The Border Lord

by Sophia James

  ‘The housekeeper applied a poultice of her own making.’

  ‘And my face?’

  He traced one thumb over her cheek and brow. ‘Was not harmed.’

  ‘Wh-wh-who was he?’

  ‘The child?’

  She nodded and waited for him to tell her.

  ‘Connor’s oldest boy, Donald. He has asked after you every day.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘You have had the fever for almost a week now. We thought at first you would nae survive it.’

  That explained the exhaustion she felt and the easy tears. Lachlan Kerr looked worse for wear as well, thick stubble on his cheeks and chin and dark rings beneath his eyes. Cloth wound around his left hand made her frown.

  ‘From my attempt at quelling the flames on your sleeves,’ he explained when he saw where it was she looked. ‘Donald had tipped over a pan of fat drippings and it was difficult to extinguish.’

  ‘Thank you.’ His grip tightened and even with layers of cloth between them heat blazed.

  Quickly she looked away. He had made it clear to her the sort of relationship that he wished between them.

  Still, she was alone here at Belridden and his friendship was important. Swallowing down her pride, she tried to smile. ‘Your mistress is v-very beautiful.’

  He did not answer.

  ‘And I—I am s-sorry that it was m-me you h-had to m-marry. I c-could have stopped it.’

  His attention was firmly caught. ‘How?’

  ‘My uncle gave m-me the ch-choice of entering a nunnery or m-marrying you.’

  God! Her eyes in this light were full of tears and for the first time Lachlan understood just what this marriage must have cost her. All humour fled.

  ‘As a novice you would have been expected to stay in your chosen holy order for the rest of your life.’

  Another tear traced its way down her cheek. ‘P-Perhaps I sh-should have listened to him….’

  ‘No.’ He meant what he said, the memory of their night together surfacing strongly. Bravery had its own allure, and with her dancing red curls vivid against the white of linen, Grace Stanton looked as pretty as he had ever seen her. Plucking a strand from its bed against the feather pillow, he wound it around his thumb.

  ‘The physician insisted on cutting your hair as a precaution against the fever.’

  Worry creased her brow and the uncovered ends of her fingers patted at the length. ‘Is it too short?’

  He laughed and hurt coated her face.

  ‘Even a p-plain woman has a best feature, my Lord.’

  ‘And you think this is yours?’

  ‘I did.’

  Simple and straightforward.

  Lachlan’s heart twisted and he didn’t like the feeling. Moving away out of the light, he stood against the fireplace, empty now of flame, to regroup.

  All his life he had been surrounded by betrayal and lies and deceit and the pure beauty of truth was a powerful weapon. Too powerful, with his lack of sleep and the shape of her bare body tempting him beneath the thin layer of sheet.

  His wife. Grace. Even her name suited her. Could grace be possible after all? He shook his head and wished he had a drink in hand, the deep burn on his fingers hurting like hell.

  Outside he could hear the keening winds fresh off the Cheviots. Soon it would be autumn. He splayed his damaged skin out against the coldness of the stone.

  Nay, grace wasn’t possible for a man like him, an unbeliever, a Kerr. The curse on his family wound itself around everything, even repentance.

  When he turned again to his wife, he saw she watched him, her eyes soft brown and knowing. The smile he gave her back was forced and it faltered somewhat as she spoke.

  ‘There is o-one more thing I w-w-w-would like to know?’

  He nodded, hoping the question would not concern his brother, not here with her hurt, and lies all he could give her back.

  ‘Is b-bedding your m-mistress always as wondrous as it w-was with me?’

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘Th-then I am g-glad for it.’

  And with that she closed her eyes and fell asleep, the rhythm of her breath more even than it had been and a hint of laughter on her lips.

  Wondrous? He scuffed at the floor and swallowed back misgiving. He could never remember Rebecca even once making his heart race with the speed it did when bedding Grace.

  And she had known. He had seen the look in his wife’s eyes as she had asked the question, hooded and sensual, which made it all so much worse.

