Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2]

by Border Moonlight

  The sun directly overhead was shining warmly on the pebbled yard. Two other small parties strolled across the way. Otherwise, the area was deserted.

  Doubtless, Sibylla thought, most people were preparing for the midday meal. “You do not dine with the Governor either?” she said.

  “He is unavailable until later this afternoon,” Simon said. “That is to say he is unavailable to me until then. I do not know if he is here in the castle or elsewhere, but I thought it best that we not subject Rosalie to a possible snub.”

  “Then doubtless my father will wait to present Alice, too.”

  In an edgier tone, he said, “You do know that you have made an enemy here today, do you not?”

  Grimacing, she said, “If you mean to scold, sir, I cannot stop you. But you will say little that I have not said to myself. I did warn you that I have a temper.”

  “You must learn to control it.”

  “I thought I did have it under control,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Did you not see?”

  “Nay, I crested the hill just as you turned and struck the man.”

  “Faith, do you doubt that he deserved it?”

  He looked at her, frowning. It was not the thunderous one she had seen earlier. Although he rarely showed his feelings, he was an expert frowner, and she suspected he could produce untold varieties. She had, however, begun to identify some of them.

  This was his thoughtful frown.

  “I saw nowt at first to tell me he deserved it,” he said. “But later, when I recalled your words as you stormed past me—”

  “I am sure I walked past you with dignity, sir. I do not storm.”

  “Don’t cavil, lass. You cannot warn me of temperament one minute and declare that you have none the next. In troth, I shifted my gaze from you when you asked me— nay, commanded me—to keep young Colville from pursuing you. Only later did I recall your exact words. I do not think you commonly call someone an ill-bred knave without cause. So I will ask you again. What happened?”

  “He strode up to us when we came out of the chapel, caught Alice by the shoulders, and kissed her. He’d have kissed her on the lips had she not turned her cheek to him. He then suggested that she had pursued him here.”

  “Rude behavior,” he said grimly. “But hardly actionable. He is betrothed to the lass, after all.”

  “She shrank from him, sir, and then he rebuked her for not presenting him to her bonny companions.”

  “I can understand that that angered you, but—” “Sakes, that was not all,” Sibylla said impatiently. “I do not rise to baiting so quickly, I promise you. I reminded him that he owed Alice more civility.”

  “Calmly.”

  “Calmly, aye,” she said. “He asked who I might be that I dared speak so boldly to a nobleman.”

  “So . . . calmly and boldly,” he said. But she had felt his forearm tense.

  Careful not to look at him, she said lightly, “Did I mention that he dared to address me as his beauty?”

  The forearm tensed more. “You know you did not mention that.”

  “Aye, but he did, so I told him that if he wanted an introduction, he should apply to someone in a position to present him to me. Until then, I said, he should step away from us. I was still perfectly calm, I assure you.”

  “What did he say next?”

  She remembered Colville’s words exactly. “That he does not dance to a wench’s command, especially one who would make such a pleasant armful.”

  This time the hand at the end of his forearm clenched, and she detected a near growl. Hoping these signs indicated that she would not have to endure one of his chilly rebukes after all, she kept silent and let Colville’s words echo in his mind.

  “We must hope no one ever sends the man on a diplomatic mission,” Simon said at last. “But I doubt you hit him for that.”

  “Nay, I said we were leaving, but he told Alice he wanted her to go into the chapel and pray with him.”

  “He has no business in that chapel,” Simon said.

  “I did not want to debate that with him,” Sibylla admitted. “When I urged Alice to come away, he grabbed me and spun me toward him. He was angry and I . . .” She paused, eyed him speculatively, and gave a dismissive shrug.

  “I see.” He held her gaze as he added, “Don’t tell me that Sir Hugh Cavers taught you that little trick.”

  Obligingly, she said, “I won’t if you don’t want to hear it.”

  “What was he thinking?”

