by Amanda Scott
Suppressing an unexpected bubble of amusement, she said, “Forgive me. I am not versed in the correct way to serve dungeon meals. I did promise not to put myself in danger, however, so I must trust you to take things politely from my tray.”
“I’d never harm a lass, and certainly never one so bonny as yourself, sweetheart. Where did ye learn to speak so prettily?”
He spoke rather prettily himself, she thought as she balanced the tray with one hand. Holding the mug of ale toward him with the other, she said, “Do not be impertinent, sir. Will you take this mug politely, or shall I just set it on the floor?”
“For the love of heaven, lass, dinna set it down! The rats would have it in a trice. I promise I’ll no harm ye. Just hand it gently through the bars.”
He stepped forward then, and she saw him for the first time, albeit only as a figure of shadows. Still, she could see that beneath his shaggy beard his face was that of a young man, and even in the dim light his eyes seemed expressive. She could not discern their color, but she did detect a glint of humor.
Carefully she handed the mug through the bars, and when his fingers touched hers, their warmth surprised her. They looked ordinary, yet there was something about their touch that stirred unfamiliar feelings. It was, she told herself, nothing more than the thrill of touching a notorious outlaw. Nonetheless, it was all she could do to keep her hand steady until he took the mug.
The tray tilted on her other hand, and she reached swiftly to steady it. Hoping that he had not noticed her nervousness, she held out the tray and said, “I have ham and bread, sir, if—” She broke off, realizing that it was the second time she had called him “sir.” She would not make more of the error by speaking of it, though. Doubtless he had taken her for a castle servant, rather better spoken than most, but still a servant. He would not think it odd that she called him so.
“Hold it nearer, lassie. My mouth fair waters at the smell of that ham. ’Tis cruel to hold it so temptingly where I carina reach it.”
“Forgive me,” she said. “I told you, I have not done this before.”
“And I asked before, lass, why ye’re doing it now. Ye dinna belong in this filthy place, and I doubt that Sir Hugh ordered this. He’d rather I starve.”
“Aye, he would,” she agreed. “I thought you should eat, though.”
“Well, I’m grateful, but if he catches you doing this, what will he do?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, ignoring a shiver. “My coming here is not without risk, however. Sir Hugh is not always kind to…to his servants.”
“You are no servant, lass.”
She had begun to enjoy the role that she had created for herself, but his words stopped her cold. “How do you know that? I mean, what makes you think—” She stopped when he laughed. Laughter was wholly out of place in that hole, yet his was so infectious that she nearly joined him before she realized that the upper door was still open and Geordie would hear them. “Please, stop laughing,” she begged urgently. “If Geordie hears…”
“So the guard up there thinks that Sir Hugh sent you, does he?”
“Aye, he does.”
“Who are you, lass?” His voice took on a distinct note of command.
She hesitated but then decided that his knowing would change nothing. Geordie would tell Hugh that she had visited him, and whatever happened then would be her own fault and no one else’s.
“My name is Janet Graham,” she said.
“And in a land that’s littered with Grahams, Janet Graham is…”
Again she hesitated.
He did not speak. In the silence she could hear him chewing.
“I am Sir Hugh’s sister,” she said at last.
“Holy Mary,” he exclaimed, choking. “Have you gone quite mad?”
“I did not expect to be holding conversation with you,” she pointed out. “I thought only to bring food to a hungry prisoner.”
“The prisoner is grateful, mistress,” he said. “He hopes, however, that Sir Hugh does not hang us both with the same rope.”
“He might want to, I suppose,” she admitted, “but he would not dare. We have powerful friends who would strongly protest. Do you want the rest of this?”
“I do, but then you take yourself off, and do not come back.”
Again her amusement bubbled forth. “Do you dare give me orders, reiver?”
“Aye,” he said, moving near the bars to take the rest of the ham and bread from her tray. “You need someone to tell you what to do, lass, for plainly you have no sense of self-preservation. Sir Hugh Graham is a hard man.”
