“Send him in,” Botolf ordered as he retook his seat at the table.
“This is not promising,” muttered Wesley as Matthew left.
“He has Saxan. Cecil holds my wife and my unborn child,” Botolf said, the strain of fighting the turmoil inside him making his voice flat, almost lifeless.
“How can you know that? We have not been told anything,” protested Wesley.
The cautious way Wesley eyed him made Botolf wonder what he looked like. He had hoped that his tightly strung emotions were well hidden. Then he wondered why he was making himself ill trying to hide those emotions. All he needed to do was keep enough of a rein on them to keep his head clear. If it were the trap he suspected, Botolf did not want to be so caught up in his own fear and anger he missed an opportunity to thwart whatever murderous plan Cecil had devised.
“Cecil has Saxan, Wesley,” he replied. “I do not need to be told—I just know. ’Tis why she has not returned.”
“She may have just become very busy collecting plants,” suggested Wesley.
“I pray it is something as innocent as that, but then why is Cecil sending a messenger?”
“To make his peace with you?”
“There is too much blood on his hands.”
Before Wesley could say any more, Matthew led in Cecil’s messenger. Cecil’s minion was tall, dark, and narrow of face and form. Botolf thought that the man was a fitting lackey for Cecil.
“What does my half-brother want?” Botolf demanded, not even allowing the man time to introduce himself.
“His lordship—” the man began, his voice reedy and soft.
“Cecil is no lord. He never even got his spurs to be a knight. He is naught but a bastard.”
“He holds your lady-wife.”
Even though he had expected that, it still hit Botolf hard. He had to take a slow, deep breath simply to stop himself from lunging at the man. Common sense told him that that would gain him nothing, but he ached to strike out at something or someone. Beating Cecil’s messenger senseless would certainly not help Saxan, however.
“Why should I believe your claim? What proof do you have?”
“This, m’lord.” The man held out a square of cloth.
Botolf signaled Matthew to bring it to him. When his old retainer set the small package before him, Botolf was reluctant to open it. Cecil was a cruel man. He dreaded seeing what his souless brother felt was the proof he needed to support his claim. Noting that his hand shook, Botolf unwrapped the cloth, blindly smoothing it out as he stared at a painfully familiar lock of silver hair curled gently around the ring he had slipped upon Saxan’s slender finger on their wedding day. He was not surprised, when he finally looked up, that Cecil’s man took a hasty step back. If only part of the rage he felt was reflected in his eyes, Cecil’s messenger had good cause to be terrified.
“So you hold my wife,” he said. “Where is her sister and my men?”
“The Scots hold them and will soon ransom them.”
“What does Cecil want for my wife?”
“You, m’lord.”
“When and where?”
“Botolf,” Wesley protested, but Botolf silenced him with one slashing movement of his hand.
“Tomorrow afternoon at the gates of Collinburn Tower. If you are not there by the time the sun sets, your lady-wife will die. You are to enter the gates alone, but you are allowed three companions so that you can be assured a safe journey.”
“And what happens to my wife if I dutifully walk into Cecil’s hands?”
“She will be released.”
“Of course. Tell my half-brother I will be in front of his gates before sunset on the morrow.”
The moment Matthew escorted Cecil’s messenger out of the great hall, Wesley demanded, “You cannot just give yourself up to him. That is madness. His promise to release your wife is useless. You know that.”
“Aye, but at the moment, I have no other choice,” Botolf replied. “If I do not go, Saxan dies. If I go, I can at least gain more time. She is my wife, and she carries my child. I cannot turn my back on her even if the ransom is my death.”
“This is nothing but a trap. The bastard must be convulsed with glee.”
“Mayhap. What puzzles me is how did he know where she would be? I thought we had found the traitors in Regenford.”
“There had to be someone here telling him where to look. There were no outsiders at Regenford to hear her plans.”
“I think I know how he found out, m’lord,” said Matthew as he returned and walked to where Botolf and Wesley sat at the head table. “I was coming to tell you of a gruesome discovery when Cecil’s messenger arrived.” He bowed. “If your lordship would come with me?”
Botolf reluctantly followed Matthew, Wesley keeping pace at his side. They went outside the walls to the banks of the stream which helped fill the moat around Regenford. Three men stood by a blanket-shrouded form. Still holding the lock of Saxan’s hair and the ring Cecil’s man had brought him, Botolf signaled the men to lift the blanket. He uttered an angry oath when he saw the body of a young woman.
“ ’Tis Merry, the kitchen maid, m’lord,” said Matthew. “She disappeared nearly three days ago. We thought she had run off with a man. Stephen here,” he nodded toward the youngest of the three men, “was looking for peat or anything else to fuel his fire and found poor Merry in a shallow grave.”
“Do you think she was giving Cecil information?” Botolf asked.
“Aye, I fear so. One of the other kitchen women had begun to suspect her. Too late to help her ladyship, though.”
“And too late to help poor misguided Merry. For her loyalty she gets her throat cut. ’Tis clear that Cecil wished to be sure we could never discover Merry’s betrayal or what secrets she told him. He must have been rushed, for this careless burial insured that we would find her, surmise that she had told him something, and know that he had been near at hand again.” He laughed harshly. “He squats in Collinburn Tower, only a half-day’s ride from here. He has always been near.”
