Captive of the Border Lord

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘No.’ James’s mother was sister to the English King. ‘Some of the English Border lords. Angus was rumoured to be involved.’

  ‘Is there still a threat?’

  He shook his head. ‘I managed to...disrupt it.’ The ringleader’s death had been conveniently tied to a minor raid, noticeable for no other reason. He only wished he had been able to hit Angus as well.

  If he had expected effusive praise for saving the King’s life, he was to be disappointed. ‘And in the process, you’ve created new problems. Treaty negotiations have broken down because my uncle the King of England has told the ambassadors at Berwick that he wants redress for the Border outrages against the English. They are even whining about the death of some man called Willie Storwick.’ The King paused. ‘Was he the man? The man who tried to kidnap me?’

  ‘No, your Grace.’ How much easier it would be to say yes.

  ‘Then who is he?’

  ‘An English reiver who deserved the bad end he got.’

  ‘By whose hand?’

  ‘That’s not clear. To be fair, we’re not even sure he’s dead. No one has seen him for weeks. But no one has seen his body, either.’

  Nor would they, if he judged his Brunsons right.

  ‘There! There it is exactly! I ask you to keep order and this is what happens. So do you know what I have to say to the negotiators? I have to tell them these lands are in rebellion against their King so I can offer no redress!’

  The King’s meaning was clear. He blamed Carwell, and John Brunson, for making him look like a king too weak to rule his own lands.

  ‘So now,’ the King continued, ‘I risk losing both Angus and the peace all because a bunch of rebellious Borderers defy me. With your help!’

  So. He had saved the King from a plot and now was to be blamed for it. Yet he kept his voice steady. ‘Angus must not be allowed to escape.’ That was why he was doing...everything.

  ‘Time! I need time, dammit.’ There was a moment in which the King’s eyes looked...fearful. ‘I can’t risk war with England now.’

  And Carwell saw clearly that James was sixteen and had been truly king for only six months.

  ‘I’ve better news, your Grace. A secret offer from the English.’

  ‘And you wait until now to tell me? Will they return Angus, then, if he tries to escape across the border?’

  Carwell felt his jaw clench. ‘That is more difficult.’ Carwell needed to swear no Great Oath to destroy the former regent. He had sworn it to himself years before. ‘King Henry still wants Angus spared and restored.’ James’s former stepfather, regent and captor was a favourite of the English and a safeguard against Scotland’s traditional friendship with France.

  ‘Never! He will be destroyed. That I promise.’

  Carwell recognised the hatred in the King’s voice. It echoed his own. That, at least, he was sure of. They both wanted revenge against the man. James because he’d been held prisoner by him for two years. Carwell because he blamed the man for his father’s death.

  ‘I told them as much,’ he said. ‘They have removed that demand.’

  ‘And I demand that they return the traitor to me if he runs to England.’ Angus no doubt planned to escape across the border to enjoy King Henry’s hospitality.

  Carwell had tried that approach, without success. ‘They’ve offered something slightly different. They won’t return him, but if you send men into England to bring him back for punishment, they will not consider it an act of war.’

  The smile broadened. ‘Good. I can send the negotiators back to Berwick with confidence.’ His smile became a yawn. ‘We’ll speak in more detail tomorrow.’

  ‘Your Grace.’ He bowed, grateful for the chance to soak his own wounds.

  ‘And tomorrow, bring Elizabeth Brunson to me,’ the King said.

  Carwell paused. ‘Your Grace, the Brunsons know nothing of my dealings with the English.’

  ‘Nor will they learn it from me.’

  A tall woman with scarlet sleeves walked in, her smiles all for the King, as Thomas left the King’s chamber. Johnnie Brunson, he thought, must have had quite a time at court.

  He needed a mulled wine and a soaking tub, but first, he had to face Elizabeth Brunson again. The English Warden had been open to negotiation, yes, but he had been forced to trade the man something for the information.

  And the Brunsons must never know what.

