Return of the Border Warrior

by Blythe Gifford

  Bessie glanced up at them, but her rolling pin did not stop. ‘Out with it. What have you come for?’

  His sister would not be fooled by a Storwick, of that, he was certain. ‘We need to find Willie Storwick. Rob and I, and Cate, have talked and we have an idea.’

  ‘You want me to visit the Storwick Brunsons and see what I can discover.’

  He felt his jaw sag. He thought, not for the first time, that his sister might be fey.

  Bessie and Cate exchanged smiles. ‘Don’t look so surprised, Brother. Even a woman’s head can follow that logic.’

  ‘You’ll do it?’

  Her hands never stopped working as she put down the pin and pinched the dough at the edge of the crust to build it up, thick and sturdy enough to hold the lamb and carrots.

  ‘It’s better than sending three hundred men into the Cheviot Hills searching for one man hidden in the heather.’ Bessie reached for another ball of dough and attacked it with the rolling pin. ‘I’ve gone every year since we lost Mother. Now that Da is gone...it’s time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cate whispered. ‘For braving those savages for me.’

  Bessie paused with a sigh to push a strand of red hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘I was alone with a Storwick once. Just the two of us.’

  Cate leaned forwards, hand on her dagger. ‘When? Where?’

  John studied Bessie’s smile. It held the shadow of the one his mother had given to her foolish young sons. ‘Long ago. I was no more than twelve, thirteen.’

  ‘Did he hurt you?’ Cate held her breath.

  Bessie shook her head. ‘It wasn’t a “he”. It was a lass. I was sent to the burn for water, but I left the bowie on the bank and wandered. Followed the stream past the burial ground, picked flowers.’ She brought her gaze back to the kitchen. ‘It was a lovely spring day and I didn’t want to work.’

  John swallowed astonishment. He had never known his sister to shirk a duty.

  ‘A little farther down, I looked across the stream and there was a girl, maybe a little older than I. She saw me, too, and we both just stopped, afraid.’

  ‘Did you know she was a Storwick?’ Cate asked.

  ‘I wasn’t sure, but I knew all the Brunsons and she wasn’t one of us.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were on opposite sides of the stream, too far away to do each other harm. “Who are you?” she said and I said, “You first.” She told me she was a Storwick and I told her I was a Brunson.’ She smiled again. ‘That was so surprising we were struck dumb for a while. Later, we talked.’

  ‘Talked?’ John said. ‘What was there to talk about?’

  Bessie’s smile turned tart. ‘As I recall, we shared stories about her arrogant cousin and my overbearing brothers.’

  John felt his jaw sag, as if she had just confided she’d flown to the top of Hogback Hill. He had never thought of the Storwick women much at all and had certainly not imagined them as sisters with kin who might tease them.

  Next to him, Cate gnawed her lip, as if she, too, were struggling with a reminder that even Storwicks were born children of God. ‘Did you ever see her again?’

  His sister didn’t speak at first.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, finally, picking up the rolling pin and turning back to her work. ‘I’ll visit the Storwick Brunsons. On Sunday.’

  And as they left the kitchen, John pondered what his sister had said. Women were ever full of secrets.

  * * *

  A few days later, Cate helped Bessie collect oat cakes and load them into bags, hanging on either side of the pony. Unable to settle, Cate picked up too many, too fast, handing them to Bessie before she needed them, and so was forced to put them down again.

  ‘I could go with you,’ she said again, finally. ‘They wouldn’t be afraid of me if I were with you.’

  ‘Yes, they would.’

  ‘I could disguise myself. I could put on woman’s clothes. I could—’

  ‘No.’ One word. As definitive as her brother’s.

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  ‘No one said you were. But you should be.’

  ‘But I shouldn’t be,’ she protested without thinking.

  ‘I would be, if I were you.’

  ‘But you’re never afraid.’

  ‘Am I not?’

  She stared at Bessie, not sure how to answer. This woman had never spoken a word of protest against any duty that had been given to her, but only lifted it to her shoulders, one more rock on a back already over-burdened. A woman younger than she by two years, but who seemed infinitely older. ‘But you never say a word.’

