Instead, like their fingers laced together, they could not be fully joined, only interwoven like the plaid, made of distinct hues, but combined in a new pattern.
But the pattern was not yet clear and she feared he still battled a darker self she had only glimpsed.
The fog thickened. There was no reason to keep searching. The bird was gone.
She hoped that Wee Twa would find those things she sought.
Clare held out a hand to Gavin, but while she had been searching the sky, he had looked at the ground. Now, he crouched to study the frozen grass. ‘What is it?’
‘Tracks.’
Now, she saw it too, imprinted in the frost.
Horses had been here. Coming from the English side.
Her eyes met his. ‘Scouting.’
He nodded. ‘They’ll be wanting those cattle back. And more.’
They turned, together, to leave the mountain.
Douglas’s truce was over.
Mindless loving no longer filled their nights.
On edge, Gavin barely slept, rising to check the guards and hear reports from the lookouts twice a night. Clare, no longer able to depend on his warmth beside her, took to wearing her night robe again.
The walls were strong. As long as the livestock were kept inside, the Inglis wouldn’t bother with a direct assault.
But Gavin had ordered some of the flock and a few cattle to be left outside the barmkin wall.
She woke, one night, disturbed as he rose from bed yet again, tearing his heat from beneath the blanket. ‘Where do you go now?’
‘To the tower.’
‘You’ve guards on the tower.’
He grabbed his cloak, not looking at her. ‘I trust my own eyes and ears.’
‘If you would only keep the animals inside the walls, you could sleep through the night.’
‘Then I would have to lie awake all season, waiting for them to try again.’ Metal rubbed on leather, signalling that he had tied on his belt and picked up his dagger.
‘They only take what they can steal in the dark.’
‘And I want them to think that’s exactly what they are getting.’
‘Are you sure your plan isn’t to give them our sheep?’
He stilled. In the darkness, she could not see his face, but she knew it was touched with anger. ‘What do you take me for? I’m trying to protect this tower and everything that belongs to it.’
‘Is that worth losing the animals?’
‘If the plan works, we won’t lose them.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘I must take that chance.’
‘You need take no chance at all! Keep them inside and there will be no risk.’
‘No, there will be certainty that they’ll return to plague us again and again. You want promises, guarantees?’
‘I want you to follow the rules.’
‘The enemy doesn’t.’
And that was why she hated this place. There would be no brave battle on an open field. No knightly challenge made and accepted. No gallant win or loss. Only skulking in the dark to steal and kill. ‘Which is why they are the enemy.’
He sighed and sat on the bed, cupping her head in his hands and bringing her forehead to his. ‘Ah, Clare. You would have me ride to war in the sunshine, waving colours and wearing untarnished armour.’
She nodded, feeling foolish for thinking maxims would save them.
He kissed her, hard and fast, and rose. ‘You must trust me. I’ll do what is best.’
The door closed, leaving her alone to pound her pillow in frustration.
Following long-held wisdom was best. When custom was flouted, anything could happen. She had allowed Wee One to keep her eggs, thinking, in her arrogance, that she knew better, that she could train them to hunt as if they had been born wild.
Instead, one bird was useless, the other gone.
Gavin, too, had flouted the rules, but gradually, she had been lulled into forgetting that. Now the world’s dangers intruded again. She pulled the blanket over her shoulder and shivered, alone in the dark, listening for sounds that might mean battle.
An owl hooted. Or was it the sentry’s warning?
Or the Robsons, ready to strike?
Could she discern Gavin’s loyalties any more clearly?
The thought of the lines she had crossed in this very bed made her shudder. In time, she would have to pay for that, and the price would be much higher than a lost falcon.
Gavin mounted the stairs to the tower, relieving Thom early. Instead of being grateful, the man snarled as he left, tired and surly.
Gavin would keep watch himself until dawn. He had pushed the men hard. All of them.
He had not slept well in weeks. And would not until the Robsons were bested. He spent days and nights going over the plans, discussing them with the baron, making changes, and then reviewing them again.
When the Robsons came, he intended for Carr’s Tower to be ready.
Clare’s father had argued for them to attack first.
‘And break Douglas’s truce?’ That would do nothing to endear him to the man.
‘Bah,’ the baron said. ‘When did the Inglis bother to keep the peace?’
But he persuaded him, finally, that if they broke the truce, the Robsons would have them tried before the Wardens of the March. The fine would be high and Douglas disgraced if his peace were broken in his absence.
And while Gavin was not averse to a fight, what he wanted now was peace. On the border and in his bed.
A tense truce now ruled in what had been their place of secret pleasure. Something had shifted. The looming fight, the loss of her bird, his confession—something had snatched away his uninhibited bedmate.
But he wondered now whether the pleasure had been too much his. He had wanted her to enjoy their lovemaking, thought that she had. But had he forced her instead of freed her? Gone beyond what she truly wanted?
He needed to know whether their lovemaking had truly been shared pleasure. That she would come to him without the tricks and games.
When the fighting was over, he must find out.
‘Fire!’
