She wanted to get up, but she was not wearing a stitch of clothing.
“I do not know what you can be thinking to have brought that young woman to Elishaw,” Lady Murray said to her eldest and sole remaining son as she followed him down the winding stone stairs to the great hall. “She is a Cavers of Akermoor! Doubtless, she is that dreadful man’s daughter.”
“She does have a father,” Simon said, weighing how much he ought to say.
“I do not admire flippancy,” Lady Murray said with her customary, majestic air. “You know that she must be the daughter of Sir Malcolm Cavers of Akermoor. Moreover, you have been very glib, sir, about why you brought her here.”
“As I explained, the river was too high to make a crossing safely with an unconscious woman and two bairns to protect,” Simon said. “Also, I’d heard that Isabel departed a fortnight ago for Galloway to visit his grace and the Queen.”
“More likely to create trouble for your liege lord,” Lady Murray observed. “That surely was her purpose the last time she traveled to Galloway.”
“That was nearly three years ago, after James Douglas’s death,” Simon said, suppressing familiar irritation. “She was seeking then to protect her widow’s rights.”
He was aware that he was unlikely to sway his mother from a position based on her strong belief that his destiny, and therefore Elishaw’s, lay in his long service to Robert
Stewart, Earl of Fife and now Governor of the Realm in place of their crippled, disinterested King.
Because Sibylla Cavers served Fife’s sister, who was often at odds with him, Lady Murray surely believed Fife would disapprove of Sibylla’s presence at Elishaw.
As the widow of James, second Earl of Douglas, Princess Isabel had been entitled to lands deeded her in their marriage settlements and to a third of the income from other Douglas lands that James had owned or controlled as earl.
Fife had hoped to acquire Isabel’s Douglas lands for the Crown, but Archie the Grim, now third Earl of Douglas and more powerful than any Stewart, had acted swiftly and honorably to protect those rights for her. Archie continued to provide her with knights and men-at-arms to protect her, too, just as James Douglas had.
Fife had hoped to arrange a second marriage for Isabel to one of his loyal adherents and thereby control both her and her property, but the Douglases had outmaneuvered him by hastily marrying Isabel to Sir John Edmonstone of that Ilk, a loyal if somewhat muttonheaded follower of Archie’s.
Despite Isabel’s inconsolable grief over James’s untimely death, she had agreed to the hasty marriage to avoid battle with Fife. But she had married Edmonstone only with an understanding that she need not live with him.
According to Simon’s sister Amalie, Isabel thought Edmonstone uncouth, too fond of his whisky, and worst of all, a paralyzing bore. So she had taken up semipermanent residence with her ladies at Sweethope Hill House in Lothian.
Entering Elishaw’s empty great hall, Lady Murray moved to one of the two tall, narrow windows that overlooked the bailey and gazed silently out on the yard.
Simon waited, knowing she had more to say. She had a magisterial temperament, and he had often observed how patiently she let his late father bluster on about what he would do or not do. When the flow had run its course, she would exert her influence to persuade him that he meant to do something else altogether.
Since Sir Iagan’s death eight months before, Borderers who knew them had made clear their expectation that she would continue to rule at Elishaw, that Simon, having lived under her thumb or Fife’s all his life, would be no match for her.
But Simon’s experience with her had taught him to keep his thoughts to himself until he could decide if anyone else wanted to hear them. The result was that he had weathered service with the Earl of Fife more successfully than most.
Subsequently, his experience with Fife had curbed his hitherto volatile temper and taught him to bide his time until he knew what the opposition’s most potent arguments were and how fierce a verbal battle might become before joining a discussion. Therefore, he believed he was well equipped to deal with his mother.
His respect for her judgment was great. After his father’s death, he had accepted her advice on many issues. But he was master of Elishaw now.
Realizing she was determined to outwait him, and not wanting to stir coals with her yet, he said, “You would fight to retain your rights here just as Isabel fought for hers, would you not, madam—if that were necessary?”
