The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  “His Grace did not tell me you would be coming,” he said when Rory, freshly groomed, paid his compliments.

  “’Tis a sudden journey,” Rory said. “’Tis the boy’s birth date and my wife was quite insistent on giving him a gift. You know how women can be when they are with child. I would ha’ no peace unless I brought this to the lad,” he said, holding out the cloak for inspection.

  Creighton immediately became more hospitable. “With child, you say?”

  “Aye. She believes so. She is ill in the morning and … well, I am sure you know more of women than I.”

  Creighton was rubbing his hands together. “Now that is fine news. His Grace will be most pleased.” He took the cloak. “I will give it to him.”

  “I would like to see the boy myself. He is my brother-in-law now, and my wife would like a report of his well-being. I, however, am well pleased he is in your care and not mine. I am not fond of children, particularly children who are not my own.” He took a snuffbox from his coat and held it up to his nose, taking a deep sniff.

  “He is an arrogant little Jacobite,” Creighton said. “I would not mind ridding myself of the little bastard, but His Grace insists he stay until a child is born, though I cannot fathom the reason.”

  Rory shrugged. “Better you than me. I will just take a moment, and then I plan to travel on to Edinburgh. Have a mistress there. I find that mistresses are far more sturdy than wives. Do you not find the same?”

  The man blinked once, then gave him a knowing smile. “Aye.” Then he cleared his throat, before speaking again. “Do you have a letter for the boy? I am to read them.”

  “Nay,” Rory said carelessly. “I think ’tis best if they do not communicate. The cloak is sufficient. I would not have even consented to that but I feared the marchioness might do something that would hurt the unborn bairn.”

  Creighton nodded. He turned toward the hall and called, “Ames.” In seconds, a man dressed all in black appeared.

  “He is locked in his room for insolence,” Creighton said as he turned back to Rory. “Ames will take you.”

  Rory followed Ames up four flights of stairs to a tower room. He waited while Ames unlocked it, then he sauntered inside, waving the man aside. “You may go.”

  “I am not supposed to leave him with strangers.”

  “I am not a stranger. I am the Marquis of Braemoor,” Rory said in his most haughty manner. “And I wish a glass of wine. I have had a very long journey. I can well look after the little brat.”

  The man hesitated until Rory raised an eyebrow. “Do you wish me to ask your master?”

  Ames shook his head and started down the stairs. Rory closed the door.

  The room was cold and nearly bare except for a rough bed and a table. A small slitted window gave little light.

  A lad with Bethia’s dark hair and blue eyes turned toward him, every fiber of his being radiating defiance. A deep scowl marred a face that otherwise would be handsome. Eyes blazed at him. “Who are you?”

  “Your brother-in-law, lad.” He closed the door and leaned against it so it could not be opened without him knowing it. He took Bethia’s letter from his pocket and held it out to the boy. “Read it quickly, Dougal. We have little time.”

  The boy looked at him suspiciously but took the few steps necessary to snatch the letter from his hand. He broke the seal, then read it quickly. “I do not understand.”

  “It asks you to trust me, does it not?”

  “Aye, but I see no reason to do so.”

  “Did you trust Alister?”

  Dougal’s chin stuck out so far Rory could have chopped it off. He waited.

  “I am taking you and your sister out of the country. Alister said you had a way to get out of here.”

  “I might,” Dougal said cautiously, obviously not yet sure about trusting him.

  “Can you be outside the walls on the west side of the moat two hours past midnight?”

  The lad hesitated.

  “Your sister said you could trust me.”

  “She might have been forced.”

  Rory laughed. “Do you really believe that possible?”

  Dougal suddenly grinned. “Nay. And aye, I do know a way out. I would have used it, but your man said to wait.”

  Rory nodded. “When Ames comes back, I am going to have to hit you. They have to believe we detest each other. It’s important to the safety of other people. I canna be connected to your escape.”

  “Aye,” the lad said, then grinned. “I will give you reason.”

