It had been a busy session, the clerk calling forth one complainant after another. In quick succession, the wardens had meted justice for thefts, burnings, kidnappings and raids. But there were no murders to deal with this month, saints be praised.
During the trials, one of Michael's liegemen had been charged with theft, which he vehemently denied. Michael knew Tom Turnbull to be a truthful man and so had obtained Tom's acquittal by attesting to the man's innocence on his own honour as deputy warden.
But taking Tom's offence on his honour would make Michael responsible for the offence if Tom was later found to be guilty. It wasn't the first time he'd spoken for one of his men, and it would likely not be the last. For Michael hated to see injustice win—his desire for balance hard to reconcile with his job as deputy warden, since the raids and counter-raids that the wardens had to mediate were never clear-cut and simple. So he had to do the best he could, dispensing justice as he saw it, being fair-minded to all and biting his tongue, on occasion, to avoid riling the easily-offended English wardens.
One of those, the earl of Bedford, was a commanding figure with a paunch that spoke of an overindulgence of mutton, abundant grey whiskers, a long straight nose—and a voice that droned like a bee in clover.
A voice that might've sent Michael to sleep—like old Lord Home, Warden of the Scottish East March, who slumped quietly on a camp stool in the far corner. But Michael couldn't sleep, for his thoughts kept turning to the elusive lass he'd met that morning. The lass he was beginning to think might be one of the wee folk.
For when he rode over the border into Kershope Glen to rescue the fair maid who had inadvertently strayed into England, sword at the ready and senses on high alert, there was no sign of her—just the burbling stream, a light breeze rustling the trees and the weak October sun dappling everything in shades of russet and saffron. Alexandra had disappeared, as if she'd been stolen by the faeries—or as if she'd been merely a figment of his imagination.
Michael was brought back to the present when something the pompous English warden said caught his attention.
"'Tis my belief," the earl smoothed his moustache with gold-ringed fingers, "that these outlaw Armstrongs must be taken in-hand. 'Tis said they can put three thousand men into saddle and that they are the most feared and dangerous riding clan in the whole of the Marches." He swept a velvet-covered arm around the gathering. "They mustn't be allowed to flaunt justice like this. If Cecil hears of it, he'll get Elizabeth to send her army, and we will have open warfare. Another war!"
At this last comment, Sir John Maxwell, long-serving warden of the Scottish West March, intervened. "My Lord, we cannot have that! Our kinsfolk have had warring armies plundering our herds and our crops for centuries. There's not a farm or village in the Scottish Borders that hasn't suffered over the years."
His deputy chimed in. "Yes! We may live on the border, but we deserve better than to be an unwilling supply wagon for every English king—or queen—with designs on Scotland!"
Lord Scrope raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Not just English kings. You Scots have sent your fair number of armies into England too."
"That is exactly what concerns me," said the earl. "These Armstrongs are strong enough to field an army all by themselves."
"And Carlisle is but a short march over the border," added Lord Scrope—who as well as being warden of the English West March was also governor of Carlisle. Almost to himself, he added, "I must ask Elizabeth for reinforcements."
Seeing that the discussion was in danger of getting out of hand, Michael raised his voice. "Gentlemen, I urge ye to remember why we're here. If we look at this impartially, both sides of the border have suffered greatly in times of war. And both sides of the border suffer by the Armstrongs—they not only reive into England, they also steal from us Scots."
He inclined his head at Bedford. "But I agree with the earl. Something needs to be done about them. Here's what I suggest." At this, all the men present turned towards him—even old Home, who had awoken at all the rumpus. "We expect Mary, our queen, to arrive at Jedburgh any day now, where she will hold justice eyres. I propose that I return and make representation to her, asking for a show of force to deal with the Armstrong troublemakers."
Lord Home coughed into his kerchief and then flapped it in Michael's direction. "Good idea, young man. Go and speak to her." He wiped his mouth. "Tell her I said we need to quash these ruffians before they cause a war."