  “Hugh said that if I were ever threatened, the best plan was to act before the villain suspected I might. He also showed me how to use an attacker’s strength against him,” she added. “Having no notion what Edward meant by grabbing me so roughly, I . . . It seemed the best course.”

  When Simon put his free hand atop hers on his forearm, she tensed until he said, “Unless you want to walk all the way to the gate, we should turn back.”

  Realizing that she had paid no heed to where they were going brought fiery heat to her cheeks. He might have taken her anywhere, for she had kept her attention on him, trying to read his thoughts. She had not expected him to listen so intently or to let her explain without frequent interruptions to scold.

  Her father tended to fix on point after point to which he could take exception, making it difficult to explain anything to him. If Sir Malcolm was angry, explanations rarely aided one anyway. What Amalie had said about Simon and her own experience with him had led her to expect similar treatment from him.

  “You surprise me,” she said when he remained quiet. “I thought you would scold more, but you keep silent, even about Hugh’s teaching me.”

  He glanced at her and looked away but not quickly enough to conceal from her the surprising twinkle in his eyes.

  Relaxing, she said, “Now you laugh at me?”

  “I rarely laugh, lass, but I have done so or nearly done so more times since we met again than I can recall in any such brief period for years. I kept silent because I was trying to think how to impress upon you how great my displeasure would be if you should pass this disturbing knowledge of yours on to Rosalie without, at the same time, putting the notion in your head that you should do so.”

  She chuckled. “Too late, sir. Rosalie has already demanded instruction.”

  Chapter 12

  A group of four was strolling toward Simon and Sibylla, so they walked on quietly until the others had passed them. Enjoying the comfortable silence, Simon remembered some news he had heard in the course of presenting himself to Fife’s chamberlain, news he thought would interest Sibylla.

  When the group had moved beyond earshot, he said, “I wonder if Edward Colville may have had reason to seek out your sister. Having learned she was here, mayhap he wanted to make a point to her, and to others, by openly declaring his rights. But I heard some news earlier that may interest you—and your father, too.”

  “I do not mean to tell my father about this morning’s incident unless I must,” she said. “He would see naught in Edward Colville’s behavior to justify my reply.”

  He was more in agreement with Sir Malcolm than she knew but said only, “Thomas Colville’s heiress has evidently changed her mind about marrying him.”

  She smiled mischievously. “Do not look to me to commiserate with Thomas, sir. I think the lady shows wisdom. Who is she?”

  “The lady Catherine Gordon of Huntly,” he said. “I do not know the family personally, but her father was a man of wealth enough to interest Fife. ’Tis said Catherine’s inheritance includes properties that provide a significant income.”

  “So, one would assume that the Governor has become her guardian.”

  “He has, aye, and will act as trustee of her income until she marries.”

  “Only till she marries?” She looked at him. “That is not his usual habit, is it, sir? The estates his brother David of Strathearn’s little daughter inherited did not go to her or to her husband, and Fife married her off straightaway,
at the age of six.”

  “That was different,” Simon said. “Margaret of Strathearn is Fife’s niece, and David’s estates were Stewart estates. Fife considered it his duty to retain them for the Crown just as any family will fight to keep family estates under its control. Recall Isabel’s battle to keep Fife from taking the estates James left her.”

  “Aye, sure, so how did you learn that Catherine Gordon changed her mind?”

  “Deduction,” he said. “Another chap waiting to learn if Fife would see him told me that her ladyship has vanished. The Colvilles are searching high and low for her.”

  “But how does someone like that disappear?” Sibylla asked. “She must have an army of servants. Sakes, Fife must know exactly where she is.”

  “Godamercy, lass, do you blame Fife for everything that goes amiss?”

  “Do you believe he does not want to add Catherine Gordon’s property to the Crown’s holdings?” she retorted.

  “I don’t know what he wants. I’ve not seen the man for eight months, and he was none too happy with me at the time.”

  The look she gave him then was troubled. “Fife tends to eliminate people with whom he is unhappy, sir.”

