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

The groom—nearer Sir Malcolm’s age than Sibylla’s— turned to gape at her. His jowls were aquiver. His thick lower lip protruded.

Ignoring him, she faced the priest. “It cannot matter how Lord Galston answers you, Father,” she said as firmly and clearly as before. “I do have the right to refuse him, do I not? My godfather said I do.”

“A good daughter obeys the commands of her
father
,” the priest declared.

“I
am
a good daughter, but I
don’t
want Lord Galston for my husband. The Douglas, my godfather, said I need not have him. Was he wrong?”

The priest stared at her, his heavy frown making most of the spectators glad he had not directed it at them.

They held their communal breath, fearful of missing a word.

Heads turned toward Sir Malcolm. He stood at the foot of the chancel steps, his grim profile visible to nearly everyone save the bridal couple.

His face flamed red and his jaw jutted forward.

The priest looked at him. The bride did not.

“My lord,” the priest said. “You know the answer to her ladyship’s question. What would you have me do?”

Grimacing, Sir Malcolm shook his head. “
Ye
can do nowt,” he muttered.

The lady Sibylla turned, gathered her skirts in a graceful, swooping gesture, and descended the chancel steps. Head high, acknowledging no one, she turned toward the south aisle.

As the congregation watched in stunned silence, she walked with dignity far beyond her tender years outside into Edinburgh’s High Street.

Selkirk, Allhallows’ Day, 1387

As fifteen-year-old Sibylla Cavers walked beside her father toward the altar of the wee kirk, she saw that he had invited few guests. But she could scarcely blame him after what had happened the first time he’d arranged for her to marry.

With the banns mysteriously omitted this time, just two lay brothers and a few curious citizens were in the kirk that drizzly November day to view the sacred rite and help alleviate the damp chill. Shivering, Sibylla studied the handsome young man who awaited her with the priest at the altar.

She had never met the bridegroom before. But, as her father had promised, this one did seem a better choice for her than the aged Lord Galston. For one thing, this man was only six years older than she was, surely a better match for her than any rotund graybeard.

The dark-tawny hair beneath his plumed blue velvet cap was neatly trimmed. His expensively clad figure boasted broad shoulders, slim hips, and legs both powerful- looking and shapely in their dark hose. His eyes seemed a bit fierce under jutting eyebrows darker than his hair, but fierce eyes did not scare Sibylla. At first glance, she thought him intriguing.

She had enjoyed a few mild flirtations, and was growing used to men of every age—including her brother Hugh’s friends—making clear their approval of her beauty. So she waited for that familiar look to appear on the face of her intended.

He continued to regard her without any change of expression other than what seemed to be a touch of chilly impatience.

Aware that she had inherited her mother’s generous wedding portion on that lady’s unfortunate demise ten years before, Sibylla eyed the young man more intently as she offered him a warm smile.

He remained coldly somber.

At the chancel steps, her father moved away after declaring himself willing to give her in marriage. With easy grace, she went up the steps, stopped nearer her bridegroom than the priest had indicated, and said confidingly, “You might at least smile, sir. You look as if you are attending a funeral.”

Instead, he glanced irritably at the priest. That worthy said, “My lady, you should look at me and not speak except to repeat your vows.”

Ignoring him, Sibylla smiled again at her intended. “My father told me you were all eagerness, sir,” she said. “But you never came to visit me, and now you do not return my smile. In troth, I begin to doubt his word.”

“This discourse is unseemly, Father,” the groom said. “Pray, proceed.”

“Nay, then, do not, Father,” Sibylla said. “I will have none of him.”

As she turned away, her erstwhile bridegroom said testily, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home,” she said. “You do not want me, and I do
not
want you.”

“By heaven, no one humiliates me like this!” he exclaimed.

Without word or pause, Sibylla picked up her skirts and left the kirk.

The words he shouted at her then rang in her ears for days afterward:

“I’ll
never
forgive you, you impudent snip! You will rue this day!”

