English, Elizabeth (14 page)

He
sighed, toying with his meat, then laid his knife down and looked at her
directly. "I ken it hasn't been easy for ye, being here among us," he
continued in a low voice. "And as for Jemmy... ye must understand that it
isn't easy for him either, coming back again."

His
eyes moved briefly toward Alistair and back to Alyson's face. "Do you
know," he added lightly, obviously trying to dispel the tension at the
table. "Jemmy was only nine when he said he would go to sea, and I never
doubted he would do it. He always did whatever he set his mind to. If it was
forbidden he took his punishment without complaint—but then he'd do the same
again if he saw a reason for it."

"Did
ye whip him, Grandsire?" Malcolm put in curiously.

The
Laird smiled at his grandson. "Aye, Malcolm, that I did. Just as I'd whip
you if you were to disobey me."

The
boy rubbed his backside with a rueful grin. "As ye have before. But,"
he added to Alyson, "I dinna take it without complaint."

"No,
you complained at great length, as I remember," the Laird said dryly.
"And at great volume. Just as your father used to do."

He
added the last in a low voice, his gaze resting with mingled pride and sorrow
on his grandson. "Ah, Alistair, he's so like Ian," he said softly.

For
that moment all differences were forgotten as Ian's son, his father, and his
friend were united in their grief.

At
Aylsford Manor they had spoken of Ian Kirallen as one would speak of the devil
himself. He was a coldblooded murderer, a thief, and a coward—or so the stories
went. But watching the men's faces, Alyson knew that whatever else Ian Kirallen
might have been, he had been greatly loved by those who knew him best.

The
Laird spoke into the silence. "Now, Jemmy never even bothered trying to
escape a whipping," he said deliberately. "Alistair, do ye remember
the time he went after the tinker's lad over that animal—what was it, now? A
stray dog?"

The
moment of unity was shattered. "Nay, Laird," Alistair said, his
expression hardening. "I dinna recall it. Please excuse me."

He
stood and looked toward the corner of the hall where Kirallen's knights were
seated. The table instantly went still. Alistair jerked his chin toward the
door, and most of the men leaped to their feet, abandoning their half-eaten
meals as they followed him from the hall.

The
few knights who remained looked uneasily at the Laird. He picked up his goblet
and sipped slowly, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts.

Malcolm
stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth and stood. "I'm done," he said.
"May I have your leave to go?"

How
much did Malcolm understand of what had just happened? Alyson wondered. Had he
recognized Alistair's challenge for what it was? She expected the Laird to
order the boy back to his seat, but the old man only sighed.

"Aye,
Malcolm," he said. "You have my leave.

"I
should forbid it," he said, staring after Malcolm. "Alistair's no
good for him the now. But the boy loves him well, as did his father... his
father..."

His
shoulders slumped, and he passed a hand across his eyes. " 'Tis all my
fault," he murmured through lips gone suddenly pale. "I should have
seen it—done something— or did I do too much?"

"My
lord," Alyson said, alarmed at his pallor. "You're not well."

"Nay,
daughter, I am not. I fear—no, I canna say it.
I
willna
say
it—"

"Please,
my lord," Alyson said, as his words trailed off. "Don't upset
yourself this way. Please. You must go and rest."

He
levered himself upright, leaning heavily on the table. "Aye. I'll rest. Thank
you, daughter. 'Tis kind of you to worry, but no need."

When
he was gone Alyson went back to her chamber, where Celia and Maggie waited to
help her into bed. Once she was undressed, Maggie went off but Celia stayed
behind.

"Well,
my lady," the serving girl said with the mocking inflection she always
used when giving Alyson the title. "Did ye manage to learn anything useful
yet?"

Alyson
shook her head without answering. Oh, she'd learned much, but none of it would
interest Darnley in the slightest. In fact, he would be enraged if she told him
what exactly she
had
learned about his victory over Lord Ian. Lies,
lies—was there no end to the lies her father told?

"Well,
ye can tell him yourself tomorrow," Celia said.

"Tomorrow?"

"He'll
be waiting at the river just after dawn. I had word today."

"Who
gave you word, Celia?" Alyson asked, but Celia only shook her head.

"That's
nae for ye to know. Just remember," she added
darkly.
"I'm not the only one watching ye."

***

The
next morning Alyson rose early and dressed for riding. Her women were startled,
but she stopped their questions with a single look. One of them said that she
supposed she'd have to go along, but when Alyson said that Celia would do quite
well, the woman agreed with unflattering alacrity.

Celia
led her to the meeting place, a small meadow by the rushing Tweed. They were
early but Darnley was there before them. The nobleman wasted no time in
greeting her or inquiring how she fared.

"Well?"
he demanded. "Do they suspect you?"

"No."

He
grunted. "See that they don't. What about Kirallen and his son? Where do
they ride and when?"

"I
can't say, my lord."

"Damn
you, girl, I thought you'd have learned something of their habits!"

"It's
very soon," Alyson said. "No one really knows me yet..."

"I'll
give you another week. I'll meet you here then and by God, you'd better have
some news for me or—"

"My
lord, I won't be here in a week. There's to be some sort of gathering in the
hills."

"Gathering?"
he said sharply. "How many are to go?"

"About
half the men, I think, and most of the women. My lord," she added
hesitantly as he swung himself into his saddle. "Please, how is my
brother?"

"I
suppose he's well. Robert's looking after him. But it's up to you to see he
stays that way. Do you understand me?"

"Yes,
my lord. Could I see him next time you come?"

Darnley
jerked the reins sharply. "Perhaps. I'll see."

When
Alyson returned, she found her ladies busily
packing her belongings.
Their mood was bright, and despite her own worries Alyson caught a faint echo
of the excitement.

