The Border Lord's Bride (29 page)

"I think Duncan Armstrong should," the Earl of Bothwell said.

"Aye!"

"Aye!"

"Aye!" the others agreed, even James Elliot, but Ian Johnston was silent.

"There must be someone else," Duncan protested. "What about my brother of Cleit, who already has a quiver full of bairns? The Bruces have always been leaders of men, my lords. Choose Conal to lead you."

"Nay," Conal said quietly. "Fuimus is our motto. ‗We have been.‘ The Bruces are Scotland‘s past. The Armstrong motto is Invictus maneo. ‗I remain unvanquished.‘ You are the man to lead us at this time, and you have the king‘s friendship."

"But not his coin," Duncan quickly replied, and the other men in the hall laughed uproariously at the remark.

"Duffdour also has that walled keep, a good place for a gathering of clansmen to meet," the earl said. "Let us decide the matter now. All in favor of making Duncan Armstrong the chieftain of our combined forces say aye!"

The hall erupted with a chorus of approval but for the silent Ian Johnston.

"Then ‘tis done," said the Hepburn Earl of Bothwell.

Adair, the lady of Cleit, had prepared a fine supper for her guests. There was roast boar, roast venison, broiled salmon, and trout. There were several large pies filled with duck and rabbit, the pastry atop golden and flaky, their vents pouring forth a fragrant steam scented with wine that flavored the gravy. There were fresh summer peas, warm loaves of bread, sweet butter, and several kinds of cheese. The men ate heartily, and their goblets were kept filled with good ale.

And when they had finished the clansmen played outside on the hill, wrestling with one another, shooting arrows at targets, tossing spears at a butt that had been set up. Then one by one the men drifted back into the hall at Cleit and were shown to bed spaces, where they collapsed gratefully.

Conal Bruce, the Earl of Bothwell, and the laird of Duffdour sat huddled by the large hearth in the hall, speaking in low tones.

"Don‘t trust Johnston," Patrick Hepburn said. "There is something not quite right there. He suffered far more damage than did any of the others, and I don‘t believe it was because he turned Colby down and Colby made an example of him. You turned Colby down, and you are far more important to the English than is Ian Johnston."

"Aye," Conal Bruce said. "The English come and go quickly. They would have had to be at Johnston‘s for quite a while to have inflicted the damage they did. And I know for a fact that Mary Johnston suffered her bairn‘s loss before the English raided, and not after. Agnes Carr entertains Johnston now and again. She‘s friends with some of our women. He came to her one night complaining that his wife cannot seem to bear him a healthy son. I‘m surprised he hasn‘t used the English raids to do away with her."

Duncan Armstrong‘s eyes narrowed. "Money. It will be money that drives him. My fear is that he will send to Colby and tell him what we are doing. But I don‘t want him to know we are onto him either. We‘ll have to put a watch on him, and stop every messenger leaving Johnston‘s Keep. And we‘ll have to watch who comes to call," he said thoughtfully. "‘Tis sad. The Johnstons have always been an honorable clan."

"Ian is a member of the poorer and lesser branch of the family," the earl said. "His sire died when he was five. His mother, a proper bitch, would allow no one near him, for she feared someone might harm him. Consequently he had no guidance. But that notwithstanding, if we catch him in treason, we will kill him."

The two brothers nodded in agreement.

"I‘ll send one of my men to follow Johnston when he departs on the morrow," Conal Bruce said.

"What if he goes to Colby himself?" the earl asked.

"He‘ll have to be killed before he reaches him," Duncan Armstrong said. "But I doubt he would attempt to go himself. At least not now. He will want to keep suspicion on me if he can.

Johnston‘s Keep is on my way back to Duffdour. I‘ll ride with him and see him safely home.

You can have one of your men follow us, Conal, and then remain to keep a watch on Ian. On reflection, better send two men. If Johnston tries to sneak off, or if he sends one of his people, then your second man can bring us word while the other follows the messenger. But have the one who brings you word wait a short while to make certain Johnston hasn‘t sent a decoy messenger off."

"And that, brother, is why you are the leader of us all," Conal Bruce said. "You anticipate everything."

"No one can anticipate everything, Conal," Duncan replied. "Men make mistakes, and some of those mistakes are dangerous, while others are just foolish."

