The Grahams of Kersdale were not one of the notorious reiving families like the Armstrongs or Elliots of Scotland or the English Charltons or Robsons. Her father, their leader, enjoyed breeding and selling horses, and their fortified keep at Kersdale and secret farmhouse here at Kershope, had helped them to avoid the worst ravages of rival clans.
But when the nights grew long and their cupboards grew bare, the Grahams had been known to ride and raid, as did almost every clan on both sides of the frontier. It was a way of life, almost a hobby for some, and for centuries the Border clans had known no other way to survive.
So meeting Michael had been eye-opening for Alex, making her wonder if there were other ways to live. Could she train horses for a living? Could she teach others to ride as she did? It was something to consider, to occupy her thoughts for the long days and nights until she might see him again. For Alex didn't see herself as someone's wife, keeping house and birthing babies and spending her days with embroidery or music. She needed an outlet for her restless energy and direction for her impetuous nature. Perhaps being a horse master would provide her with independence and a life she would enjoy?
Cloak wrapped around her shoulders, Alex stood lost in her thoughts, facing up the valley until her eyes watered and the rider she watched had become just a pinprick of shadow against the grey of the moonlit valley.
If she hadn't been lost in daydreams, Alex might've heard the approaching rider sooner, and things might've been very different.
But the horse was almost upon her when she became aware of the drumbeat of its hooves. Panic sent her backwards into the nearest bush, pulling her dark cloak over the white of her face and shirt. With luck, the cover of her mantle and the almost-dark of the night would be sufficient to stop a hurrying reiver from noticing her.
For marauding reivers didn't only take livestock. They'd also been known to burn unprotected buildings, steal household goods, kidnap hostages—or rape any womenfolk that took their fancy.
With her horse under her, clan around her and half-armour, sword, dirk and bow to protect her, Alex didn't worry about such things—in fact, her enemies were more likely to worry about her.
But here in the woods on her own, with only her dagger to protect her and one working arm, she was vulnerable. It was a feeling she misliked. I should've armed myself better when I went to release Michael. In fact, she should've taken more time to think through the details of his rescue—like how she would explain his escape to her father. I need to learn not to be so impulsive. Mayhap there was value in being methodical.
Holding her breath, Alex waited until the rider was well past, and she was sure that another did not follow before she lowered her cloak and looked after them. And then her heart stopped.
For the galloping horse silhouetted against the silvery grassland was a proud, powerful dark beast that she recognised as well as anything in this world. Duke.
How had someone managed to steal him?
But this was a time for action, not questions. Raising two fingers to her lips, Alex sent a piercing whistle across the valley, the signal she used to get Duke to come to her when he was out grazing.
The fleeing horse didn't falter, and Alex frowned. She was sure it was him. Taking a deep breath, she whistled again, louder this time, and for a moment the horse seemed to hesitate. But the rider applied his spurs, and Duke surged forwards again, racing towards the Armstrong stronghold at Mangerton and away from his mistress and his home.
Fury burned through Alex's body, and before she knew it she was running towards the border, cloak streaming behind her, feet flying across the rough ground.
It was only when her feet splashed into the icy-cold shallows of the river that sense overtook reaction, and she pulled to a halt, breath heaving and injured arm aching. Glancing quickly around, she cursed herself. For her impetuous nature had put her in even more danger than she had already faced in the wood. All it would take was one rider to find her here, alone, injured and lightly-armed, and she could be dead. Or worse.
For a full minute she stood there, agitation warring with caution and the desire for revenge vying with despair.
Angry tears coursed down her cheeks; she took one step towards her horse, and then one step back to the forest, her actions mirroring her uncertainty as the debate raged inside her.
Eventually, sense won out. Retribution would come better from a band of riders mounted on fast horses and chasing Duke on a hot trod, than from one lonely girl on foot and unarmed.
With one last longing look up the valley at her disappearing horse, she turned back for the wood, shoulders slumped and tears smearing her vision so that she could hardly see one foot in front of the other. I'll get you back, Duke, she vowed. Somehow. I'll get you back.
