The Border Lord

by Sophia James

  Another worm of worry turned in her stomach, etching away her capacity to reason properly. Malcolm said he had delivered his letter of challenge to protect Belridden, but with the tourney about to start she wondered if it was a ruse after all. Could he be trusted? Her fingers twisted Lachlan’s gold ring as she pondered on what might happen should her husband lose this contest. Knights died in such battles and women were widowed.

  The horror of the thought made her skin prickle. Lord, the itchiness that she had been plagued with when first she had left Grantley was back and the rash on her forearms seemed to be reddening with each passing second.

  No. She could not let fear take away her trust. Malcolm Kerr would keep to his word and her husband was reputed to be the finest fighter in all of Scotland. Sitting up straighter, she plastered a smile across abject terror and stilled her hands as they twisted the fabric in her red-and-green brocade skirt.

  The packed galleries had quietened as the trumpets played and the knights led by their retainers came into sight, each hoisting aloft their particular coat of arms on sturdy wooden stakes. Red, gold, black, purple and green, the tinctures of badges and fields and standards fluttered and the bards and shaffrons covering the horses swirled. Lachlan appeared first, the red and green of his family colours proclaiming for all to see his right to the Belridden land, and Grace’s heart, already pumping, began to beat louder. Cheering echoed around the arena and the other ladies of court sat forwards on their ornate wooden chairs.

  Lachlan Kerr was the favourite, and, with hair flowing and pale eyes perusing the galleries without a hint of concern, she could well see why. His armour was unlike any of the others. Tarnished and well worn, its smooth planes altered into an unevenness denoting other battles. Not the tournaments, Grace thought, for he had not taken part in those, but the true and real jeopardy of war. She breathed in, the strength of love and worry like a pain in her throat.

  Tilting his lance, her husband walked his steed up to the first barrier some thirty feet from where she sat and the world slowed and quietened. Just her and just him, separated by the distance of risk and danger. The mantling on the crest of his helmet was nowhere near as ornate or fussy as the others behind him and his shoulders were broad and straight.

  She had a sudden vision of him falling, a dagger thrust through the vision-slit of his visor, blood running crimson across the lighter red and green. No. Not him. Not now. Her hand lay across the swell of her stomach even as he turned to line up at one end of the field.

  Lord, this was it!

  The moment she had been dreading was here and she had heard that there was little chivalry in tournaments. Knights ganged up on other knights and the daggers hidden on their personage were carefully used in the less protected areas of an opponent’s body, the parts where the rivets and straps of leather provided a lesser barrier and where a sharp blade might do the maximum of damage.

  A lone rider in red and green bursting from the entrance way brought her attention back to the field, his colours matching her husband’s exactly, as noise hushed into puzzlement and query. Even David leaned forwards to watch as Malcolm Kerr cantered across to stop at the right-hand side of his brother.

  All looked to the King. Would he halt the tourney, deeming the rules broken? The mounting shouts of the crowd suggested anger should the spectacle not be allowed and when the king’s messenger signalled for two of the retainers behind Lachlan to drop away, relief settled.

  Nineteen men against nineteen men, lances and swords at the ready and polished metal gleaming in the daylight.

  A single man walked across to the barrier with his flag down and all those in armour settled their lances. When the flag came up they charged, clods of earth flying and dust swirling as the drumming noise of hooves came closer, closer and closer.

  Every other knight on that field lifted their chin at the last moment before contact was made, to protect their eyes, Grace supposed, but leaving them vulnerable in the seeing of the target. Everyone that was except for her husband and his lance splintered against his opponent’s chest dead in the centre, whipping the man’s body back and off his horse in one clean movement. A great cheer resounded as Lachlan thundered by, reeling his horse in at the far end of the field, the steed turning effortlessly, guided by experience and expertise, the line of his body melded with that of his mount, balanced on a knife edge. As he signalled his men to wait, there seemed no question in Lachlan’s stance that they would follow and win. Already on the field two of the opposition had fallen, the attendants rushing in to drag them to the safety afforded by the fences.

  New lances were brought out and the flag fell again, Malcolm Kerr shadowing his brother as they charged, the lances exploding into shards of wood on contact, though this time the knights did not retreat, but stayed locked together in a closer battle. Swords were unsheathed and mounts whinnied and reared, the destrier of Lachlan’s the steadiest. Perhaps the big black horse had travelled in France under the banner of Philip or in England under Edward to make him so placid in a time of battle. Grace could no longer think because in the mêlée Lachlan had been isolated, the opposition steeds providing a barrier against his own men.

  She stood on her feet and screamed at him to get away, the words whipped to nothing, the arched circular stands awash with people craning their necks, cheering, mere diversion and sport and a way to pass the time. Not for her, though, not for her. If he should fall here and if she should lose him…

  Lachlan cursed as a blade found its way beneath the protection afforded by his mail aventail. Kicking out at the flanks of the horse holding the rider, he was rewarded by a clear view of his opponent’s armpit and took his chance. The scream of pain drew the others and for a moment he was caught by a solid wall of horse and armour, a barrier to the help of his retainers as the opposition gave it their best to try to kill him. He felt the pain in his side only as a small pinch and when he tried to raise his left arm he found he could not. With care he transferred his sword to his other hand and pushed at those that held him, fighting to find distance and space. Many Kerrs were left-handed, but he had always been ambidextrous and today the fact stood him in good stead. The toppling of two of the enemy gave him hope and he kicked through, breaking loose as Malcolm slashed behind him.

