Border Storm

by Amanda Scott

  Laurie watched curiously as the fellow carried a small wooden chest to the high table and put it down.

  “Open it,” Sir Hugh said, “and give Sir William the document that sits atop the others, the one with Scrope’s personal seal.”

  Sir William’s eyebrows shot upward. “Scrope has filed a grievance of his own? I have heard naught of this. Do you know who is named within, sir?”

  “Aye, I do,” Sir Hugh said gravely.

  Laurie felt a muscle twitch in the forearm beneath her hand, and only then did she realize that she still rested her hand there. Hastily, she took it away, folding her hands demurely at her waist and hoping that her movement would not draw her father’s attention to her just then. Something in Sir Hugh’s tone warned her that Sir William was not going to like the news the Englishman had brought, and she did not want to be sent away before she learned what it was.

  The room was still while Sir William untied the ribbon and carefully unrolled the parchment. He read slowly, his eyes narrowing as he did.

  Laurie heard his sharply indrawn breath, and as she did, she remembered that Sir Hugh Graham had known her sister’s name.

  “Godamercy,” Sir William muttered, “May? My May? This is utter folly, sir. What can Scrope be thinking? May can have murdered no one.”

  Laurie gasped and felt her knees give way.

  Hugh heard the gasp and reached to steady her. He had been watching her closely from the moment of his arrival, continuously from the moment she had taken her hand from his arm—and not just because it was a pleasure to do so.

  He had recognized her the moment his eyes met hers.

  At first, he had not believed it could be the same girl. The one he had seen in the tree had seemed scarcely more than a child, and this self-possessed, elegantly garbed young woman clearly was nearer twenty than twelve. The girl had seemed to be just a pretty ragamuffin. The young woman was extraordinary.

  She wore no cap or veil. Her glossy raven curls were piled atop her head in a knot from which curling strands wisped to form a frame around her heart-shaped face. He had been right about her eyes, too. They were blue, but of so dark a blue as to look either purple or black, depending on how the light struck them.

  Her gown suited her. He knew enough about feminine fashion to realize that she had a sense of style and no fear of new colors. In his opinion, too many women still wore black and the other dark colors that had been fashionable for years. His sister liked the new lighter colors, too, but the pale yellow silk with its velvety black-and-gold trim would not suit Janet. It suited Mistress Halliot especially well.

  Its close-fitting bodice emphasized her curvaceous figure rather than concealing it. Her sleeves puffed out at the shoulder but fit closely to her arms, ending just above the elbow. Broad stiff frills extended from there to her wrists, and when she moved, he caught glimpses of white lace-edged linen beneath them.

  The waist of her gown plunged low to a vee at the center, and although her skirt was full, he could tell from the natural way she moved that she wore no hoops or corsets. Under the gown, he was certain, Mistress Halliot wore only a fine white linen, lace-edged smock. The lace edging was visible at the front, emphasizing the swell of her soft breasts above the low-cut square neckline of her bodice. A high lace ruff encircled her slender throat, dipping from just below her ears to frame the lower part of her face and her chin. The ruff’s shape drew Hugh’s gaze—because of his height and vantage point—directly to her breasts.

  He realized that he was still holding Mistress Halliot’s arm and that silence had returned to the hall. Sir William of Aylewood was awaiting a response from him, apparently oblivious to his daughter’s reaction.

  Hoping that the Scotsman had not noted the exact direction of his gaze, Hugh released Mistress Halliot, looked at her father, and said calmly, “I cannot presume to tell you what Lord Scrope was thinking, sir. I know only that his lordship filed the grievance himself. I did take the liberty of reading it, however, and it seems straightforward enough.”

  “It is a tissue of lies, sir!”

  “Doubtless, the lass will have her own tale to tell, and she will do so at the warden’s meeting,” Hugh said calmly. “As Scrope’s deputy, I may have to sit if he cannot, and therefore I should not enter into a discussion about it with you now. Scrope did ask me to remind you that it would be inappropriate for you to sit in judgment of your daughter, which is why I brought the grievance to you as soon as I received it. You should take your deputy with you, sir.”

