The Penitent: De Wolfe Pack Connected World

by Cathy MacRae

  “The Saint will be sending more men to help guard the keep. He approves of the restoration we’ve done. North Hall will be an important buffer between Belwyck and the Border.” Simon halted, aware he was mouthing words Lord de Wylde had said only two days earlier.

  “I will determine their skills and adjust our duty roster accordingly,” Garin replied with no notice made to Simon’s topic change.

  “I need a steward, someone who can take charge of the daily bookkeeping. Mayhap help find people to rebuild the village.” He nodded to a small cluster of ramshackle cottages nestled beneath the protective wing of North Hall’s eastern wall. A little-used road ran roughly from the southeast, continuing in a north-west route to the Solway Firth where fishing and shipping were the predominant trades. A few cattle who’d survived the handful of years since the English had taken the land from the Scots grazed nearby, sheltering in the cottages.

  “I can send a couple of men around to the nearby villages. Mayhap offer the housing free in exchange for work. And have them keep an eye out for a likely steward, though one of our own from The Saint might be preferable.”

  “Aye. I’ll take it up with him.” He grunted. “My own keep. I scarcely know where to go from here.”

  Garin slapped the top of the stone wall lightly. “Ye are doing well. Ye have built this from abandoned shell to comfortable keep. I’ll get the workers started on reinforcing the wall—considering the Scots likely still consider it theirs and will come calling soon—and often. I predict the land will support us by next summer. Mayhap this one if we can get gardens planted and add to the cattle. Possibly sheep, as well.”

  “Yes. Much left to do.”

  Garin turned to go, then glanced over his shoulder. “And a lady to help run the place,” he added, a sly grin on his face. Simon merely nodded, memories overtaking him once again.

  Silken black hair. Piercingly green eyes. The scent of lavender and peat. Whispered words he’d meant at the time.

  “I will remember ye always, my dove. My heart.”

  Chapter Three

  One of Albert’s soldiers squeezed Iseabal’s buttock before another shoved her into her room. She stumbled two steps before whirling, fists clenched. The two comrades laughed and slammed the door in her face, their bawdy comments muffled behind the solid portal.

  Iseabal did not waste time rubbing her aching shoulder or dusting the lingering sensation from her backside. Both were a reminder that the men who now occupied Eaglesmuir had no qualms about abusing a woman. Their actions spoke loudly of what her life would become should she remain.

  Escape had never been more urgent.

  A key turned in the lock and she resisted the urge to kick the door in frustration. With a deep breath, she turned her gaze to the darkest corner of the room where a large chest stood several feet from the wall.

  “Aggie?”

  The auld nurse rose from behind the chest, Ewan’s hand tucked firmly in hers. Ewan whimpered and rubbed his eyes, clearly on the verge of an exhausted tantrum. Iseabal hurried to him, enveloping him in a hug before placing him on the bed beneath the covers where he curled into a ball and dropped instantly into sleep.

  Iseabal dropped a kiss to his cheek and tucked the blanket beneath his chin then turned to Aggie.

  “Have ye packed his things?”

  “Aye, and yers as well.” She lifted her shoulders in puzzlement. “I heard the key turn in the lock. How will we leave?”

  “I am counting on Hew to help us. He saw what happened and must know he’ll need a key to get in. We must wait until the men are drunk enough they willnae hear us escape.”

  “If they’ve discovered yer da’s cache of whisky, that mayn’t take long,” Aggie observed drily.

  Iseabal glanced at Ewan, who slept fitfully, then back to Aggie. “I must tell ye, ’tis Da’s half-brother, Albert, and his son, James, who have taken Eaglesmuir. To keep things in the family, Albert has decreed I wed James on the morrow.”

  She shook her head as Aggie reared back, eyes wide, a hand to her breast. “I willnae be here for the wedding. I must take Ewan and flee. Ye and Hew are to make yer own decisions, though ye will be most welcome should ye decide to join us.”

  “Och! I willnae leave yer side, my lamb. ’Twould only be a matter of time before I lost my patience with the lot of ’em here. They’re a radgie group, make no mistake. Not fit company for a woman, despite my years.”

