Return of the Border Warrior

by Blythe Gifford

  Was he brave enough to face that?

  Seeking quiet, he left the hall to settle in the stairwell, on the very step where he and Cate had talked alone in the dark.

  He had delayed thoughts of the future. First, find Storwick. Then carry out the king’s orders. But surrounded by the warmth of the tower, the voices of his fellows echoing off the stone walls, he realised he had made his decision, unawares, weeks ago.

  Somewhere, the king went to war without Brunson men.

  When he vowed to hunt Cate’s enemy, he had cast his lot with the hills of his birth. He must have known, even then, that he would not see Stirling again, but he had been too blind to see it. Or too cowardly to admit it.

  He had told himself Cate was a means to an end. No longer true, if ever it had been. Cate was the end. Whatever her wound now, they could heal it together.

  Don’t ask me questions you should be asking her, Bessie had said. Questions like ‘will you share my life?’

  But he could not ask her that question. Not as things stood.

  You’re no longer a Brunson. I won’t have you here.

  Rob had said the words days and miles ago. Since then, they had ridden side by side and fought shoulder to shoulder. But Rob’s words still stood. He had not taken them back.

  And John had not asked him to.

  He looked out of the opening in the wall. The ground was hard and frozen and dusted with fresh snow. The wind, raw and cold, blew fitfully through the valley. Damp air penetrated all the way to his skin.

  And there was nowhere on earth he would rather be.

  On the ground of his birth he was strong and sure as he had never been by the king’s side.

  Was he the Borderer Rob was? No. If he stayed, they would still quarrel. But Rob must know by now that Johnnie Blunkit was no longer the little blue-eyed boy who dragged his blanket down these stairs.

  Johnnie finally did.

  He sighed. He had planned to return home in triumph, flaunting the king’s badge. A man to be respected.

  Now, in order to stay, he must do the thing he’d sworn never to do.

  Humble himself and ask Rob if he could come home.

  Unless...

  He rose, smiling. There might be another way.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Assured by Bessie that Cate still slept, John found Rob on the parapet, searching for the next threat.

  Willie Storwick might be gone, but the rest of his clan were not.

  John leaned on the wall beside him. Silent, they watched the sky turn the blue of church glass.

  ‘So you kept your word,’ Rob said finally.

  No thanks. No praise. And none deserved, he thought. A man says what he will do and does it. Bit by bit, over a lifetime, that earns respect.

  ‘I had help,’ he answered.

  ‘So it’s the dog I should be raising a mug to?’

  Hard to ignore the insult in his brother’s words. Steady. You’re no longer a lad and unless you bite your tongue now and then, you and Rob will be quarrelling when Christ rises.

  But today, he had reason to pick a fight. ‘Do you doubt me?’

  ‘Should I?’

  John rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, holding back a smile. ‘Go a round with me if you’ve doubts. As we used to.’

  ‘I’ll beat you now as I beat you then.’

  He drew his sword from his scabbard and passed it from one hand to the other. ‘Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?’

  The corner of Rob’s mouth twitched. ‘What stakes, in the unlikely event that you win?’

  ‘To stay here. As a Brunson. In my home.’ Nine words to describe a lifetime.

  No smile on Rob’s unmoving face now. No hint of whether his brother was pleased, surprised or opposed. ‘And if I win?’

  John shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. ‘Why, then, I guess I’ll turn myself over to his Majesty the King to be put on trial for treason.’

  ‘Lead the way.’

  They descended to the corner of the courtyard they had used as boys, the corner where the last daylight lingered.

  Rob pulled his sword. ‘First touch.’ His nod as firm as the way he hefted his sword. ‘Begin.’

  They circled each other with slow, deliberate steps, assessing the other. They had not lifted swords against each other in ten years. A lifetime.

  Since then, they had fought beside each other in battles of life and death, yet this seemed more important than any of those.

  He waved his sword slowly in Rob’s direction to see what he would do. Rob was broader and heavier, John quicker.

