Bessie shook her head.
‘Ah. I see.’ They had reached the end of the corridor and the woman opened a door. ‘It’s empty now,’ she explained, in words Bessie could understand, ‘but three of us share it already. We’re all named Mary.’
Bessie felt a moment of relief. She had not seen another woman in the week since she had left home. A female face was a comfort.
‘They call me Wee Mary,’ she said, with a smile that showed a gap between her front teeth.
‘I’m...Elizabeth Brunson.’ So Carwell had introduced her. So she would be.
The woman’s eyes widened. So did her smile. ‘You’re Johnnie’s sister?’
‘Aye. You knew him?’ A woman who knew Johnnie. It felt like coming home.
Mary laughed, deep in her throat. A laugh that said it all. ‘Aye. We all miss Johnnie,’ she said, with smile that spoke of experience. ‘Especially Long Mary and me!’
Although she knew her brother had lived at court, Bessie had never pictured his life here. She had certainly not pictured him with women.
Given the woman’s smile, Bessie decided not to mention that Johnnie was a happy new husband. ‘Long Mary?’
‘She’s the tall one. Stowte Mary and I both serve the King’s mother.’
‘And what does Long Mary do?’
‘As she pleases.’ Her expression teetered between envy and resentment. ‘For now.’
Bessie understood these words no more clearly than the French ones. ‘This is all so...different.’
Wee Mary took in Bessie with one sweeping glance. ‘Has the King seen you yet?’
Bessie looked down at her dress and then at Mary’s. She was wearing something stiff and black with gilded trim and a square neckline that exposed more than Bessie was used to.
This was worse than she had feared. She shook her head.
Mary raised her brows. ‘You are très jolie. Il va vous voir avec plaisir.’
Before she could ask what that meant, there was a knock on the door behind them. A servant entered, carrying Bessie’s chest, put it down and disappeared.
‘You’ve not much time,’ Mary said. ‘What are you going to wear?’
Bessie sighed, lifted the lid, pulled out her best dress and held it up. Next to Mary’s, it looked shapeless and faded. And she heard the echo of what she had told her brother months ago. She had no proper clothes for court.
Mary pursed her lips and raised her brows. ‘I see.’ She turned to another chest and rummaged among the contents. Finally, she pulled out something deep black, shapely, and with a blue inset in the front of the skirt. ‘This is Long Mary’s. She’s more your size.’
She reached out to stroke the fabric, the colours so vibrant they belonged on a bird. ‘I can’t just take someone’s dress.’
Wee Mary shoved it at her. ‘It no longer fits her. Now hurry.’
* * *
At the end of the tournament field, Carwell checked his armour, and made sure his men’s green-and-gold colours were firmly attached.
The King, impatient, had not waited to build seating for the spectators, so most would simply stand at the edge of the field in the valley below the castle. The women, perched atop the Ladies Rock overlooking the grounds, would have a better view. He looked, vainly, for Elizabeth.
‘Ah, there you are.’
Carwell turned and bowed in one movement. ‘Your Grace.’
In the chaos surrounding preparations for the tournament, there had been no time for formal presentation to the King. It had been months, more than a year, since he had seen James. All their agreements had been via messages and messengers.
Now, face to face, he could newly assess the man himself. Young. Red-haired, with a long, prominent nose. And carrying a brilliant green-and-gold bird on his wrist.
The King wasted no words. ‘You’ve news?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. News of several kinds.’
The King’s eyes flashed. Suddenly, he was less the excited sixteen-year-old and more the monarch. ‘Imminent danger?’
Carwell shook his head.
Relief touched the King’s eyes. ‘Then we will enjoy the tournament first. News will wait.’
‘A handsome papingo, Your Grace.’
James looked at the bird and smiled. ‘A gift.’ He turned his gaze out over his immediate kingdom. The King took a deep breath as he surveyed it. ‘And who is that lovely lark?’
Carwell followed the King’s glance to see Elizabeth, walking along the edge of the field.
And forced himself to breathe.
