Border Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Ye look lovely, Jo-Jo,” the wimpled woman said with satisfaction. “I have never seen such beauty.”

  Joselyn spun in circles, watching the bottom of the surcoat bell. “Thank you, Tilda,” she said. “I have never seen anything like it.”

  Tilda watched Joselyn fuss with the ribbon around her waist. She had known the eldest Seton since she had been born and she knew well the tragic life the young woman had led. There had been a long period of time when Joselyn was at Jedburgh, but she had returned early last year to tend her increasingly senile mother. She had known little happiness and to see her so radiant did the old woman’s heart good.

  “Yer new husband is generous,” Tilda ventured. “I have heard the men talking. They say he is a good man.”

  Joselyn nodded, smoothing her hands over the orange material. “Sir Stephen has been very kind to me,” she answered, casting the wimpled woman a sidelong glance. “He has tried to be a good husband and do what is right.”

  “He is very tall,” the wimpled woman said helpfully.

  “Tall and big,” the other old woman cackled from her stool in the corner. “He’s the biggest man I have ever seen, saints have mercy!”

  Joselyn grinned. “He is gentle and kind, Mereld,” she told the skittish old woman. “He is nothing to fear.”

  But the older woman turned on her. “How can ye say such things?” she demanded. “He killed yer brothers, Jo-Jo. Does that not mean anything to ye or are ye so blinded by his beauty that ye forget what he’s done?”

  “Bite your tongue, you old fool,” Joselyn snapped, her happy mood vanished. “He did not kill Thomas or William. He had no part in that.”

  The old woman stood up from her mending stool, hands full of strips of material that she was turning into ribbon. “Did ye ask him?”

  Joselyn scowled. “Nay, I did not. But we spoke of Thomas and he would have told me had he had a hand in his death. He has been honest with me from the start.”

  “How do ye know?”

  Joselyn growled and turned away from the old woman. She tended to be a naysayer even in the best of times but Joselyn was in no mood for her dour views. Moreover, she realized that she felt very protective of Stephen.

  “I will not hear you disparage him, do you hear?” she scolded. “He has been very good and generous to me. He has even told me that he will bring the English soldier who raped me to justice. Stephen says he will find him and I believe him.”

  Old Mereld could see that her young lady was upset and didn’t push further. The subject of Lady Joselyn’s rape was something that no one talked about. It was a dark family secret that went deeper than they would dare acknowledge. The old woman had been present when a very young Joselyn had delivered the large male child that had nearly killed her. It had been a horrific birth and the old woman remembered praying continuously as Joselyn, only twelve years old at the time, had moaned and cried through three days of labor. It had been terrible for all of them and something they never discussed.

  The man who had caused such pain and suffering was long gone, lost in the chaos of the Earl of Carlisle’s execution those years ago. At least, that was the rumor. There were darker rumors that he was not the man responsible, that something more horrific bore the truth. But no one would confirm these darker horrors so the soldier was the accepted father of Joselyn’s child. To hear that her new husband had sworn to bring the lost soldier to justice after eleven years was a bit of a dream that none of them had the heart to discourage. Joselyn believed in her new husband; it was good to believe in something.

  “I hope so, Jo-Jo,” Mereld regained her stool wearily. “For all of the horror the English have caused, ’twould be good if one of them tried to right the wrongs.”

  Joselyn had had enough. Frustrated with the bitter old servant, she quit the chamber that she and Stephen shared and made her way down the narrow stairs and out into the bailey. The day was beginning to wane and she could tell by the sun that there was no more than two hours of daylight left.

  Her thoughts drifted to Stephen, of where he might be at this time, before shifting to the meal ahead. He had told her he would be late so she was in no hurry to begin preparations in earnest. The mutton from the previous night was back on the cooking fire, having been slow-simmering in a mixture of honey and cloves since mid-afternoon. But there would be bread to bake and sweets to make, and she smiled when she thought of Stephen stuffing himself with more sweet cakes and then blaming her for his gluttony. He was quite humorous at times and she liked that. She liked him.

