She did not waste time worrying about what the Scots would say, although it galled her to know they would be right to protest. Nor did she worry much about English lords who lived near Brackengill. Most of them, particularly Sir Edward Nixon of Bewcastle, had suffered serious losses to Scottish reivers, and several were friendly to the English Grahams—presently, at all events. Therefore, chances were good that they would support Hugh’s actions, perhaps even to the point of hanging the reiver. After all, it would not be as if they had done it themselves.
Lord Medford of Bellingham was a high stickler, however. He and his forebears had done much to create the
leges marchiarum,
or “march laws,” that ruled the Borders, so he would not look kindly upon any man who broke them.
Unfortunately for Hugh, most lords of the English middle march—and Hargrave, Loder, and Sawkeld from the west march—allied themselves more closely with Medford than with Scrope or Hugh himself, or with any other Graham. Those men, she knew, would strenuously oppose his actions. Indeed, Hargrave was a Bell, and the English Bells were feuding with the Grahams, who had been feuding with the Scottish Bells for nearly a decade. It was all very complicated, as Hugh should know, and those who might stand with him one moment could turn against him the next. She had to make him see reason.
He and his men returned at last a few minutes before one, and by then she was fairly spoiling for a fight. Although servants had long since set up the trestle tables, and everyone in the castle had already waited an hour past the usual time, she felt only mild annoyance when he ordered them to put dinner back another half hour. She knew that he wanted time to change into attire more comfortable than the metal-plated leather jack, steel helmet, and other protective accouterments that he wore whenever he rode outside the castle walls.
Nevertheless, when he entered the hall at last, she was pacing the floor, stirring the fresh rushes and filling the air with the scent of rosemary and herbs.
Without speaking, he strode to the fireplace near the high table and stretched out his hands to warm them. The noise of others entering the hall after him forced her to walk nearer to make herself heard.
“Good afternoon,” she said, keeping her voice calm, knowing that she would get farther with kind words than with sharp ones. “Did your business prosper?”
“Aye,” he said without looking at her. “Shot a brace of grouse, too. I had a lad give them to Sheila to hang. We can have them for dinner one day soon.”
“It is early yet for grouse,” she said.
“Aye.”
“Hugh, I—”
“My men and I are hungry, Janet, and they are ready to serve the food.” He offered his arm. “Come, let us not keep everyone waiting.”
Glancing toward the lower tables to see that his men had gathered around them and were waiting to sit, she put a hand on his forearm and went with him to the high table. As soon as they sat down, servants with baskets scurried from man to man handing out stale bread for trenchers, and the others took their seats. Hugh said a brief grace, and a servant set a huge platter of sliced ham before him.
Although she sat beside him, the near silence of men and women eating their dinner made it difficult to mention his captive with any degree of casualness. There was still much for everyone to do before day’s end, and everyone ate hastily, not in the more leisurely way that they would later eat their supper.
The latter meal, though smaller, was the social time of day at Brackengill, just as it was in most Border households. Laughter and conversation would reign then, and someone would play music. Now the feeling was companionable rather than cheerful. The fires roared, and odors of burning wood, roasted meat, and warm ale mixed with the sweet herbal scents from the new-laid rushes.
Although Sir Hugh owned considerable land and collected a respectable income for a Border lord, his household did not operate on a grand scale. What money he was able to lay his hands on went into improving Brackengill, and over the years since he had attained his majority, he had done much. He had replaced the wooden stockade walls with stone, and had expanded the family living quarters, encouraging his sister to make them as comfortable as she could.
They lived well compared to many, but even when he entertained company for dinner, there was no butler to prepare knives for the carver or to slice the bread before it came to the table. Generally, everyone used trenchers rather than plates—except, of course, when important visitors dined with them. In such an event, no lord who owned plates of any sort would use bread for trenchers unless unusual circumstances such as the arrival of a sudden and unexpectedly large number of guests required him to do so.
Fresh bread came to Sir Hugh’s table in small, individual loaves that diners could break at will. Janet swiftly scanned the basket that the servant set before him, looking for any loaves that were too brown or that still had oven grit on them. She did not want him to find reason today to complain about the food.