“ ’Tis hard to find a man who knows every place you mean to go looking for him,” Matthew said as he signaled the three men to take Merry’s body away. “I am only sorry we did not find the lass sooner. It would have been a warning.”
“Warning enough to make me hold Saxan here.” Botolf turned to look down the road at the sound of approaching horsemen. “I fear the day is too filled with unpleasant surprises,” he murmured when he recognized the riders as Saxan’s brothers.
“They can help us save Saxan,” Wesley said. “How is that unpleasant?”
“Because I must tell them that one of their sisters is being held by our deadliest enemy and their youngest sister is being held by the Scots.” Botolf sighed as he started toward the keep. “Aye, and then I must convince them to wait. ’Twill not be easy to convince them that the best way to help Saxan is to do nothing at all.”
Eighteen
“It appears that my brothers have arrived,” Thylda said as she stared down at Regenford from her place before Bretton on his horse. “I believe that is Hunter walking toward the keep from the stables.”
“That could make this more difficult,” murmured Bretton.
“More difficult than telling a man you gave his pregnant wife to a murderer?”
“A night sleeping on the cold ground hasnae made ye any sweeter, I see.”
“When you said we were riding at night, I thought we would come directly here. I do not understand why you then stopped to camp half the way here.”
“I did not wish to remain where Cecil could find me and I didnae wish to spend a full night in a Sassanach’s castle,” Bretton explained as he nudged his horse into a slow walk. “I also ken that one of Cecil’s dogs came here yestereve, so the earl now knows what danger his wife is in. That may make him readier to heed what I have to say.”
“Or very eager to kill you.”
“Aye, which is why ye shall stay in front of me until the truc
e is called.”
“You would hide behind my skirts?”
“Aye, if it means I can stem the earl’s wrath until he is willing to listen to me. Then we may be able to save your sister.”
“You keep hinting that you can help, but you never say how.”
“Ye will ken the how of it soon enough. Now, silence. Ye would better spend your time thinking of ways to keep your kinsmen from killing me before I can offer my help.”
Botolf sipped his ale and surveyed his solemn companions. They had gathered in the great hall to break their fast before riding to Collinburn Tower, but no one appeared to have much of an appetite. He was sure that last night had been the longest one of his life. Each time he had closed his eyes, he had been tormented by visions of what Saxan might be suffering at Cecil’s hands. He had not rested at all, but what frustrated him most was that, after all those hours of waiting and thinking, he still had not devised a way to slip free of Cecil’s tight grip.
The dark looks on Saxan’s brothers’ faces told him they had not thought of anything either. When he had informed them of all that had happened to their sisters, it had been hard to hold them. It had been dark before they had been calmed enough to listen to reason. The news that he could only approach with three companions had almost undone that work. They were loath to wait, but even more so to be left behind.
“You may find it hard to believe what has just ridden into Regenford,” Hunter announced as he entered the great hall.
When a tall, dark man followed Hunter in, Thylda held close to his chest and three large well-armed men flanking him, Botolf joined the others in leaping to his feet. There was no doubt in his mind that these were the Scots Cecil’s lackey had referred to. Botolf could not believe they would boldly march in to demand the ransom for one sister when they were undoubtedly responsible for handing the other sister over to a murderer.
“I should cut you down where you stand,” Botolf hissed, drawing his sword.
“Ye would have to go through the lass first,” said Bretton.
“So, you would cower behind a girl’s skirts to save your cursed neck.”
“Nay, just to keep my head on my shoulders until the bloodlust clears your eyes and you are ready to listen to what I have to say.”
“Tell me what ransom you want and leave.”
“The ransom I ask for this lass and your six men is that you allow me to aid you in defeating that bastard Cecil.”
“All six of my men live?” Botolf asked, surprise briefly dimming his fury.
“Aye, although one is poorly. He hasnae died of his wounds yet, however, so there may still be hope.”
“Am I wrong to think that you are the one who handed my wife over to Cecil?”
Bretton grimaced, then shrugged. “Cecil held my dead brother’s three children.” He eased his grip on Thylda when the men slowly began to resheath their swords. “Your wife was their ransom. He would take nothing else, not even my life in trade. So, I did his filthy work.”
“Would you have me believe you did not know he intended to kill my wife?”
“Nay, I had guessed that. He made it clear enough.”
Botolf slowly resheathed his sword and sat down, the others following his lead. “You cannot have come here just to explain yourself. No Scot would care what an Englishman thought of him. Certainly no Graeme would; and if I guess your badge and plaid correctly, you are a Graeme.”
“Sir Bretton Graeme, m’lord.” He gave Botolf a small bow.
“I still do not quite understand why you are here. ‘Tis not the custom to bring the prisoners with you when you talk o’er the ransom.”
“I am not ransoming them. I told ye that. I but wish to help ye get your wife back and kill that traitorous bastard.” He released Thylda, who immediately hurried to her brothers’ sides.
