“Aye, then,” the guard said, “ye’ll be as safe as a wee chick in its nest wi’ Ferdie, mistress.”
Smiling warmly at each of them, Janet rode through the gate and down the hill, giving spur to her mount when she reached the narrow track along the river. The increased speed exhilarated her, and she breathed deeply of the cool, damp morning air. Shreds of mist clung to tree branches, but she could see that new leaves were forming where none had been only two days before. Spring was stirring.
Ferdie was a taciturn man, but the noise of the fast-moving river would have precluded casual conversation in any case. Thus, Janet was alone with her thoughts, and they soon proved discomfiting. Despite the easy pace they settled into, she was well aware that she was leaving Broadhaugh behind. A sense of guilt began to nibble at her conscience. What would result from this latest impulse of hers?
Quinton would be angry. That much was plain. What he would do about it, however, was not plain at all. She did not think he would beat her. He did not seem like a man who ever employed violence against those who could not fight back. His servants and his men showed deep respect for his temper, but they did not treat him with the same profound awe as Buccleuch. It occurred to her only then that Buccleuch might be at Branxholme when she arrived.
For a few shaky moments, she hovered on the brink of turning back. Then she told herself that there was nothing wrong with visiting Margaret. Branxholme was less than eight miles away, after all, and she had traveled farther than that when she had visited tenants, both with Quinton and without him. To this reasoning, her conscience rudely replied by reminding her that her husband had confined her to her bedchamber and would expect to find her there upon his return from Cotrigg.
It was nearing noon and her stomach had begun to growl when Branxholme’s ramparts appeared at last on the horizon.
“I didna ken ye was coming so far, mistress,” Ferdie said doubtfully. “I warrant the master would say we should ha’ brought more o’ the lads wi’ us.”
“We scarcely saw so much as a rabbit,” Janet said. Since they had passed through several small villages along the river, that was not precisely true, but she did not care. Her gaze was fixed on the ramparts above the castle entrance. “Buccleuch’s banner would be flying if he were at Branxholme, would it not?”
“Aye, it would,” Ferdie growled. Glancing at him, she saw that he was staring straight ahead. His jaw was set.
Persisting, she said, “He is not here then.”
“Nay, he is not. Did ye want him to be, mistress?”
“I came to pay my respects to his lady,” she said airily. “I did not think one thing or another about him, but I expect he is likely to be at Hermitage.”
“Aye, he should be.”
Janet managed to conceal her relief. She was in no mood to confront Buccleuch. Yet, had he been at Branxholme, she would have had no choice. The guards had noted their approach by now, and had they tried to turn back, doubtless a heavily armed party would have ridden after them to inquire into their business. She would have had to brazen it out and face the consequences later. It was far better if Buccleuch was still fixed at Hermitage.
Fifteen minutes later, when she was shown into Margaret’s parlor, Margaret leapt to her feet, exclaiming, “My dear, how providential! You can have no notion how glad I am to see you, but where is Quinton? Did he not accompany you?”
“No, I came alone,” Janet said. “I came to—”
“How vexing,” Margaret cut with a distracted frown. “His being here would have saved us a good deal of time. I was just going to send someone with a message for him, you see, because Buccleuch will arrive within the hour.”
“Here?” Janet knew that she sounded dismayed, but Margaret did not notice. Her own thoughts seemed to consume her attention.
“He will want to see Quin at once,” she said worriedly. “At least, he will if he is in any case to speak with anyone.”
“In any case…” Janet stared at her then, her fears forgotten. “What has happened, madam? Is aught amiss with Buccleuch?”
“They say he fell from his horse,” Margaret said, wringing her hands. “Such clumsiness is most unlike him, but one of his men rode in not a quarter hour before you to say that they are carrying him here on a gate. Branxholme was nearer than Hermitage, he said, but that makes sense only if one knows where they were when Buccleuch fell, of course.”
“Don’t you know where it was, madam?”
Margaret shrugged. “He may have told me, but I did not heed it if he did, because he also said that apparently Lord Scrope has at last decided to hold the next wardens’ meeting in ten days’ time. Forgive me, my dear, but I must not stand talking,” she added. “I simply must send someone to fetch Quinton at once.”
“High was their fame, high was their might
And high was their command.”
