telling.
He did not interrupt.
‘But as they reached the sea, the Others fought back.’ She gazed westwards, quiet for a moment, as if she could see the story. ‘And they pushed the First Brunson and his fellows into this valley and backed them against this hill.’ In her low, deep voice, the story sounded real. ‘And killed them.’
The words chilled him, like a cloud across the sun. ‘All of them?’
‘There are stories that one escaped. Maybe two. But the first Brunson was stripped of his horse and his sword and left for dead.’
The words came back to him now.
Left on the field by the rest of his clan.
Abandoned for dead was the first Brunson man.
* * *
A man as lost, forsaken and homeless as Johnnie Blunkit.
All his life, he had been the one who seemed to share nothing of this ancestor, not even his eyes. Even when he made himself at home among their graves, he doubted he belonged there. But to hear that the First Brunson had been abandoned by his tribe, well, that he understood.
‘He survived,’ she finished, ‘and made his home here. Brunsons have held it ever since.’ She looked at him. ‘And always will.’
Sitting beside this woman, he looked out over the valley with a rush of unfamiliar feeling. Of belonging. Of permanence. Of home.
Home was not a tower. It was the grey-blue hills that held him, the green-gold earth that beckoned him. Home was a life with a woman who would bear his children, children who would ride the land after he was gone.
He fought the yearning. He had been long enough at court to know that land was given and taken like a golden coin, used as reward, withheld as punishment.
Women were much the same. A momentary pleasure or a political alliance, but never something that would last.
Yet this woman beside him gazed out on the land as if she were as unmovable as the hills. For all her fears and faults, he could not see her allowing herself to be given, or taken, for anyone’s purposes but her own.
She was looking south across the hills they must ride to reach the Storwicks. ‘From here, you could see anyone who might come.’
Suddenly, he saw it all. They must have ridden up unseen, pouncing on her and her father asleep in their hut. And she lived in fear they would come again.
Were her sword and her clothes no more than armour to give her courage?
Beside him, she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. ‘I have not been on this hill since...’
He heard the next words as if she had spoken them. Since that night.
Yet she had come here to find him. And come alone.
He finished her sentence. ‘Since Willie Storwick.’
At the name, her air of dreamy calm disappeared behind tight lips and narrowed eyes. ‘Aye. Not since then.’
There was something more in her expression, something that made him wonder whether...
He stifled the thought. He did not want to understand her fears. Instead of looking out over the valley, thinking of her in ways he had thought of no other woman, he should be thinking of how to persuade Rob to send men east to the king.
He calculated the weeks quickly. Perhaps there was a way to satisfy Cate and the king. A way that would not require Brunson men to scour the hills for weeks searching for a fugitive.
‘What if I could ensure Storwick was punished quickly?’ He turned to her, resisting the urge to take her hand again.
For a long moment, she stared as if he had not spoken. ‘How?’
‘He would be tried by the Wardens of the March.’
Her sigh overflowed with disgust. ‘Do you not think we tried?’
Rob had told him as much. ‘But the king has named Thomas Carwell the new Scottish Warden.’ John had the papers with him, and an assignment to deliver them. ‘And the law says the English must hand over a criminal for trial within fifteen days of the warden’s request. He’ll be tried and convicted within a month.’
Time enough for the men to reach the king. Barely.
She shook her head. ‘Then what? They would only set a ransom and let him free. I don’t want blood money,’ she said, through clenched teeth. ‘I want him dead.’
That, and something more, unspoken. Some instinct told him now was not the time to ask her what. ‘I will make sure that is the sentence.’
‘How can you do that?’
‘I will explain it to Carwell.’ The king could not object to proper punishment for murder. ‘Make him understand the sentence must be death.’
She raised her brows, not convinced. ‘And if it isn’t? What then?’
‘If you convince my brother to bring it to the wardens and they do not give you justice, then I will ride to find Scarred Willie myself.’ Possible, but unlikely he would have to carry through. Either way, perhaps then this woman could put down her sword and get on with her life.
For a long moment, she studied him, silently. Instead of the yes he listened for, he heard only the wind.
‘Why,’ she asked, finally, her expression sceptical, ‘would you do that?’
He sighed, forced to make his bargain plain. ‘So that you’ll help me persuade Rob to send our men to the king.’
Bald words. And not the whole truth, but he did not want to admit the rest.
Something like disappointment drifted across her eyes. ‘You give me your word you’ll see him dead first?’
He thought it through one more time. If all went as planned, the Brunson band would have a week to reach Tantallon Castle, where the king waited. Not much time, but enough. ‘Aye.’
‘And what’s your word worth?’
Her doubt punched his gut. ‘Must I swear? Then I swear.’
‘By what? By what do you swear?’
She had not asked this the last time he made a promise. Did she know he never expected to ride after Willie Storwick? ‘By Christ’s blood, if you like.’
She shook her head. ‘The church has barred all
reivers and cursed us to hell. Swear by something else. Swear by what means the most to you.’