  Iseabal’s shoulders relaxed and she patted the woman’s hand. “Thank ye, Aggie. Ye dinnae know what this means to me.”

  Aggie smiled. “We’ll go to Friar’s Hill as we discussed these past sennights. That lot,” she nodded toward the door, “willnae know of our plans, so we’ll be safe enough there. My kin are good folk and will take us in.”

  “Ye have been verra kind to Ewan and me,” Iseabal said, perilously close to tears. She shook her head. There was simply no time to waste on sentiment. She’d meant to be on her way in a day or two anyway. There’d been no sense in lingering once her da was in his grave. Someone who had the skills to repair the keep would take it sooner or later, but she’d expected to leave of her own accord, not chased from her home by a lecherous brute.

  That was before Maxwell and his son arrived and forced her to flee. Leaving Eaglesmuir in the hands of the likes of James Maxwell infuriated her, drove her loss deep within as if on the point of a sword. She managed a brave smile for Aggie’s sake.

  “Then, let us finish preparations and hope Hew is able to locate a key.”

  “A report from the Border, my lord.” The young man placed a packet on the desk at Simon’s direction. He waited patiently as Simon perused the thin, worn parchment, unrolling it as he read. After a moment, Simon nodded dismissal and the messenger pivoted sharply on his heel and marched from the room.

  Garin strode past the young man and paused before Simon’s desk. Simon glanced up then motioned vaguely to a chair. Gavin sat, but remained silent until Simon gave him his full attention.

  “I am certain my news is what ye just read, but it bears repeating. The Maxwells have been rather active lately.”

  Simon glanced at the document on his desk. “I’ve no reports of a border crossing. A holding near Lockardebi has exchanged hands. The old lord died, I believe.”

  “He wasn’t old. Stubborn, unprincipled, a right bastard at times. He died because he decided reiving cattle from an English nobleman some miles from here would be a notch on his belt. Unfortunately for him, there was a contingent of de Wolfe soldiers in the area who immediately gave chase. He holed up in his keep and withstood a two-day siege, but they at last were overtaken. Marcus Maxwell was mortally wounded when a portion of the wall fell on him.”

  “Is it your opinion the Maxwells will demand retribution?” The notion seemed far-fetched to Simon, for this Marcus had willingly created the events that led to his death, but he knew the Scots to be a hot-headed lot, always spoiling for a fight.

  “They can scarcely cry foul, can they?” Gavin asked with a tilt of his head. “Did the English vengeance for stolen cattle go too far? ’Tis certainly open for debate. Marcus Maxwell was Lord Maxwell’s bastard son. He has a legitimate heir and grandson to secure the line. ’Tis rumored Marcus was given the small keep at Eaglesmuir and then left to succeed or fail on his own terms. He received little enough support from his father beyond that.”

  “Ah, but where family may be allowed to deride the bastard, they are likely to rally kith and kin to his side if outsiders do so.” The corner of Simon’s mouth tilted up. “’Tis well we keep watch on the Maxwells. Diligence may save us more than a bit of trouble.”

  Garin rose to his feet. “I will set a patrol. ’Twill leave us short-handed at the wall for a few days until Lord de Wylde’s men arrive, but mayhap worth the extra labor.”

  Simon stretched then stood. “I will be happy to lend a hand. I grow weary of sitting behind this desk.”

  “As ye will. I referred to reinforcing the wall, which a few sold
iers had volunteered to assist with. There has been no activity of late and they seek work to relieve the boredom.”

  Simon shrugged. “Not to mention we will be safer once the fortification is complete. I will at least take my turn upon the wall, and mayhap heft a few stones with the men. I am certain it could prove interesting.”

  The candles had burned to stubs. Nervous energy consumed Iseabal and she paced the floor, scarcely able to restrain from testing the door latch with each passing.

  “Ye will wear yerself out, lamb, if ye dinnae stop.” Aggie, seated on a chair pulled next to the bed, patted the mattress edge. “Come sit a spell.”

  Knowing Aggie was right, Iseabal abandoned her vigil and slid onto the bed next to Ewan. She brushed back a hank of his golden hair, so different from her own black locks, and with even more curl. Like his father.

