His Border Bride

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘You’re a cruel man, Fitzjohn.’

  ‘Because I have tried, like the perfect knight, to fulfil a lady’s request? How jealous do you want him to be?’ He leaned towards her again, unable to keep his distance. ‘I can describe your eyes.’ He peered at her, as if assessing what to say. ‘Green, yes, but with a touch of grey, hard as a stone, unless, of course, they are gazing into mine.’

  Her glance clashed with his. ‘He has seen my eyes.’

  And no doubt her eyes were soft as spring grass when they gazed on the comte. ‘Your hair, then. I shall speak poetic lines to tell him how it looked, flowing across your shoulders like unbound silk.’

  ‘He will not believe you. My hair is never down.’

  ‘Then I will tell him of your skin.’ His voice had deepened as he spoke of all he wanted and could not have. Imaginings unbound by what he could see. He drew her against him again. ‘How fair and soft it felt beneath my fingers as I stroked the curve of your breast—’

  ‘You mustn’t!’ She leaned away, but he did not let her free. ‘If you imply that I, that we…’

  He heard the comte’s steps, angry, mounting the stairs.

  She heard them, too. ‘Please. Don’t.’ Eyes wide, locked on his. ‘He’ll decide I’m not fit to be his wife at all.’

  And for just a moment, he was tempted to tell the Frenchman of her eyes and hair and skin and more. A man whose desire was so shallow did not deserve her at all.

  ‘Well, we can’t have that, now, can we?’

  They were no longer alone. ‘Let her go.’

  He raised his head, dizzy from looking so deeply into her eyes. ‘Ah, Comte de Garencieres. We were just speaking of you.’

  Clare stepped out of his reach and into the other man’s. Gavin dropped his empty, jealous hands.

  ‘No, we weren’t.’

  ‘Oh?’ He looked back at her, not caring who was watching. It had not been hard to play the swain when she asked. It had been difficult to stop. ‘What were we discussing? Ah, yes. Your eyes.’

  The Frenchman stepped in front of her. ‘If I did not know already who you were, I would still know you’re an ignoble traitor to one side or the other, or perhaps both. The lady doesn’t want your company.’

  Clare, behind the comte, refused to look at Gavin.

  ‘You have his attention now, Mistress Clare,’ he said. ‘Do with it what you will.’

  And he turned away, refusing to look back for fear he’d see the man touching her.

  And care.

  There had always been women. As he’d grown to manhood in David’s court in captivity and then was drawn into King Edward’s bright circle, there had always been a woman eager to help him ease his sorrows. He did not know whether his looks or his pedigree or his air of danger drew them and didn’t care. He never tried to be anything other than what he was: a landless bastard with bad blood, despite its royal tinge. They expected no more.

  But this woman did. Expected it. Wanted it.

  Deserved it. Deserved all the things he couldn’t offer.

  He hardened his heart against her temptation. After disdaining the very sight of him, she was callous enough to tease, to use him to get to a man who was too blind to see what he could have.

  Well, if she wanted to make the man jealous, he could oblige her. Perhaps it was time Mistress Clare learned what passion could be. But that, he knew now, would be dangerous, for him as well as for her.

  Better he keep his distance.

  Alain, Clare discovered, was a man who could be motivated by jealousy.

  It was gratifying to find him attentive again. He even acquiesced to her desire to take Wee One for a day’s hunt. Neil the falconer grumbled at hawking so late in the season. It was nearly time for the birds to be confined to the mews to shed their feathers in the yearly moult.

  Organising a hunt for the entire household was as complex as riding into battle. Each must ride according to stature and status. She paid close attention. One day, she would ride out of the chateau at the head of even grander parties, not sneak out with her own bird like a scullion.

  Her father would understand that some day. He must.

  As the horses milled around the yard, Fitzjohn pulled up beside her. ‘I see the comte enjoys besting a rival. I have not seen you out of his sight for days.’

  She was ashamed to admit it. Somehow, it was demeaning to think he was responding not to her, but to Fitzjohn, as if she were no more than a bone that two dogs might growl over.

