Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] (5 page)

Tetsy’s eyes widened. “Aye, sure, m’lady. Me da’ says Buccleuch be a gey fierce man. Be his son a fierce one, too?”

“We will hope not, as the lady Meg is to marry him,” Amalie said. “Would you like to travel with her to her new home, Tetsy?”

Tetsy’s eyes widened, and color drained from her cheeks. “Nay, mistress, I couldna go wi’ them rough, horrid men ye was speaking about.”

More sternly, Meg said, “I asked you to stop teasing her, Amalie. Prithee, do so at once. You are not usually so unkind. Tetsy, I know you do not want to go so far from home. I have already told Sir Iagan that you would prefer to stay here.”

“Thank ye, m’lady. If ye truly want me to go, I expect I could do it. But I’d liefer stay here wi’ me own kin.”

“Then you shall,” Meg said, adding with a smile, “I think I hear them coming now with my water.”

“Aye, sure,” Tetsy agreed, hurrying to open the chamber door. “That water be for ye, too, Lady Amalie. Your mam did say ye’d also want a bath.”

“There, did I not tell you, Meggie?” Amalie crowed triumphantly.

“That you are to take a bath hardly means you will go to Rankilburn,” Meg pointed out. “Our lady mother may not want to waste good water on just one bath.”

“You’ll see,” Amalie said. “You’d best decide what you want to take. That tub will be full soon, and if I am to bathe after you do, I don’t want cold water.”

Meg sighed and moved to begin making her selections, wondering as she did if her sister’s company at Rankilburn would prove to be a boon or a penance.

In the yard, Wat finished his bath and left the water for any of his lads who wanted to use it. As he toweled himself, feminine giggles drew his attention to the postern door of the castle keep, where two lasses had apparently been watching with interest while he bathed.

He grinned at them and finished dressing. Although someone had brushed his clothes, they still bore evidence that Elishaw’s dungeon lacked regular cleaning. A brief mental vision of his mother’s likely reaction were she able to see her firstborn son’s wedding attire drew another smile.

Only then did it strike him that he would be taking the lass home with him. The thought of her living with him in his rustic peel tower brought a frown, but that of presenting her to his parents as his wife made him wince.

His mother would accept his decision more easily than his father would. Buccleuch had definite notions of what sort of marriage he expected for his son. Having heard them all, Wat knew that marrying the daughter of a man his father disliked to avoid hanging would not figure among them.

There was nothing else for it, though. He would have to take the lass to Scott’s Hall, his parents’ primary residence, in Rankilburn Glen. Not only was his tower not presentable—not to a gently bred noblewoman, at all events—but in his absence, it would not be as safe for a woman as Scott’s Hall.

And he would soon be absent, certainly. With Douglas determined to stop the English in England and the English more determined than ever to conquer Scotland, Douglas would need Wat and as many men as he could take with him.

Buccleuch would also follow where the Douglas led, making it even more important that the lady Margaret reside safely at the Hall with Lady Scott.

As these thoughts flitted through Wat’s mind, he became aware that the two lassies by the postern door had disappeared. Footsteps crunched behind him, and turning, he saw Murray striding toward him, his left hand on his sword hilt.

Although tempted to ask him if he feared attack from an unarmed man in his own bailey, Wat resisted and waited politely for his host to address him.

With a jolt, he realized that the man would soon be his father-in-law.

Murray tossed him a hairbrush. “I thought ye’d want to brush some o’ the tangles out o’ your hair,” he said.

Wat caught the brush easily, but his mind was not on his hair, because Murray held a roll of foolscap in his other hand.

The older man met his gaze. “I see ye’ve noted me documents, lad. Whilst ye were bathing I had yon mendicant friar draw up an agreement betwixt us two. I trow ye’ll ken your letters well enough to understand it.”

“Aye, I can read,” Wat said. “What sort of agreement is it?”

“Och, nobbut the usual sort to say ye agree to protect our Meggie and treat her well. Ye’ll likewise see she’s protected financially in the event o’ your death, and ye’ll recognize any bairns she may produce as your own.”

“Let me see it,” Wat said, more to give himself time to think than because he doubted the documents were other than Murray had described.

The friar’s writing was clear, and the words fairly leaped off the page.

He glanced at Murray.

The older man’s eyes gleamed with expectation.