"And that," the Earl of Bothwell said, "is why I chose you to lead the others. You know how to look at the overall picture, and have not a small intellect. The king could use a man like you, my lord, but as you turned down Jamie himself, I doubt I could persuade you to take a greater role in Scotland‘s destiny."

"Like you, Patrick?" the laird of Duffdour teased. "Scotland‘s lord high admiral? You‘re the worst sailor in Scotland." He laughed.

The Earl of Bothwell grinned sheepishly. "Jamie meant to give the admiralty to Angus, but then they had that falling-out. Thank God for Sir Andrew Wood, who is the real mariner among us. I don‘t like the sea at all. I prefer the rolling hills of the borders to the rolling waves on the ocean."

His companions chuckled. They spoke quietly for a brief while longer, and then the laird of Cleit joined his wife in their bed while his guests found bed spaces, crawled in, and slept what remained of the night, for in summer the dawn came early. But as the birds were twittering with the soft light of early morning, the servants were coming into the hall with trenchers of bread filled with oat porridge, newly baked cottage loaves, butter, and cheese. A platter with a ham was placed on the high board, along with pitchers of watered wine and ale.

Adair Bruce was already in the hall overseeing her servants, directing her guests outdoors where they could relieve themselves, ushering them to table to eat. Many of the border lords had not been to Cleit before, and were well impressed with the hospitality shown them. Duncan

announced that there would be a meeting at Duffdour in a week‘s time, for time was obviously important in this matter. Each of the border lords was to come with as many men as he could, for they would go a-raiding when they had all gathered, the English would not be expecting them this first time.

"We will make the initial raid a terrible one," Duncan told them. "Afterward we will decide how many men can be spared from each of you for the raids to come, which must each take a serious toll in its own way."

And then as Ian Johnston finished eating, got up, and prepared to leave, the laird of Duffdour called to him, "Ian, we ride the same way. My men and I will go along with you and yours. You came with but four, and I with eight. A dozen men at arms is a far better deterrent than just four, eh?" Coming over to Johnston, he clapped him on the shoulder in friendly fashion.

"There should be no danger to me…uh, us, at this time," Johnston said sourly.

"Certainly you don‘t object to our joining forces, since we are going the same way?" Duncan persisted cheerfully. "I have to tell you I‘ll ride easier with twelve good men at my back, won‘t you, Ian?" He grinned.

"Sorry you‘re not going my way," Andrew Hay remarked. "I‘ve but six with me."

"I‘ll want to leave now," Ian Johnston said. "Mary is always nervous when I‘m away at night and don‘t return earlier in the day. She‘s a frail woman, you know."

"I‘m ready, and so are my lads," the laird of Duffdour said. He walked across the hall to where his sister-in-law, Adair, was seated at her loom. "Farewell, lassie," he said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"My love to Ellen," Adair replied. "Tell her I‘ll see her at the summer games."

"I will," Duncan said, and then, giving a friendly wave to the others in the hall, he followed after Ian Johnston, who was already in the courtyard. His reluctant companion was not a friendly traveler. He hardly spoke a word during the next few hours as they rode along, and when they reached Johnston‘s Keep he did not invite the laird of Duffdour in for a bit of refreshment.

Duncan looked carefully about him as they briefly stopped. Ian Johnston‘s tower house appeared to be in good condition, and his few fields were green with ripening grain. His outbuildings were burned to the ground, but his cattle did not seem diminished, and his flock of sheep seemed rather larger than smaller. Duncan Armstrong began to consider just how great the man‘s losses were.

"For all his talk he doesn‘t seem to have suffered greatly," Artair, his captain, murmured. "I made it a point to talk with his men. They‘re all afraid of him. They say he beats his wife when he drinks, and he drinks a good deal of late. That‘s how she lost her bairn. And only the old women will serve the lady Mary, for Johnston is like a randy billy goat, and will fuck any young lass he can get his hands on, they say. He‘s sired two bastard daughters already, and another cotter‘s daughter has a big belly by him now."

"He may be consorting with the English," the laird told his captain. "Two of Cleit‘s men followed us, and will keep a watch on Johnston‘s Keep. If he attempts to contact Lord Colby the messenger will be stopped."

"It‘s a good plan, my lord. While I‘m grateful Duffdour has been safe so far, I realize we won‘t remain unscathed forever. Best to catch the rat in his nest, eh?"