  “Aye, I’ll take him along,” Halliot said curtly, “but I do not understand what Scrope thinks he is about, to have made up such a tale about my daughter. I’ll take my oath that she does not so much as know this Martin Loder. She certainly cannot have killed him. The lass has not been out beyond the wall without her mother or her sisters at her side. The accusation is absurd.”

  “Then you and your daughter will easily establish that impossibility before the jury, sir,” Hugh said, glancing at Mistress Halliot again and noting how pale her cheeks had become. He turned back to Halliot and saw that his gaze, too, had shifted to Mistress Halliot.

  “Laura,” Halliot said, “do you know aught of this business?”

  “I do not know anyone called Martin Loder,” Mistress Halliot said, frowning. “I do not believe that May knows anyone by that name, either.”

  “Where is she?”

  Before Mistress Halliot could reply, Hugh said, “If you will forgive me, Halliot, I’ll take my leave of you now. You will prefer to deal with this in private, I know. As it is, darkness will fall before we cross back into England.”

  Halliot stood up. “I’ll send a party of my men along to see to your safety.” He gestured to a man-at-arms. “Attend to it, Edwin. Sir Hugh Graham and his men have done me a kindness at some risk to themselves, so I want them to have every consideration. See that they get food and drink and then escort them safely back to the line.”

  As the henchman nodded and left the room, Hugh said, “I thank you for your courtesy, sir. Good day to you. Good day to you, as well, mistress.”

  Leaving the hall, Hugh wondered if he was being a fool. It would be as easy for Halliot’s men to attack them as for any raiding party to do so. Still, he believed that he had taken the man’s measure accurately and could trust him to do as he promised. Halliot was crusty and bluff, but Hugh had never heard ill of him, and instinct told him that Halliot was a man of honor, that at most he wanted to assure that Hugh and his party left Scotland. His instinct also told him, however, that Mistress Halliot knew more than she had admitted to her father.

  Hugh had heard her gasp before she swayed, and when he steadied her, he felt her stiffen. Shock at hearing her sister accused of murder might explain such a reaction, of course, but Hugh had experience in judging whether people were lying or telling the truth. His life frequently depended upon that skill, and a note in her voice when she answered her father’s question had warned Hugh that she was taking unnatural care in choosing her words. He believed that, to the best of Mistress Halliot’s knowledge, her sister did not know Martin Loder. He was not so certain, however, that Mistress Halliot did not know Loder.

  After all, Hugh told himself, Loder had an eye for a pretty woman, and if Hugh had seen her in that tree, Loder might have, too.

  If Loder did see her, the only reason he might have had for neglecting to mention it was that he knew exactly who she was. He clearly knew his way around Tarras Woods. Perhaps Mistress Halliot was the reason for his acquiring such knowledge in the first place.

  When Sir Hugh Graham had gone, Laurie looked warily at her father, wondering how much of her dismay he had observed.

  “Where is your sister?” he said.

  “I do not know, sir, but I will gladly go and find her.”

  “Do so at once,” Sir William said. “I cannot imagine that she knows aught of this tragedy, but I must be sure before I write to tell Scrope that he is mistaken.”

  Laurie turn
ed toward the spiral stairway, grateful that he had not questioned her further and that he was letting her fetch May. Somehow, she would have to prepare her, and together they would decide what to tell him.

  May had seemed to recover swiftly from her ordeal. Caught up in helping the people of Liddesdale and Tarrasdale recover from the raid, she had found little time to indulge her thoughts or fears, but once the crisis had passed, Laurie had seen a change. Lately, May had seemed nervous and frightened. There was no sign of the anger she had displayed immediately after the incident. She would not talk about it, either, and generally avoided talking with Laurie.

  Therefore, Laurie did not hold out much hope that May would find it possible to evade Sir William’s questions. In no time, she would confess the sordid details about Sir John, even about taking her supposed dowry. Nevertheless, Laurie had promised to protect May, so she would do all that she could.