“It says here,” Wat said steadily, “that I also agree and give bond and promise that I will never again take up arms against any Murray of Elishaw.”

“Aye, sure. ’Tis customary in such unions, where families may end up on opposing sides of important issues. Also, I’ll want your promise that ye’ll ride to my aid if ever I ha’ need o’ you.”

“I don’t imagine I’d be likely to take up arms against my wife’s family,” Wat said. “And I’ll agree to ride to your aid unless Douglas himself is attacking you or the attack is by his order. But if you can accept my word as bond and promise to do those things, why must you force us into this marriage and bedding today?”

“I told ye, because that road, I’ll no ha’ Buccleuch or the Douglas interfering. But if ye read on,” he added with a smirk, “ye’ll see that ’tis no just your word I’ll have as bond for these matters o’ taking up arms or riding to me aid.”

“I have nowt else to offer you.”

“I have those cattle, horses, and hounds that came from your pasture to my own, aye? But for insurance, ye’ll see just below that line there that if ye break either promise, ye’ll pay me a hundred merks as well.”

Keeping his temper with difficulty, and only because he knew it would do him no good to lose it, Wat said, “I do not accept that those beasts are yours to keep, sir. But I’ll give you my word on the other. Do you mean to keep my dogs and my horses—even the ones we rode here—and make us all walk back home?”

“Ye’ll take the horses ye rode,” he said. “The rest I’ll keep to teach ye never again to try to lift my beasts.”

“Do you not fear that Buccleuch or the Douglas may yet seek annulment, not only of the wedding but of this damnable agreement you want me to sign?”

“Nay, lad, for the agreement be in writing. Any council will support my position that this marriage be legal. Ye’ll do your part, too, I reckon, to see that our Amalie meets someone suitable to wed whilst she’s abiding wi’ ye.”

“Amalie?”

“Aye, sure, Meggie’s younger sister. Ye must ha’ seen her in the hall and yet again out here in the yard whilst we were discussing your hanging.”

“I did see another young woman, aye, but what has she to do with me?”

“Only that she has offered to bear her sister company on the journey and I ha’ decided to permit it. Two young ladies will be gey safer than one. I did try to find a serving woman to go and look after them, but they’d all liefer stay here.”

“I see,” Wat said. He would have liked to refuse to take the younger girl, for he could foresee naught but trouble to come of including her. But if Murray could not persuade a maidservant to attend his daughter, he could scarcely blame him for wanting someone to accompany her. Another thought occurred to him. “I trust your younger daughter
wants
to come.”

“Aye, she offered, so she must want to,” Murray said. “There’s no understanding the female mind, but my lady wife says it will do the lasses good to be together. Amalie needna stay long, though. Doubtless ye’ll see to her safe return when she’s of a mind to come home.”

“I will, aye,” Wat said, wondering what on earth he had brought down upon himself merely for wanting to reclaim his cattle, horses, and two dogs.

As Meg bathed, she watched Amalie bustle about, giving orders to Tetsy and another maidservant that Amalie had coaxed into aiding with the packing. She reminded Meg of a sheepdog, nipping at ovine heels to drive its flock.

Noting that Amalie was having her own clothing packed, Meg said, “Are you sure about this, dearling? With the Borders as unsettled as they are these days, we cannot be sure how long you’ll have to stay with me. It may be a long time.”

“Aye, well, what comes will come,” Amalie said. “I shan’t mind.”

She was not looking at Meg but down into the sumpter basket Tetsy was organizing, but Meg saw a muscle twitch in her jaw and recognized the sign.

Her frequently, if surprisingly, stubborn sister was determined to go with her.

“Amalie, pray hand me that towel,” Meg said. “And, Tetsy, I want to take the embroidered shawl that my lady mother gave me at Candlemas. I left it in her solar yestereve. And you, Letty, stir up that fire more for the lady Amalie.”

When Amalie brought the towel and held it for her, Meg stood and wrapped it around herself, saying quietly, “You will need to make haste with your bath, I fear, if we are to finish everything soon enough to suit our lord father. But first, dearling, tell me
why
you want so badly to go with me.”

Amalie shrugged. “It is nothing to make a song about, Meg. I just cannot let you go off by yourself with all those men.”

“Are you sure that’s all?” Meg asked. “Your determination is making the very air crackle in here.”

