Fair Border Bride
Authors: Jen Black
By Jen Black
Copyright © Jen Black, 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the author.
ISBN: 978-0-9570603-0-2
Published by Orchard Hill Books
http://jenblackauthor.blogspot.com
Author’s note:
This story had a brief life in paperback during 2009 under the title
Till the Day Go Down
Unhappily, the publisher declared bankruptcy and returned all rights, so I have
tightened
and improved the original before publishing as an e-book
Contents
Northumberland, June 1543
Harry Wharton strolled across the uneven cobbles of Corbridge market place with the tempting fragrance of hot eel pie curling into his nostrils. Juices ran in his stomach, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since early morning. Sniffing the air, he ignored the minty scent of cabbages and peas, and the earthier smells of cattle penned in Hill Street, and tracked the pie-seller to a crowded stall in the corner by Bridge Street. He fumbled for the purse at his belt.
“But Mama, we need more ale. There’s little left. Buy a keg today!”
The clear feminine voice wavered between wheedle and command and did not belong to a farm girl. Harry turned, uttered a soundless whistle and forgot about eel pie.
She radiated energy and purpose. Something shifted under Harry’s diaphragm, which surprised him, for he was well used to ladies of quality. Less than three weeks ago he had flirted with court beauties on a daily basis, even bedded one or two during his service in the duke’s household.
This girl was young, and pretty. Beneath the black velvet bonnet tilted rakishly to one side of her head, her brown eyes shone out of a clear complexion. Wisps and strands of chestnut hair tangled about her ears. A lustrous brown plait slid between her shoulder blades.
“Please, Mama. Why do you hesitate? Joseph will take it to the cart, won’t you, Joseph?”
The servant nodded agreement.
“Very well, dear.”
The older woman nodded. “Two kegs, Joseph, if you please.”
Joseph bowed his head and turned away to make the transaction.
The young woman wore a square-necked green gown that hugged her waist and flared over the curve of her hip. A frill of white showed at the tight cuff of her sleeves, and the long tasselled tabs of an embroidered girdle hung from her waist.
An unexpected tightness in Harry’s throat caused him to swallow hard and look away.
“Now, Mama, what about needles and yarn for those quilts we are to make this winter?”
Harry had been staring at the hanks of wool, yarns and silk threads on the stall beside him, and almost laughed when he heard her speak. Perhaps her words were innocent, and perhaps not, but either way the familiar pleasure of the chase surged through his veins.
He affected a frown and studied the goods on offer. A flash of green fabric swirled against his booted leg and his senses, already sharp, tightened a notch as the scent of roses reached him.
“Why, sir, do you hesitate over needles?” The soft gurgle of laughter accompanied her rapid words. “Mama and I could help you make a selection if you find it beyond you.”
“Alina!
Hold your tongue!” Whatever the girl had in mind, her mother disliked such forward behaviour.
Harry kept his head bowed for several respectful moments while he savoured the girl’s name on his tongue.
Alina.
Alina.
“But the gentleman obviously needs assistance, Mama.”
“Come. The stall owner will offer all the assistance he needs.”
At the snapped rejoinder, Alina tilted her head in Harry’s direction. Her smile took his breath away.
What could he say to detain her? “I,
er
…I thought to take a small gift home for my sister, but…”
Jesu
! He could not frame the simplest sentence, and her laughing brown eyes mocked his efforts. He shook his head, defeated. “I know nothing of needles.”
“See, Mama.” The young woman half-turned to her annoyed parent. “He does need our help. I thought he might.” The sun sparkled on the vagabond curls tangled like gold wires about her ears.
Harry rallied his scattered wits.
But she was too swift for him. “You still look puzzled, sir, yet they are only simple needles and pins.”
Ye Gods! She spoke as if he were a simpleton. The skin of Harry’s face prickled and burned. It was years since he had blushed at something a woman said to him. He inhaled through his nose, ignored her and turned his attention to her mother. “I would be most grateful for your help, madam. I must admit pins and spindles have not figured overmuch in my education.”
The mother had been a beauty in her time, but the square-necked black velvet gown did nothing to lighten the sallow hue of her complexion. Nor did the severe gable hood, still popular among those who once supported the Spanish Queen Catherine. But there was a likeness to her daughter in the eloquent brown eyes and the line of her jaw.
With a quelling glance at Alina, she indicated a small silk-wrapped bundle with a gloved hand. “I suggest, sir, a package of needles such as that would be welcome to most young ladies.”
“Thank you, madam. I appreciate your advice.”
She inclined her head, and turned to the stallholder. “Use a ribbon, Mary, since it is to be a gift.” She cast a calculating eye over Harry’s dark woollen doublet and rakish cap. “I am sure the young man has coin enough. We shall return to make our selection later.”
Harry bristled. A retort sprang to his lips, then he caught sight of Alina’s amused smile behind her mother’s shoulder and forgot what he had been about to say.
The woman offered a regal nod and shepherded her daughter away. “Good day, young man.”
Harry gritted his teeth, offered his most elegant bow and watched them go. The young lady tossed a swift, laughing glance over her shoulder before the crowd took her away.
