by Amanda Scott
Fiona put a hand to her belly, feeling it tighten strongly. “The old master has taken a bad turn, but I… I think something else is happening, too,” she said.
“More pain?” Flory asked sympathetically, stepping nearer.
“Nay, or at least not the same—” She broke off, gasping. Through a wave of agony, she managed to say, “Oh, Flory, this is much different. Could it be my time?”
“Aye, it may be starting,” Flory said. “But mind, me lady, them other women did say that wi’ your first, it be bound to take a long time. I do think ye should be getting into bed, though. I’ll help ye. Then I’ll fetch Jeb’s Jane. She did say she’d be that pleased to help ye through it, and she kens gey more than we do.”
The pain eased and then vanished as if it had never been. Drawing a long breath, Fiona said, “Aye, send for Jane. But I don’t want to get into bed yet, especially if this is going to take a long time.”
Flory sent at once for Jeb’s Jane, but it was more than an hour later before Fiona felt another contraction. Wrenching pain, followed by nothing.
“Just a wee warning o’ things to come, I’m thinking,” Jane said two hours later. “They’ll come closer together afore that bairn will show itself, m’lady. I’ll go back to the kitchen to help set out things for supper. Send for me an ye need me, but I’m thinking the wee one willna be ready afore sometime tomorrow.”
She opened the door to reveal Hod, standing at the threshold.
“He’s gone,” he said. “The old master be dead.”
After seeing Tony MacCairill and Sir James Seyton on their way back to their respective duties, Kirkhill had enjoyed a fortnight’s peace. That is, he had if one did not count his younger sister’s irritatingly relentless attempts to talk him into taking her to join the royal court at Stirling or—a notion that had taken a more tenacious grip on her imagination—to invite a host of family friends to Kirkhill House.
In vain had he explained that he might be called away at any moment.
“A messenger could find you at Stirling as easily as he could here,” she began coaxingly that Sunday morning as they broke their fast together.
“Stirling is nearly a hundred miles northeast of here, whilst we are just ten miles north of Spedlins,” he pointed out, striving for patience.
“Then the thing to do is to invite people here, as I’ve also suggested.”
“How would it look if, the minute our guests began arriving, I received word that Old Jardine had died? I should have to leave at once.”
“I don’t know why you could not wait a day or two. But if you could not,” she added generously, “Uncle James could—”
“No, Nan, and that is my final word on the subject,” he said.
“But—”
“I said no, and that must be the end of it if you do not want to spend the next three days in your bedchamber to give me some peace.”
An hour later, his mother, clearly prompted by Nan and just as clearly wary of his likely reaction, approached him in his room at the rear of the house to suggest that if Nan was not interested in Sir Antony, it would behoove Kirkhill to arrange for her to meet other eligible young men.
He said curtly, “No, madam. I understand that Nan persuaded you to speak to me, but I have given her my answer. Prithee, tell her that she may now take her dinner in her bedchamber. Tell her, also, that I do not want to see her again until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
“Aye, dearling, I will tell her. I warned her that this was a mistake.”
So it was that when a gillie entered the chamber to tell him that Sir Antony MacCairill had returned and was in the courtyard with a large number of other riders, Kirkhill greeted the news with near exasperation.
Getting abruptly to his feet, he muttered, “By heaven, if he thinks to make progress this way, he’ll soon learn his error.” He strode past the gaping lad only to meet his porter hurrying to find him.
The porter, wide-eyed, announced, “The Lord o’ Galloway, me lord.”
Archie Douglas strode past the porter with a hand held out to Kirkhill. Tony MacCairill followed, grinning as usual.
A tall, lanky man in his fifty-ninth year, Archie the Grim, also known as the Black Douglas because of his dark hair and complexion, was bareheaded, doubtless having left helmet and sword on the porter’s bench in the entryway, though he’d kept his dirk in its sheath at his hip. His still mostly black, shoulder-length hair framed a long, hawklike face, and his dark eyes glinted brightly as he met Kirkhill’s gaze.