Akermoor Castle, Lothian, April 1388

After each of her two aborted weddings, Sibylla had faced her furious father and endured his rebukes. She knew she deserved them, if only for disappointing him, and had felt profound relief that his reaction had not been more violent.

On both occasions, after he had roared at her, she had tried to explain her reasons. But Lord Galston’s having been too old for her and his successor too coldly arrogant had not impressed Sir Malcolm.

The third time, she recognized her error sooner. The ceremony was to take place at Akermoor, so she simply sent a message downstairs to the priest and did not show herself. Accordingly, she expected Sir Malcolm’s wrath to engulf her.

“What manner of complaint can ye have this time?” he demanded. “In sooth, ye said Thomas Colville suited ye fine.”

“I had seen him only at court with companies of people,” Sibylla replied. “Thomas seemed charming then and kind. But since he has been here at Akermoor, I have found not one thing about which we can talk.”

“Ye’ll talk enough
after
ye’re married!”

“He leers at the maidservants, sir, and cares only for his own wishes,” she said. Fearing that Sir Malcolm would see nothing amiss in that either, she added, “He also complained unceasingly that Hugh was not here to bear him company.”

“Any man prefers the company of other men,” her father retorted. “His wife is meant to look after his home and his bairns, no to demand his constant attention. Moreover, if ye meant to refuse him, ye should have said as much before now.”

“I did, sir. You did not listen. Apparently, that, too, is the nature of men.”

“I’ll stand nae more of your sauce!” he roared. “Your sister Alice will soon need a husband, and although I’d a mind to see ye wedded afore her, ye’ve had your chance, Sibylla—three of them! I’ll do nae more for ye. Ye’ll always have your home here, but ye’ll look after Alice till she weds and then ye’ll look after yourself and me. So look now at your future, ye foolish lass, and weep for it!”

But Sibylla did not weep.

Instead, as usual, she took matters into her own capable hands.

Chapter 1

Scottish Borders, 21 April 1391

T
he child’s scream shattered the morning stillness.

Whipping her head toward the sound, which had come from a short distance away near the river Tweed, nineteen-year-old Lady Sibylla Cavers reined in the dapple-gray gelding she rode. Pushing back the sable-lined hood of her long, dark-green wool cloak, she listened, frowning, her eyes narrowed. For the first time since leaving Sweethope Hill House that morning, she wished she had brought her groom, but as the land from Sweethope Hill to the river belonged to the estate, she had not.

She often rode alone, and having but recently recovered from an illness that had kept her in bed for a fortnight, she had wanted to savor her freedom.

The scream came again and seemed closer.

Spurring the gray, Sibylla rode toward the river until she saw through a break in the trees lining its bank a tiny, splashing figure a quarter mile to the west. Caught in the river’s powerful, sweeping spring flow, it moved steadily toward her.

Without hesitation, Sibylla wheeled her mount eastward and urged it to a gallop, hoping it could outrun the river to the next ford. With hood bobbing and long, thick, red-gold plaits flying, she listened for more screams to tell her the child was still alive and help her estimate how fast the river was carrying it along.

Her sense of urgency increasing with every hoofbeat, she leaned low along the gelding’s neck and urged it to go faster.

The ford was not far, if it still was a ford. She knew only what she had gleaned about the Tweed during the princess Isabel Stewart’s eight-month residence at Sweethope. But her experience with other rivers warned her that even trustworthy fords that had remained so for years could vanish in a heavy spate, and tended to do so just when one most urgently needed to cross to the other side.

At present, the Tweed was a thick, muddy brown color and moved swiftly, carrying branches, twigs, and larger items in its grip. Some distance to the east, she saw a long, half-submerged log that had snagged near the opposite shore just short of where the river bent southward. Branches with enough clinging dry leaves to look like spiky plumes shot off the log in all directions, making it easy to see. Other objects swept past it though, as the child would if she could not intercept it.

The ford lay just ahead now with sunlight gleaming on water-filled ruts of the worn track approaching it. Although the river was higher than usual, hoofprints in the mud indicated that, not long before, horses had crossed there.

