Tamed by a Laird (12 page)

“They’ll be a-goin’ to Dumfries.”

“Aye, in time,” Hugh agreed. “But we don’t know how soon or where they might go in the meantime. Sithee, I’m just being cautious—as
you suggested.”

“Och, aye, ye’re right cautious, ye are,” Lucas said with a snort.

“Hush,” Hugh said. “They’re near enough now to hear you.”

Lucas fell obediently silent as the boat beached nearby.

The three men in it were well armed. Two drew swords as they stepped ashore but stayed by the boat. The third strode forward,
content to keep a hand on his sword hilt as he said, “What be ye a-wanting here, ye two?”

Doffing his plumed cap with a flourish as he swept a deep bow that made the purple cape billow, Hugh said, “I am told that
your imprisonment in this great castle marches slowly. I’ve come to provide music and laughter for your entertainment.”

The man shrugged. “We’ve nae need o’ ye, though. We’ve a whole company o’ minstrels inside—fools, jugglers, gleewomen—all
sorts.”

Hugh straightened and looked down his nose at the man. “Good sakes, am I not aware of this company? In sooth, I come to join
them, having been detained in Annan town to sing for Lord Dunwythie because of my great talent. ’Twas he who sent me after
them, knowing me to be the finest troubadour in all Scotland.”

“Aye, well, ye’re a pensie, pompous prink withal, and right full o’ yourself.”

Hugh dismissed the comment with an airy gesture. “I have performed in many countries,” he said. “Soon I will perform for the
King of Scots on the anniversary of his ascension to the throne. But, in kindness, I deign to perform here at Lochmaben for
you English. And I tell you, sirrah, your commander will be gey wroth with you if you cause him to miss hearing the fine songs
and epic tales of the great Hugo.”

Replacing his plumed cap, Hugh waited, hoping he had said enough and not too much. It was years since he had last pretended
to be other than himself. He took care to avoid Lucas’s gloomy gaze.

“Ye say ye be with them others inside?” the English leader said.

“Not to say
with
them,” Hugh said. “I come to join them. The so powerful Lord Dunwythie said I should do so, because they go on from here
to Dumfries and then to the fine new castle of the Lord of Galloway, who is shortly to honor the King of Scots.” He spread
his hands. “And so, did the matter arrange itself.”

“Mayhap it did,” the soldier said. “What of this man? Does he sing?”

Hugh winced. “Nay, he possesses an eldritch voice. He is only my servant.”

“Then he must remain here,” the soldier said. “Ye’ll come with us in the boat and wait in the forecourt whilst I speak with
our commander.”

“Then I shall need to take one of those baskets,” Hugh said with a sigh. “The one with my lute, Bouchard.”

Lucas gave him a look that told him he recalled from a previous occasion that Bouchard meant “big mouth” in French. But he
nodded and handed Hugh the basket.

“If our commander refuses to hear ye sing, he may order ye chained and cast into our dungeon,” the leader of the boatmen warned.

Hugh shrugged. “He will not be such a fool.”

They put him in the bow of the boat and rowed back to the castle. Hugh saw Lucas dismally shaking his head before the gates
swung shut behind them.

He knew that Lucas would stay close and keep an eye out for trouble. What he would do if he spotted any, he did not know.
But Lucas was resourceful.

Putting other thoughts aside, Hugh concentrated on looking confident and relaxed. He was neither. It was not the first time
he had walked into the English lion’s mouth with no weapon other than a dirk shoved into one boot, but it was the first time
he had done so while the two countries were supposedly at peace.

He did not think the English would care one way or the other about a Scottish baroness pretending to be a gleemaiden. However,
if they discovered they had two noble landowners inside Lochmaben, both pretending to be what they were not, the English commander
would be well within his rights to declare them spies and hang them or—and much more likely—hold each of them for a large
ransom.

The hall was unnaturally quiet as Jenny walked toward the dais, where the castle commander and his officers sat in state.
She stopped by the lone stool below it, reminding herself that they had liked her performance the night before and that it
was all part of her adventure. Holding her head high, she strove to look serene.

Her tension had increased despite their obvious anticipation, or perhaps because of their silence. It had not grown so quiet
the previous night until she had been singing for several minutes. They seemed to expect more of her now.

At least she need not worry that anyone would recognize her, because she had never met any Englishmen. Therefore, she could
easily pretend she was no longer Baroness Easdale but just common Bonnie Jenny with a pleasing voice.

Taking her seat, she positioned her lute and began gently to pluck the notes of her first song. As usual, the sound soothed
her and stirred memories of home. She played it once all the way through before she began to sing.

The love song had five verses, and by the third, she had lost herself in the music, unaware of how quiet the hall was until
notes from a second lute joined hers. Sure that it must be one of the other minstrels, she hoped he would not miss a note.

Distracted only for that moment and quickly realizing that she could trust the other musician, she concentrated on the song.

A beat before she began the fourth verse, a man began to sing behind her, changing the lyrics to suit a lad singing to his
love instead of a lass to hers. His voice was rich and full, his skill with the lute exceptional, so although she kept plucking
the tune, she remained silent until the verse ended.

Then she stood and faced him to sing the last verse with him.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a long purple cape and a matching, white-plumed cap. Although his clothing was that
of a troubadour and the rakish plume obscured much of his face, something about the man seemed familiar.