Archie’s long stride was that of a younger man, and his arms and torso still looked muscular enough to wield the two-ell sword that had made him famous.
“I left all my lads save Tony in your courtyard,” he said as he shook Kirkhill’s hand. “I hope you keep enough food in this pile to feed at least me and my captains. Tony told me that you do.”
“I think we can manage,” Kirkhill said, shooting a look at his friend. “Tony, mayhap you can make yourself useful by conveying those orders to the kitchen.”
“Aye, sure,” Tony said, turning to follow the porter out of the chamber.
Archie raised an eyebrow. “You send one of my best knights to give orders in your kitchen? Have you no lesser minions at hand to send on such an errand?”
Kirkhill smiled as he gestured toward two chairs by the hearth, on which a small but cheerful fire crackled. “Won’t you sit, my lord? ’Tis nobbut punishment for Tony’s having turned up again so soon after I thought I’d got rid of him for a spell. See you, he wants to marry my sister Nan, but she will have none of him.”
The second Douglas eyebrow went up. “He did mention such intent, but I expected the match would be to your liking. ’Twould be a good one.”
“Aye, sure, but the lass is contrary, and Tony is too avid in his pursuit. I’d hoped to put distance between them for a month or more.”
“I won’t keep him here long, for I mean to be off again after we dine,” Archie said. “But as I was nearby, I thought I’d come myself to tell you I’ll likely need you before long with as many men as you can muster. The Earl of March seems determined to take control of Annandale. Such is his right; however…”
When Archie paused, Kirkhill said, “March has been Lord of Annandale for years but has kept to his estates in the east and shown no interest here before now.”
“I ken fine that you must wonder who will come along next, wanting to irk the dale’s pricksome inhabitants,” Archie said. “But bordering right on Solway Firth as it does, Annandale is strategically important. The blasted English, by occupying Lochmaben Castle, have made nuisances of themselves here for three-quarters of a century, and Sheriff Maxwell of Dumfries laid his claim to its rents two years ago.” He shrugged. “Maxwell has shown no interest in resuming that debate after his failure, but I doubt that he is any less ambitious now than he was then.”
“But… forgive me, my lord,” Kirkhill said. “Are you not also intent on extending your rule from Galloway to all of Dumfriesshire?”
“I am,” Douglas said. “But that won’t alter March’s rights as Lord of Annandale, and so I have told him. Even now, he gets his share of the rents when they are paid. But he hopes to take personal charge of the dale by ousting the English and does not seem to know he cannot do that alone, or without Douglas help.”
“Do you support him then? He’s a gey ambitious man, I’m told.”
“I’ve had no time even to think about that,” Douglas said. “But if he means to invade Annandale with a large force and lay waste these lands, I must take notice. I won’t have petty strife here, no matter who stirs it. And the way things are going in Stirling and throughout the Borders, I’ll need more men soon, and lots of them.”
His mentioning Stirling reminded Kirkhill that the increasing Douglas power was becoming a thorn in the side of the royal family. The royal Stewarts believed they were the premier Scottish clan, but Clan Douglas was far more powerful.
Together, the Earl of Douglas
—as chief of that clan—and Archie as Lord of Galloway ruled not only the Douglases but also the Scottish Borders, Galloway, and most of the land, from coast to coast, between the Borders and the Firths of Forth and Clyde. Together, they were at least three times as powerful as the Stewarts were. It was therefore unlike the prickly Archie to give the flip of a finger for what the Stewarts might want—or the Scottish Earl of March, come to that. However, at least one more powerful faction would also enter any dispute over Annandale.
“The English have been restless,” Kirkhill said as he reached for the jug of whisky that always sat on the table by the hearth. He poured a mug of it for his guest and another for himself, saying, “England’s Earl of Northumberland will surely object if March leads troops into Annandale.”
“Aye, sure,” Archie agreed, taking the proffered mug. “Northumberland’s men have been flitting back and forth across the line to stir trouble all the way from Berwick to Roxburgh, and that blasted March only makes matters worse by thinking he can end the damnable English occupation here.”