  He was, indeed, Bethia’s brother. Rory handed over the cloak. “A gift for you. My reason for coming.”

  “Why did they allow you?” The lad was suspicious again.

  “I said Bethia was with child.”

  The lad went absolutely still. “Is she?”

  “No.”

  Dougal sighed gratefully, which was a little insulting, then he became alert again. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Have you heard of the Black Knave?”

  “Aye. The servants have talked of him.”

  “He will be waiting for you tonight. I swear it. Now hand me back that letter.”

  Dougal did so and looked at him searchingly. “Are you really her husband?”

  “Aye. I do not have to ask if you are her brother. You have her eyes.”

  The lad swallowed deep, and Rory was reminded of all the lad had lost: his home, his brothers, his family.

  Then he heard steps outside. “Remember, you must get out tonight.”

  Ames came in just as the boy stepped back and glared at him. “English lackey. Traitor. I willna take anything from you.”

  Rory slapped the lad. He tried to hold the power, but the boy went back, falling against the wall.

  Dougal’s eyes blazed. “Bastard.”

  Rory turned to Ames, who had a tray with him. He took the tankard on it, and drained it. Then took the cloak that lay on the floor. “The brat said he dinna want it. I will take it with me. Ungrateful little wretch.” He turned and left the room, leaving Ames fumbling around with keys.

  He went down the steps two at a time. He looked for Creighton, who came out of his office. The man raised his eyebrow. “Jacobite dung,” Rory said. “He lacks the barest of manners. I will have to tame him as I tamed my wife.”

  Creighton nodded. “I will be glad to be rid of him.”

  Rory grimaced.

  “I will tell His Grace you looked in on the boy.”

  Rory shuddered. “I shudder to think of ever having the little barbarian in my home.”

  He took his leave then. He walked out into the courtyard, mounted and rode out the gates. Unlike Braemoor, this keep was fortified. The boy seemed sure he could get outside the walls.

  If only the boy believed him. His eyes had most surely blazed hatred at him.

  Rory sighed. He could do nothing now but gather up the other horse. And wait.…

  Bethia visited Alister on the afternoon before she was to leave. She’d invited Jamie to ride with her, though it was no longer necessary. The marquis had issued orders that she could ride wherever she wished.

  Her husband had apparently verbally castigated the guards on duty for their negligence. There was no need for guards, he’d said, when the ones they had were so derelict in duty.

  Jamie had overheard the marquis and repeated the words with enthusiasm. The marquis had become his hero when he’d ordered the boy’s father to allow him sleep during the night and had also told the man that any bruises on the boy would be repaid on the father’s body.

  Once in the village, Bethia gave the boy a half pence for a sweet from a woman who sold bakery goods. She then went to see Alister. He looked up from the forge with a slight smile on his lips. “My lady.”

  She remembered how he had tried to reassure her on her wedding day, how she thought that strange for a blacksmith. Now she looked into his intelligent brown eyes and saw so much more. The marquis’s friend. His confidant. His truste
d ally.

  He straightened.

  “I dinna think you would be working today,” Bethia said.

  “I ha’ no’ been working enough,” he replied with a grin. “I want no suspicions, particularly today.”

  “You have been close to the marquis,” she said. “Will that not cast suspicion on him when you disappear?”

  “You know of the friendship, my lady, because of our conversation on the wedding day. Few others do. We have been careful. ’Tis always been business.”

  “There is a … warmth between you.”

  “Only because you look closer than most,” Alister said. “Now, can you leave the tower house an hour after midnight?”

  “Aye,” she said. “The marquis said I should cut my hair. Should I do it before leaving?”

  He shook his head. “Nay. I will be waiting for you with horses. We will go to Mary’s cottage where you can change clothes. Leave one of the cards Rory gave you on the table in your room. We want everyone to believe the Knave stole you away in Rory’s absence.” She was startled at his use of her husband’s given name, rather than the formal “my lord.” Then she reasoned it was indicative of a friendship far closer than she had ever imagined.