  “You sound like my mother,” he said. “Do you fear he will want my head just because I refused to let Rosalie marry at thirteen?”

  “Men have died for irritating him less,” she said.

  “Fife is too shrewd to order my death without strong cause. And why should he? He could not claim Elishaw, because my sisters would inherit. I’d like to see him try to wrest the estate from Buccleuch and Westruther.”

  “I hope you are right, sir.”

  He hoped so, too. Over the years he had seen Fife do many things that more powerful men than Simon had insisted he could not do.

  Sibylla saw Simon’s expression turn thoughtful and hoped he was reconsidering his position with Fife. As companion to Isabel, she had learned much about the Governor’s devious ways and knew better than to assume anything about him.

  Fife had long resented the order of King Robert the Bruce that the King of Scots’ eldest son must succeed him. Before Bruce, Scots had chosen their High Kings from powerful leaders of powerful Scottish families, and many believed the Bruce’s decision was a bad one that had weakened the Crown.

  Fife certainly believed he was a better man to rule than his disinterested, crippled older brother. And many Scottish leaders, including the Douglas, agreed.

  But most men of sense also knew better than to trust Fife. They knew he was not a man who exerted himself to avoid or overcome obstacles. He eliminated them.

  A question occurred to her. “How could Catherine Gordon escape Fife?”

  “Sakes, the man does not keep her with him.”

  “But he must have taken precautions, put her under some sort of guard.”

  “As far as I know, she was living at Huntly amidst her own people,” he said.

  “Where is Huntly?”

  “Near Aberdeen, a hundred miles or so north of here.” “Thomas Colville is unlikely to have any allies nearby then.”

  “You take unnatural interest in a man you spurned, lass. Has Colville become more intriguing to you?”

  “I pity anyone he seeks to marry, that’s all. And I am trying to understand why he sent for Edward Colville to come so quickly to Edinburgh. That detail concerns me because of Alice. I don’t trust either of the Colvilles, sir, particularly when I cannot guess what they may be up to. Nor do I trust your master.”

  “He is not . . . That is, I mean to do what I can to distance myself—”

  When he broke off and glanced around, she realized that more people had come outside to walk in the courtyard. Several were nearly within earshot.

  “I expect we should return now,” she said.

  “Aye, we should.” His voice hardened as he added, “Do not think that I commend what you did earlier, Sibylla, for I do not. I’ll admit you had provocation, but Edward

  Colville will remember that you struck him long after he forgets that he provoked you to it—if he ever admits that even to himself.”

  Understanding despite his stern look and tone that he was concerned for her, she said, “I will take care, my lord, as I hope you will. Prithee, do tell me if you learn more about the lady Catherine Gordon’s whereabouts.”

  “Why does she concern you so?”

  “Because if Thomas sent for Edward to help him hunt for her, they may both ride to Huntly. If they do, Alice can enjoy herself here without having to be always looking over her shoulder for Edward, and I may have a chance to persuade my father to undo this dreadful betrothal he has foisted on her.”

  “Mayhap I should not report what I learn of her then,” he said lightly. “My master, as you call him, clearly wants her to marry Edward. He may even expect me to aid the Colvilles in their search for her.”

  That Simon might have to go to Huntly with the Colvilles had not occurred to her, and the possibility disturbed her. She did not trust them. If they were acting for Fife, his motive in putting them together with Simon might have less to do with finding Catherine Gordon than with arranging for Simon to suffer an accident.

  The thought made her shiver before she called herself firmly to order, deciding she was seeing demons where none were yet visible.

  Simon was not a fool. He could look after himself.

  At least, she hoped he could.

  It was as well, she thought, that he had asked only if she had come to find Thomas Colville more intriguing. Had he asked about her spurned suitors in general, she could not so easily have replied.