“I must take the mug when I go,” she said evenly.
He nodded, swallowed what was left, and held out the mug, saying, “I am truly grateful, lass, but I meant what I said. Do not attempt to do this again.”
Reaching for the mug, she encountered his fingers again, and when she tried to take it, they wrapped around hers. His grasp was firm but gentle, and when her gaze met his, she found it hard to look away. Slowly, he drew her nearer.
A footstep scraped above, and Geordie called, “Mistress Janet, you’d best hurry along. Someone will be coming soon to take my place.”
“Go, lass,” the prisoner said, releasing her and stepping back, “and know that you go with my thanks.”
Again, she could see no more than his shadowy figure at the back of the cell.
Dangling the mug by its handle and carrying the tray in the same hand, she went slowly back up the uneven stairs, her thoughts frozen, her body overheated.
The prisoner watched her go, thinking that she was a brave but foolish woman to have defied her brother so. Doubtless Sir Hugh would soon learn what she had done and would punish her. He hoped the man would not be too harsh. She had done a kindness, nothing more, and no lass should suffer for a kind heart.
Thinking of what she had risked, he sat on his stone bench and ate the last of his small meal more slowly, savoring every bite. His benefactress deserved no less.
Janet returned the tray and both mugs to the kitchen, stopping long enough to tell Sheila and Matty, two of the kitchen maids, that Sir Hugh would expect his dinner at the usual time.
“If he dines at home, that is,” she added with a smile. “Of course, if he does not return by noon, he still will expect hot food soon after he does return.”
“We know that, Mistress Janet,” plump Sheila said with a smile.
“Yes, I know you do,” she said, “but Sir Hugh’s temper being what it is, one naturally wants to make certain that he will not be displeased.”
“Aye, mistress,” Sheila agreed, nodding fervently.
Turning to Matty, Janet said, “The rushes in the hall must be changed. Gather some lads to clear the old ones out straightaway, and set others to carry fresh ones in from the long garret. We’ve still got rosemary drying in the ceiling rack, and a few other herbs as well, that you can mix in with the rushes. Also, pray ask one of the lads to replace the threshold onto the stairway. Ned Rowan stumbled over it yester-eve and broke off a considerable chunk. We shall soon have rushes scattered up and down the stairs, and someone is bound to slip.”
“Aye, mistress, I’ll see to it,” Matty said.
Busying herself with household chores, Janet tried to keep her mind off the man in the dungeon, but as the morning progressed, her imagination kept presenting her with tantalizing images of him. Fascination vied with anger over his plight, and since her temper was nearly as volatile as Sir Hugh’s, whenever she thought she heard a sound that might herald his return, she hurried to look out the nearest window that gave a view onto the bailey. Soon her patience was spent.
When noon arrived without any sign of him or his party, she ordered dinner put back an hour, declaring that they would dine then whether Sir Hugh and his men had arrived or not. While she waited, she attacked her mending, but although she tried to think of things other than the hapless prisoner, she still could not. Surely, she thought, the entire English Border west of the C
heviots must have heard by now that Hugh had captured Rabbie Redcloak and meant to hang him without trial.
Even Thomas Lord Scrope must have learned of Hugh’s intent. Scrope lived miles away in Carlisle, where he served as keeper of its great castle when he was not in London serving as Cumberland’s Member of Parliament. He might be away now, she knew, although Hugh had received messages from him not long since, complaining that the Scots—meaning Buccleuch of Hermitage, of course—had refused to agree to his latest suggested site or date for the next wardens’ meeting.
The thought of Truce Day was not helpful, for her imagination presented her at once with a mental list of Border lords on both sides of the line who would learn what Hugh had done. When she considered their likely reactions, her anger with her brother increased.