Amalie shrugged. “Mayhap it is just that if I go to Rankilburn, Sir Walter will be duty-bound to find a kinsman or friend willing to marry me. I’d prefer that to waiting years more around here for our father to find me a husband.”

Meg looked narrowly at her but knew when Amalie gazed steadily back that she would learn no more until Amalie was ready to tell her.

Chapter 4

Though laird o’ the best o’ the Forest sae fair, He’ll marry the warst for the sake o’ his neck.

H
aving given his lads orders to join him in the great hall and bear witness to his wedding, Wat followed his future father-in-law inside, to find a quill and an ink horn waiting on the dais table beside a jug of what looked like ale.

Murray set the rolled document down beside them.

“I expect you’ll want me to sign that now,” Wat said.

“In good time, lad. I’ve asked the friar to come and witness our signing. In the meantime, an ye’re willing, we’ll have a drink to celebrate our bargain.”

Wat gratefully accepted a mug of ale and had quaffed nearly half of it before he recalled that he’d not had anything to eat since his supper the evening before and that ale had been partially to blame for his present predicament. Much as he would have welcomed the oblivion he could count on after a surfeit of the stuff, he told himself sternly that he would be wiser to keep a clear head.

“I reckon my ladies will be along soon,” Murray said, taking his place in a two-elbow chair at the centermost place along the dais table, facing the lower hall. “Come, take this stool beside me, lad. We’re nearly kin now, so I would hear more o’ ye. I’m told ye support the Douglas in all things. Be that true?”

“Aye,” Wat said as he settled himself on the back-stool to the right of Murray’s armchair. Deciding to follow his host’s lead in speaking bluntly, he said, “
I’m
told, sir, that you do
not
support Douglas. Indeed, I’ve heard it said that you refuse to support either side.”

“Sakes, lad, did ye no observe how I’m fixed here? Not only am I just three miles from the line, but my lady was born and raised in England and has powerful kinsmen there. ’Tis as much as a man’s life and property be worth to take sides with or against anyone. Nobbut what we live in fear o’ being attacked by one side or the other whenever things get truly troublesome.”

“But even so, you live in Scotland and are a Scotsman born,” Wat protested.

“Aye, sure,” Murray said. “And for nigh onto a decade afore I was born, things were peaceful enough hereabouts. To be sure, England’s third Edward had conquered nearly all of Scotland south o’ the Firth then, and many hereabouts swore fealty to him in exchange for permission to keep their own property.”

“So your father was one who swore then,” Wat said, not at all surprised to be talking of a conquest that had taken place half a century before. Scottish memories were long. Moreover, English armies had invaded many times since then. And Murray was not the only man to have sworn fealty to a conquering king in order to be left in peace. Others, perhaps even Wat’s own kinsmen, had done the same to keep their estates.

“’Twas the sensible thing to do,” Murray said. “The alternative was to see one’s lands confiscated and given to an English lord. Other times, the English would burn everything as they came north, or the Scots would burn their own crops and drive off their own beasts to keep the English from supplying their armies wi’ them.”

Wat nodded, knowing it was easy, if inconvenient, for most Scottish Borderers to abandon their homes and fields, and drive their cattle to safer places. Crops could be replanted and simple cottages rebuilt and rethatched in a day or two. Even peel towers like his own were safe to leave unattended if, like Raven’s Law, they were built of solid stone.

Larger establishments risked occupation. Hermitage Castle, the nearby Liddesdale seat of the Earl of Douglas, was one such. The English had taken the fortress more than once in its hundred years of existence.

“Do you not trust the Douglas and the Earl of Fife to keep the English out of Scotland this time?” Wat asked him.

Murray shrugged. “I dinna doubt the Douglas will do all he can, but Fife will do what serves Fife. I ought no to speak against the man that my own son Simon serves, but I’ve nae doubt ye ken enough about Fife to understand what I say. He may be the King o’ Scots’ own son, but if he can gain by giving away the Scottish throne to England, I’ve nae doubt he’ll do it.”

Wat knew that almost no one trusted the Earl of Fife, although many men respected his strength and believed him better qualified to rule Scotland than either the elderly, nearly blind King or Fife’s elder brother and actual heir to the throne, the weak, disinterested Earl of Carrick. Nevertheless, Wat said, “Do you honestly think Fife would agree to let an Englishman take the Scottish crown?”