  Fortunately, Ewan’s features were all Maxwell. Her green eyes in a face beginning to lose its baby softness. At times she could see her sister Marsaili’s straight nose, or her da’s lowering brow when Ewan was vexed. None of the slender features of his da, whose looks had run more angelic than those of a warrior.

  Her worry ebbed. She had loved her English warrior. She had defied her da’s orders about wounded enemy soldiers and hidden him away in a tiny abandoned shepherd’s hut while she nursed him back to health. And, when he was about to walk away, she’d given him her heart—and her virtue.

  Iseabal glanced up at the timid knock at the door. Certain there wasn’t a lout below stairs capable of anything softer than a crashing thud or a bellow, she hurried to the portal and leaned against the wood.

  “Hew?”

  “Aye. May I come in?”

  “If ye have a key,” she replied drily. To her relief, the scrape of metal proved he’d been successful. Aggie hurried across the room as Iseabal disengaged the latch. Auld Hew hesitated in the doorway. With a shrug, he stepped into the room, his rheumy gaze taking in the few amenities in the stark chamber.

  “I’ve naught been in a lady’s quarters afore,” he avowed.

  “I am grateful to see ye,” Iseabal said in an attempt to redirect his attention. “Tell me what news in the hall.”

  He straightened as much as his arthritic frame would allow. “There’s naught a man down there who can hold his whisky,” he scoffed. “Why, yer da . . . .”

  “My Da isnae here,” Iseabal reminded him impatiently. And is the reason I am in this mess.

  She waved a hand. “Is it time? What are our chances of escape?”

  “Och, they’re fair fuddelt, yon Maxwells are. A whole English garrison could pass through the hall and naught a man would know of it.” He winked and held up the heavy key. “’Tis why I had nae trouble fetchin’ this wee bit o’ iron.”

  Iseabal patted Hew’s shoulder then turned to Aggie. “Gather the bags. We daren’t try for horses. Even if the guards at the stable are drunk as well, the animals cannae be trusted to be silent. The snow is past and though we’ll only travel at night, the days look to be fair enough for our trek to Friar’s Hill.”

  “It shouldnae take us more than two nights’ travel,” Aggie assured her. “Though I havenae been there in several years—why, not since wee Ewan was born. I dinnae think we will be on the road longer than that.”

  “Good. We will slip away as quickly as possible.”

  She drew her cloak over her shoulders. Placing the hood over her head, she pulled the edge low over her face. She looped a thong over her belt, the leather flagon attached filled with watered ale. Her small personal bag attached to the other side of her belt. Aggie checked the pack of oatcakes and cheese, then tightened the drawstring neck and draped it over her shoulders. Hew hefted a pack of Ewan’s belongings, the wooden horse crafted by a young soldier for the lad’s first birthday clanking softly against the ship Ewan had stuffed into the pack earlier in the day.

  Iseabal shot Hew a look of warning, though she knew he was unlikely to remove a toy the lad loved. He’d been smitten with Ewan since arriving at the keep three days earlier.

  While Hew stuffed a scrap of linen inside his pack to silence the toys, Iseabal gently wrapped Ewan in as many blankets as she could, making a sling of the last, and cuddled him in her arms. With a nod, she sent Hew to the door. He put an ear to the panel and listened before opening it carefully. Faint snores reached their ears, but no one challenged them as they silently crept down the stairs.

  Iseabal directed them through the kitchen and over the crumbled garden wall. The sheep fold beyond the garden had fared slightly better, though the English had taken all of the animals when they retreated over the Border. The shepherd’s dog, unimaginatively named Shep, had protected his flock until a soldier had cracked him over the head, leaving him in the yard as the sheep dashed through the gate, wobbly new lambs at their sides.

  Lacking a sheep dog, Iseabal could only imagine the havoc of herding the animals across the Border. Shep had been unable to stand for two days, and still listed to the right like a ship crabbing into the wind. Ewan had helped her nurse the dog back to health, and Shep had become attached to the lad. It was a blessing the dog hadn’t been in the keep when the Maxwells had arrived. It was likely the dog would have sustained further injury at their hands.

  Shep met them at the entrance to the fold, white-tipped tail swaying gently. Iseabal patted her skirt in invitation for him to join them, and he licked her hand then quietly paced alongside. Slipping through the postern gate no one had bothered to fix, they faded into the night.

