Return of the Border Warrior

by Blythe Gifford

  Carwell’s eyes flashed at the insult. He pulled his horse away from John’s hand. ‘I ride to find him now. He’ll not go unpunished.’

  ‘We’ll meet again,’ John called as Carwell rode away.

  And it wasn’t until the warden and his men were out of sight that John realised that though Carwell complained, he had not lifted a finger to stop them.

  ‘Johnnie!’

  He followed his brother’s voice back to their gathering place: the spot where Storwick had grabbed Cate.

  She knelt by Belde, tying him in harness, for once he was on the trail he would ignore even her calls. The dog already knew he was to hunt and was tugging at the leash, eager to start on the quarry’s trail.

  ‘Cool and damp,’ Cate said, her head lifted as if she, like the dog, were catching a scent. She patted the dagger, safely back at her side. ‘Good for tracking.’

  ‘You’re not coming,’ John said. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought his brother smirked.

  ‘It is my revenge we ride for,’ she said. ‘And the dog obeys no other.’

  He looked to Rob, who shook his head. ‘You’ve lost this battle before.’

  ‘That was different.’ John had seen her train with sword and dagger, watched her fight off nightmares, and even seen her ride a raid. But this would bring her face to face with Storwick again. Face to face with the fear that had turned her to stone once already today.

  She did not look fearful now. ‘I ride with you or I take the dog alone.’

  ‘Bessie,’ he called, a plea. ‘Surely you know what she wants is impossible.’

  ‘It’s you who ask the impossible, Johnnie.’ She hugged Cate and then subjected each of her brothers to the same before she took her horse again.

  Rob gave last instructions to his second-in-command. Bessie hung behind as the others started for the crossing.

  ‘God be with all of you,’ she whispered, then followed the rest.

  Cate pulled out the scrap of Storwick’s sleeve and knelt beside the dog. Did her hand shake? He wasn’t sure.

  ‘Here, Belde,’ her voice the loving, coaxing tone he had heard her use with the dog before, then murmured something he could not hear.

  The dog sniffed so quickly, John could not believe he had a scent, but, tail wagging, he started sniffing the air. Then, the kind smile she’d had for the dog shifted into the hard face of revenge. ‘Fetch Willie!’

  Heavier than she, the beast lunged against her hold. She let out the rope and leapt into the saddle.

  ‘I can take him,’ John called, afraid the dog would pull free and they would lose him altogether.

  With a tug on the rope, she slowed him a bit, then shook her head. ‘It’s mine to do.’

  Rob and John fell in behind her.

  Rob reached out a hand to John. ‘Silent as moonrise.’

  John clasped his brother’s arm. ‘Sure as the stars.’

  And now, John rode as a Brunson.

  * * *

  They followed the dog back across the Liddel Water, then west. He loped, without hesitation, beside the stream as it ran into the thicketed valley that was called the Debatable Land.

  Overhead, the clouds had turned grey-blue and, under foot, green grass was being slowly smothered by dying leaves. Wind chased them, rattling leaves and branches and magnifying the sound of hooves and harness, but Belde gave chase in silence.

  She had trained him well.

  John let the others watch the dog. His eyes were on Cate. She looked from side to side, uneasy.

  From here, you could see anyone who might come. That’s what she had said of Hogback Hill. Here, surrounded by trees and leaves, you could see no one until they were upon you. And they might come from any direction. This valley was crowded with bands of men, like animals in packs, coming out of their lairs to prey on civilised men.

  At first, the dog had gone in a straight line. Now, he ran from side to side, cutting back and forth across the stream as if a squirrel were leading him on an aimless chase.

  Rob rode closer and whispered, so Cate could not hear. ‘The dog has lost the trail, then.’

  ‘Have you ever seen him track before?’ John asked.

  Rob shook his head.

  ‘I have.’ The leaves, damp, did not crunch beneath the ponies’ hooves, but he felt each sound as if they were an invading army. ‘Storwick knows he’s being followed.’