“’Tis surely possible, for even a King o’ Scots has tried it ere now,” Murray said. “Ye willna recall it yourself because ye hadna been born yet, but surely ye’ve heard that when David Bruce were our king, he agreed to leave the Scottish succession to England’s Black Prince. Our own Parliament put a stop to that, but not afore me da’ decided it would be wise for me to take an English wife. I railed against it at the time, mind ye, but Annabel’s been a good wife to me, and for a man like me to have allies on both sides o’ the line be nobbut plain good sense.”

Wat understood, but he could not agree with the neutral posture Murray had taken. Giving him a straight look, he said, “I hope you don’t expect me to refuse to take sides, as you have, when I marry your daughter.”

“Nay then, lad, for I ken fine what a hothead ye be. To my mind, ye’re no better than the Douglas, ever ready to spill lives in combat over this daft notion o’ Scottish freedom. And what comes of it, eh? Ha’ ye seen the devastation left behind whenever a clash arises? Or are ye so safe in yon Buck’s Cleuch o’ yours that ye think neither the English nor the Scots will trouble ye?”

“Scottish freedom is no daft notion,” Wat said, reminding himself to tread lightly. He would only anger the man if he lectured him about the sacrifices of great men like Wallace and the Bruce to win Scottish freedom from English oppressors. Instead, he said, “I doubt that you disdain the notion of freedom any more than other men do, sir. I’d wager ’tis only the never-ending attempts by England to conquer Scotland, the fighting necessary to protect our freedom, and the continuing threat to Elishaw that lead you to say such a thing.”

When Murray did not challenge that assessment, Wat added, “Scott lands do lie at a safer distance from the line. But the English have never been interested in peace except at their own price, which amounts to England swallowing Scotland whole. That is certainly what their present king, Richard Plantagenet, wants.”

“Aye, ’tis true,” Murray agreed. “The lad’s young yet and already a devil.”

“He is, and he is utterly determined to conquer Scotland, if only to prove to those who oppose him that he’s won the right to rule England.”

“I expect, like most, ye’ve got it all worked out to suit your own notions o’ how things should be,” Murray said, clearly in better humor now.

“I know what I believe, sir, just as you do.”

“In troth, lad, I care nowt what ye believe or what ye do as long as ye’ll come to my aid when I need ye, and ye keep me daughters safe.” With a hopeful look, he added, “I’ve one more, ye ken—young Rosalie—but as she’s nobbut entering her eleventh year, I warrant ye’ll no want to take her along, too.”

Wat was just swallowing more ale and nearly choked.

As he sputtered, Murray clapped him on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of him. When he had recovered, he pushed his stool back as he stood and said dryly, “I thank you, sir, both for aiding my recovery and for your generous offer of a third daughter to take home with me. I trust you’ll take no offense if I say I’d liefer not be saddled with another female, let alone with one so young.”

“Aye, sure, and I doubt her lady mother would allow it,” Murray said without rancor. “As it is, she’ll likely fall into a gloom over losing both Meg and Amalie. So I expect our Rosalie had better stay here.”

Relieved at having won a point that, under the circumstances, he had feared he might not win, Wat drew a welcome breath, sipped more ale, and waited to see if Murray would try to stir more debate. He did not, and their conversation continued desultorily until the friar hurried in.

The skirts of his dark, hooded gown fluttered behind him, revealing the white cassock beneath as he crossed the hall to the dais. He had the tanned, lean look of most mendicant friars. His face was clean-shaven, his tonsured dark hair speckled with gray. His blue eyes revealed both intelligence and shrewdness.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said to Murray as he approached. “I took time for my prayers, but we should talk about this wedding before it takes place.”

“I’ve nae more to say about it,” Murray said. “But ye’re in good time to witness us signing yon wedding settlements. This be Wat Scott, eldest son o’ the Laird o’ Buccleuch. Ye’ve heard o’ the laird, aye?”

“I have, indeed,” the friar said, looking narrowly at Wat. “You are
Sir
Walter, are you not? I ask because I inscribed you so in that bond you are to sign.”

“I am,” Wat said.

“Take up that quill, lad, and put your name where ye must,” Murray said.

“One moment, Sir Iagan, if you will permit me one more question,” the friar said. “I must be easier in my mind about this.” To Wat, he said, “One trusts you are doing this of your own free will, Sir Walter. Will you tell me if that is so?”

