Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy Two 02] (7 page)

Having acquired no facts of her own about James’s death, Amalie knew only what Isabel had told her and what little she had gleaned by listening when others spoke of the tragedy. But she knew the princess was not a fool or a madwoman.

If Isabel said it was murder, she had good reason, just as she had reason to think the most likely one to have ordered . . .

A chill shot through her before the thought completed itself: If Sir Garth Napier was right about who had been speaking in that room at Abbots’ House, that same person had just ordered another murder.

She wished she could hear Fife’s voice again under like circumstances. The few sentences he had spoken on Moot Hill had just not been enough for her to be certain.

Still, she ought to tell someone what she’d heard. But who would believe her, and how much about her own actions would she have to reveal before anyone would?

Garth watched until she bent to speak with Isabel. Then, telling himself he had no good reason to go on watching her, and calling himself a fool for concerning himself with her at all, he decided to eat before keeping his appointment.

He scanned the numerous trestle tables, letting his gaze rest briefly on that occupied by the Douglas lords before he located the table he sought. Moving then to one of the fires, he thanked those men who noted his knightly girdle, nodded respectfully, and stood aside for him. Accepting a trencher piled high with sliced beef, he found bread and a mug of ale, then made his way to the table in question.

“Room for one more?” he asked the man at its head.

Sir Walter Scott, Laird of Buccleuch, looked up with a grin and gestured to a space beside him on his bench. “Sit yourself down, cousin. I saw you waiting earlier to swear fealty to his grace and wondered where you’d got to since.”

At twenty-six, Wat was two years older, and of a slimmer, lankier build. He also had hazel eyes rather than blue ones, but they shared a look of near kinsmen.

To the other nobles gathered there, three or four of whom were with their lady wives, Buccleuch said, “Some of you may not know my cousin, Garth Napier, who won his spurs at Otterburn. He has been out of the country for some months, so you will forgive us if we speak privately for a short time.”

“Where is your lady, Wat?” Garth asked as he swung a leg over the bench to take the proffered seat. “I have yet to meet her, after all.”

“ ’Tis no one’s fault but your own that you have not,” Buccleuch said. “I married Meg before Otterburn, after all.”

“Aye, sure, I heard about that,” Garth said, grinning but knowing better than to tease his cousin about certain amusing details of that marriage. “As
you
know, the wedding was over long before I learned of it. And soon afterward, we headed to Otterburn. Then, after James died and Archie became Earl of Douglas, he sent to ask me to serve him in Galloway, at Threave Castle. One does not refuse to serve the most powerful lord in the Borders at his family seat. Nor did I want to. Also, Fife had just declared himself, rather than Archie, Chief Warden of the Marches.”

“Aye, sure,” Wat said. He did not comment on Fife, although Garth was sure he felt as bitter as most Borderers did about Fife’s assuming a title traditionally reserved to the Earls of Douglas. “Archie did you great honor, Gar.”

“He did, so I was with him at Threave for nearly thirteen months, until Yuletide last year. But after young Archie married Carrick’s daughter, I followed Will Douglas of Nithsdale to Prussia. As Scotland was at peace with England by then, he had decided to search for adventure with the Teutonic Knights.”

“I know that your father died whilst you were away,” Wat said. “I was sorry to hear of it. That his death came so suddenly must have hurt you sorely.”

“You’d know. My lord uncle died just two months before I left with Will.”

“Aye, but my father’s wounds from Otterburn never healed right and caused him much suffering. I own, it was a relief to us all when death took him at last.”

“My father was hale and hearty when I left,” Garth said. “He was sick only a few days, though, and I did not learn about his death until we brought Will home.”

“
That
was a dreadful thing,” Wat said. Glancing around and lowering his voice, he added, “Were you with him when they killed him?”

“I came upon it afterward, too late to aid him,” Garth said.

“He was dead then?”

“It was horrible,” Garth said, choosing his words. Despite his complete trust in Buccleuch, he did not know some of the others near enough to overhear. “Telling Archie that we’d let his son die in a street brawl was worst of all.”

Buccleuch frowned. “I’d not want to face Archie the Grim after such a tragedy, myself. Despite being born a bastard, Will grew to be one of Scotland’s finest warriors, married a princess, and was Archie’s favorite son. No one ever doubted Archie’s love for him, or ever will.”

