Border Fire

by Amanda Scott

  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 honor 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.”

  “Pray, do not attempt to clothe your anger in pious respectability, sir. We have just agreed that I know you well. It is not the thieving that angers you, for you have led thieving raids into Scotland yourself, and so has nearly every other man of property on this side of the line. Our lot is no more law-abiding than the Scots.”

  “We only seek redress for wrongs done to us,” he growled.

  “Now you sound like a sanctimonious prig,” she retorted impatiently. “You know as well as I do that men on both sides say that very same thing whenever they raid. The excuse is as ancient as the behavior.”

  “They steal our horses, and we take them back; that’s all.”

  “That is not all. Men, women, and children are killed in raids on both sides. Raiding destroys lives and property, Hugh.” Aware that her voice had risen, she looked guiltily around the hall to see that three of Hugh’s men and the two lads dismantling the trestle tables were still there.

  Following her glance, Sir Hugh said grimly, “Hold your tongue. Thank God it is men who decide these matters, not women.”

  “Women would have better sense,” she retorted. “We would not expect others to obey laws that we ourselves flout. How can you break a law that you have sworn an oath to uphold, Hugh?”

  “I have sworn to serve my queen and the warden of the west march,” Hugh said. “That God-forsaken reiver in my dungeon is one of the most scurrilous thieves in the Borders, and he deserves to hang.”

  “Then let them declare his sentence at the next Truce Day.”

  “A Scottish jury would hear our complaint against him, not an English one,” he reminded her. “Even though we would select its members, do you think that such a jury would ever order Rabbi
e Redcloak hanged? He is a legend to them, lass, a man they greatly admire. They would probably reward him.”

  “But—”

  “We have sent bills against him before,” Hugh went on impatiently, “and he and his supporters have ignored them. More times than not the Scots insist that he does not exist. Well, I have proved that he does, but if any Scotsman demands to know how we dared to hang him, I shall simply refer to their own insistence that there is no such person, and that will be that.”

  “Hugh, you can achieve the same end by holding him until the wardens’ meeting in the legal manner, and presenting him for trial. No one can deny his existence after you present him to them in person.”

  “That’s enough, Janet. I don’t want to hear another word out of you on the subject. Do you understand me?” His voice had risen again.

  Before she could answer, a man spoke from the threshold. “Beggin’ your pardon, Sir Hugh, but will ye be wanting a full company to ride to Bewcastle?”

  “Aye, I will,” Hugh said, scraping back his chair and getting to his feet, clearly having decided that his discussion with his sister was over.

  Drawing breath to steady herself, Janet said boldly, “If you insist on going forward with this mad plan, Hugh, I shall have no recourse other than to let Thomas Scrope know what you mean to do.”

  He glowered at her. “Damnation, lass, who do you think will take such a message if I forbid it?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “If I must go myself, though, I will.”

  “By God, you will not defy me further in this!” he bellowed.

  Her own anger quickly igniting, she stood to face him, wishing she were taller so that she could look him eye to eye. Grimly, she said, “I do not count it defiance, Hugh. Scrope must support me in this. He will not want it known throughout the Borders that he allows his deputies to defy the law when it suits them to do so, or that they will hang men without trial.”

  He leaned closer, his fury plain. “You will go nowhere but to your bedchamber, my lass, and you will stay there until I give you leave to come out again. Do you hear me?”

  “Hugh, you are mad! If you hang him, you will be fortunate to survive him by a sennight, for when his people learn of it, they will demand your life in return for his. What will you do if King James of Scotland demands your arrest?”

  “I’ll tell Jamie what I tell you,” he snarled. “I caught the man red-handed and it is my right to hang him!”

  “But Hugh—”

  “No more!” he roared. “Go to your room!”

  Taking an involuntary step backward, she said nonetheless firmly, “I will find a way to stop you, Hugh. I may be sorry for it, but—”

  Her words ended in a cry when he slapped her, nearly knocking her off her feet. She managed to remain upright only by the merest good fortune. Pressing a cool hand against her flaming cheek, she straightened. Aware of their audience, augmented now with faces peeping through doorways, she looked him in the eye and said, “Do you seek to silence me with violence, sir? I think our people will not support you in this instance. Indeed, I believe that once it becomes widely known that you mean to hang your Scottish reiver on Wednesday—”

  “I no longer mean to hang him on Wednesday,” he said evenly.

  His grim demeanor made her breath catch in her throat, but she managed to reply just as evenly, “I hope that means that I have made you see reason, sir.”

  “Rabbie Redcloak will hang at sunrise tomorrow,” he declared. Looking at the man near the doorway, he said, “Do you hear me, Ned? I want a gallows built for that scoundrel, and I want it built before I return from Bewcastle. See to it!”

  “Hugh, please.”

  Menacingly, he put his face close to hers again and growled, “If you do not go to your room, you will feel my hand on your backside next, lass.”

  Unable to believe that she had failed so miserably, Janet hesitated, but when he straightened and reached for her, her courage vanished and she fled.

  Chapter 4

  “Herself would watch you all the day

  Her maids watch all the night….”

