by Cathy MacRae
Let them waste their time seeking us there.
The difficult part of their journey would be finding passage across the firth. The eagle eyes of the ferry men missed nothing. A bribe would be enough to set James’s men on their trail. One more night should see them within welcoming arms. They’d already covered more ground than she’d dared hope. Reaching Annan was a boon.
Iseabal took Ewan from Hew before they reached Annan. They stumbled, weary-footed and hungry, into the village, timing their entry so they mingled with the early morning bustle of merchants and farmers. Shep whined as a flock of sheep hustled past, two gaunt collies, bellies low to the ground, maneuvering their silly, bleating charges through the throngs of people, animals, and wagons.
The church, rosy stone aglow in the sun’s early rays, appeared warm and welcoming. Hew beckoned to Shep and they shambled down the street in search of a vendor for food to break their fast, while Iseabal and Aggie entered the small church.
An elderly woman, a heavy shawl over her shoulders, approached them. Her eyes, an unusual pale blue, peered from a wrinkled face. Her round body was swathed in a multitude of muted colors of brown, blue, and green, and her head, hair pinned up in an untidy nest, barely reached Iseabal’s shoulder. She stopped before them, head tilted bird-like to one side.
“I am Ava. How may we comfort ye this bright morn?” she asked, her chipper voice adding to Iseabal’s fanciful notion of a bird.
“We travel to visit kin across the firth,” Iseabal answered. “I’ve been reassured the Border is quiet.”
“Hee! When is the Border ever quiet, lass?” Ava’s eyes twinkled. “Have ye no escort? Traveling alone isnae wise.”
“The men have gone in search of food,” Iseabal replied, stretching the truth slightly. “My lad is weary and I thought this to be a quiet spot to rest a bit.”
“Och, what a bonny lad!” the woman chirped, stepping closer to peer at Ewan’s golden curls. “Mustn’t let the laddie miss his nap. I’ve a wee room just over there where the three of ye may bide a while.” She stepped down the aisle and led Iseabal and Aggie to a tiny room. Iseabal couldn’t guess its use, though it smelled vaguely of flowers. A bench stood along one wall.
“I’ll pull this door to and ye’ll not be bothered by the comings and goings later. Easter is but a fortnight away and there will be lasses in to clean from top to bottom. I’ll make certain they dinnae disturb ye.”
“I’m verra grateful,” Iseabal replied. She remembered the dreadful sound of a turned key in her bedroom door’s lock, and hesitated to be closed inside this small room. “Aggie will wait outside for our food.”
Silence filled the church once Ava retreated. Iseabal nudged the door to the room open a hand’s breadth or more. She was uneasy to have the door open completely, but left it ajar enough to give her a view of the church yet still maintain a fair degree of privacy.
Dust motes danced on beams of light shimmering through tall, slender windows, the rays warming the stone floor. Ewan stirred and Iseabal crooned softly, pushing the blanket from his head as he peered sleepily around the small room.
“I’m hungry.”
Iseabal smiled. “Of course ye are, my wee nacket. Hew has gone to fetch some food, but I have a bit for ye in the meantime.” She sat Ewan on the bench and handed him a bannock. He accepted it and nibbled slowly, still not fully awake. He finished the paltry sustenance and Iseabal offered him a sip of watered ale. With a sigh, he magically changed from drowsy wean to wide-awake lad. Hopping down, he crept to the door and peered into the church then back to his ma.
“Where are we?”
“We are almost halfway to the place Aggie lived when she was a lass. Do ye remember the name?”
Ewan scrunched his face in thought. He shook his head then brightened. “Friar’s Hill!” He grinned.
“Verra good! And I thought ye werenae listening,” Iseabal teased.
Ewan peered around the door again. “Are we hiding so the bad men won’t find us?”
Iseabal’s heart squeezed painfully. He’d lived the past month surrounded by battle and its dreadful aftermath. She wondered how much he’d seen and heard the night before.
“The men who arrived yesterday werenae verra nice,” she offered gently.
Ewan looked over his shoulder, his nose wrinkled. “They smelled bad.”