  ‘Nor do you.’

  But she was silent out of shame, not valour. ‘I want no one to know how...afraid I am.’

  Wordless, Bessie lifted her brows, saying, as clearly as words, And neither do I.

  Before Cate’s eyes, patient, quiet, calm, knowing Bessie became a different person. One who accepted the burdens handed to her without complaint not because she had none but because, for reasons of her own, she dared make none.

  Cate wrapped her arms around Bessie, hoping an embrace might say all she could not. ‘Be safe,’ she whispered.

  Against her shoulder, she felt Bessie nod.

  * * *

  John frowned as Bessie mounted the pony. ‘You must take more than one man with you. What if you’re attacked?’

  ‘Mother always travelled this way,’ she said. ‘If I come with an army, they’ll not let me close.’

  With a suspicious look at the man beside her, he pulled Rob out of earshot. ‘Can we trust him?’ Which man had gone before?

  ‘I think so, yes,’ Rob answered. ‘But there’s something you must learn on the Borders, Johnnie. You can think and work and plan and scheme with all your might, but in the end...’ He shrugged. ‘In the end, your life is in the hands of fate. Just like that of the First Brunson.’

  Left for dead and found alive. Both by chance.

  He looked at Cate, as she gave Bessie a last hug. Yes, fate seemed to be meddling with his best-laid plans.

  And he had a feeling that fate was not finished.

  * * *

  No work was done for the rest of the day.

  Rob sat near the great hearth in the hall, staring into the flames, saying even less than usual. John paced. Periodically, he climbed to the parapet, walked the

  perimeter, then stood by Cate, looking towards the hills, straining for a glimpse of a woman on a pony and her sole guard.

  Cate had taken the warm seat next to the chimney as soon as Bessie left and had not moved since.

  All day, she huddled there, watching the hills stretch to the south, rising and falling like waves. Above them, grey rolling clouds reflected the rounded hilltops and hidden valleys.

  The days were growing shorter, the sun set sooner. When he mounted the stairs at day’s end, the sky had turned blood red, spilling colour on to the clouds.

  Cate, unmoving, looked out into the darkness. Belde, who had not left her side, raised his head. The dog’s drooping, mournful eyes held both a plea and an accusation.

  ‘We can’t expect to see her until tomorrow,’ he said as much to himself as to Cate.

  ‘I should have gone,’ she muttered, not moving her eyes.

  ‘Do you not think I’ve said the same?’

  She turned to him, then, some private agony darkening her eyes. ‘But it’s my fault, all of this. I’m the reason someone must go at all.’

  My fault. As if she had caused everything to happen instead of a man so unredeemable that he had been outcast by his own.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her near. ‘And you cannot solve it alone.’

  ‘I’m not alone,’ she answered, a small smile curving her lips. But wrapped in a faded blue blanket, her fair hair mixing with the wind, she looked as solitary as the ancestor who’d been left behind. ‘I’m a Brunson.’

  A Brunson. Wi
th a sister in Bessie who would ride through the Valley of Death for her and a brother in Rob who would take up the sword to right the wrongs done to her. No distant king cared whether this woman lived or died. King James had not broken bread with her or seen the anguish in her eyes.

  Or shared her bed.

  No king cared for the things that meant most in the world to John. And there was the choice he had not wanted to make: between Cate and his king.

  He crouched down, fending off a friendly nudge from Belde, to savour the sight of her face. The planes of her nose, the edges of her cheekbones were still as sharply drawn as he had first thought, but her lips... Ah, how had he ever thought them less than perfect? The top one softly bowed, the lower, lushly curved...

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘And you’re the bravest of us all.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Bessie didn’t return until after moonrise the next day. Cate bit her tongue to keep from asking questions until Bessie had been settled by the fire and held a bowl of hot soup. The day had been raw and the ride long.