She did not waste time worrying about what the Scots would say, although it galled her to know they would be right to protest. Nor did she worry much about English lords who lived near Brackengill. Most of them, particularly Sir Edward Nixon of Bewcastle, had suffered serious losses to Scottish reivers, and several were friendly to the English Grahams—presently, at all events. Therefore, chances were good that they would support Hugh’s actions, perhaps even to the point of hanging the reiver. After all, it would not be as if they had done it themselves.
Lord Medford of Bellingham was a high stickler, however. He and his forebears had done much to create the leges marchiarum, or “march laws,” that ruled the Borders, so he would not look kindly upon any man who broke them.
Unfortunately for Hugh, most lords of the English middle march—and Hargrave, Loder, and Sawkeld from the west march—allied themselves more closely with Medford than with Scrope or Hugh himself, or with any other Graham. Those men, she knew, would strenuously oppose his actions. Indeed, Hargrave was a Bell, and the English Bells were feuding with the Grahams, who had been feuding with the Scottish Bells for nearly a decade. It was all very complicated, as Hugh should know, and those who might stand with him one moment could turn against him the next. She had to make him see reason.
He and his men returned at last a few minutes before one, and by then she was fairly spoiling for a fight. Although servants had long since set up the trestle tables, and everyone in the castle had already waited an hour past the usual time, she felt only mild annoyance when he ordered them to put dinner back another half hour. She knew that he wanted time to change into attire more comfortable than the metal-plated leather jack, steel helmet, and other protective accouterments that he wore whenever he rode outside the castle walls.
Nevertheless, when he entered the hall at last, she was pacing the floor, stirring the fresh rushes and filling the air with the scent of rosemary and herbs.
Without speaking, he strode to the fireplace near the high table and stretched out his hands to warm them. The noise of others entering the hall after him forced her to walk nearer to make herself heard.
“Good afternoon,” she said, keeping her voice calm, knowing that she would get farther with kind words than with sharp ones. “Did your business prosper?”
“Aye,” he said without looking at her. “Shot a brace of grouse, too. I had a lad give them to Sheila to hang. We can have them for dinner one day soon.”
“It is early yet for grouse,” she said.
“Aye.”
“Hugh, I—”
“My men and I are hungry, Janet, and they are ready to serve the food.” He offered his arm. “Come, let us not keep everyone waiting.”
Glancing toward the lower tables to see that his men had gathered around them and were waiting to sit, she put a hand on his forearm and went with him to the high table. As soon as they sat down, servants with baskets scurried from man to man handing out stale bread for trenchers, and the others took their seats. Hugh said a brief grace, and a servant set a huge platter of sliced ham before him.
Although she sat beside him, the near silence of men and women eating their dinner made it difficult to mention his captive with any degree of casualness. There was still much for everyone to do before day’s end, and everyone ate hastily, not in the more leisurely way that they would later eat their supper.
The latter meal, though smaller, was the social time of day at Brackengill, just as it was in most Border households. Laughter and conversation would reign then, and someone would play music. Now the feeling was companionable rather than cheerful. The fires roared, and odors of burning wood, roasted meat, and warm ale mixed with the sweet herbal scents from the new-laid rushes.
Although Sir Hugh owned considerable land and collected a respectable income for a Border lord, his household did not operate on a grand scale. What money he was able to lay his hands on went into improving Brackengill, and over the years since he had attained his majority, he had done much. He had replaced the wooden stockade walls with stone, and had expanded the family living quarters, encouraging his sister to make them as comfortable as she could.
They lived well compared to many, but even when he entertained company for dinner, there was no butler to prepare knives for the carver or to slice the bread before it came to the table. Generally, everyone used trenchers rather than plates—except, of course, when important visitors dined with them. In such an event, no lord who owned plates of any sort would use bread for trenchers unless unusual circumstances such as the arrival of a sudden and unexpectedly large number of guests required him to do so.
