Border Storm

by Amanda Scott

  Geordie grinned. “’Twas that lad yonder,” he said, pointing toward a large black in a neighboring stall who chose that moment to toss its regal head and snort. “He kicked out the boards and fair frighted the wee gelding in the next stall to death. We’ll ha’ it fixed in a twink though, mistress.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Laurie said with a smile. “Will you have someone saddle my pony, please, Geordie, and one for Meggie’s Andrew. I’d like to explore some of the countryside hereabouts and Meggie has loaves she said I should take to some tenants if you can spare Andrew to show me where they live.”

  Geordie nodded. “Aye, that’s a good notion, that is, for they’ve missed their bread since Mistress Janet went awa’ into Scotland. I can send Small Neck Tailor wi’ ye, as well. We’ll no miss him this afternoon. ’Tis been quiet as a grave hereabouts.” He frowned, and Laurie tensed. “Ye’ll no go far, mistress,” he said. “The master wouldna like it an ye went north o’ the Lyne.”

  “Then you must tell Andrew and your man,” Laurie said calmly, “because I have been outside the wall only the one time since I came, and I am not certain that I would know the River Lyne from the Black Lyne if I walked into it.”

  Chuckling, Geordie said, “I’ll see they keep ye dry, mistress.” Then, cupping a hand alongside his mouth, he shouted for Andrew.

  The boy came running, and when Geordie explained the task ahead of him, he grinned widely and agreed at once.

  “Run to the kitchen and fetch the loaves whilst they saddle our ponies,” Laurie said. “Your mam will tell you where we should go.”

  She stayed in the yard, not wanting to take time even to change her dress, lest Geordie change his mind and decide that he should not let her go.

  Ten minutes later, when Andrew returned with a sack of loaves, the horses and Laurie were ready. Mounting astride, she kilted up her skirts and tucked them around her legs for propriety’s sake. As she, Andrew, and the man-at-arms called Small Neck Tailor passed through the main entrance, the tall gates swung shut behind them.

  Laurie drew a deep, satisfying breath of fresh air.

  The afternoon was warm and sunny. Puffy white clouds floated in an azure sky, and a light breeze stirred grass and heather on surrounding hillsides. For a time, she was content to follow Andrew with Small Neck Tailor plodding behind, but after they had visited two cottages, she began to find the sedate pace tiresome.

  “I am going to ride ahead to that thicket of trees in the distance,” she called over her shoulder to the man-at-arms. “If you want to accompany me, you may do so. Andrew, do not drop the bread!”

  With that, she dug her heels into the pony’s flanks, and it leapt forward, clearly as eager as she was to go faster. A trail of sorts stretched ahead, and she followed it, knowing that if she did the pony would be less likely to step into a rabbit hole. Her spirits soared, and when she drew rein at the edge of the thicket, she felt more like her old self than she had since her arrival at Brackengill.

  “Oh, that felt good,” she said when Tailor and Andrew joined her. “I’d like to ride like that every day. Indeed, I believe I will begin taking a horse out regularly unless we receive news of danger in the neighborhood.”

  No one at Brackengill expressed objection to her plan, and so, reassuring herself that as long as she returned to the castle no one could object, she continued to ride out each day. Some days Geordie would assign a second man-at-arms, and she would know that he had received slightly disturbing news, but he never shared that news with her. Nor did he refuse to let her ride outside the wall.

  Laurie began to feel perfectly safe in her outings, and sure than no one could object to them. It was no more, after all, than the freedom other hostages enjoyed.

  A successful siege requires the patience of a saint, and Hugh Graham was no saint. Neither was Corbies Nest, the abandoned peel tower that he had taken over as his headquarters, a place that offered much comfort; however, the tower overlooked the Moss and Tarras Wood, which made it strategically ideal. Having reinforced its timber walls, he remained, determined to flush out the reivers.

  Had the men now hidden in Tarras Wood been sensible, they would, he believed, have yielded at first sight of his small but powerful army. The law gave him the right, as deputy warden, to pursue back to their dens in Scotland any raiders who attacked English villages. That same law gave him the right to demand support from the opposing warden, and that he also had done, sending messages both to the warden at Aylewood and to his deputy at Broadhaugh. By rights, Hugh’s mission should have succeeded. That it had not he blamed on a number of factors.