  Uncertainty welled. She was not quite the pious woman she claimed to be, then, and a niggle of question worried at him.

  Chapter Six

  The pain in her hands had lessened by the morning as she sat on the side of the bed and watched Lizzie tidy the room.

  ‘Ye’ve been the talk of the castle, my Lady, what with your burns and your bravery and I’ll be hearing none of your denials about it.’

  Grace smiled. ‘Is my husband already eating his morning meal?’

  ‘Your husband? Nay, did ye not ken he has ridden north on the orders of the king?’

  ‘North?’

  ‘To Edinburgh and the council of the chiefs. Our Laird has the ear of King David and he uses him often as a voice of reason. He was with him, ye ken, in France as a child and then again in Hampshire for a time after the Battle of Neville’s Cross in ’46.’

  Grace frowned. If Lachlan and his king were so close, why had David insisted on this match with her? Nothing quite made sense. The fact that he had not even come to say goodbye also rankled. Still, at least he had been honest with his admission of feelings. He had none. And so of course he would not tarry to give her the news of his plans. A new thought surfaced. ‘Is there a looking glass I could use, Lizzie?’ Her hand came up to the unfamiliar shortness of her hair, heavy curls bouncing around the side of her face and not even grazing the neckline of her shift.

  ‘Indeed there is.’ Placing pan and broom on the floor, she scurried away, returning less than a moment later with a disc of polished copper, its handle softened with fine leather strips.

  ‘We will put it here, and ye can keep it in this room. It should have come in last week, but what with the burns and fuss and everything it was forgotten. Can ye see yourself in the reflection?’

  Grace nodded, speechless at the returned image. Her hair was different, glossier, thicker, and redder if it could possibly have been so.

  ‘I think it suits ye, my Lady, and the ointment the physician made up has been applied to your arms. The raised skin seems much lessened.’

  Joy welled. For years she had been trying different potions, various mixtures and tinctures and medicines to counteract the itchiness, and all to no avail. But here at Belridden, in the unlikeliest of all places, a cure might have finally been found. She could barely contain her excitement. ‘Would he make me up some more of the ointment, do you think?’

  ‘Nay, he does not have to do that. He left me with the instructions, ye see. Helmet-flower and monkshood mixed with comfrey and the hips of roses. I was the one who boiled up this pot.’

  Grace turned again to the mirror, tilting her head this way and that, the wide smile reflected making her laugh out aloud.

  ‘I’ve never liked to look at myself much, Lizzie, so I am sorry if today I appear so vain…’

  ‘Och, ye are the least vain lady I’ve ever met and I won’t have ye saying anything of the sort.’

  ‘I just can’t believe my hair has become so curly.’

  ‘It was the weight of the length of it before that held it down. Had it never been cut?’

  ‘No. The healer at Grantley said if I did so I could risk more skin problems and my mother’s hair was always very long.’

  ‘Did she mind ye going so far from home? Your mother, I mean?’

  ‘She passed away years ago, just before my father did.’

  ‘Then I am sorry for it.’

  Grace suddenly had another thought. ‘How did the Lair
d’s f-first wife die?’

  A heavy frown marred Lizzie’s forehead. ‘Ruth Kerr died after the birth of her child.’

  ‘There is a child?’

  ‘There was a child, stillborn and buried with her mother in the cemetery by the western wall. Some say that your husband poisoned her.’

  ‘And you? What d-do you say?’

  The maid’s pursed lips spoke more tellingly than any words and Grace knew that she would speak no more about it.

  She spent the next afternoon in the small chapel at Belridden, enjoying its silence and beauty and puzzled by the fact that no one else at all came to pray. Was it reserved for the Laird and his family? Everything about the place looked…unused: the pews, the altar, the benches covered in a thin layer of dust. There were no boot marks or scratches, no air of use. Instead, the dust motes swirled in the light of coloured glass, slow, languid and undisturbed until she had come.

