Fair Border Bride (8 page)

“How far down is it?”

“Ten feet, maybe.”
A grin slid over the solid Northumberland features. “
Figurin’s
no my strong suit,
y’knaw
.”

“And below that?”

Matho looked him straight in the eye.
“
Nowt
but the Ay burn.”

***

Once in the safety of her bed, hot tears trickled into Alina’s feather pillow. One of the less vigilant men might never have spotted her, but Matho pounced on her the moment she ran through the door to the outer courtyard. Convincing him to let her speak to Harry had not been easy and he’d stood out of earshot but within sight of her the whole time.

Frustration burned because she had not been able find the key that would have freed Harry. Perhaps the boys knew where the keys to the dungeon were kept, but it was too late to think of that now.

She touched her lips, remembering the gentleness of Harry’s mouth, how strong his grasp had been when he pulled her against the cold iron grill. Her fingers sought the gap in her nightgown, and traced the curves as Harry had earlier. What might have happened if the grill hadn’t been between them? She shivered. This man was special. He meant more than her first kiss, more than her girlish dreams of a knight of old come to claim her. Harry was real, and fine, more than handsome and she hated her father for his harsh treatment.

She planned speeches in her head all through that long night. She would throw herself at Father in the morning and plead with him to let Harry go.

Full daylight came early in the summer. Alina left her bed quietly, shuffled her blue gown over her chemise, combed her hair, plaited it neatly and hauled a plain white coif from her clothes chest. She hated wearing them, but a demure appearance might help her persuade Father to let Harry ride away. With the same thought in mind, she rummaged deeper in the chest and dragged out a lace partlet she usually wore in winter to provide an extra layer of warmth around her shoulders and throat. She wriggled into it and secured it with a silver brooch.

Carrying her soft leather shoes, she crept downstairs to the solar. Her father usually slept on well beyond dawn, but this way he could not leave his chamber without her knowledge. Too agitated to sit, she walked over to the lancet windows.

The sky was a soft, clear blue from horizon to horizon. Sunshine burned away the light haze rising from the trees and birds flew busily about feeding their fledglings. It was not a day to die. The sound of her father’s muted snores came from beyond the curtain behind her, and she tightened her grip on the stone sill.

Alina waited for a long time, shifting her weight from foot to foot. At long last she heard her father’s low tones and her mother’s lighter response. As if on cue, a maid climbed the stairs with a can of warm water. The girl bobbed a brief curtsey to Alina and took the water to her parents.

The sound of splashing water and heavy footsteps seemed to last forever. Father yanked back the curtain and stepped into the solar. Alina turned. Her shadow stretched across the floorboards to his feet. Half-dressed, his crumpled shirt hanging over his breeches and hose, his doublet in his hands, he looked across to the window.

Alina ran forward and blocked his path to the hall. “Father, please let me speak. I must speak to you.”

He stopped, but so grudgingly she had to take two steps back to prevent him walking into her. Shaking out his doublet, he shrugged into it and fastened a couple of buttons as he stared down at her. “Well?”

Her heart rattled against her ribs. “I was in Corbridge market, sir—the day before the reivers came—I nearly lost my life to a runaway bull.”

He stared her up and down. “You seem to be in good health, so I must conclude you came to no harm. Must you waylay me on my way to eat?”

“The man you plan to punish saved me, Father. He risked his own life—”

Carnaby frowned. “You mean that wretched Scott?
The man in the dungeon?”

Alina nodded. “He saved me—”

“The man was currying favour, no doubt trying to worm his way into my good graces.” Carnaby waved her aside and moved on.

Alina grabbed at his arm to stop him. “Do you place such a low value on my life that you will not listen, sir? Harry—”

“Alina, I warn you, do not pester me. I will not have it.” Carnaby’s brows lowered. “Your mother said nothing of any escaped animal threatening you.”