  ‘Perhaps it is only that you are unfamiliar with the way a proper knight attends his lady.’

  He shook his head. ‘I am only pleased that I have finally found a way to be of service to you, Mistress Clare.’

  A most unladylike laugh escaped her lips. ‘You don’t even like me.’

  A strange mix of pain and laughter crossed his face. ‘Oh, Mistress Clare, I like you well enough. I just think you’re flying the wrong falcon. You need someone who loves the hunt the way that you do.’

  She twisted a strand of hair that had come loose and tried to poke it back in place. ‘Ladies can hunt. It’s allowed.’

  ‘What if some day Alain decides it’s not allowed?’

  ‘He wouldn’t do that!’

  But he could, her mind whispered back.

  Alain called to her then, and she turned the horse away, finally breathing freely once they rode out of the gate. The spring air made her feel like a child again. How could she have forgotten? She had loved these hills, before her mother died, tainting all her childish joys.

  The hawks flew first, chasing their prey on the ground. She understood it, but it never really seemed right, seeing the bird fly so close to the earth that her wings nearly brushed the grass. A falcon took her prey in the air, flying so high, sometimes, that she was barely a speck in the blue. So high, that surely God must be within reach.

  Alain rode beside her, but her eyes strayed to Fitzjohn. He sat on his horse like a warrior, out of place in such a domestic pursuit as a hawking party. The war he hated so seemed to ride with him, something he could not escape.

  The hawk took off after a rabbit and the riders thundered behind. Bored with the ground fliers, she rode over to the cadger and pulled on her glove. ‘I’m taking Wee One,’ she said, picking up the hooded bird before he could protest. ‘I won’t be long.’

  Wee One ruffled her feathers and settled, as if glad to be back on the fist. Then, Clare kicked the horse towards the hilltop, wind in her ears, nearly laughing with relief when the hunting party dropped out of sight.

  Ride across the hills, he had dared her. So fast the wind snatches the breath out of your chest.

  She left grass and trees behind, riding high enough that snow covered the soft ground beneath the horse’s hooves. Reluctantly, she slowed. Bogs and sink holes littered the hills. She mustn’t put her mount at risk.

  Only when she slowed and the wind’s whine dimmed did she hear the hoofbeats.

  She looked over her shoulder.

  Fitzjohn was gaining on her, his black stallion pounding the turf. He caught up quickly, grabbing her reins as his horse danced alongside hers. ‘Are you safe?’

  Only then did she realise he thought the horse had bolted. She ought to let him think so. No lady would have ridden off as she had, wild and alone.

  Instead, a smile, born of speed and wind, burst across her face. ‘You were the one who told me to ride howling into the mountains.’

  And for a moment, alone with him near the top of the hill, wind whipping her hair into her face, she relished his answering smile.

  ‘Well,’ he said, finally, ‘Robson land is just over that next ridge. Perhaps you ought to stay on this side of the line.’

  She sighed. She wanted to keep riding as if she could fly, but that temptation, and his, she must resist.

  She summoned a warning into her glance and pulled her horse back a step. ‘I would ask the same of you. Alain needs no more excuses for jealousy.’

  A rue
ful edge touched his smile. ‘Shall we hunt, then?’

  Clare nodded. Wee One, hooded in blissful ignorance, had waited patiently, but the bird was hungry and she ought to return with a catch to justify her absence.

  ‘Then we’d better ride down,’ he said. ‘The falcon and her prey care nothing for these lines.’

  They turned the horses around and rode, side by side, wordless, until they reached brush and grass again. Then, he signalled, silently, that he would look for game to flush into the air for her. Sliding off the horse, who stood as commanded, he crept towards the undergrowth.

  She took off Wee One’s hood and lifted her glove. Released from blindness, the bird knew what she must do. She flew straight up, the jingle of her bells immediately whipped away by the wind. Then, she circled, a small speck in the sky, waiting in perfect faith that her human partners would provide her prey.