  “My dog?”

  “You will have to keep him quiet. Rory told me you would insist on bringing him.”

  She nodded and started to leave.

  “My lady?”

  She turned.

  “Rory plans well. So, it appears, do you. I would not worry overmuch.”

  ’Twas approval in his voice, and it lightened her heart. She nodded and left.

  And now it was time. Apprehension had settled like a rock in her stomach. It was as much for the idea of meeting with her husband’s mistress as it was of fear of Cumberland and his soldiers. She brushed her long hair for the last time, then laced it into a long braid.

  She then put on a clean, simple gown and bundled up two others. After carefully placing all the jewels into the pouch the marquis had given her, she tied it to her wrist. She added needle and thread, intending to sew the jewels into whatever garments Alister had for her.

  Black Jack whined at her feet. He was obviously nervous, sensing that something was out of the ordinary. She picked him up and held him close to her face. “I would never leave you,” she whispered. “Never.” She found the little traveling bag she had made for him.

  She was ready. Bethia took one more look at herself, at the hair her mother had often called her best feature, at the room that had almost become home. She placed a single playing card on the table and slipped out the door, down the silent corridor, and past the great hall where her wedding feast had been held.

  No one was in sight. There was no reason to keep guards on duty. She moved quickly toward the stand of trees located beyond the stable. She heard the neigh of a horse and she made for the sound. Alister was standing beside two horses. He was dressed in leather trousers and leather jerkin, his hair covered by a dark bonnet. He said nothing but helped her into an ancient saddle on a small, decrepit-looking mare. She looked down at the animal dubiously.

  “She is far more fit than she looks,” Alister assured her. He then handed the dog up to her.

  They rode swiftly. The moon was still naught but a pie sliver, and stars were visible as they rode up into the heather-covered hills that led to the forest and the mountain beyond. Neither said anything. Alister occasionally glanced up at the sky, which was just beginning to fill with clouds. He hurried the pace.

  Bethia’s heart pounded as they neared the cottage. She did not know how she would feel facing her husband’s mistress. She had not loved her husband the last time she had made this journey out of curiosity. Now she did, and it was like an open wound on her heart. How could she bear to see them together, work together, conspire together as they had done for months?

  The sky darkened. Clouds layered the sky, blocking the stars and what little moon was out this night. Yet Alister moved swiftly. They reached the cottage and she slipped down, not waiting for his assistance. The door opened as if Mary had been standing next to it, waiting for her.

  Mary was dressed in a dull brown gown made of rough wool and a kertch cap that hid the lustrous brown hair that Bethia remembered. She smiled at Bethia, ushering her in and indicating a pile of clothes on the table. “Do you need help?”

  Bethia shook her head and Mary turned away from her, obviously to give her privacy. Despite the jealousy that still lingered dangerously inside her, she knew she would probably like Mary very much. There was a dignity to her, an instinctive warmth that Bethia knew would appeal to the Rory Forbes she was coming to know. Bethia tried to suppress the emptiness she felt at that knowledge. Instead she dressed quickly, wrapping a cloth around her breasts to make them flat before donning a dirty shirt, ragged wool trousers and an oversized, poorly stitched wool jacket. When dressed, she quickly sewed her jewels into the hem of the jacket. Then she faced Mary. “The marquis said my hair should be cut.”

  Mary’s eyes were full of sympathy. “’Twould be the safe thing to do.”

  Bethia swallowed hard, then nodded. “You will do it?”

  “If you like,” Mary said gently.

  Bethia sat. She saw the shine of the knife, heard the sound as it sawed through the great, heavy braid and felt the weight drop from her head. She flinched as more tendrils fell around her face. No tears, though, for this loss. She had known too many greater ones. And hair grew back.

  Mary looked at her critically, then placed a plaid bonnet on Bethia’s head. Bethia did not ask to see a mirror. She did not think she could bear it, especially when Mary rubbed some smelly substance into her skin. “Your skin is far too fine for a blacksmith’s apprentice,” she said.