“I heard that whenever March stirs a step westward from his seat at Dunbar, Northumberland sends raiding parties across to divert him elsewhere,” Kirkhill said.
“Aye, and so far, that ploy has kept March busy in the east, but their antics are annoying the Douglas, and when that happens, the Douglas sends for me.”
“And when the two of you respond, March returns to Dunbar and the English hie themselves back across the line,” Kirkhill said with a slight smile.
“That amuses you, aye, and would doubtless make a charming pattern for a courtly dance,” Archie said. “But I don’t mean to put up with it much longer. Ridding Annandale of the English would help, and that is why I have come to you.”
“You must mean to besiege Lochmaben then,” Kirkhill said. “I can think of no other way to get them out. That castle has proven impregnable for sixty years.”
“Aye, but thanks to the Annandale folks who have kept its English garrison well pent up these past years, they cannot build an adequate store of supplies. Nor have their masters in England been able to replenish those supplies or pay the men with any regularity. A successful siege should take no longer than a fortnight but requires more men than I can spare at present. I’ll need more just to aid the Douglas.”
Tony returned then, assuring them both that Kirkhill’s kitchen had all in train and that dinner would shortly be ready. Helping himself from the jug of whisky, he said as he took a seat, “Have you learned aught more about Will Jardine, Dickon?”
Kirkhill glanced at Archie.
“Och, I ken all about it,” that gentleman said. “I’ve little use for the Jardines. But if you take over there, as Tony says Old Jardine wants you to do when he dies, I’ll expect to see his men under your command when I need them.”
“I’ll do my best, sir, although one cannot swear how loyal they will be.”
“They’ll be loyal, or we’ll hang the dearling bastards,” Archie said.
Smiling, Kirkhill turned to Tony and said, “My men have searched the dales, but we’ve learned nowt of Will’s whereabouts that we did not already know.”
“Aye, well, the man’s vanished then, because the best any of my sources could suggest was that either he was carried off by wee folk or the devil flew away with him. I’d opt for the latter, myself.”
Kirkhill chuckled. The three men talked desultorily for another quarter hour before a gillie came to tell them that the midday meal was ready to serve.
Adjourning to the hall dais, Kirkhill had taken his place, and Archie was paying his respects to Lady Kirkhill, when Nan, in blatant defiance of Kirkhill’s order, swept into the hall and onto the dais. She wore a becomingly modest rose-pink gown with a front-laced bodice of exquisite tapestry work, and she made a deep curtsy to Archie, bringing a rare smile to that gentleman’s dark face.
Kirkhill’s good humor, on the other hand, darkened grimly.
“Be the laird really dead, mistress?” Jeb’s Wee Davy asked, looking up at Fiona as she paused, put both hands on her sides, and waited until the pain eased. She had met the boy as she took the air in the courtyard after her midday meal, and they were strolling back to the tower.
The pains had begun again that morning and had been coming regularly but were still about an hour apart. When the contraction eased, she looked down into Davy’s anxious little face and said, “Aye, the master is dead, laddie. We must not be sorrowful though, for he is no longer sick and suffering as he was.”
“Me da weren’t suffering or sick. He just died.”
“Your father was a good man, Davy. I’m sure that God is looking after him now, just as Jeb is looking down with pride as he watches you.”
“Be me da in heaven, then?”
“Aye, sure. That is where all good men go, so if you are good, you will join him there one day.”
Davy frowned. “I’m no always so good, sithee.”
Fiona put a gentle hand on his head, stroking his dark silky curls. “God doesn’t mind a bit of mischief now and again, laddie. He looks for kindness and such things as the way you look after your sister, Tippy, and the other little ones.”
“Aye, well, some’un has to watch over them or they’d be in the suds every day.” After a pause, he added, “Be the old laird in heaven, d’ye think?”
Fiona hesitated, because one could scarcely talk of God with a child and lie to him in the next breath. At last, she said, “I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Me da didna like the laird,” Davy said. “Were that wrong o’ him?”
