The Devil of Jedburgh

by Claire Robyns

  Arran dug in his pouch for the vial Bothwell had given him last night. It was small enough to be hidden in his closed palm. He turned the knob and pushed the door open to hear Ruthven complaining in a gruff voice, “I’m no expecting visitors.”

  “I sent my man around this morning.” Arran marched up to the high bed where Ruthven reclined beneath a heap of blankets. Whiskey fumes and stale sweat hung around the man like a dense cloud. “The fool must have gone to the wrong address.”

  “Arran Kerr.” Ruthven wiped ratty strings of white hair away from his eyes. “I’ve had word you were in town.”

  The only lighting in the room came from the fat candle on his bedside table. Other than the candle, the table held a pewter jug and an opaque pale green goblet.

  “I didn’t mean to barge in without invitation.” Arran pointed a look toward the retainer hovering by the end of the bed.

  Ruthven dispatched his servant with the order, “Our guest will be down anon for you to see him out.”

  “My business won’t take long,” agreed Arran as he leaned over the table to fill the goblet, not surprised to find the jug held whiskey rather than ale. He brought the goblet with him as he turned in a slow circle to watch the retainer leave, deftly emptying the contents of the vial as he did so.

  He shoved the goblet at Ruthven. “You’ll need a strong drink to hear me out.”

  Ruthven’s snowy brows drew together in a thick line, but he wasn’t a man to refuse a drink. “May as well, seeing as I’m being kept from my sleep.”

  The combination of whiskey and gypsy potion knocked him out before Arran could launch into the discussion he’d prepared of the last warden border meeting. Ruthven’s chin sagged onto his shoulder, whiskey drenching his bed robes as the goblet tilted at an awkward angle over his chest.

  Arran didn’t stop to check his breathing. He searched the small desk littered with leather-bound books and rolled papers, scooped a steel bonnet and chainmail vest from the top of one trunk and lifted the heavy lid to layers of robes and linen shirts, hemp cloths and slippers. Another trunk was filled with documents. Damn Bothwell, he could use a little help right now. Precious minutes later, he was still flipping through stacks of paper, mostly accounts, some yellowed with age. Arran pushed to his feet. He left the trunk open, deciding he’d come back to it as a last resort.

  He took a deep breath to clear his head. His gaze landed on Ruthven and the high bed. Christ, I am thick. Arran dropped to the floor, but there was nothing beneath the bed. A gut feeling kept him there, staring at the rise and fall of the old man’s chest. Ruthven had been bedridden for months, his life confined to this room. If I had potentially treasonous correspondence, I’d want to keep it really, really close. Arran shuffled right up to the bed on his knees and slid his hands beneath the mattress and Ruthven’s weight. His fingers fumbled across something cool and flat. He brought back a binder of thinly pounded leather sealed with the stamp of Douglas.

  Arran drew his dirk from the top of his boot and sliced through the wax seal. When he realised what he’d found, he grabbed the candle and sat cross-legged on the floor to examine the richly textured pages.

  The list of signatures included Morton, Douglas, Glencairn, Argyll, Ochiltree, Lindsey and Henry Darnley. The queen’s exiled half brother, Moray, had signed at Newcastle on second March. He didn’t see Maitland’s name, but he already knew how closely the man was involved in Moray’s plans.

  The bond declared intentions that went beyond his worst suspicions. The removal of David Rizzio, by any means necessary, came as no surprise. There was the return of the traitorous exiles with full pardon and mention of the Protestant religion that was to be upheld at any cost. It was the item promising the acquisition of the matrimonial crown for Darnley that turned his blood to ice. Relations between the queen and her husband were abysmal. They couldn’t share a bed, let alone a crown. For one to rise, the other would have to fall.

  Arran folded the papers back into the binder and tucked it beneath his cloak. Fear for the queen’s very life hastened him from the room and down the stairs.

  “Your master’s fast asleep,” he called to Ruthven’s retainer on his way out the door.