Clare bolted from bed a few nights later, shaking, not even donning shoes before she dashed to the stairs. Running feet. Galloping hooves. Screams.
Where was Gavin?
As she ran down, cottagers, the women and children, fleeing into the tower for safety, forced their way past her. Buffeted by the crowd, pushed to the narrow end of the step, Clare’s foot slipped and she fell.
‘Stop!’ She grabbed the sleeve of the falconer’s wife. ‘What’s happened?’
‘The Robsons.’ She jerked her head. ‘They’re inside.’
Clare crept through the crowd to the base of the tower, then paused in the doorway, trying to absorb the confusion.
Flames leapt from the cottage next to the mews. Carr men and strangers on horseback faced each other in a space so small, the horses were stepping on squealing sheep. Battle cries mingled with shrieks from wounded men and bleating cattle.
Neil ran past her, carrying a bucket. ‘The mews will be next,’ he said, not pausing.
She looked over to see the first spark hit the roof.
‘Here! You!’ she yelled at the next cottager who passed her. ‘Grab a bucket. Over there.’
Shaking, he was of little mind to listen.
‘Angus!’
She grabbed his shoulder or he would not have stopped. Wild-eyed, dagger drawn, he was rushing towards the fray.
‘Angus! Get these men to fight the fire.’
‘But—’
‘Now!’
He cast an eye on the battle before him and did as she asked. Murine and Euphemia appeared through the smoke with buckets.
Men, horses, the mêlée surrounded her, blocking her path. She searched for Gavin, finally seeing him near the gate where Robson men still galloped into the tower yard.
The gate was wide open.
She looked back at
the mews. The smoke from the cottage roof drifted into the windows.
Wee One.
Angus had recruited a few men and a line now snaked from inside the tower, where the well was protected, out into the bailey and to the burning cottage. Several pails had doused the flaming room, but smoke still poured off the fire.
Wee One’s screech pierced the chaos.
Running for the mews, she kept close to the tower walls to avoid the horses’ hooves.
When she opened the door, smoke stung her eyes and she coughed. Neil appeared beside her. ‘I’ll get the goshawk,’ he said, not pausing. ‘Ye must set them free.’
Already, Wee One strained at the end of her leash. Clare pulled on it, bringing her within reach, but even close to Clare’s touch and her murmured words, the bird still flapped her wings.
Clare could barely keep her still enough so that she could slip off the hood. Now able to see the drifting smoke, the bird strained harder to escape. Clare could not get enough slack on the leather to release the knot, which only tightened more, as it was meant to.
The falconer had already freed the goshawk, who headed for the open door. The man came to help, coughing now. ‘Ye hold her. I’ll loosen it.’
She put her hands on each side of the body, avoiding the wings for fear of hurting them. She cradled Wee One, soft and delicate, able to feel the bird’s frantic heartbeat against her palms. A creature born to kill, yet still so small, so vulnerable.
‘There. It’s done.’ The falconer ran towards the door. ‘The fire’s on the roof now! Let her go.’
She didn’t want to. She wanted to hold the bird safe, always.
But the corner of the ceiling nearest the cottage was in flames now, spewing smoke high into the room. If she let Wee One loose, she’d fly into the smoke and be lost.
Holding on to her, Clare ran for the door.
Chapter Twenty
Gavin sat on his horse, surveying the battlefield within the barmkin walls. The smoke’s stench permeated his clothes, bringing back memories he had tried to escape.
Carr losses had been more than he hoped, but the Robsons had suffered worse.
His men had rallied quickly, the battle brief, but bloody. One Robson and one Carr man lay dead. One cottage destroyed and the mews damaged. Twenty sheep lost. Four horses gained.
And when the outcome was clear and the Robsons had retreated, they left three behind, now imprisoned in the windowless chamber behind the cellar storage.
They would not raid again soon.
The baron brought his horse alongside.
Gavin sighed. ‘My planning did not take treachery into account,’ he said.
‘But I killed a Robson man.’ No smile softened the words. ‘I still wish we’d hit them first, but we got the best of them in the end.’
‘Clare won’t think so.’ And she might be right.
‘Well, you are right, there’s a traitor in our midst, that’s asure.’
Gavin nodded. ‘And I’ll find him.’
All his plans, all his preparations, nearly for naught. The ambush had gone awry, because someone had opened the gate.
And in all his careful plans, he had not prepared for the one threat he of all people should have thought of.
Fire.
He found Clare standing in the mews, staring at the burned-out hole in the roof. The room reeked of smoke.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, holding his breath.
She turned and he gasped.
Soot smudged her cheeks. The gown she wore for sleep was grey with ash, pitted with cinder marks. Cuts and burns marred her hands and bare feet.
‘We’ll have to tear it down,’ she said, voice numb with fatigue and sorrow. ‘I can’t bear the smell of it.’
Neither could he. ‘What about the birds? Wee One?’
‘She…I…’ Tears and smoke seemed caught in her throat. ‘Gone. Released. All of them. I carried her…’ She crossed her empty arms as if still cradling the bird, then looked towards the door.