“Nay, we cannot always choose whom we will like or not like.”
The boy nodded. “Then I hope the laird be somewhere else and no wi’ me da.”
“He must be somewhere else,” Fiona said. When they reached the hall, she sent him to find his mother, and while she waited for Jeb’s Jane to come to her, she found her thoughts drifting as they so often had of late to Kirkhill.
She had not sent a messenger for him yet, although she knew that she ought to have sent one as soon as she learned that Old Jardine had died. Guilt stirred over the delay, but the truth was that she was in no hurry to send for Kirkhill. When he arrived, she would have to answer to him and apply to him for aught she needed, just as she had with her father, Will, and Old Jardine.
After managing the Jardine household for two years, despite the Jardines, she resented knowing that Kirkhill would have the right to undo things that she had done and would doubtless order her about with everyone else.
Jeb’s Jane hurried in minutes later, but when Fiona admitted that the pains were still far apart, Jane shook her head, albeit with an understanding smile.
“I ken fine that ye be in a hurry for the wee one to come, me lady, but he’ll get here in his own good time.” Pausing briefly, she added, “They say that Lord Kirkhill will be a-coming soon. D’ye think he’ll be a kind master?”
“I don’t know, Jane. I haven’t even sent for him yet, but he seems to be a gentleman, so I expect he’ll be reasonable enough.” She hoped he would be more persuadable than the Jardines had been. After all, she had often persuaded her father to see things her way when Dunwythie had seemed at first to be intractable.
Kirkhill had seemed affable enough, except for the few times she had noted an edge to his voice or a glint of ice in his eyes.
Another pain struck then, and Fiona stopped thinking about Kirkhill.
Kirkhill was sorely tempted to order his defiant sister back to her bedchamber. He did not, but only because Archie’s captains were taking places at the lower hall trestle tables, and he did not want Nan to create a scene that they would likely describe for the entertainment of others wherever they traveled.
He would, instead, make Nan sorry later for her defiance.
As she took her place at the table beside their mother, who was still chatting with Archie, Kirkhill glanced down the table at Tony, conferring with two of the captains. If Tony had observed Nan’s gr
and entrance, he gave no sign of it.
Nan stood at her place, looking annoyed and impatient as she waited for her mother to sit. Kirkhill signed to the gillies to begin serving and took his seat, nodding when Tony motioned that he would like the two captains to sit at the high table with him so that they could go on talking.
Archie held Lady Kirkhill’s chair for her and then took his seat beside Kirkhill. “Your lady mother is as charming and beautiful as ever,” he said.
“Aye, she is, my lord,” Kirkhill agreed.
They talked more of what Archie expected to take place in the next few weeks, but the meal did not take long. The Lord of Galloway was eager to be off again, so as soon as good manners allowed, he signed to his men to depart and lingered only long enough to make his adieux.
Tony, Kirkhill noted as they all stood to bid Archie farewell, had paid no heed to Nan. As the younger knight prepared to follow Archie, he stopped briefly at Kirkhill’s side and said, “If I learn more about Will Jardine, I’ll send word, Dickon, but I’m thinking that the damned fellow has vanished into thin air.”
“As you’ll most likely be traveling south, if you do send a messenger, warn him to look for me at Spedlins before he rides all the way to this end of the dale.”
“Aye, sure,” Tony said. Then, with a bow, a polite farewell to Lady Kirkhill, and an equally polite but sober nod to Nan, he strode from the hall.
Nan’s look of astonishment might have stirred Kirkhill’s amusement had he not still been so annoyed with her. As it was, he said, “You will come with me, my lass. I should think you’d know by now how little tolerance I have for defiance.”
She put her chin in the air but, looking at him, held her tongue. When he stood aside and gestured for her to precede him from the hall, she went meekly.
Her meekness availed her little in the next quarter hour and might have availed her less, because her brother was reaching for a good supple switch when a sharp double rap sounded on the chamber door.