by Amanda Scott
Evidently, though, Tammy took a dim view of Emma as Molly’s protector, because he sent along two extra grooms, as well. So, with Janet and her groom, plus Rosalie and Len Gray, they became a party of four women and four armed men.
Chapter 17
The day was as glorious as Rosalie had promised. A light breeze rippled dry leaves that lingered on the birches, oaks, and ash trees in the forest.
The Hall stood east of the Rankilburn, near its confluence with the smaller Clearburn, flowing into it from the northeast. Molly and her companions followed the path south along the Rankilburn’s east bank, uphill toward its source, as they had on Sunday.
Birds chirped, squirrels chattered. No one was in a hurry.
“The motte sits on yon hill across the burn,” Janet said after a time, pointing.
By then, they were riding single file. A steep, densely foliaged hill rose on their left, and the burn chuckled cheerfully downhill on their right. A short time later, Molly saw that the burn bent westward ahead. A sike, or rill, tumbled downhill there, and she recalled that the bridge lay near where the rill flowed into the burn.
“Look yonder,” Rosalie said. “Is that not Father Eamon striding toward us?”
“It is,” Janet replied as Molly followed Rosalie’s gaze. “Moreover, by the look of those white robes his two companions wear, they are Cistercian monks.”
“Likely, they come from Melrose, then,” Len Gray said.
“They have seen us,” Janet added when Father Eamon waved.
“We shall have to be civil, I expect,” Rosalie said.
Molly looked at her. “Would you just ride on to the motte if you could?”
Grinning, Rosalie said, “I have wanted to ride since I awoke this morning, so aye, I would go on. That is, I would if I were alone and could be sure that Father Eamon would not betray me to Wat or to Meg. However, one must not offend Wat’s priest, or yours, Molly, let alone two of the good men from Melrose Abbey.”
“ ’Tis odd that they wear their cowls over their heads,” Len Gray said.
“Oh, don’t be so suspicious all the time,” Rosalie said tartly. “Must you see bogymen even in priests, Len?”
“It is my duty to protect you, madam.”
“Pish tush,” Rosalie said. “Doubtless, their heads and ears get cold in this weather. My hood is up, and you are wearing a wool cap to cover your ears.”
Gray lapsed into dour silence, and Molly watched the clergymen.
The three men stopped on the far side of the bridge.
Over the gurgling sounds of the water, Father Eamon shouted, “If we may beg leave to delay you, your ladyship, we bring news.”
Fear shot through Molly. Urging her mount onto the plank bridge, she said, “Has something happened to his lordship?”
“Nay, nay,” the priest assured her hastily. “I should have said we bring good news. Brothers Joseph and Harold here are messengers from Father Abbot. See you, my lady, his reverence has persuaded your father to meet with you and is bringing him to Rankilburn Kirk now to do so.”
“To meet me? Why?” Molly demanded. The last thing she wanted was to see her father, certainly not without Wat beside her.
The priest turned to the monks. “Brother Joseph?”
The taller, thinner monk said in a gravelly voice, “Father Abbot would mend the rift between you and your father, m’lady. Cockburn fears dire consequences will result from your so-hasty flight. He believes that renouncing your marriage and taking shelter at Scott’s Hall was unwise, mayhap even dangerous. Father Abbot persuaded him to see for himself that you are safe at the Hall.”
“Then why did he not bring Lord Cockburn to the Hall?” Janet asked.
Giving her a look of irritation, the monk said to Molly, “Cockburn would not agree to that, and he knew that you would not agree to meet at Henderland. Father Abbot suggested Rankilburn Kirk as a compromise, and the laird agreed.”
“Then where are they?” Molly asked, forcing herself to remain calm.
Father Eamon said, “They will be at the kirk when we return, my lady. His messengers came ahead to inform me, and the three of us hied ourselves to fetch you. That we found you so quickly is quite providential.”
“Providential,” Molly repeated, glancing at her companions.
“I do hope you will meet with him,” Father Eamon said earnestly. “We should aye seek to amend dissension. Your friends are welcome, too, of course, although you may prefer to meet privately with your father and the abbot.”