She turned then and met his gaze, her expression softening. “I’d have no need to fight you, my dear, whilst you remain Lord of Elishaw.” Thoughtfully, she added, “Such knowledge was comforting eight months ago, but I own, it does now afford me concern. We have seen, have we not, how quickly lives may end—first James Douglas, then your father and our poor Tom.”
When she paused, he looked away, unwilling to let her see the pain he felt at the still-strong memory of his younger brother’s death.
Recollection of their father’s demise just days before Tom’s was likewise strong, but Sir Iagan had lived a good life, and a longer one than most men enjoyed in such dangerous times. And Sir Iagan had most likely died in a fall from his horse.
Tom had barely reached his majority before meeting his death in a violent, villainous attack while on a journey to their sister Meg’s home in Rankilburn Glen.
If, as his sister Amalie believed, Sir Iagan’s death had been violent, too, no evidence of that had come to light. Nor did Simon expect to find any. He suspected that the violence of Tom’s death had influenced Amalie’s thinking, and he could not blame her. He felt considerable responsibility himself for Tom’s death.
“I have distressed you, Simon,” his mother said.
“ ’Tis nowt, madam,” he assured her.
“It was not my intention, but you must know that ’tis time you were wed. Recall that James Douglas left Isabel with no child to comfort her, and himself with no suitable heir. You now find yourself in danger of leaving Elishaw similarly unprotected. I do not fear for myself. I think of your sister Rosalie, and so must you.”
“I do not suppose you bring up this subject because you think I ought to wed the lady Sibylla,” he said, trying to sound thoughtful rather than provocative.
She stiffened. “Certainly not. You know that your father and Sir Malcolm Cavers never got on. I mention the need for you to marry only because, despite being master here for eight months, you have not yet begun to seek a wife. Yet you could find yourself beset by raiders or thieves and foully murdered tomorrow, just as Tom was. However, we do need to discuss the lady Sibylla,” she added. “What do you mean to do about her? It is most unsuitable to keep her here.”
“I disagree,” he said coolly. Keeping the lass where she was, was slight punishment for what she had done to him but too tempting an opportunity to abandon yet. “Whilst you are at Elishaw, madam, none will condemn her presence here.”
“If you do not mean to return her to Sweethope Hill, one must suppose that you will inform Sir Malcolm that she is here. I warn you, sir, I will not allow that man to set foot inside this castle. Your father would writhe in his grave.”
Simon met her gaze but remained silent until color tinged her cheeks. Then he said quietly, “If I send for Sir Malcolm, madam, he will come here as our guest.”
Recovering swiftly, she said, “I do not set myself against you, my dearest. You command all here, as you should. But you have heeded my advice now and again, so I thought you understood that certain things just are as they are.”
“I understand that you and my father took a dislike to Sir Malcolm long ago, but I never sought to know the reason. Perhaps now you might tell me.”
“There is no need for that,” she said, her color deepening. “You need not invite him here, after all. Akermoor lies nearer to Sweethope Hill than to Elishaw, so if you want him to fetch her, doubtless you will prefer the convenience of his collecting her there. Recall, too, that you extended an invita
tion to my cousin Cecil Percy to visit us with his family. So you will not want to be traveling any far—”
“Sakes, madam, you usually conceal your intent better,” Simon said. “Cecil Percy’s man did not say when Cousin Cecil means to visit or that he will bring his family. He said only that he sought to learn if we would receive him.”
“That is true, and again you are right to rebuke me,” she admitted without rancor. “I should not have spoken so plainly. But I have never made a secret of the pleasure it would give me if you were to marry an English girl. And Maria Percy . . .”
When she fell silent, Simon knew she had noted his increasing irritation. It was a measure of her displeasure at finding Cavers’s daughter in her house that she had spoken openly of her hope that he’d marry an Englishwoman as his father had.
To add another Percy wife to the Murray kindred would, she believed, allow them to strengthen the neutrality that Elishaw under his father and his grandfather had maintained through years of Border strife. Lady Murray held that neutrality dear even now, with a truce in effect that allowed nearly free access across the line.