“Archie doesn’t blame me or Will’s other men,” Garth said. “He has treated me only with kindness, even to offering me leave to look after things at Westruther. I tell you that only because I’d intended to accept and then visit Scott’s Hall to meet your Meg and admire that wee son of yours. As it is, though, I’ve not even seen my sister, Joan. I’d hoped to see her and her husband here.”

“They
are
here somewhere,” Wat said. “Crosier walked into the kirk with me. I’d expected them to sup with me, too, but they had already agreed to eat with his parents. I’m surprised you didn’t see him during the ceremonies.”

“I didn’t go into the kirk,” Garth said, seeing no reason to mention that, thanks to his intriguing adventure before the coronation, he’d barely noticed the lairds.

He was congratulating himself that Buccleuch apparently had not seen him escort the lady Amalie through the crowd when Buccleuch said, “I wondered why you took the lass to the door but did not take her in. Doubtless you will explain.”

Garth had no doubt that his cousin’s well-known protective instincts would extend to his good-sister, so he said only, “She had got separated from the princess Isabel, but a knight—one of Isabel’s, I expect—was just inside, waiting for her.”

“I see,” Buccleuch said, and Garth relaxed. Having no desire to stir his cousin’s notoriously uncertain temper, he was grateful when Wat went on to relay other, unrelated news about their family.

Still, he would have to take care not to stir Wat’s curiosity by showing too much interest in the lady Amalie or Wat would demand to know his intentions toward her. To admit that he did not intend to marry for years yet would hardly be an acceptable response.

The two men chatted about family and desultory matters until Garth, who had been keeping one eye on the Douglas table, saw that the people there were preparing to depart. Shortly thereafter, the man who had spoken to him on the hillside beckoned, and he excused himself to Buccleuch.

From the table near the royal party where she had joined other attendants, Amalie watched Isabel, alert for the least sign that she needed anything.

In the midst of her own family, Isabel was struggling to look cheerful. Despite her efforts, Amalie decided long before the royal family finished eating that its members had little if any liking for one another.

She had never before seen so many of them together in one place. Anyone watching could see that Fife had nothing to say to any of the others.

It was likewise plain that the King would rather have been anywhere else. He murmured occasionally to the Queen, who sat beside him, but otherwise he kept so still that Amalie wondered if he ate anything or was even aware of the boisterous crowd just a few yards away, celebrating his accession to the throne.

He paid no heed to the clearing of a broad, grassy area in front of the royal table, or to the large fire laid in a rock ring there. Nor did any juggler, tumbler, bear-leader, or musician stir a blink of royal interest.

The rest of the crowd, still happily gorging themselves, noisily cheered the entertainers’ antics and shouted suggestions to the musicians for tunes to play.

Darkness was falling and men were lighting torches at the fire before Amalie finished her meal. With nothing to do for the princess, she watched the crowd in the increasing glow of firelight, seeking faces she recognized and one in particular.

So intent was her search for that one person that, as the royal party readied itself to depart, Sir Iagan Murray approached unnoticed until he spoke her name.

“Sir!” she exclaimed, getting quickly to her feet.

“ ’Tis good to see ye, lass,” he said. “I trust I see ye well.”

“Aye, sir,” she replied. “I am content in my service to Isabel. And tomorrow we return to Sweethope Hill. I vow, sir, we shall all be thankful to be home at last.”

“But your home is at Elishaw,” he said, frowning. “And your lady mother and I have decided ye should return. In troth, she fears ye might resist the notion, but she’s that determined— That is to say,” he went on hastily, “I’ve missed ye sorely and hope ye’ll bide with us again till ye marry. Sithee, ye’ve been away now for nigh onto two years, daughter.”

Amalie looked him in the eye. As a child, she had found his customary bluster frightening, but that was no longer the case. “Forgive me, sir, but in that two years’ time you’ve said not one word about missing me until today. I was at Scott’s Hall for nearly six months after Meg’s wedding before Isabel invited me to bide with her.”