Chapter 11
NOT UNTIL ALEX had once more reached the relative safety of the wood did the implications of Duke's theft overtake her sorrow at losing her horse. For Duke hadn't been grazing in the enclosure with Mist and the other beasts, he'd been stabled in the barn with the rest of the Grahams' best breeding stock and their more valuable livestock. So for him to have been stolen, not only had someone discovered their secret hideout, but they'd somehow forced their way into the barn.
Or mayhap not, she thought, remembering how she had left Peter unconscious by the doorway. Could it've been just one lucky thief who had happened on their unprotected bastle house in the dark?
No. For if that'd been the case, would he not have taken one of the animals in the paddock, which were easier reached and less likely to get him discovered? And how had he got there? Why would he have left his own mount behind?
Her misgivings growing, Alex increased her pace until she was jogging along the drove road, clenching her teeth against the pain in her shoulder and arm, which had grown worse from the rough treatment she'd given it over the last hour or so.
It was the memory of the Armstrong reivers chasing them along this very track that spurred her into a full-blown sprint. What if those ruffians had left some lookouts in the wood to watch for activity after they'd lost their quarry this afternoon? Could a vigilant scout have spotted her and Michael, as they slipped around the stone in the dark, and discovered the farmhouse that way?
Yes. That must be how it happened. She was convinced now. It is all my fault. If she hadn't agreed to meet Michael yesterday afternoon this would never have transpired.
So what if he looked like a Norse god and seemed to care about horses more than any man she'd ever known? She'd let her feelings get in the way of prudence, and now their stronghold had been discovered and her whole clan would suffer.
If anything has happened to Father I'll never forgive myself. Heart in her mouth, she raced around the grey stone and down the secret track to discover the fate of her family.
The scene that met Alex back at the bastle house was worse than she imagined.
Frightened livestock huddled in the far corner of the enclosure, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. Across the paddock, a burning hay rick sent orange flames high into the sky, black smoke swirling and the acrid smell pervading the whole scene.
Losing the winter fodder to fire would be a disaster for the clan, and everyone had pitched in to help put out the blaze.
Illuminated by the fire, a chain of people passed water buckets to throw on the flames, and Alex ran to join them, passing the sprawling bodies of two strange men as she went, arrows bristling from one and a well-placed lance from the other.
Slotting into the line beside Hob, Alex hissed at him as she held out her good hand for the next bucket. "Is my father safe?"
Hob almost dropped the bucket he was holding. "You're here! We thought you'd been kidnapped."
"I…escaped." They thought I was kidnapped! That might provide an excuse for her absence. Mayhap she was in luck. "And Father?"
"He tends Peter's wound."
Peter. The man she'd left unconscious in front of the barn. "Is he badly hurt?"
Hob lifted a shoulder. "Been
stabbed."
Tears sprang to Alex's eyes as the next bucket passed through her hands. 'Tis my fault. Fearing to hear the answer, she asked, "Was anyone else harmed?"
"No, but—" Hob turned to look her in the eye, his face wary. "You know they took your horse?"
Alex clenched her jaw. "Yes. I tried to follow him but he was too fast."
Hob grimaced. "Evan is off to Kersdale to raise a trod. We thought we would be seeking you also. How did you escape?"
Thinking quickly, Alex pulled the dagger from her boot. "I wasn't the docile woman they thought."
A grin split Hob's round face. "Even injured, you're fiercer than most men." He jerked his chin over his shoulder at the farmhouse. "You should go tell your father you are returned. He would be out here rounding up a posse if he didn't have Peter to doctor."
"Father!" Alex stepped into the main room of the bastle house.
Looking up from where he tended his patient, Simon's face visibly relaxed. "You're safe!" He motioned her over to Evan's bedside, then frowned. "How did you escape?"
In answer, she produced the dagger. "You taught me well."