Alina sank to her knees. “Mama did not see it, Father. She was in St Andrews talking to Lady Alice. Joseph was with her, or he could have told you how Harry threw a cloak over the bull’s head. Wait!” Alina cried as her father nudged her aside and walked towards the doorway. She grasped his sleeve and hung on. “Master Rutherford saw it. He tried to make Harry pay for the cloak and I told Joseph to pay him.”

Her father stopped. “You paid? What gentleman allows a woman pay his way for him? The man is a rogue and your story confirms it. No, daughter, leave me be.”

He evaded her clinging hands and strode through into the hall. The door banged against the wall and remained open. “A good slice of ham,” he snarled to a servant she could not see. “Be quick about it.”

They came for him when the sun was halfway to the midday point of the sky, and it was a relief to be out in the warm sunshine and fresh air after the oppressive closeness of the tower cellar. By stretching his muscles at regular intervals from daybreak on, Harry had kept himself toned and ready, anxious that he should not miss his one chance because he was stiff and cold.

Carnaby stood in the centre of the outer courtyard, a powerful, menacing figure in a fully buttoned crimson doublet, brown hose and riding boots. The eldest son stood at his side, a tall youth with a hint of the same heavy shoulders as his father. Lionel looked up at the battlements and lifted his shoulders in a small, helpless shrug.

Harry followed his glance and recognised two brown heads leaning through the crenels, but there was no sign of Alina. He waved, and Cuddy waved back. Lance ducked out of sight.

Matho stood at Carnaby’s other side. In daylight, his red hair shone like a beacon in the sun. A short, loose leather jerkin covered a heavy brown shirt, and not by a flicker of a glance did he betray his midnight conversation with Harry. At Carnaby’s gesture, Matho approached, spear held upright in one hand, short sword hanging at his thigh, and grasped Harry’s arm. Pushed across the outer yard, Harry made no effort to break free as they approached a small doorway in the south curtain wall.

Once through the door, the sun slapped into his eyes and the sharp smell of grass and greenery hit his nose. Squinting against the brightness, he looked around. Hollyhocks and roses clung to the side of the building and clouded the air with their perfume, but on the far side of the narrow strand of the pathway the land dipped away into nothing. Harry’s guts clutched tight for a moment.

Matho urged him on and jerked him to a halt where a small spur of land stretched ten paces towards the drop.

“Take him to the edge, Matho.” Carnaby’s voice held a purr of pleasure. “Let him see what is in store for him and then bring him to me.”

Harry looked sideways at Matho. He made no effort to speak. As they reached the edge of the ravine, Matho’s brows lifted and with a subtle indication of the head and a significant flicker of his eyes, Harry understood that he ought to look to his right.

“What do you think now, Harry Scott?” Carnaby’s voice gloated behind him.

Harry stepped to the edge and peered over. The drop was dizzying. He looked down on the rustling canopy of leaves, the sharp spikes of conifers and after a moment turned to confront his enemy. Twelve men plus Carnaby faced him, blocking off all hope of escape.

“You have no right to do this.”

Carnaby’s hands opened in an expansive gesture. He wouldn’t mind prolonging the moment, making his victim squirm and beg for release. “Who, do you think, is going to prevent me? Who will know what has happened to you?”

Harry looked at Matho and then along the line of twelve guards. They were not professional soldiers. They were field hands and grooms, who would not go against their lord because he held their lives and the lives of their families in the palm of his hand.

“Your conscience.
Your children, your wife.
These people—”

“And you think women and children are going to save you?” Carnaby laughed aloud, his fine teeth startlingly white against his swarthy skin.

Harry thought of Alina’s desperate voice in the darkness, the touch of her lips and the sweet bold way she had responded to him. She was not going to forget him, any more than he would forget her. Though he thought she might have longer than he to remember those moments at the iron grill in the moonlight.

“Bring him back, Matho!”

Harry committed a picture of the drop to memory. An uprooted pine lay across the slope, just as Matho had described. The pine’s root was out of sight beneath the overhanging crag on which they stood, but the trunk sloped gently down to rest in the cleft of another tree. From there, it was thirty feet to the ground and a precipitous slope. If he could manage the tree, he could certainly manage the slope afterwards.