At the trestle tables, the bread frequently was several days older and each person scraped his own. When leftover loaves grew too hard to break easily, the kitchen maids would cut them in half for use as trenchers.
When Hugh reached for the salt, Janet held her breath. Until the days grew warmer, there was always risk that it would cake. It was Sheila’s job to make certain that the top of the container did not touch its contents and discolor them, and that the salt remained fine, white, and dry. Still, one could never be certain.
Apparently finding the salt satisfactory, Sir Hugh called for ale from his personal supply, and a pewter goblet was quickly filled for him. Watching him rip a roasted chicken to pieces while she toyed with her own food, Janet noted with satisfaction that, despite the wait, the skin was crisp the way he liked it.
Although it was frequently the habit in large households for dogs to wander through the hall at-will, begging and fighting each other for scraps and other choice bits that the men threw to them, no dogs attended meals at Brackengill. Once Janet had learned how much easier it was to keep the hall floor presentable without them, she had banished them from mealtimes.
The minutes marched by, but finding no easy way to bring up the subject of the captive while they ate, she waited, responding when Hugh spoke to her but content to let him speak with Ned Rowan and another of his sergeants who sat with them. Not until the servants began to clear away the food and everyone else began to return to their duties did she say, “I would speak privately with you, brother.”
“Now?” he demanded, frowning at her. “I have much to do, lass.”
The frown did not auger well for their discussion, but Janet pressed on, keeping her tone even as she said, “I want to discuss your prisoner again, sir.”
“There is no point in that,” he snapped, adding more moderately. “You tend the household well, lass. I noticed the fresh rushes, and I know that it is no mean achievement to keep a household fresh at this time of year. I know, too, that I have you to thank for having my dinner when I want it, for looking after the linens and such, and keeping the servants contented, even cheerful. However,” he added sternly, “do not think that your expertise in household matters qualifies you to meddle in those that are of no concern to you.”
“Your honor
is
my concern,” she insisted, fighting to keep from raising her voice. “What touches your honor touches mine.”
“My honor! What the devil do you think you are talking about?” He made no attempt now to keep his voice down.
Suppressing a wince, she managed to keep from looking around the room to see if others were watching them. Though many of the men had gone, she knew that those who lingered, and the servants, could hear everything he said to her.
“Please, Hugh, do not shout.”
“I have been in the saddle all morning, Janet, and since I am to take supper with Nixon tonight at Bewcastle, I’ll spend much of this afternoon in the saddle, as well. I’ve neither time nor patience to deal with your woman’s whining now.”
“Then when, sir? If you hang the man without a trial, you will anger all our friends and allies who believe in the laws of the Borders. You could even lose your position as deputy warden.”
“Nonsense. Scrope wants to be rid of that devil Redcloak as much as I do, and so do many others hereabouts—Sir Edward Nixon, for one.”
“Aye, but what of Medford? He will demand your head, Hugh, or at least that you pay a fine for evading proper procedures. Hanging a man without trial may even be murder in his eyes—aye, and in God’s eyes, too!”
“Don’t be daft,” he snapped, signing to a passing lad to fetch him more ale.
Janet bit her lower lip to keep from snapping back at him. Waiting until the servant had gone away again, she said with forced calm, “Hugh, I beg of you, consider carefully what you do. You are a man of your word, are you not?”
“Aye, when it suits my purpose. What of it?”
“You prevaricate, sir. I know you well, and I know that when you give a man your solemn word, you keep it. It is a badge of honor with you.”
“I will not debate my decision with you, Janet. It is not seemly for a man to debate such matters with a woman.”
“Are not laws made because men agree to their making, and then swear an oath’ to uphold them?”
“No one on our side of the line intended for the law to protect scoundrels like Redcloak, who steal from us.”
“Pray, do not attempt to clothe your anger in pious respectability, sir. We have just agreed that I know you well. It is not the thieving that angers you, for you have led thieving raids into Scotland yourself, and so has nearly every other man of property on this side of the line. Our lot is no more law-abiding than the Scots.”