  His brother’s lips narrowed to a grim line. ‘There’s no reason for him to stand and fight. He’ll just keep running unless— Hold the dog, Cate!’

  Ahead of them, the woods thinned. Once they rode out beyond the trees, they would have no cover. Cate kept Belde from running into the open and they gathered at the edge of the open valley.

  ‘God’s bells,’ Rob said. ‘Look at that.’

  Rising from a knoll near the river was an ill-formed wooden tower, much smaller than their own.

  And newer.

  And bigger than six men could hope to take.

  ‘Well, then,’ Rob said, leaning forwards on his saddle to look at the rough fortress. ‘It seems as if Scarred Willie has been planning this for a while.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Belde whined and pulled against Cate’s aching arm, ready to rush across the field and straight to his quarry.

  ‘Sit,’ she said, a waste of breath.

  John reached to help her with the leash and she let him, grateful for the moment’s rest.

  They stared at the tower.

  It rose only two storeys and had no outer wall or gate, but a layer of stones, and cast-off, ill-sized rubble climbed awkwardly up the outer wall, sheathing the lower storey.

  ‘This is not Storwick land,’ John said.

  ‘It belongs to no man,’ Rob answered. ‘No country, and no king.’

  Both Scotland and England claimed this narrow strip of wilderness. And since neither would give the other ownership, neither enforced order here. Not even the uncertain order of the Border Laws.

  ‘But it’s forbidden to build in the Debatable Lands,’ John said.

  Something near a smile touched her lips. John, who would still and always speak of what should be instead of what was. John, who almost made her believe that what should be, could be.

  Rob made a dismissive sound that might, from another man, have been called a laugh. ‘Welcome to the Borders, Johnnie boy.’

  Belde whined, heaving himself against his harness. John, from the back of his horse, held the rope firm. Cate slipped off her horse to put both arms around the dog, adding her strength to John’s.

  She looked up, searching the men’s faces for hope. ‘Can we not...?’ Her words faded. There were only a handful of them. An attack would be futile.

  But Belde knew nothing of logic. He lived for the joy of the hunt. And the find.

  And as she relaxed her hold, he broke free, running out of the trees and towards the tower, the rope slapping the ground behind him.

  Cate had no time for fear. No time for thinking or hesitation.

  She ran.

  So near his quarry, Belde’s speed was a match for a horse’s and certainly faster than hers. And even if she caught him, she could not hold him.

  None of that mattered.

  Wind filled her ears, along with the sound of hoofbeats behind her, but she did not pause. The dog reached the tower’s door, and frantic, jumped up, howling, knowing his man was inside. She grabbed the rope, jerking on it, trying in vain to pull him back. ‘Good boy. Yes. Enough.’

  She had boasted of his obedience, but he would not cease until he had delivered the man to her hand.

  ‘Well, look who has come knocking at the door of my Hole House.’

  She looked up. The hated face with its scarred cheek looked out at her from an opening on the upper storey, above the door.

  ‘You and your miserable beast.’ He leaned out of the window, his arm bloody from Belde’s attack. ‘Have you come for more, then?’ A grin, terrible as a demon’s scream, creased his fa
ce.

  At first, her lips refused to move. To look into his eyes was to see again what he had done to her. She became, like Lot’s wife, unmoving as a pillar of salt.

  He cannot hurt Braw Cate. She has kissed a man and wanted more.

  ‘I’ve come to see my blade scar you anew.’

  He blinked and looked away, his expression wary, as John pulled up beside her, dismounted and pulled Belde away from the door. ‘I’m taking you to justice, Willie Storwick.’

  A laugh echoed across the valley. ‘You and the girl and the dog?’

  Her fear abruptly doubled. Nothing must happen to Johnnie.

  ‘Now or later, Storwick. We know where you are.’ He had the sword in his hand and a mixture of fury and calculation in his eyes. ‘No. Not Storwick. I can’t call you that. Your family’s disowned you.’

  For the first time, she saw Willie’s face shatter. ‘They would not do that.’

  With John at her side, her senses cleared. She listened for sounds from the tower, assessed the openings above them. How many men did he have there? Could they launch arrows?