  Halliot, although protesting that Hugh had provided evidence against no man in particular, merely an accusation against a legendary outlaw whom no one had yet proved really existed, nevertheless agreed to send men to assist him as soon as he had any to spare. Quinton Scott of Broadhaugh, Halliot’s deputy, had likewise agreed to lend what support he could, but not until the past week had Hugh seen any sign of the promised help from either one. Then Halliot had sent four men to report that they had found no indication that men of Liddesdale or Teviotdale had taken part in any raid across the line since Buccleuch’s legal pursuit of villains into North Tynedale after his release from Blackness.

  Hugh received the report and the offered assistance of a mere four men with barely concealed scorn. He had expected no more, however, and his position with regard to Halliot was particularly delicate, since he was presently holding the man’s daughter hostage.

  Halliot had also included in his message a bleak statement that his daughter May’s maidservant had been found dead on a Liddel riverbank, information that Hugh decided not to relay to Laura until he learned more. Even Halliot had not suggested that the maidservant’s death meant that her mistress had died with her, and Hugh did not want to upset Laura unnecessarily. Halliot had not mentioned Laura, even to reply to the message Hugh had relayed for her.

  He contented himself, therefore, with sending terse thanks to Halliot and nothing more.

  He also sent a report of his activities to Scrope, but the only reply was a message informing him that his lordship was away from Carlisle, the guest of an indecipherably named lord. Knowing the likelihood was that Scrope was engaged in his favorite form of entertainment and that his reaction to the siege would depend on how much he won or lost did not improve Hugh’s mood.

  He spent his days overseeing his men, strengthening the wall round his tower in case the siege continued through the autumn, and practicing his swordsmanship. He had not been pleased with the showing he had made the night of the raid on Carlisle Castle and was determined never to lose such a match again.

  He did not visit Brackengill. His body’s reaction to the mere thought of Laura Halliot sleeping in his sister’s bedchamber was enough to warn him that he should not seek her out. Even when he believed his mind was focused on his duties, a stray memory would catch him unaware. He would wonder idly if the skin under her clothing would be even softer to touch than the swell of her breasts above her bodice had been. He wondered if she would yield to his desire if he made it known to her. The wondering way her eyes widened when he caught her gaze and held it made him yearn to try her passions.

  He dared not reveal his feelings, however, for he doubted that she shared them. Even if by some miracle of a benevolent God, she should come to do so, he knew it would only complicate matters. As her jailer, he could afford her some protection. If others suspected his feelings for her, it would become more difficult.

  That did not keep him from thinking about her, however, or constantly wondering how she was spending her time. It did not occur to him that she might defy him. He had given an order, and his orders generally were obeyed.

  At first, daily exercise was enough to satisfy Laurie’s need to escape the confines of Brackengill, but when Sir Hugh sent word that his siege still had failed to bring the men in Tarras Woods to their knees and would continue indefinitely, even the daily rides began to seem restrictive.<
br />
  Days when Andrew rode with her were not so bad, for she could ask him questions about the countryside and about his erstwhile mistress. It was in the course of such a conversation that she came to believe that she was closer to Tarras Wood than she had suspected.

  The journey from Aylewood to Lochmaben had been long, requiring an overnight stay with friends. Because the trip from Lochmaben to Brackengill had been shorter, and because Sir Hugh had not returned from his siege even for brief visits, she had assumed that the castle was a long way from Tarras Wood.

  To learn that Brackengill lay nearer than she had thought to the Moss presented undeniable temptation, particularly since she strongly suspected that Andrew frequently crossed the line to visit Janet Scott.

  Laurie could not pretend even to herself that Sir Hugh would permit her to ride into Scotland. But the more she told herself she must not the more she wanted to do so, and Sir Hugh was, after all, in Tarras Moss, creating difficulties for her friends and family.

  Her opportunity came at last, at the start of the third week of the siege, when Small Neck Tailor did not appear as usual to saddle her pony and ride out with her.

