His Border Bride

by Blythe Gifford

  Or was she merely rejecting him with new words?

  He pushed away the desire for more of that softness. If she was to marry him, and he was not at all certain that she would, he must not remind her how far short he fell of the knights of her chivalric dreams, nor speak of what they really did in war. He must talk of harmless, cultured pleasures.

  He leaned in the doorway, but came no further. ‘You look pretty sitting there.’ His voice was rough with emotion he did not want to feel. ‘Like a wee lassie ready to say her prayers and drift off to sleep without a care in the world. Do you have a care in the world?’

  Her moment of softness was gone. ‘None I would share with you.’

  Yet she had cares. He knew. Chasing after perfection according to rules made by others. A quest without end. ‘You should be as happy and carefree as you were when you were a little girl with nothing to worry about but looking for robin’s eggs.’

  Was his wish for her? Or for himself?

  ‘I was never that little girl, even as a bairn. My mother died when I was eight.’

  He blinked. So they carried a common burden. He a fatherless son, she a motherless daughter.

  ‘Well, then, maybe you should just put down your cares and act like that wee lassie should have.’

  She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, as if struggling against the idea. Then, she looked at him and set it aside, as deliberately as the tiny leather hood. ‘You have such a limited supply of charm, Fitzjohn. Don’t waste it on me.’

  He didn’t let the smile waver. ‘Oh? Didn’t your father tell you? We’re to be married.’

  ‘Despite my father’s misbegotten ideas, you are not looking at your future. I am more than a body to convey his land and his blood and his grandbabies. And I don’t want you.’

  Whatever the old man had told her, he wasn’t making the wooing easy. ‘Well, want me or not, I’m what you’re going to have.’

  ‘Not as long as I draw breath.’

  ‘Do you have a better offer?’ Cruel, yet he said it.

  She lifted her chin to salvage her pride. ‘You know the answer to that.’

  He raised his brows in mock distress. ‘Then how can you refuse my hand and heart?’

  She shook her head. ‘You have no heart, Fitzjohn.’

  He wished that it were true. ‘Now you malign me, Mistress Clare.’ His smile stayed fixed.

  ‘I don’t think so. I want a man who’s interested in me, not just my body and my property.’

  Foolish dreams, for someone who longed for courtly ways.

  ‘If you want to be a lady, that’s all a husband will find of interest. But if you marry me, they’ll say there goes Clare, married by her heartless father to that bastard fire-starter and it won’t matter what they say.’ He grinned, thinking of the nights. ‘You’ll wake every morning with a smile.’

  An expression flashed across her face, then disappeared.

  He might have called it hunger.

  ‘You flatter yourself with that fantasy, Fitzjohn. I’m not just a demure maiden who needs a strong arm and a stronger pillicock.’

  His smile sagged in shock.

  ‘You didn’t think I knew that word, did you?’ She was the one who smiled now.

  ‘Well, you are a woman of surprises.’ He liked this Clare, the one who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.

  ‘I am capable, clever and of passing appearance.’ Yet the words seemed said to convince herself and not him.

  ‘You are all that, Mistress Clare.’ And much more. Beautiful and fierce, with eyes sharp and bright as her falcon’s.

  And just as trapped.

  She lifted her chin and he saw high colour on her cheekbones. ‘Wipe off that smile, Fitzjohn. It will never be you.’

  ‘Never is a dangerous word.’

  ‘I do not choose it lightly. You’ve been hoodwinked, Fitzjohn, blinded just like one of my birds who sits in contented ignorance as long as she sees nothing of what’s around her. Whatever my father promised you, you’ll never collect because I’m no party to that bargain.’

  Still smiling, he tried to look offended. ‘Is the Frenchman so much better?’

  Her look said that was a question not worth answering. ‘I have chosen the man I can share my life—’ she stumbled over the words ‘—myself with.’

  No woman and very few men could choose their lives. Yet she wanted to select the fist she would return to.

  He would have to be sure it was his. ‘Then tell me about this paragon you seek to wed.’