  He rounded the corner of Cummings Close and cut across the square to the postern gate. The palace guard recognised him and opened at once. Arran walked straight past the royal stables where he’d left Rival earlier, heading for the barracks and John Stewart’s quarters. Stewart of Traquair was captain of the royal guard and a blood relation of the queen.

  Although the hour was late, Stewart answered the knock on his door in full uniform. Arran skipped all niceties and slapped the leather binder into the man’s hand. “This is a signed bond incriminating half the barons currently at court. All the half-arsed plots and alluded threats have just become real.”

  “You’d better come in.” Stewart moved aside as he flipped through the documents. The complexion of his long face went from peach to ruddy in the space of a heartbeat. “How did you come by this?”

  “Courtesy of Patrick Ruthven, though he doesna know it yet.” Arran stepped deeper into the front chamber of the captain’s quarters. “He should be your first priority.”

  Stewart folded the binder to his chest with one arm. His other hand went first to his brow, then dropped to his side, then came back up to scrub his jaw. “Sit, sit…” He crossed to his desk and set the binder down.

  “I willna dally.” Arran stood his ground close to the door. “I mean to remove my wife from the castle post haste.”

  “Yes, yes of course…excellent,” Stewart murmured. He moved again, this time to a side table where he poured two mugs of whiskey. “Arrangements must be made to have the queen taken to Stirling.” He downed the contents of his mug in one gulp before bringing the other over to Arran.

  The whiskey seemed to have restored the captain’s focus. He directed a commanding look on Arran. “The nature and urgency of this information must take precedence and I have further questions for you. Wait here, I’ll be back as soon as I’ve given the immediate order to increase the queen’s guard for tonight.”

  Stewart was as good as his word. Arran had barely set down his empty glass when the captain returned. They lit extra candles and spread the pages on the desk. Arran had never before wavered in his allegiance to queen and country, but after a half hour he’d had enough.

  “We’ll continue this once I’ve attended to my personal affairs.” He pushed to his feet. “I’m sending half my men to escort my wife. Their orders will be to rally reinforcements between here and Ferniehirst to meet us at Stirling. We should prepare for civil war.”

  He didn’t wait for Stewart’s response. The stables were half empty, but Arran gave it no thought until he’d galloped the length of Edinburgh and snapped the reins to bring Rival to a trot on the castle esplanade. The rumble of men and horses echoed through the low passage. On the other side of the gatehouse, the narrow courtyard was flooded with soldiers of the royal guard.

  Why hadn’t Stewart informed him that the order for arrests had already gone out?

  Arran pressed forward with a firm hand on the rein. He knew something was wrong the moment two of the mounted men closed in behind him and by then it was too late. An entire army couldn’t stop him as effectively as the sight of Breghan. He could make out little in the moonlight except her form and the glint of lethal steel drawn across her throat.

  “Lord Kerr of Ferniehirst, you are under arrest. Submit in the queen’s name.”

  The command came from his left, but Arran didn’t take his eyes off the man holding Breghan. “On what charge?”

  “High treason.”

  Stewart was either deluded, paranoid and demented or the man was neck deep with the conspirators. Neither question was as burning as Breghan’s fate. “Release the lady and I’ll do whatever the damn hell you want.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Breghan sucked in a calming breath, inhaling more sweat than air. The steel links from
the man’s chainmail bit at her cheek to the beat of the horse’s uneven gait on the cobbled walkway. Her view was confined to the dark profile of the stone wall to their left. She knew Arran was just up ahead, surrounded by drawn swords and restrained by the fact that she was still at the mercy of his captors.

  As they passed through the portcullis into the castle proper, the arm around her tightened. The man bowed his head over her to be heard above the clatter of hooves and clinking armour. “Need I remind you what happens if you canna keep your mouth shut?”

  The threat was superfluous. She was far more afraid of what Arran would do if she made the smallest sound or move of distress. Her entire being was focussed on him, praying he wouldn’t do anything to get himself killed, praying they wouldn’t simply kill him anyway. The air thickened with the press of bodies and muttering, stamping, shuffling. Servants, perhaps men-at-arms, roused by the disruption. There were shouts, a demand to know what was happening.