“Aye, they did.”
“And they were noisy. They used their ugly voices.” He raised his hands, holding them far apart. “Big voices.”
Iseabal sighed. “Aye. Ye are right. All the more reason to make a new home at Friar’s Hill with Aggie and Hew.”
“My da would’ve made them leave.” Ewan nodded assertively.
Iseabal raised an eyebrow. He’d been inquisitive about his father lately, likely a result of the lads he played with, sons of soldiers. “Yer da would have protected us. Let us find a privy then see what Aggie has for us to eat.”
Simon wiped his brow with the back of a hand. The spring air was cool, but hard work in the sun beaded sweat on his brow. A trickle made its way down his back beneath his tunic. He hunched his shoulders, the strain of lifting heavy rocks and setting them in place stressing muscles sword play didn’t. The wall repairs were coming along nicely, and it pleased him to assist with the effort.
He was also pleased to see the sun dipping below the horizon. Supper and bed beckoned.
A full belly and a long day’s work put him into a pensive mood. The prior night’s mention of Clan Maxwell drew his memories together, back to the day five years ago when he’d led a retaliatory raid on Scots reivers.
Pulling himself onto his horse inch by painful inch after receiving a staggering blow from a burly Scot that had knocked him to the ground. Barely able to hold himself in the saddle as his horse wandered off into the night. Waking to find himself in heaven. Or it would have been if the pain in his head had not served to convince him he’d landed in hell.
The face above him, blurred and wavering, had nonetheless spoke to him in a gentle Scottish burr, tender hands placing cool cloths on his throbbing head. Two days later, as his headache abated and he discovered he’d truly been rescued by an angel, he decided he’d landed somewhere much nicer than what likely awaited him at the end of his days.
She’d tended him well, his Scottish lass. And he remembered her and the days that followed with immense fondness. Like the memory of an excellent, aged Oloroso sherry, redolent with the aroma of walnuts and raisins. Rich, multi-layered, yet elusive.
“Word from the Border.” Garin sat in the chair next to Simon at his nod. “The Maxwells appear to be up to something. Robert brought a load of fish from the wharf at Bowness this eve, and heard of a commotion a few miles north of the firth. It seems the Scots are brewing some sort of mischief.”
“I would counter with the question, when are they not brewing mischief, except . . . .” Simon frowned. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the source of his unease. Perhaps it was the lack of soldiers in a keep that was still vulnerable. The men promised to him by The Saint, Lord de Wylde, would arrive in the next day or two. He would keep extra patrols until then, ensuring warning before anyone drew close enough to North Hall to attack.
“Widen the patrols. Ensure the line of communication is easily accessible. We must finish the wall’s repairs as quickly as possible.”
“The men understand the urgency. They will resume the work at dawn.”
Simon rubbed his chin. “Have we missed anything?”
“I will see to it the brush we’ve cleared from around the wall is burned. Once the wall is completed, we can widen the cleared area around the keep. Use the trees to help rebuild the village.”
“We will soon be able to defend the village. It will then grow.”
Garin nodded. “There are a few families, a rather hardy sort of mixed Scots and English blood. It appears to take more than English occupation to roust them from their cottages.”
“I’d like to see the village flourish
once again. But they must accept an Englishman as their lord.”
“’Tis not the first time North Hall has had an English lord.”
“No. But it was in Scottish hands for many years.”
“I believe the tendency is to accept the power as it arises. In the villagers’ view, what is English today, could very well be Scottish tomorrow.”
Simon sent his commander a stern look. “I do not intend to lose my keep to Scottish marauders. Not now. Not ever.”
Chapter Five
Two burly fishermen dragged the boat ashore, its hull scraping along the thick mud and half-submerged flat rocks. Iseabal, Hew, and Aggie carefully disembarked, mindful of the mud sucking at their boots, Ewan in Iseabal’s arms. Shep leapt over the rail, landing lightly on the rocks and setting off at a brisk pace up the shoreline.