  Fitzjohn crept close to the bushes where a grouse rustled. When he clapped, the bird burst from its hiding place, flapping into flight, expecting to be safe as soon as it flew beyond the reach of man.

  The bird’s wings were louder than the falcon’s, but the flight so quick, Clare could barely follow her.

  Above, Wee One plummeted from the sky towards her prey.

  And missed.

  The grouse escaped, flying wildly towards the valley. The falcon followed.

  Fitzjohn remounted and Clare gathered her reins, ready to give chase. Then something whisked beside her ear, as if following, too.

  It looked like the tercel.

  Clare gave the shrieking whistle that always called Wee One home. Futile. Frantic.

  The bird had disappeared. Along with the tercel that had been courting her.

  ‘You’ve a powerful whistle,’ Fitzjohn said, ‘but she may be too far away to hear.’

  She knew as much. And if Wee One caught the grouse and discovered she could feast without a human hand, it would be easy for the male to coax her into abandoning the mews for the wild.

  She could hear the falconer clucking his warning. Neil would scold her for losing the bird, but not nearly as sternly as she scolded herself. She had broken the rules and brought on disaster.

  Gavin waved his arm towards the hills. ‘We’ll ride across, then back.’ His patient voice, bare of the darkness of sarcasm, surprised her. ‘That way, we’ll not miss anything.’

  She hesitated, then nodded and followed his lead.

  They rode back and forth across the hills as the sun rose and her heart sank. Could Wee One find her way home alone?

  Would she want to?

  Periodically, they stopped and she whistled again until her lips shook with weariness, barely able to form a sound the bird couldn’t possibly hear.

  Finally, she saw a speck in the sky, circling slowly. They stopped the horses and she whistled again. The bird flew towards them, close enough that Clare could see her.

  Wee One. Obediently returning.

  Clare’s heart only quieted when the bird was on her fist and hooded, jesses clenched tightly between Clare’s gloved fingers.

  They found a cluster of oak trees and dismounted to sit, spreading a blanket to cushion the damp, soggy ground. Exhausted, Clare attached Wee One to her creance, not willing to lose her again. The bird flapped her wings, slow to settle.

  ‘She must not have caught the grouse,’ Gavin said. ‘She would be long gone if she weren’t hungry.’

  Clare knew that. She knew that the bird only stayed with her in order to eat, but she wanted to believe Wee One came back for something more.

  ‘The falconer has warned me a hundred times not to go out on my own. I might have lost her.’

  ‘You may lose her still.’

  She fought the chill his words raised. ‘Not if I stay with the group and do as the falconer says.’

  ‘You think that will protect you?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word popped out, though it sounded silly as she said it. But if she did things right, if she followed the rules, she would be safe.

  No one would die.

  He took her hands in his. The feeling was warm. Safe.

  Until he spoke.

  ‘Clare,’ he said, his eyes honest in a way she had never seen them, ‘it doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do. It won’t guarantee that you’ll never lose her.’

  She ripped her hands away. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Do you think I’ve lost nothing in my life?’

  ‘What have you ever lost?’ Thoughtless words. Regretted as soon as she said them.

  Stunned pain lingered in his eyes. ‘My father. My childhood. My country.’

  Unwelcome sympathy welled into her eyes. She did not want to understand this man. She wanted to hate him. ‘Lost your country? You left your country.’

  ‘I was sent from my country.’

  ‘But then you deserted the King, broke your knightly vow of fealty.’

  ‘So you think I deserve my fate?’

  ‘Yes!’ If God did not punish the wicked and preserve the good, how could anyone be safe?

  The set of his lips, grim, firm. Perhaps to prevent them from trembling. ‘What heinous act of a child of three deserves to be answered with his father’s death?’

  Clare swallowed, speechless. She had puzzled over a similar question for ten years. What rule had she broken to cause her mother’s death?

  At least she had known her dear, perfect, beautiful mother. His father must have died before he could even become a memory.