  Chapter Eight

  There had been dancing planned in the Great Hall after the tournament, but since the King sulked in his chambers, the hall was half-empty. A few desultory dancers waited for the musicians to start.

  Still, all five fireplaces roared with flame and Carwell saw Bessie, standing alone, near the one closest to the door. He motioned the server to bring her a mulled wine.

  She cocked her eyebrow, a wordless request.

  ‘Your family’s news did not put the King in a good mood,’ he said. She need know nothing of the treaty. ‘You’ll be brought to meet him tomorrow.’

  If he had expected her to pale with nervousness at the thought, he was disappointed.

  ‘Why not tonight?’

  Because he is already occupied with a woman. ‘Tonight, he’s in an ill humour because I unseated him in order to protect your bloody innocence. And I may have even more trouble doing so when he sees you tomorrow.’

  She blinked, as surprised as he to hear him blurt a truth not wrapped in sugared words.

  ‘I ask only that you see to my safety.’

  ‘Your brothers asked more.’

  ‘My virtue is my responsibility.’

  And if he weren’t careful, she’d have to defend it against him as well as the King. ‘At court, it can be difficult to distinguish between the two.’

  She took a sip from her goblet and looked over the hall, no doubt assessing the truth of what he said. ‘I wanted to speak with him immediately.’

  ‘It may seem hard for you to believe, but King James is contending with matters of state of more importance than the Brunson family.’

  She shot him a look dark as any he’d seen from Black Rob. ‘So, I believe, are you.’

  The aches from today’s tournament stripped his normal calm. ‘I spent more than time on the Brunson family business today. I risked life, limb and the King’s good will keeping my promise to your brothers.’

  No other reason. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  ‘And for that, you have my thanks.’ Her tone was grudging. ‘Did you speak to the King of my brothers?’

  ‘That was not the reason for our meeting.’ True. But not complete. She might not believe it, but he had done more for her stiff-necked brothers than they deserved.

  ‘Then what was the reason?’

  Behind him, the musicians started the stately rhythm of the pavane. Better to dance than to deflect her suspicions with words. He held out his hand. ‘Would you dance?’

  Tilting her head, she hesitated, but he was unable to tell whether she saw through his ruse or whether she was still sensitive about her dancing. Probably both.

  ‘This is the pavane, a dance much simpler than the galliard.’ He waved her closer. ‘You simply place your hand in mine. Then we step forwards and step, touch, step, touch, step, step, step. No more complicated than a walk.’

  With a sceptical expression, she set down her wine and put her hand in his, her fingers calloused and cold despite the warm wine.

  He smiled, trying to reassure. ‘Just take one step at a time. You can’t fail.’

  An empty promise, but she joined him and they stood, side by side, at the end of the line of couples. The dance began in earnest and they stepped off together. ‘Now right foot, bring the left to it. Left foot, bring the right to it. Slow and stately.’

  Biting her lip, she looked down at her feet and did what he said.

  ‘Lift your head,’ he said. ‘Your eyes must be downcast, but your neck must be lifted and your feet must move without you staring at them.’

&n
bsp; Instead of dropping her eyes modestly, she raised them to his. ‘If I look neither at my partner nor my feet, what am I to look at?’

  Her face, the full lips, the light brown eyes, the slope of her nose and the angle of her brow, suddenly took his words away. In this dance, her fingers rested lightly in his, a touch no more intimate than a handshake. But he had never held her so long and the memory of their kiss heated him more than the fireplaces lining the hall.

  ‘At the feet of the woman before you, if you must. Do as she does. Now step, step, step,’ he said, grateful for the need to concentrate on explaining the dance. It kept him from remembering the way she had looked as he had carried her out of the stream, sheer linen revealing everything her dress had hidden.

  She turned away, her head high, her eyes on the other couples. Now, accustomed to the steps, she mimicked the couple ahead of them without hesitation as they paraded around the edge of the floor.

  A smile edged her lips.

  ‘You are dancing well.’