  Only Andrew was there when she walked into the stable.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “Geordie took Small Neck and some others to Bewcastle, because Sir Edward Nixon sent word o’ yet another raid into Redesdale. They think it must be Rabbie Redcloak, that he’s leadin’ all these raids, but the men watching along the line ha’ seen naught o’ him or his Bairns. Geordie were a bit worried, like, ’cause he’s got all them cattle Sir Hugh marked afore he left, pasturin’ over Haggbeck way. He’s set a guard on ’em o’ course, but still…”

  “Who is in charge here, then?”

  “Asa Gibbs,” the boy said.

  Laurie nodded. She knew Gibbs. “I have bread to take round,” she said.

  The boy nodded. “Aye, then, I’ll bring out our ponies.”

  Laurie smiled. “You will have to serve as my man-at-arms today, then.”

  Andrew squared his shoulders. “Aye, I’ll look after ye.”

  Hoping that she was not about to get him into serious trouble, Laurie watched him run into the stable to get their horses. Then, realizing that if she sent him for the loaves he would brag to Meggie that he was to serve as her sole escort, she hurried to the kitchen to fetch them herself.

  “We’ve just these four today,” Meggie said grimly. “That feckless Sheila were t’ watch them, but she got t’ nattering wi’ one o’ the lads and forgot to shift ’em. The others be black—useless even as trenchers. I’ll ha’ to mix ’em with the hog slop.” She sighed. “At least them hogs’ll eat anything and be glad of it.”

  “We’ll take these, then, and the other folks will just have to wait until next week,” Laurie said, taking the cloth sack that Meggie held out to her.

  She had not decided what to do about the bread if she succeeded in her plan, so it was just as well that she did not have eight or ten loaves. No one in the Borders looked kindly on wasting good food.

  “’Tis a fine, fresh day,” Meggie said. “Ye’ll ha’ a good ride.”

  “I will,” Laurie agreed.

  Hurrying back outside, she found Andrew ready with the horses. Handing him the sack to tie to his saddle, she let one of the older lads give her a leg up, but she did not breathe easily until they were alone outside the gates.

  Then, when Andrew skirted the wall and headed toward the low, sloping hillside that edged the area she had come to know as Bewcastle Waste, she said casually, “When you ride into Scotland, how do you go?”

  He glanced at her, measuring her, as if he wondered whether talking to her about his adventures would get him into trouble.

  She smiled. “I know you must do so. You talk so much about your Mistress Janet that I realized some time ago that you must ride over the line frequently to visit her. Does Sir Hugh not know about your visits?”

  “Nay, and ye mustna tell him—nor Ned Rowan, neither. Ned skelped me good the once for staying away all night and worrying me mam, and he promised he’d do it again, too, but he’s no caught me since.”

  “But you’ve been to Broadhaugh since then, have you not?”

  Glancing at her obliquely, his expression answered her question, but she waited to hear what he would say.

  At last, reluctantly, he said, “Ye’ll no split on me, will ye?”

  “Never,” Laurie said. “I’ve secrets enough of my own, laddie.”

  He relaxed visibly. “We’ll ride through yon thicket to reach Granny Fenicke’s cot,” he said. “Then we go to Job Withrington’s widow woman.”

  “Is not Granny Fenicke the one whose granddaughter lives with her—a lass about your age?”

  “Aye,” Andrew said, rolling his eyes. “She’s that daft, Clara is.”

  Recalling the way the girl had followed him about during a previous visit, Laurie had no trouble translating this declaration. Smiling, she said, “I was thinking that perhaps Clara would not mind delivering the other loaves. They go to Job’s widow, to Mistress Dunne, and to Mistress Hedley, do they not?”

  “Aye, Mistress Hedley’s ailing a bit, me mam said, so she would get the last one,” Andrew said wisely. “But why would we give them to that daft Clara?”

  “Because,” Laurie said, lowering her tone confidingly, “I want you to take me a short way across the line today.”

  “I canna do that! Sir Hugh would… he would…” He fell silent, his eyes wide, clearly at a loss for words to express his dismay.

  “Sir Hugh will not know,” Laurie said. “I want only to ride on Scottish soil for a bit. Think how you would feel if someone kept you at Broadhaugh and you could not get back here to your own land and family.”