“You could not get those children back without giving Cecil my wife, so how can you help me? I cannot ride up to Collinburn gates with an army at my heels. Cecil would not hesitate to kill Saxan then.”
“I ken how to get into the castle unseen,” Bretton announced.
“Then why did you not rescue the children that way instead of bartering with my wife?”
“Because it was the children who told me.”
For a long moment Botolf stared at the man, not sure he should trust him, yet knowing that he had little choice. If there were even the faintest chance that the Scotsman could help, he had to take it. Everything could be as simple as it appeared—Sir Graeme regretted doing what he had been forced to do by Cecil and now tried to make amends.
“Sit,” he ordered in a curt voice, not fully ready to trust Graeme, but willing to listen to what he had to say. “I have not got much time, however, so you had best convince me quickly. I must get to Collinburn by sunset.”
“I will begin by saying that ye must not get to Collinburn until as near to sunset as ye dare,” Bretton said as he sat down opposite Thylda and her brothers and helped himself to some wine.
“I cannot dawdle. It could mean Saxan’s life,” Botolf protested.
“And I canna slip inside the towerhouse in the stark light of day.”
“How do I know this is not just another of Cecil’s tricks?”
“Ye dinnae and there isna anything I can do to make ye believe me. There is one thing to consider—ye have no plan now except to go to Cecil and die right alongside your wee wife and the bairn she carries. Even if I am playing some game, how much worse can your fate be?”
“No worse. Tell us your plan.”
Saxan held her cloak tightly around herself to ward off the damp chill of Collinburn as she watched Cecil pace the great hall. As the time for Botolf’s arrival drew near, he had released her from her room; but with a burly guard standing on either side of the chair she sat in, there was no chance of escape. What troubled her most at the moment was that she would probably have no chance to defend herself when Cecil finally struck. And neither would Botolf. If they had to die, she heartily wished they could meet their ends with a sword in their hands. Waiting to be butchered like an animal destined for the stew pot was no way to die.
She glanced out the narrow defensive window and was surprised at how late it was. If Botolf were coming, he would be arriving just as the sun finished disappearing over the horizon. She was emotionally torn over the possibility of his arrival. Part of her wanted him to care enough to offer his life for hers, but another larger part of her wanted him to be smart and stay away, not to join her and their child in death. It served no purpose except to satisfy honor, duty, and Cecil’s greed. As much as she did not want to die, she wanted Botolf to live.
“Mayhap I misjudged him and your value,” Cecil said, standing in front of her. He grabbed her roughly by the chin and forced her to look up at him. “You are pretty, but mayhap not enough to inspire love.”
“Love?” She laughed even though she knew what she was about to say would hurt her. “Botolf does not love.”
“My brother is a man of strong emotion.”
“He may be, but your foolish whoring with his wife Alice taught him to control such weakening emotions as love and affection.” She smiled when he frowned. “That was not part of your plan, was it?”
“And mayhap you make excuses to soothe your own vanity, badly bruised when you were unable to make your husband love you.”
That stung, even though she knew it was not true, but she fought to hide her reaction. She did not want to let Cecil see that his words could affect her. If he thought he could reach her and hurt her with words, her last hours would be a worse torment than they already were.
“My vanity does not need some man’s love and pretty words to nurse it. One would have to be a fool to build one’s hopes upon such fleeting things.”
“So you build your hopes upon that child. And now that, too, has proven to be a fleeting thing.”
“Mayhap.” She shrugged, astounded at her outward pose of calm, for inside she was a tight cold tangle of fear and fur
y. “When you first threatened this child, I was upset. Howbeit, the only other choice you have beside killing him is to raise him as your own child. I would prefer him to die than to be raised by a twisted, stinking killer like you.”
She bit back a cry when he struck her, resisting the urge to touch her throbbing cheek as she glared at him. “What? No reminder that you can kill me sooner as well as later?”
“Botolf may well leave you to my mercy so that he may be free of that sharp tongue.” He strode to the window and slapped the wall surrounding it “He should be here. If not for you,” he glanced back at Saxan, “then because duty and honor demand it.”
“He is not witless. He may well have devised a plan that allows him to keep his honor, satisfies the call of duty, and yet does not require that he walk into your trap.” Her eyes widened when he cursed, paced the great hall for a moment, then whirled to face her again. “You did not plan on his being able to think either, did you?”
“I begin to think that I shall no longer see your death as a necessity but as a pleasure.”
“M’lord,” called one of his men, waving Cecil over to a window. “I think he comes.”
Saxan started to get up, intending to see if Botolf were entering the bailey of Collinbum, but Cecil pushed her roughly back into her chair. “I do not think you need to fear my giving him a warning,” she said. “Botolf is fully aware of the fate he walks to. I doubt he even believes your promise of releasing me in trade for him.”
“Yet he comes,” Cecil murmured.
“You gave him little choice. I wish it were not so, but honor demands he do this. Whoever wrote the rules of honor obviously did not anticipate that good men would have to deal with traitorous, murdering filth like you.” She ducked as he swung, and his fist just grazed her cheek. “If you spend too much time trying to beat the insults out of me, you will miss Botolf’s arrival,” she said as he prepared to hit her again.
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