Molly glanced at Rosalie, who shrugged. “I expect you have a duty to see him, my dear. If you want us there, we will come. I do fear that we might make an intrusively large audience for your father, and rather a large distraction for everyone else, if we have to wait for you outside in this chilly air.”
“I don’t want to meet him,” Molly said frankly. She was unwilling to ask the impatient Rosalie to go with her and had no wish for Len Gray to be there. “Still, I expect I must see him if Father Abbot has gone to such trouble to arrange it.”
“His reverence rarely goes to such extremes, m’lady,” the hitherto silent monk said. “He does feel summat responsible for his own part in it, withal.”
Molly knew she owed more to the abbot than a brief meeting in his presence with her father, especially since neither of them seemed to know yet that she had married Wat. “I’ll see him,” she said. “You others should ride on to the motte. If we finish talking before you return, someone will see me safely to rejoin you here.”
“I will do that myself,” Father Eamon assured them. “Such a meeting should take less than an hour, so you may look to see her ladyship in good time.”
“I’m a-coming wi’ ye, m’lady,” Emma said flatly.
Molly nodded, grateful for her company.
The two monks exchanged a glance but did not object. Nevertheless, that glance led Molly to suspect that the two of them might try to dissuade Emma from staying with her while she met with Cockburn.
She decided to keep Emma at her side, whatever happened.
Len Gray said to the two grooms Tammy had sent, “You lads stay with her ladyship, too. The other ladies will be safe with me and Lady Janet’s groom.”
Recalling things she had heard rumored about Len Gray, Molly hesitated.
Lady Rosalie waved her on. “Stay as long as you like, my dear,” she said. “If we return before you do, we’ll wait here until you come.”
Molly and Emma watched them turn away and then followed the priest and the two monks back the way the three of them had come. Looking over her shoulder minutes later, Molly saw that the others had vanished into the trees.
The journey to the kirk took longer than she had expected, although the three men strode rapidly ahead of the riders. At last, she saw the small building on its rise above the burn. Water meadows spread round the base of its hillside.
“I see four more horses now,” Father Eamon said cheerfully, casting a smile at Molly. “Just as I promised, m’lady, his reverence and your father are here.”
No one stepped out to meet them, so the Scott’s Hall grooms dismounted quickly and moved to help Molly and Emma.
“You lads walk them horses,” the shorter monk said. “It willna do t’ keep ’em standing in this chill, and we willna be long enough t’ stable them.”
The tall monk opened the kirk door, gestured, and said in his gravelly voice, “That way, m’lady. Through yon door t’ yer left.”
The nave of the small kirk was dusky, lit only by clerestory windows high in the wall above the door through which she entered and above the altar and rood screen straight ahead. She could barely make out a door to the left of the screen.
Sensing Emma right behind her, Molly glanced at her.
“I dinna hear nowt,” Emma whispered. “Would we no hear voices if—”
A strange, gurgling cry behind them, followed by a hushing sound and a thump, made both young women whirl around to see Father Eamon slumped on the floor, his eyes and mouth o
pen, blood pouring from a gash in his neck.
The shorter of the two monks stood over him with a bloody dagger in hand.
Emma opened her mouth, but before either she or Molly could scream, the tall monk grabbed Emma by an arm, swung her hard away from Molly, and let go of her to grab Molly. Seeing Emma crash to the floor, striking her head hard on a prayer stool, Molly screamed as loudly as she could.
“Hush that row,” the man holding her snarled as he slapped her, hard.
The one with the dagger cast off his robes, revealing breeks, a leather jack, and a mail shirt underneath. “Dinna stand like a stone, man,” he said curtly to the other. “Stuff summat in her gob and bring her along.”
“I’m going nowhere!” Molly snapped. “Someone had to hear me scream.”
From behind her, someone else said, “Aye, woman, I heard ye. But if ye meant them lads ye brung wi’ ye, they be dead by now.”
Molly’s breath stopped in her throat. The very sound of that voice made her sick. She had heard nothing behind her until he spoke. But she knew who it was before she turned and saw him standing in the open doorway near the rood screen.
Of medium height, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, Ringan Tuedy boasted a beard of tight red curls with more bristling from under his leather bonnet. He stood with his hands on his hips, grinning at her in fiendish triumph.