  That would have to be enough.

  Each tested the other, gauging the length of his blade and the reach of his arm, determining just how far he would have to stretch his sword.

  Rob had the advantage, his blade longer by inches. Facing him in the waning light, John felt the shadows play tricks on him. Felt as if he were little Johnnie once more, about to be pummelled by his older brother.

  He battled the shades of memory. If he expected Cate to move beyond her memories, so must he. He must be Braw Johnnie to her Cate.

  Rob thrust first, just missing him. Mindful of the scar Rob had marked him with years ago, John had donned his father’s vest. His now. Battleworn and comfortable. Rob had inherited Geordie the Red’s title, but John felt his father’s protection in the padding, Cate’s love in the stitches.

  He dodged and swung back, careful not to put his strength behind the blow, nearly making contact.

  Rob scowled, surprised.

  ‘I learned a few things from the king’s sword master,’ he called out, smiling.

  Now settled to it, the two were evenly matched. The light faded. The fight did not.

  John began to feel the burden of the last day. His eyes burned, his muscles shook, the wound from the first raid was throbbing again, and his head and stomach were carrying on a private war. He had risen in the middle of the night, chased Cate to the mountain, fought Willie Storwick and returned to share celebratory toasts.

  A wiser man might have waited to challenge his brother until he’d enjoyed a night’s sleep.

  He summoned his strength to swing again, a move he had used against Rob when they were boys. It had not worked then, and he didn’t expect it would now, but he hoped to force Rob back two steps and give himself a moment to think.

  But instead of blocking the swing as he always did, Rob flinched or bobbed or did something so quickly that thinking back on it later, John wasn’t sure exactly what happened, but the next thing he knew, he’d nicked Rob’s shoulder and drawn blood.

  And what was even stranger, Rob was smiling.

  John’s jaw dropped as Rob held up his hands in surrender. ‘Well,’ his brother said, ‘I guess we’ll not be rid of you now.’

  Engulfed in Rob’s strong arms, John gritted his teeth against threatening tears.

  Home. He was home.

  Released as quickly as he’d been grabbed, John searched his brother’s eyes for answers. Had Rob deliberately allowed the win? Was that secret delight or regret in his eyes?

  ‘Thank you,’ he said finally.

  ‘For what? Being a bad swordsman? You won’t thank me for that when the Storwicks come riding again.’

  ‘Well, when they do, there’ll be men enough to take them.’

  Rob tipped his head, puzzled.

  ‘The king will be fighting his battles without any Brunsons.’

  This time, Rob smiled.

  John pounded his back. ‘Come. Let’s have Bessie patch you up before the corbies start circling.’

  They walked back into the tower, but just before they entered, Rob lifted a hand to John’s shoulder. ‘And, Johnnie, it’s not my permission you need.’ He jerked his towards the upper floors. ‘It’s hers.’ He patted John’s shoulder, then pushed him inside. ‘Go.’

  * * *

  She rose, finally, as darkness fell, and donned the one gown she still owned. For two years, she had kno
wn who she was and what her purpose was. Now, Cate was bold no more.

  The dark skirt barely reached her ankles now and without sturdy pants the cold swirled between her legs. Instead of walking the earth with two good legs, she had to kick the skirt aside with each step.

  Belde sat, head tilted in confusion. She crouched before him, cupped his muzzle with one hand and petted his head with the other.

  ‘Belde was the name I called you. And that’s what I wanted to be—bold and brave and never helpless with fear again.’

  Tears now, hot on her cheeks. She buried her face in his coat, muttering against his fur. ‘And then, the time came and it wasn’t enough. I kicked and hit and scratched and—’

  ‘Cate, you’re awake.’ John’s voice, behind her.

  She swiped her tears with the back of her hand as Belde ran to him, sniffing toe to chest in greeting.

  Cate stood, dizzy and wobbling on her feet, reaching for something to steady herself. She had been abed for so long she was unaccustomed to being upright.