  As she headed towards the kitchen to not only check on the mutton but on the fawn she had left sleeping in a warm corner, she caught sight of the chapel off to the left. It was actually the base of one of the towers, a small room with a vault that ran beneath it. Stephen had told her that her mother was in the vault and she wondered if she should go say a prayer for her mother before the supper hour. She’d not yet prayed over the woman and she felt some guilt in that, but she knew her mother would have understood. Joselyn had been quite overwhelmed with the new life she found herself a part of.

  Just as she turned away from the sight of the chapel, several foot soldiers entered through the main gate built into the massive gatehouse. It was a group of men bearing the blue and silver dragon standard of de Lara but she thought nothing of them until her gaze happened to fix on the one that was closest to her. He was an older man, with a full head of gray hair and an oddly shaped scar on his forehead. He was close enough that she could see it and when he smiled, he was missing several teeth. The teeth that remained, however, were a dark shade of brownish-green.

  An eerie feeling swept her, growing more powerful by the second. The man was speaking to his colleagues and she froze in her tracks, listening to the sound of his voice. Something about it sounded horrifically familiar and she suddenly felt dizzy, her heart pounding loudly in her chest and her breath coming in strangled gasps. She tracked the man as he moved, like a hunter tracking prey, watching as he and his fellow soldiers headed towards the armory located in the tower near the chapel. They were laughing about something and had not noticed her. But the moment she heard the man laugh, the world suddenly began to spin.

  She knew that laugh. God help her, she knew it. It was a laugh from her most horrific nightmare. A scream escaped her lips but she slapped her hands over her mouth lest he hear her, more terror than she had ever known bolting through her slight body. She stumbled backwards, kicking up dust onto her new orange silk. She fell to her knees, hysterical, before scrambling to her feet and taking off at a dead run.

  Panicked grunts were escaping from her lips as she ran. She tore off into the southeast section of the bailey where a narrow tower anchored the wall. There was no particular reason why she ran in that direction; she was running blindly, without thought. There were a few soldiers in this area of the bailey but she didn’t notice. She was running for the tower entrance, a safe haven in which to hide, in her blind determination to put as much distance as she could between her nightmare and safety. Her mind was a jumble of horror that she could not control.

  Just as she reached the tower, a soldier was emerging, having just finished his rotation on the wall. Joselyn was incoherent with fright. She didn’t even recognize Lane de Norville when he stepped into the dirt of the bailey. She simply plowed headlong into the man and, overwhelmed with the shock, fainted dead away.

  Lane caught her before she could hit the ground.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The vaults of the gatehouse of Berwick were narrow, low and cramped. With Stephen’s bulk, the constraints made it difficult for him to maneuver. But the rebel prisoner he had captured last night in the brief skirmish had been shoved into one of the narrow cells and Stephen was intent on interrogating the man. Joined by de Lara and a few lesser knights that were part of his garrison command team, Stephen let his subordinates take the lead in the interrogation while he stood back with Tate and watched.

  The vault was a nasty, dank
place that reeked of urine and rot. Most of the Scots captured at the surrender of Berwick had been moved out of the city or killed, while several of Seton’s men who had surrendered the city were now prisoners at the castle. The vault was two levels and could hold about fifty prisoners at any given time. The last count Stephen was given, there were seventy-six. The dungeons of Berwick were a hellish place.

  After Stephen had left his wife, he had not planned to spend an over amount of time in the vault interrogating the prisoner, but the man had proven to be something of a challenge. Tate had joined him at some point during the afternoon and they stood silently while two of Stephen’s knights went to work on the big Scot. Sir Ian Malcolm and Sir Alan Grantham were young, strong and fiercely loyal to Edward; they made a brutal pair of interrogators. But the man was tough and he would not answer any of their questions. Several hours into the interrogation, Stephen finally called his men off and stepped into the cell himself.

