Читать книгу Return of the Border Warrior - Blythe Gifford, Blythe Gifford - Страница 11

It was no day for a funeral, John thought, as they gathered outside the tower’s walls the next morning. The sun looked downright cheerful to see the man put in the ground.

To Bessie fell the role of leading the procession to the burial ground, as her mother would have had she been alive. Awed, John watched his sister calmly assume yet another duty. When last he had seen her, she’d been a lass of eight. Now, she seemed a woman who had already seen, and accepted, all the sorrow life could offer.

His brother stepped up to the coffin, first man to be ready to heft it to his shoulder. John moved to take his place on the other side.

‘I’ve five other men already,’ Rob said.

‘None of whom is his son,’ John said, warning them back with a glance. Estranged as he might be from his father, from the family, this was his role, his right.

His duty.

The others stepped away, not waiting for Black Rob’s permission. In this, John had the right.

He took his place and at Rob’s nod, they lifted the coffin to their shoulders.

Bessie led them from the tower, singing of sorrow in a song that needed no words. Cate fell in behind her, ready to lend an arm if she faltered. Next to his sister, Cate, with her cropped hair, loose pants and knee boots, seemed as young as a lad.

The burden rested heavy on his shoulder as the men found their common step. Arms raised, he steadied it with both hands, feeling as if his father’s weight held him fast to the earth. But he would not be the first to cry off. And in the mile between the tower and the burial ground, they only paused once to let the coffin down.

The Brunson burial ground perched on the leeward side of a hill beside an empty church. The grave had been prepared beside his mother’s. All there was to do now was to take the body from the coffin and lower it into the ground with ropes.

Not for them the priest and the prayers, the laying on of hands, the final rites that might have eased his father’s passage. A few years ago, the Archbishop of Glasgow had banned the riding clans from the church and cursed them to eternal damnation with a vengeance that would have made a reiving man proud.

The priest had left.

The Brunsons remained.

So at the end, his father was laid to rest with only his family and the land he belonged to. Perhaps, he thought, as they consigned his father to the earth, this was more fitting.

John looked out across the valley his father had loved. Grey clouds had gathered atop the hills, shielding the sun, and he felt a stir of unwelcome emotion. This earth, this clay, had made him, too.

Yet now, he was a stranger to it. His brother and the others who rode it daily could find their way on a moonless night. To him, it was like a woman he had not yet bedded. The soft hills, the surface he could see, beckoned, but he did not know what parts of her body would respond to his touch. Hadn’t found the hidden places.

He found himself watching Cate, wondering what hid beneath her disguise. She embodied every dilemma he faced: a family who had disowned him, a land that kept its secrets, a way of life at odds with everything he wanted.

And yet, something about her tugged at him, tempting him to peel back her layers, to discover her secrets. And something about her made him mourn what he had lost.

The ancestral melody began. Bessie and Rob joined voices to sing the ballad of the Brunsons. The song that had come down from ancestors no longer remembered, except through song.

This is the story, long been told

Of the brown-eyed Viking, man of old

Left on the field by the rest of his clan

Abandoned for dead was the first Brunson man

Abandoned for dead was the first Brunson man.

Left for dead and found alive

A brown-eyed Viking from the sea

He lived to found a dynasty.

There were verses unnumbered, names and stories of the Brunsons since the first, and when the last had been sung, Rob stepped forwards to sing alone.

I sing today of Geordie the Red;

A Border rider born and bred

A man more faithful never found

Loyal to death and then beyond

Loyal to death and then beyond.

The last notes faded. The song had been sung. His father laid to rest and his legacy created. Loyalty. But did Rob sing of loyalty to king or to kin?

Or was he still struggling to choose?

They walked back to the tower even more slowly than they had left. Ahead of him, Rob and Bessie leaned towards each other, shoulder to shoulder, eyes on the life ahead of them.

A life in which he had no place.

Cate, to his right, was dry eyed, but none wearing the Brunson brown and blue had more vengeance in their gaze than she. More vengeance, he thought, than sorrow.

No, Rob would not, could not yield, he feared, as long as Cate held him to his father’s word. She was the key.

Well, women were changeable. The king’s own mother had sided with the English, the French and the Scots in turn, changing sides as easily as she changed husbands. This Cate would be no more steadfast if he gave her the right persuasion.

He just had to figure out what persuasion that was.

***

Last night, the hall had been full of talk, laughter and tears. Today, the guests were gone and only Rob’s and Cate’s men remained. And the silence of sorrow.

John escaped the tower, even the courtyard, unable to feign regret he did not feel. Outside, in fresh air, he would be able to think clearly on the challenge of Cate Gilnock.

He did not need her acceptance. He did not need, or want, to touch the woman. He simply needed her to release vengeance he still did not fully understand. He feared, however, that peeling away her layers could be even harder than peeling off her clothes.

Beyond the tower walls, the Galloway ponies dotted the field, left to feed themselves until the coldest weather came.

Let them find their own forage, his father would say. Makes them strong.

He paused to pat one of the bays on his broad, sturdy chest and the pony let him, nosing for a treat. John held up empty hands. ‘Not today, boy. Next time.’