  “Stand down or bear the consequences,” someone barked in reply. “We’re about the queen’s business.”

  Breghan sincerely doubted it. The charge levied against Arran was ludicrous. She was almost happy to be pulled from the horse and prodded through a low door into instant blackness. Because finally, finally, Arran’s arms were around her.

  “Are you all right?” He dragged her up against his body. “Did they hurt you?”

  She shook her head against his shoulder. “They tricked me. They claimed to be the royal guard and said you needed to see me.”

  “That wasna all lies.”

  “Come on.” A hard shove pressed them forward. “Move.”

  A single sconce flickered at the bottom of a steep, narrow stairwell. She clung tight as Arran navigated the wooden steps in near darkness. “What is happening? Where are they taking us?”

  “The bloody dungeons. I’ve still hope this is a mistake and not a conspiracy.” He brushed his chin over the top of her head. “You’ll be safe, sweeting. I willna allow otherwise.”

  The passage at the bottom was as narrow as the stairwell, although better lit with sconces bracketed to the arched wall. The smell of animal fat and dank rot suffused the cramped space. To the front and back, squishing sounds accompanied the fall of booted steps.

  Arran’s chin lifted. “You have what you want. Let the lady go before you bring the might of Kerr and wrath of McAllen down on your sorry arses.”

  “There’s no a Douglas standing who’d take orders from a Kerr or fear a McAllen.” The man turned to grin at them before stooping to unlock a squat, barred gate.

  “Douglases,” spat Arran. “You’re like a pack of rats salivating at the core of every disease. Prison duty is a step up in this world for you lot.”

  “A temporary assignment to ensure your stay with us is rich and rewarding.” He gave a signal and she was wrenched from Arran, who resisted only long enough to realise she’d be torn apart by the pairs of hands marauding her, pressing her down onto her hands and knees. The stone was smooth and slippery. Thick sludge slurped between the spread of her fingers before she could claw them into a fist.

  “You firkin’ animals!” Arran threw his arms out, flinging aside the men either side of him. An elbow knocked another out the way. He didn’t even seem to notice the one hanging on to his back.

  Just as suddenly, the fire drained from his outrage and he went limp. Breghan felt the cold prick to the base of her neck.

  “On second thought,” drawled the Douglas standing over her, “perhaps you should go first.” He yanked Breghan to her feet again and waved his sword at the opening that was little bigger than a hole. “Dinna fear, your visit will be short and highly entertaining. We may be animals, but you canna fault a Douglas’s hospitality.”

  The two men stared each other down for a long, hard moment. It took a blade pressed to her throat again before Arran bent double and stepped into the cell. Breghan was pushed inside a moment later and the gate slammed shut. The patch of light flickering through the grate didn’t reach into the corners of the room.

  Arran grabbed her hand, but instead of bringing her into his arms, he shoved her up against the wall. “Listen carefully.” His voice was hoarse with urgency. While he spoke, he stripped his cloak from his shoulders and tossed it at her feet. “The bastards put us in a cell with Sandie Armstrong.”

  He reached down and she made out three advancing shadows before he came back up, pressing cold, smooth steel against her palm. “If one of them gets to you, dinna hesitate to knife the vermin anywhere you can reach.” He folded her fingers over the hilt of the dirk. “Do you understand?”

  His breath came warm and heavy as he looked into her eyes, waiting for her answer, wasting precious time.

  “Yes, yes,” she gasped. “Dear God, yes.”

  She was left standing there, her back plastered to the wall, holding Arran’s only weapon as he lunged forward to take the fight as far from her as possible. She had no idea which man was Sandie Armstrong. Two of them were wide, bulking figures with more hair on their faces than skin. All were draped in mangy furs, some still bearing the head of the wild creature that had given its life. They came at Arran from three angles, grunting and growling like the dead animals they wore.

  The grit that had kept her together so far began to seep away. Arran had given her his dagger because he knew she was going to need it. With or without a weapon, he didn’t expect to survive this fight.