B
UCCLEUCH DID NOT ARRIVE
on a gate, for he would not allow his men to carry him into the castle. He rode in on his horse, but he swayed dangerously in the saddle, and when he tried to dismount, only the swift action of two of the men saved him from collapsing.
Margaret stood stoically in the doorway, watching.
Beside her, Janet said, “At least he is not bleeding.”
“Not that we can see,” Margaret muttered. “His father died when he was only five-and-twenty, you will recall.”
“He is not going to die,” Janet said firmly. “Look at him.”
Buccleuch had an arm around the shoulders of two of his men, and just then he grinned at the one on his left, saying something that made the man laugh.
“He wants us to look at them,” Margaret said. “If we stare at his ape-grin, we might not notice that his face is scraped and bleeding or that he is not putting any weight on his left foot. Doubtless it refuses to bear weight, and it may well be broken. At least his horse looks healthy. He would hate to have to put that one down, and if he had to do so because it had stepped into a rabbit hole through some carelessness of his, he would behave like a surly bear for weeks.”
Turning, she raised her voice to say to a hovering maidservant, “Mary, tell them to fetch hot water and clean cloths to the great hall. They must tear strips of linen if they have none ready to hand. His leg will need binding, and I shall want compresses, too, both hot and cold. Oh, and send someone to fetch Alys the herbwoman from her cottage straightaway.”
“Aye, m’lady.”
As Buccleuch hopped up the steps toward them, leaning heavily on his aides he said, “Take that grim look off your face, Mag. They’ll be hearing rumors of my death as far away as London town if anyone sees you looking so dour.”
“Take him into the hall,” Margaret said quietly to the men, “and settle him in his own chair. Set a stool for his leg. How bad is it, sir?”
“’Tis naught but a curst nuisance,” he said, but Janet noted that he did not meet his wife’s steady gaze. “The only pain is that it was my own fault,” he added. “Everything seems to work well enough, but I’m seeing two of everything.”
Janet drew breath to speak, but before she could, Margaret said calmly, “You hit your head then, I expect.”
“Aye, I did,” he admitted. “I’ve got a fair-sized knot above my right ear. I don’t know what I hit, but it put me right out, and how the devil I managed to hurt a leg and my head all in one toss, I do not know.”
“Ye should ha’ seen him, m’lady,” the man on his left said. “The pony stepped wrong, and Himself flew through the air as if he’d growed wings. Had he no kept ahold o’ the reins, he’d be flyin’ yet, I’m thinkin’.”
“’Twas the pony stepping on his leg when he landed at the puir beast’s feet that did the damage,” the second man added, “but if it’s broke, we carina tell.”
They had reached the hall, and Margaret gestured toward Buccleuch’s armchair. “Fetch pillows,” she said to a lackey who peered in through a doorway at the far end of the hall.
“And ale, lad,” Buccleuch called as the lackey turned to do her bidding.
“Bring him water,” Margaret commanded. “I’ll not have you fuddling your brain more than you already have, sir,” she added with a winsome smile.
He frowned, but when he met her gaze at last, his expression softened. “You’ll enjoy this more than I will, lass,” he said, grimacing. “Did the lads I sent ahead tell you that that damnable snake Scrope’s agreed at last to meet at Dayholm on the seventeenth?”
“Aye, they did, and before you ask, I’ve sent someone to fetch Quinton.”
He looked sharply at Janet. “Do you mean to say that he’s not here?”
“No, sir,” Janet said. “I…I came alone.”
“What the devil for? Not that you are not welcome,” he added hastily with a guilty look at his wife. “Still, the Borders are grumbling more than usual. It is not safe for anyone traveling alone, particularly a bonny wee lass like yourself.”
“I had Ferdie with me,” Janet said. When he frowned, she added quickly, “It was perhaps not wise to bring only a lackey, sir, but it was such a fine day that I could not resist riding along the river. We just rode on, and…” Spreading her hands, she left the rest of the sentence unspoken, leaving him to draw his own conclusion. Although she had planned to be frank with Margaret and beg for her support, she felt unable to tell Buccleuch that she had left Broadhaugh.
He seemed to accept the implication that she had simply ridden farther than she had intended, for he said, “It is just as well then that Mag’s sent for Quin. He’ll not be pleased to find you here, though, lass. Don’t think he will.”