It
would be easier to lose herself among a crowd than it was here at Ravenspur,
she thought. And just the idea of a journey made the blood move more swiftly in
her veins. The afternoon passed pleasantly as they decided what to pack for the
tenday they'd be gone.

Maggie
hung about, obviously waiting to speak, and when they were alone she said
frankly, "Are ye thinkin' to take Celia, my lady? For I think she'd do
better to bide here."

Alyson
knew that Celia was as little liked among the women as she was herself. But
none of them could begin to match Alyson's own loathing for her maid. Though a
simple dairy maid, Celia had shared Lord Darnley's bed, and that small taste of
power had gone straight to her yellow head. Whenever they were alone she would
drop all pretense of service, and her condescending manner grated sharply on
Alyson's nerves.

"Do
you think so?" Alyson murmured, bowing her head to hide the satisfaction
in her eyes. "Then by all means, let's leave her behind."

Her
pleasure in the small victory vanished, though, as she sat down to supper and
Jemmy walked into the hall. Still dusty from the road, he took his seat with
only a nod in Alyson's direction, then turned to his father.

"And
how did you find Dunforth?" Kirallen asked.

"All's
well," Jemmy replied, filling his mug with ale. He drank deeply and set it
down before continuing. "There's no foot rot among the sheep, no murrain
on the cattle or fever in the swine. The crops are growing. Oh, and there were
twins born yesterday," he finished, his lips twisted in a smile.
"They say that's a good sign." He pushed his trencher aside and
slumped in his seat, reaching to fill his mug again.

What
he didn't say was that the villagers were delighted with the peace—and him.
From them there was no talk of dishonor, but rising excitement that they might
sow a crop and reap it without soldiers trampling their fields. They were glad
that Jemmy had come home again, surprised and grateful that he'd held court
himself instead of sending one of his knights to do it for him. They actually
believed he cared about them and their concerns. He could only imagine what
they'd think when he left again, this time for good.

"Jemmy—"
Kirallen began unhappily.

"I'm
sorry, Father," he said, running one hand through his hair. "I'm
tired, that's all. I barely slept last night."

Not
last night nor the one before it, either. Even now he felt his stomach tighten
and the sweat spring on his brow. He had never liked to be shut up indoors, but
in recent years his dislike had grown into something more, until at times he
could hardly bear the confinement of four walls.

At
Dunforth it had been worse than ever. Sitting in Johnson's small house with all
those people crowded round—he had panicked, bolted like a frightened horse to
the freedom of the open air.

Now
he summoned the image of his ship, white sails against a cloudless sky. Soon,
he told himself. Be calm. She's waiting for you. He breathed deeply, in and
out, and little by little the urge to run began to fade, leaving him exhausted.

Maude
sat quietly beside him. She had abandoned her ridiculous headgear tonight—the
Bohemian headdress, he reminded himself with an inward smile—and wore instead
simple cauls of golden thread, covered by a veil and golden circlet. It suited
her much better, the gauzy folds fell softly around her face, accentuating her
luminous blue-green eyes.

She
was a bit of a puzzle, this lady who was now his wife. She had certainly
surprised him during their ride. One moment she was talking about religion with
a lively— and intriguing—curiosity, the next she was boring him senseless with
her ridiculous chatter about King Edward's court. And then there was the way
she'd defended Tavis. That had been the biggest shock of all, her bursting out
with that speech about the rights of his tenants. Where did a sheltered lady
get such ideas?

And
the damnedest part was, he agreed with every word she said. Under Ian's rule,
the knights had been given a free hand, which accounted for at least part of
their fanatical loyalty to Jemmy's brother. But... but... Jemmy's mind hovered
on the edge of an incredible idea.

The
Kirallen knights did not have the right to behave as Sir Calder had—or at least
they
shouldn't
have the right. The knights should never have been given
so much power.

Jemmy
instinctively tried to push the thought away, but it returned. Ian had been
wrong. Jemmy knew it was the truth, even if no one else at Ravenspur agreed,
which they most certainly would not.

Ian
had never looked at any side of a question but his own, and that made every
decision simple. As nearly every man in the clan was exactly like him, they all
thought his single-mindedness a virtue and his decisions the pinnacle of
wisdom. His ability to lead men had been born in him— he'd been charming, fearless,
effortlessly inspiring loyalty among his knights. He had been, Jemmy reflected
wryly, a hero. And now he is a dead hero, forever beyond reproach. While I have
the misfortune to be very much alive and completely unheroic.

Why,
why couldn't he just agree with the things Ian and the others had accepted
without question? Why was he so different? Twelve years had gone by but nothing
had changed. He was still the outsider here, still alone in the midst of all
these people who were his kin.

"My
lord," Maude said hesitantly, "I wondered—the shepherd brought to
trial—"

And
all at once Jemmy was not entirely alone. Something
had
changed. There
was one person here who would understand what he had done about the shepherd—
and why.

"Oh,
yes, Tavis," he said. "Well, it's a long tale—"

"Tavis?"
the Laird put in anxiously, his voice rising. "Tavis the shepherd? I knew
his father well. He was brought to trial? On what cause?"

"It's
finished, Father," Jemmy said. "No need to concern yourself."

A
burly, dark-bearded man seated at the corner of the knight's table leaned
forward. "Is it Tavis o' Dunforth ye speak of?" he demanded. "I
hope he hanged. He near broke my jaw, the insolent lout!"

"The
matter has been settled, Sir Calder," Jemmy said.

"Tavis
struck you?" the Laird said to Sir Calder. "But why?"

"I
but gave a lesson to that brat o' his, Laird," the man said. "The boy
was mishandling my horse."