  But his father had been a monster. ‘Your father’s wickedness caused him to die, not yours.’

  Strangely, his mask of amusement returned. ‘And was he more wicked than his grandfather, the first Edward, who laid Scotland to waste, executed William Wallace and still lived for more than sixty summers?’

  She opened her mouth, then shut it. She had no answer. Some very wicked people lived to a ripe old age. And some very good ones died young. God’s way, unfathomable.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, finally.

  His expression turned wary. ‘For my loss, yours, or for breaking some rule with your rudeness?’

  ‘That you grew up without him.’ Her childhood had died with her mother. His, too, had been snatched away.

  He shrugged, breaking his gaze to look up at the clouds, threatening a bare sky. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Tell me about your mother.’ She had asked the question many times, borrowing other people’s mothers, to fill the void where her own should be. ‘It must have been hard.’

  A smile whispered on his lips. ‘Her family, my uncles, would have been happy to see me dead. They even refused to train me for battle. But she protected me, as if we were a kingdom of two.’

  ‘But she sent you to the enemy.’ How could a mother do that?

  ‘We were defeated.’ His eyes, earnest, begged her to understand. ‘King David captured.’

  ‘But you could only have been twelve!’ Not so young, she remembered. She had been even younger when she left for France. It was the way of nobles, to train their children.

  ‘Old, to be a page to the King.’ He smiled. ‘She thought if I went with David I might learn something of my father’s people.’ He shook his head. ‘My uncles agreed. They hoped I wouldn’t come back. And I never will, to them.’

  She tried to envision him as a boy, standing before a king, an uncle he’d never met. ‘What did King Edward say when he found out who you were?’

  He turned his gaze south, lost in memory. ‘“So you’re the one.”’

  ‘But he accepted you.’

  ‘He squired me to one of his own men, trying to make up for lost time and training. He thought I was glad to be back with “my” people.’

  ‘And you weren’t?’

  ‘Have I not spoken plain? I am Scots and English. You keep trying to push me to one side or the other of that line.’ He waved his arm towards the summit where the last of the snow still covered the invisible border.

  ‘You were the one who cro
ssed it. You were the one who chose.’

  His shoulders dropped and he nodded, ruefully, his gaze still on the hills. ‘I canna live on the line itself, now, can I?’

  He didn’t look to her for an answer that was not there. She studied him in silence. The pain behind his eyes was older than the war, the harsh lines of his face sculpted long before these battles. The Fitzjohn who sat beside her was not the man she had thought.

  ‘Are you sorry, then, that you didn’t stay in England?’

  He turned to look at her, though he didn’t speak at first. It was as if he was searching for the answer in her face.

  ‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘I could do nothing about my birth, nothing about my childhood. But the last, the coming home, that was my own doing. My choice, for good or ill.’

  Wind filled the silence as they looked out on the hills together, white-capped peaks fading to shades of brown waiting for the spring.

  Wee One bated, wings speaking her desire to fly again.

  ‘How long have you had her?’ he asked, as if glad to leave the past behind.

  ‘Three years.’ Too long, she knew. Catch the bird, train her, hunt for a season, then let her go. That was how it should be done. ‘You know much of hawking.’

  ‘The King brought hawks with the army when we went to France. That way, when we paused in our killing, we could watch the birds kill instead.’

  She winced. ‘When you say “the King,” Fitzjohn, which man do you mean?’

  He opened his mouth, but a name did not come.

  Relieved, she felt her anger rise, rebuilding the wall between them. This man had acted the knight today and she had shared too much. She needed him to stay the villain, because if darkness could mix with light in his soul, it might do the same in hers. ‘Are you speaking of England’s Edward or Scotland’s David?’

  ‘Both are lovers of the hunt.’

  ‘But you, Fitzjohn, did not mean David, did you? David would never lead an army against the French, our allies.’

  ‘No. I meant Edward.’

  She heard no shame in his voice. ‘If that is who you mean when you say “King,” then I do not believe, Fitzjohn, that you are yet a Scottis man.’