  She had taken only a few steps, however, when her stepmother entered the hall from the stairway with her usual brisk grace and a swirl of dove-gray skirts.

  Stopping abruptly, Blanche looked around in puzzlement before she said, “I was told that we had visitors. Pray, husband, what have you done with them?”

  “They have gone,” Sir William said.

  “Gone? But did you not invite them to spend the night? From whence came they, and whither do they go?”

  “They came from England,” Sir William said, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

  “England? But why, and who were they?”

  He gave her a direct look. “It was Sir Hugh Graham, madam, deputy warden to Lord Scrope, and he came to present me with a grievance against my own daughter. Are you still vexed that I did not invite him to be our guest for the night?”

  Blanche looked daggers at Laurie as she said, “Pray, sir, what is your daughter supposed to have done now?”

  “Laura is not the one Scrope named in the bill of grievance, madam.”

  “Then who?” Blanche looked bewildered.

  “Aye, well, it would hardly be Isabel, now, would it?”

  Visibly distressed, she ignored his sarcasm. “But who could be so cruel as to accuse May of anything? It must be Laura and they have mistaken her identity.”

  “That will do, madam,” Sir William said, his tone harsher than any Laurie had heard him use before, speaking to Blanche. “This has naught to do with Laura.”

  Blanche bowed her head. “Forgive me, husband.” Looking up again, she added, “But how, sir, could anyone accuse our May of anything that could amount to an official grievance?”

  “She stands accused of murder, madam.”

  Blanche stared at him, then shook her head. “Someone must be making a game of you, husband. No one could possibly believe May capable of murder.”

  “So I think, myself,” Sir William said. “Much as I dislike it, though, I must question her about this. Laura, go up now and send her down to me, if you please.”

  “She is not feeling well,” Blanche said doubtfully. “I told her to lie down on her bed until supper.”

  “Nevertheless,” Sir William said firmly, nodding at Laurie.

  Hastily, lest Blanche again ask what she knew about it, Laurie left and went upstairs to her sisters’ bedchamber. Without ceremony, she pushed open the door.

  Isabel sat on a stool beside May’s bed, reading aloud to her.

  “Leave us, Isabel,” Laurie said.

  Without question, Isabel set down the book and went out.

  “What is it?” May asked, sitting up. “You look as if the sky had fallen.”

  “Perhaps it has,” Laurie said. “Someone knows about Sir John’s death. It’s worse than that, May,” she added when May gasped and clutched a hand to her breast. “His name was not Sir John. It was Martin Loder.”

  “Godamercy,” May exclaimed. “But how can you know that? Even if someone found his body”—hastily she crossed herself—“h-how would they know that he called himself Sir John? How can you know that it is the same man?”

  “I cannot answer those questions,” Laurie said. “Nor can I guess how anyone came to associate us with his death. That is,” she amended, “they seem to have associated you with it. You stand accused of his murder, May. You will have to answer to the accusation at the next Truce Day. Our father has the grievance in his hands even now, and he wants to question you.”

  May burst into tears, and for several moments Laurie had her hands full. She tried to calm her first by stroking her shoulder and speaking quietly. When that did not work, knowing that someone—most likely, Blanche—would soon be coming upstairs to discover what had delayed May, she grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a shake.

  “May, listen to me! Hysterics will avail you naught. You must calm yourself and help me think what to do.”

  “I cannot! I won’t go before the wardens! I won’t! All those people! They will hang me for murder!”

  “No one is going to hang you,” Laurie said. “I’ve never heard of a girl your age being hanged, and no one is going to hang the Scottish warden’s daughter.”

  “But I cannot stand up before all those people. I’d die of shame! And what will I tell our father when he asks me what happened? What will you tell him?”

  That was a much larger, more imminent problem, but at least May seemed calm enough now to discuss the matter.

  Quietly, Laurie said, “He does not believe that you can have done such a thing. Now, he thinks Scrope made a stupid mistake. I know of no reason why he should not continue to believe that until we can think of something credible to tell him—something that will not cast both of us straight into the suds.”