If I wish to keep my head, I'll 'tell' the queen nothing, Michael thought, but kept his face straight. "I will ask that of Her Grace."
He turned to Bedford and the other wardens. "My Lords, will that satisfy? I'll impress upon the queen of our concerns and ask for a speedy resolution. At our next meeting I'll provide an update." And it'll be my job to make the queen understand the gravity of the situation, before Scrope and the Armstrongs pitch us into another war.
A shiver ran down his spine at that thought, for every Borderer was brought up on stories of Flodden field. Flodden, the remote Cheviot hillside where the Scottish army was routed by the English, losing its king and the flower of its chivalry, decimating every family in the Borders for years afterwards and causing political upheaval that took decades to resolve.
It was not the only occasion in the turbulent history of the Borders where the English and the Scots had met in mortal combat, but it was the bloodiest, and Michael had no wish to see a battle like that repeated in his lifetime.
"My thanks, Sir Walter." Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, inclined her head so the old warden would know he was dismissed. "I 'ad not realised the situation in the Marches was so serious. You 'ave given me much to think on. But I will keep you no longer."
"Your Grace." Sir Walter Ker bowed stiffly, using the traditional Scots form of address for royalty. A thickset man with a drooping white moustache, Sir Walter was warden of the Scottish Middle March, summoned to advise the queen before her forthcoming visit to the Borders. But the news he brought had chilled her heart.
With a flourish of his deep-green cape, Ker took his leave, exiting the tapestried drawing room, a page pushing the heavy oaken door closed behind him.
Mary moved to the window, pushed aside the heavy drapes, and gazed over the parkland adjacent to Holyrood Palace. Under the lumpen hill the locals called Arthur's Seat, after the mythical Celtic king, the grassy parkland of the palace grounds lured her. On a different day, she'd have sent for her white palfrey and gone for a gallop, hoping to forget her worries and enjoy the crisp autumn air.
But Sir Walter's stories of the wild men of the Borders and their marauding ways had convinced her that her realm was in danger. She needed to take action, and without delay. She needed a man of action, a man who would not question her orders or fail to deliver a result.
And it took little thought to realise that she knew just the man for the job.
James Hepburn.
Strong, daring, loyal, and a skilled military man, he and his band of mosstroopers would soon bring those Liddesdale reivers to heel and deliver peace to the Borders. He even had a castle right on their doorstep. Oui. He will do it.
Calling her page over, she delivered her instructions. "Go fetch Lord Bothwell. Tell 'im I 'ave an important task for 'im."
Chapter 3
"RIDE!" AT THE head of his company of three hundred fierce horsemen, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, stood in his stirrups and pointed his lance. "To Liddesdale!"
The clatter of trotting hooves bounced off stone walls and echoed around the narrow closes of Edinburgh's Royal Mile as Bothwell's troop left Edinburgh Castle, heading south to the Borders. Aboard their sturdy hobblers, the fighting men bristled with arms and machismo, sending clouds of pigeons into the sky and causing the goodwives of Edinburgh to scuttle into the safety of their homes.
As he passed Holyrood and pointed his horse south, Bothwell looked up at the palace, wondering if the queen would be watching from one of the many mullioned windows. Sitting taller in the saddle, he straigh
tened his shield and thrust out his chest, hoping the sun would glint off his breastplate and cause him to look like a knight of old. He'd even chosen this grey cob—narrow-girthed enough to make his short legs seem longer, and white to give the illusion of purity—to deliberately promote that image. For he wanted to persuade the queen that he, James Hepburn, could be the strong champion she needed to protect her realm. And her sovereignty.
For now, the queen's bastard half-brother Moray might hold sway as her prime minister. But Bothwell's plan to usurp the dour-faced, emotionless turncoat was gaining momentum, and this latest commission would give him the perfect opportunity to prove his worth to the queen.
Once he'd flung those Armstrong curs into the dungeons of Hermitage Castle, their fates would be sealed. And his would be on the ascendence.