The laird chuckled. "I could not have said it better myself, Artair," he told his captain with a grin. He had long since forgiven the man for his elder son‘s misstep.

By midafternoon they reached Duffdour. It sat quietly upon its hill in the summer sun, the waters of its narrow moat sparkling. The party of horsemen brought a man at arms to the closed gate.

The small square peephole was pulled back.

"Who goes there?" a young voice demanded, although the owner of the voice could see quite well who the keep‘s visitors were.

"Duncan Armstrong, laird of Duffdour," came the answer.

The peephole was closed with a little bang. The iron portcullis was slowly winched up, creaking and groaning. When it was tucked high above the gates they opened slowly, and just enough to allow the laird and his men to ride through one by one. The laird slid off his horse, tossing the reins to a stableman. Then he turned and addressed the young man at arms.

"That was well-done, lad. Evan, isn‘t it?"

"Aye, my lord!" The boy‘s eyes sparkled with pleasure at the praise.

"Now, this one is a soldier, Artair," the laird said to his captain.

"Thank you, my lord," Artair responded, pleased his younger son had made an impression upon their master.

The laird clapped father and son upon their backs, signing his approval, and then, turning, hurried across the wide courtyard, across the little bridge spanning the moat, and into his house.

As he entered the hall Ellen ran to meet him, throwing herself into his arms with a glad cry. He lifted her up, kissing her hard and swinging her about so that her green skirts billowed out.

"You‘re home!" She kissed him back. "I missed you, and your laddie."

"My laddie and I missed you too." He chuckled, setting her down on her feet. "But I wasn‘t gone that long, lassie. I can but wonder at the kind of welcome you‘ll give me when you‘ve been without me for several days."

"Where are you going?" Ellen demanded to know. "You can‘t go! You‘ve just gotten home

again. I won‘t let you go!"

"I‘m not going anywhere, but in a week‘s time we‘ll have a houseful, wife." Taking her hand he led her to the hearth and sat with her upon the settle. A servant hurried up with a goblet of wine for him. "We‘re going to strike back at the English for all these raids this spring. Patrick Hepburn suggested we ally ourselves to make one large force. I‘ve been elected head of this wee army." He drank a long draft from his cup.

"What of the gossip that you could be in league with the English?" Ellen wanted to know. "Who stood up for your honor besides the Bruces?"

"The Hays and the Hepburns. James Elliot was willing to hear me out, and Ian Johnston wanted to condemn me. From all that transpired the earl thinks that Johnston may be the one among the border lords who was willing to betray us all. We‘ve set a watch on him so he cannot warn Lord Colby. In a week‘s time we‘ll all meet at Duffdour and go a-raiding, wife."

"I dislike all this warring back and forth over the border," Ellen said slowly. "Why must you lead the others? Colby has let us be so far."

"Only to cast suspicion upon me, and set us to quarreling among ourselves, wife," he explained.

"The Scots haven‘t gone raiding this year because we are trying to keep peace, but now when he least expects it we will hit him a hard blow. Not once or twice, but several times, and in quick succession. It is to be hoped that Lord Colby‘s men will desert him for fear of losing everything they possess. If they cease raiding, then so will we. And we all want to be able to feed our stock and ourselves this winter. If we strike now we can end this, at least for the time being," Duncan concluded.

"It seems a logical plan," Ellen agreed, "but how can you be certain the English will stop raiding and agree to a peace in the borders? The peace made earlier that was to last three years between our kingdoms lasted but eight months. We are natural enemies, and it seems to be our nature to fight with one another."

"This spring‘s raids have not just been the snatching of a few cattle or sheep or the stealing of women; it has been brutal, with a lot of killing, looting, and burning. This is more like war than just the usual game we play," Duncan responded. "We have to reply in kind, and make the English hurt as much as we have been hurting. Lord Colby can fire them up for king and country, but once they find their farmsteads and keeps being burned, their stock being driven off, and their people slain, it will be a different matter. There are no winners in our border warring, lass.

Raised in your Highlands, you would not know that or understand it."

"I doubt your border raiding is any different from the clan rivalries in the north, husband," Ellen told him. "If a MacArthur thought a MacCrae‘s greeting insulting, a small war would start over it. North or south, we Scots are really much alike, I fear." She arose from the settle. "You‘ll be wanting your food, husband. I should see to it."