Border Fire (17 page)

“Aye, perhaps,” he said. “I am not one who makes a habit of considering proprieties, but I warrant your brother would never take you back if you’d spent a night at Hermitage without a proper hostess.”

“No, he would not.”

“If, on the other hand, you should decide to accept my offer of marriage, I would not care a damn if you stayed here overnight with us. Wat and I could sleep here, and you could have the bedchamber above. The door has a bar and bolts, so you’d be perfectly safe.”

“I do not want to marry you,” she said without thinking.

“Do you not? I own, I do not know how well I shall like marriage either. I’ve naught against you, lass, barring that sharp tongue of yours, but if I can persuade you to set a guard on it, we might scrape along together well enough.”

“Her majesty would never allow it,” Janet said.

He shook his head, but more as if he thought her naive than as if he agreed with her. “You do not give Buccleuch the credit he merits,” he said. “Recall that he said both Jamie and Elizabeth crave peace in the Borders. It is to their political advantage to settle things, and so far their demands have met with small result because Buccleuch has seen no reason to set their preferences above his own.”

Janet raised her chin. “You make it sound as if he has only to decide that there should be peace, and there will be peace. Surely, it is not so simple as that.”

“Is it not? You do not know him yet. Still, I do remember your saying that Sir Hugh is impressed that Buccleuch can act as warden of two marches and keeper of Liddesdale as well. Consider that before you dismiss his capabilities.”

“But how would our marriage help him achieve peace, assuming that he really does desire such an end?”

“Aye, well, that’s the rub, isn’t it?” Sir Quinton chuckled. “So far, I’ll admit, he hasn’t displayed much interest in peace. He believes that his people need purpose in their lives as much as they need to believe that the damned English cannot steal their cows and horses with impunity—meaning no offense to you, of course—so he indulges them. Indeed, he often leads them, although he tends to restrict his leadership to only the largest raids. When Buccleuch sends out a call to arms, he can raise three thousand men in a half-day’s time, so he does not lead the darting sorts of raids that Rabbie Redcloak leads.”

“Godamercy, so many?”

Sir Quinton shrugged. “I warrant he could get more if he wanted them. My point, however, is not that he will declare peace in the Borders as his part in any bargain for our marriage but that Elizabeth’s desire for peace will prevent her from demanding my head if I should express a wish to marry you.”

“I still do not care much for the notion,” Janet said. She carefully avoided looking at him, however, aware that each time she did she found herself more rather than less intrigued by the idea of marrying him.

“I warrant you could see that I did not like it much either,” he said. “I think I reacted out of sheer pique with Buccleuch for commanding it, though. I’ll have to marry one day, I expect. Indeed, my mother says that I ought to have married long since. I am in my twenty-sixth year, and she says that before someone kills me it would be prudent to get myself an heir. I’ve laughed at her before, but your brother did bring me face-to-face with the hereafter. I can understand why she frets.”

“What is she like, your mother?”

He shrugged. “Like any mother, I expect.”

“Well, I never knew mine,” Janet said, “so I do not know what most mothers are like.”

“Have you truly lived all these years with only that brother of yours to look after you?” He seemed rather shocked by the notion.

Janet smiled. “It was not so bad as that, sir.”

“Well, I would not wish my worst enemy into Sir Hugh Graham’s household. Indeed, I begin to think that you should marry me, lass. ’Tis a pity that we cannot have Buccleuch’s chaplain do the thing here at Hermitage tonight, in the chapel.”

“Has he got his own chapel, even here? Hugh has built much at Brackengill over the past years, but we still must go to the church in the village.”

“Hermitage has its own chapel and a graveyard, as well. I suppose we’re more likely to be married from Branxholme or Broadhaugh, though. You would prefer that, I warrant, to being married from a Border stronghold.”

“You make it sound as if we had agreed to marry, sir,” Janet said.

“Have we not?”

She thought for a long moment, then said quietly, “I will allow Buccleuch to present the notion to Hugh, but the decision must rest with him. I cannot defy him in such an important matter. If he orders me to return, I shall be obliged to do so.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said. “Shall we inform him of your decision?”