  ‘Oh, but they did, Willie. You’ve no family. No name. You’re no one.’ A slight burr, born of generations of Brunsons, shimmered around John’s words.

  She took the dog’s leash, leaving John’s sword arm clear. John, eyes fixed on Willie, let her.

  ‘Call me what you like or call me nothing at all,’ the man snarled. ‘You’re on my ground and I’m telling you to leave, not inviting you in for a brew.’

  Never looking away from Willie, John put himself between Cate and the tower. ‘Your ground? You’ve no right to this land.’

  ‘Willie’s Band gives me the right. We rule here.’ He jerked his head towards the tower and the faceless men inside, but his eyes shifted, uneasy. ‘Not the Storwicks, not the Brunsons, and certainly not wardens or kings.’

  John eased the angle of his sword and looked down at it. ‘Then again, you may not be worth dirtying my blade. You’re nothing but a nameless fazart.’

  Cate gulped at the insult and looked up. Storwick had raised a crossbow, pointed right at John.

  She threw herself between them now, pressing herself against John’s chest, her back to Willie. Belde, sensing danger, jumped on the door again, barking. The leash tangled around her legs, tying her to John.

  She closed her eyes, the rapid thump of John’s heart strong in her ear, and waited for the arrow to hit her back.

  ‘Put it down, Storwick.’ Rob’s voice, behind them. ‘Or I’ll let mine fly first.’

  Cate opened her eyes. Rob sat on his horse, his cross-latch poised to fire. The other men must still be hiding in the thicket. She and John had one horse and one dog between them. How could they outrun Willie’s arrow and regain the trees?

  ‘Come,’ she whispered, before either Willie or Rob tired. ‘We can do nothing today.’

  John mounted, then pulled her on to Norse and, with Rob and Belde, they galloped for the trees. An arrow, two, whizzed by and missed.

  And Scarred Willie’s laugh floated on the wind behind them.

  * * *

  It was full dark before they gained the tower’s safety. Heedless of all else, John lifted her off her horse and carried her to her bed, leaving Rob to tell the tale and Bessie to feed the dog.

  ‘Are you hurt? Are you safe?’ They spoke together as he carried her inside and kicked the door closed.

  And then there were no words between the kisses.

  He laid her on the bed and sat beside her.

  Promises disappeared. He searched her arms, neck, legs and back, as if she might have a wound he did not see. And she did the same, even wiggling each of his fingers, then crowning each one with a kiss when she found it whole.

  Finally, relieved, he cradled her head in his hands, wanting to shake her for her foolishness. ‘You ran unarmed to your enemy’s door!’

  I thought I had lost you.

  ‘And you pulled a sword to storm a tower!’

  They both laughed and he trailed his fingers over her cheek. Perhaps he had been foolish, but he would not admit it. When he saw her run, he thought of nothing but snatching her back.

  And now, he thought of nothing but holding her close.

  He took her lips, more precious now because he had near lost her twice today. No trace of that man’s stain would remain when he was through.

  Her hands still moved over him, rubbing his back as if she, too, were grateful he lived. He let his lips explore then, moving from hers, up her cheek to the delicate place above her ear where her fair hair grew, then traced the dainty curve of her ear with his tongue, proud when he felt her shudder in response.

  How could he have ever thought her sharp edged? Her neck curved gracefully to her shoulders. Her skin tasted sweet. He wanted, oh, he wanted to see what lay beneath the thick vest, the rough shirt. He lifted his head and fumbled with the ties of her vest, smiling when she helped him, and unable to look away when she shrugged out of the fighting man’s protection.

  Beneath that, she wore rough, loose woven wool over her linen sark. For a moment, he imagined her in court dress: a white ruffle framing her throat and baring the delicate skin that tempted him to the breasts below...

  No. That would not suit his Cate. No more than full polished harness would suit a Border man.

  He slipped his hands beneath the wool and the linen to touch her skin. Warm against his palms, he felt life itself pulsing against him.