Reining the gray to a trot and turning in fear that she would see nothing but churning water, she observed with profound relief that the child still splashed, albeit with less energy than before. Its strength was rapidly waning.

At best, she would have only one chance to save it. Reaching the ford, she urged the gray into the water. The horse was reluctant, but she was an experienced horsewoman.

She knew it was strong and reliable. Forcing it into the swift flow, wishing again that she had brought her groom, she discovered only when the gray was in nearly to its withers that the water was deeper than she had expected.

Nevertheless, the horse obeyed, leaning into the river’s flow to steady itself.

Keeping firm control of it, she fixed her eyes on the child, urging the gelding forward until the child was splashing directly toward them.

When the little one was near enough, Sibylla resisted trying to grab one of the thin, flailing arms with her gloved hand. She grabbed clothing instead, praying the cloth would not tear as the water fought to rip the terrified child from her grip. The river thrust hard against the horse, eddying angrily around the already skittish beast.

The child proved shockingly heavy and awkward to hold. Just as she thought she had a firm grip, the gelding shifted a foreleg eastward.

The combination of the child’s waterlogged weight and the river’s mighty flow pulled the little one under the horse’s neck and forced Sibylla to lean sharply to retain her grip. Before she knew what was happening, she was in the icy water.

Long practice compelled her to hold on to the reins. The startled horse, already struggling to return to firm ground, jerked its head up, nearly yanking the reins free. Sibylla’s skirts and heavy cloak threatened to sink her, and the combined forces of the river and the child’s weight dragged her eastward with a strength impossible to resist. Worse, the child had caught hold of her arm and, shrieking in its terror, tried to climb right up her.

Sibylla let go of the reins and, submerging, used her left hand to release the clasp at the neck of her cloak as she tried desperately to keep the child’s head above her, out of the water, and find footing beneath her. The water filled her boots and thrust one off. She kicked the other one away.

Although her feet had briefly touched bottom as she kicked toward the surface and the cloak’s weight vanished as the river swept it away, she could find only water under her now. Whatever had remained of the ford was behind them.

Pulse pounding, trying not to swallow the cold, muddy water churning around them, Sibylla fought to breathe and to keep them both afloat. But the river, determined to keep them, swept them inexorably toward the sea.

Simon Murray, Laird of Elishaw, returning from Kelso with his usual, modest tail of six armed men, had forded the Tweed sometime earlier on his way south to Elishaw. Having also heard the screaming child, he had turned back at once.

By the time he and his men reached the riverbank, the screams were well east of them, but Simon easily spotted the frantically splashing child. Beyond, in the distance, he discerned through the shrubbery a lone rider in a dark-green cloak racing along the opposite bank. Whoever it was, with the river as high as it was, and the current as strong, that rider would need help.

As Simon turned east, one of his men shouted, “M’lord, look yonder! There be another lad in the water!”

Glancing back to see more splashes, Simon shouted, “You men do what you must to rescue him. I’m going after the other one. Hodge Law, you’re with me!” he added, singling out the largest and strongest of his men.

Giving spur to his mount with mental thanks to God that he was riding a sure-footed horse of good speed, Simon followed the narrow, rutted track along the riverbank. Watching through trees and shrubbery as well as he could in passing, he tried to keep one eye on the child and the other on the green-cloaked rider.

As he rode, he wondered how two bairns had ended up in the river. If they’d been playing on its banks, they wanted skelping—if they lived long enough. If not . . .

Half of his mind continued to toy with possibilities as it was wont to do when faced with any problem. But as he drew nearer, he saw that the other rider was female and realized that, before, the shrubbery had hidden her flying plaits.

Forgetting all else, he focused his mind on how he could aid her.

When she forced her mount into the river at the ford where he and his men had crossed, he noted how nervous the beast was and how deftly she controlled it.

As that thought crossed his mind, she leaned to grab the child racing toward her, and although he saw with approval that she grabbed the front of its garments rather than trying to catch a madly waving arm, he doubted that any female would be strong enough to hold on to it in such a current. She would have to let go.