Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy Two 02] (38 page)

“What’ll ye do when we get there?” Sym asked as they rode down the hill from Hawick.

“I haven’t a notion yet,” Garth admitted.

“Aye, well, ye’ll think o’ summat afore then,” Sym said. “Or I will.”

Murray men-at-arms that manned the tall, sturdy gates at Elishaw opened them when Amalie shouted her name. If they looked stunned to see two unexpected women ride into the bailey, escorted only by grooms, they did not question them.

Dismounting unaided in the yard and handing her reins to a gillie she did not recognize, Amalie told him to rub the horses down well and look after them. “They have carried us a long way today,” she said.

Two others came running to help him, and the gillie assured her they would see to them. As he turned away, a man-at-arms approached her.

“I trow ye’ll remember me, m’lady,” he said with a bow.

“Aye, sure, Jed Hay,” Amalie said. “I hope you and your kinsmen are well.”

“Aye, m’lady. I’ll take you in, shall I? The laird has guests tonight.”

“The Governor of the Realm, no less,” Amalie said, suppressing the shock she felt at the reminder that the laird now was Simon and not her father.

“And a great number of the Governor’s men, aye,” Jed Hay said. “Some did ride out to camp in the woods, so we’ll hope they dinna set the forest afire.”

“How many are inside?” Sibylla asked.

“Fifty or more, plus our own lads, mistress.”

“This is the lady Sibylla Cavers, Jed,” Amalie said. “I expect we ought to go upstairs to my chamber if the hall is full of men-at-arms. Pray send someone to tell the laird I’ve arrived and ask him to come to me when he can.”

Jed Hay shook his head. “I’m to take ye straight in, m’lady,” he said. “The captain o’ the guard sent
me
to tell the laird that visitors were coming. And the laird said to bring them in straightaway, nae matter who they’d be.”

“Then that is what you must do,” Amalie said, glancing at Sibylla.

Sibylla merely nodded, and they followed Jed inside.

As they turned the last curve of the spiral stairs and approached the archway opening into the great hall, the enticing aroma of roast mutton greeted them.

The men were at supper.

Beside her, Sibylla moaned appreciatively.

“Faith, are you hungry?” Amalie murmured.

“Famished! I do hope they feed us.”

A fire roared in the great hooded fireplace in the east wall near the dais, which occupied nearly the full width of the north end of the hall.

Simon sat in what had been Sir Iagan’s two-elbow chair at the center of the long board, facing the archway, with Fife on his right in the place of honor.

Sir Harald Boyd sat at Fife’s right with the priest at the end.

Fife looked so distinctive in his customary all-black elegance that, despite Simon’s chair, an observer might think Fife the master of the castle.

Men on benches crowded both sides of two trestle tables set perpendicular to the dais. Without hesitation, Amalie walked up between them onto the dais, where she made her curtsy as she looked directly into her brother’s astonished gaze.

“Good evening, Simon,” she said, rising. “Good evening, Lord Fife.”

She saw no reason to acknowledge Sir Harald or the priest.

“Amalie!” Simon exclaimed. “What the . . . what are you doing here?”

“I have come to attend our lord father’s burial, of course. And, as you see, the lady Sibylla Cavers was kind enough to come with me.”

Beside and slightly behind her, as if to let Amalie take the lead—and perhaps the greater share of blame, as well—Sibylla swept a deep but silent curtsy.

Simon glanced at Fife, then back at Amalie. “You were most unwise to travel so far without a proper escort, madam. Where is your husband?”

It was the first time anyone had addressed her as “madam,” and she took a moment to savor it before she said, “My husband? Why, he has gone to meet the Douglas, of course, but they should be here shortly. I warrant you were expecting them, were you not?” Without awaiting a response, she added with a smile, “In the meantime, Simon, I do hope you mean to give us supper. It is a greater distance than I had thought from Sweethope to Elishaw. We are starving.”

The notion of mentioning the Douglas had occurred to her as she walked toward the dais. The necessity of passing among so many rough-looking men had sent her mind scrambling for images of Garth to bolster her courage, as that image had done earlier. Instead, the notion of evoking the Douglas’s power and the fact of his being so near slid into her mind. The looks of astonishment on all three men’s faces were all that she had hoped they might be.

Now, if only she could manage to retain her dignity, not to mention her freedom, until Sir Garth and the Douglas arrived.

