Rosalin felt a sharp stab in her chest but tried not to let her fear show. Cliff’s three-year-old son Andrew had always been frail. Though no one spoke of it, he was not expected to see beyond his childhood.
Glad that the little girl was no longer close to tears, even if she couldn’t say the same, Rosalin asked, “So why don’t you tell me why you are wearing breeches and a lad’s surcoat?”
Meg looked down as if she’d forgotten. “John said I’d get in the way.”
Rosalin didn’t follow. “In the way…?”
Meg gave her a little frown of impatience, as if she hadn’t been paying proper attention. “Of riding lessons. Father gave John a horse for his saint’s day last week, and today he begins his training with Roger and Simon. It isn’t fair. John is two years younger than I am. I want to train like a knight, too. He can barely pick up the wooden sword Father gave him. How’s he supposed to kill bloody Scots if he can’t lift a sword?” Rosalin coughed again and made a note to tell Cliff to have care of his language around Meg. “He shouldn’t have told Father when I borrowed it. No one likes a tale-teller.”
Rosalin was having a hard time keeping up, so she just nodded.
The little girl’s face crumpled. “Roger wouldn’t let me stay, even when you can see my skirts won’t get in the way. I don’t want to sew with Idonia and Mother. Why won’t they let me train with them?”
Because you’re a girl. But as it didn’t seem the right time to explain the harsh truth of the sexes, Rosalin gathered the sobbing child in her arms and sighed. She understood her pain. She, too, had wanted to be with her brother—probably even more so, since he was all she had. Learning that she couldn’t simply because she was a girl had been a bitter draught to swallow.
Riding, practicing swordplay, and running around outside had seemed vastly preferable to sitting inside with a needle and lute. Of course, that was much too simplistic a view of their respective roles, but at Meg’s age, she had seen it the same way.
After a moment, the little girl looked up at her, her long, dark lashes framing big, blue eyes damp with tears. She might look like her pretty, dark-haired mother, but Rosalin saw Cliff’s stubbornness in the firm set of her chin. “Will you talk to him?”
“Talk to whom?”
“Father. He’ll listen to you. Everyone says he’s never refused you anything.”
Rosalin laughed. “I assure you, he’s refused me plenty. I wanted to ride and practice with a sword, too.”
Margaret’s eyes widened to almost comical proportions. “You did?”
“Aye. And I thought it just as unfair as you when he told me no.”
The smile that spread across the little girl’s face was almost blinding. “You did? He did?”
Rosalin nodded, then paused for a moment to think. “What would you say if I took you on a ride tomorrow and let you practice by holding the reins?”
It clearly wasn’t what Meg hoped to hear, but after a moment of disappointment, she decided to take what she could get and negotiate for better terms. Perhaps the little girl was like her aunt in that regard.
“For how long?” Meg asked.
“As long as you like.”
“Where can we go?”
Rosalin paused, considering. She didn’t want to venture far. “Your mother said there was a fair at Norham tomorrow. Would you like to go to that?”
Meg nodded enthusiastically and a moment later, she was running from the room, eager to lord her upcoming adventure over her siblings.
Rosalin called her back. “Meg!”
The little girl turned around questioningly.
“Wear a gown,” Rosalin said with a smile.
Meg broke out in a wide grin, nodded, and skipped away.
A few hours later, Rosalin tracked down her very busy brother to inform him of her plan. She stood outside the door of the solar while he finished with his men.
As the newly appointed governor of Berwick Castle, Cliff had taken over the royal apartments and was using one of the receiving rooms as a council chamber.
She was so proud of him. Not only had the king left him in charge of the war, making him Keeper of Scotland, he’d also appointed him governor to one of the most important castles in the Marches. The castles of Berwick in the east, Carlisle in the west, and Roxburgh in the middle formed a key defensive band across the border to prevent the Scots from invading England.
