Captive of the Border Lord

by Blythe Gifford

  * * *

  Carwell kept a smile clamped on his lips. He was learning not to underestimate Bessie Brunson, but it was hard to keep that in mind when he looked at the woman. Red hair tumbled over her shoulders, her brown eyes sparked with suspicion and her lips were full and soft and ready...

  He stopped his thoughts. ‘Leave this night for celebration. I’ll speak to your brothers tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? When Rob’s head is double its size because of the wine he’s drunk this night and Johnnie is comfortably abed enjoying his new bride?’

  He swallowed a sour retort. ‘They’ll be ready to listen when they hear why I’ve come. It’s a matter for men’s ears.’

  She looked to Heaven before she met his eyes again. ‘You’ve no women in your household.’

  He blinked. He hadn’t. Not for years. ‘No. Not...now.’

  The memory cramped his heart. He would never take a woman for granted again. A twinge, a weary sigh—these could signal the threat of something worse.

  He set the thought aside. That was not to be shared with anyone, least of all with this woman. Yet for a moment, he had imagined she would understand.

  ‘If you had,’ she said, ‘you would know that we do not need to be protected from the truth.’

  Looking at this woman, he doubted that her family had protected her from anything at all. ‘Then you’ll know it when they do. And it will be tomorrow.’ The King had no more patience than that.

  Despite his offer of help, she asked for nothing as she moved around the room, effortlessly scooping up oat cakes and putting another batch near the hearth. When she finished her sweep through the kitchen, she shook the girl awake and told her to watch that the fire did not burn the kitchen down.

  Finally, she joined him at the door.

  ‘You wanted to help.’ She set down her cakes, filled two flagons with ale from the barrel, and shoved them at him, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘Carry these.’

  Silent, he followed her into the cold, proud that he had refrained from pouring her precious ale into the dirt. The woman was as stubborn as the rest of her kin. Maybe more so.

  But as he watched the sway of her walk, he remembered the way she had leaned towards him in the dance, following his lead through the unfamiliar steps. For those few moments, there had been nothing but music and movement and the two of them.

  Well, her hatred would be back in force tomorrow.

  Just as soon as she discovered he was here to take her brother hostage.

  Chapter Two

  The celebration continued long after they had ushered Johnnie and Cate to the marriage bed. Bessie shooed the rest away from the door, enticing them back to the hall with fresh ale in order to give the newlyweds privacy. Back in the hall, dance turned to song. Odd Jock was trying to teach Cate’s hound to sing.

  The beast sang as well as Jock, to her ear.

  Carwell’s men mingled without incident. Even Rob was chatting amiably as she made one more trip through the courtyard to the kitchen.

  Carwell saw her go, but this time he did not follow.

  The fog had become a soaking rain and she leaned against the kitchen door, weary, before making a final dash across the courtyard to the tower. The Tait sisters and the servant girl would help her clean up tomorrow, but she had yet to accommodate all of Carwell’s men. Six could sleep in the hall. The other five would have to share the large room on the top storey, but where would the warden sleep?

  Rob was sleeping with the men so Johnnie and Cate could have the master’s room. That left only one bed.

  Hers.

  Pushing away from the door, she eyed the sack of oats where the Tait girl had dozed. It would make a good enough mattress, she supposed.

  Rob’s voice and the familiar strains of the Brunson Ballad pulled her back. When he spoke, her brother was brief and gruff, but when he sang, his voice soared.

  Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars,

  Strong as the wind that sweeps Carter’s Bar.

  Sure-footed and stubborn, ne’er danton nor dun

  That’s what they say of the band Brunson

  Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man

  Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man.

  Inside the hall, the laughter had quieted. The rest were drifting off to bed. She leaned over to whisper in Carwell’s ear, ‘I’ve a place for you to sleep, if you’ll follow me.’

  She spied a trace of weariness in his eyes as he rose and scolded herself, silently, regretting her tart tongue. He was two days’ ride from home and a guest in her house. She must give him no reason to complain of Brunson hospitality.