Harry looked at the slender trunk and then at Matho. “You were right, Matho. Figuring is hardly your strong point.”

A swift grin flickered across Matho’s features.

“Dang it, but he loves this,” Matho muttered before they turned. “
Ye’re
supposed to be
nowt
but a
quiverin
’ heap o’ shite now, lad. I’ll ’
ave
nowt
te
dee
wi it.” Matho’s rough hand jostled Harry around, and pushed him towards his tormentor.

Harry stiffened his shoulders. The warm grey of the stone walls rose behind Carnaby and towered above them all. A flash of blue behind one of the windows caught Harry’s eye and he wondered if it might be Alina. Perhaps it had only been a reflection of the sun on the glass.

Matho moved unobtrusively to the back of the troop, leaving Harry isolated.

Carnaby moved forward, smiling.
“Ready to meet your maker?
I can have Father John brought here if you want him. I’ll not be accused of sending a man unshriven to his death.”

Harry resisted the urge to land a punch on the dark-skinned, grinning face. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, determined not to let fear rule him. He flexed and relaxed his muscles, preparing as best he could for what would be the leap of his life. He pictured the scene behind him and gave Carnaby only a fraction of his interest.

“My conscience is clear,” he said quietly. “Remember me to your boys, and Alina. I hope they live long and happy lives.”

Carnaby leered. “They will soon forget you.” He gestured to the men forward to grasp Harry. “Take him to the edge. Throw him off, and be damned to the entire family Scott.”

“I hope you rot in hell,” Harry said. He gave himself no time to worry. Before the guards reached him, he swung round, ran for the crag and jumped. Once launched, he could not change direction. The silver-beige trunk rushed up to meet him. One foot landed square on the trunk and the other hit the rounded side and slid off in a scatter of loose bark.

The tree sank, groaned and rebounded under his weight. Debris rattled over the spear shaped leaves of the bluebells and garlic clinging to the slope below. Harry bit his bottom lip clear through as he teetered, threw his weight forward and grasped the trunk with both arms and legs.

He lifted his head. The fallen pine presented a narrow pathway towards the tall beech. He sucked in a huge breath, kept his body close to the wood and clambered along the trunk. Patches of bark fell away. Branches loomed up, sharp spikes that gouged his flesh and no doubt ruined his boots and hose. Some smaller stuff he forced aside, or wriggled over.

Panting, spitting bloody froth into the empty space below, he swarmed down towards the sturdy beech, anxious to reach it and be away before Carnaby entertained thoughts of checking for a body.

The beech was old, massive and many-branched. Harry climbed down, jumped the last few feet to the ground and sank between the huge roots. He looked up, expecting an audience peering over the crag. Leaves obscured his view. If he could not see them, he doubted they could see him. No sounds of a chase reached him.

Breathing hard and fast, he glanced around. The slope was steep and the soil damp beneath the ground cover, but there was no time to waste. Picking his route with care, he skipped, hopped and jumped down to the stream at the bottom of the ravine and dropped over the muddy bank into the stream bed.

Harry doubled over, hands splayed on his thighs until he caught his breath. He looked back the way he had come. No bruised greenery betrayed his passage. They wouldn’t find a body, either. He snorted with faint laughter.

Scratches burned his face, his body ached and he tasted blood from his bitten lip. He thrust his fist into the sky in a victory punch. Bruises would fade. He was alive. And Carnaby would be flummoxed when they found no body.

Harry weaved his way downstream between the trees, and then struck at an angle up the slope towards the fields to find his horse. Once mounted, with his sword in his fist, no one would stop him.

Jubilant bird song echoed around the leaf canopy as he moved silently through the woods, resting a palm now and then on a rough-barked pine or the smooth-trunk of a beech. Treading delicately through a patch of last autumn’s dry leaves towards sunlight and open space, he slowed and parted the foliage warily.

Bessie grazed not too far away. Alina’s pony kept her company, and though he scanned the fields in every direction, there was no one about to hinder his next move.