  They had gathered in Rob’s bedchamber with the door closed and Belde outside to keep prying ears away. Bessie took the stool by the fire, John the one by the bed and Rob sat on the chest.

  That left the bed for her. She perched uneasily on the high mattress, avoiding John’s eyes. Just to sit on it reminded her body of what they had shared here.

  Bessie took a sip of the soup, sighed deeply and dropped her head back, letting her long, red hair hang behind her, as if she were letting the strain of the trip fall away.

  Then she put down the bowl and leaned forwards. ‘He has been disowned. It is true. The head man has told the rest not to treat him as a Storwick.’

  Cate shuddered. Thrust from the family. A living death.

  ‘Don’t believe it,’ Rob said. ‘He and the head man both must be in league with the English Warden to take possession of the no man’s land.’

  ‘If so, they’ve not told the rest. They’ve no more love for the man than we have. Word must have come to him by accident. No one warned him deliberately.’

  ‘How can you be certain?’ Johnnie asked.

  Bessie looked at Cate as she answered. ‘He’s...’ she swallowed ‘...he’s made enemies among his own.’

  Horror chilled her. Unthinkable that his own kinswomen might have suffered as she had. Did some nameless Storwick woman wake with nightmares, too?

  John, on the stool below her, reached over to put his hand on her leg in reassurance. ‘But did they know where he is?’

  Bessie shook her head. ‘No. And they seemed uneasy with that.’

  ‘There’s only one place he can be,’ Rob said. ‘Back in the Debatable Lands, rebuilding his tower.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Bessie said. ‘Rumour is that his men blame him for the loss of the tower. I think he’s closer.’

  ‘Why?’

  She looked at Cate, then John, joining them with her glance. ‘Because they say he’s hunting for you.’

  * * *

  John felt Cate tremble, felt her swallow, felt her trying to speak...

  Nothing came.

  His job now was to protect her, to complete the vow. If he’d made an enemy of Scarred Willie, all the better. It would keep the man away from Cate.

  ‘It could be a trap.’ He trusted his sister, but not the Storwicks.

  She shook her head. ‘The women told me all this when we were alone.’

  As if a woman would not lie to her.

  ‘If he’s made enemies of his own, we could hunt him together, Brunson and Storwick.’ He looked to Rob. If the families rode together, it would be punishment of a criminal, not reiving and raiding and revenge.

  At least, that’s what he would tell the king.

  But it was a scowling Black Rob who returned his gaze. ‘I’ll not ride beside any Storwick for any reason. They’d send us into an ambush. Just you and me this time.’

  ‘No,’ John answered. ‘I’m the one he wants. This time, I go alone.’

  Rob tensed. ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘I do, Rob. With my life.’ And he had not realised it until now. Yet he still did not know whether their truce was more than temporary. ‘But this will end with Willie dead and the king in a rage. Better to restrict his wrath to Johnnie Brunson.’

  ‘You expect the king to know one Brunson from another? That’s more than a Storwick can do.’

  ‘He can tell this one.’ The one who had been his friend. Once.

  ‘Just look at your eyes, eh?’

  They shared a chuckle.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Rob said, serious again, ‘I care nothing for the king’s wrath.’

  I’m not afraid. That’s what Rob was saying.

  ‘I know. And I know you don’t believe me, but some day, it will matter. One of us ought to stay on his good side for the sake of the family.’ For the family. Words he never thought to say. ‘Besides...’ he looked at Cate, the vow now his ‘...I’ve reasons of my own to want him dead.’

  Rob studied him. ‘The vow was the family’s, no matter who fulfils it.’

  It rushed over him, the sense of belonging. Yes, it was his own vow to Cate, but he could feel his brother’s support in those words. Rob would let him fulfil the family’s vow. And Rob would stand at his back to lift the sword should John falter.

  And behind Rob, generations of Brunsons.

  He cleared his throat and swallowed against the lump there. ‘Next time, I’ll let you face the king’s rage.’

  Was that another laugh from Rob? Despite everything, things seemed a little easier between them.