  In a moment, John was by her side, steady and sure, as if she was the kind of woman who could not even stand without protection. Well, perhaps he was right. Her cowardice had nearly killed him.

  ‘Let me go,’ she said, the words rusty as an unoiled hinge.

  He did and she stood alone again. Thus it must be. She had not earned the right to stand by his side.

  He looked her up and down, a puzzled crease wrinkling his brow, but did not question the skirt.

  Belde jumped for John’s right hand. ‘Down,’ he said, holding it out of reach. ‘Sit.’

  Astonished, she saw the dog obey, though he swung his head, looking at Cate and then John, confused.

  John handed her a lumpy bannock. ‘I thought you would be hungry.’

  Suddenly, she was, as if her stomach had taken up arms against her heart, determined to keep her alive.

  The first bite tasted of honey and love. Oat cakes were not usually so sweet. Bessie must have made this batch especially for her. She closed her eyes, savouring the flavour on the tip of her tongue.

  When she opened them again, John was still studying her. ‘Are you well?’

  When had Johnnie ever been awkward with words?

  She chewed slowly, stealing time. There was no answer to that question. Or none that she wanted to give to this man. Swallowing, she had no excuse for silence. ‘Well enough.’

  ‘Then you’ll come ride with me.’

  It was not a request, but before she could refuse, Belde gave a woof and trotted to the door, tail wagging.

  Poor faithful beast. She should not punish him for her sins. Besides, she did not want to stay in a room with John and a bed and memories.

  No doubt he was going to say farewell and ride off with the men to meet the king.

  John draped a cloak over her shoulders, straightening it square as if she were incapable of the simple task. Yet she needed his arm as they descended the stairs. Her legs, unused for the day, had no more strength than dry grass.

  Belde, quivering with excitement, bounded down the stairs ahead of them. When she followed him into the yard, a blast of cold wind cut through her, making her long for the protection of a man’s garb on her legs.

  Yet the crisp air made her feel truly awake for the first time. Beside her, John stayed close, his blue eyes serious, yet as always, a smile lurked just out of sight.

  The gate loomed before her like a threat. ‘Are there Storwicks near?’

  ‘The men have just returned from a sweep of the hills. None to be seen. You’ll be safe.’

  You’ll be safe. No. She would never be safe. Because she had not been able to save herself. Or him.

  They mounted the ponies, the gate opened for them, and Belde ran in delirious circles around and ahead of them.

  And it wasn’t until it was too late that she realised John was taking her to Hogback Hill.

  * * *

  Silent, John watched her ride beside him, unsure how to speak to this strange woman who resembled Cate’s ghost more than the woman herself.

  He could tell the moment she realised where they were going. Saw her turn and open her mouth to protest, but he urged his horse ahead and let the wind whip her words away.

  She had lost herself on that mountain, so that’s where they must go to find her.

  He kept his horse just out of earshot so she could not protest, hoping she would not turn back without him. Instead, shorn of Cate’s spirit, this woman simply followed him.

  * * *

  When they reached the place of stones, he dismounted and waited as she sat, unmoving, on top of her horse.

  ‘Cate, come down. I must talk to you.’

  She slid off, as if no longer making her own decisions, then stood, staring vacantly at the ground.

  He wondered at the man he had been when he arrived home months ago, thinking he knew something of women. On top of this cold and windswept mountain, faced with a Cate he barely recognised, he knew nothing at all.

  Well, if they claimed him as a Brunson, the fore folk would have to help him now.

  He took her shoulders. ‘It’s done, Cate. It’s over.’

  She looked towards the ravine, then a nod, imperceptible.

  ‘You had your revenge.’

  ‘Aye.’ Yet she shook her head as if to say no.

  ‘And I kept my word.’

  Her eyes met his finally. ‘That you did.’

  Well, nothing to do but say it. ‘And now, I’d like you to be my wife.’

