Return of the Border Warrior

by Blythe Gifford

  Bessie was slow to answer. ‘Have you ever known a Borderer who was not?’ she said finally.

  No. He had not.

  Then why had he thought he could turn her from her own vengeance to young James’s? Now that he was here, he remembered what his years with the king had erased.

  An eye for an eye.

  It was the only Bible verse his father ever knew.

  ‘He always hoped you would come home, you know.’ She said it as if she had followed his thoughts.

  He shook his head, fighting the longing her words evoked. Only Bessie would think so. A woman could weave entire cloth out of words a man never spoke.

  It was too late for peace with his father. And now, Rob was head of the family, as he had been destined since birth. There was no place for John here, being beholden to his brother while they both tried to wrest a living from the same, stingy earth.

  Maybe that was why his father had sent him away.

  ‘You and Rob are not comfortable, are you?’

  He started, wondering for a moment whether she really were fey. Quiet, watchful, she had always had a way of reading people, of knowing the things that went unsaid, especially the ones you wanted to hide.

  But then, Rob hadn’t bothered to hide his disdain.

  ‘We’re different, Rob and I.’

  ‘He’s alone now, Johnnie.’

  The thought surprised him. He had assumed his brother knew his place and embraced it. Yet his father and Rob had been the pair, even when Rob was growing. His father had spent hours with his first born, teaching him to ride, to fight, to follow the trails when the moon was dark. Showing him the best places to hide the cattle. Telling him how to deal with a headstrong follower. Neither spoke much. A nod. A shrug. A grunt. These communicated as much as words for a talking man.

  A good thing, since both of them had rust in their throats.

  And in a battle, he had no doubt, they would have fought with one mind, finishing each other’s thrusts without needing to confer.

  And now, Rob sat alone.

  Well, that hadn’t sent him to Johnnie’s side, but it explained why he seemed frozen between John and Cate’s tug of war.

  A sudden vision stunned him. ‘Does Rob plan to marry?’

  A sigh. ‘Marry who?’

  ‘Cate Gilnock.’ Did every conversation lead to her? He paced abruptly, bumped his head against a hanging pot, then swatted it in irritation. That would explain Rob’s loyalty to her, even beyond that of kin. ‘They seem well matched.’

  A slight smile touched Bessie’s lips, as if she were enjoying a joke he did not understand. ‘Too well. There’s no spark there, not the one that a man and woman feel.’

  He ignored his relief. Then another thought nagged. ‘Is there someone for you?’ His little sister, grown now. Past time for her to find a husband. ‘Is that how you know about men and women?’

  She finished shaping another loaf and lined it up beside the first. ‘I know,’ she said, stopping to face him, ‘because there is no one for me.’

  He tried to remember the men who shook his hand yesterday. Fingerless Joe, Odd Jack, the rest. No, none of them would be good enough for her.

  He faced Bessie’s future for the first time. What would happen to her? As her older brother, he had protected a shy, delicate, pliable sister. That was not the woman who faced him now. This woman had strength any man would be lucky to have beside him. Strength he had never seen in the women inside Stirling’s walls.

  Strength like Cate Gilnock’s.

  Unwelcome thought. ‘You could come back to court with me.’

  ‘Could I now?’ She put her hands on her hips and then presented her plain wool skirt as if to curtsy. ‘And wouldn’t I look so lovely meeting the king?’

  ‘We could find you something...else.’ What did he know of women’s clothes? How to take them off.

  She dropped her skirts and returned to her bread. ‘You’ve a good heart, Johnnie Brunson. Don’t ever think you don’t.’

  No. She was right. Court would welcome her no more than his family had welcomed him. The women in Stirling, perfumed and curled and expecting to be waited upon, would barely nod to her. Even the wench carrying the king’s bastard would mock Bessie Brunson, he feared.

  ‘And so does your brother,’ she said, bringing the talk back to a subject he’d hoped to avoid. ‘If you would give him a chance to show it.’

  ‘More than he’s given me.’ There seemed no truce between what he wanted and what Rob did.

  But he had to find one—a truce with Cate and then with Rob—or he might never see Stirling again.