“ ’Twas not that we didna miss ye, lass,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I just had more important matters to attend. After Douglas’s death, when Fife tried and failed to take Hermitage Castle, he was angry that he’d failed. Your brothers were angry, too, aye. So, although your mam wanted ye to come home then, I thought ye’d be safer at the Hall till everything settled down. But then . . .” He shrugged. “Time passes gey fast, Amalie.”

His memory of events seemed distorted to one who had been at Hermitage with Isabel—then Countess of Douglas—when Fife’s men, including the two Murray brothers, had tried and failed to take the castle. But Amalie knew that trying to correct Sir Iagan’s recollections would irritate him, and thus do her no good.

“I cannot return to Elishaw yet, sir,” she said calmly. “Isabel will need me more than ever at Sweethope Hill. It is a big house, and although they’ve done much to make it more habitable whilst we’ve been away, there will be much still to do.”

He frowned more heavily, and she knew she had stirred his temper, but she refused to look away or back down. She did
not
want to go home.

Grimacing, his voice clearly under tight control, he said, “I ken fine what ye’re thinking, lassie, and I’ll no say ye’re mistaken. Your mam ought no to have flung this marriage at ye yet that she and Simon have in mind for ye.”

“I suspect it was Simon’s notion,” she said bitterly.

“It was, aye, but Simon is heir to Elishaw and just trying to look after our interests. Moreover, I cannot deny ’tis a good notion. The man has nae estate of his own yet, but he’s a knight with connections of the highest order. Sakes, I should think ye may even have met him, because—”

“Whether I know him or not, sir, I don’t want to marry anyone. I have said that before, and you should know that I don’t say things I do not mean.”

“I do, lass, but when I tell ye who it is, ’tis gey likely ye’ll change your mind, for he is a fine-looking chap, as well, Simon says. And, if ye dinna ken him ye soon will, because he’ll be going into east Lothian, to Lauder wi’—”

“I don’t care,” Amalie said fiercely. “I won’t marry anyone—ever—not to please you or my mother, and
certainly
not to please Simon. I’m sorry if I seem rude or disobedient, sir, but I do have the right to refuse, do I not?” Fearing he might erupt in fury, she added hastily, “Isabel said that I do.”

“Aye, ye do,” he said with visible reluctance. “If I had me own priest at Elishaw, likely I could force your obedience. But for all that your mam says . . .”

When he paused, clearly realizing it would do him no good to tell her what her mother had said, Amalie said dryly, “I can imagine what she has said, sir. But please believe me when I say that
no one
will persuade me.”

“Then ye’ve nae need to fear paying us a visit, lassie. If ye’ll come, I’ll swear to see that nae one presses ye to wed.”

She knew he meant well, but she also knew that after ten minutes with Lady Murray, his resolve would crumble. For that matter, despite her own determination, she was not sure she could hold out any better against her formidable mother.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Isabel is ready to go now, so I must go as well.”

He looked long at her, and then to her relief, he kissed her and walked away.

Inside Abbots’ House a short time later, Simon Murray faced the Governor of the Realm in the upstairs chamber that the latter had taken for his own use.

Tall, like nearly all the Stewarts, but darker and thinner, Fife was sharp of mind and still fit despite being nearly fifty years of age. Simon knew that he was politically astute and utterly ruthless when acquiring power for himself.

Fife enjoyed the trappings of power, and the room they were in was small by comparison with those he customarily occupied at Stirling or Edinburgh Castle. However, the finer rooms in Abbots’ House being more appropriate for the new King of Scots, Simon knew that Fife had had no choice.

That the Governor of the Realm should take rooms in Perth as lesser folk had, nearly two and a half miles from the King, was unthinkable with so many at hand who might try to influence his grace. Therefore, Fife had let everyone know from the first that he would also be staying at Abbots’ House.

Fife dismissed the servant with whom he had been speaking when Simon entered. Only after the door had shut behind the man did the Governor say in his customary, soft-spoken way, “What news have you brought me?”

“None of any use, my lord,” Simon admitted. “I’d hoped my father might persuade her. But apparently, the princess told her she can legally refuse to marry.”

“Isabel really
must
learn not to meddle,” Fife said. “She begins to annoy me. But I will deal with her, and you must deal with your sister. You do support me in this endeavor, do you not?”