Harry turned to the stallholder. “Who was that?”
Of little height but ample girth, the stallholder regarded him from shrewd blue eyes. “Fancy ye chances, lad? That was the lady of Aydon Hall.
Margery Carnaby and her daughter Alina.
They’re a-
carin
’ for Sir Reynold, him that’s ill and like to die soon.”
“Aydon?
Just north of here?”
“Aye.
Right by the Ay Burn.
Ye’ll
be a stranger to these parts yourself, sir?”
Harry saw no need to deny it.
“Travelling north to Edinburgh.”
“Oh, aye.
And
ye’d
be from
Lonnun
, then, sir?”
Harry gave her his best smile. There was no harm in letting everyone think he was from the south. In fact, it was to his advantage. “How’d ye guess?”
The dark wool shawl draping her shoulders moved as she shrugged. “Ye don’t sound as if ye come from these parts. Ye sound more like gentry. I thought o’
Lonnun
, that’s all.”
“It is quieter hereabouts than London.”
Mary handed him a neatly wrapped package and named her price. “Quiet,
d’ye
think
, lad? It’s but a hundred miles to Edinburgh, and
ye’ll
travel some o’ the most dangerous land in the country to get there.”
Counting out coins into her palm, Harry hesitated, and his gaze rose from the coins to the woman’s rosy, thread-veined face.
“Dangerous for everyone, or just for me?”
Mary choked back a laugh. “There’s outlaws and broken men up
in’t
hills, my bonny lad, and they’ll shake loose the Border whenever they take a fancy to
dee
it. They’ll not stop to ask ye name, never mind ye destination, before they slit ye throat and ride off
wi
ye purse.” She looked him up and down. “They’ll no’ forget ye sword nor ye dagger, either, not even that bonny jewel in your cap.
Nekkid
as a babe
ye’ll
be, when those
limmers
leave
ye
.”
He resumed counting out coins into her plump hand. “I’d best take care how I ride then,” he said. “For ride I will.”
Her blue eyes twinkled. “Luck be
wi
ye
, sir.”
Harry slid the small package inside his doublet and wandered on, whistling silently through his teeth, wondering if he should have asked about guides for the next stage of his journey.
Better not; he didn’t want every village idiot knowing his business.
He’d use his own judgement in finding a man who knew the routes through the hills.
He turned down ribbons, laces, gowns, cloaks, whistles, carved wooden dogs and live piglets in swift succession. But the odour of leather drew him to the saddler’s stock in the corner of the square where the land dropped to the river.
The merchandise was good. His current pose as sturdy soldier-cum-messenger meant he couldn’t buy fancy harness, just as it prevented him wearing his fine cut velvets and jewelled rings. The stone in his bonnet was of poor quality and would fool no one of consequence.
But any man, whatever his station, would gaze with longing at the dark leather bridle hanging on display.
Fingering the smooth, glossy leatherwork, dimly aware of cows and calves moaning and bawling in their temporary pens on the other side of the stone church, Harry caressed the fifteen silver studs decorating the black leather.
“
Yon’s
a fine bridle, sir.” The merchant hovered at his side. “Would—”
A bellow broke the air. Harry and the leather merchant turned. Men yelled, and women and children shrieked and stumbled as they ran out of Hill Street into the square. A young red and white bull hurtled on a zigzag course behind them and erupted, still bellowing, into the market place.
Half a dozen farmhands pounded after it, wooden rakes and hayforks prodding the air.
The bull kicked out, a stall rocked and cheap crockery shattered on the cobbles. The furious stallholder threw a pot at the beast’s head. It ducked and wheeled towards the church.
“A bee stung ’
im
!” One of the farmhands yelled. “He’s
madder’n
the
de’il
!”
Harry laughed.
“’ere, you won’t be laughing, me lad,” the leather merchant muttered, “if yon beast catches you on those ugly great ’
orns
.”
The bull swung back, ducked, pivoted and dashed off in the opposite direction. Women grabbed their squealing children. Stallholders regrouped to defend their precious wares with waving arms and missiles, but none stood his ground when the animal turned on him.
Tail in the air, head down,
the
bull pounded across the cobbles. Threatened on every side, it saw no escape and swung round once more, snorting.
Everyone stood very still.
The farmhands, wooden hayforks held before them, advanced on the beast.
The sharp, curving horns turned towards the end of the market. One forefoot pawed the cobbles.
Harry followed the beast’s gaze. A cluster of empty wagons and farm carts blocked the point where Watling Street entered the market square. A lithe shape in a green gown backed out from between two carts, her attention on some object in her hands.
Harry stopped laughing, took an inadvertent step forward and yelled at the top of his voice.
“Alina, run!
Get out of the way!”
“’ere, that be Mistress Carnaby’s daughter.”
“I know that.”
Harry looked at the bull. Lunging to dodge a hayfork, the beast knocked a man aside and with a quick flick of its head tore a long, bloody rent in another man’s hose. Hooves scrabbling for grip on the cobbles, it plunged forward, heading straight for Alina.