Chapter 20

G
arth and his men had reached the outskirts of Wauchope Forest, but the sun had set and the last rays of dusky light were rapidly fading.

“Are you sure you know the way?” Garth asked Sym. “It will be dark soon.”

“Aye, sir, I ken fine how to go, but I’m still wondering what we’ll do when we get there. Wi’ Sir Iagan dead, how well d’ye ken the new laird?”

“Simon Murray.”

“That’s him, aye.”

“We are barely acquainted, but I warrant he’ll recognize me. Certainly Fife and Sir Harald Boyd will, if Boyd is still with Fife. And I assume he must be as he was with him when they left Sweethope Hill.”

“Will Simon Murray let us in?”

Garth thought about that. He could hardly be sure that Simon’s guards would open the gates to six armed men and a lad. Fife might, though. With as many as he had in his tail, and with his own man now master of Elishaw . . .

“Fife may tell him to let us in just to show he doesn’t fear us,” he said.

Sym made a rude noise. “That Fife be nobbut a snooling feardie. Ye should hear what they said o’ him after he rode into England wi’ Archie the Grim two years ago. Puffed off to everyone that he were the true leader, Fife did—
and
still does. But the man be so timorous that the only time he
did
lead, the men said, was when he led them home again—
and
at a right good clip, they said.”

“Mind you don’t repeat that where he may hear of it, my lad,” Garth warned him. “Fife may be a physical coward, but he’s a powerful one and just the sort that a wise man watches closely. He’s gey ruthless and knows how to get what he wants.”

“Aye, he’d liefer kill a man as stare at him,” Sym said, nodding wisely. “I were just thinking, though. If we tell ’em we’ve come from Scott’s Hall wi’ a message for the new laird from his mam or me lady Meg, like as no, they’ll think me lady’s birthed her bairn and be fain to hear all about it.”

“I won’t spin such a tale to the men on the gate,” Garth said.

“Coo, then I’ll tell ’em and ye can keep your gob shut.”

“You had better not let me catch you telling lies.”

“Well, I wouldna lie to
ye
, would I? A man doesna lie to his friends.”

Glancing back to see that his men had formed a single line behind them, Garth noted that the one in the lead swiftly covered a smile. A man with quick ears, then, but remembering that he could no longer claim
he
never told lies, Garth said only, “We’ll see how it goes.”

“But ye canna decide when we get there, ’cause ye’d need a banner and all,” Sym said. “I’ve got a wee one, sithee. Me lady Meg made it for me, so I could show it when anyone gives me trouble.”

“But you cannot fly Buccleuch’s banner!”

“Nay, or Himself would skelp me to an inch o’ me life, or Dod would,” Sym said. “This be nobbut a wee banner wi’ her badge—a Scott moon and a Murray key—to show I belong to her. I had it when I came here afore wi’ messages from her.”

“Did she give it to you just for that occasion, or for any time you might think you’d like to use it?”

Sym hesitated, then looked at Garth from under his lashes. “Mayhap I forgot to give it back to her after,” he said. “But she never asked for it, neither.”

“We’ll fly it, then, since you can make some small claim to owning it,” Garth said. “But if they question us, we’ll say only what’s true.”

“Aye, sure, we can do that,” Sym said. “Look yonder now, sir. Ye can see where the castle be, for they’ve lighted lanterns on the ramparts.”

“It will be dark before we arrive, though,” Garth said.

“Aye, sure, but I’ve eyes like me cat, sir. I’ll get us there.”

Garth hoped he was right, because the sense of urgency that had plagued him from the moment the messenger arrived from Sweethope Hill had not lessened.

If Fife or Simon, or that devil Boyd, dared to lay a hand on his lass . . .

Amalie’s fear that Simon might order her to her bedchamber, as he and their mother had often done when she annoyed them, had proved groundless, for when she mentioned supper, he gestured to the gillies to lay two more places.

The men in the hall had fallen silent, so that when Fife spoke as Amalie and Sibylla took their places at Simon’s left, Fife did not need to raise his voice.

“Lady Westruther did say that you are the lady Sibylla Cavers, did she not?” he said in the same silken tones Amalie had heard at Scone.

“Yes, my lord,” Sibylla said. “I, too, serve the princess Isabel.”

“Then your father is Sir Malcolm Cavers, of Akermoor.”