“I know he will not,” Janet said truthfully.
Margaret’s attempt to remove Buccleuch’s boot snapped his attention back to his injuries and showed that he had understated the pain they caused him. His wife soon provided compresses for both the swollen leg and the knot on his head, and managed to persuade him to sip barley water in place of the ale he would have preferred. He quickly grew impatient, however, with his inability to move freely or to see clearly, and by the time the elderly herbwoman arrived at last, Janet knew that everyone in the hall felt the same relief that she did to see her.
Margaret said warmly, “Thank you for coming so swiftly, Alys. As you see, the laird has injured himself. He complains that he sees two of everything, and his injured leg has swollen considerably despite my compresses.”
“Aye, well, it would,” the old woman said, peering at the offending limb for a long moment, then setting the compress aside to examine the injury through his knitted netherstocks with swift, practiced movements. At last, she looked at Margaret and said in a tone of deep disapproval, “Summat fell on it.”
Buccleuch said, “They tell me my horse stepped on it after I took a toss and landed on my head.”
Janet thought his tone seemed surprisingly respectful. Hugh had no use for herbwomen or apothecaries and tended to dismiss any advice either might give him. Clearly Buccleuch was not so intolerant.
“Likely it’s cracked then, and ye’ll do well to keep to your bed and keep it rested,” the old woman told him. “D’ye walk on it, ye’ll do it more hurt—your pate, as well. I’ve seen them wha’ took such a knock feelin’ well one minute and fall over dead the next. Ye should stay abed till ye can see clearly again.”
“His injuries will result in no lasting harm then,” Margaret said, making a statement of fact rather than asking a question.
The herbwoman smiled, revealing wide gaps between her yellowed teeth. “Not an he keeps his head still and looks after himself,” she said.
“Then he will do as he is bid,” Margaret said, giving her spouse the same look that she might have given a recalcitrant child.
Buccleuch grinned at her.
Sternly, she said, “I need you whole and healthy, sir. Will you allow these lads to take you quietly up to your bed now, or shall I leave you here alone to look after yourself?”
“Aye, and she’d do it, too,” Buccleuch said. “I’ll let them take me upstairs but only to your cozy parlor, sweetling. Someone can set up a bed there if you insist on me being in one, but unlike the days when a gentleman attended to his daily business in his bedchamber, mine is a far less comfortable place to receive visitors than your parlor is, and I’ve much to do.”
Margaret pressed her lips together in such a way that Janet knew she would have liked to say more, but instead she just signed to the men to take Buccleuch upstairs. That she worried about him was clear, but he looked healthy enough to Janet. A blow to the head could be worrisome, she knew, but she did not think he looked softheaded. More than likely he had dented whatever stone he had hit.
She had more to worry about, in any case, and long before anyone could reasonably have expected Sir Quinton to arrive, she found herself looking out onto the bailey to see if he had. She had retired to a small sitting room so that her hostess could tend Buccleuch with privacy in her parlor, and the sitting room window overlooked the bailey. As she watched, Janet told herself more than once that she was not afraid of her husband.
Unfortunately for her peace of mind, she could not recall exactly what she had expected to accomplish by leaving Broadhaugh. Somehow, in her earlier thinking, she had decided that her husband would learn a lesson, that he had only to realize that she had left him to understand that he had overstepped the mark of what she would accept in his behavior toward her. She had expected him to see that, in following the raiders, she had wanted only to help. He should recognize that she had been brave to follow them, and could have proved useful in an emergency. The more she tried to persuade herself, however, the guiltier she felt. As a result, she was in no case to deal with her hostess, let alone with Sir Quinton.
Margaret soon joined her in the sitting room, saying with a sigh, “I finally persuaded him to try sleeping. His vision has not improved, however, and he expected it to do so at once. I do not know how long I can bring him to coddle himself. Truly, Quinton cannot get here too soon.”
Janet grimaced.
Margaret said gently, “What is it, my dear? It occurred to me whilst I was sitting with Buccleuch, and praying for him to recover quickly, that I never thought to ask why you came here alone as you did. You are not a fool, although Buccleuch would have it that you behaved foolishly, and doubtless Quin will say the same.”