  ‘Why don’t you stay with us?’ she said, turning to face him. ‘Come home, Johnnie.’

  ‘My place is with the king.’ This was not his life. Hadn’t been for years.

  ‘He wants you to stay, you know.’

  He searched her eyes, then shook his head. Only a sister’s foolish hopes. ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  He started pacing, ducking the pots this time. He had not come home. And he had not come to the kitchen to talk to Bessie about Black Rob Brunson.

  ‘Cate says she wants to avenge her father. Is that all?’

  ‘Storwicks are no friends of ours,’ she said, sounding like the Borderer she was.

  ‘I mean to Cate. Is there something more?’

  Bessie didn’t look up from the dough. ‘Why do

  you ask?’

  Because of the fear she carries with her. Fear she seemed to be able to hide from the rest of them. Was it his to reveal? ‘Her eyes are...haunted.’

  ‘I thought you said she was bloodthirsty.’

  ‘Aye. That, as well.’ A contradiction. ‘That’s why I wonder—’

  ‘Don’t be asking me these questions,’ she said, and he saw a reflection of his mother’s expressions in her raised eyebrows. ‘Cate’s the one you must be asking.’

  He sighed. He’d rather confront his surly brother than brave Cate’s knee again.

  * * *

  As he climbed the tower stairs, he heard raised voices in the hall.

  ‘Now! A raid in his honour. He would want it.’ One of the men. He could not tell which.

  John hurried his steps. So soon, they returned to reiving. He heard a murmur, his brother’s steady voice, though he could not make out the words. Would Rob say yes or no?

  ‘There’s enough of us,’ someone else said. ‘We could go.’

  ‘The moon’s half-full.’ He could hear Rob clearly now. ‘The night still short.’

  ‘And our horses swift.’ Cate’s voice. ‘We could get to their tower and back before the dawn. And if Scarred Willie is there—’

  As John reached the top of the stairs and entered the hall, he saw Rob surrounded. His brother’s face of strength had few differences from his face of grief, but John could see them. If Rob carried his grief into battle, the enemy would have an advantage.

  ‘Red Geordie is barely in the ground,’ John called out. ‘Can you not give him a moment’s peace?’

  Rob, Cate and half a dozen of his men turned to look at him. Even the dog tilted his head, quizzically.

  Cate scowled. ‘It was not peace your father wanted.’

  Rob’s face of strength returned. John waited for a scathing rebuke, for he was arguing for the very respect for the dead he’d ignored yesterday, when Rob wanted the same.

  ‘Johnnie’s right. Return to your homes.’ He looked at John with an expression that might have been warning or thanks. ‘The time for riding will come soon enough.’

  Cate’s look said she blamed John, but the men had cattle still in the hills and homes to return to. One by one, they took leave, giving a hand to both brothers, the grip of John’s hand less hearty this time.

  Cate’s men, seeing her look, did not shake at all.

  No matter. Rob had resisted a call for revenge. Perhaps he was ready to listen to reason instead of vengeance.

  ‘I would speak to you, Rob,’ he said, when only the three of
them remained.

  Rob nodded towards the table, and Cate started to follow him.

  ‘Alone,’ John said.

  She looked to Rob. He nodded, a signal for her to leave them.

  She glared at John before she did. The woman who had trembled in his arms less than an hour ago had disappeared. Only the defiant warrioress remained.

  He searched her narrowed eyes, wondering which Cate was the real one.

  She leaned closer. ‘Are you walking straight again, Johnnie Blunkit?’ Her growled whisper was soft, meant only to reach his ears.

  Angry heat rushed to his cheeks as she passed him on her way to the stairs.

  Johnnie Blunkit. The blue-eyed baby.

  Words he had tried to forget ever since he’d left home. Not ones he wanted to remember as he faced his brother.

  Although there were only three years between them, Rob, older, had been the favoured one. Tall, strong, taciturn, with their mother’s dark, straight hair and the Brunson brown eyes, he had wielded weapons, but never words.

  Words had been left to blue-eyed Johnnie, the gowk in the Brunson nest.

