Border Fire

by Amanda Scott

  “Here’s our supper,” Margaret said, when first one servant and then several others entered and began putting food on a table. “Shall I prepare you a tray, sir?”

  “Nay, lass, I’ll sit at the table like a Christian,” her husband said.

  “But—” She broke off when he glared at her, then said lightly, “If you must.”

  “I must. Quin, give me a hand.”

  It took Quinton, a manservant, and a period of awkwardness that tried Buccleuch’s temper, but they got him seated at last at the head of the table. When the platters were in place, he sent the servants away, saying, “We’ll talk more comfortably without them. I can trust them to keep silent on most subjects, but we want no tongues repeating aught that I say about Scrope or his deputies.”

  Janet said stiffly, “Perhaps I should remind you, sir, that my brother is one of Lord Scrope’s deputies.”

  “I know that, mistress, but you are one of us now. A fine thing it would be an I sent you away whenever I wanted to talk about the English. I believe I can trust you not to repeat what you hear between these walls.”

  “Yes, sir, you can. I thank you for honoring me with your trust.”

  “Bah, there is no honor in that. I’d be a fine kinsman an I failed to do it.”

  She liked him better in that moment man in all the moments she had hitherto spent in his presence. Shooting a look at her husband, she saw that his attention was firmly fixed on Buccleuch. She wished she could tell what Quinton was thinking. Her sphincter muscle twitched at the thought of facing him later, alone.

  Buccleuch said, “You will have an important role to play, Quin, and you must never forget that.”

  “You know,” Margaret said, “it occurs to me that Sir Hugh Graham is likely to be present at Dayholm. Will he not recognize Quin and cause a stir?”

  “If he is there, he will not be at the wardens’ table, for only the wardens and their clerk sit there,” Buccleuch said. “Moreover, he knows Quin only in one guise. They have not met otherwise, as far as I know.” He shot a look at Quinton.

  “I suspect that we may both have attended the same functions at Jamie’s court, but no one has ever introduced us,” Quinton said. “I certainly did not recognize him as anyone to whom I had spoken before. In any event, I should think that someone would have to look after Cumberland and Carlisle in Scrope’s absence. That would most likely be Graham, would it not?”

  “Aye, perhaps,” Buccleuch agreed.

  “Even if he should attend, I will look much different as Sir Quinton Scott than as Rabbie Redcloak, and he saw me only in the gloom, never in a clear light. I took good care not to get close to him, I promise you.”

  “Excellent,” Buccleuch said. “You were full-bearded then, too, as I recall. If you shave off your beard altogether, we should have no cause for alarm.” Ignoring Quinton’s look of dismay, he added, “Once we settle what grievances we can settle beforehand, you will need to make certain that any one of our lads who is supposed to be at Dayholm shows up. I do not want to stand surety to anyone if we can avoid it,” he added. “That can prove damnably costly.”

  “Perhaps I should round up all the felons and lock them up at Hermitage until the day,” Quinton said with a wry smile.

  “Nay, do not even think such a thing,” Buccleuch said. “Keeping prisoners is a devilish expensive nuisance. Just get each man to swear on his honor that he will be there.”

  “Aye, I know,” Quinton said with a chuckle, giving Janet to realize that he had been teasing his cousin in retaliation for the order to shave.

  Buccleuch shot him a speaking look and said bluntly, “You’ll shave it off, my lad. You may look a bit boyish without it, but you will have Gaudilands and Todrigg to add to your consequence. Gaudilands is widely known to be my natural brother and to carry the weight of my name, just as you do. And Todrigg commands a large number of men-at-arms. That draws respect in any forum.”

  They talked more about Quinton’s duties as Buccleuch’s deputy, and Janet listened carefully, wanting to understand the procedures and the reasoning that lay behind them. She had attended several wardens’ meetings and had thought them much like town fairs. Although she knew that at times in the past some such meetings had proved dangerous, she had never seen anything to warrant concern. In her experience, they were exciting and fun, and provided a rare chance to socialize.