Janet nodded nervously, certain that the master of Hermitage would not agree to her stipulations; but again he surprised her, merely nodding and saying that he would see to the arrangements. His attitude was the same, she decided, as if she had submitted completely to his will. He saw them off shortly afterward, assuring them that he would have all in train for their wedding by the following week’s end.

Although they began the journey to Branxholme Castle an hour and a half before sunset, it grew dark long before they reached their destination. There was no track that Janet could discern, but the night was clear, and Sir Quinton assured her that he could find his way even in pitch-blackness. Since there was naught she could do but trust him, she was content to let her pony follow his. So tired was she by then that only the chill kept her sufficiently awake to stay on her saddle, and before they reached Branxholme, she was lying forward, bent over the little cat with her head resting on the pony’s neck. She had no awareness of riding into the courtyard, nor did she stir much when Sir Quinton lifted her down, carried her inside with Jemmy Whiskers cradled between them, and laid her down on a bed.

He had gone before she awoke the following morning, but she swiftly found a friend in Margaret Kerr Scott. Buccleuch’s wife, despite having been married nearly ten years and being the mother of three energetic offspring, was not much older than Janet. She generously offered extra clothing and advice, and evidently placing great confidence in her husband’s ability to bring not just Sir Hugh Graham but also the Queen of England around his finger, she immediately began making preparations for a wedding to be held at Branxholme. To Janet’s gratification, Margaret was content to talk for hours about the family into which she had married.

“Buccleuch was nurtured amongst broils and feuds,” Margaret said later that first day while they sat in her little parlor for a brief respite after a whirlwind inventory of her wardrobe had produced several useful articles for Janet to wear.

“A volatile life is not unusual for any man raised in the Borders,” Janet said.

“Aye, perhaps, but he began taking part in the exploits for which his kinsmen are notorious at quite an early age. He had barely entered his ninth year when his father died, you see. He was the same age then as our Wattie be now.”

“Godamercy,” Janet said. “It is to be hoped that Buccleuch lives to a grand old age and does not leave his son to a similar fate.”

“We all hope for that,” Margaret said quietly, “but if Wattie reaches his majority before entering upon his inheritance, he will be the first of the Scotts to do so since 1470. That is why, soon after the wee laddie’s birth, Buccleuch decided that in the event of his own premature death, Quin should serve as guardian and hold the property in trust until Wattie reaches his majority.”

“Do you mean that Sir Quinton would control Buccleuch’s estates?”

“Aye, he would. Buccleuch’s father and Quin’s were brothers, so unless we have more sons, Quin will inherit anyway if Wattie predeceases Buccleuch.”

“I see,” Janet said, not sure that she truly did. Most men, with history to guide them, would hesitate to name as their heir’s guardian the person who would inherit in the event of the heir’s death. Buccleuch’s arrangement bore strong witness to his trust in his cousin.

Margaret smiled. “I can see that you wonder at the agreement, but Buccleuch believes it will serve his purpose admirably. He spent his childhood under the guardianship of tutors and curators appointed to him by the last will of his father, you see. James, Earl of Morton, served as his tutor and governor, along with the Earl of Angus, and under them stood other stern and powerful men. Owing to the state of the feudal holding of certain portions of the Buccleuch properties, there was a great deal of legal fuss and bother that finally required royal intervention.”

“Poor laddie,” Janet said sympathetically. She had heard much about the Earl of Morton, who was now, she believed, mercifully deceased.

“Aye, Morton was a hard man,” Margaret said. “Indeed, one reason that Buccleuch has enjoyed the King’s favor—most days, at all events—is that they shared a similar upbringing and each had to fight to control his birthright. Jamie is but a year younger than Buccleuch, and he spent his youth at Morton’s mercy, too. Buccleuch wants better for his son. Unlike Buccleuch, who fought his tutors every step of the way, Quin enjoyed book learning. He was educated at home and at the university in Edinburgh, and Buccleuch says he is a very knowing man.”

Janet had rarely spent much time with other women, and she enjoyed her week at Branxholme, especially the long conversations with its mistress. To her surprise, she found that she did not miss Brackengill nearly as much as she had feared she would. She wondered only two or three times a day about how well her brother was getting on without her.