  Mary was finally through and Bethia stood. She watched as Mary finished the last of the preparations. Mary pried a board up from the floor and took out several pistols and two knives, handling them with an ease that belied her modest dress. She tucked one last pistol into several blankets, then looked at Bethia. “Can you use one?”

  “Aye,” Bethia said without blinking. And she could. As the lone sister in a family of men, she had begged and teased her brothers into teaching her. She had never thought, however, to use one against a person. “Have you ever fired one?” she asked curiously.

  “Not against anything larger than a target on a tree,” Mary said. “But I donna intend to end on a gallows or be sold as an indentured slave.”

  Bethia wondered how Mary had ever become involved in the marquis’s plots, but now was no’ the time to ask questions. She merely nodded toward the knives. “And those?”

  “I ha’ never used those on anything larger than a loaf of bread or a side of meat,” Mary said. “Rory has always been very cautious, but aft tonight I fear every English soldier will be after us.”

  Rory. Such an easy use of his name. Her stomach bunched up again as she watched the competent Mary roll up the second pistol, then handed her one of the knives. “Tie it to your ankle,” she advised.

  Bethia nodded and quickly did so with a piece of cloth she tore from a discarded petticoat.

  Mary added one more bundle to the growing pile on the table, this one apparently food, from the smell of it. They divided the bundles between them and carried them out where Alister held three horses. Bethia took the reins of the horses while Alister tied the bundles securely to the saddles.

  When he finished, she did not wait for his assistance. She was a lad now, able to mount his own horse.

  She did notice that he helped Mary, however, and she noticed his hand lingered on hers, just as the marquis’s had remained on Bethia’s longer than required. Imagination? Wishful thinking? Hope?

  She did not know.

  Twenty-five

  Bethia stared out the window of the abandoned hunting lodge. She had been doing it for hours.

  Mary was asleep on the floor. She had urged Bethia to do the same, but she could not. Dougal and Rory hadn’t appeared yet. Alister w
as out somewhere, keeping watch.

  The three of them—Alister, Bethia and Mary—had ridden more than eight hours to a point east that was nearly equal distance from Braemoor and Rosemeare. Most of the ride had been in a driving rain, which was both a curse and a blessing. They had easily skirted—unnoticed—two patrols huddled around sputtering fires.

  Alister had brought them to this long unused hut that was falling apart. Rain fell through holes in the roof, and there was no furniture. But it was hidden well. There might once have been paths leading to it, but now they were all overgrown. The three riders had fought their way through brambles and branches.

  Mary had found a dry place for them to eat, then she had covered herself with a blanket and miraculously had gone to sleep. But Bethia could not. She wanted to wait for Dougal, for Rory. She had berated herself for letting the latter do what she thought she should have been able to do: rescue her own.

  Bethia did not know how long she had been peering from the window. The driving rain had subsided to a steady drizzle and a mist obscured the trees beyond a limited vision of a few feet. Restless, she pulled her own blanket about her shoulders, wishing mightily for her warm cloak. She was fortunate that Alister had thought to bring blankets for them all. They, too, however, were still damp from the rain despite the fact that he’d packed them with oilcloth.

  Her eyes started to close but she forced them back open, then she heard a shrill whistle. Alister had already told her that a series of short bird calls meant they should run away fast. One long sustained whistle meant Rory approached.

  She hurried to the door, the blanket still clutched around her. She did not want to think how she appeared. She still had not seen herself since the shearing of her hair. But she thought only of her brother. Her husband. Black Jack followed her, barking madly, and she wondered whether he knew the newcomer was one of his cherished people.

  Bethia stood in the rain as two riders approached. Both were wearing cloaks; bonnets protected their heads. A tall figure. A smaller one. She ran over to the smaller one as he slid from the horse and clasped him in her arms. “Dougal,” she whispered, her breath catching in her throat.