Emma, sprawled as she was between them with what looked ominously like a large pool of blood beneath her head, had not stirred.
Molly looked from one to the other, ignoring the huge lump in her throat to say gruffly, “You must be mad, Ring Tuedy.”
Wat and his men covered the territory between Ancrum and Eckford by midday without meeting a soul who admitted seeing or hearing aught of Rutherford. Suspecting that the reiver and his men had moved faster and more stealthily than expected or, and more likely, had not yet crossed the Teviot, Wat forded the river at Eckford and headed southwest along the river until it met Jed Water.
A mile or so later, following the Jed toward Jedburgh, he spotted a lone rider coming toward them at speed. Recognizing Kip Graham’s black pony before it was close enough to identify its rider, Wat whistled for the others to close in.
Kip would not be riding so hard unless he had news of Rutherford.
“Where is he?” Wat demanded as Kip wrenched his pony to a rearing halt.
“He cut west on a path that’ll bring him northward ’twixt Jedburgh and Denholm, laird. Geordie thinks he’ll seek one o’ his hidey-holes hereabouts. But methinks the reiver has more mettle than sense to show hisself in Teviotdale wi’ his grace at Melrose, Douglas at Hawick, and your lordship at the Hall not twelve miles from the Black Tower. Mayhap Rutherford doesna ken aboot the Douglas, though.”
“He’s too canny not to know,” Wat said. “To have evaded capture all this time, he must have superb sources of information. How fast was he moving?”
“If he keeps the pace he were setting, he’ll likely make camp near Denholm. In one o’ the cleuchs ’neath Black Law, Geordie thinks. With all these clouds, it’ll be a gey dark night, so likely he’ll rest till the moon rises. If it shows itself.”
“He has no beasts with him, then.”
“Just their own mounts and spare ponies. I heard that when his men go a-raiding, they keep only what they need t’ feed theirselves. They hide what booty they take in caches, hither and yon. See you, three nights ago they razed two estates in Redesdale, so Northumberland wants ’em now as bad as his grace does.”
“Take a fresh horse and ride back to Geordie, Kip. Tell him to be careful, especially if he is close to Rutherford. We don’t want to stir any dust that the man might sense. I want him to think that he and his lads are as safe as lambs in a fold.”
Watching Kip ride away, Wat drew his men in closer and told them what Kip had learned, adding, “Don’t grow too confident, though, lads. Rutherford can change direction at any time. And he will have watchers out, too, so we’ll ride scattered as we did before. Keep your eyes open, and if any of you kens a place other than Black Law where you think they might make camp, speak up.”
As a variety of shouted suggestions flew at Wat, Jed said quietly, “D’ye think the man comes this way, thinking to lift your beasts, sir? Seems daft, that.”
“He’d be greedy enough,” Wat replied. “But he might be heading northwest for some reason other than those rumors of ours meant to draw him this way.”
“The Rutherford estates lie nobbut five or six miles east o’ Melrose,” Jed said musingly. “The man may be heading for his own country.”
“If he is, he’s a fool, because Jamie’s men will be watching those estates closely,” Wat said. “But we have seen no sign that Rutherford is a fool. He has sympathizers in Tweeddale besides his kinsmen, though, men who are just as lawless and ruthless as he is.”
“Aye, them wicked Tuedys t’ name one lot,” Jed muttered.
Wat glanced at him, wondering how much information Jed had gleaned about Molly and Tuedy, but he did not ask. Whatever Jed knew, he was Sym’s son and would keep his knowledge to himself or within his immediate, equally trustworthy family. Still, Tuedy was friendly with the Cockburns, so if, as Wat suspected, Will and Ned were in league with the reiver, then Tuedy likely was, too.
Watching his men spread out along the darkening grassy hillsides, Wat kept Jed with him, aware that the lad knew the area near Black Law even better than he did himself. Jed was Sym’s son, after all, and was nearly as skilled a tracker.
Molly had no idea where she was.
Tuedy terrified her, and she was sure that Emma was as dead as Father Eamon and the grooms were. Both lads had died outside the kirk in the same manner as the poor, unsuspecting priest had died inside.