Her gown, stark black, set off her fair skin and made her firelight hair even more vibrant.
‘Elizabeth Brunson, Your Grace.’
‘Brunson?’ The word was sharp-edged.
‘Aye, Your Grace.’ His voice sounded appropriately detached. He congratulated himself. ‘John’s sister.’
‘Ah, of course. I can see it now. The similarity in the build....’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Johnnie’s sister, eh?’ Several things seemed to flash behind the King’s eyes, ending with a sigh. ‘Bring her to me.’
‘Now, Your Grace?’
The King frowned. ‘Of course, now.’
Carwell gave a brief bow and muttered something that should have been Of course, Your Grace, but wasn’t.
Her eyes lit up as he approached. She must feel truly isolated now, he thought. She had never looked so happy to see him.
He concentrated on keeping his eyes on hers so he would not look down at her bodice, where he could see the edge of breasts he had been trying to forget since he had carried her from the stream.
He cleared his throat. ‘You look lovely.’
She looked down. ‘I look like a pigeon in a pig pen.’
‘The King doesn’t think so.’
She lifted her head and he saw a flash of fear in her eyes. She looked around his shoulder.
‘That’s the King, yes. With the bird.’
She raised her brows. ‘I’ve never seen a falcon like that.’
‘It’s not a falcon.’ He reached out to take her elbow, his touch staking some kind of claim. ‘He wants to meet you.’
She pursed her lips, then nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To explain?’
Yet when she lifted her head, he found himself staring at the curve of her neck and her delicate throat.
And thinking of the hangman’s noose.
‘Not today. Today, only curtsy and smile and say as little as possible.’
Lifted chin, stubborn lips and fear, still, in her eyes. ‘I speak no French.’
Now, his smile could reassure. ‘Neither does the King.’
Her lips relaxed and released a breath. ‘Will he ask for our oath?’
He shook his head. The King needed no reminders of the Brunsons’ bad behaviour today. Not until Carwell had had a chance to assess the situation. ‘He is in a good mood and ready to enjoy the jousting. Be sure he remains so. Come.’
She matched her strides to his as they walked across the damp field. ‘What do I call him?’
‘Address him as “Your Grace”.’ He tightened his grip on her arm. ‘And say nothing bad about the bird.’
The sun had broken through the clouds and the day had warmed, as if on the King’s command, as they approached James, standing before his tent, surrounded by attendants.
‘Your Grace,’ Carwell said, his hand still on Bessie’s arm. ‘Elizabeth Brunson.’
She bent her knees, but not her stubborn neck. Even a Brunson woman bowed to no man.
The King’s eyes roved across her curves and Carwell fought the tension in his jaw. Well, what man wouldn’t like to look on her? He did. Too much.
Smiling, the King stroked the bird’s bright-green feathers. ‘Welcome to Stirling Castle and to my tournament.’
‘Thank you, your Grace.’
‘And this,’ the King said, lifting the wrist with the bird, ‘is Pierre. Greet the lady, Pierre.’
Pierre squawked and flutt
ered his wings. Elizabeth leaned away and pressed against Carwell. He found his arm around her waist.
Quickly, she recovered herself, but kept her lips firmly shut.
The King frowned. ‘Is he not impressive?’
She glanced at Carwell for permission. ‘I’ve never seen such a creature before.’
The King’s eyes narrowed and he handed the bird to an attendant. ‘Johnnie is not with you.’
She glanced at Carwell and swallowed. ‘No, he’s—’
‘It’s a day for celebration, Your Grace. Even the sun emerges to honour your glory.’
James frowned, but two squires hovered, holding armour. The red-and-gold surcoat with the royal arms was waiting, flapping in the wind. The King looked up at the uncertain sky. ‘We begin within the hour.’ He looked back at Elizabeth. ‘Who carries your favour, milady?’
Her eyes flickered, uncertain. ‘My favour, Your Grace?’
‘In the lists. Your kerchief. Your scarf. The token of your affection.’ The King’s smile was too smug, his eyes too eager.