  He was so tall that he was nearly bent over in half. The cell had other men in it, other prisoners, and he couldn’t avoid stepping on a few legs as he made his way to the rear of the cell where his rebel prisoner was chained to the wall and sitting in his own urine. When he neared the big Scot, he crouched down several feet away, studying him.

  “I am Pembury,” he told the man. “I am Guardian Protector of Berwick. Do you have a name?”

  The big Scot was a little bruised but none the worse for wear. He was not young nor was he particularly old, with blond hair and intelligent brown eyes. He was also a burly man with enormous hands. He gazed steadily at Stephen.

  “Yer knights were unable tae get me name,” he rumbled. “What makes ye think I shall tell ye?”

  “Because I have politely introduced myself. The mannerly response would be to introduce yourself to me.”

  The Scots lifted an eyebrow. “A mannered man, are ye? Then ye dunna belong in Berwick. This is a place for men who fight like animals.”

  “Have no doubt I can out-fight and out-think you any time I choose. I would not be here now if I could not. May I have your name, please?”

  The Scot stared at him. Then, he snorted. It was the first smile, or semblance of one, that the man had displayed all night.

  “Ye tried a tactic none of these other idiots have tried,” he told him. “Yer askin’ nicely.”

  “I believe in treating all men with respect to a certain degree.”

  “Yer men couldna beat me name out of me.”

  “I am not beating you. I am simply asking.”

  The Scots cocked his head as if pondering the statement. After a moment, he simply turned away. Stephen, sensing that the man had no interest in conversing civilly, turned to leave. But a low voice stopped him.

  “Kynan,” the Scot said quietly. “Kynan Lott MacKenzie. When ye killed young Tommy Seton, ye killed me kin.”

  Stephen slowly resumed his crouched position. “You are related to Alexander Seton?”

  Kynan looked at him. “Aye,” he said, losing some of his smugness. “It was a dastardly thing ye did tae young Tommy. He was a good lad.”

  Stephen didn’t have an answer for him; he simply stared at him for a moment. “How are you related to Seton?”

  “Alexander married me father’s sister.”

  “And you have been defending the city against Balliol and the English?”

  “’Tis young David’s city, it ’tis.”

  Stephen grunted. “That is a matter for debate. Now it belongs to Edward.”

  Kynan pursed his lips. “Like his grandfather, he is. Young Edward wants Scotland just as Longshanks did.”

  Stephen studied the man carefully, wondering just how much to tell him about familial relations. He opted for all of it, hoping it would put the man in a chatting mood. Scots were, if nothing else, very loyal to their kin. Family relations meant everything. Stephen intended to use it to his advantage.

  “Let us return to Alexander Seton,” he redirected the conversation. “You said that your father’s sister was his wife.”

  “Aye.”

  “That would make you a cousin to all of the Seton offspring; Joselyn, Alexander, Thomas, William and Margaret.”

  Kynan nodded his head faintly. “What are ye gettin’ at, English?”

  “Joselyn is my wife,” he didn’t hold back. “That makes me your kin as well.”

  Kynan’s eyes widened. “Ye married Jo-Jo?”

  Stephen nodded firmly. “The night the city surrendered.”

  “I dunna believe ye!”

  “Shall I send her in here to confirm it?”

  Kynan was growing increasingly outraged. He couldn’t be sure that the man was not bluffing because he knew that the Setons had been at Berwick Castle when the English confiscated it. It was quite possible that the Guardian Protector, as he called himself, had married her simply to make his mark upon the Setons. The English were intent to force them all into submission any way they could, including a marriage. It was not out of the realm of possibility. The mere thought drove him mad.

  “She’s not meant for the likes of ye, English,” he spat. “She’s known enough humiliation.”

  A peculiar gleam came to Stephen’s eye. “What do you mean?”

  Kynan’s ruddy face was growing redder. He stumbled over his words, not at all wanting to say what he meant. “She… she’s meant for the cloister.”

