The Border Series

by Arnette Lamb

  As precocious as a prince, Alasdair again moved into a crouch. “She will not yell at you, you have my word of honor on that. Mother seldom yells.”

  Mother. The sound of that word sparked another oddity. In the last hour Drummond had heard it said more than he would have in a week’s time at Macqueen Castle. The patriarchal clan system had specific places and duties for women, and indulging their sons was certainly not one of them.

  “Next year, when I’m older, I’m also going to scale a castle wall.”

  Drummond sent his son a threatening stare, then waited until he resumed his seat “Also?”

  “Like you did when the evil Viking lord kidnapped Mother.”

  Caught off guard, Drummond merely stared at the crown of his son’s head and the mop of wavy black hair that played host to an assortment of twigs. Alasdair was obviously referring to another tale his mother had told.

  “You burned his sails so he couldn’t escape with her.”

  A reply worked its way through Drummond’s confused mind. “Macqueen Castle lies three days’ ride from the sea, and it has no dock.”

  “So?”

  Drummond had wrongly responded with logic. He was quickly learning that nothing about the fables his wife had created had anything to do with logic.

  “She gave you a piece of a kiss,” Alasdair said reverently.

  “You mean a kiss of peace.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Heckley, the fletcher, says the best thing a girl can give a lad is a piece.”

  At Alasdair’s age Drummond had understood adult innuendo; he’d also witnessed his father and his older kinsmen taking their manly pleasure of the wenches that were always about. Infidelity had been an accepted practice, and Drummond had given it little thought. Until his wife had lain with another man.

  When his wounded pride stirred, Drummond tamped it back. “You should listen to me, not this Heckley fellow.”

  Alasdair scrambled to face Drummond. “I could listen better standing up. Why won’t you let me?”

  Longfellow picked up the pace; he was eager to reach the water, which had been the reason for the long ride. “Hold on.”

  Disdaining the rope handles woven into the carpet, Alasdair kept his hands at his sides. “Mother says an adult should always answer a child’s—a young man’s—questions.”

  “Your father says a child should always obey. Now take hold of that handle.”

  He did. “Now may I stand up?”

  “Absolutely and irrevocably, nay. Never. And if you ask me again I’ll punish you.”

  The lad’s mouth fell open. “Me?”

  Now that he’d made an impression, Drummond relaxed. “Aye, and severely.”

  “How?” Alasdair leaned close, excitement dancing in his eyes. “Will you put me in a cage and let the women of the village poke me with their broom handles?”

  “Where did you hear of such a ridiculous punishment?”

  “Do you not remember? That’s the justice you meted out to the evil black knight who stole all of the children’s sweets.”

  Oh, Lord, in fable Drummond had progressed from rescuing damsels to sparing children the pain of losing their tarts. Was there no end to his wife’s imagination? “Does your mother tell you stories about anyone else?”

  He nodded. “She said an angel left me on her doorstep. There’s also a funny story about the sheriff. He drank too much ale and on his way home to Drumfries, he fell asleep on his horse. He awoke in Carlisle.”

  “Do you like the sheriff?”

  Alasdair smiled. “He taught me how to piss off of the curtain wall and not splatter my hose and boots.” Solemnly, he added, “’Tis manly business.”

  Drummond felt a stab of jealousy toward a sheriff he’d never met and the time the man had spent with Alasdair. The future, however, belonged to Drummond. “Who else teaches you manly things?”

  “Brother Julian and Sween, the huntsman. And Bertie takes me fishing.”

  Drummond would come to know all of those men, and henceforth he would dictate Alasdair’s studies. “I saw Evelyn scaling the trout you caught today.”

  His lip curled in distaste. “If she leaves the heads on, I’m not eating any.”

  The lad was as strong willed as his mother. Drummond scratched his nose to hide a smile. “Why have you not learned to clean your own fish?”

  He looked absolutely insulted, his mouth pursed, one eyebrow cocked. “A man provides the meal,” he said sagely. “The women prepare it.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Sheriff Hay.”