In apology, he swept his hand down the reddish hair of the beast’s back, feeling warmth beneath his palm. When they were boys, Rob used to challenge him to mount a pony bareback and race around the tower. John won often enough that Rob dropped his dare. He beat his brother because he was more flexible, able to communicate with the horse, rather than forcing the creature to his will.

He grinned. He could probably do it still.

Seized with the memory, he murmured a word or two and stepped away to allow a running start. The pony waited patiently as John approached, jumped, then pushed himself up and swung his leg over to settle astride.

Well trained, the pony lifted his head and waited his command. No saddle held John on. No reins helped him guide. And no armour separated him from the feel of his mount’s muscles, flexing beneath him.

He guided with his legs and, by shifting his weight, headed out to where the Liddel Water skipped down the valley. He was surprised to discover that, once mounted, he remembered paths his head had long forgotten.

Following the stream, he saw Cate in the distance, wading across in water that reached near to her waist. She carried a wad of cloth and kept glancing downstream, as if looking for someone.

Instead of calling out, he stopped the pony in a thicket of trees where they could not be seen, curious.

She dropped the cloth on the other side of the stream, then waded back across. Man she might try to be, but now he knew the truth. Now, he could appreciate the shades of ash and flax mixed in hair that did not reach shoulders too slender to be mistaken for a man’s. And as she climbed out of the stream, wet cloth clung below her waist, drawing his gaze to the place her legs met and putting him in mind of what might happen if she spread them for him. Strange that a place normally hidden behind a skirt should be so tempting when clothed in breeches.

Pausing, shoulders hunched, she looked from tower to valley to hillside, as if wary of danger. Storwicks could be around any bend, true, but it was early in the season and still daylight. An attack was unlikely.

His pony, trained to be silent and invisible, did not draw her eye. Then she turned her back on him and ran downstream to disappear around a bend and into the trees.

Baffled, he urged the horse ahead, slowly, uncertain whether to follow. What was she doing with—?

Before he could finish the thought, a sleuth dog in leather harness burst through the bushes, pulling Cate behind.

The beast weighed more than she, if John were any judge. Nose to the ground, the dog dragged her with him as he followed the trail she had laid, turning abruptly to cross the water where she had, and pouncing on the bundle of cloth with his tail wagging when he reached the opposite bank.

Well trained, he thought.

‘Good, Belde,’ she said, pulling a treat from her pocket for him to gobble. ‘Good dog.’

And then she petted him with more affection than she’d shown to any two-legged creature.

As they crossed the stream again, he dismounted and walked closer. But before he reached her, she heard his step over the rushing water, whirled and drew her dirk.

Not drawn for him, he realised. She was a woman wary of any sound. He held up his hands, palms toward her, a gesture of peace. ‘No enemy. Only me.’

She did not lower the blade. The softness she’d shown the hound did not extend to him. They reached the bank and the dog bounded over to him, then put his nose to John’s waist and started sniffing him up and down.

John pushed him away to no avail. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Getting to know you.’

He took a step towards her and the dog, between them, started to growl, the hair on his neck standing straight.

‘What do you want?’ she asked. After four trips through the water, she was soaked. Only the quilted jack-of-plaites vest disguised her sex.

He raised his eyes, fighting irritation. ‘Not a kiss. I promise.’ He had told her flatly he would not bed her. Could she tell his body was not listening? ‘Call off your dog and put down your dirk.’

She sheathed the blade and her eyes flickered to the pony, standing patiently behind him. ‘You’re riding Norse. He’s a fast one.’

Her tone gentled, as when she had spoken to the dog.

‘Do you work with the ponies, then?’

‘Aye.’ She walked over to the pony and stroked his neck. Her dog followed and sat squarely between Cate and John.

Physical persuasion was futile, but the four-legged creatures seemed to be the chink in her armour. ‘You’re good with the animals.’

She threw him a look of disgust. ‘I’ve found them to be kinder than people.’

An odd statement. ‘I never thought animals had any feelings at all.’

‘At least they don’t kill their own.’

He did not remind her that she was the one ready to kill Willie Storwick. ‘What possible quarrel might one sheep have against another?’ He laced the question with a smile, bending towards her.

The dog rose, growling.

‘Sit, Belde,’ she said, grabbing his harness.

The dog looked at her, wagged his tail and sat.

John eyed him warily. Drooping ears and a wrinkled face gave the dog a lazy look, but he acted as if he would kill, if she asked.

‘He’s very protective of you,’ John said.

‘To the death,’ she answered, meeting John’s eyes. The gentleness she showed to the animals did not extend to him.

He raised his brows. ‘A sleuth dog usually has an English hand on the leash.’ And behind him, a pack of riders tracking the reivers across rock and water.

‘Not this one.’ Cate wasted no more words than his brother.

‘How did you get him?’

Something softened around her eyes, as if she was thinking of a smile. ‘Da stole him.’

John nodded. It was the only honourable way for a reiver to get anything.