Tuedy’s men had left Emma where she lay, not bothering even to cover her body. The pool of blood under her head and lack of any sign that she breathed had told them all they wanted to know about her.
When Molly had tried to go to her, Tuedy jerked her back and snarled, “Ye’ll come with me, woman. ’Tis time ye learned to obey your husband.”
“You are not my husband,” she retorted. “I am lawfully married to Walter Scott of Buccleuch and Rankilburn now. He will kill you for this.”
“Ye terrify me,” Tuedy said, rolling his eyes. “I’m no afeard o’ Wat Scott, and his fool priest be dead. Certes, a woman canna be married to two men, so ye be my wife, will ye, nil ye. Now, dinna speak again unless ye want to feel my hand.”
With that, he’d dragged her from the kirk to the waiting horses, whereupon she saw that, besides the two false monks, he had four more ruffians with him.
Taking a rope from one of them, Tuedy tied one end of it to her left wrist. Then, he helped her mount her horse, looped the rope under the horse’s neck, and tied the other end to her right wrist. When she pointed out that she could not sit up straight without choking the horse, she earned herself a hard slap across the face that might have knocked her to the ground had Tuedy not retained his iron grip on her wrist.
“I told ye what I’d do if ye didna hold your tongue,” he growled when she glowered at him. “Ye’ve rope enough t’ hold on to the pony’s mane, so dinna fall off. If ye do aught to slow us down, I’ll bare yer arse and take leather to ye.”
With that, he mounted his horse and, leading hers, set a fast pace southward and away from the kirk. After they crested the first hill, he increased the pace.
The circuitous route they took upset Molly’s sense of direction. The hilly, often wooded country further disoriented her, and gathering dark clouds soon hid the sun. Worse, she saw no one who might heed her cries had she dared make any.
It occurred to her that even if she weren’t afraid of Tuedy, screaming would avail her naught. He would just tell anyone who tried to interfere that he was disciplining a wayward wife, and that would be that.
Claiming to be Wat’s wife would do her no good, either. Tuedy would likely claim that she was daft.
They reached the
ir destination in the late afternoon, but it revealed nothing useful. She saw only a long, thatched, stone cottage in a deep cleuch with a rivulet running through it. Two decrepit outbuildings and a wooden stockade stood nearby.
The larger outbuilding appeared to be a stable or barn, the other a shed of some kind. The thatch on all three buildings was long overdue for replacement.
When the seven men dismounted, Tuedy untied Molly’s hands and stood back to let her slide down off her horse. “Ye can talk now, if ye must,” he said. “But dinna sauce me, or ye’ll feel me hand again.”
Determined not to let him see how frightened she was, she said with what she believed must, under the circumstances, be admirable calm, “Is this where you live? What do you mean to do with me here?”
“I live at Drumelzier wi’ me da and four brothers, as well ye ken,” he said. “As to yourself, ye’ll bide here whilst I tend to important business. I’ll leave ye food and water, and quilts, but ye’ll ha’ nobbut your own thoughts for company whilst I’m awa’.”
A surge of grateful relief swept through her at the welcome thought of his impending absence. Surely, she could find a way to escape while he was gone.
She was exerting herself to conceal her relief when he added, “Lest ye think I’ve forgot that ye did me out o’ me wedding night, I did nae such thing. We’ll attend to that as soon as I ha’ me supper.”
A chill shot up Molly’s spine, and she swayed where she stood.
Collecting herself, she said, “I hope you won’t expect me to prepare your meals, for I don’t know how to cook.” That was not perfectly true, but her father had expected her only to oversee the preparation of their meals.
Tuedy said, “Me and me lads ha’ long seen to our own needs, lass. We willna starve. But come along now, and I’ll show ye where ye’ll stay.” ’
“Do you trust your people here not to harm me before your return?” she asked, searching his eyes in hope of reading truth or falsehood in his reply.
“People?” He grinned. “I ha’ nae people here, but I’ll be gone just for the night and mayhap a bit o’ the morrow. Ye’ll ha’ time to think on your sins and decide to behave. I’ve told me da and me brothers that we’re wed, so they’ll expect to see ye soon. But I canna take ye to Drumelzier until ye learn to mind me.”