  ‘Please...’ Did he ask? Or did he simply pull her covering up and out of the way? But after that, after he bared her, he could not speak at all.

  She had denied womanhood, but her breasts, round and full and pebbled against the cold, told a different tale. He reached, gently, so gently, thinking she might break if he was not soft with her. He cupped each breast, then stroked her, until his fingers met at the tips. Her eyes were closed, her head dropped back and a guttural sound rattled in her throat, no more coherent than his thoughts.

  Now that he could see her, he thought he might never close his eyes again. All she had hidden beckoned, most of all the unseen places where breast became rib or shoulder turned into throat. He would study those places until he knew her so well, he would know when her waist became her hip and when her belly became the place between her legs...

  He lifted her arm and bent to kiss the side of her breast, the imperceptible edge where it faded to become the skin of her side. She wiggled, closer, turning, tempting his lips with her breast, her body knowing, telling, without words.

  And he answered.

  Her hands, once content to roam his back, turned greedy. She pushed his shoulders, untying his vest with fingers clumsy as his own had been. He helped, shedding the heavy vest she had stitched so carefully, then stripping his shirt and sark without waiting for her help.

  Now, she was the one to stare, gobbling him with her eyes. He had a strange feeling of shyness, something he had never felt with a woman before. Wondering what she thought and hoping he pleased her.

  Then she touched him.

  She stroked his skin from neck to shoulder to elbow to wrist and up again, doing the same on the other side and then across his chest, as if determined that every inch of him fall beneath her fingers, as if she were trying to engrave his shape upon her skin.

  And he understood why she had closed her eyes.

  But he could not blind himself for long. There was too much more of her to discover.

  She still wore tall boots and he played squire to pull them off, along with his. Now, she was the shy one, covered in her last layer of tied-on hose.

  He sat back on the bed, baffled. A woman in a skirt was always ready for tupping. He had never faced a woman in man’s garb.

  She rose from the bed, her hands fisted, and with her back to him, untied the strings where he could not see. Then, slowly, so slowly, she slipped the hose off, revealing bare hips, legs, more...

  Did he breathe her name? Perhaps.

  Still sitting on t
he bed, he reached around her, pulling her close, then slipped his fingers between her legs.

  She let him take her weight as she edged her legs apart and pressed her hips forward, easing the way for him to explore.

  Now. Now, his body screamed, stiff with reaching.

  She, too, felt ready, slick, hot, her hips trying to meet his fingers’ rhythm. He could wait no more. He wanted all of her.

  He stood and scooped her up onto the bed and covered her, his lips on hers, her breasts against his chest, not remembering until he lay over her that he was still covered below the waist. He reached down, tried to free himself—

  ‘No! No!’

  The words had no meaning at first. Not until her fist punched his head, her nails scratched his cheek and her knee hit his groin.

  He stopped, panting and dazed, then looked down to see he had pressed her against the bed. Dazed, he rolled out of her reach.

  Eyes glazed, breathing heavily, he waited for his brain to return to his body.

  His first thought was that the woman must be mad.

  Or that he was.

  But he had not mistaken her desire. She had been the one to let down the final garment, her final barrier. What had changed?

  He looked back at her, still lying on her back, her breath racing. She had turned her head and he could not see her eyes.

  His desire had shrivelled, but the power of it still flowed in his veins. He stood, walked across the room, stirred the covered fire to flames and smacked the wall so hard his hand numbed.

  ‘What, which, what...?’ Damn. He was never so awkward with words. Or women. He raised his head to look at her. ‘What is it, Cate? What would you have of me?’

  In the firelight, the bold warrioress, the fearful spirit, the passionate woman he had glimpsed had all disappeared. A different Cate sat up in the bed. Not the one who disdained his touch. Not even the one who feared it. All that was left behind was this uncertain shell.

  She looked instead around the room and towards the door, refusing to meet his eyes. ‘Where is Belde?’

  He released a sigh of regret so deep he thought it would never leave him.

  ‘I understand,’ he said, though he did not. ‘You do not want me.’