She bit her lip. At least the castles had done so until last summer. Robert Bruce’s raids into Cumbria and Northumberland had devastated the countryside, striking terror in the hearts of the English, from which they were still clearly recovering. Fear hung in the air, and the names of his fierce raiders were bandied about in terrified whispers, as if saying them aloud would conjure up the devil himself.
Douglas. Randolph. Boyd.
A sickly feeling swam over her. Don’t think of it…
“Two thousand pounds?” she heard Cliff say, clearly furious. “He must be mad. Send the man away. I’ll hear no more of their demands.”
Rosalin waited until the men shuffled out, and then entered.
Seeing who it was, Cliff looked up and smiled, lifting some of the weariness from his face. “Ah, Rosie, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“Is everything all right?” Clearly, it wasn’t. Her brother was much changed since she’d seen him last. The war had taken its toll. He was still handsome, but he looked older than his two and thirty years. And harder.
He waved off her concern. “Nothing that can’t be handled.” He motioned for her to sit. “So what is it that you need?”
She could see him trying not to smile as she explained. By the end, he was shaking his head. “I know you told her she was too young to ride, but really, Cliff, she’s seven years old. I don’t see any good reason why a seven-year-old girl is too young and a five-year-old boy is not.”
Leaning back in his chair, Cliff studied her over the length of the big wooden table that he used as a desk. “You’ve been here two days, and she’s already found her champion? I wondered how long it would take her to find her kindred soul.”
Rosalin’s brow furrowed, not understanding. “Kindred soul?”
“You don’t see it?” He laughed. “For God’s sake, she’s just like you, Rosie-lin, always rushing to someone’s defense, always trying to right every wrong.”
She frowned, taken aback. “I don’t do that.”
That only made him laugh harder. “God, it’s good to have you here. I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to visit you more in London.”
“You’ve been busy.” It was an understatement. In the past five years, since Robert Bruce had returned from the grave to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of defeat, her brother had barely had a free moment. She’d seen him only twice in the six years since that one fateful trip to Scotland.
“I wasn’t sure Sir Humphrey would ever give you leave to visit,” he said dryly.
She hadn’t been sure either. The earl had insisted that it was too dangerous, and…
Heat rose to her cheeks. “I think he was waiting for me to…ah…decide.”
Cliff’s expression changed. “And you have decided? This is whom you wish to marry? I will not have Hereford force you. I don’t care if you are the ripe old age of thirty—I’ll not have you tied to a man you don’t care for.”
“Two and twenty isn’t as ancient as all that.” She laughed. “Nay, you need not worry that Sir Humphrey has forced me into anything. He’s been very patient. Although between you and me, I think both he and the king despaired that I would ever pick anyone.”
“And you’re sure Sir Henry is the one?”
Something in his voice caught her attention. She studied his face, but her brother hid his thoughts well. “Do you not like him, Cliff?”
“The question is not whether I like him, but whether you do, little one.”
“I do,” she said with a soft smile. “Very much.”
Though she’d
known Sir Henry de Spenser for only a few months, he had bowled her over with his gallantry and charm. If the lauded English knight was also tall, dark, and muscular, she was sure the resemblance to a certain Scot rebel was coincidental.
“Then that is all that matters,” he said firmly. She frowned and would have asked him more, but he added, “I must admit that as glad as I am to see you, I am relieved you will be returning with Maud and the children to Brougham at the end of the month to prepare for the wedding.”
Her formidable sister-in-law had insisted that they return to the Clifford stronghold in Cumbria (where Rosalin had been born and the closest thing to home for her), which was farther south and thus safer from “barbarians.” It was some some distance from Berwick, but Cliff would be able to visit occasionally.
“Has it become so very bad?” she asked.
He hesitated, but then apparently decided to tell her the truth. “Aye. The Scots have grown bold with Edward gone, and someone needs to stop them or—”
He stopped, his jaw clenched hard.
“Or what?” she asked.
“Or they won’t be stopped.”