  A small cough made her turn and the boy who had been burned in the Great Hall was waiting at the doorway. He bowed low when he saw that she had seen him. ‘When ye are finished, my Lady, I have something for ye.’ He did not put one foot across the lintel.

  Genuflecting and whispering a quick prayer, Grace left the chapel, the sunlight bright after the dim inside.

  ‘You are Donald?’

  ‘I am, my Lady, and I wanted to thank you for helping me…’

  His face was red and Grace smiled, trying to put him at ease. Instead he blushed even brighter.

  ‘It’s this way.’ He gestured to a track visible between a hedgerow, twenty yards away.

  Looking up at the castle, Grace saw that the guards watched them. Surely it should be safe to follow the boy a little way? With a nod she slipped in behind him and into the shadow of the trees.

  It was a good two hundred yards until he stopped, the face of a low cliff before her with an opening about three feet wide. Wildflowers grew at the entrance, the windless warmth of shelter keeping them colourful and thick.

  ‘It’s in here, my Lady.’

  Stepping in, she was amazed. No small insignificant cave this, but an enormous light-filled grotto with water running to one side. Bunches of the same flowers outside had been picked and placed in two chipped pottery tankards and a naïvely fashioned picture done on cloth of the Holy Family was nailed to the wall between them.

  A natural chapel. One of light and water and warmth.

  ‘Me mam said that you liked to pray so I made you a place to do it. No one goes in the chapel you see, not since—’ He stopped. And stood very still.

  ‘Not since…?’

  ‘The old Laird died in it, my Lady, after the priest gave a curse.’ His lips tightened and he looked around as if someone else could be listening, as if the oath of which he spoke had been a recent thing.

  ‘How old are you, Donald?’

  ‘I’ll be ten in November at Samhain, and you dinna stammer when you talk to me like I heard you do in the Great Hall.’

  She smiled, the truth of what he said so surprising. ‘Perhaps it is this place, then. Do others come here?’

  ‘Och, there a hundred other caves and not so far, so this one is mostly mine. I brought you something else as well. For luck.’ He dug into his pocket and retrieved a rock.

  Holding it in her hand, Grace saw that it had been cut in half and the plane had been polished, the shape of an insect caught complete in amber, as if in an instant its life had been frozen.

  ‘It’s an argus moth and d-double banded.’

  Grace remembered Ginny being as interested in the natural world as this boy was when she was young, and the thought was comforting as she listened. If her cousin ever came to this place, she would one day show her these things, these treasures, for there had been a time when she had enjoyed walking the hills and looking—

  She stopped and pushed down anger.

  Malcolm Kerr had seen an end to that. Now Ginny rarely left the confines of Grantley and always within the company of others. Nervous. Inward. Mute.

  A great well of homesickness washed across her. How long would it be until she could ever go home?

  Home?

  Belridden was home now, with a husband who tolerated her only because she would provide an heir. More than one! She suddenly saw herself as an older woman with a bitter heart and knew that she wanted much more. She wanted life and love and happiness, for otherwise she would be trapped like this insect, for ever in amber.

  A shout had them both turning and when they walked outside the cave Connor was there, dusty from a ride, and astonished to see her with his young son.

  ‘If he has been bothering ye at all…’

  ‘No. H-He has b-been showing m-me treasures.’

  ‘Your mam wants ye home, Donald. Now.’

  When the boy scampered off he watched him, the lithe legs running free.

  ‘He is our first-born. A little wild, perhaps, but with a good heart.’

  Grace nodded and pocketed the amber.

  ‘My wife and I both thank ye for saving him and I know ye have burns yourself from doing so.’

  ‘They are almost gone.’ She held up her hands, the bandages lighter now and the pain much alleviated, though the man opposite still glowered at the sight.

  ‘The Laird sat wi’ ye through the nights, d’ye ken, for he would nae let another do it.’ He hesitated before going on. ‘There is much said of Lachlan Kerr that is unfair. He is a good man who deserves a good woman. I hope that is you.’