“I do still wonder, sir,” she added, “at your decision to bring the girl here.”
In truth, Simon wondered, too. His explanation had been glib, because he had not thought about his reasons before bringing Sibylla to Elishaw. In truth, he had been more than glib. His explanation had bordered on prevarication.
The Tweed was running dangerously high. But had Sibylla or either child been in danger of dying, he knew he would have risked the crossing to get them indoors where a fire and attentive servants could aid them as quickly as possible.
The truth was that he had succumbed to his long-held desire to teach her that humiliating people could be dangerous. And his mother had unwittingly given him an idea of how he might provide her with yet another little lesson.
Chapter 3
Sibylla watched as Kit moved methodically from kist to kist. Someone had rinsed the mud from the child’s hair, she noted enviously, leaving a halo of soft flaxen curls. The little blue tunic and skirt she now wore were clean, too.
Although the outfit was clearly a castoff and lacked decoration, its fabric was fine enough to have clothed one of Simon’s sisters. Sibylla thought it must be a splendid dress by the child’s standards, yet Kit seemed oblivious of it.
“Have you found nothing suitable yet?” Sibylla asked her.
“Nobbut stuff ye couldna wear out o’ this room,” Kit muttered without looking up from the large basket through which she was searching. Moments later though, she looked up, smiling. “Here’s summat that might do, me lady.”
Rising with swift grace, she dragged out a heap of scarlet fabric that proved to be a kirtle of figured silk with a dagged neckline and hem, and front bodice lacing of bright yellow silk.
Although the rich scarlet was doubtless a wonderful color for Amalie, with her raven tresses and hazel-green eyes, Sibylla generally preferred shades of green, gray, yellow, or russet. However, if it fit her she would not care what color it was.
No one had done much if anything about her hair, and the bed clothing revealed as much, for it smelled of river mud and bore streaks of the stuff. Whoever had undressed her had taken her clothing but had not tried to wash her. Her skin felt stiff and rough, as if caked in dried mud.
What she wanted was a hot bath and a chance to wash her hair thoroughly with fragrant soap. But she knew enough about Simon Murray to be sure he would not allow such a luxury until the herb woman had pronounced her fit enough.
“Hoots, then, are ye getting up?” Kit demanded when Sibylla began gingerly to sit up. Moving nearer, red kirtle in hand, the child said sternly, “Ye ken fine that the laird did say ye should stay in bed.”
“The laird did say that,” Sibylla said, clutching the covers to her breast and keeping an eye on the closed door. “But I’ll feel better on my own two feet. Mercy,” she exclaimed as she put them to the cold floor. “I’ve no shoes!”
“Nay, ye lost them in the river. Ye’ve nae shift or hose neither. But I did see summat like a shift in one o’ them kists. If ye want—”
“I don’t care about a shift,” Sibylla said. “Just hand me that kirtle and go stand by the door. If anyone tries to enter whilst I’m putting it on, keep them out.”
Kit’s light-blue eyes widened at the command, as if she knew it would be hopeless to try to keep the laird out. But she went obediently to the door. “Shall I peek out, then?” she asked. “Might be, I’d hear them on the stairs.”
“Nay, but if you do hear voices, warn me.”
A mental picture of Simon throwing open the door and striding in urged her to don the kirtle swiftly, although she hoped that even he would not barge into a female guest’s bedchamber. Her lack of footwear was more disconcerting.
They had stripped off her wet stockings, the floor was cold, and she could not go downstairs without something to cover her feet. On a warmer day she might not care, but she felt sure that her formidable hostess would condemn such unmannerly behavior and knew it would be wise to consider her ladyship’s feelings.
Tying the yellow laces, she said, “Did you see no shoes or slippers, Kit?”
The child shook her head. “Nae netherstocks neither.” “Mayhap a hairbrush or a comb?”
“Aye!” Kit darted back to one of the other kists, plunged her hands in, and pulled out two silver combs.