A shaft of sunlight peeked round the cliffs of Salisbury Crags and bathed Bothwell in its warmth. A good omen, he thought with a grim smile, imagining the imposing figure he must present to onlookers and adversaries alike.
He would get Liddesdale under control, drag those vile reivers to Jedburgh so the queen could hang them, and ensure that Mary realised it was he, James Hepburn, Chief Lieutenant of the Scottish Marches, who was responsible for bringing peace to the turbulent Borders. She would soon realise that if he could master the unruly reivers, he could also help tame her rebellious Protestant lords—and then the English throne.
At that thought, his heart leaped in his chest. But then he cautioned himself. One step at a time. He must defeat the Armstrongs first; only then could he set his sights higher. And he meant to rise higher.
Right to the very top.
For what queen could resist a champion who would unquestioningly stamp on her enemies, promote her cause and bring peace to her land? James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, Lord High Admiral of Scotland, and Duke of Orkney, would be that man, and he would happily destroy any opponent who stood in his way. Or hers. He would be the queen's man—whatever it took.
Michael rode away from Lochmabenstone, the sun sending its orange rays over the shallow waters of the Solway Firth. A cool wind sighed over the mudflats and a fan of black crows filled the air, their harsh calls discordant as they returned to their roosts. His mind whirling, he wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders and urged his horse into a trot, undecided on the best course of action.
For he needed to get to Jedburgh with utmost haste—on the morrow, if he could—to petition the queen about the Armstrongs and ensure that the English had no excuse to invade the Scottish Marches.
But he also had a tryst tomorrow with the mysterious Alexandra—a tryst which she mightn't keep, but if he himself didn't keep the appointment, he would never know. And she'd intrigued him sufficiently that he needed to at least try and see her again. For her mischievous smile and green-flecked eyes danced at the forefront of his thoughts like an elusive will o' the wisp.
How could he keep both appointments?
I'll just have to ride hard, he thought, meet Alexandra at Kershopefoot then travel on to Stobs and pick up a fresh horse. If he left the castle at first light he could get to Jedburgh early the following day, where, if the saints were with him, he would be in time to meet with the Stuart queen and prevent another war.
Decision made, he pointed his horse towards the inn at Gretna where he'd booked lodging for the night. A hearty meal and a good night's rest would give him energy for the day to come. For he had a feeling he would need all of his energy—and more—over the next four and twenty hours.
Chapter 4
Saturday 5th October, 1566
ALEX TIGHTENED THE muscles of her stomach, steadying Duke's canter. But he felt like a fiery cauldron underneath her today, as if he might boil over at any moment, his muscles coiled and his ears pricked. She grinned. This power was good, as long as she could contain it and use it to her advantage. If not, she could end up unceremoniously dumped on the ground with a long walk home and a dent to more than her pride!
'Twill be my fault he's flighty today. Duke picked up on her mood and feelings, and however much she tried to ignore it, Alex couldn't deny the tingle of anticipation or hastening of her pulse every time she thought of the strange rider who had accosted her the other day.
Michael. She even liked his name. She'd warmed to him, even though he was a Scot and should've been her sworn enemy. But there was something about him—an air of calm, so different from her own fiery nature; a sense that he had hidden strengths to complement the powerful muscles that'd been so obvious when he pulled her off her horse.
She'd forgiven him for that, because he seemed to genuinely want to learn to ride better. And because—who could not forgive a man with hair the colour of burnished gold and eyes that gleamed carnelian blue with eyelashes so long they could've graced a maid…
Stop thinking of him! Alex pulled Duke to a halt and squinted at the sun, mired as it was behind banks of grey cloud. She frowned. It was after noon, and she had achieved nothing in her training session for she was letting her imagination get in the way—indulging herself with fanciful notions of a man she'd met for mere moments, who had obviously not remembered the assignation he'd made with her.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned Duke's head northwards up the valley and urged him into a gallop. Hooves pounding, nostrils flaring and mane streaming, the black stallion raced up the springy turf beside the wide stream.
