanders leather. When she heard her father’s step, she abandoned the effort. ‘Did you send him away?’

He looked at her, something like a smile tugging at the wrinkled corners of his mouth. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’ She fought her feeling of relief.

‘I don’t have to explain my decisions to you, me girl.’ He shook his head when the gamblers waved him over. ‘Pour me another brogat and come upstairs. There are things I need to tell you.’

He said it in his most stubborn tone, so she did as he said, and followed him to the next floor.

In his chamber, she perched on the small stool, leaving the chair for her father. He settled in with a comfort able sigh.

‘What did you want to talk about, Da?’ she asked the question, even though she knew what he would say.

‘How old are you, daughter?’

‘Can’t you even remember that about me?’

‘Are you tryin’ to avoid the question?’

‘You know I’m eighteen.’ Seven more years and she would have lived longer than her mother.

‘Your mother was sixteen when I married her. It’s time you married, daughter.’

‘I know, Da.’ Did he think she did not? She longed for Alain, children and their home in France a dozen times a day.

‘Without your mother …’ He sighed and took a sip. ‘I’m no good with these things. After you came back, I was content just to have you home.’ He put his gnarled hand on hers.

She did not return his squeeze. When her mother had died, he had sent her away to be fostered in France with a family of Lord Douglas’s choosing. While she was gone, he had taken Murine to his bed and Euphemia to his knee. After, it seemed, he had taken no more interest in her until she had been trained to run his house and bear his grandchildren. By then, both he and Scotland were strangers to her and Alain’s family closer to her than her own.

Now, she searched the cold, barren room in vain for any sign that her mother had ever slept within these walls.

‘Alain is back now,’ she said. ‘We’ll be able to resolve our future.’

Only the war had kept him from asking for her. She was certain.

Her father tossed back the rest of his drink. ‘Well, if it’s the lily-livered Frenchman you want, I won’t stop you.’

‘Alain was the one who wanted to fight the English honourably, by the rules of chivalry, as war should be fought.’

‘Daughter, we’ve chased Edward back over the Border, whether Alain likes the way we did it or not. The enemy is out of the country. But you need t’know something. I made an agreement with Lord Douglas.’

The set of his chin made her uneasy. ‘What kind of agreement?’

‘Something that will secure Carr’s Tower for my grandchildren.’

‘What’s that?’ She cared nothing for the tower and the lands. While as the only child, she might hold them after her father’s death, she had assumed that once she left for France, Lord Douglas would award them to some distant cousin of the clan.

‘Well, it began the night we almost captured Edward near Melrose.’ He sat forwards, launching into a tale. ‘We had the trap all set. We would have caught him, too, if William Douglas had listened to me. I told him not to wait for better weather, but he was listening to no man and—’

‘Da! What have you done?’

‘Well, we broke into the ale and I got William good and bungfued and reminded him of the promise he made to your mother as she lay dying on her bed.’

‘What promise?’ Her father was well on his way to being bungfued himself. ‘You’ve never said a word of this before.’

‘He promised that her wee daughter, only child of my poor darlin’ wife, could keep Carr’s Tower when she married and that I could choose the man.’ He leaned back, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘I’ve got William’s word, and witnesses.’

She blinked, searching for her tongue. Difficult to imagine her French-born mother forcing such a promise. ‘I’m sure Alain will be glad of that.’ He would appreciate the income, at least, meagre as it might be. A steward could see to things. ‘We’ll certainly visit every few years.’

‘No! Ye canna protect the border from France! If it’s Alain ye want and who wants ye, you’ll have to stay here, or I’ll not approve the match.’

‘But he has his own lands, his own responsibilities.’

‘So do you. Your husband must be here to hold it. Himself.’

She closed her eyes in dread. Surely her mother, no lover of Scotland, had not foreseen this. ‘I’m sure Mother never meant to tie me here.’

‘Ye don’t know everything, daughter. She trusted me to do what was best for you and for Carr’s Tower.’

Clare bit back further protest. If Lord Douglas had made a promise to her mother and her stubborn father had his way, her wishes would have little sway. She must think of one thing at a time. First, Alain must speak for her. Then, she would raise the conditions with him, and find a solution.

But now, the one thing she craved from this marriage appeared to be the one thing she could not have. Instead of leaving this place behind, she’d be trapped here for ever. She tried to picture sitting with Alain in front of the tower’s hearth instead of in the chateau’s hall. Suddenly, her life with him looked strangely different.

And not nearly so appealing.

As word of his identity emerged, Gavin’s easy camaraderie with his fellows evaporated.

Men who had shared a trencher with him only a day before shunned him. He sat alone at meals. Spent his days in silence.

A few nights later, Gavin approached two of them after dinner in the hall and held out his dice. ‘A wager?’

Dark eyes, sullen, met his. Inglis. Fire-raiser. The man did not have to speak it. ‘You’ve nothing I want to win.’

‘If I lose, I’ll take your duty while you take your ease.’

‘And if you win?’

‘You’ll come with me on a trip across the top. There are cattle that need help to find their way home.’

The suspicion on their faces melted just enough for him to sit down and trace a circle for the dice.

He did not intend to lose.

Several nights later, Clare lay restless and warm in her bed. Alain had not yet spoken of their future. She tried to imagine it, what he might say. How he might ask.