Had anyone asked Sir Hugh Graham on the morning that he discovered his sister’s disappearance if he would miss her, he would have declared categorically that he would not. His fury carried him into the following day, assuaged only by thoughts of what he would do when he finally laid hands on her. Monday morning, however, when he descended to his hall in anticipation of breaking his fast, he discovered that all was not as it had been at Brackengill.

Even from the stairwell he noticed that the place seemed strangely silent. It took him several moments to realize that what he missed was the sound of maidservants singing and laughing as they tended to their chores. He also missed the odors of roasting meat and baking bread, and despite the season, he had expected to be greeted by the savory smell of the two grouse he had shot as they turned on a spit in the kitchen. Perhaps, he told himself, it was still too early to start them.

Entering the hall, he found it empty. No preparations had been made to serve his breakfast. Shouting for a servant, he soon heard clattering footsteps on the stairs leading to the kitchen, and a moment later a lad appeared, looking frightened.

Hugh bellowed, “Where the devil’s my food?”

“Beg pardon, master, but Sheila and Matty and them didna come the day. Geordie said their menfolk told them they b’ain’t to come here again till Mistress Janet returns. Me da says it isna safe for ’em here without her.”

Sir Hugh gaped at the lad in shock, but by the time Buccleuch’s envoy arrived at Brackengill that afternoon, he had seen for himself just how much had been stolen from him, and he was ripe for murder.

Buccleuch had schemed well, and his emissary was both smooth of tongue and skilled in the art of diplomacy, but Sir Hugh saw to it that persuading him to agree to any marriage took several days and a good deal of money.

Buccleuch and Sir Quinton arrived at Branxholme late the following Thursday evening, surprising Margaret and her guest. The two women were sitting companionably by a roaring fire in the hall when the men strode in, and Margaret leapt up to hug her husband.

“We can hold the ceremony on Sunday if you like,” Buccleuch said matter-of-factly as he welcomed her into his arms, speaking over her shoulder to Janet.

Janet reacted with astonishment. “Hugh agreed?”

“Aye, he did,” Buccleuch said, releasing his wife to let a servant take his helmet, gloves, and cloak.

Sir Quinton turned to the fire as he pulled off his gloves. Tucking them inside his doublet, he held his hands out to warm them, apparently deaf to the exchange and not eager to take part in the conversation. Janet had caught one darting look as he entered, but she had been unable to read his expression.

“What did Hugh say?” she demanded.

Buccleuch shrugged. “What can it matter, mistress? He has agreed to permit your marriage and therefore will make no legal objection to it.”

“If it please you, sir, I should like to know exactly what he said. Did he not send any message to me?”

“Nay, lass, and as to—”

“He said that I am welcome to you,” Sir Quinton said without turning.

“Then he does not suspect that you are Rabbie Redcloak,” Janet said.

“He does not,” Buccleuch said, adding smugly, “You can thank me for that.”

“I am sure that I can, sir,” she said, “but how can you be so certain?”

In a near growl, Sir Quinton said, “Because his envoy told your brother that I rescued you from Rabbie Redcloak.” His voice took on a hard edge when he added, “His man went so far as to suggest that I am willing to overlook the way you entered Scotland, that because I took a strong liking to you, I would marry you despite the damage done to your reputation.”

“Did Hugh believe that?”

“Who can say what he believes?” Buccleuch said, eyeing Sir Quinton with disfavor.

Sir Quinton turned then, and to her surprise she detected a flash of amusement in his eyes. He said, “It doubtless will come as no surprise to you that your brother seems to have decided that both Buccleuch and Buccleuch’s idiot cousin are hand in glove with the reivers.”

“Never mind that,” Buccleuch said. “We’ve details to arrange now, so listen well, all of you. For the booking, mistress, I’ll send my own men to wait on the session clerk in Hawick, to inform him that you and Quin have agreed to a betrothal. My men will likewise inform the parson. I trust that you’re not a popish lass, or if you are, that you’ll not insist on having a priest. Priests are not in good odor these days, and no priest-spoken marriage would be lawful hereabouts.”

“I am not popish,” Janet said, feeling overwhelmed and remembering what he had said upon entering. “Surely all this cannot happen by Sunday!”