  Evidently, however, Buccleuch did not share her opinion. “I cannot warn you often enough, Quin, to guard your back. Scrope did not want this meeting. When I pressed him, he answered me with delays. Remember that, and tread warily.”

  “Aye, I’ll take precautions.”

  “Hold rigidly to the traditions,” Buccleuch advised. “Where strict procedure is followed, fatal misunderstandings are less likely to occur.”

  “Aye,” Quinton replied solemnly. “That makes sense.”

  “Weigh the whole emotional state of affairs before you approach the other side. Examine their lines for troublemakers, count their men-at-arms, and note their demeanor. Watch the English country folk, the vendors, and others who attend in hope of increasing their wealth. Such folk will not take absurd chances. If they seem genuinely merry and boisterous, they expect no trouble. You still must take care, of course, but they have ways and means of sensing danger in the wind.”

  “Once we have picked the juries, is there aught else that I must do?”

  “They will be sworn in by the clerk, and when grievances are presented, whether a trial is necessary or not, you will be expected to help decide penalties for those against whom a grievance is proved. If the jury decides to impose a death penalty, there is naught else to decide, but if they demand the payment of a fine, you and Scrope must decide the amount, and it must be carefully calculated.”

  Quinton nodded.

  “One thing more,” Buccleuch said. “Do not let yourself be drawn into declaring on your honor that any Scottish defendant is an honest, law-abiding man. The temptation may be great, but weigh carefully your knowledge of the man, because if he is caught red-handed at the same offense soon afterward, you will pay his fines, not I.”

  “What of those who do not show up to respond to grievances against them?”

  “They will be found guilty,” Buccleuch said flatly. “You will doubtless learn afterward that many have sought leg-bail.”

  Bewildered, Janet said, “Leg-bail?”

  Buccleuch smiled. “It means that they have crossed into another jurisdiction—either into the next march or over the line—seeking refuge.” Turning back to Quinton, he said, “It is important wherever possible to strike an even balance between English and Scottish penalties, even if it means letting bills of grievance stand over till the next meeting. The two sides can occasionally wipe the slate clean by agreeing to use one bill to cancel out another.”

  “Is that fair?”

  “It is expedient,” Buccleuch said. “If we were to pursue every complaint to a finish, we would soon fall years behind in handling them all.”

  “I doubt that such a tit-for-tat method recommends itself much to those whose cattle were stolen, though,” Quinton said.

  “They will do as they are told,” Buccleuch said.

  Quinton chuckled. “Aye, perhaps. They can simply await the next full moon, can they not, and take compensation the hard way.”

  Buccleuch shrugged. “’Tis often quicker than depending upon legal action.”

  “And far more satisfying,” Quinton said, shooting an oblique look at Janet.

  She saw it and knew that he was teasing her. She did not let herself be drawn into the conversation, though, knowing she would learn more by remaining silent.

  The men continued talking, and the platters of food soon were empty, but no one stirred from the table. Sipping wine from her goblet, Janet realized that it was nearly empty and reached for the jug to pour a bit more for herself.

  Quinton’s hand closed over hers, warm and startling. She met his gaze.

  “I’ll
pour it for you, lass,” he said.

  They were the first words he had spoken to her since his arrival. Buccleuch had fallen silent, and in that moment it was as if he and Margaret had vanished. She could not seem to look away from Quinton. Only when he lifted the jug did the spell shatter. She put her hand back in her lap and watched him pour.

  As if the interlude had never happened, Buccleuch said, “And for the love of heaven, do not offer yourself as hostage for anyone.”

  Looking astonished, Quinton turned back to say, “I wouldn’t!”

  “Good. Others may offer. If an offer is good, and the English accept it, you can agree to it. However, you must take particular care when you hand over any hostage, especially if it is the prisoner and he cannot pay his fine. The process of handing him over can be delicate, because there have been instances in the past of prisoners breaking loose at the moment of transfer.”