Exchanging a look with Murray, and feeling trapped by his own integrity, Wat said curtly, “That is so.”

“Take a mug of ale, brother, and rest yourself whilst ye may,” Murray said cheerfully. “My lady wife and daughters will join us soon. As ye see, the servants have already begun setting up trestles for our midday meal.”

“The wedding feast, aye,” the friar said, nodding with a friendly smile to the gillie offering to fill a mug with ale for him.

“A fine feast indeed,” Murray said with a mocking look at Wat.

Silence fell then, broken moments later when Wat’s men entered the hall.

“Where do you want them to sit, sir?” he asked Murray.

“My lads will show them,” his host said. “Ye’ll sit here by me when the time comes. But first, we must get you safely wedded and bedded, must we no?”

The friar looked about to speak again, perhaps to protest the haste of the ceremony, Wat thought hopefully. His hopes were not high, however, because marriages performed by traveling clergy were often hasty.

True priests were hard to find at any distance from their religious houses. Even with abbeys, priories, and friaries in the region, priests were rarely handy without notice. Friars, being travelers by duty, and rarely residing in their religious houses, often filled the priestly void in outlying areas. That Murray had one staying at Elishaw now was, in Wat’s opinion, naught but curst bad luck, but Scottish law provided more than one way to bypass a proper kirk wedding, so he doubted that even the lack of a priest would have stopped the man.

Watching his men guided to a table in the lower hall, he noted that Murray men-at-arms stood by, watching them, as if fearing mischief. But there would be none. His lads were quiet, even somber, clearly troubled by all that had passed since setting out to reclaim his beasts the evening before.

At last, the sound came for which he had only half-consciously been waiting, the hush of ladies’ skirts and the soft padding of their slippers on the stone stairway. Turning toward the sound, he saw Lady Murray enter the hall first.

Every servant stopped what he or she was doing as her ladyship passed on her way to the dais. Gillies and other menservants bowed, maidservants curtsied, and the men-at-arms stood stiff and straight. For all the notice she took of them, they might all have been pieces of furniture.

Behind her, side by side, came her two elder daughters. The younger lass who followed them, he deduced, was their sister, Rosalie.

Meeting the child’s impertinent gaze, he decided he was even luckier than he had thought not to have to take her back to Rankilburn with him.

His gaze shifted back to the pair preceding her, flicking over the lady Amalie to the lady Margaret. He had expected her to wear a much more elegant gown as a bride than she’d had on earlier, and to be sure, she did look less like a servant. But the flimsy blue kirtle and long gray mantle she wore now were no more suitable for riding than the earlier gown had been and no more becoming to her either.

He nearly winced at the ugly white crimped and fluted headdress concealing her hair, and as his experienced gaze took in her bodice’s unfashionably tight lacing and low girdle, he tried to imagine her in finer clothing. But his mind balked at trying to imagine her as his wife. She was too thin to be a cozy armful for a man, certainly. Sakes, but she seemed to have no breasts at all.

Although he had heard men talk of her lack of beauty, and her mouth was as wide, even as large, as Sym had said it was, her walk was graceful. She carried herself well, and her lips looked as soft and—

His thoughts stopped when her mouth quirked wryly. Meeting her direct gaze, he realized belatedly that she was watching him watch her.

Meg wondered what he was thinking. She knew she was no great beauty, but beauty was rarely the first thing men looked for in a wife. Plainer women than she married every day, but although Sir Iagan was wealthy and his many alliances had kept them safe so far, Elishaw’s position remained tenuous in unsettled times. Her duty, she knew, was to see that her marriage provided yet another strong alliance.

Sir Walter stood calmly beside her father, apparently no longer so violently opposed to marrying her. He looked tidier, too, and much handsomer. His cheeks had flushed when she caught his eye, and they were still pink.

“Art ready, Meg?” Lady Murray said.

Meg nodded.

About to accept a reluctant bridegroom without so much as a penny-dowry to placate him, she told herself that if she was not to be miserable for the rest of her life, she had better think how she could show him he had not made a bad bargain.

Now, however, she could not seem to think at all. She stood beside Sir Walter as the friar said a brief prayer and then asked him if he would promise to take her as his wedded wife, to have and to hold from that time forward.