  His brow creased as he thought about that. “I wouldna like it,” he said at last. “But still…”

  Laurie said, “Just how far is Tarras Moss from here?”

  The boy shrugged. “I dinna ken the miles,” he said.

  “How long does it take you to ride to Broadhaugh, then?”

  “A good part o’ the day. Wi’ Ned Rowan awa’, I can tak’ supper there and slip back across the line afore sun-up. I tell me mam I’m awa’ to Haggbeck, and if I’m in the kitchen when she wakens, she doesna ken I’ve been awa’ the nicht.”

  “Do you not pass through Tarras Moss? Do you know how to ride there?”

  “Oh, aye, I ken the way. ’Tis nobbut an hour and a bit if ye ride hard and if ye ford Liddel Water at Caulside, or so Ned Rowan says. I dinna go that way, though. I stay well east o’ that plaguey forest where Sir Hugh’s tower be.”

  Laurie did not even try to conceal her amazement. “They are really as close as that? I thought Tarras Moss must be miles from Brackengill, especially since we have not seen anything of Sir Hugh since this siege began.”

  “It’s no so far as all that,” Andrew said. “He sends messages, ye ken.”

  “What do you hear about the siege?” she asked.

  With another casual shrug, he said, “The men dinna say so much, but Mistress Janet says it doesna prosper. She says folk in Tarras Wood ken its ways cleverly, so they go and come as they choose. But I canna tell Sir Hugh or his lads the things she says.” He nibbled his lower lip.

  “Aye, for they’d be bound to guess you had been to Broadhaugh, and then Ned Rowan would find out,” Laurie said. “Now, tell me, which way do you go?”

  “By Kershopefoot, where the wee burn runs. ’Tis the easiest way, and no one pays me any mind. I ride toward Hermitage and across the fells to Broadhaugh.”

  Laurie knew that route, and it would never do, for it led through the heart of Liddesdale. “Do you know the crossing west of Rowanburn, near the castle there?”

  “Aye, I’ve been that road a time or two.”

  “Well, suppose we ride there? I know that countryside better than I know Liddesdale, and it’s safer, I think. I do not suppose that anyone will heed a lone woman an
d a bairn thereabouts, do you?”

  “I’m no bairn,” he said indignantly.

  “No, of course you are not. You are my man-at-arms.”

  “Aye, that I am. Just look here.” To her shock, he reached down beneath his baggy netherstocks, struggled a moment with something attached to his saddle, and then pulled out a large wheel-lock pistol similar to the one she had taken with her the night she had followed May. He waved it triumphantly in the air.

  “Godamercy, Andrew, how came you by that?”

  “’Twas me da’s,” the boy said. “Them villains o’ Scrope’s flung it into the thicket by Granny Fenicke’s, but Clara found it and give it back t’ me. If we meet any Scots reivers the day, I mean to shoot them. Lady Marjory said I couldna protect ye on me own, but I can, mistress. They’ll no harm ye whilst I’m about!”

  “They would not harm me, in any event,” Laurie said gently. “You forget, laddie, they are my people.” Repressing the thought of deadly feuds that reared their heads from year to year, feuds that could make her people as dangerous to her as any English Borderer, Laurie held his gaze. “You must not shoot anyone unless I say that you may. Promise me that you will not.”

  “Oh, aye, then. Mistress Janet said I was no to shoot it till I’m growed, but I’m nearly growed now, I think.”

  “So you are,” she agreed, hoping that he understood the workings of the wicked looking weapon better than she did. “Perhaps one day you could show me how to shoot that thing.”

  “Aye, sure, perhaps,” he said. “Where will we ride when we cross the line?”

  “To the west side of Tarras Wood,” she said. “If folks are slipping in and out at will, we may meet someone I know. I’d like to hear news of my family.”

  “News o’ that sister o’ yours, I’d wager,” Andrew said with a grimace.

  She looked at him. “Andrew, do you understand why I stay at Brackengill?”

  “Aye, sure,” he said, clearly surprised by the question. “Ye’re Sir Hugh’s lady, ’cause ye pledged yourself in your sister’s stead. She killed a land sergeant, but the master didna like him, any road, so he’s nae too wroth wi’ ye, I think.”