  “Is that not punishable by death?”

  “Aye, it is, and it has been for years now, but still it can happen.”

  “That seems overly harsh,” Janet said. “One cannot blame someone for trying to escape, especially if he is to be imprisoned by his enemy.”

  “The law is just,” Buccleuch said to her. “You must remember that an attempted escape from a Truce Day would almost certainly start a fight between the two sides. Such a fight could result in mass slaughter.”

  The thought of such a scene made Janet’s stomach churn. What if Quinton acted impulsively and such a thing occurred? What if someone else caused it to happen and Quinton were killed?

  Without thinking, she said, “I shall attend the meeting, too, shall I not?”

  The two men replied together in a tangle of words.

  “Aye, lass, of course, if you like.”

  “You will not!”

  Looking at Quinton, she said quietly, “Would you have my kinsmen conclude that you married me against my will, sir, or that you have locked me up at Broadhaugh to keep me in Scotland? Or would you prefer to show them how happy I am in our marriage and how firmly I support you and your kinsmen?”

  “You’ll go with him, lass,” Buccleuch said, his tone and the look he shot Quinton making it clear that he would tolerate no further debate. “Send for my man now,” he said to his wife. “I’m for bed.”

  “We will bid you good night then, Wat,” Quinton said. “Come, Jenny. We have some matters to discuss privately, I believe.”

  Her spirits sinking, she rose to go with him, knowing that she would have been wiser not to announce her desire to attend the Truce Day. He had nearly smiled at her only moments before, but now he looked like thunder again.

  Quinton did not like to be challenged when others were at hand, she recalled belatedly. She still did not know him as well as she knew Hugh, but in that regard both men were the same, and she ought to have remembered.

  Chapter 17

  “His looks grew keen, as they were wont,

  In dangers great to do.”

  WRAPPED IN HER THOUGHTS—in truth, trying to ignore the images they suggested about her immediate future—Janet paid no heed to where Quinton was taking her. It seemed as if scarcely a minute had passed, though, when he opened a door and, with a firm hand on her back, urged her into a cozy chamber where a small fire crackling cheerfully on the hearth set shadows dancing on the walls.

  Barely aware of anything but the flames ahead of her and her large husband’s intimidating presence behind her, she experienced a brief, disorienting sense of having stumbled into the lair of the devil. The thought startled her, and she gave herself a shake and tried to collect her wits.

  The sound of the door latch snapping into place behind her nearly destroyed her careful composure, but she had not dealt with Hugh for most of her life without learning to conceal discomfiture. She turned to face her husband.

  His expression was not hard to read. His eyes had narrowed, and they glittered dangerously. Logic told her they were only reflecting the firelight, but logic did little to quell her fluttering nerves. Impulse urged her to defend herself; instinct recommended silence. The two warred in her mind while she strove to present an image of calm. At least his face did not grow red as Hugh’s did when he was angry. She tried to tell herself that was a good sign, but his failure to burst into speech the minute he shut the door was more disconcerting than she might have expected it to be. Apparently he expected her to speak first.

  The silence lengthened uncomfortably until she could stand it no longer. No sooner did she open her mouth to speak, however, than he said quietly, “You have disappointed me, Jenny.”

  The five words hit her like physical blows. Her throat closed painfully, and she could not find words to reply. Indeed, she did not understand him, but when she tried to tell him so, she could not force the words past the terrible ache in her throat. Unexpected tears welled into her eyes.

  As she fought her emotions and tried to speak, he added, “I did not think you were such a coward as to run away.”

  The tears evaporated, and she said indignantly, “I did no such thing!”

  “How else would you describe this impulsive flight to Branxholme?”

  Belatedly, she remembered telling Margaret that she had run away from home. She had not meant what he meant, however, and Margaret had known that. Quinton should know it, too.