  ‘Double back,’ he shouted to his brother, the battle-cry of the Kerrs sounding in the mêlée.

  ‘Belleden. Belleden.’

  They made easy work of two knights caught on their horses at an unfavourable position. Lachlan doubted that they had even known what had hit them as they fell and lay still.

  Eight down now, though his own men had fallen too. Andrew and Ian and Alec. Rob was next to him and Malcolm, and further away Stuart fought.

  In the heat of the battle Lachlan forgot the crowd and the field and his king. But not Grace. He did not forget her. She’d called out a warning to him at one time, her green dress with the red bands like a beacon to his eyes as his left side ached and damned men kept coming at him.

  There were twelve of them left now, nine on the other side and only Malcolm, Stuart and him on this one. He stayed near his brother, liking the feel of him at his back, a kind of elation filling him ever since he had seen him break from the entrance in the colours of the Kerrs and cross the field. Not all lies, then. Not all betrayal.

  Malcolm went down suddenly, the angle of his fall worrying and his stillness even more so. Lachlan fought for control as the hooves of his horse missed his head by a whisker, Zeus prancing sidewards from the jab of a knife aimed at him. Honour was as lost on this field as it never was in war, Lachlan thought, as he turned and sheltered his brother, the fence a welcome block, a way at least of buying time until an attendant came to get him. But something was not right in the gurgle of Malcolm’s breath and the bright red blood that seeped from his aventail on to the dust below.

  Whipping up his visor, Lachlan slid from his horse, whistling to Zeus to stay exactly where he was. He had his brother’s helmet off in a se
cond and the damage to his throat was as startling as the tears that ran down his cheek.

  ‘I tried, Lach. I tried to help…’

  ‘You did help.’ His sword parried as a rider who had come in behind on foot leapt at them. Without any hesitation, Lachlan ran the point through the opened slit of his helmet. He stood for the next one, hard anger making short work of him too. No one could have touched him on that field, no one could have got to his brother. It was for Malcolm he now fought, for the good times and the bad ones, for the years when they had been siblings in the true sense of the word, before Dalbeth’s prophecy and his mother’s death, before Hugh’s drinking problems and the way that war had torn out the heart of every family along the border.

  When he saw that Stuart had managed to garner the attention of the remaining knights, he brought his brother across his knee, discarding his gauntlets and wiping away the blood, feeling as he did so the growing coldness in Malcolm’s skin.

  ‘God forgive me…my sins, Lachy.’ His childhood name! He swallowed.

  ‘He will, I am certain of it, aye.’

  ‘And you. Do you forgive me?’

  He nodded his head. ‘Ahhh, Malcolm, sero sed serio… late but in earnest.’

  But he was gone from this earth, the glazed stillness of his eyes widening as his soul disappeared. Gone. For ever. He held him close before laying him down and standing. Five knights left against just Stuart and himself. Anger coursed through him and a fatalism that hardened everything.

  Removing his visor completely, he stepped into the ring of men and began to fight.

  Something was not right. Malcolm was not moving and Lachlan was favouring his left side. And yet the way he fought was unlike anything Grace had ever seen before, no face protection now, his helmet and gauntlets lying by his fallen brother, his hair dark-wet against the matt of his worn armour and his sword slashing. Two left now and then one. Stuart took no part in the spectacle as her husband finished off the last remaining resistance. Easily.

  And then went down on his knees and lifted up his brother, cradling the limp form in an embrace that was both fiercely protective and undeniably private even in that arena of a thousand men and women, the blood on his cheek swiped away in a gesture that defied pity and mirrored the sort of fury that only heroes might finally feel.

  The echo of his name began as a single voice in the gallery of the peasants, Grace was to think later, a quiet acknowledgment to bravery. And then it grew. ‘Lachlan Kerr, Laird of the Marches’, echoing around the stands, accolades of a new legend and the deeds that bards and jesters might recall and retell down through the coming of the next generations. Honour. Prowess. Respect. Two brothers caught in the clash of ideas and holding true to the Declaration of Arbroath through life and death. ‘For we fight not for glory, nor riches, nor honours, but for freedom alone which no good man gives up except with his life.’

  And it had been given, here, today, in the blood of the Kerrs, their colours slashed with crimson and dust and the tears of a seasoned knight who would cry before them all after fighting them all.

  Grace’s own eyes welled and she stood, running, running to her husband, the ache in her throat growing as she came closer.

  He caught her to him, the warmth of her skin, the tears on her face and her flame-coloured hair, his woman, his wife, beautiful in a way no other woman would ever be, her simple honesty shining bright.

  ‘I love you, mo chride.’ Easily said. Nothing held back.

  ‘I love you, too.’

