The Border Vixen

by Bertrice Small

  “I have to leave Edinburgh for some months,” Lord Stewart began. “I will need you to find someone to watch over the house so it not be burgled. Someone reliable who will not sell off my few possessions while I am gone,” he told the house agent.

  “Ye don’t want to rent, my lord?” Boyle inquired.

  Fingal Stewart shook his head in the negative. “What if I return before I anticipate? If I have no house, where can I lay my head and stable my horses?”

  “I was nae considering a rental to a family, my lord. Men of importance come to Edinburgh, wealthy merchants, those high up in the church, among others. They are nae asked to the castle. They do not choose to house themselves at some inn. Their stays are brief. A few days, a few weeks, a month. And they pay well for their privacy and the discretion that a house like this can provide them, my lord. They bring their own servants and require naught but a secure shelter.”

  “And how much commission would you want for providing such a service, Master Boyle?” Lord Stewart inquired.

  “But ten percent of the rental fee, my lord,” Boyle answered him.

  “I will want a woman in to clean before any come, and after they go,” Lord Stewart said. “And you will pay her from your ten percent for I have nae a doubt that you will also collect ten percent from your clients as well.”

  The house agent’s eyebrows jumped with his surprise.

  “How much will you charge per day?” Fingal asked, and when Boyle told him, he nodded. “Do not consider you can cheat me by paying me for four days when the guest remains seven,” he warned. “I have eyes that will watch ye. I will expect a proper rendering of my account every other month. You may deliver it to Kira’s bank in Goldsmith’s Lane. They will be informed to expect it, and will advise me if they do not get it, Master Boyle. If this is satisfactory to you, I will allow you this rental.”

  “Will ye be visiting the town yerself, my lord?” the agent asked.

  “I will send to you when I am and will expect the house available to me when I come,” Lord Stewart said sternly. “I will attempt to give you enough notice that your clients not be inconvenienced by my coming. Is this agreeable to you?”

  Master Boyle nodded. “Quite, my lord.”

  Both men stood up and shook hands.

  “I am departing today,” Lord Stewart said. “Archie will give ye a key.”

  The house agent bowed and exited the hall where Archie was waiting for him. The manservant handed Master Boyle two keys on an iron ring. “Front door, and door from the kitchen into the garden,” he said. He opened the front door, ushering the man out.

  Master Boyle hurried out, and down the street to the Royal Mile, stepping aside as he came to the congested wider way to allow a party of mounted men-at-arms to enter the small lane. He stopped, watching to see what business they could possibly have on such an undistinguished lane. His bushy eyebrows jumped as they halted before Lord Stewart’s stone house. He peered down the dim street to see the badges on their jacket arms. The bushy eyebrows jumped again as he recognized the king’s mark.

  Well, well, well, Master Boyle thought. What brings the king’s men here? And what business could they have with my client? Was he being arrested? Was that his reason for leaving Edinburgh for several months? But then he considered that Lord Stewart was undoubtedly related to His Majesty and was probably being sent on an errand for his master. Thinking no more about it, he hurried on his way through the rainy morning.

  The men-at-arms in the lane dismounted, one of them pounding on the door to the house. Archie answered the summons with a few pithy words. “Is this how ye ask to enter the dwelling of the king’s cousin?” he demanded of them. “Wipe yer booted feet, my lads. Come into the hall and warm yourselves. His Lordship is waiting for ye.”

  The dozen men followed Archie, several of them chuckling at the feisty little man as they entered the chamber. It was hardly an impressive room, but they knew from a servant of the king’s mistress that the man awaiting them was the king’s own kin. They stood in respectful silence waiting for whatever instructions this lordling would give.

  Lord Stewart looked up. It was time to face his future. He took a deep breath and, rising from his chair by the small hearth, greeted the men-at-arms. “Good morrow, lads. Warm yerselves by the fire. We are almost ready to depart. Do ye know where we are going?” Lord Stewart asked the men.

  The soldiers murmured in the negative.

  “Choose a leader from among ye,” he told them. “I need one of ye in charge of the others. Be ready with yer choice when I return.” Then he left the hall to find Archie, who was just finishing packing up their possessions on the second floor of the house.