  “Not anymore,” Stephen’s blue eyes suddenly turned hard. “Kynan, you and I are kin no matter how much you would like to deny it. I married Joselyn two nights ago and I have fully claimed her as my wife. Therefore, you will hear me now; I am finished toying with you. I will ask you a question and if I do not like your answer, I will go to my wife and take your insolence out on her. With every question you refuse to answer, or with every answer that does not tell me exactly what I need to know, she will receive your punishment. Is this becoming clearer to you? Deny me again and I will take it out Joselyn.”

  Kynan looked at Stephen with more emotion than the man had exhibited throughout his entire interrogation. He was horror stricken.

  “What manner of bastard are ye?” he hissed. “Would you truly beat an innocent woman?”

  Stephen’s jaw ticked, his blue eyes searing with intensity. “I hanged an innocent boy in full view of his father. Do not doubt that I am capable of far worse things than that.”

  Kynan gazed steadily at the big knight, feeling a surge of power from the man like nothing he had ever experienced. He knew he was cornered and all of the resistance he had put forth suddenly faltered. He could not take the chance that the massive English knight would do exactly as he said. The man was easily three times Joselyn’s size and would undoubtedly kill her. Joselyn had seen enough pain in her life. What beatings and harassment could not achieve, a simple threat against his precious cousin would.

  The English had won again.

  “Ye’re a lowly bastard for doin’ this,” Kynan’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “I know.”

  “Tell me what ye want and be done with it.”

  Stephen’s expression bordered on triumph; not quite, but almost. He would not be so crass as to gloat. Rising, he made his way out of the cramped cell, stepping on a few more legs as he did. Once outside, he motioned to Ian and Alan.

  “Ask him your questions again,” he told them. “Make sure you understand everything he tells you.”

  The two young knights re-entered the cell. The prisoner’s demeanor was quite a bit more cooperative, they quickly discovered. Tate stood with Stephen just outside the cell door watching what was, now, a rather subdued exchange. Tate nodded with satisfaction as Kynan Lott MacKenzie began to give forth the vital details they had sought all afternoon.

  “Brilliant tactic, Stephen,” he muttered.

  Stephan, watching the activity in the cell with his massive arms folded across his chest, glanced at Tate.

  “You heard me?” he asked.

  Tate nodded. “Every word,” he lifted an eyebrow
at him. “Should I go tell your wife to run for her life?”

  Stephen gave him a crooked smile. “Don’t tell me that you believed what I said.”

  Tate shook his head, a twinkle in his eye. “I did not, but your prisoner certainly did. Most convincing.”

  “Perhaps we shall have something useful from him, after all.”

  The two of them fell silent, listening to the exchange in the cell. Stephen’s thoughts were moving ahead to other tasks he needed to complete for the night, such as checking the guard posts, when a soldier descended the narrow stairs and moved straight for him.

  It was one of Norfolk’s men. After a few whispered words to Stephen, the big knight flew up the steps faster than Tate had ever seen him move.

  *

  Lane de Norville greeted Stephen at the door to the chamber he shared with his wife. But Stephen blew past him so forcefully that Lane didn’t have time to speak to him. He simply followed as Stephen entered the room, all but shoving anyone or anything from his path as he made his way to the bed. Tilda and Mereld were standing by the bed and fretting over Joselyn’s state. They leapt out of the way when Stephen appeared.

  Joselyn was unconscious on the bed with the fluffy white coverlet she had been so proud of. Stephen sat beside her, struggling to maintain his composure. As a healer, the man was legendary. He had been Edward’s personal physic for years when the king was young. Stephen had spent so many years as a Hospitaller that he had acquired a massive knowledge in the healing arts. But he was foremost a knight and his knightly duties had overtaken those as healer as he grew older. Still, he was considered one of the best physics in the realm. At the moment, however, he was struggling to keep the emotion out of his evaluation as he looked at Joselyn’s still, white form.