  A unified roar echoed off the walls as two men threw themselves onto Arran in a tangle of arms and legs and fur. The third man was taller, thinner, and he wasn’t joining in the fight. Instead he danced around the punches and kicks in a series of quick slides. He’s looking for a way to slink around to me.

  If he got to her, if he overpowered her, he’d have the dagger to use on Arran. Her temples pounded with a building pressure that blurred her vision. If he got to her, he wouldn’t need the dagger. She’d already seen that she was more lethal than any weapon that could be turned on Arran.

  She twisted the dagger within the fold of her skirts, praying for strength, for a miracle, praying to a God who wasn’t listening. Arran went down in a hail of curses, one man kicking in his ribs, the other his face. The dancer saw his chance and dashed through the melee. She brought her hand away from her skirts, her fingers trembling so badly, the dagger almost slipped from her grasp.

  I can’t do this. I don’t know where to strike. Her limbs froze and time fragmented into the pulse of her heartbeat. One step brought him this side of the fight. His arm came up. His foot came down right in front of her.

  The sound of Arran’s name tore from her throat in a blood-curdling scream.

  He leaned in with a snarl. His hand snaked around her head, seeking purchase in her hair.

  And then time was reversing. His hand pulled back. He swallowed the snarl. His entire body slid away from under him and his chin hit the stone floor with a resounding crack.

  Arran dropped the man’s leg and kicked him out of the way.

  In the time it had taken her to fall apart, Arran had recovered and brought down two of his adversaries. Now the fight was one on one, although far from fair. Arran was twice as bruised, twice as bloody, twice as weary as the other man. He stood closest to her, still protecting her. His breaths came out in gasps and his right elbow was tucked into his side, the side he seemed to favour as he waited for the other man to make his move.

  Breghan came up behind him and pressed the hilt of the dagger into his left hand. His fingers fumbled for a moment, then he realised what she’d given him. He lunged forward with a war cry, bringing the man down flat on his back so he could pound into his chest with a dagger instead of fists.

  By the time Arran had drained the edge from his bloodlust, the man’s chest was a bloody pulp of fur and shredded skin.

  Breghan’s glassy stare went from the heap of gore to Arran, to find him swiping the blade clean across his thigh. The dry heave started in the pit of her belly, ejecting nothing but
hot air that scalded the inside of her throat as she met Arran’s gaze.

  His eyes turned down, to the dagger in his hand, to the bright red splotches staining the ragged remains of his linen shirt. “I spared Armstrong’s life once and that was once too many.” A subtle shift came over the contours of his face, as if the essence of a ghost had drifted over. As if regret lurked in the shadow of his jaw. As if a pain far worse than his injuries pinned his grimace. “A man must be capable of atrocities to protect his land and loved ones.”

  Breghan looked at him blankly, not understanding, and then she did. The regret wasn’t for Sandie Armstrong. The inner pain wasn’t from another spent life branded on his soul. She shook her head at him, her heart filling with love and tears. There he stood, blood dripping into his left eye from the gash at his brow, bruises already darkening his jaw. His weight rested heavily on his left leg, and once again that arm tucked beneath his ribs to gingerly protect either or both. And his regret, his pain, was that he believed he’d turned her stomach with disgust.

  “My body may be weak when it comes to blood and violence, but I assure you, darling, my mind and heart are not.” She went to him, lightly stroked a finger along the swollen line of his jaw. “There is nothing atrocious about what you did here.”

  He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “I can’t leave these men to live. I—I need you to turn away.”

  “I could watch you slaughter each of these men and love you even more than I already do…if such a thing were possible.”

  A frown settled above his steady gaze. “Bree, please.”

  Breghan backed up against the wall and slid to the ground. She would have gladly watched to prove her words. But she was mightily relieved to pull her legs up instead and rest her forehead on her knees. She didn’t lift her head until Arran returned to her side. He held out his hand to raise her up.

  She ignored the offered hand and pushed to her feet. “I should be taking care of you.”

  “I’ve suffered far worse.” He retrieved his cloak, fumbling with the layers of cloth as he struggled to drape it around her shoulders with only his right hand.