  So John learned to talk. Even as a bairn, he told

  stories and jokes and did tricks to make them laugh. It was the only way he knew to gain their approval.

  And sometimes, when Black Rob wielded his sword, or his fists, too quickly, clever John was the one who made peace.

  So they sent him away, a gift to amuse young King Jamie. That’s when he knew: all his clever words and funny tricks would never earn his father’s approval. And when he arrived, he discovered a six-year-old king who needed a big brother of his own.

  He also found that while a glib tongue might get you out of trouble, it could also get you in—trouble you needed a strong sword to escape. So gradually, he became as his brother’s equal with a blade.

  At least, that’s what he told himself as he joined Rob at the table, though to confront his brother with words was little easier than to face his sword. An untrained fighter, clumsy with a blade, could do untold, unintentional damage.

  So could a man ignorant of words.

  John settled himself across the table. Rob met his eyes, silent, waiting for him to speak.

  Perhaps a different argument would sway him. Perhaps he could remove Rob’s dilemma and make the king his only choice. Maybe his brother would be relieved. Even grateful.

  ‘Have you thought, Rob, about what happens after you hunt down Willie Storwick?’ This was not swapping stolen cattle. Everyone on the Borders did that. Killing like that would continue for generations, kept alive in song. Borderers had a name for it. Blood feud.

  ‘Scarred Willie should have thought of that before he killed Zander Gilnock.’

  ‘Of course, Cate could change her mind.’ He leaned back, folding his arms, and shrugged. ‘Women often do. Then you’d be free to send men to the king instead.’

  ‘So that’s your plan.’

  Never try to fool a brother. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You think to seduce her into helping you.’

  He battled the vision of Cate, naked beneath him. ‘A woman like that? No.’ Though he had, once, foolishly, thought exactly that. ‘But women are changeable.’

  At least, the ones he knew had been.

  ‘Cate?’ Rob near laughed. ‘You know nothing of her if you think that.’

  ‘I know something of women.’

  Rob leaned forwards. ‘Do you now? Well, you know nothing of the Borders.’

  Cate and this country, both unexpected mysteries. But it was no mystery what he must do here. ‘I know enough to do as the king commands.’

  Rob studied him, confusion on his brow. ‘The king must have made some pretty promises to turn you into his lackey.’

  The king had made no promises, but he had hinted at a wealthy bride and a position in the royal household. Cupbearer or Pursemaster, perhaps. ‘There’s no dishonour in serving the sovereign.’

  ‘Well, I hope you enjoy whatever bauble he gives you,’ Rob scoffed. ‘Your king offers us nothing we cannot get ourselves.’

  ‘Food in your belly, wool on your back, a stout wall and roof? Aye, all you can grab for yourself. But not the time to enjoy them. Only the king’s peace can give you that.’

  Rob blinked and something shifted behind his eyes, as if he glimpsed a different life. John held his breath. Did his brother finally understand?

  Then, Rob cast his eyes to the floor above, where, until yesterday, his father had slept in his own bed. ‘Only God can give you that, Johnnie.’ He shook his head. ‘Only God.’

  ‘And God sends us the king to do his bidding on earth.’ He leaned forwards to grip his brother’s forearm. ‘Help him, Robbie. Help him.’

  But the Rob he recognised faced him again. ‘I’ll leave the helping of the bairn king to you, Johnnie. Just don’t think that wearing his wisp of a badge will let you lord it over the rest of us.’

  John winced. ‘I’ve never thought that.’

  Rob smiled. ‘Have you not?’

  John sat back, suddenly wondering. Why else had he returned?

  He had ridden home wearing the king’s badge, carrying the king’s word, expecting finally to garner his father’s respect. Or at least his attention.

  Instead, he was Johnnie Blunkit again. Or worse. An outlander, no more part of the family than a Storwick.

  But John had seen that outland, seen a life beyond these hills. ‘I know what the king plans. Scotland will face England as an equal.’

  ‘You think he’ll defy his Uncle Henry? He’s the one who’s been stirring the families across the border.’