  His fingers threaded through her hair, but they did not kiss. Not here. Not in this arena. That would come later.

  ‘Malcolm’s dead.’ He hated the catch in his voice.

  ‘He died for you and for Belridden.’

  ‘I know.’

  The trumpets sounded again, and the cheering was untempered as David walked on to the field.

  Lachlan bowed his head, but David caught his arm and held it high, turning him so that he could be seen from all the stands and vantage points. Favours were thrown, fluttering down from the higher tiers and the lower ones until the earth was a sea of colour. He saw Grace pick up one in the shades of red and green and bring it to her breast, but David was speaking now and the crowds quietened.

  ‘I say that Lachlan Kerr, the Laird of Belridden, shall hold the Eastern Marches safe for Scotland.’

  Lachlan got an impression of his liege using the moment for his own gains and he smiled. Perhaps this country was in safer hands than he had thought, the threat of the northern landowners and of the English receding a little. Perhaps Malcolm’s death had meant something, had changed something, had melded a land splintered and greedy into something better.

  He hoped so even as he reached for Grace.

  The wound was far worse than he had let her see, she thought twenty minutes later as Lachlan’s squires pulled back the padded linen of his tunic. All across the back of his neck and the folds of skin on his upper arms blood welled, but it was the deeper gash beneath his left arm that was the most worrying. Grace saw the beaded sweat rise on his forehead as the young servant dabbed at the blood with a wet cloth.

  ‘It is deep,’ she ventured, but he stopped her.

  ‘Believe me, I have had far worse than this and lived.’

  ‘In battle?’

  ‘And away from it.’

  In the light of the tent with his chest bare, Grace could easily see the traces of many other wounds, scars now whitened by time. Not just a few, but many; taking his hand in her own, she brought his fingers to her lips, kissing each one by one.

  ‘Will this be the end of it?’

  He smiled and nodded and she thought that his strength and certainty would forever keep her safe.

  ‘Thanks to Malcolm it will be.’

  On another pallet with his hands folded across his breast Malcolm Kerr lay, his dagger gleaming and clean in his fingers, as though even in death he might still fight.

  The noise of the crowd outside filtered louder through the thin canvas of their tent, and as the flaps were folded back Grace frowned. Already the space was filled with well-wishers and all she wanted was the chance to tend to her husband herself.

  A large black dog bounded in unfettered and leapt at them both.

  ‘Dexter?’ She bent to his warm wet kisses and laughed out loud, her fingers searching out his body for the wounds she had seen there last time. Nothing remained, and when Lachlan put out his hand she let him go, marvelling that a dog of his size would sense the need for care. He did not jump at Lachlan as he had with her, but nuzzled into his hand, sitting on his haunches by the pallet and staying still.

  ‘How did he come here?’ Grace had her answer a second later when her uncle and three cousins appeared, their faces filled with concern. Connor Kerr limped in behind them, his wide smile at Grace’s gasp of surprise suggesting a man returned to almost full health. Her husband’s Gaelic greeting was warm, another friend restored to them in the calmness between political upheavals.

  Her uncle, however, was not to be left waiting, pushing into the space with all the energy of a man half his age. ‘We had a missive arrive at Grantley from a John Murray informing us that we were needed in Edinburgh and so went by way of Belridden. This dog insisted on following us from your keep and five miles out we decided to let him in and bring him to you both.’

  The sudden gasp of Ginny made everyone turn.

  ‘Malcolm.’ Torn from anguish and disbelief and agony, the small bag that she carried dropped as she rushed to his side and threw herself across him.

  The first word she had uttered on nigh on a year was not to be her last. ‘I thought I had killed him! I thought he had died at Grantley?’

  ‘Nay, Ginny, he lived. He came to help, to help us here, to fight in the tournament.’

  ‘I thought it was my fault…I thought it was all my fault that he died…’

  ‘Shh.’ Grace held her cousin still, the many ears listening dangerous to a carelessly offered confessi
on, and Judith, understanding the predicament, walked forwards to shepherd her sister from the tent.

  Her uncle turned back to Lachlan. ‘It seems we have much to apologise for and thank you for. Grace is happy. I can see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. You do not stammer any more, niece?’

  ‘No.’ On reflection it had been a while since she had.

  ‘And your skin condition is so much improved.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘We are having a child in the summer.’ Lach’s words were proudly said and Dexter barked as if he too sent felicitations, making everyone laugh.

  A new beginning then. A new heir for Belridden and for lands that were now so much more secure. And Malcolm would be buried there. For ever there. Another fallen son of the keep of Belridden claimed as a hero in death.

  She prayed to God that peace might now rule the Borderlands.

  Epilogue

  All candles were snuffed out save for one as the winds from the mountains hurled themselves against the ramparts of Belridden. But inside they were warm, tucked beneath fine skins of deer on a bed of feather softness.

  Safety. How she loved it. Her finger touched the cheek of her husband, the new ring he had given her glinting in what little was left of the light.

  ‘In my childhood dreams you looked exactly the same as you do right now, at this moment.’

  He laughed at that and traced a line across the tilt of her nose. ‘When your mother named you Grace she chose the right name.’