Carwell stepped forwards. ‘I do.’
Beside him, Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Fortunately, she kept her mouth closed.
Carwell took the King’s frown for her.
‘Don your armour, Carwell. You, and your men.’ And he turned his back and stepped into the tent.
Carewell bowed and backed away, dragging Bessie beside him.
She pulled her arm away. ‘You carry no favour of mine.’
‘But the King was about to ask for it. He can collect all the favours he wants. And when he wins, he would want to collect from you.’
‘Collect? I’ve nothing to give him.’
How was this woman to survive here? ‘You have what every woman has and every man wants.’
The heat in his eyes left no doubt of his meaning. And left a cloud of pink on her cheek. Something he had not seen before.
‘What if he does not win?’
‘The King always wins.’
‘So you think to save me?’
He had, but now, he could think only to have her. The door of temptation had opened and he struggled to shut it against the vision. Even those lips, so plump and rounded. Such a soft contrast to the rest of her. A woman who told the truth or stayed silent.
‘I think,’ he said, finally finding his voice again, ‘that you do not want to anger him if you hope to help your family.’
‘Aye,’ she said. Those impossibly beautiful lips curved into a smile. ‘And refusing to give him his expected reward would anger him.’
‘It would indeed.’
‘And if I refuse you? Will you be angry?’
* * *
Bessie watched his eyes darken. Anger? No. Something more. The hunger she had seen in his eyes at the stream when he saw her—
Why had she asked such a daft thing?
His control returned quickly. Feelings disappeared. ‘First I will have to win. Then you would have to refuse me. Let those things happen and then we’ll see.’
His gaze drifted to her lips. Her own hunger rose.
He stepped away. ‘But before any of that, you must give me a favour.’
A favour. She looked down. How was she to give him a favour? She was in a borrowed dress, without even a handkerchief of her own. And she would not honour the man by allowing him to carry the Brunson blue and brown.
‘Don your armour,’ she said. ‘By the time you are ready, I will have it for you.’
All she needed was a moment alone and a pair of scissors.
Chapter Six
In less than half an hour, Carwell saw her return and hand him a strip of linen—rough, white, and plain. He took it without comment, knowing it must have come from the sark shielding her skin.
‘It is all I have,’ she said. ‘I hope it does not embarrass you.’
Any other woman, forced to cut a favour from her undergarment, would have been abashed. And though he had seen her curse herself for stumbling in the dance, this simple thing, this-all-she-had, she offered without shame.
Or hesitation.
Then, she was a Brunson.
And when he pressed it to his lips, they burned with the thought that this piece of cloth had pressed against her skin.
‘Nothing else would suit me as well.’ He tied the ragged strip to his lance. ‘It is well made, serviceable and cut from something none of us can do without.’
She smiled. ‘May it bring you success.’
‘And my reward?’ Suddenly he wanted it, that feeling of her lips yielding to his.
Her smile faded. ‘You gave my brothers your word.’
‘Your innocence is safe,’ he answered, more smoothly than he had expected. ‘Do not doubt it.’
Her life and her good repute were in his care. And the second now looked more challenging than the first.
* * *
What every woman has and every man wants.
Carwell’s words followed her as she climbed Ladies Rock, her borrowed dress dragging on the grass. There was something about a woman like that. Like the mare in heat, sending off signals. A glance, a lifted brow, an easiness of laugh.
Aye, she thought, as she looked at the dozen or more women gathered there, hoping to see Mary’s familiar face. It was easy to see what these women had that men wanted. She imagined that more than one of them had graced the King’s bed already.
Or visited Johnnie’s.
And she felt they must look at her and know how ignorant she was of such things. Innocent, Carwell had called her.
Even he could tell.
There were girls, many of them, who sampled men until they found one to their liking. She had not. She was the head man’s daughter. Men walked carefully around her. And when one did not, Rob set him straight.
Rob. Johnnie. Thinking of her brothers, she was swept with longing. She was far from home, wearing a borrowed dress. At home, she was a Brunson. The name alone ensured respect.