Simon gave a strained smile. "'Tis easy seen you're my daughter. Was it the Armstrongs?"
"I think so."
Her father clenched his jaw. "I knew we shouldn't have spared that prisoner. 'Tis he who injured Peter and gave entrance to the raiders."
"But he isn't an Armstrong, father."
"How say you that? He took your horse, kidnapped you, almost killed Peter and set fire to the hay!"
This goes from bad to worse! "'Twas not he who took me. And the Scots queen wouldn't accept an Armstrong as messenger. The Scots hate them almost as much as we do. Could it not be that the Armstrongs spied him bringing me here when I was injured, waited till nightfall and then broke in, stole my horse and took him as hostage?"
"Did you see any of this when you were captured?" His eyes darkened. "And how did they endeavour to capture you, when you were asleep up here?"
Alex thought fast. "I awoke in a sweat from my injury and went outside for some cool air. But I know 'twas not the captive who kidnapped me or stole my horse, for I saw the man that rode Duke, and would've followed, had I not been on foot." Now was the time to change the subject. "Hob said my uncle is raising a trod to win Duke back?"
"'Twas to win you back, not the horse." A groan from his patient returned Simon's attention to the man before him, and he put fresh wadding on the wound. "I'll tell him to stand down. We can claim redress through the warden at the next truce day. 'Tis only a horse."
"He is not just a horse. He's my horse. Who I've trained like the Italian masters. And he's one of your breeding stallions."
Simon's face hardened; an expression that meant his mind was made up. "Even so, a horse isn't worth risking my men against the Armstrongs." He pointed at Peter. "They've already done enough damage."
Alex pressed her lips together, remembering her promise to Duke that she would get him back. A hot trod would have a chance, but every hour they waited it would make it harder to retrieve him. And she daren't leave him with ill-mannered men who would treat him like a beast of burden rather than a highly-trained palfrey, and might even abuse him.
But she had one last argument which would be sure to sway her father. "Mayhap. But if we leave the thief to get away, he will spread word of our location, and we'll no longer be safe here. We need to find him and silence him."
At this, her father's eyes narrowed, and he took a moment before answering, long enough that Alex thought for a second that she'd won him round. But no. "We'll have to abandon this place, nevertheless, since they've destroyed our winter fodder and we don't know how many others were hiding in the woods and watching." He shook his head decisively. "Our time here is over. We'll repair to Kershope come the morn."
Alex stood and turned for the door, so he wouldn't see her angry tears. "I'll gather my things and make ready, then."
But she hadn't given up on Duke. She had a plan, a simple plan that would be easy to execute. If Father and the family won't help, I'll just have to get him myself.
Chapter 12
Sunday 6th October, 1566
BY THE TIME they arrived at Stobs, an elegant keep with a pinnacled round tower, Mist was almost on his knees, and Michael fared not much better. It had been a long, emotional day with much hard riding and plenty to occupy his mind.
Handing the horse to a yawning groom, Michael stumbled into the main tower and up the three stone flights to his chamber, waving away his housekeeper's offer of ale or cheese. "I've nae energy for eating," he said, pushing open the heavy oak door. Pausing only to pull off his mud-splattered boots, he fell onto the feather mattress of his canopied bed and fell instantly asleep.
It was hours later that Michael awoke, having forgotten in his fatigue to instruct anyone to rouse him at dawn. The queen! he thought, splashing his face with cold water from the bowl on his wooden dresser and running fingers through his tousled hair. I must hasten to Jedburgh.
But as he rushed to the door, he caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass on the wall and stopped short. I canna address the queen in these travel-stained garments. Rifling quickly through his armoire, he dressed hurriedly in clothes more suitable to attend court and packed a clean shirt into a saddlebag.