  Opening the door to her room, she shivered. Thinking first of the guests, she had neglected to see to the fire. ‘It is a simple room,’ she said, kneeling to rekindle the flames. He was no doubt accustomed to tapestries and candles and pluckers of lutes. Well, Brunsons prided themselves on their prowess, not their possessions. ‘But I hope it will be satisfactory.’

  ‘This is your room,’ he said, still standing at the door.

  ‘Yes.’ She stood, dusting off her hands.

  ‘I won’t force you to give up your bed.’

  ‘Well, you’ll not be sharing it with me.’ Her eyes clashed with his.

  ‘I was not insulting you with that suggestion. Don’t insult me by suggesting I was.’

  The words were sharp. Sharper than any she’d ever heard him say. So, it seemed the man did have a temper. And she had just the tongue to provoke it.

  She looked down at the floor. That would have to serve as an apology. ‘Take the bed. You are a guest in my house.’

  ‘An uninvited one. I’ll join my men in the hall.’ He stepped into the corridor and smiled at her, as if to gloss over his previous words. ‘Rest well.’

  She pulled down the bedsheets, surprised to see her hand shaking.

  And outside the door, she heard what might have been a smothered curse.

  * * *

  When Bessie roused the newlyweds from bed the next morning to join Carwell’s meeting, their drowsy smiles hurt her heart. She hoped they had passed a wonderful night.

  The rest of the day promised to be unpleasant.

  They gathered with Rob and Carwell in the private area behind the public reception hall. In the centre of the room, a glowing brazier generated feeble protection against the cold.

  Carwell looked as if he had slept no better than she.

  ‘King James,’ he began, ‘was forced to break off the siege against the Earl of Angus.’ Until only months ago, the earl, stepfather to the King, had also been the regent. Now he was the King’s worst enemy. ‘The King blames this defeat on the fact that the Brunson men he called for never arrived.’

  She exchanged a quick glance with her brother John. The Brunson men had been doing more important things.

  ‘In addition,’ Carwell continued, ‘it has come to the ears of the King that Scarred Willie Storwick has disappeared. And may be dead.’

  Johnnie and Cate exchanged uneasy glances. Bessie frowned, but bit her tongue. No doubt the King knew because Carwell himself had sent word.

  ‘No loss to either side of the border,’ Rob said, finally, ‘even if he was English. Would have been hanged long before if you had brought him to justice as you should.’

  She expected an argument, or at least an explanation, but Carwell remained silent, his gaze steady. Heavy-lidded eyes gave him a calm look, but they also hid his expression. ‘The King, I am sure, would understand if someone, a Brunson, perhaps, had killed the man in self-defence.’

  John shrugged.

  Rob shook his head. ‘An attack is the best defense.’

  Shush, Rob. But she held her tongue. His words were true enough, but not what the King, or Carwell, wanted to hear.

  The warden did not hesitate. ‘Did you attack him?’

  She held her breath. Her brother had near said as much.

  ‘I did not. Though if I had, I’d not be sorry.’

 
Carwell swung his gaze from Rob and let it rest on John. ‘Did you?’

  Cate reached for her husband’s hand.

  ‘Storwick did not die by my sword,’ John said.

  The warden nodded, as if he had known no explanation would be forthcoming. ‘So,’ Carwell continued, ‘can you explain how God, in his infinite wisdom, managed to kill the man?’

  He paused, perhaps still hoping someone would. John kept his eyes on Carwell’s, not glancing at Rob or Bessie. Or Cate.

  No one spoke.

  Finally, John shrugged. ‘Who can fathom how God works his wonders?’

  Bessie let out a breath, slowly. An accusation that could not be proven could always be denied. Carwell knew that as well as any of them. Better.

  ‘His death is a mystery,’ Rob said, ‘but the English dogs will come across the border soon enough to seek retribution. And we’ll need every Brunson man here when that happens.’