  “You promised to protect me,” May whimpered.

  “I know I did, but I cannot think how”—she broke off, then added thoughtfully—“the most urgent thing is to prevent our father from questioning you in this state. We have to decide exactly what you will say, and we must decide before you confront him. We need some time to think, May. Why are you in bed?”

  “Because I cannot stop thinking about him going into the river,” May replied with a sob. “I’ve scarcely talked to anyone but you or Bridget since it happened, Laurie. If you had not been so busy, you would have seen that much for yourself.”

  “I have been trying to keep out of your mother’s way,” Laurie said. “Recall that she was waiting for me when we got home that night. I fobbed her off then, but you know that she’d like nothing better than for Father to beat me soundly. Indeed, she nearly persuaded him to do it the day of Scrope’s raid.”

  “I know,” May said with a sigh. “I wish you would find a man you could bear to marry. That would resolve everything, for all of us.”

  “It would not bring Sir John back to life,” Laurie said dryly. “Or Martin Loder, if that’s who he was. In any event, he was English, and Scrope will scream till he gets some sort of justice.”

  “Until he manages to hang me for it, you mean,” May said. Tears welled into her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

  Pulling a handkerchief from her own sleeve and handing it to her, Laurie said, “The reason I asked why you were in bed is that I think you are about to become sicker. Do you think you could manage to be sick at your stomach and manage to play the invalid at least until morning? It will mean missing meals.”

  “I don’t care about that,” May said, slumping back against her pillows and mopping her face with the kerchief. “If you can keep Father from quizzing me, I will do whatever you say. Bridget will do anything I ask of her, but Isabel might tell Mama that I am not as sick as I say. Still, I can stick a finger down my throat. It will not be the first time I have done that.”

  “I know,” Laurie said, smiling at her. “You do it now and again to keep from going to kirk. Your mother always believes you are really sick, too.”

  May nodded, and Laurie stood up. “I’ll go now and tell them. Perhaps you ought to do the finger thing straightaway, though. If Isabel sees you do it, our plan will fail. The child has a tendency
to speak whatever words come into her head.”

  “Aye, she’s a prattler,” May said with a meaningful look. “I’ve not forgiven her yet for telling you about Sir John.”

  Gently, Laurie said, “Do you wish that I had not followed you that night?”

  May flushed. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along,” she admitted. “The plain fact is that I might well have flung myself in after him rather than come home again to face everyone.”

  “That is blasphemous, May. You mustn’t think such things! We got through that night, and we’ll get through this and what follows, as well. I promise.”

  May sighed, but she got up and followed Laurie out of the bedchamber. When Laurie turned toward the stairway, May went toward the necessary-stool chamber shared by the three sisters and the maidservant who tended them.

  In the hall, she faced Sir William and Blanche. “I’m sorry, sir, but May became quite unwell when I told her. She cannot possibly talk to you now.”

  Sir William sighed and said, “I should have told you not to tell her why I wished to speak with her. I’ve no doubt that you did, did you not?”

  “I did, sir, and I realize that I should not have done so. She already was feeling ill, and she flew into a panic. When I left, she had retired rather hastily to the necessary stool. I sent Bridget to her, but I’m afraid May has made herself sick.”

  “I’ll go up to her at once,” Blanche said. “I am very vexed with you for upsetting her, Laurie, and with you, sir, for allowing such an upset. Instead of accusing poor May, you should be writing an angry letter of protest to Lord Scrope. The very idea of that dreadful Englishman accusing my darling of such a dreadful act! He should be ashamed of himself!” She turned with what in any less haughty dame would be described as a flounce and went out of the hall.

  Laurie was left to face her father. “I’m sorry, sir. I should have known it would upset her. She has not been feeling well for days now.”

  “It is probably no more than her time of the month,” he said. “I will talk with her tomorrow when she is feeling better, but I do not want you discussing this with her further before then. Do you understand me?”