  Again, Drummond felt the sting of envy. “What if the women are ill or too busy with other things?”

  “Mother is never ill, and everyone always hurries to do her bidding.”

  Just as she would rush to do as Drummond commanded her.

  “Look!” Alasdair pointed behind them. “’Tis her.”

  Tightening his hold on the lad, Drummond twisted in the saddle. A single rider raced toward them, leaving a trail of dust in the road. Drummond commanded the elephant to halt, then waited.

  She rode astride a lathered gelding, her fingers clutching the animal’s mane. She’d lost her coif and her combs, and her braid had begun to unravel. Moving abreast of Longfellow, she managed to stop the horse. Although her chest heaved from the breakneck ride, she calmly said, “Alasdair, come down from there.”

  Alasdair turned around, his back again to Drummond. “Nay.”

  Worry made her anxious, and the horse sensed her mood, sidestepping and tossing its tail. She seemed oblivious to her mount’s distress. “Put him down, Drummond.”

  The command snapped the last thread of Drummond’s frayed patience. Being sassed by an ill-mannered child was one thing, taking orders from a woman was something else. “Nay. I promised him a ride to the burn.”

  Having his position defended made Alasdair bold; he folded his arms across his chest and stared at Longfellow’s flapping ears. “We’re on manly business, Mother.”

  Strands of golden hair whipped about her face, but she paid no attention. Her skirt rode high on her leg, exposing her knee, but she didn’t seem to care. Her anxious gaze flitted from her son to her husband. Beyond her distress, Drummond sensed fear. But of what? Did she think he couldn’t protect the lad?

  “No harm will come to this insolent child,” he said. “At least no accident will befall him.”

  “If you give him to me, you will not be troubled with his safety or his headstrong nature.”

  “Headstrong?” Drummond laughed. “You have a gift for understatement.”

  Through gritted teeth, she said, “And you have none at all. Give me my son.”

  My son, as in my tenants, my keep, and my land. The possessiveness of it fueled his anger. If she wanted a battle of wills he would gladly oblige her, for Drummond had no intention of losing. With a sturdy stick, he lightly tapped the elephant’s withers. Longfellow started forward again. “We’ll return before dark.”

  “Wait!” The stiffness went out of her, and she gave Drummond the most insincere smile he’d ever seen. “Since neither of you will come down, it must be because you’re having fun.” She slid off the horse. There was no saddle. “So, I’m coming up.”

  “Hurrah!” Alasdair patted a spot on the carpet in front of him. “Sit here, Mother. You can see all the way to Loch Linton.”

  As Drummond watched her horse canter back toward the keep, he wondered where she’d learned to ride so well and so daringly. He also toyed with the notion of reprimanding her for it. But Alasdair was tugging on his shirt and demanding that they stop and help her up.

  Resigned, Drummond halted the elephant, then released the rope ladder and watched her climb aboard. Longfellow swung his massive head toward her and sent his trunk to take a whiff. As Drummond expected, the beast returned to his favorite pastime: eating grass.

  When she reached the top, Drummond grasped her waist and put her across his lap. She squirmed in a way that melted his
anger and hardened his loins. He held her tighter.

  “What are you doing?” she protested, clutching his arm.

  Her hair caught the wind, and the loose strands felt like silk against Drummond’s face. The pleasing fragrance of heather wafted around him. He had to clear his throat to speak. “You’ll block Alasdair’s view, so I’m putting you between us.”

  She surveyed the carpet. The handles were out of her reach. “What will I hold on to?”

  Drummond returned the fake smile she’d given him moments before. “Me.”

  “I’d rather sit there—between your legs.”

  His smile turned genuine and his mind made a lusty picture of her words. “Be my guest. You can even bounce up and down if you like.”

  She sent him a confused frown before moving off his lap and situating herself between his knees. He considered pulling her back and wedging her pretty bottom against his manliness, but decided against tormenting himself. Instead, he stared at her wind tossed hair and wondered what she would say if he offered to tidy it.