Her eyes shot to his. It seemed inconceivable that the rebels could actually win. She bit her lip. Her brother tried to keep her insulated from the war and the politics, but something made her start to ask, “Do you ever wonder if…”
Embarrassed by what she’d been about to say, she didn’t finish the question.
But Cliff guessed. “I don’t wonder, Rosalin. My job is to follow orders and do my duty to the king.”
Feeling suddenly disloyal, she felt a fierce rush of pride in her brother. He was dutiful and loyal—one of the greatest knights in England—and she loved him. Of course he was doing what was right.
“Go on your ride to the fair, Rosalin, and take your little crusader with you. Roger is riding out with some of my knights; you can go with them. I think he will be proud to show his aunt his new squire’s skills. Norham is as safe as Berwick. Not even Bruce’s phantoms would dare anything near one of the most heavily garrisoned castles in the broad daylight.”
Two
Despite her brother’s warning, Rosalin never dreamed it would be this bad.
Only three miles separated Berwick-upon-Tweed from Norham, but the moment they left the outskirts of the great burgh, they might as well have entered a different world.
The bucolic countryside she remembered from when she’d passed through Berwick on her journey south from Kildrummy Castle was nearly unrecognizable. Every tree, every blade of grass, every building bore the black-charred scar of razing. But it wasn’t only the land that had been devastated, it was the people as well. She could see the fear on the peasants’ grim, forlorn faces as they gazed up from their work to watch the large party of knights, ladies, and men-at-arms ride by.
It broke her heart. “My God, who did this?”
She didn’t realize she’d spoken her thoughts aloud until her thirteen-year-old nephew Roger, who was riding beside her, answered. “King Hood himself. The usurper led his men through here last September. He started with the Earl of Dunbar’s lands, then came over the Cheviot Hills into Northumberland, raiding and harrying as far south as Harbottle and Holystone for nearly two weeks between the feast of the Nativity of Mary and St. Cissa’s Day, before scurrying back into his brigand’s foxhole.”
Rosalin had heard about Robert Bruce’s raids while she was at court at Whitehall last summer not long after King Edward returned to London. Cumberland had suffered a similar fate the month before, she recalled. But she’d never imagined…this.
Cliff had been safe at Brougham at the time with Lady Maud, so Rosalin hadn’t sought out every detail as she usually did. She didn’t want to take the chance of hearing his name.
“These poor people,” she said. “Was there no one to defend them?”
Roger’s mouth hardened, and her heart squeezed. He looked so like Cliff had at that age: tall and golden-haired, the lean build of youth already hinting at the formidable knight he would become. Also like Cliff, Roger was stubborn, determined, and fiercely proud, with a hefty dose of confidence. He had that air of invincibility seen in most young men who were training for knighthood but had yet to see battle.
“Most of the garrison at Berwick and Norham had left with King Edward the month before. No one expected Bruce to invade—or do it so quickly. Father had yet to be appointed governor of the castle.”
Roger was too politic to criticize Cliff’s predecessor, Sir John Spark, but Meg wasn’t. “Don’t worry, Aunt,” Meg said, turning around to look up at her. “The cursed rebels won’t show their vile faces around here again. Not with Father in charge.”
Roger and Rosalin exchanged a look, trying not to laugh. But obviously he wasn’t the only one to have inherited Cliff’s pride.
Roger leaned over and ruffled his sister’s hair fondly. “You’ve the right of it, brat. Father has the area well defended. Bruce wouldn’t dare attack. Hell, I’d wager even the Black Douglas and the Devil’s Enforcer Boyd would turn tail and run before facing Father’s men.”
Rosalin’s heart slammed against her ribs at the mention of his name. It wasn’t an infrequent occurrence, as the name of Bruce’s ruthless enforcer seemed to be mentioned nearly as often as Robert Bruce, Bruce’s phantoms, or the Black Douglas.
Everyone had heard of Robbie Boyd. He was one of the most hated, reviled, and feared men in England.