  Bessie had no trouble deciphering Carwell’s fleeting look this time.

  Anger.

  ‘Justice and punishment on this side of the border are my responsibility,’ Carwell said. ‘Not theirs.’

  ‘I wish you had remembered that earlier,’ John said. ‘When you had Storwick in your hands.’

  Before he could shield his expression, she caught a glimpse of the anger again.

  Just as quickly, he masked it.

  ‘I’m well aware of my duties.’ The arched brow and the crook at the corner of his mouth were well short of a smile. ‘And as you say, the man was a menace to the English as well as the Scots. I believe the English Warden is giving prayers of thanks along with those for Storwick’s immortal soul.’

  They exchanged cautious glances, then Bessie sent up her own prayer.

  Justice and punishment are my responsibility. He had not travelled for two days to confirm what he already knew. ‘So why are you here?’

  The man’s eyes held hers, for a moment, and she had the disquieting feeling that he could see behind her eyes.

  She closed them against his gaze, as if that could stop him from seeing the truth.

  When she opened them, he was looking at her brothers again.

  ‘Those of us who live on the Borders understand God’s mysterious ways. The King seeks earthly explanation. And blame. Right now, he blames you. For all of it.’

  ‘A few Brunson men wouldn’t have won his siege for him,’ John said. He had told the family as much. At sixteen, the King was no expert in the art of war.

  Carwell raised his brows. True or not, this was not what the King wanted to hear. Or would choose to believe. ‘Yet I sent every man I could spare to fight by the King’s side.’

  The rest had fought beside Brunson men in the chase for Willie Storwick. Carwell, she noticed, managed to keep both the King and the Borderers placated. Most of the time.

  ‘But you,’ he continued, looking at John, ‘refused the King’s command to send Brunson men. You’re suspected of killing an Englishman. And now you’ve married without bothering to inform the King, let alone seek his permission.’ He sighed. ‘The only man in Scotland the King hates more right now is the Earl of Angus.’

  John sighed. He had been as close to the King as a brother. Once. They had known there would be repercussions when he chose kin over king.

  Still, his family were glad that he did so.

  ‘You have one chance to redeem yourselves,’ Carwell said. ‘The King has demanded all men loyal to him to take a Great Oath.’

  ‘To him?’ John asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Against Angus. Pledging you will do everything in your power to destroy the man.’

  Something the King had so far failed, utterly, to do.

  Bessie looked to Rob. As head man of the Brunson family, the decision would be his.

  ‘I’ve no love for Angus or his kin,’ he began. ‘But I’ll take no oath against a family that’s done mine no harm.’ He didn’t take his eyes from Carwell. ‘There are enough who have.’

  Carwell’s careful calm broke. With an exasperated sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Take the oath, for God’s sake. He’s going to be angry enough when he learns that Johnnie has married.’

  Rob and John shook their heads at the same moment, at the same angle, and she smiled, seeing her father in them both. Seeing her family as one again.

  ‘An oath is a sacred thing,’ John said. It was one of the lessons coming home had taught him. ‘We’ll not take one for the King’s pleasure.’

  She saw Carwell straighten his shoulders, as if all that had come before was only prelude. She held her breath, waiting for him to speak of why he had come.

  ‘Then you give me no choice. As warden, it is my duty to secure a pledge of peace from the Brunson family. Something to ensure your future good behaviour.’

  ‘Since our past has been so reprehensible?’ she said. Who was this man to demand oaths and pledges? ‘If we won’t swear an oath, why would we give a pledge?’

  But John, who knew the ways of the King, understood it first. ‘It’s not words the King wants. It’s a hostage.’

  ‘Hostage is a harsh word.’ There was Carwell’s smile again. She was beginning to hate the curve of his lips.

  ‘If we displease him again, the King’s treatment will be harsher,’ Johnnie said.

  Rob, Bessie, Johnnie and Cate looked at each other.

  ‘I should go,’ John said. ‘I’m the one he knows.’