  It was true. The king’s uncle, the English King Henry, eighth by that name, was using the reiving families of England to keep the Scots occupied. ‘Because he has no respect for us.’

  ‘No. Because he does respect us. He respects our swords.’ Rob leaned forwards. ‘And I mean to be sure we keep that respect.’

  John gripped his fists in frustration. ‘It’s been two years since Gilnock’s death. Why is it so important to avenge him now?’

  ‘Because now, I’m the head man.’

  Pride, stubbornness—everything he knew of his brother was in those words.

  He felt his voice rise, ready to shout. ‘I need to know why.’

  Rob gave a snort. ‘If you’d not abandoned your family these last ten years, you would know.’

  ‘If my family had not abandoned me, I would care,’ he snapped.

  Rob blinked.

  John pressed on. ‘Two years and Father didn’t hunt the man down. Didn’t you ever wonder at the reason? Didn’t you ever think he was trying to avoid a blood feud?’

  ‘And you think to force us to ride where the king bids us instead? The last time we did that, ten thousand Scotsmen lay dead on Flodden Field, along with the foolish king himself. That’s a mistake we won’t be making again.’ Rob pressed his palms flat on the table and rose, done with listening. ‘Your king can wait for Brunson men. We ride after Willie Storwick within a fortnight.’

  He cursed himself for a fool. Instead of easing Rob’s decision, he’d forced it. ‘And join the king after?’ If they found the man quickly, they could still meet the king in East Lothian by early October, though John would have to soothe his sovereign’s temper when he discovered they’d taken vengeance against an English Storwick.

  ‘I’ve not decided.’ Rob’s lips curved, less in a smile than in a sneer.

  Not a defeat, then. Rob had not said no.

  ‘Ride with us, Johnnie. That is, if you’re not a fazart.’

  Fazart. The worst kind of coward.

  John stood now, shaking his head. It wasn’t death that he feared. ‘I will not join you in vengeance. Not when I promised the king I would stop it.’

  Rob, who rarely smiled, did. ‘Ah, and promises must be kept, eh?’

  A rueful smile touched John’s lips and, for a moment, they shared it. ‘Perhaps I’ve a drop of Brunson blood after all.’
r />   ‘What happens,’ Rob said, finally, ‘if you can’t keep it, your promise to the king?’

  He had not faced that unpleasant prospect before. ‘If I’m a careful and lucky man, I’ll never lay eyes on King James again.’

  ‘And if you’re not?’

  John liked the king and the king liked him, but he did not fool himself. Friendship and sentiment did not rule a king, not even this one. He’d cut down any enemies who stood in his way.

  And any friends, as well.

  ‘If not, my happy life could be a short one.’ That was the fact of it. Now Rob knew.

  John wondered whether he’d care.

  His brother crossed his arms and shook his head. ‘Then I can only wish you luck, Johnnie. And that you enjoy it while you can.’

  Chapter Five

  The nightmare visited her again, carried on the scent of heather.

  Cate sat up, struggling against him, feeling the scream rattle in her throat, ready to escape. Just in time, she opened her eyes to find Belde nuzzling her side, as if he had tried to wake her.

  Next to her, Bessie slept like one dead. Cate released a sigh, grateful, and slipped out of bed. She would not be able to close her eyes again this night.

  She wrapped herself in a length of plaide and crept quietly down the stairs. Belde trailed her. Even in the dark, with most abed, there were few places to be alone. Someone would be awake on the tower’s parapet. Another guard would walk the wall. The hall would be full of snoring men. But she had prowled the tower at night often enough to find a perch at the curve of the stairs where there was a hole in the wall for a lookout. There, she could sit, watching the hills, to be sure no one was coming.

  As she approached it, she heard steps coming towards her. She had not brought a candle, needing no light to find her way, but this was not a footfall she recognised.

  She gripped the dirk that was ever by her side, comforted by Belde, who was right behind her, but did not growl. Was it someone the dog knew? She slowed her steps.

  Stopped.

  He did the same.

  She took a step.

  So did he.

  Her heart beat fast and the blood in her ears almost drowned the sound. Was someone beyond the curve of the stair? Ready to take her again?