He looked around. Felt the wind. Saw the hills. And realised he sat in the truest place he knew. He reached out to touch the stone, hard and real, rough and sure beneath his palm. ‘I swear by these stones.’
He let himself fall into her eyes then. They were doubtful, whether of him or of herself he could not tell.
He leaned forwards, wanting to take her lips, and she seemed to bend towards him as well. He raised a hand to touch her cheek as her hand reached for his, as if some power of the place pushed them together.
Her fingers, light on his cheek, drew him closer. His lips hovered a breath away from hers. He dared to brush her cheek. Another inch and he would taste her lips...
Stiff fingers touched his mouth and blocked his way.
He opened his eyes to see hers, huge and dark. She leaned away, back straight, shoulders square. All Cate again.
And he searched her eyes, fearing he had pushed her to refuse.
Her breath rose and fell as they sat, silent. And as the moaning wind threaded its way around the stones, he heard the whisper of a song.
Finally, she nodded. ‘I agree.’
Chapter Seven
John made sure they went to Rob together, immediately, before Cate could change her mind.
They found him in the master’s room, staring at the bed as if unable to accept that it was now his by right. The interruption seemed a relief.
‘We must talk,’ John said.
Rob crossed his arms. ‘I’m listening.’
‘There’s a new Warden of the Scottish March, or there will be, as soon as I carry the king’s orders to Carwell Castle. Cate has agreed to let Willie Storwick be brought to justice under the Border Laws instead of sending Brunson men to find him.’
‘Oh, she has, has she?’ Doubt permeated Rob’s words and he looked to Cate for confirmation.
John held his breath.
�
��Aye,’ she said.
He looked at Rob, as if there had been no doubt of her answer. ‘The English Warden is required to bring him to Truce Day for trial.’
Rob shook his head. ‘Truce Day is a waste of horse feed.’
It was the same tone of voice Rob had used when they were boys, the same patronising look that said: You’ll learn when you’re older, Johnnie.
He’d managed to forget that look during his time away. Those around the king might not love him, but they did not underestimate him.
He strangled his anger. ‘Not this time. I’ll deliver the message to the warden along with the king’s documents. Justice will be done.’
Rob studied them both silently.
‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘you sound as stubborn as a Brunson, that’s the right of it.’
John smiled before he could stop himself.
His smile faded at Rob’s next words. ‘But you might as well hunt the gowk.’
Rob had sent him on more than one futile ‘gowk hunt’ when they were boys.
‘He has promised,’ Cate said, ‘that if Willie Storwick isn’t hanged for murder, John himself will hunt him down.’
Rob raised his brows. ‘So you’ll ride with us after all, will you?’
Cate turned to John. ‘He has sworn it.’
Surprise transformed Rob’s face. ‘Another promise to keep, Johnnie?’
‘Aye.’ The weight of the words sunk in. He had sworn to take on someone else’s cause, one that might collide with his own. Every promise a new stone, piled on an ever-growing wall. ‘But I’ll need yours, too. After the trial, you must send our men to the king.’
Silent, Rob studied him. ‘Are you certain that is what you want?’
‘Yes.’ How could it be otherwise?
‘Then I promise,’ he said finally. Words strong as a handshake.
John nodded, feeling for a moment the strength of Rob’s pledge. Could a brother’s promise truly serve as a shield against the world’s uncertainty?
Rob’s next words seemed to answer no. ‘But don’t come crying to me when laws and wardens and kings fail you.’
Cate slipped her hand into his. Surprised, he turned to see her looking up at him. ‘Family won’t. Family won’t ever fail you.’
He shook his head. He could only hope this time would be different.
* * *
It was too easy, she thought the next day, as she saw to her horse and prepared her sword. Too easy to imagine burying her face in his shoulder, letting him put his arms around her.
Too easy to let him help her bear her burdens. Piece by piece he had made promises to her. One by one he was acting on them until she had even begun to believe the promises might come true.
She must not surrender to those imaginings. When the black fear came again, she must subdue it alone. That was the way it must be.
If she let him touch her, if she let herself surrender as a woman did to a man, fear would no longer live in her dreams. It would be resurrected to live in her world. Whether she willed or no, her body would resist. Her fear was rooted so deeply that she would never be able to let a man take her again.
No matter who he was.
The others did not know that, but they knew enough to leave her alone. Knew she wanted to be alone.
But Johnnie Brunson looked at her with fresh eyes.
She had lived the last two years seeing her past, at least the part they knew, reflected in the eyes of every man and woman who faced her. They brought it with them and heaped it on her with every glance.
Is she all right? We must be patient. We must make allowance.
The words were never spoken, but no one, except perhaps Bessie, was willing to come closer than arm’s length. They gave her the space, the time, the seclusion she demanded.
They left her alone.
But Johnnie had not witnessed that time and what came after. He had not seen her grief, her numbness. He had not watched her float through the days like a wraith.
No, he only saw what she wanted him to see. Braw Cate. Cate the brave. Cate, who feared no man. This was the Cate he knew, not the ghostly, grieving girl. And certainly not the hopeful young girl who had once played hide-and-seek at a wedding and dreamed of a marriage of her own.