  ‘He’s nothing like you.’

  ‘I’m deeply hurt that you would say that when you know so little of me.’

  ‘I know enough.’

  Like all of them, she knew all she needed to know. And she would think worse of him if she knew it all.

  ‘Then tell me more of the marvelous Comte de Garencieres. Tell me why he’s your ideal man.’

  Her face softened. ‘He is admired for his manners and gentility and his prowess in the field. A chivalrous knight who appreciates art and literature and is at ease with the courtly graces.’

  He clenched his jaw, fighting a wave of bitter yearning. Birth and blood had denied him some of those. The rest, war had stripped away. Yet the Frenchman remained untouched by the horrors he had seen. For that alone, he would be worthy of envy.

  At his silence, she continued. ‘And he understands partnership and shared laughter.’

  ‘Many men do.’ The comte, she would discover to her sorrow, was not one of them. It seems she was as blinded as he, but he could not tell her so.

  She threw back the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed and slid to the floor, continuing her recitation as she walked towards him. ‘The man I marry will appreciate that I brew the best brogat this side of Jedburgh.’

  His heart beat faster and he searched for her curves under the shapeless gown. Who slept in clothes like that? What was she afraid of?

  Him, of course. And she should be.

  Or was it herself?

  She still smiled, her chin lifted and her head cocked to one side. ‘And he will dance with me, in the dark of the moon, seen only by the stars.’

  Then her smile turned wistful, as if she spoke, finally, only to herself. ‘And he will chase the falcons beside me, riding as fast as the bird can fly.’

  I was the one who urged you to ride free.

  But she had tied his tongue, as firmly as her falconer’s knot held her bird.

  In the darkening light, she shimmered like a ghostly angel. Pale gown, pale skin, pale hair. Moon to his sun—surely she would still glow beneath a dark sky.

  Then, her eyes met his, as if she had come to herself again. ‘For this man, for the right man, I will be the best wife a man could ever hope for. That is not, and will never be, you.’

  She had reached the door now, smiling as if she had bested him. All he wanted was to press her against her barren bed until she gave up the rest of her secrets.

  And accepted his.

  ‘When next the moon is new, Beltane will be upon us. Dance with me then.’ He thought he saw an answer in her eyes. A whiff of desire. It gave him hope.

  He put his hands on her arms, gently, so she would not run away. ‘We’ll sway under the stars together and pray that summer returns and light fires to make sure it does.’

  In the dusk, her pale face turned whiter. And he realised the talk of fire had made him a villain again. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said, the smile that shielded him returning to his face. ‘I never burn folks in their beds who’ve been nice to me. You will be nice to me, won’t you, Mistress Clare?’

  She pulled back, leaving him with empty hands. ‘I will be as nice to you as you deserve, Fitzjohn. At the moment, that’s very damn little.’

  She shut the door in his face.

  And his shout of laughter no doubt disturbed the old man and his woman.

  The tercel returned to the mews a few days later and dropped a piece of food at Wee One’s feet. Then Cl
are watched him swoop and bob above the falcon’s perch.

  ‘He’s feeding her,’ she said.

  ‘He’s trying to coax her into mating,’ he said.

  She looked at him, sharply, but he spoke only of the bird. Here, they had a truce.

  Reluctantly, she let Fitzjohn help her exercise the birds. The falconer needed help and Alain had no interest in his own birds unless they were riding out to hunt. In truth, Fitzjohn knew as much, perhaps more, of the birds than either she or Neil.

  She let the idea play in her mind again, without fear this time. ‘Is that possible? Here?’

  He shook his head. ‘How would the young learn to fly? To hunt?’

  A haggard bird, taken in the wild, already knew those things.

  ‘The same way as does the fledgling you take from the nest or the branch. Wee One was a brancher.’

  ‘But those at least have been taught to fly. How would they learn that here?’

  She looked around the mews, which suddenly seemed small and dark. ‘Surely a bird is born knowing how to fly.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen fledglings that have fallen from the nest unable to fly back.’