Fresh bread came to Sir Hugh’s table in small, individual loaves that diners could break at will. Janet swiftly scanned the basket that the servant set before him, looking for any loaves that were too brown or that still had oven grit on them. She did not want him to find reason today to complain about the food.
At the trestle tables, the bread frequently was several days older and each person scraped his own. When leftover loaves grew too hard to break easily, the kitchen maids would cut them in half for use as trenchers.
When Hugh reached for the salt, Janet held her breath. Until the days grew warmer, there was always risk that it would cake. It was Sheila’s job to make certain that the top of the container did not touch its contents and discolor them, and that the salt remained fine, white, and dry. Still, one could never be certain.
Apparently finding the salt satisfactory, Sir Hugh called for ale from his personal supply, and a pewter goblet was quickly filled for him. Watching him rip a roasted chicken to pieces while she toyed with her own food, Janet noted with satisfaction that, despite the wait, the skin was crisp the way he liked it.
Although it was frequently the habit in large households for dogs to wander through the hall at-will, begging and fighting each other for scraps and other choice bits that the men threw to them, no dogs attended meals at Brackengill. Once Janet had learned how much easier it was to keep the hall floor presentable without them, she had banished them from mealtimes.
The minutes marched by, but finding no easy way to bring up the subject of the captive while they ate, she waited, responding when Hugh spoke to her but content to let him speak with Ned Rowan and another of his sergeants who sat with them. Not until the servants began to clear away the food and everyone else began to return to their duties did she say, “I would speak privately with you, brother.”
“Now?” he demanded, frowning at her. “I have much to do, lass.”
The frown did not auger well for their discussion, but Janet pressed on, keeping her tone even as she said, “I want to discuss your prisoner again, sir.”
“There is no point in that,” he snapped, adding more moderately. “You tend the household well, lass. I noticed the fresh rushes, and I know that it is no mean achievement to keep a household fresh at this time of year. I know, too, that I have you to thank for having my dinner when I want it, for looking after the linens and such, and keeping the servants contented, even cheerful. However,” he added sternly, “do not think that your expertise in household matters qualifies you to meddle in those that are of no concern to you.”
“Your h
onor is my concern,” she insisted, fighting to keep from raising her voice. “What touches your honor touches mine.”
“My honor! What the devil do you think you are talking about?” He made no attempt now to keep his voice down.
Suppressing a wince, she managed to keep from looking around the room to see if others were watching them. Though many of the men had gone, she knew that those who lingered, and the servants, could hear everything he said to her.
“Please, Hugh, do not shout.”
“I have been in the saddle all morning, Janet, and since I am to take supper with Nixon tonight at Bewcastle, I’ll spend much of this afternoon in the saddle, as well. I’ve neither time nor patience to deal with your woman’s whining now.”
“Then when, sir? If you hang the man without a trial, you will anger all our friends and allies who believe in the laws of the Borders. You could even lose your position as deputy warden.”
“Nonsense. Scrope wants to be rid of that devil Redcloak as much as I do, and so do many others hereabouts—Sir Edward Nixon, for one.”
“Aye, but what of Medford? He will demand your head, Hugh, or at least that you pay a fine for evading proper procedures. Hanging a man without trial may even be murder in his eyes—aye, and in God’s eyes, too!”
“Don’t be daft,” he snapped, signing to a passing lad to fetch him more ale.
Janet bit her lower lip to keep from snapping back at him. Waiting until the servant had gone away again, she said with forced calm, “Hugh, I beg of you, consider carefully what you do. You are a man of your word, are you not?”
“Aye, when it suits my purpose. What of it?”
“You prevaricate, sir. I know you well, and I know that when you give a man your solemn word, you keep it. It is a badge of honor with you.”
“I will not debate my decision with you, Janet. It is not seemly for a man to debate such matters with a woman.”
“Are not laws made because men agree to their making, and then swear an oath’ to uphold them?”
“No one on our side of the line intended for the law to protect scoundrels like Redcloak, who steal from us.”