  When Longfellow started down the road again, she said, “Where did you get the elephant?”

  “He got it from the king,” said Alasdair. “Longfellow took a liking to Father, and when he left Londontown Longfellow missed him so much he butted down the gates. The king made Father come back and fetch Longfellow. Now he’s our elephant.”

  Drummond leaned forward and softly said, “Why have you never taught him to respect the conversation of adults?”

  Alasdair chirped, “But I know the answer. You told me before we even got on him.”

  “I do not remember anyone addressing a question to you.” Lowering his voice, Drummond said, “’Tis rude and presumptuous to let him believe that he can interrupt at will.”

  Her backbone stiffened. “He’s just a lad, and he loves you well.”

  She spoke casually, as if it were natural for a son to love a father.

  Alasdair murmured, “It’s very rude to whisper, even I know that.”

  For the remainder of the short ride, Alasdair chatted constantly, but only once did he try to stand. “Get you down, Alasdair Macqueen,” his mother scolded. “Or you’ll be old and toothless before another dish of custard passes your lips.”

  The threat worked until they reached the burn. Alasdair stood and scrambled down the ladder. Longfellow plunged his trunk into the water and began to drink. Drummond descended and helped Clare to the ground. Then he removed the saddle and carpet and put them beneath a rowan tree.

  A moment later Longfellow siphoned water into his snout, arched it over his head, and doused his back with water.

  “What’s he doing?” asked a wide-eyed Alasdair.

  Longfellow was making so much noise, Drummond had to yell. “He’s giving himself a bath.”

  “I want to go swimming,” Alasdair declared.

  His mother examined her fingernails. “I could be persuaded to let you go swimming if you could be persuaded to study Latin for an extra hour.”

  His eyes snapping with intelligence, Alasdair paced before her. “For how many days?”

  So that was where Alasdair had learned his bargaining skills. An interesting aspect for a female, thought Drummond.

  “For two days,” she said.

  “Done.” Alasdair tore off his jerkin and shirt and pulled down his hose. Kicking off his boots, he left his clothes where they lay and walked into the stream. Above the waist his skin was brown; below, his thin legs and buttocks were as white as a goose’s belly.

  His mother gathered his garments. “Stay close to the bank, Alasdair, and come out before you turn blue.”

  Drummond couldn’t resist saying, “Shall we join him?”

  She glanced at him. The wind stirred her hair, and the dappled sunlight made of it a nimbus of gold. “You may if you like, Drummond, but I prefer to watch today.”

  He wondered what she’d do if he tossed her in. Probably bluster and curse him to hell. But now that Alasdair was out of earshot, Drummond had other matters to discuss. “You thought I was taking Alasdair for more than a short ride.”

  She tossed the lad’s hose over her shoulder and began folding his shirt. “I didn’t know what to think when I saw you so far down the road.”

  “And if I had exercised my right as his father and taken him anywhere I chose?”

  Matter-of-factly, she said, “After an hour or so, you would have begged me to take him back.” When Drummond sent her a look of disbelief, she added, “He’s never been away from home before.”

  That probably explained his stubborn nature. “Never?”

  “Not without me.”

  “You’ve coddled him.”

  Clutching the clothing to her breast, she sat on a boulder and watched the lad frolic in the waist deep water. He flapped his arms and turned in a circle. “Perhaps so, but I had no instructions in the rearing of children. I was taught—”

  “To obey your husband.”

  She sent him a sideways glance. “Yes, and other gentler duties.”

  “Like riding a horse without benefit of saddle and bridle?”

  “No. I wasn’t taught that at the abbey.”

  “I forbid you to do it again.”

  To his surprise she rubbed her hip and gave him a crooked grin. “You needn’t spare a worry over that, my lord. I expect I’ll suffer the consequences for days.”

  Congeniality had always come natural to Clare, but when flavored with sincerity, it became an especially appealing quality. Drummond was drawn to it, and he wanted to reply in kind, but he couldn’t quite let himself.