“Those will do,” Sibylla said. Turning to pour water from the ewer into the washstand basin, she tried not to think what it would feel like to drag a comb through her stiff, filthy tresses.
“Them combs will pull like Auld Clootie,” Kit said as Sibylla dampened a towel and gingerly dabbed dirt from her face with it. “I could help ye, though.”
“Aye, so you could,” Sibylla agreed. “If we each take one strand at a time and begin at the end, working our way upward, we can comb out a little at a time. That way, we may not pull out all my hair.”
Kit giggled, but when Sibylla had washed her face and hands, they both climbed back up on the cupboardlike bed with their combs. Sitting close together, propped up with pillows, they went to work on her hair.
They were going to make a mess, she knew. But a maid would have to strip off the bedding anyway to wash it and would shake everything out when she did.
“Whilst we do this, would you like to tell me how you came to be in the river?” she asked Kit a few minutes later.
“I did tell ye,” Kit said. “Them men said they was a-drowning puppies.”
“Dreadful, but why would they want to drown you and your brother?”
Kit concentrated closely on a stubborn snarl in the strand of hair she was combing. Then she said grimly, “They were the deevil’s men, that’s why. I hope they burn for their wickedness and dinna ever find us again.”
“But how did they find you at all? Do you know who they were?”
Kit shook her head, her gaze fixed again on the stubborn hank of hair.
“Kit, you must know why they behaved so badly. Were you doing aught to attract their attention, or anger them?”
Kit shrugged. “Just walking by the river and . . . and talking a bit is all.”
Watching her, wondering if she knew more and just did not want to tell, Sibylla tried another approach, saying gently, “What is your brother’s name?”
Kit had worked her way halfway up the strand she held and got onto her knees as she murmured, “Dand . . . They do call him Dand.”
“I warrant his Sunday name must be Andrew then.”
Kit shrugged again. “I call him Dand. D’ye think he’ll die?”
As Sibylla started to assure her that God would not be so cruel, she hesitated, knowing it would be crueler to raise her hopes with what might prove a lie.
Instead she said, “Whilst his lordship . . . the laird . . . was here, we should have thought to ask him how Dand is faring.” Wondering then if Kit had intended to divert her with the question, she said, “Have
you a Sunday name, Kit—Cristina perhaps?”
Shaking her head, she said, “Just Kit is all.”
The door opened abruptly, and Simon appeared at the threshold, looking first concerned and then annoyed.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded of Sibylla.
“Mercy, sir, I am still on it,” she said calmly. But she set aside the comb and stood to face him, feeling infinitely less vulnerable on her feet, bare or not. “I am a woman grown, sir,” she added then. “I’m fully capable of knowing my own mind.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “No female ever knows her own mind.”
She might have retorted, but his gaze had shifted. He was staring at the scarlet kirtle she wore, and she realized that without a shift beneath it, its fabric was too thin to conceal details of her body. The lack had not concerned her before, but with Simon staring so, she felt naked again. Heat flooded her cheeks.
“Be this the young lady wha’s sick then, me laird?” a high-pitched, quavering voice inquired from behind him.
His body had been blocking the entrance, but an old woman peeked around him. She wore a long black wool scarf draped over her unkempt, grizzled curls, and had tossed the long end across her meager chest and over the other shoulder of her faded gray tunic. In her visible hand, she carried a small black sack.
Her voice had startled Simon, and Sibylla hid a smile as he stepped hastily aside to make way for her.
“This is the lady Sibylla, Mistress Beaton,” he said. “She knocked her head hard against a tree branch. I want you to do what you can to ease her pain.”
“Aye, sure, and so your lad said, me laird. I’ve brung a potion to give her.”
“What manner of potion?” Sibylla asked. “ ’Tis naught but a headache, so a distillation of willow bark should suffice, or mayhap a mug of steeped yarrow.”
The woman cocked her head. “D’ye ken summat o’ herbs, me lady?”
“Some,” Sibylla said. “Willow and yarrow are both good for pain.”
Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] Page 4