  Chapter Four

  James Maxwell slammed his fist on the table, wincing at the dull thud that echoed in his whisky befuddled brain. “I want her found! Dinnae tell me no one knows where she is. What about that nursemaid?” He rubbed the scabs streaking down his cheeks.

  “Ye sent the auld woman and the brat away,” Thom, his long-time friend, reminded him. His slim, gangly body rarely seemed to be affected by exercise or alcohol, and his bright eyes infuriated James this morning.

  “Where is Iseabal?” His voice rose as he slowly turned his head, viewing the nearly empty room with not a female in sight. A few men huddled over their morning ale, food platters untouched.

  Damn, Marcus’s whisky carries a bite.

  He’d been drunk before, but this took the experience to new heights. His head ached, his eyes were blurry, his tongue swollen and dry. His stomach felt both empty and full, recoiling at the thought of food. His hands didn’t seem to work quite right, either, he noted, as he reached for a cup that ever seemed just out of reach.

  Someone banged a mug next to his fist, scraping the rough edge along the back of his hand before it landed on the poorly sanded plank. James drew back, unable to process this new pain of skinned and bruised flesh.

  “Wha . . .?”

  “Shut yer mouth, or I’ll do it for ye.”

  His da’s fierce undertone cut through the lingering fog in James’s brain, inspiring him to silence. He hunched his shoulders forward and slipped his aching hand into his lap.

  “Did ye nae set a guard at her door?” Albert asked, anger sparking through his words.

  “My men locked it,” James whined. “She shouldnae have escaped.”

  “Have ye searched the keep? Are there any horses missing?” Albert clapped a heavy hand on James’s shoulder. “Do not tell me the guards at the gate were drunk as well. By God, I’ve never seen such a slip-shod mess.”

  James shrugged off his da’s grip. “’Twas a celebration. But I only sent them a single cask of whisky.”

  “Idiot. Ye cannae be my son,” Albert growled. “Ye dinnae deserve a holding of yer own if ye cannae keep one lass in her room for the night. When did ye discover she was missing?”

  James sucked his front teeth, pulling moisture into his mouth. “I ordered Thom to bring the wench to me not an hour ago. I wanted to be certain she was ready to obey me and come before the priest. She doesnae fear me properly.” He touched his face, scabs tender beneath his fingertips. His anger ro
se.

  Albert shook his head, his pinched lips white along the edges. His glare sent James’s belligerence back into hiding. He sulked.

  “I want a report,” Albert shouted, whirling to address the room. The men in the hall glanced up.

  “I want to know if any horses are missing. If anyone has seen James’s bride.” He bit out the last two words through gritted teeth.

  “And bring me the guards on duty at the gate last night.”

  Iseabal reluctantly handed Ewan’s sleeping form to Hew. The lad had walked until he gave out, struggling to keep up with the pace the adults set. Iseabal pushed to keep them going, giving only faint heed to Aggie’s and Hew’s advanced ages, knowing the more distance between them and Eaglesmuir, the better their chances of escape. Hew was wiry and willing to carry his share of the burdens, but she didn’t expect his strength to last much longer. She knew carrying the four-year-old would sap the old man’s energy quicker than the long hours they’d been on the run. But Hew had insisted and her back ached from the strain.

  Dawn pearled the sky and they would soon be forced to find a place to hide for the day. Iseabal gathered Aggie and Hew to her side as they approached the village of Annan, near the Solway Firth.

  “It willnae be long before our escape is discovered. Whether they will suspect we left together or not, I couldnae say.” She nodded to Aggie. “Ye were ordered to remove Ewan from the keep, so I’d like to doubt they will seek an auld woman and a lad.” She looked at Hew. “The two of us are another matter. I believe we can find sanctuary at the Church of Annan. Leave Ewan with me and take a handful of coins. Find food and keep yer ears open.”

  Iseabal’s gaze slipped to the sight of her son’s golden curls ruffled above the blanket that framed his head. It was a gamble to enter the village, but its size would help to hide them. The easier path across the Border—should the Maxwell soldiers think to follow her south—was through Gretna Green, some miles to their east.