  He held his breath, though he did not know why. True, he had not spoken of marriage before, but he had avenged her for more than his family’s honour. He knew that now and she must surely have known it long ago; else why would she have trusted him with her body?

  Then why was he so uncertain of her answer?

  ‘Wife?’ She said the word as if she did not know it.

  ‘Yes, dolt, wife!’ The words came out more harshly than he had intended. He was the doltish one. Why could he not smooth things with this woman?

  She blinked. ‘Why would you want a woman who has been defiled?’

  Now he was the one who blinked. He had taken her body, yes, but given her his as well. And so much more. ‘That’s no word for what we did.’

  ‘Not you.’ She looked towards the ravine. ‘Him.’

  He followed her glance and her thoughts, finally, back to the night she had confessed, fearful that the others would know. Afraid of what they would think. ‘I don’t care about that.’

  ‘You cared enough to kill.’

  ‘I cared about you and the promise I made you. I don’t care about what happened before except that it makes you sad.’

  ‘Sad?’ She looked up at the snow-filled clouds. ‘What a strange word.’

  He stifled the urge to shake her from her stupor. Her words wandered without purpose. What had this shell of a woman wearing a dress done with the brittle warrior he loved?

  But with his hands still tight on her shoulders, he paused. Which was the real Cate? Had the warrior been no more than her armour? What if this were the real woman?

  Could he love this one, too?

  ‘Tell me then,’ he began, gentling his tone and his touch. ‘Tell me the right word.’

  She met his eyes then, the first time she seemed to really see him. ‘A fazart. It makes me a fazart.’

  Two syllables, ugly. They seemed to turn the very air putrid.

  ‘I will let no one call you that. Not even you. How can you think that?’

  ‘Because I am!’ She flung her arms wide, knocking loose his hold.

  At least she was fighting again. At least her spirit lived. ‘Storwick is dead,’ he said. ‘God took his justice.’

  ‘I don’t care about God’s! I wanted justice!’ She pounded her chest with her fists. ‘Me! Mine!’

  He started to speak, but she didn’t wait.

  ‘It was supposed to be different. I was supposed to be different. But it didn’t matter. I s
till couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t even save myself. And I couldn’t save you.’

  He recognised his Cate now, the one who had thirsted for revenge. But it wasn’t revenge she wanted after all.

  She wanted to change the past.

  And because she could not, all the hate she had carried for Willie had turned inwards.

  ‘Did you think that killing Willie would make you a maiden again?’

  She stared at him, white with shock at his words. ‘I thought...’ she began, then swallowed. ‘I thought it would make me worthy of you.’

  ‘But you are! Did I not just ask you to be my wife?’

  She shook her head. ‘Go back to your king, Johnnie. Go back to your ladies at the court. Go find someone who can share your bed without seeing demons and fighting dreams. Someone who can...’

  She pursed her lips against the tears.

  He took her hands and shook his head. ‘It’s here I’ll be staying.’

  ‘Why?’

  Such a simple question. And the answer, now, was simple, too. ‘Because it is where I belong.’

  She shook her head, cloaking herself in calm once more. ‘Don’t be staying on my account, Johnnie Brunson. I haven’t earned the right to you.’

  She tugged the cloak around her and turned back to the pony. He helped her mount and she started down the hill without waiting. Belde trailed her with a mournful, accusatory look over his shoulder.

  He yelled before she was out of earshot, ‘When you are ready, I’ll be here.’

  Here for as long as it took for Cate to become Cate again. But as he rode down the mountain, hunched against the cold, he heard no comforting whispers in the wind. Unless she believed in herself, she could not believe in them.

  And even love couldn’t change the past.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I’d like you to be my wife.

  Alone and hiding in her bedchamber again the next day, Cate turned the strange words over in her mind. All that she had been afraid to hope for was laid before her, yet she had not the courage to grasp it.

  She had fought Scarred Willie in life only to discover he had defeated her in death. If she bedded Johnnie again and again and again, the memories might still rise, holding her in fear’s grip.