Her memory, apparently, was a good one. ‘He had been tracking Da, but he slipped his leash and lost his tracker. When he found Da, he was so pleased he just sat there wagging his tale while Da rubbed his head.’

She had kind feelings for the beast, that was certain. ‘He does not wag his tail for me.’

‘He does not know whether I am safe with you.’

I do not know whether I am safe with you, she might have said.

‘You must tell him …’ He met her eyes. If he could get the dog to like him, maybe the woman’s trust would follow. ‘Tell him that you are.’

She swallowed, then looked down at the dog. Her breath came faster, but she did not speak.

‘How would you do that?’ He kept his voice soft, not wanting to force her. ‘How would you tell him?’

She did not look up. ‘I would tell him you are a …’ She glanced up, studying John, as if uncertain he deserved the label. ‘That you are a “friend”.’

Looking into the mirror of her eyes, he suddenly wanted to be worthy of the name. ‘I am.’

Though her eyes reserved judgement, she turned back to the dog. ‘Friend,’ she said firmly, then spoke over her shoulder. ‘Reach out to him.’

He held out his hand and Belde sniffed it.

‘Friend,’ she said, as the dog licked his fingers. ‘John.’ Then she smiled. ‘He should not growl at you again.’

John hoped the same would be true of Cate. ‘How long have you been working with him?’

‘Three years.’

Only the dog brought softness to her eyes, so he would talk of the dog. ‘Was he with you the night your father was killed?’

The joy that had touched her face shattered.

Fool. Speak of something else. ‘The ponies? How long have you worked with them?’ Would she deign to answer?

She shook off the sorrow. ‘Longer. I had no brothers, so my father depended on me. And once he was gone …’ The darkness returned, and with it, all her barriers. Then she faced him again, head high. ‘We’ve the finest horseflesh on the Borders. Sturdy and tireless. They’ve been known to ride sixty miles without a stop.’

Long enough to leave Scotland after sunset, foray deep inside England and return home before the sun rose. In fact, without such mounts, there would be no reiving.

Yet in her talk of the ponies, he had heard a flash of pride. Better that than fear or anger. ‘You do a fine job, I’m sure.’

Instead of the smile he had wanted, she turned back to the pony, blinking against tears.

‘There now.’ He walked up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to turn. ‘No need to cry at a compliment.’

Belde stood to all fours, growling.

‘Quiet, beast,’ he said. ‘Friend.’

He wrapped both arms around her in a hug, thinking she would smile as most women did when cajoled.

Instead, she brought her knee up, squarely between his legs.

Hard.

He dropped his hold and doubled over, biting back a curse.

Teeth bared, the dog barked. Cate groped for his fur coat, without looking where her hand fell. Instead of his pain, he saw hers. There were no tears, but horror had replaced sadness and he wasn’t sure whether she saw him at all.

‘Cate!’ He tried to stand, barely able to hear himself over the dog’s baying. ‘What is it?’ She looked as if she were staring at spirits.

Cate knelt beside the barking beast and clasped her arms tightly around his neck. Then, as if her prayers for deliverance had been answered, her face relaxed, her eyes met his, and he saw Cate again.

She lost her parents to the Storwicks. Do you expect her to be dancing?

But that had been two years ago and death was no stranger to these hills. Her fear was beyond that.

She rose, her hand never leaving the dog’s fur, and gathered his leash. ‘I must go.’

And she turned her back, clearly intending for him not to follow.

But, with a slight limp in deference to the ache between his legs, he did.

His brother might disdain him. This woman might detest him. But he was not a man to be feared by women, even by one who clearly had much to fear. He grabbed her arm. ‘Stop.’

She did, but pulled her arm away so he was no longer touching her. The dog growled again, but she stilled him. ‘I told you—’

‘Listen to me,’ he began. ‘You may not like me. You may not want to lose Brunson men to the king’s business. And I understand you want no kisses, but I am a Brunson and you’re under my family’s protection, so you needn’t pull a dirk every time I am close.’

‘It’s you who must listen,’ she answered. ‘I warned you and you act as if you are a man without ears.’

‘I heard what you said.’ Lucky, he thought, that she had used her knee and not the dagger she’d threatened him with last time. ‘And it was a kiss you warned me against, not a simple touch.’

‘Then let me make it clear enough that even you can understand my meaning. No man touches me. Ever.’

He remembered again that first day, when she refused his hand. Strange even then, he had thought. And now he had seen the fear behind it. ‘I am not a man who hurts women. Ever.’

She stilled then, accepting his gaze with those deep-brown eyes, come from some common ancestor. A sigh escaped. ‘I know,’ she said finally, a whisper.

The whisper reminded him of the kiss, now so fully forbidden. He swayed towards her, then stopped himself before the dog could take a chunk from his leg.

‘Go then,’ he retorted, wincing and wanting to clutch himself again. He’d have to walk the pony back from here.

She did, but he called out before she was beyond earshot, ‘And don’t let that beast growl at me again.’

She looked over her shoulder with that barely-a-smile crooked corner of her mouth that made him think she might be laughing at him.

He might not be a man to be feared, but some man was. He wondered who. And why.