  The world was a dangerous place. ‘Maybe it would be better to raise it here, then, where her parents could teach her.’

  Gavin studied her face. ‘You really think to breed falcons in a mews?’ His tone was puzzled. Curious.

  At least he would discuss it with her. Alain and the falconer both thought the very idea akin to heresy. ‘I just wondered whether you could.’

  ‘Why would you want to? It’s unnatural.’

  ‘Is it any more unnatural than asking them to hunt with us?’

  ‘They hunt naturally.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, from what you’ve told me, they breed naturally, too.’

  He laughed, the rolling sound a comfort.

  She furrowed her brow. ‘But it’s never done. Why not?’

  He shrugged, looking sceptical. ‘Try and you’re sure to discover.’

  It wasn’t done, she knew. And there must be a reason. Surely disaster would strike if she tried it.

  But still, there was something comforting about the thought of Wee One with a family. Birds always came back to the same place to nest, so if she did mate, this would be her home, the place she would never leave.

  He interrupted her thoughts. ‘But you’re worrying about something that won’t happen. I’ve never heard of falcons mating in a mews.’

  But the idea took stubborn root in her head. The next time she saw the tercel, she’d shut the door with the bird inside.

  It seemed as if it would take the same kind of force to bring Alain to a declaration before time ran out and her father again threatened her with Fitzjohn.

  The day before Beltane Eve, she discovered the egg.

  During the intervening weeks, Wee One had taken over a high, flat shelf in the mews. Together, she and the tercel filled it with bits of twig and grass, but this morning, instead of standing on her talons, she huddled down on the ledge, as if hiding something.

  ‘What is that, Wee One?’ Clare asked, as if the bird would understand her. ‘What do you have there, sweetheart?’

  The bird flared her wings, threatening, refusing to let Clare closer, but beneath the feathers, she glimpsed a mottled brown egg.

  Tears gathered in Clare’s throat. This wild thing, her dear companion, had found a way to start a family. Even in captivity, the bird could do it.

  Not she.

  She tried to remember what Gavin had said of breeding falcons. It took weeks after mating before the bird could lay. So all this time she had been trying to encourage them, the two had already joined, perhaps that day she thought she had lost Wee One.

  ‘Ah, there you are, demoiselle. I weary of the Scottish ale and have a taste for the claret tonight. Serve some with the meal.’

  At the sound of Alain’s voice, Wee One flapped violently and squealed in an angry, unstoppable rhythm.

  ‘Look,’ she whispered, as if somehow the falcon would hear and understand her. ‘She’s laid an egg.’

  He barely glanced at it. ‘Destroy it. The birds, they cannot be bred. Even if taken from the wild too early they are poor flyers.’

  She could not make her hand reach for the egg to crush it. ‘But this one would not be taken from the nest. Her own mother would train her to be a fine hunter.’

  ‘You will not think the same when the eyas screeches all night and then refuses to fly because she knows you will feed her. The falconer was careless to let a tercel so close to her.’ He shrugged, dismissing the whole affair. ‘Ce n’est rien. The mother is too small to be a good hunter.’

  Anger straightened her spine and strengthened her will. ‘The egg is here and it is hers. I will not deprive her of it.’

  He smiled. ‘Bien sur. Do as you like. How else will you learn? But prepare for the disappointment.’

  They left the mews and Alain strode away after a kiss on her hand and a reminder about the claret.

  She tasted the last of the tun of French wine in the cellar and stuck out her tongue. Alain would be displeased. It was on the edge of vinegar.

  He was right about the bird, of course. Gavin had told her the same.

  The afternoon of Beltane Eve, Clare felt restless and idle.

  She left the preparations to Murine. Clare’s mother, transplanted from France, had never understood the festival rituals and could not teach them to her daughter. Her mother, like Alain, had been a stranger to this land.

  She was not.

  Could she feel at home here if she could not persuade her father to change his mind?