“We only seek redress for wrongs done to us,” he growled.
“Now you sound like a sanctimonious prig,” she retorted impatiently. “You know as well as I do that men on both sides say that very same thing whenever they raid. The excuse is as ancient as the behavior.”
“They steal our horses, and we take them back; that’s all.”
“That is not all. Men, women, and children are killed in raids on both sides. Raiding destroys lives and property, Hugh.” Aware that her voice had risen, she looked guiltily around the hall to see that three of Hugh’s men and the two lads dismantling the trestle tables were still there.
Following her glance, Sir Hugh said grimly, “Hold your tongue. Thank God it is men who decide these matters, not women.”
“Women would have better sense,” she retorted. “We would not expect others to obey laws that we ourselves flout. How can you break a law that you have sworn an oath to uphold, Hugh?”
“I have sworn to serve my queen and the warden of the west march,” Hugh said. “That God-forsaken reiver in my dungeon is one of the most scurrilous thieves in the Borders, and he deserves to hang.”
“Then let them declare his sentence at the next Truce Day.”
“A Scottish jury would hear our complaint against him, not an English one,” he reminded her. “Even though we would select its members, do you think that such a jury would ever order Rabbie Redcloak hanged? He is a legend to them, lass, a man they greatly admire. They would probably reward him.”
“But—”
“We have sent bills against him before,” Hugh went on impatiently, “and he and his supporters have ignored them. More times than not the Scots insist that he does not exist. Well, I have proved that he does, but if any Scotsman demands to know how we dared to hang him, I shall simply refer to their own insistence that there is no such person, and that will be that.”
“Hugh, you can achieve the same end by holding him until the wardens’ meeting in the legal manner, and presenting him for trial. No one can deny his existence after you present him to them in person.”
“That’s enough, Janet. I don’t want to hear another word out of you on the subject. Do you understand me?” His voice had risen again.
Before she could answer, a man spoke from the threshold. “Beggin’ your pardon, Sir Hugh, but will ye be wanting a full company to ride to Bewcastle?”
“Aye, I will,” Hugh said, scraping back his chair and getting to his feet, clearly having decided that his discussion with his sister was over.
Drawing breath to steady herself, Janet said boldly, “If you insist on going forward with this mad plan, Hugh, I shall have no recourse other than to let Thomas Scrope know what you mean to do.”
He glowered at her. “Damnation, lass, who do you think will take such a message if I forbid it?”
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “If I must go myself, though, I will.”
“By God, you will not defy me further in this!” he bellowed.
Her own anger quickly igniting, she stood to face him, wishing she were taller so that she could look him eye to eye. Grimly, she said, “I do not count it defiance, Hugh. Scrope must support me in this. He will not want it known throughout the Borders that he allows his deputies to defy the law when it suits them to do so, or that they will hang men without trial.”
He leaned closer, his fury plain. “You will go nowhere but to your bedchamber, my lass, and you will stay there until I give you leave to come out again. Do you hear me?”
“Hugh, you are mad! If you hang him, you will be fortunate to survive him by a sennight, for when his people learn of it, they will demand your life in return for his. What will you do if King James of Scotland demands your arrest?”
“I’ll tell Jamie what I tell you,” he snarled. “I caught the man red-handed and it is my right to hang him!”
“But Hugh—”
“No more!” he roared. “Go to your room!”
Taking an involuntary step backward, she said nonetheless firmly, “I will find a way to stop you, Hugh. I may be sorry for it, but—”
Her words ended in a cry when he slapped her, nearly knocking her off her feet. She managed to remain upright only by the merest good fortune. Pressing a cool hand against her flaming cheek, she straightened. Aware of their audience, augmented now with faces peeping through doorways, she looked him in the eye and said, “Do you seek to silence me with violence, sir? I think our people will not support you in this instance. Indeed, I believe that once it becomes widely known that you mean to hang your Scottish reiver on Wednesday—”