It was easier, somehow, to face eyes that saw only what she had become. To see her only as she wanted to be seen. She must be sure that was all he ever saw of her.
* * *
John was ready to mount Norse the next day when she appeared, mounted on her own pony, with the dog at her side.
He blinked, surprised. ‘You’re not coming.’
‘You’re not going without me.’
Did no one control this woman? ‘Yes, I am.’ He mounted and started for the gate, where two armed men waited to guide him to Carwell’s castle. He had learned, in the last week, not to ride this land alone. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Those are Gilnock men ready to guide you,’ she called out. ‘If I do not go, neither do they.’
He sighed. He knew only that the castle he sought was west, near the sea and Rob could not, or would not, spare any of his men from guarding the tower.
He paused, turning in his saddle. Exasperation grabbed him by the throat. ‘Why must you come?’ Don’t you trust me? But he did not ask that, perhaps because he did not want to know.
A bitter look settled over her face. ‘It’s my vengeance you’re demanding. This new warden will hear from my own lips how serious I am.’
He swept her with his eyes as she sat astride her pony. ‘How seriously do you think he will take a woman dressed as a lad?’
An angry flush touched her cheeks. ‘As seriously as you tell him to.’
I’ve not been so far from the tower...she had said. Yet they’d be riding much, much farther than Hogback Hill.
How brave was this Cate?
How strong was he?
‘We’ll be gone two nights,’ he said, watching for a hint of hesitation in her eyes. ‘Maybe three.’
Three nights of sleeping beside her. He had thought to escape with this trip, not take temptation with him.
Her lips wobbled and she swallowed. Then her jaw settled into an immovable line. ‘So then, we shall.’
Brave enough.
He sighed, wrestling his annoyance. He did not want her with them. Did not want her to interfere with his conversations with Carwell.
Or with his sleep.
He sighed. ‘Come, then, if you must.’
Her smile almost made his concession worthwhile. She fell in behind him, Belde loping at the pony’s feet.
‘We’re tracking no one on this trip,’ he called, over his shoulder. ‘The dog stays here.’
She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head. Perhaps leaving the beast behind would be enough to make her stay home as well. ‘Don’t waste breath and time. That’s the way of it. Make up your mind.’
She paled. Panic touched her gaze, but she nodded, finally. He sighed and gave her a few moments to turn the beast over to Bessie’s care before she joined them at the gate.
‘Now keep up,’ he said, as they rode out. ‘And keep quiet.’
* * *
To John’s surprise, she managed to do both through all of a long day. They swung northwards, climbing into the desolate waste of Tarras Moss. The ponies plodded carefully to avoid the worst of the bogs, and John was grateful that the other men and the beasts knew the way across the desolate, windswept land. But inhospitable as it was, it kept them beyond the edge of the Debatable Land.
No reason to search for trouble.
Trouble, he thought, watching Cate ride ahead of him, was already firmly attached.
Low grey clouds hung in the sky, reaching towards the hills like an old man’s beard. Now and then, the air would grow thick with fog as wet as rain.
As they climbed, forest gave way to scrub that clawed at the ponies’ legs, but they stopped for nothing. Food was an oat cake, eaten with one hand while the other held the re
ins. But unlike proper reiving men, they rode all day and left the night for sleeping.
They were on the far side of the range by the time of gloaming, and bedded down by a stream after the sun set. Summer was turning to its golden end, but they lit no fire. The two Gilnock men who rode with them
bedded down out of earshot, but John set his blanket within arm’s length of hers.
She frowned. ‘You need not be so close.’
‘And if I need to protect you in the middle of the night, would you have me be out of reach?’
He hated the fear that touched her face.
‘Another arm’s length will be close enough.’
He sighed. Sleeping beside her would be more difficult than his conversation with Carwell. ‘We should be there by tomorrow night,’ he said, as he settled his pallet a little farther away. At least there, she would bed down with the women, well away from him. Not that it would keep her away from his thoughts.
He turned his back on her and closed his eyes. A futile gesture.
‘The Carwells can mount more men than any family west of the River Esk,’ she said finally, breaking the dark silence.
He kept his eyes shut and his back to her. ‘Can they now?’
‘Almost as many as we can.’
The thought gave him pause. The Brunsons had been known to put near three thousand in the saddle when threatened. The king wouldn’t be seeing near that number. ‘We’re not here on a raid. We’re here to bring the king’s proclamation that makes Thomas Carwell the Warden of the March.’
‘That means less in Liddesdale than it does at Stirling,’ she said. ‘And little or nothing to me.’
He turned over and sat up. ‘His father was warden before him. He knows what must be done.’ The king’s hated guardian had snatched the father’s post away, along with its power and purse, when he took control of the young king. It was one of the first things King James set to rights. ‘When Carwell mounts men, it will be in support of the king.’
A mistake to look down at her as she lay ready for sleep. It put him in mind of things he must not think.
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