  ‘It is simple,’ she said, her eyes sparkling, as if she had forgotten everything but the joy of the music and movement.

  ‘It’s more a procession than a dance. The better to let everyone admire our fine clothes.’

  She looked down. ‘The dress is borrowed.’

  He should have known. A servant girl at Stirling would turn up her nose at the dresses he’d seen her wear before. The cut of this bodice exposed curves he had only dreamed of until now. ‘No one will care.’

  Certainly not the men. They would see only flaming hair, rounded breasts and full lips. By the end of the dance, she would be besieged by partners for the next.

  He frowned at the thought.

  No one will care.

  But she did. Now that she saw the couples parade around the floor, she understood. This allowed everyone else to look at each other, at her, head to toe. They could surely see that her dress was too tight in the bodice and too long. Made for another woman. One accustomed to showing a white throat and the skin leading to her breasts.

  But she held her head up. Led by him, she could do this dance. At last, without missteps, she had circled the floor, feeling, finally, as if she were Elizabeth Brunson, someone at ease dancing at the court of the King.

  She wrestled against the unfamiliar sensation of pleasure. Her father would not have approved, but to navigate the steps gave her confidence. She had strength enough to challenge Thomas Carwell and grace enough to dance with him.

  She spoke, keeping her eyes carefully on the dancers ahead. ‘Is one permitted to talk to a partner during the dance?’

  Though she did not look, she could feel him smile. ‘A few words, stolen, yes.’ Whispered. As if talking were as intimate as the dance.

  She could try again to loosen his tongue. ‘You spoke to the King tonight.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About pressing matters of state.’

  Thomas turned his head. She did not. ‘I said that, yes.’

  ‘Then I can only conclude you and the King were discussing urgent matters concerning the Borders.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  The smile that had anticipated stolen whispers became a clenched jaw. ‘He wanted my counsel on the treaty with England. Our conversation would not be of interest to you.’

  ‘My family lives scarce five miles from the English border. Nothing could be of greater interest.’

  ‘Your brothers have told me often enough that they make their own war and peace.’

  ‘Yet you and the King expect them to keep a peace they’ve had no part in setting. Why should your counsel to him be a secret?’

  She made the mistake of looking at him again only to see his gaze travel her face, as if he could read all the truths she could not tell. ‘And you have secrets you’ve not shared, either, Elizabeth Brunson.’

  She felt heat in her cheeks and hoped the rising colour didn’t give her away. Did he know she was spying on him? How could she hope to tell? Those damnable eyes, greenish-brownish, hidden behind heavy lids, changeable when she could see them.

  ‘I had planned,’ he said, ‘to discuss it with your brother on the journey.’

  ‘Yet you said not a word of it to him or to me. Do you wonder why we do not trust you? You’ve never spoken a complete truth in your life, Thomas Carwell.’

  The circle had broken into a line and as they came to the end of the hall, a wall loomed before them

  ‘Now, I guide you into a turn,’ Carwell said, as if they had spoken of nothing but the dance. ‘I move back, you move ahead and we finish facing the west wall.’

  His grip on her fingers tightened, encouraging her to take the next step.

  She swallowed, unable to concentrate on him and the conversation and her feet at the same time. Her fingers grew warm in his.

  Bad enough to feel awkward. Worse to remember the man beside her as she had seen him in the river. Wet. Naked.

  She stumbled over her skirt and tried to drop his hand.

  He would not let her.

  The couple behind them stumbled into them. A shoe stepped on her heel.

  Her moment of strength and grace was gone.

  He dragged her ahead and she had to take quick steps to catch up. She said nothing for the rest of the dance and ignored the withering glance of the woman behind her when they left the floor.

  Thomas led her back to the fire while the lute players plucked their strings and tightened their pegs.

  She cleared her throat and met his eyes. ‘It seems I am little better at the pavane than the galliard.’

  And no better at ferreting out his secrets than at either.

  ‘Any dance is difficult until you have done it several times. The galliard is one of the most complex.’