Down at the stables, he discovered Mist looking much refreshed—more-so than he himself felt—after a belly-full of hay and a reviving bucket of oats. He'd intended to take one of the other horses, but Mist was his favourite and, maybe because of that, the fittest and strongest. Michael scratched the grey's nose. "A trip to Jedburgh to see the queen, lad? Could ye manage that?" Of course, he got no reply, just a level gaze from Mist's dark eyes and a velvety muzzle inspecting Michael's pockets lest any oats should somehow have ended up there. Instructing the groom to get the horse saddled and ready, Michael made for the kitchens.
Over a hasty breakfast, he quizzed his housekeeper, Mrs Beattie, on local news, and discovered that the earl of Bothwell was abroad and flexing his muscles as chief lieutenant of the Scottish Marches. It was a title recently bestowed upon the unpopular James Hepburn by Mary Stuart herself, much to the displeasure of the senior wardens, who resented having this relatively young man placed in authority over them. But some said that he was a favourite of the queen and a stalwart member of her Privy Council, and that was why he'd been appointed to this role.
Perhaps fortunately, courtly duties in Edinburgh had kept Bothwell from the last truce day at Lochmabenstone, for he was an arrogant man who would doubtless have upset the English wardens without even trying. Michael considered himself lucky to have had little to do with the ambitious earl until now. But that luck might change when I arrive at Jedburgh and present myself to the queen.
Wiping his hands in a napkin, Michael stood, strapped on his sword and made for the door. He had a duty to perform: a message to take to his monarch. There was no benefit in worrying about a rogue earl who, if rumours were correct, had his sights set higher than the marches of the borderlands and would have little interest in a mere deputy warden.
The hardest thing about Alex's plan had been persuading Hob to join her. And that took all of half a minute. After that it was easy.
She'd already swapped into more suitable clothes for travelling and, under the guise of packing had gathered a little food, her breastplate, helmet and weapons.
Once outside, all remained chaos, the hayrick still smouldering despite being doused by scores of water buckets. With people flying in every direction, it was easy to pull Hob aside, wait for him to gather a hank of rope and some discarded arms and then for them both to sneak a couple of horses out of the enclosure without being noticed.
Before long, they'd reached the grey stone. Hob helped her onto her borrowed horse and as the first fingers of dawn light spread across the eastern sky they galloped up the Liddesdale valley in pursuit of Duke and his captor.
Crouching over the chestnut's neck, Alex had to hope t
hat they'd got away in time; that this trod, tiny as it was, would be enough to bring results and return her stolen horse to where he belonged. For anything else would be unthinkable.
Riding away from his castle and along the narrow wooded valley of the Slitrig Water, Michael made for higher ground. Rounding the flank of White Hill and passing between it and Peat Law, he made good time in the early part of his ride. It was a route with little to recommend it except speed, lying as it did over bleak, featureless moorland with only scrub grass and the occasional sparrow-hawk for company.
It was only when the track rolled over the top of Hoggfield Hill that the view opened out and the wide panorama of hills and glens leading eastwards towards Bonchester and on to Jedburgh gave a more pleasant aspect to his ride. After watering his horse at the well in Bonchester Bridge, Michael passed between Bonchester Hill and the mighty Rubers Law, following the Rule Water as far as Hallrule Mill before branching over the hills once more, aiming for Langlee and thence to Jedburgh.
But all the time that Mist trotted along peaty rabbit tracks, or picked his way carefully down heather-covered hillsides, Michael's mind was in turmoil. Now that his mission to meet the queen was underway and he had time to think for himself, his thoughts returned to the events of the last few days and his meetings with Alexandra in particular.
It wasn't that he hadn't met a pretty lass before, nor held one in his arms or traded kisses. But there was something different about Alexandra—a courage and spirit that made him want to get to know her better. Much better.
Which was the problem.
He could not—should not—meet her again, despite the promises he'd made in the heat of passion. Because it could go nowhere, and there could be no future for them.
Michael's heart felt like someone had squeezed it dry, his shoulders sagging like they carried a sack filled with fodder and his eyes smarting as he set his face into the brisk wind that rustled the long grass and ruffled through his hair.
A Love Divided: A Scottish Historical Romance (The Reivers Book 1) Page 5