It was the work of moments to run to the old stable, collect his gear, saddle up and ride away. He took the field route towards Dere Street, shook himself and settled down to a gentle ride north to the old Port Gate and beyond.

A passing carter gave him a doubtful look. Harry ran his hands over his hair and face, and knew why. Bits of twig and leaf drifted out of his hair, and his fingertips came away from his face with blood on them. He stopped at the horse-trough on a gentle bend, no doubt intended for carters and their beasts. Bessie nuzzled the water, and Harry soaked a handkerchief, bathed his face and beat the dust and debris out of his clothes.

He remembered the flash of blue cloth at the window. Did she see him jump? Would she think he was dead? She seemed sure that no one survived such a leap. Without Matho’s help he would surely have been nothing but a crumpled heap at the bottom of the ravine by now.

Alina would soon find that he was not dead. If nothing else, she would see that Bessie had gone, along with all his gear. But before then, he imagined her father would be gnashing his teeth at the thought of a Scott escaped. Harry laughed quietly. Carnaby’s rage would be a thing to behold.

He was well out of it, and it would be the maddest folly to ride back into Aydon in the hope of seeing Alina again. For the moment he would concentrate on Edinburgh, and it was likely that after a day or two of strenuous activity, he would forget all about her. Then he could go back to his original plan and focus on finding a rich heiress.

Definitely a much safer plan.

***

Alina stood a pace behind her brothers, unwilling to meet the accusing look she imagined must be in Harry’s eyes as he was led from the dungeon. With a dreadful sickness rising in her stomach, she whirled on her mother. “Mama, there must be something we can say that will save Harry!”

With an unexpectedly gentle look in her eyes, her mother hurried to her side. Their hands met and clung together. “Come away, Alina. You should not watch.” Mama grasped her arm, drew her forcibly from the window. “I spoke to your father last night, but he was adamant the execution must go ahead.”

“He has no right to execute anybody,’ Alina cried. ‘Harry has done nothing. What Father is doing is not lawful….” The pain in her throat made her voice sound shrill. “How can I face Father after this?”

A hoarse, deep throated cry went up outside.

Alina broke from her mother’s grasp and rushed to the window. There was no sign of Harry. Every man, including her father, stared at the ravine where branches trembled as if a heavy body had hurtled through them. Sickness rose into her throat. Hand clapped over her mouth, Alina pushed her mother aside and rushed to the outside steps.

“Alina!”
Her mother’s cries grew fainter behind her as Alina blundered down the wooden staircase.

Halfway down, she fell to her knees and vomited.

Huddling against the cold grey stone, she buried her face in her arms.

“My dear, are you….Alina? Please come back inside.” Mama’s voice came from the door at the head of the steps.

Alina blotted her tears on her skirt and scrambled to her feet. “I cannot stay.” She shook her head at Mama’s outstretched hand. “I cannot face Father.” Moving swiftly down the steps, she ran across the courtyard.

Barely aware of the few barns and cottages tucked around the gates, she headed out onto the lane and ran on.

An image of Harry tumbling through the air filled her head. Hitting trees, falling onto the sharp edged slabs and squares of dark, moss covered rock through which the burn ran down to Corbridge.

The stream she had played beside so often as a child.

Blinded by hot, stinging tears, she slowed and found herself in the boggy patch at the valley bottom. Uncaring of her soft leather shoes in the mud, she found her way across, and hurried on up the lane to Halton. Her breath rasped in an aching throat as she reached the churchyard, hurried by the church door and burst into the Halton Tower.

Squat, stone built and crenellated, the original tower had been built to withstand siege and fire more than two hundred years ago. When danger threatened, the family abandoned the modern, comfortable living accommodation built onto the tower’s east side and barricaded everyone into the sturdy Tower.

Alina headed to the house and thrust the heavy door open. Grandfather sat in a large carved chair between the fire and the latticed window, where sunlight fell across the pages of a leather-bound book in his hand. He looked up in alarm and winced as the heavy door rebounded off the wall.

Alina ran to him, wet leather soles slapping on the flagstones.