  FIGHTING TEARS OF HELPLESS fury, Janet went straight to her bedchamber, only to meet the kitchen maid, Sheila, on the landing outside her door. Pulling herself together as she had done many times in the past under similar circumstances, Janet said quietly, “What is it?”

  “Beg pardon, Mistress Janet, but Matty would know where ye will eat your supper when it’s time, bein’ Sir Hugh has said he means to sup at Bewcastle.”

  “Godamercy, I’ve only just eaten my dinner.” Realizing that the maid was attempting to assure her that, despite Hugh’s orders, they would somehow provide her with her supper, she smiled ruefully and said, “Someone can bring some warm bread and milk to me here, Sheila. I doubt that I shall want anything more.”

  The girl nodded, her eyes still fixed on Janet’s face. Her sympathetic expression made it clear that she wanted to say more.

  Janet returned the look directly, and the maid’s gaze dropped.

  “I’ll tell Matty,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.

  Janet knew that Sheila was concerned about her and had wanted to say as much but that the maid knew it was not her place to do so. Although grateful for the kindness, Janet was even more grateful that Sheila had held her tongue, because overt sympathy would only have made her feel worse than she already did. She was glad, too, that the exchange had helped her recover her composure. Her stomach still felt as if it contained a pair of wrestling shrews, and her eyes still burned from tears she had neither shed nor quite managed to suppress, but she was quickly regaining her customary composure.

  Entering her bedchamber and shutting the door, she looked at the cold, well-swept hearth and debated whether to light a fire, knowing that she would soon have to send someone to fetch more wood if she did. Generally, a servant would not light a fire in this room until after supper, giving it just enough time to lose its chill before Janet prepared to retire. The stone chamber was chilly—nay, ice cold—now, but she had no wish to see anyone else until she could be certain that she had herself under control again.

  Hugh could stir her emotions like no one else. He enjoyed wielding power over her. Indeed, he probably enjoyed it the more knowing that she resented his male authority to order her about. She knew that if her parents had lived, her attitude might be different, and that she might even accept her lot the way other women did. She could not know one way or another, however, for her parents had not survived her early childhood. She barely remembered them. What she remembered most was their voices—one soft, the other booming loud like Hugh’s.

  Remembering that booming voice now, she decided that she probably had answered her own question. Hugh was his father’s son, after all. The late Sir Harold Graham probably would have beaten any rebellious daughter into proper submission to her God-ordained lot in life. That Hugh had not been able to do it was no evidence that Sir Harold must also have failed. Her mother’s portrait over one of the hall fireplaces depicted a pale, pretty woman with downcast eyes. That should be proof enough of Sir Harold’s domineering ways. She could not imagine allowing anyone to paint her own portrait to display such waxen meekness.

  Since glass was prohibitively expensive, the only window in the chamber was unglazed. Nevertheless, its shutters stood open to the wintry outside air in order to admit light. Walking across the stone floor to look out, she stared at the gathering gloom. The wall below formed part of the castle’s curtain wall, joining with the new stone wall of the stockade that Hugh had finished the previous year. Windows on the floors below were no more than arrow slits, but the one where she stood was nearly two feet wide and arched gracefully at the top. She felt the cold, standing there, but the wonderful view calmed her as it always did.

  The sun was low in the sky, but the days were growing steadily longer. To the east, still aglow in the waning light, the landscape formed a patchwork of sun-gilded, snow-dappled farmland set agai
nst rolling hills, dotted with isolated farms and hamlets with stone- or slate-roofed cottages. Narrow stone bridges crossed fast-running becks that divided vast, snowy fields punctured from below by coarse dark grass and by the reeds and rushes of scattered bogs.

  Moaning, ever-present wind blew out of the west, sculpting the trees into queer, surrealistic shapes. In the distance she saw a shepherd striding across a field with his flock, and as always, watching his dogs work the sheep stirred a brief fascination. They darted, dropped low, then darted again, moving the muddy sheep as quickly as they would go, driving them from whatever pasturage they had managed to find to the shelter of their pens. The sheep were reluctant, but the dogs urged them on, needing to get them to safety before the increasing chill turned wet ground to treacherous ice. It occurred to her then that ice would force Hugh to travel more slowly than usual when he returned from Bewcastle late that night.

  Gray and white predominated everywhere she looked, but soon spring would visit the Borders again, and wildflowers would paint the rolling landscape with color. Rabbie Redcloak would never see the flowers, though. He would be dead.

  She rubbed her hands together, suddenly aware of their icy chill; but rubbing did no good, for the chill had spread to the rest of her. Remembering the way the reiver had made her feel, the way her body had warmed to his lightest touch, she wondered what it would be like to have him touch more than just her fingertips.

  Unfamiliar, surprisingly erotic feelings stirred deep within her, in places that she had not known could stir so.

  Looking over her shoulder, fearing that such wantonness might somehow reveal itself to a watcher, she saw only the cold, empty bedchamber. She had known that she was alone, of course, and had looked only because her guilt at such wicked thoughts had momentarily overwhelmed common sense. In the way of such things, however, the moment she reassured herself of her solitude, memories of Rabbie Redcloak swept back—warming, then chilling, then warming her again, as if blocks of ice floated on the hot blood coursing through her veins.