He was not a minstrel with whom she had traveled, which suggested that he must live in the castle. Not until he swept the
plumed cap from his head and bowed to her at the end of the song did she recognize Sir Hugh Douglas. But she did so then with
such astonishment that she had all she could do to retain her composure.

Hugh knew the moment she recognized him. He had wondered how she would react and felt a stirring of admiration when she just
stiffened slightly.

She relaxed at once, smiling, and he knew the thunderous applause and foot stomping from their delighted audience helped her
keep her composure.

Doubtless, too, she had not yet realized that he had come for her.

Instead she was probably wondering what
had
brought him. Thanks to his troubadour’s garb and performance, perhaps she suspected that he’d come as a spy.

The commander of Lochmaben’s garrison raised both hands, and the audience quieted again.

As the lass turned toward the dais, the commander said in a voice that carried easily to the rear of the hall, “We had heard
of Bonnie Jenny but not that she sang with another fine gleeman. Your music pleases us. Prithee, sing us another.”

The lass curtsied to him and then turned again to face Hugh.

He bowed, hoping to indicate that he would leave it to her to choose the song. He could play most well-known ballads. For
any he did not know, he could still play appropriate accompaniment after listening for a short time.

She was quiet long enough to make him wonder if her nerves had overcome her at last, although she still looked perfectly calm.

Content to watch her, he felt no impatience. Dim gray daylight showed in several very high, very small windows, but the true
light in the hall glowed from a multitude of candles and cressets, gilding her shiny hair.

Having seen her before only in a formal caul and veil, with her eyebrows and forehead shaven, he had not imagined what color
her hair might be.

Now he saw that her hair and eyes were exactly the same soft golden-brown. Perhaps the candlelight played tricks with her
irises.

Gazing straight at him, she plucked a string, then another and another. The tune was that of a century-old ballad most folks
called “Fairlie Roads,” a tale of the battle of Largs, when King Hakon of Norway, taking advantage of a famine in Scotland,
had tried to assert his lordship over the western isles. The ballad derived from old seanachies’ tales, and therefore was
well known. It was also many,
many
verses long. Hugh devoutly hoped she did not mean to sing them all.

With a smile and a nod, he matched his plucking to hers, moving closer and then standing beside her so she could turn toward
the dais again and still see him. He knew the commander was more interested in her than in him, so it would be wiser for her
to avoid giving the man her back as she sang.

The ballad was a favorite with Scottish military men, and Hugh knew all the words. By letting her sing the first line of each
verse, he learned with relief that she skipped five verses for every one she sang, concentrating on those lauding the Scots.

Thus, they soon came to the climax of the tale, when weather favored the Scots with gale-force winds that forced their Norse
attackers to withdraw in defeat.

As the song ended, it occurred to Hugh that she would be wise to avoid more military ballads, especially ones where the English
suffered defeat, but she began a love song next. As he sang it with her, he found himself watching her again and was sure
that every other man in the hall must be doing so, too.

Her voice was pleasant and natural, and very soothing. But it was not her singing as much as the way she seemed to lose herself
in the music that made her so fascinating. She soon turned a little toward the lower hall, so that she seemed to be singing
to individuals there as much as to the men on the dais.

When the song ended, they both turned and bowed to the dais. Then she walked to a table at the back where the other minstrels
sat. Following her, he braced himself when the man who had led the company at Annan House rose to greet him.

“Ye’ve a fine voice, troubadour,” he said.

“I thank ye, sir,” Hugh replied, relaxing. He had wondered if anyone in the company had paid sufficient heed to those sitting
at Annan House’s high table to recognize him, but if they had not recognized the young baroness, he thought the likelihood
was even greater that they would not recognize him.

“ ’Twas a good turn,” the leader said. “The two o’ ye make a fine pair.”

As Hugh answered glibly, he saw that one young woman, sitting by herself at the far end of the table, seemed to pay him close
heed. When Lady Easdale went to sit beside her, he deduced that she must be the missing maidservant, Peg.

Returning his attention to the leader of the company, who had just asked from whence he had sprung, Hugh decided to spin much
the same tale he had spun the soldiers at the gate. “I come from Annan House, sir.”

“Indeed, how so?” the man asked.

“Sithee, I am bidden to Threave Castle soon, to sing for the Lord of Galloway and mayhap the King of Scots. My lord Dunwythie
did tell me a band of minstrels that had performed for a feast there yestereve were likewise bound for Threave for that same
occasion. He suggested I’d be safer did I catch up with ye and travel in your company. If ye be their leader, sir, what say
ye?”

“If you can get our Bonnie Jenny to flirt with ye as ye sing, and with the men in the audience, I’ll thank ye for it. If ye
think they shout for her now, think what they’ll do if each man of them believes she sings just for him. Can ye do that?”

Willing to promise nearly anything if the company would accept him as a fellow minstrel long enough for him to talk with the
lass and persuade her to go quietly back to Annan House with him, Hugh nodded.

“Aye, sure,” he said. “I ken fine what ye want her to do.”

“Then ye’re welcome to travel with us. We go to Dumfries from here to perform for a sennight at the sheriff’s behest. But
ye’ll no mind that, for he’ll pay us well and we’ll divide the gelt in the usual way.”