  Important words, given as a gift in exchange for the one she had given him. Lachlan’s soldier would not talk like this with her again. Grace knew it to the very marrow of her bones, and knew too that if she did not take advantage of his confidence she would be sorry.

  ‘I have h-heard my h-husband poisoned h-his first wife?’

  ‘From whom did ye hear that?’

  She offered nothing.

  ‘There are people in this castle, my Lady, who could be dangerous to you, but on my word, Lachlan Kerr is not one of them.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Simple. Said.

  When he tipped his head and walked away she did not follow, but stood beneath the cliff in the sun, watching small flying insects cross over beams of light and shadow, gliding free.

  The Laird sat wi’ ye through the nights, d’ye ken, for he would nae let another do it.

  She pulled the amber from her pocket and rubbed the polished face. Just for luck.

  Lachlan was tired of being in Edinburgh, tired of the intrigue and the conspiracy and the careful way of words. But most of all he was tired of the women who crowded about him seeking favour.

  It had always been like this, he ruminated, and he had always enjoyed it. But this time things were different. He wondered how Grace was and if her hands were healed or if his seed had taken.

  God, even the thought of it had him rising, here in the court of his king and in the middle of the day.

  And David and his English sympathies weren’t helping any either. Scottish independence had been hard won by the Bruce and for David to be even thinking of a treaty to place an Englishman on the Scottish throne was bound to lead to rebellion. Sometimes he barely recognised the man from the boy he had always known, the student who could recite the Declaration of Arbroath word for word.

  Sir John Murray from Bothwell Castle sat beside him in a room off the stone keep behind the Chapel of St Margaret.

  ‘It seems that captivity in England has softened David’s head.’

  Lachlan finished the fine tumbler of French wine and looked over his shoulder to see who else was close. Ideas like this could be construed as scheming should they be overheard by the wrong ears.

  ‘Well, it wasna’ us in confinement under English rule for nigh on eleven years, aye, John, and who’s to know what that would do to a man? But I’d be thinking that, if the regional magnates get the true gist of what he’s planning, we’ll have rebellion in the streets.’

  ‘And on the estates.’

  Lach n
odded. ‘The trouble is David’s ideas were never formed here in Scotland, never settled long enough to make the bonds, and the merks from the Berwick Treaty are nae helping anything either. Two payments and then what, for the nobles are stretched enough already with their own debts.’

  Both men looked across at the king.

  The liabilities of money, a fragile economy and an ineffective king were no mix for a strong Scotland. Again Lachlan wished that he was home.

  ‘If he had an heir, it might all be different.’

  John’s face suddenly lit up with interest. ‘Speaking of which—’

  Lachlan interrupted him, knowing where it was he was going with such a question. ‘I had been married less than two weeks before David pulled me up here.’

  ‘And ye now want to go back?’

  The laughter in his friend’s face unnerved him as did the kernel of truth in his words.

  ‘Ye’ve done enough for the King of Scots, Lachlan, with all the years ye were away in France at the Chateau-Gaillard and at Odiham in Hampshire. Perhaps it’s time now to get your own house in order, aye?’

  From any other man Lachlan would have taken the advice as an affront, but he had known John Murray longer even than he had known David and the counsel would be given with the best of intentions.

  Belridden rose up like a ruined heartstone, pulling at him, the Kerr blood spilled on its soil for centuries. When he had married Ruth he thought that he would not leave it again and yet, with her melancholy and the negotiations for David’s release, he had been away far more than he had ever been home.

  Perhaps, then, what had happened next was not all her fault; perhaps some of the blame belonged to him, an absent husband who had been too long at war and a man who could never brook the ties that family wound around him.

  The introspection worried him and he stood.

  ‘I had heard that ye will be journeying south in the next weeks?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Be sure then to call in at my keep.’

  ‘To meet your wife?’

  Lachlan said nothing as he left.

  He returned at sunset to Belridden on the tenth day after he had left it and he returned to chaos.