  She hesitated another heartbeat, her expression open, and for the moment, trusting. Then she turned back to their son, and her eyes softened with motherly love.

  The breeze turned cool on Drummond’s cheek. Like a window thrown open briefly, the opportunity to befriend her had passed. Perhaps it was just as well, but he couldn’t help feeling as if something precious had slipped from his grasp.

  “What shall we feed Longfellow?” she said into the silence.

  Drummond moved to stand behind her. “The grass in the outer bailey should satisfy him for a week or so.”

  Her laughter rang hollow and insincere. “That’s far enough, Alasdair,” she called out.

  Only the lad’s neck and head were visible. He bobbed up and down, the movement carrying him deeper into the stream. She called to him again and began rubbing her hands together. “Alasdair!”

  “Come in and get me.” He waved his arms. “I’m drowned, Mother. I’m as drowned as a rat.”

  “I’m not coming in after you.”

  The lad giggled. “I’m never coming out,” he singsonged. “I’m never coming out.”

  Her mouth twitched with laughter. “Then you’d better grow fins and call yourself Alasdair MacTrout.”

  He floated onto his back and beat the surface with his hands. “You’d better rescue me.”

  “No.” She glanced at Drummond. “Not today.”

  “Do you swim?” he asked.

  Keeping a close watch on her son, she pulled her hair free and started to replait it. “Well enough to keep afloat and indulge my son.”

  Drummond let the sarcastic remark pass; the lure of her golden mane proved too tempting. He pushed her hands away. “Let me do that.” When she tensed, he added, “While you tell me why you made up stories about me.”

  A sigh lifted her shoulders. “In the beginning they were for Alasdair, to lull him to sleep … and to feel pride in himself and you. You weren’t here, and he was always asking questions about you. ’Tis natural for a son to be curious about his father.”

  Her thoughtfulness gave Drummond pause, and he had another reason to regret that she had been unfaithful to him; her exile from the Highlands had deprived Alasdair of the company of his kin. “You could have simply told him the truth.”

  “He’s too young to understand the strife between England and Scotland. I meant to tell him when he was older, but at the time
he needed someone to look up to.”

  “A flesh and blood man cannot live up to those tales, Clare.”

  She chuckled. “I think you’ll find that slaying dragons is easier than being a good parent.”

  “A good parent. The term seems peculiar. In my experience, women bear sons, fathers and uncles raise them. But guardians never accept responsibility for a disappointing charge.”

  “Yet you are quick to say that I have coddled, spoiled, and indulged Alasdair.”

  “You have.”

  “And you have two ways of looking at the issue, both of which conveniently support your position.”

  “Which is?”

  “Whatever you do is correct, or ’tis not your fault. By omission or absence, you contributed to his growth or lack of it.”

  A valid argument, he was forced to admit. But not to her of course. He finished braiding her hair. “What reason did you give Alasdair for my absence?”

  “I simply told him you had gone to heaven to be with God.”

  “Rather than telling him I was imprisoned for treason against the English.”

  “Yes. As I said before, he’s too young to understand politics. It was better that he thought you had gone to heaven.”

  Only Clare Macqueen would liken prison to paradise. “If you thought I was dead, why did you not find another husband?”

  A butterfly landed on her head. She spoke quietly. “I was a dreadful wife, even you said as much. Why would I wed again?”

  “Perhaps ’tis because you knew I lived.”

  She turned so quickly she almost tumbled from the rock. The butterfly flitted away. “I knew nothing about you.”

  Again he glimpsed her sincerity, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Alasdair easing into the center of the stream.

  “I’ll get Alasdair out of the water.” He turned to Longfellow and said, “The king’s a pox ridden maggot.”

  As expected, Longfellow threw up his trunk and trumpeted loud enough to make ears ring. Alasdair squealed and made a hasty retreat from the water. His mother pulled off her mantle and held it out for him. Arms pinned to his sides, his knees knocking, his little penis shriveled to a nub, he let her wrap him in the faded red wool.