The wind in Alex's eyes caused tears to run down her cheeks, but she dashed them away. For it was past time for their meet, and a headlong sprint on a willing steed was the best way she knew to clear her head. It seemed that Michael had indeed forgotten about her, so she must likewise forget about him, hard as it might be.
Drawing close to the banks of the Liddel Water where he was to meet Alexandra, Michael halted his horse in the cover of some trees, entranced once again by the sight of the girl on her black stallion.
She has come! He breathed a sigh of relief. After all his doubts and worries, here she was once more, still wearing her boyish cap and rough clothes, the stallion displaying his quality and presence, even at a distance.
Today, however, the pair looked less like dancers and more like warriors about to charge into battle, with a pent-up energy that pervaded every move. It was a spellbinding sight, more so now that he knew that those long legs which wrapped so lithely around the horse's sides belonged to a rather lovely lass, rather than a scruffy youth.
And she's alone. He didn't know whether to feel pleased or offended by that. For the lack of an escort implied that she didn't see him as a manly threat to her propriety. But it also meant that it would be easier for them to talk without hindrance.
With a smile playing on his lips, he pushed his horse forward—just as Alexandra turned her mount up the valley and raced off at a flat-out gallop.
For a heartbeat, Michael hesitated—and then he too flew up the river meadow, chasing after this elusive woman who sat a horse better than any man he'd ever known.
Her horse is fast, too. Mist, Michael's poor beast, had already travelled sixteen miles that morning, since leaving the lodging at Gretna, and was carrying a heavier load. It was an unequal race. I may have to content myself with catching her once she stops. For the black stallion ran as if the very hounds of hell were chasing him, his tail streaming behind him like a lure, and the rider on his back crouched low over his neck as if to protect herself from the wind.
Somehow, she must've sensed Michael's presence—or heard the heaving lungs of his straining horse as Mist struggled to close the distance between them. Looking over her shoulder, Alexandra's eyes widened when she spied the grey horse and his rider following in her wake.
It seemed for a moment that she checked her stallion as if to slow him, for his stride changed—and that was her undoing. The black stumbled on a hidden ditch, sending his rider flying over his head and tumbling onto the ground ahead.
Heart in his mouth, Michael closed the distance between them at breakneck speed, praying under his
breath to Mary and all the saints.
For Alexandra lay pale and unmoving, and Michael feared the worst.
Chapter 5
AS IF FROM a great distance, Alex heard the deep rumble of a man's voice. What he was saying, she couldn't tell, but his tone spoke of uncertainty and worry.
Someone was pounding a sledgehammer in her head, and her eyelids felt like they were made of lead, but with a great effort of will, she forced her eyes to open. And then shut them almost as quickly. It's so bright.
But the man's voice took on a more hopeful note, and his words began to unscramble. "Alexandra," he was saying. "Wake up!"
Opening her eyes again, she blinked hard as the grey light assailed her senses. Then the face of a viking blotted out the sky. A viking in a deep-blue doublet. At this nonsensical vision she began to shake her head—but that hurt too.
Under her hands she could feel grass—and it was damp. Why am I lying on the ground? She made to sit up, which was when she discovered that her left arm hurt even more than her head.
As the arm gave way, she would've collapsed back on the ground, but the man—Michael, she remembered now—caught her and eased her into a sitting position.
"How d'ye feel?" he asked, concern sparking in his eyes. Kneeling beside her, he steadied her against his chest. Even in her stupor, she couldn't help but notice how wide and strong he was. This wasn't a man who spent his days indoors playing courtly intrigues.
She took a deep breath and cradled her injured arm, tucking it safely under her breasts. "What happened?" she asked, surprised at how feeble her voice sounded.
"You had a fall," he answered—and then she remembered.
"Duke!" she cried, scanning the area around them frantically.
A Love Divided: A Scottish Historical Romance (The Reivers Book 1) Page 2