The birlinn reeked of fish, old wood, and sun-dried nets, but Ewan had been enchanted with the trip across the firth and proved reluctant to leave. After his day of forced inactivity in the church, he’d been more than ready to take on a walk to the shore and the excitement of boarding the boat. Barnacle geese flew overhead, much to his delight, in choruses of honks and yaps, to settle in reeds and other hiding places for the night.
The fishermen pushed their craft back into the water then climbed aboard and headed home across the firth, their pockets a little richer for their trouble.
Iseabal handed Ewan a piece of dried fish as they hurried along the path to the village. Heads down to avoid arousing attention, they quickly made their way through the narrow streets and into the countryside as shadows lengthened and nighttime turned their world into shades of black and gray and the white glow of the moon.
They continued along the road, though Iseabal would have preferred to avoid the well-traveled route. Boggy land crept past the edges of the occasional burn, snaring the unwary and providing difficult footing even for daylight travelers. Her ears stretched beyond the soft tread of boots on the packed earthen road, above Ewan’s chatter and Hew’s baritone responses.
The constant strain exhausted her. Her heart raced, her eyes darted to every shadow, every puddle of pale moonlight. Moors and farmland gave way to woods and gently rolling hills. Night birds soared overhead. Small, quick-footed creatures scurried on either side of the road.
Ewan’s energy waned and Iseabal called for a brief halt. Aggie passed bannocks around, followed by the flagon Iseabal had refilled in Annan. Ewan whined, unused to the late hour and constant travel. Shep curled at their feet, content with his share of the slim rations. Ewan dug his fingers into Shep’s thick coat and the dog scooted closer.
“There, there, sweeting,” Aggie crooned, pulling Ewan into her lap. She patted his golden curls and he rested his head on her shoulder. “Let Aggie tell ye about yer new home. A fair place it is, with deer in the woods and wild geese overhead.”
“Like the ones we saw on the boat?” Ewan murmured.
“Aye. And others.” She rocked him gently. “And a keep on the hill much like Eaglesmuir, with a wee burn that runs past and to the village.”
“Can I sail boats on it?” He kicked his boot at a rock near Aggie’s hip.
“Ye can sail boats, mayhap even learn to swim in the deeper parts—but only with yer ma or me along with ye.”
“Can Hew come?” he asked, pausing to peer over his shoulder at the old man.
“I dinnae know how to swim,” Hew admitted.
“I’ve a nephew or two who can teach ye,” Aggie said. “Hew will have other duties.”
“I cannae wait to start our new life,” Iseabal sighed. “Ye are a godsend, Aggie.”
“Dinnae fash, my lamb. The folk at Friar’s Hill are fine people, and ’twill be good to rest my bones among kin. Not like the wratches back at Eaglesmuir, though yer da doesnae appear to have fallen far from his family tree.”
“No. He often mourned not being accepted into the family. But it seems he fit the mold well.”
“We’re well-shed of them now. I’ll rest easier when ye’ve a nice young man on yer arm and a bairn or two to give wee Ewan some competition.”
Not certain whether to laugh or shudder at Aggie’s fond hopes, Iseabal shook her head.
“How far do ye think we are?”
“Och, not far. Let’s rest a wee bit longer. We pushed verra hard last night so none would find our trail, and I believe Hew’s auld bones are a bit knackered still.”
“I’m ready to go again as soon as ye are, auld woman,” Hew blustered. “I willnae hold ye back.”
Iseabal remembered how long it had taken him to reach Eaglesmuir after he’d lost Marsaili. His years did not rest so kindly on him as in days past. Mayhap a brief rest—to give Ewan a bit more time—would be for the best.
Thinking of Marsaili gave Iseabal pause. Finding her sister was the next step to accomplish once she was assured of their acceptance at Friar’s Hill. Aggie’s reassurances did much to soothe her worries, but life had become too unpredictable for her to believe fully until she could see the outcome for herself.
She also remembered how heavy Ewan had become. Carrying his sleeping body was no easy task, and her back and shoulders ached at the thought. This side of the firth felt safer, and with much of their travel past, what could it hurt to linger until Ewan woke from his nap?