  ‘But this time,’ he concluded, ‘I’ll ride alone.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Cate said. ‘You’ll ride with me.’

  * * *

  No was all they told her. No and no and no as they planned in whispers and speculated where Willie might be hiding. In the hills along the border. Farther into England. No, back in the Debatable Land.

  And she kept silent, finally, because she knew where he was hiding. Knew it as if she had the sight.

  He had gone back to the beginning. Back to Hogback Hill.

  And she would go back alone to find him.

  But before she did, there was something else she must do. Something that required even more bravery.

  * * *

  The master’s chamber had been left open and empty for them. No one had to explain.

  John would ride out alone tomorrow.

  But while Rob and Bessie intended to give them the gift of a last night, Cate needed something more. Needed to prove to herself that she was Braw Cate—brave enough to face both of her enemies.

  John walked in without hesitation, crouching before the hearth to stir the banked fire. Behind her, Belde stretched out on the floor outside the door, as if to guard against intruders. Resting his head on his paws, he closed his eyes as Cate shut the door and turned around.

  Bed.

  A place that still held terrors. A place in which her courage failed.

  But in the fading light of the sunset, she saw in John’s eyes more than desire. She saw belief. Belief that here, too, she could be brave.

  She hesitated, torn between fear and want. She wanted to love him. Wanted to have him. Wanted to believe that loving him could eradicate her past. Wanted to be brave in the bed and on the battlefield.

  And she feared, still, that she was neither. And until she could slay Willie’s demon in the bedchamber, she would never be able to defeat the man himself.

  John turned to see her frozen at the threshold. ‘We will do, or not do, whatever you desire.’

  Kind, gentle, tender, respectful. All the things she had discovered him to be, so unlike the man who seized that first, unwanted kiss from her a few weeks ago as they crossed swords. But that man, that passionate lover, was John as well.

  She wanted to relish that urgent, eager side of loving, too. Tried before. Failed. But tonight, yes. Tonight, she could. She would.
/>   Drawn across the floor, she stood before him. ‘Come,’ she said, swallowing. ‘Let me...’

  But there were no words for what she wanted. Only her fingers slipping under his tunic, searching for his skin, wanting to see him in his fullness.

  ‘Tell me.’ His voice already husky. ‘Tell me what you want.’

  ‘I want to see you.’ Last time, the feel of wool on her legs had taken her back. This time, he would be naked. ‘All of you.’ She pointed at the bed. ‘There.’

  First, he flashed a quick, wicked smile that spoke of private delights. Just as fast, hesitation touched his eyes and hovered on his lips. ‘Are you sure?’

  Anger flashed over her desire. Now her fear had infected him as well. No more. Scarred Willie would claim no more victims.

  She lifted her chin and squeezed his hand. ‘Yes. I’m sure.’

  His smile returned and he reached for the edge of his tunic.

  ‘Wait! When I tell you.’ Before, he had acted, while giving her the power to say no. This time, she would direct him.

  He dropped his arms, the expression on his face suddenly uncertain.

  She slipped her hands under his tunic again, savouring the feel of his skin, hot against her palms, then moved from his back to his chest, where the soft, curly hair tickled.

  And her fingers stumbled upon his nipples.

  So unlike a woman’s. And what did a man need with them?

  She rubbed them, slowly.

  He moaned.

  She smiled. Sensitive, then, as hers were.

  ‘Now,’ she whispered. ‘Take it off.’

  She helped him, but kept one hand on his skin. With the tunic gone, she could admire his chest, his shoulders, the curves that shaped his arms. She had seen bare chests before. Working men shed their shirts often enough, but when she glanced at the others, all she could think of was how strong their arms were. Strong enough to heft a sword or hurl a spear.

  Worse. Strong enough to hold her down.

  John’s arms were strong enough to protect her, even from himself.

  She stroked him, lightly, with the tips of her fingers, as if she might learn to draw him in the air.

  He groaned, eyes closed, then shivered as she trailed her hand down the inside of his arm, to that sensitive skin inside the elbow.