The familiar guilt rose inside her, twisting her stomach in knots. She hadn’t known…she hadn’t realized that the man she was releasing was Robbie Boyd. Even at that time, he’d already made a name for himself, having fought alongside William Wallace in the early days of the war. It was said that Wallace trusted him so implicitly, he left Boyd in charge of his army in his stead, even though Boyd was not yet twenty years old at the time.
Setting one of Wallace’s key commanders free was bad enough, but in the intervening six years it had become so much worse. While fighting for Bruce, Boyd’s reputation had grown to prodigious proportions. Even far from the war in London they spoke of him with a strange mixture of terror, awe, and revulsion.
Unknowingly, she had helped free one of Scotland’s most notorious rebels. Every story she heard—and there were a lot of them—weighed on her, making her question whether what she’d done was right.
At first, she hadn’t second-guessed herself. The man she’d watched for weeks couldn’t be as black-hearted as they said. There was good in him—he had a noble heart—she was certain of it. But over the years, as the stories took on a more sinister cast, her certainty wavered. Had her attraction to him blinded her to the truth? Had the star-filled gaze of a young girl in the throes of her first infatuation made her see things that weren’t there?
She didn’t want to think so, but the certainty she’d once known had long since faded.
Her only consolation was that her brother never suspected her role in the infamous prisoner’s escape. Boyd had kept his word—on both counts. He made it appear as if his men had overpowered the soldiers and then freed him, and he hadn’t killed any of her brother’s men. Ironically, that had become the part that troubled her brother the most: why had one of the most fierce, ruthless warriors in Scotland not killed men when he had the chance? Especially after Boyd’s forbearance in killing had not been rewarded before. Her brother didn’t like inconsistencies or mysteries, and for years she’d lived in fear that he would discover her part in the escape.
Hunting Boyd down had become personal for Cliff. That he had once held one of Bruce’s fiercest brigands and let him slip through his fingers was the one stain on an otherwise unblemished military career.
Cliff would be furious if he ever learned the truth. And worse, he would be disappointed—something she couldn’t bear to contemplate. Her brother was the one constant in her life, and his approval—his love—meant everything to her. He could never learn what she’d done.
“I hope they try,” Meg said. “Then Father w
ill slay them and take their heads and stick them on the gate, and everyone will see them as they pass into the castle and know that Father is the greatest knight in England. Nay,” she turned around so Rosalin could see her fierce little face, “in Christendom.”
Roger laughed and ruffled her hair again before riding forward to join his friends. Rosalin hoped that would be the end of it, but unfortunately the men proceeded to recount some of the more horrific stories and deeds attributed to the Black Douglas and Robbie Boyd. The story of what had become known as the Douglas larder was the worst. All those men killed, tossed in the tower, and then burned? She shivered.
How could a man with the boyish nickname of Robbie do such horrible things? It couldn’t be true.
Eventually she had to ask Roger to stop—he was upsetting his sister—but in truth it was she that he was upsetting. Meg, who had been devouring every word, protested, but Rosalin distracted her by letting her hold the reins for a while and teaching her how to make the small movements of her hands to steer the horse.
It took less than a half hour to reach the village. While Rosalin and Meg and the two attendants who’d accompanied them were left to explore the many stalls of the fair lined up along the high street of the village, Roger and the rest of her brother’s men rode up the hill to the castle to meet with the commander of the garrison, presumably to discuss what they always discussed: war and Robert Bruce.
It was a chilly morning, and as the day drew on, it became even colder as the gray skies descended around them. Though she and Meg both wore hooded cloaks, Rosalin decided to purchase a couple of extra wool plaids for the ride back to Berwick.
Cognizant of the time approaching for them to meet Roger and the other soldiers, she quickly picked two weaves in soft blues, greens, and grays. She had just finished bundling them both up when she heard a strange shout.
Normally, she wouldn’t have paid it any mind—fairs were often loud and boisterous—but something about it sent an icy chill trickling down her spine.
The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Page 4