  “They’re a rough-looking bunch,” Archie said as Lord Stewart entered his bedchamber. “I wonder if they’re to be trusted.”

  Fingal Stewart shrugged. “We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?” he replied. Seeing his traveling garments laid out for him, he quickly stripped off the clothing he had worn to Linlithgow along with his leather boots. “I slept in a stable last night,” he said ruefully, sniffing the velvet doublet.

  “It can be aired out,” Archie responded pragmatically. “I’ll pack it with some clove to overcome the scent of the king’s barn. Ye’ll not be wearing it until yer wedding day.” He carefully folded the garment and placed it with a few nails of the spice with the other clothing already in his master’s small trunk. Before closing the lid, Archie reverently laid his master’s plaid on top. Its background was green with narrow bands of red and blue, and slightly wider bands of dark blue. It was the ancient family tartan.

  Fingal Stewart pulled on a pair of sturdy dark brown woolen breeks over his heavy knitted stockings, yanked his boots back onto his big feet, and pushed his sgian dubh into the top of the right one. The weapon had a piece of green agate sunk into its top, and its scabbard had Lord Stewart’s crest set in silver. He tucked his natural-colored linen shirt into the pants, fastened a leather belt about his waist, drew on a soft brown leather jerkin with buttons carved from stag horn, and picked up his dark woolen cloak. He looked to Archie. “Are we ready?” he asked his serving man.

  Archie nodded. “The fires are all out in the house except in the hall.”

  The two men left Lord Stewart’s chamber and descended back down into the hall where the men-at-arms now stood about the fire getting the last bit of warmth they could before their long ride. Archie went immediately to the hearth and began extinguishing the low flames and coals with sand from a bucket set near the fireplace.

  “Have ye chosen a captain from among yerselves?” Lord Stewart asked them.

  A man stepped from among them. He was almost as tall as Fingal Stewart. His features were rough-hewn, his hair a red-brown, his eyes, which engaged the taller man’s fearlessly, blue. He had a big nose that had obviously been broken once or twice. “I am Iver Leslie,” he said. “The lads have chosen me.” He gave a small but polite bow.

  Lord Stewart nodded and offered his hand to Iver, who took it in a firm grasp and shook it. “You’ll ride next to me,” Fingal Stewart said. Then he brought Archie, who had completed putting out the fire, forward and introduced him. “This is Archie, my servant. Sometimes he will speak for me, so listen when he does, and obey him. He’s a wee bit of a fellow, but be warned he’s handy with both his fists and a knife.”

  Archie nodded towards the men-at-arms, who nodded back. “There’s a bit of whiskey left in the keg at the end of the hall,” he said. “Drink it, or put it in yer flasks, while I get our horses, lads.” He grinned as they made a beeline for the keg; all but Iver remained by Lord Stewart’s side. Archie’s wise eyes spoke their approval of Iver.

  “I’ll bring the beasts around to the front, my lord,” he said. Then he hurried from the hall.

  “Go and get some whiskey for yerself,” Fingal Stewart said quietly.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Iver quickly went down the hall, and seeing him, his men made way for him. He fill
ed his flask and came back to stand by Lord Stewart’s side. “May I ask where we are going, my lord? We were not told.”

  “We are traveling into the Borders to a place called Brae Aisir,” Fingal Stewart said.

  “I’m being sent to wed the old laird’s granddaughter, his only heir. The laird is Dugald Kerr, and with his English kin on the other side of the Cheviots, they control a passage through the hills called the Aisir nam Breug that for centuries has been used only for peaceful travel. King James wants to keep it that way. The laird’s neighbors have of late been showing signs of impatience, for the lass will not choose a husband, and if Dugald Kerr should die too soon, there is no male heir to look after this valuable asset.”

  Iver nodded. “Aye, a lass canna guard such a treasure without a husband.”

  “Yer not from the Borders,” Lord Stewart said.

  “Nay, I come from a village near Aberdeen,” Iver informed his new master.

  “Good! Then ye’ll have no loyalties but to me, and to the king,” Fingal Stewart remarked. “Are any among yer lot borderers?”