James glared about the hall, his gaze hindered by the smoky haze from a partially-blocked chimney, an eye that still had not regained its full function after Iseabal’s assault—and a final draught of Marcus’s fine whisky. His men lounged about the hall, a few already snoring though the sun had scarcely set. His da had left him twenty soldiers—only twenty—to manage the keep. It wasn’t enough. Most were lads with whom he’d grown up, with shared tales of debauchery and vice between them. Only a few were seasoned warriors.
I willnae leave good men subject to yer ineptitude, James. Learn to lead, not bully. Enlarge yer holdings under yer own mettle. Come speak with me when ye’ve wed, have a bairn on the way, and this keep under control.
Albert had stormed from the hall, summoned his horse, and galloped away, taking nearly thirty of the best warriors Clan Maxwell boasted.
James threw his mug at the fireplace. Its contents hissed on the dark embers beneath the flames and the pottery shattered against the stone.
“I want . . . .” What did he want?
“I want more.” He paused. “Land. Tenants. I want men to repair the keep.”
“Ye need money, James,” Thom replied. “We arenae so good at making money.”
“How will I hire masons if I must pay them?” James scowled. “What are we good at?”
Thom shrugged. “Fightin’. Swivin’.”
“There’s none here to fight. The English retreated and we have Johnstones and Carlisles on our borders. And there’s naught a lass left here to swive.”
Thom stared into his mug. “It wouldnae do to reive from our neighbors. We cannae risk an ongoing feud just now.” He glanced up, his stare remarkably clear after the whisky he’d consumed. “We’ll need to ride south of the firth.”
Thom’s words filled James with purpose. He and his men were good at reiving. And the village of Friar’s Hill, family to a few Maxwells as well as Murrays and the occasional Johnstone, had been routed by the English nearly two years back, with none to avenge them. In fact, ’twas only proper to replace the sheep the English had stolen from Eaglesmuir with others reived from an English holding. One too far away to make an ongoing feud practical.
“Is Friar’s Hill still standing? I’ve heard naught about them this past year and more.”
Thom nodded. “As well as I know. When the de Wylde brothers took the land, none dared ride against them. Since they died, there’s only the one brother who’s spent the past twelvemonth recovering from an injury. ’Tis said he’s a cripple.”
James’s head cleared abruptly. “The Saint?”
“Naught in a name if ye arenae man enough to back it up.”
“He is feared all along the
Border!” James shuddered. Reiving was one thing—a fine, honorable thing—but tweaking the ire of The Saint?
“Are ye certain he is crippled? How far is Friar’s Hill from his keep?”
Thom thought for a moment. “He was crippled when he arrived at Belwyck a month or so ago, according to rumor. I havenae heard since. Friar’s Hill is a half-day’s easy ride from there, but if we time it right, we’ll grab the sheep and be gone before The Saint knows we’ve been there.”
It seemed easy enough. Ride south, slip into Friar’s Hill before dawn, steal a few sheep, and be back across the firth before anyone gave chase.
His mood soured again. He’d been searching all day—well, most of it, anyway—for his runaway bride. When he wasn’t arguing with his da or eating. He’d needed a lot of sustenance for the job ahead. And the food they’d brought with them was all but gone, and no one had stepped forward as cook for the keep.
“I want to find Iseabal.” He shoved Thom’s mug across the table. “She should be forced to come back and care for me. This keep needs a woman!”
“This keep needs a lot of women,” Thom agreed. “I can think of a few duties I dinnae wish handed over to the likes of Johnnie.” He waggled a hand at the red-haired man across the room, his bulk weighing in a bit over twenty stone. “Though he should prove a dab hand as cook if ye judge such things by a man’s girth.”
“Johnnie could burn water,” James groused. “’Tis eatin’ he does best.” He pounded his fist on the table. “I want a woman!”
“Then raid the English. Prove ye are a Scot worth yer mettle. Yer da doesnae believe ye are capable of such a task, and yer wife-to-be doesnae appear to value ye, either.” Thom leaned close. “Bring back the fattest sheep, show the manner of man ye are, and the bonniest lasses will follow.”
“They will respect me for my reiving prowess.” James’s words were firm.