  Raising her chin and straightening her shoulders, she tried to match his even tone when she said, “You sent me away, sir.”

  “I did not send you to Branxholme.”

  “No, but you sent me away like a child to my room without so much as a discussion of what had transpired. You never asked why I followed you and your men. You merely assumed that I had acted stupidly.”

  “I assumed nothing. I would not have been so unkind as to call your action stupid. But you acted impulsively and without using good sense, you defied my orders, and you deserved my anger, Jenny. You deserve more now.”

  She knew what she deserved, but she would not give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Still striving for calm, she said, “I might well have acted impulsively, Quinton, but you must understand that I am not accustomed to seeking advice before I act. For years, I’ve had no one to advise me but Hugh, and I generally knew what he would say. And for that matter, you did not expect me to seek your advice before I purchased dungs for Broadhaugh or hired new servants, even a new cook.”

  “That is different, but even so, had you hired anyone I did not like, I would have told you so and expected you to get someone else. Moreover, in matters concerning the household, I know that you are capable. Most women are.”

  Having no interest in discussing most women with him, she said firmly, “I am also competent to express opinions and to make decisions for myself.”

  “Not decisions that go against my orders, lass. You will meet grief every time, taking that road. Surely, you are not going to try to tell me that your decision to follow us was a sensible one. You do recall what nearly happened to you as a result, do you not?”

  “That was unfortunate,” she said, adding hastily, “and I will admit that in my haste I did not think carefully enough about my own safety, but—”

  “Or Tip’s,” he interjected.

  “What did you do to him?” she demanded.

  He was silent.

  “If you—”

  “We are not going to discuss Tip,” he said. “You have admitted that you did not think before you followed us. We need not discuss that, either. In future, you will control your impulses and do as I bid you.”

  Fighting frustration and anger, she nibbled her lower lip.

  Quinton said evenly, “I do not want to be a harsh husband, Jenny, but I would be failing in my duty toward you if I did not take steps to prevent you from flinging yourself into danger.”

  “I did not fling myself. I feared for your safety, and as it happened, you’d have run into an ambush if those louts had not stumbled over me!”

  “I know that you have little faith in my ability to l
ook after myself or my men,” he said.

  “That is not true!”

  “It is true,” he snapped. The sharp tone silenced her. He said more calmly, “I cannot blame you for harboring such feelings, considering how we met. Nevertheless, even if I had somehow been unable to look after my lads, you could have done nothing to help the situation.”

  Much as she wanted to argue the point, she knew that she could not win it. Worse, she suspected that he was right, that in thinking she might have been of help in any situation, she had been harboring a delusion. What had seemed logical while she sat by herself worrying about what might become of him seemed anything but logical now. And without logic firmly on her side, it would be particularly difficult to make him understand her point of view.

  The ache returned to her throat. That, added to her frustration, kept her silent.

  He said, “Why did you run away from me?”

  The first thought that leapt to her mind was, “So you would discover how much you would miss me.” Suppressing it, she muttered instead, “I was angry, sir, as angry as you were.” The ache eased enough for her to add, “I know that much of your anger was stirred by fear. You said as much, and I understand that kind of anger. I wish you would try to understand that my need to follow, to help if I could, was born of a like fear.”

  “I do understand that,” he said.

  “I don’t think you do. It was not what you think.”

  “It does not matter,” he said with an impatient gesture. “I swear, lass, you would try even Job’s patience.” He drew a deep breath, clearly finding it difficult to keep his temper. “We are not going to debate this further.”

  The note of finality in his voice irritated her, but her irritation turned to wariness when he turned away and began to unfasten his belt.

  Defensively, she said, “You should not treat me like a child, sir. At home, I have dealt with many responsibilities much like yours over the years, and I am capable of dealing with them competently. Even Hugh does not ignore my advice or opinions out of hand. I just think you should—”