  The one who failed him.

  ‘He won’t like what you have to say,’ Rob answered.

  John sighed. ‘I can face that.’

  Shaking his head, Black Rob looked all of his name and more. ‘He’ll make you face it at the end of a rope, Johnnie.’

  No. Her heart quickened its beats. Not Johnnie. Not when he had finally come home, not when he was just wed.

  His bride threaded her fingers with his. ‘If you must go, I will go with you.’

  Rob rose, trying to tower over the situation. ‘I won’t let you.’

  ‘But I promised the King when I came—’

  Carwell jumped into the middle of the argument. ‘You, then.’ He pointed to Rob. ‘If the head man of the Brunson family went to court and gave his oath, the King would—’

  ‘Bah!’ Rob said. ‘I’ll give no man an oath that would prevent me from protecting my kin.’

  Not Rob. She held her breath. Rob would bend his stiff neck for no one. Not even a king. He would only make things worse for himself. For all of them.

  Her youngest brother rose. ‘We’ll think on it.’

  That was Johnnie. Saving face. Buying time.

  But time would not change facts. Her father had died less than three months ago. Rob had taken his place as head of the family. Johnnie was home and happy.

  Her brothers, Cate, the family she loved so much her heart hurt to think of it, needed to be left alone, not torn apart and sent away.

  Carwell rose, his courtier’s grace clashing with the harsh set of his brow. ‘Don’t think too long,’ he said. ‘The King is not a patient man.’

  She felt herself rise from the stool and stand on her own two feet. No. She would not let him do this.

  ‘It will be me, then,’ she said. ‘I will stand surety for the Brunsons.’

  Chapter Three

  What was the woman doing? Was she daft?

  Carwell glared at Bessie Brunson, then turned to her brothers. Surely they would not allow this madness.

  Or was it?

  Shielding his eyes, hiding his thoughts, he assessed the options. It was not what the King expected, but the King had an eye for the ladies. An apology from a beautiful Brunson might soften his heart while a belligerent argument from either of her uncooperative brothers could very well make things worse.

  But to put a woman at risk, even one as stubborn as Bessie Brunson...no.

  ‘Impossible,’ he said, as if it were his decision.

  Bessie ignored him, facing her brother. ‘I can go to the King. I can ex
plain—’

  ‘Explain?’ Rob raised his hands to heaven. ‘Even if you leave Willie Storwick to God, we invaded neutral territory and torched a tower. That’s the right of it.’

  ‘Aye.’ Carwell sighed. He knew. He had helped them do it. ‘The King wants your oath and a promise of good behaviour,’ he continued, finally. ‘Not an explanation.’

  ‘What the King wants,’ said John, ‘is retribution.’ His grim expression reflected Rob’s. John had grown up beside the King and knew him better than any of them. ‘He’ll want you in chains.’

  Carwell forced back a shudder. ‘Or worse.’ The King had been ruled by others since he was a babe. He had years of wrongs to right.

  Her cheeks lost colour and he braced to catch her, should she faint. Realising the risk, she would no longer want to go.

  She didn’t even flinch. ‘So it shall be.’

  ‘You don’t know what you are saying.’ Life here was hard, but the threats were clear. Court was full of hidden dangers, deceptive as the quicksands he had learned to avoid in childhood. The smooth sands might look safe, but a single misstep would suck you into danger.

  And death.

  Bessie Brunson couldn’t even navigate a dance without stumbling.

  ‘Leave us,’ Rob said, standing. ‘This is a decision for family.’

  Relieved, he nodded. He was not here to bargain with Bessie Brunson. Let her brothers deal with her.

  He turned for the door, whispering in her ear as he left the room, ‘They will not allow you to go.’

  She smiled. ‘They won’t be able to stop me.’

  * * *

  Bessie refused to watch him leave the room. There would be a price to pay for putting herself at his mercy, though she did not know yet what it would be.

  The moment he left the room, the objections all came at once.