“That is so, my lord. As you doubtless also know, my brother Sir Hugh died at Otterburn and my godfather is the present Earl of Douglas.”

Fife’s lips pressed into a thin line. Although his demeanor changed in no other way, Amalie decided that he had
not
known who Sibylla’s godfather was.

Amalie had not known either, and she wondered if it would prove an asset or simply ignite the coals they were stirring.

Had they done no more than bring Fife two hostages who might allow him to force Garth and the Earl of Douglas both to do his bidding?

Sym rode beside Garth, proudly holding the banner Meg Scott had given him so its device would show clearly when they drew near enough. Women who did not hold titles in their own right did not rightfully have badges, but it had been clever of Meg to give Sym a device that identified him as her messenger, and Buccleuch’s.

Even that small pretense rubbed Garth wrong, but if his lass
was
inside—with two dangerous men, if not three—he would pretend and not count the cost.

They had dipped into a declivity, so he could no longer see the rampart lights. He could barely see more than the shape of his hand if he held it up, or the dense shape of the horse and rider beside him, but the boy rode confidently.

Behind them, the men were silent, so Garth heard only the padding steps of horses on dry leaves and pine needles of the forest floor, and creaking harness.

Up ahead, except for an occasional peep, chirp, or screech from one of the forest’s nocturnal denizens, all was silence, too.

After Sibylla’s declaration of her relationship to the Douglas, Amalie had struggled to conceal her own reaction, lest Fife suspect from it that Sibylla had lied to him. Amalie suspected that she had. For although it was normal to identify oneself by one’s most prominent kinsmen, to the best of her recollection, Sibylla had never mentioned a kinship to Archie the Grim.

Simon had not reacted to her declaration, though, so perhaps he
had
known, although how he would have if Fife had not, Amalie could not imagine. He gestured to his carver to see to their wants, then turned to them while she was still trying to assess his demeanor and said dryly, “I trust you two enjoyed an uneventful ride.”

“We did,” she said. Hoping to ward off his inclination to scold, she added, “We avoided riding through Kelso and Jedburgh because we thought it wiser than showing ourselves in such populous places.”

Beyond Simon, Sir Harald said, “The wisest course would have been to stay at Sweethope, lass. But doubtless your so-called husband will not mind that you’ve ridden here alone. You should be glad you did not marry me.”

Before Amalie could retort that she was
very
glad, Simon forestalled her by saying sternly, “You will address my sister in a more civil tone, Boyd.”

“Oh, to be sure,” Boyd said with a dismissive gesture. “I meant no offense.”

Although astonished to hear Simon take her part rather than agree with Boyd, Amalie feared he might now demand that the other man apologize. In common civility, she would have to accept, and she did
not
want to.

But Simon returned his attention to his trencher.

Fife said, “Do you perchance know
when
the Earl of Douglas expects to arrive here, Lady Westruther? Darkness is already at hand, after all.”

Surprised and a bit annoyed that Fife had been first to address her by her new title, and wondering if Garth would agree that “Lady Westruther” was the correct one for her, she was silent until Sibylla nudged her with an elbow.

The Amalie said hastily, “I know only that the Douglas commanded a meeting this morning at Hawick, sir.”

“When did Westruther receive that message?”

Deciding she did not want to encourage further questions, she said, “He did not tell me that, for he does not talk of such things. I am only a woman, after all.”

Boyd said, “Two messengers arrived Sunday afternoon, my lord. Neither said where they sprang from, but I expect now that they must have come from Douglas. They had gone when I awoke this morning.”

“Then someone has been talking out of turn,” Fife said with a frown.

“Sakes, sir, you have never said that your progress through the Borders was to be kept secret,” Simon said. “Doubtless many know of your intent by now. At Lauder, as I recall, it was a common topic of conversation.”

Fife shook his head. “Douglas returned to Threave after the coronation. We had not been at Lauder long enough for anyone to have sent word to him and for him to have sent messengers so quickly to Westruther.”

With a wry smile, Simon said, “Many watch your movements, my lord, and surely you know that word travels exceptionally fast here in the Borders. Recall that, unlike noblemen who travel with large retinues and strings of sumpter ponies, Borderers travel light and fast. Reivers ride fifty miles or more in a single night, and even if one follows the roads, Threave is but sixty miles from Lauder. You have traveled with Archie the Grim. Does
he
keep to roads or travel slowly?”