  “Nay, I know them all, my lord. They all come from Edinburgh or Perth or somewhere in between. None are from the Borders,” Iver replied.

  Lord Stewart nodded. “Tell them where we are going, and why. We are not invaders but the king’s representatives. I expect good behavior. Any man who can’t behave will face punishment at my own hand. I’m a fair man, and expect the truth from every mouth. I’ll not punish a man for the truth, but if I catch him in a lie, ’twill go hard on him. Do ye understand, Iver?”

  “I do, my lord, and I’ll see the lads understand too. Might I ask if the laird is expecting us?”

  “He is not, but the king believes he will welcome us nonetheless.”

  “The king would know,” Iver replied pragmatically.

  Archie returned. “I’ve got the horses, my lord.”

  Lord Stewart flung his cloak about his shoulders. Iver called to the men to come. Archie brought up the rear, and locked the house door behind him. He then climbed up onto his horse, taking the lead rein from the horse serving as a pack animal for them. The rain was falling steadily as they clattered down the lane and out onto the Royal Mile. The serving man hunched down. It was late summer, and while the rain wasn’t cold as it might have been in another season, it was still uncomfortable. He hoped the weather would turn for the better by nightfall or at least on the morrow. It didn’t.

  They rode until it grew too dark to ride. There was no shelter but a grove of trees when they stopped. It was too wet to light a fire. They pulled oatcakes and dried meat from their pouches, washing them down with some of the contents from their flasks. The horses were left to browse in the nearby field while their riders huddled beneath the greenery with only their cloaks to keep the rain from them. The next day and night were no better. They avoided any villages along their way so as not to arouse curiosity.

  “Yer captain has explained where we are going. A troop such as ours would cause chatter if we passed through them, or sheltered in them,” Lord Stewart explained to his men on the second night. “We don’t want the laird’s neighbors becoming inquisitive. We’ll reach Brae Aisir tomorrow sometime, if that is any comfort to you. It will be warm, and ye’ll get some hot food in ye then.”

  They all held on to the thought that night, their backs against a rough stone wall, the thunder booming overhead, the lightning crackling about them. The horses had to be staked out and tied to prevent the frightened animals from fleeing. The rain poured down. The next morning, however, dawned bright and sunny. Lord Stewart instructed his men to change their shirts and stockings if they had the extra clothing. He was relieved that they all did. He wanted his men looking smart, not hangdog, when they entered Brae Aisir. The dry garments would help to raise their spirits.

  Brae Aisir. He didn’t know what to expect, but with its dark stone, a moat, a drawbridge that was up, and obviously fortified, it certainly wasn’t what looked like a small keep upon a hillock. He wondered whether the king knew of this structure; perhaps he assumed that a prosperous border laird lived in a well-kept tower house or manor. Fingal Stewart was suddenly aware that the Aisir nam Breug was more important than just a traverse between England and Scotland. How had they managed to keep warring factions from using it? He obviously had a great deal to learn about his new responsibilities. He hoped old Dugald Kerr was up to teaching him. They had stopped to observe the keep.

  Now Lord Stewart turned to Iver. “Send a man ahead to tell them I come for the laird on the king’s business. We’ll wait here until we are asked to proceed. I don’t want the village below put into a panic fearing that we are raiders.”

  Iver gave a quick order, and a single man detached himself from the group, galloping down the hill, through the village, and up to the keep. He stopped before the raised drawbridge, and waited. Finally a wood shutter on a window to one side of the entry was flung back. A helmeted head appeared.

  “What do ye want?” a voice shouted down to him.

  “Messenger from Lord Stewart, who waits on the other side of the village. He comes to the laird bearing greetings and a message from King James. May he have permission to enter?”

  “Wait!” the voice said, and the shutter slammed shut.

  After several very long minutes the shutter banged open, and the voice called, “The laird bids your master come forth. He is welcome to Brae Aisir.”

  “Thank ye,” the messenger said politely and, turning his mount, headed back down the hill, through the village, and up the hill on the other side. Behind him he heard the creaking of the drawbridge as it was being lowered. “Yer welcome to enter the keep, my lord,” he told Fingal Stewart when he had reached the place where his party of horsemen awaited his return. “They were lowering the drawbridge as I returned to ye.”