He took a step towards her, uncertain whether she would welcome his arms. My fault, he thought, wishing he could do it all again. He would keep the sheep, the birds, his wife and his people, all of them, locked safely behind the gates.
But how could he protect them safe from betrayal from within?
‘We’ll build another mews. A better one.’
She dropped her empty arms to her side. ‘Why? There are no birds.’
He put his arms around her. ‘There will be. I promise you, there will be.’
He felt her shudder with tears, not sure whether she wept for the birds or herself or the death of her illusions.
‘The risk you took,’ she said, finally, her words muffled against his chest, ‘was it worth this?’
You need take no risk at all, she had told him. He wished it were true, for in all his calculations, he had never expected her beloved birds would be part of the cost.
‘Clare, the ambush failed because we were betrayed.’
She lifted her head, the despair in her eyes giving way to confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We had them surrounded. And then someone opened the gate and let them in.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know yet, but I will find him, and when I do, the traitor will die.’
She wiped her eyes and he glimpsed something he did not understand. ‘There are wounded to tend. Food to prepare.’ She began to list all that she must do in the aftermath, walking towards the door.
He kept his arm around her and drew her out of the mews into the daylight. The sun was high in the sky, although it seemed impossible that this was the same day that had begun too late for night, too early for dawn, with the Robson battle cry beneath his window.
A screech split the air.
She raised her head, face lit with hope.
Wee One perched on the wall, screaming for attention.
Clare whistled. The bird flew to her wrist.
And not even the grip of the talons digging into the reddened skin of her wrist could erase the joy on her face.
Clare washed and changed into a wool gown, but the smell of smoke clung. Downstairs, work waited. Bandaging the wounded. Feeding the hungry.
Digging the graves.
But before all of that, she must talk to Euphemia.
She caught a glimpse of Thom and searched for guilt on his face. Anger, she saw, and disgust. Both familiar expressions.
Nothing else. Nothing new.
Gavin and her father had begun supervising the work. Walter had ridden to Jedburgh to beg a priest for burial rites. Some of the men were digging graves in the consecrated ground next to the chapel that had been without a priest since the Great Death. One for their fellow, who would be mourned. One for the Robson man, who would not.
Another group cleared the debris from the cottage that was lost and knocked down the mews.
Tomorrow, they would rebuild. Tonight, the homeless family would sleep in the Hall.
Clare found Euphemia in the kitchen, helping the cook with soup for the hungry men. She motioned her to follow her up the stairs to the tower.
Only one guard was left. What they had been watching for had already come.
The wind cut through her gown as she looked out on the hills the enemy had crossed to reach them. The heather had faded. Frost would fall tonight.
Euphemia’s eyes, normally merry, drooped, weary with tears.
I should have told him, Clare thought. I should have told Gavin what she had said about Thom.
‘Euphemia, someone opened our doors to the enemy.’
She waited for some sign the girl had known. Instead, her mouth sagged in surprise. ‘Are you sure?’
Clare nodded. ‘What did Thom say? Did he say anything, anything at all about this?’
‘No! Nothing.’
‘I need you to find out.’ She would make the girl a spy if she must.
‘But it can’t be true. He was unhappy with Fitzjohn, but gi
ve us to the Inglis? Never.’
She studied the teary eyes, wondering whether the girl was right or just blinded by young love.
Suddenly, the same question shook her. She could not envision even the most disgruntled soldier opening the gates to the Inglis.
The only man in the tower who had ties across the border was Gavin.
‘I know you think so,’ she said, fighting the tremble in her voice. ‘But sometimes we do not know even those closest to us. Please. Try to find out.’
And she would have to do the same.
Her bones ached and she could barely lift her feet by the time she and Gavin mounted the stairs to the family floor that night. The smell of smoke followed them into their chamber.
She dropped her gown on the floor beside the ruined nightdress, vowing never to don either of them again.
‘Do you know who might have done it?’ She held tight to her voice, hoping to mask her suspicions. ‘Opened the gates?’
Shaking his head, he sank on to the stool by the hearth and pulled off his boots. ‘I questioned the Robson men. They swore not to know and I think they are telling the truth.’
She stirred dried lavender into the small pot of water bubbling over the fire, hoping it would rid the air of the stench. Standing next to him in her chemise, she felt that vulnerability of their first days. Could he see her doubts on her skin?
He put a hand on her arm, forcing her to face him. ‘Who do you think might have done it?’
She swallowed. She could not accuse Thom without proof.
His grip tightened. ‘You know something. What?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure.’ Poisoned blood, he had said. Something like fear flickered through her.
‘Then tell me what you think. Certain or not.’
I wanted to.
He didn’t burn the church, but he had wanted to. What if there were other transgressions, like the sins committed in their bed, ones he could not resist?
She tugged against his grip, but his fingers chained her. ‘Tell me!’
‘You! It might have been you!’
Stunned, he dropped her arm. ‘Me?’
She tried to read his eyes, no longer the peaceful blue of a summer sky. Fear? Anger? What did she see? ‘Who else would want the Inglis to win?’
His Border Bride Page 18