  If Alain—

  She put the thought away. France would be her home. It was only the threat of darkness that caused her gloomy thoughts. Even as a child, Clare had huddled in her mother’s skirts at the end of the day when all the fires were extinguished. What if the fire could not be rekindled? What if she were left alone in the long, dark night?

  Now, she was too old to be afraid of the dark, but she was also old enough to know, better than she understood then, that starting a fire without a flame was very, very difficult.

  What if, this time, the wood didn’t spark?

  What if Alain didn’t speak?

  Then she would speak to him, even if it violated everything she had been taught. He knew nothing of her father’s demands. He would understand when she explained why she could not wait.

  Relieved at the thought, she walked through the tower and the cottages, making sure every fire was extinguished. The blossoming rowan branches made her smile. As a child, she had loved the white flowers scattered beside cold hearths and cottage thresholds for good fortune. Loved them still. Pure. Clean. Unsullied.

  The gloaming stretched across the sky and she left castle and cottage behind to join the rest as they walked up to the fire pits on the hill. Her heart lifted as she looked over the rippling hills. Soon, the sheep would move up to the high pasture and summer would come.

  But she would not be here to see it. She would be on her way to France.

  Yesterday, the men had prepared the pits for the two Beltane fires. They were re-used each year, and over the winter became clogged with grass and earth. Now, crisply dug anew, they were filled with dry wood, not even left out overnight for fear the dew would dampen the spark and prevent it from catching.

  In her childhood, she remembered, there had been a large wheel built. Many men ran together, pushing it until enough friction was created to light the need-fire.

  Now, lighting the fire had become an individual competition, not a community task. Men lined up to compete in a race to show which of them could start the fire most quickly. Her father used to be the first, and always the winner, but he had finally accepted that his hands were too tired.

  Alain, offered the first seat, shook his head. ‘Better a tournament to sharpen fighting skills than such a sacrilege during the month devoted to the Virgin Mother.’

  Sh
e frowned. ‘But the winner will be able to select the woman of his choice as partner for the evening. I thought—’ She bit her lip. She had thought to have time alone with him.

  He patted her hand. ‘I will be your companion, of course, regardless of these men. No one else is worthy of you.’

  Just as soon as the fire had kindled, then, she would draw him away from the others.

  One by one, nine were chosen. Four men-at-arms. Four cottage lads.

  The final place was empty.

  Until Fitzjohn took the seat.

  A flutter in her belly. Was it fear for him?

  ‘Well,’ Alain said, loudly enough for all to hear, ‘I think we will see fire très vite.’

  Whispers rustled through the crowd. Superstition had it that if a man could not spark a fire, it was because of a sin that stained his soul. They knew who he was now. And though his Robson raid had convinced some to accept him, others, despite the baron’s support, were unconvinced.

  Fitzjohn would lose either way. If he sparked a flame, it would prove him a fire-starter. If he did not, it would prove the same: the sin of the fire in him.

  Fitzjohn’s eyes slid over hers and paused.

  Dance with me.

  His smile, that everlasting smile, showed no hesitation.

  Her father laid out the rules. As soon as the sun slipped below the horizon, he would shout ‘start.’ The man who sparked the first fire would get his choice of partner for the evening.

  Another part of the ritual she dreaded. They were good Christians, most of them, but some looked on the day as a chance to take licence. More than once, as a child, Clare had felt her mother’s cool hands cover her eyes to shield her from the most lecherous acts.

  Her father had first taken the widow Murine at Beltane, she had heard it whispered.

  Murine, she was glad to see, had an arm firmly on Euphemia’s shoulder, keeping the girl close.

  With the rest, Clare turned her eyes to the west, waiting for the last edge of the sun to slip below the red-rimmed clouds and disappear behind the furthest, darkest ridge.

  ‘Now!’ her father roared.

  There was no yelling, no cheering on of favourites. Instead, there was the hush of dozens of inheld breaths. It was always thus. This was serious business, for if no spark could be kindled, there would be no fire, no light, no warmth.