  Lord Stewart turned to his men. “We will ride through the village sedately. These borderers are a prickly lot. I don’t want anyone, child or creature, trampled with our coming. We are welcomed, and ’tis not a race.” Then swinging about, he raised his hand and signaled his party forward.

  Villagers going about their daily chores stopped to move from the road and stare at the riders. A fountain and well were in the center of the hamlet. Several women were there getting water. They turned to stare boldly at the strangers. One pretty young lass even smiled at the men-at-arms and was immediately smacked by an older woman, obviously her mother. There was a small chapel at the far end of the village that they passed as they began to ascend the far hill to the keep. A priest stood before the little church, watching them, unsmiling, as they passed him by.

  Reaching the keep, they clattered across the wooden drawbridge. As they did, the iron portcullis was slowly raised so they might pass through into the keep’s yard. Fingal looked carefully about him, drawing his mount to a halt. Within the walls was a large stone house with two towers, a stable, a well, and a barn. The courtyard was not cobbled but had an earth floor still muddy with several large puddles from the past days’ rain. As he dismounted, a man hurried forth down the stairs from the house.

  “My lord,” he said with a bow. “I am Busby, the laird’s majordomo. Ye are most welcome to Brae Aisir. The laird is waiting for ye in the hall. Yer men are welcome to enter as well. The hearths are blazing, for the day is cool despite the welcome sunshine. Summer is coming to an end, and I imagine yer travels have been wet.” He led the visitor briskly up the steps, into the house, and down a broad passage into the great hall. “My lord, Lord Stewart,” Busby said, bringing the visitor to his master.

  Dugald Kerr stood up and held out his hand. The laird was tall, but not nearly as tall as the man before him. He had a full head of snow white hair, and his brown eyes carefully assessed Fingal Stewart. “Welcome to Brae Aisir, my lord. Sit down! Sit down!” He indicated a settle opposite his high-backed chair as he sat once more.

  A servant hurried up, tray in hand, and offered a goblet of wine first to his master, then to his mast
er’s companion.

  The laird raised his goblet. “The king!” he said.

  Lord Stewart reciprocated. “The king!” he responded.

  The two men drank in silence.

  Then the laird said to his guest, “Yer messenger said ye come from the king with a message for me, my lord. Yer James Stewart’s kinsman?”

  “I am,” Fingal replied. He reached his hand into his jerkin, and drew out the small rolled parchment he had been given to bring to the laird, handing it to him.

  “Do ye know what is in this?” Dugald Kerr asked candidly.

  “I do, my lord,” Fingal replied.

  Nodding, Dugald Kerr broke the dark wax seal on the parchment and unrolled it. His sharp eyes scanned the writing, and then he looked up. “How did the king learn of my difficulties?” he asked.

  “A man named Ewan Hay came to him with a story the king believed to be but a half-truth,” Fingal said. “But learning of the Aisir nam Breug, the king became concerned for yer safety, the safety of yer granddaughter, and the safety of this traverse, my lord.”

  The laird nodded again. “And yer willing to wed my Maggie, my lord?”

  “I do not believe that either of us has a choice in this matter,” Fingal replied, “but I swear to you, my lord, I shall treat yer granddaughter honorably and fairly.”

  “Nay, neither ye nor I has a choice,” the laird said. “But Maggie will be a different story altogether, sir. I dinna envy ye yer courting.” And Dugald Kerr chuckled richly, his brown eyes dancing with amusement. “ ’Twill be a rough wooing, I fear.”

  Chapter 3

  As the laird enjoyed his mirth, Maggie Kerr entered the hall. “I am told we have a visitor, Grandsire,” she said, coming forward.

  Fingal Stewart watched her come. She was dressed in woolen breeks, boots, and an open-necked shirt. A wide leather belt encircled her waist. The skin of her neck and face was damp with obvious exertion. The lass was more than pretty, he realized, but the confident stride as she walked, the open curiosity in her hazel eyes, the set of her jaw, told him she would be neither biddable nor easy. He stood politely as she came forward.