Here, she no longer knew who she was.
Below her, she recognised the Carwell green and gold on a group of men at the end of the field. On the Border, men fought in a jack-of-plaites jerkin, tall boots and a bonnet. You would see the eyes of the man who faced you.
Here, covered, these men had no faces, no hair, no eyes. They were only metal bodies, armoured from head to toe. This Thomas, mounted on a chestnut destrier and recognisable only by his colours, was a man entirely different from the one who had ridden by her side.
A tall, slope-shouldered woman joined her, recognition in her eyes. ‘The dress flatters you, Elizabeth Brunson.’
She turned back from looking at Thomas to face a woman who must be Long Mary. ‘I thank you for the loan of it.’
The woman cradled her stomach with both hands. ‘The King will buy me another.’
Before Bessie could ponder that comment, Wee Mary came up beside them. ‘Who is that one?’
Bessie followed her gaze. Thomas had taken off his helmet and handed it to a waiting squire. Bareheaded, his brown hair fluttered straight as a banner in the stiff breeze.
She struggled to subdue a breath. ‘In the green and gold, you mean?’
‘I don’t know who he is,’ said Long Mary. ‘But I would like to.’
Bessie hugged her secret knowledge, reluctant for a moment to share. ‘That’s Thomas Carwell, Warden of the Scottish March.’
‘You know him well?’
She knew him not at all. But what was she to say? ‘He carries my favour.’
A true statement, but without the significance they would give it. Then the vision of him, naked in the stream, heated her cheeks.
Wee Mary smiled, knowingly, and looked at Carwell again.
‘That white scrap of linen?’
Her face burned. ‘It is well made and serviceable.’ Like Bessie Brunson. Used when needed, ignored when not, disposed of when its time was through. Not something to bring delight, nor something beautiful to cherish.
‘And a little soiled
around the edges.’ Long Mary tittered.
Bessie turned back to the field, ignoring the laugh. Let them think what they liked.
Wee Mary patted her arm. ‘Perhaps she’s trying to capture her unicorn.’
The words were not French, but they might as well have been. They meant something to the Marys she did not understand.
‘The King carries my favour,’ Long Mary added, with a smile.
As if he knew they had spoken of him, Carwell broke away from his men and rode to the base of the Ladies Rock. Even mounted, he was nearly twelve feet below her. Too far away for her to read his eyes.
He dipped his lance to her. On either side of her, the Marys stepped back, according her a new measure of respect.
She swallowed, uncertain. What was she to do now? He might intend to honour her, yet he only exposed her ignorance of court protocol.
‘You have honoured me with your favour today,’ he said. ‘I will honour you with my victory.’
What was she to say? A Brunson did not ride in armour for glory and the amusement of a crowd of strangers. A Brunson rode swift and silent, in the dark of night, to keep his family fed and safe.
Why did Thomas Carwell ride?
‘Ride strong and safe,’ she said.
He galloped to the end of the field and the mêlée began.
* * *
By the end of the day, only Carwell’s and the King’s men remained on the field.
Silent as those around her cheered, she had watched every charge, heart in her throat, telling herself she did not care whether he won or lost.
Lying.
The thin strip of white linen was muddy and limp, but it still flapped energetically in the wind, as erratically as her heart.
Beside her, Long Mary’s smile had soured. ‘Your knight fights boldly and well for you.’
‘He does not fight for me.’ Surprised that her tongue could still move. ‘Only to uphold the honour of Border men.’
Wee Mary shuddered. ‘Lawless rogues. Let them all be food for Henry’s maw.’
Bessie knew a Brunson from a Storwick, a Carwell from a Robson. Yet to the Marys, it was only them. As if her people were strange and barbarous creatures, less than human.
She’d like to see Thomas prove them wrong on that score.
‘Well, Mary,’ the shorter woman said, ‘perhaps the King will not earn your favour tonight.’
Captive of the Border Lord Page 5