  The steps no more so than his eyes.

  When he had kissed her, close as they had been, he had been shielded by armour. Now, shoulders and chest bent near her. Close enough to...

  She looked around the hall, hoping to see Wee Mary, but saw only strangers. The notes of the next dance began and she wished there was someone, anyone, else to be her partner. She would even risk humiliation to escape from this man’s eyes.

  Then, two courtiers swooped in on either side of her, begging for her hand for the next dance.

  Thomas leaned in, a hand on her arm, as if to stop her. ‘Elizabeth, I don’t think—’

  Grateful for the escape, she gave her hand to a youth with curly hair and dark eyes and walked on to the floor. It was only when she thought of Carwell that she stumbled. Dancing with a stranger would be easier.

  The hand on hers was damp and clammy, surprising for a night so cold. The man beside her had dark curls, merry eyes and an upturned mouth. Had he said his name?

  ‘I’m Elizabeth Brunson.’ Elizabeth. A different person from Bessie.

  He put a leg forwards and bowed. ‘Oliver Sinclair. You’re Johnnie’s sister.’

  She nodded. It was strange to be reminded that Johnnie had lived here, had a whole life here they knew little of at home.

  Somehow thinking he had known her brother made him feel safe. Safer than Carwell. ‘I’m new at the dance,’ she said. There. She had told him. Yet for a few measures, the steps had seemed no more complicated than walking.

  ‘This is my favourite,’ the man said. ‘The galliard.’

  She felt the warmth drain away. ‘Perhaps you would prefer another partner. I am not—’

  But the music had started and the man’s feet moved so fast she could not follow. This was no simple step touch. Here, the feet swung back and forth, hopped and kicked, turned around. Dancers moved all around her, turning so that she could not possibly watch one person and follow them. And unless you knew exactly what to do, you were likely to be kicked.

  Or to kick someone else.

  Then he turned away, leaving her alone on the floor. Everyone changed partners and she could not understand which way she was to go or who was to partner her next.
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  She had reached for escape and a moment’s glory. To shine among the peacocks. To taste a little sweetness before she went back to her cold, draughty tower. But this, with swirling, colourful skirts alternately showing and hiding the women’s legs, was nothing more than colourful confusion. The Hall was hung with tapestries, painted in patterns, full of so many hues and designs that she was near dizzy with them.

  The most difficult dance of them all.

  She froze, no longer even moving, while all around her hopped and sprang, never missing a beat.

  The woman next to her spared her a scornful look.

  And then Thomas Carwell was beside her. ‘Your injured foot must be bothering you, Elizabeth,’ he said, with a bland smile. ‘You should not have attempted the galliard again so soon.’

  And he led her off the floor.

  Injured foot. A comely lie.

  For a moment, during the first dance, she had been Elizabeth. Then she had stumbled again as all of them watched, with foreign, judgemental faces and she fell out of the dream and it was clear she was only plain, bumpkin Bessie, wearing a borrowed dress, as out of place here as a cow in the midst of peacocks.

  Bent over, leaning on his arm, she hissed. ‘It’s my pride, not my foot, that’s injured.’

  Yet this man had come to rescue her pride as quickly as if it were her life that had been threatened. As if her pride, too, were under the protection of his vow.

  Gracious as he had been before the others, he scowled at her. ‘I tried to stop you. The galliard always follows the pavane.’

  More rules she did not know. Daft to think she could be comfortable at court, even for a night. ‘Pavane, galliard, basse dance, tordion—give me an honest reel instead of all these foreign steps.’

  ‘The reel comes at the end of the evening,’ he replied sharply. ‘With the country dances.’

  ‘Brunsons don’t dance.’

  ‘When they’re at court they do.’

  As they argued, Thomas had guided her out of the Great Hall, away from the stares, and up a round staircase that climbed a small tower.

  She ignored his thoughtfulness and clung to her ire. ‘Do you think the King is going to ask me to take a turn at the reel?’