  Simon saw Sibylla to her chambers and then went to his room to change to a black doublet and trunk hose for his meeting with Fife. He had spoken lightly to Sibylla, but as he attached his ceremonial dirk in its sheath to his belt, he wondered if the Governor might send him with the Colvilles to search for their heiress.

  He would strongly resist such an order. With raiders wreaking havoc in the Borders, Elishaw and its inhabitants to protect, and his little sister eagerly seeking a husband, it was no time for him to be riding a hundred miles farther from home.

  He’d have to be away for a fortnight, perhaps longer.

  It occurred to him that he did not want to leave just as he was getting to know Sibylla, either. But he shook his head at himself for letting any lass distract him from his duties, let alone from the ticklish business ahead.

  The Governor’s high chamberlain escorted Simon upstairs to the room on the second floor that Fife used privately, rather than to his first-floor audience chamber.

  The Governor sat by a crackling fire at a large table, facing the doorway. Dark red velvet curtains flanked the tall south-facing window from which sunlight spilled across the documents before him. Rounds of red wax for seals rested in a basket on the table, with the royal seal and other items needed for his duties nearby.

  Fife was writing when Simon entered, so the chamberlain remained silent until he set aside his quill and looked up. Then, in a quieter voice than he employed in the audience chamber, the chamberlain said, “The Laird of Elishaw, my lord.”

  Simon made his bow.

  “That will be all,” Fife said to the chamberlain.

  As Simon straightened, he saw to his astonishment that Fife was awarding him a friendly smile. He had seen that smile before, to be sure, but rarely directed at himself or at any other man in Fife’s service.

  The Governor could be affable, even charming when he thought it would serve his purpose. He could also be harsh, forbidding, and thoroughly ruthless. His usual manner was chilly, his eye critical, and his fury terrifying when aroused.

  Dark enough of hair and complexion to have stirred lifelong rumors that he was less Stewart than his numerous blond, Viking-like siblings, Fife was also of slighter build. He wore his black clothing elegantly, and having reached his fifty-first year, had acquired a dignity of age more plausible than the icy arrogance that had been habitual with him when Simon had first made
his acquaintance.

  Simon searched Fife’s expression for familiar signs of the anger he had expected to see but saw none. Instead of relaxing, he grew more alert.

  “We greet you well, I trust,” Fife said.

  “Thank you, my lord, aye,” he said.

  “I am pleased that you were able to come to Edinburgh so swiftly and in such interesting company.”

  Simon was beginning to understand but said only, “Interesting, my lord?”

  “Aye, sure, for I am as well informed as ever. In troth, though, most of the castle knows by now that you arrived here in company with Sir Malcolm Cavers and his daughters. This renewal of interest does please me, Simon.”

  Denial leapt to Simon’s tongue, but he bit it back, saying, “I was able to assist the lady Sibylla some days ago, sir. Her horse had run off, so I took her to my mother at Elishaw. Cavers had just come to fetch her when your message—”

  “Do you mean to say,” Fife interjected, “that you do not mean to court the lady Sibylla? She must be grateful if you rendered her a service, and I do still favor such a match. She was perhaps too young before and most foolishly indulged.”

  “That may be, sir,” Simon said, wishing he could think. For Fife to press him to agree that a match with Sibylla was still possible was an unusual tactic. But one did not offer the man a flat denial without knowing the ground on which one stood.

  In the Governor’s presence, pitfalls could open right beneath one’s feet.

  “I expect you to do your duty, Simon,” Fife said with a direct look. “I’m told that your mother has brought the lady Rosalie to seek a husband. We will see what prospects are at hand. Meantime, may we hope you have at last stopped playing Jack-of-Both-Sides at Elishaw and will devote your loyalty wholly to Scotland?”

  “At present, my lord, we are lucky enough to enjoy a truce,” Simon said.

  “During which, I expect you to learn what you can from your kinsmen to the south. If you keep a close watch on them, those connections may serve us when Northumberland next makes mischief, as certainly he will. I have heard complaints of such already. Pull up a stool,” he added with a gesture.