How a lady might raise the question if he didn’t.

Instead, Fitzjohn crowded her thoughts. The twist of his smile. The darkness behind his eyes. The fire he had raised in her body.

Would you like to be burning in your bed?

She flopped from one side to the other. It should be Alain that filled her dreams.

She threw back the covers and went to the narrow opening in the tower wall, letting the damp breeze cool her face. Drizzly darkness hid the moon. The hills, one softly nestled against the next, offered only shades of black, this one tinged with green, that with blue, the next shading to grey.

A sound, subtle as the shadings of black on the hills. Muffled.

A man on a horse.

Fear stopping her breath, she stared into the darkness. It was late in the season for a raid, but the Robsons never cared much for the calendar.

No. Not horses coming. Someone leaving.

She strained her eyes and saw the dark outline of a man, cloaked. He rode a small, black horse with blanketed feet, stepping as quietly as if the mount could see the loose stones and avoid them.

She recognised the man. His height, his shape, the way he sat.

Fitzjohn.

He had sworn on his knight’s honour not to harm them, yet he crept away in darkness. To rendezvous with the Inglis? She turned away from the window. She must tell her father, raise the men, stop him.

The tread of a second horse drew her back. Another man.

Finally, a third.

Silent, she watched the darkness swallow them as they rode towards the hills. A smile tickled her lips.

Perhaps Fitzjohn was a Scottis man after all.

The baron flopped over in bed, snoring like the devil.

Murine sat up. ‘Wake up, ye piece of horseflesh. I hear something.’

He snorted. Murine sighed. He could be a lout, but she loved him, for all the good it would ever do her.

She shook him. ‘Ralph! Wake up and listen.’

He snorted awake then, and closed his mouth to let his ears work.

‘It’s a horse.’ She didn’t wait for him, but left her bed and went to the window of her small cottage. ‘No. Three of them. Someone is leaving.’

He didn’t bother to get up. ‘Come back to bed, Murine. It’s the boy.’

She turned. ‘The boy? Fitzjohn? How can ye be sure?’

He turned on his side and patted the mattress for her to come back. ‘Because I sent him. Thought he would take the bait. Three horses, ye say?’ He nodded, smiling. ‘He’s done well already.’

She put her hands on her hips, bigger now than those years ago, when he had first taken her to his bed. ‘Ye’re a thieving rascal. Did ye send him after the Robson’s cattle?’

He grinned, eyes still closed. ‘Well, if I did, I wouldn’t tell ye, would I? Now come back to this bed and keep me warm, woman.’

She laughed. And did.

Over the next week, Clare’s father smiled like a man with a secret.

She refused to ask where Fitzjohn and the others had gone, for fear it would sound as though she cared. Alain commented they were well rid of the man, but her father said nothing.

Proof he knew more than he said.

Well, better, she thought, not to be distracted by Fitzjohn when Alain should be first in her thoughts. They needed time together, she thought, time alone. Perhaps hawking.

‘Splendid!’ he said, when she suggested it. ‘You can fly my merlin.’

‘I would rather take Wee One,’ she said.

‘Why do you persist in hunting with that bird?’ he asked. ‘She has even scratched you.’

She hid her hand in her skirt.

Alain, already on his way to the mews, did not wait for her answer.

She sighed and followed.

Conferring with the falconer, Alain selected birds for the rest of his party. Neil, pleased to be restored to his rightful place, rode with them. The cadger carried the hooded birds, bouncing on the wooden frame hung from his shoulders. Two dogs and three of the comte’s knights joined them.

With a silent apology to Wee One, she held her tongue and mounted to ride. She and Alain had rarely been hawking together. She had forgotten that an outing with him shared little with her wild escapes.

This hunt seemed to be as much about the conversation as the chase. Alain and his men discussed the history of each bird with the falconer, then debated which should fly first, second and last. Alain’s bird looked large enough to bring down a heron, yet he never attempted it. For all the discussion, his birds seemed to be ornaments, chosen for looks instead of for heart.

The sun climbed higher. The sacks remained empty.

Finally, one of the hawks ran a rabbit to ground. Alain’s falcon gave good chase, but failed to catch a pigeon. The merlin, smaller even than Wee One, tail-chased two larks without success before snapping up a large insect.

‘I don’t know why she’s so sluggish today,’ Alain said. ‘Perhaps she is not accustomed to you.’

Clare held her tongue. Any serious falconer knew that a merlin was only good for one season. Keeping the bird over the winter was a waste of food. But she did not want to criticise Alain in front of the others, and there was no way to exchange a word without being overheard. The two of them had no more time alone than if they were riding in a royal procession.

She finally blurted out a question as he helped her dismount at the end of the day. ‘When do you return to France?’

She wanted to say ‘when do we return?', but that seemed presumptuous.

‘Lord Douglas plans a pilgrimage in grateful thanks for his victory. I shall travel with him.’

‘To the Holy Land?’ Her hands grew cold. He had mentioned nothing of this before. Such a trip would take at least a year.

‘Not so far. Amiens.’

The French cathedral housed the head of St John the Baptist. It would be natural for Alain to travel with the group back to France. ‘When?’

He shrugged. ‘Arrangements must be made. By summer. Sooner, I pray. I can’t wait to leave this cold, damp place.’