Captive of the Border Lord

by Blythe Gifford

  ‘Yes. That is the job of wardens,’ he said, hoping a note of condescension would cover the tremor in his voice. ‘To carry out the Border Laws together. Of course we meet.’ But he trusted himself to say no more. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, they are waiting for me in the armoury.’

  He left her there, smothering his guilt, but unable to bear the questions in her eyes. After that débâcle, the English Warden had owed him.

  Thomas would be glad when the treaty was signed and he could put his guilt behind him.

  But he wondered, as the men rode south to Berwick the next day, whether the English Warden could truly be trusted. Maybe you couldn’t trust someone who would be a party to that kind of deal.

  Including Thomas Carwell.

  * * *

  He did not see her again until the evening. The King had appeared in the Hall for the night’s entertainment, playing his lute, passably enough, along with the musicians who were paid for their music.

  The King did not ask Bessie to dance.

  But Thomas would. He must cajole her out of this fixation on his dealings with the Warden. He needed her to be neither angry, nor suspicious. Flattery, perhaps. A softer tone.

  It was not hard to summon when he saw her. She was wearing a dress with a waist that stiffened to a point in some blue colour that made her hair look even more vibrant.

  ‘You wear a new dress,’ he said, giving her the requisite bow. His statement had just enough of a question to force her to answer.

  ‘It is Long Mary’s. She has gained weight and some of hers no longer fit.’

  Was the woman that naïve? Long Mary was reputed to have shared the King’s bed. She had shared someone’s, if the bump below her waist was any indication.

  He leaned in to whisper. ‘Her waist spreads because she is with child.’ With child. Would he ever be able to say those two words without feeling a pain in his heart? ‘The King’s.’

  Her eyes, wide, met his in shock and she looked over to where Long Mary stood, preening, near the King’s table. ‘That...boy?’

  He smiled, more broadly than he intended, at her disdain. ‘They call him the King of Love.’

  She rolled her eyes with a look that said clearly she did not see the attraction and he let out an unfamiliar laugh, so loud it drew curious glances.

  She leaned closer, to whisper in his ear, and he felt the brush of breath, wished he could feel the touch of her lips. ‘Surely she’s not to be queen.’

  He shook his head. Even Bessie knew that.

  He hoped Long Mary had arranged for her settlement and marriage. Having the King’s child was no disgrace. Four women had born the prior King’s seven bastards. But based on what Thomas had seen in the King’s chambers, Long Mary’s days in his bed were near an end.

  Just as he was about to say something, one of the Marys, the small one, whisked Bessie away to join a branle circle.

  He resisted the urge to drag her back. It was one of the common dances, so close to the reel she spoke of at home. The circle went left and right, then broke into a line that high-stepped its way through the hall.

  He frowned to see Oliver Sinclair on one side of her, clutching her hand and, to his eyes, ogling her bodice much too closely. Bessie seemed not to notice. She was smiling, her left-right-left in perfect time.

  Let her enjoy herself. It was only a dance.

  But Sinclair was a licentious rakehell and since John Brunson had left the court, he had been one of the King’s closest companions and worst influences.

  Bessie danced well tonight. Better than the last time she danced with him. His frown doubled. He had wanted to be her guide into the joy of movement and music. Instead, she was following this callow boy more easily than she had ever followed him.

  Thomas looked away from her face, only to be drawn by the vee of her bodice directly to the vee of her legs and then to the ankle that flickered beneath her skirt as she did a graceful kick.

  Damn. She was not tripping over this man’s feet. If she were not careful, she’d be tripping right into his bed.

  He blinked, astonished at his own thought. Why was he even thinking of bedding the woman? Well, he wasn’t. He was only worried that Sinclair would. Only upset because it was his task to protect her reputation.

  But now that he had acknowledged the idea, he realised it was not the first time he had thought of it. Not so strange, he reassured himself. He was a man who had been alone for more years than he cared to count. Such thoughts were to be expected. All that was needed was confession and absolution.

  Obviously watching the woman was giving him ridiculous thoughts.

  He turned away to see King James watching him with a smile.

  ‘Lovely, in an earthy way, eh?’

  The boy said it in a tone that combined derision with admiration, but, startled, Carwell turned to look at her again, realising how apt the description was.

  Brown eyes, red hair, a woman of the earth where she’d been born. Rooted, confident of who and what she was. A woman others leaned on. One who was dependable.

  Unlike the ones he had known.

  When the dance ended and the line broke, Sinclair’s arm lingered around her waist, his lips too close to her ears, whispering. She was a sensible woman, Thomas told himself. Too sensible to be fooled by this man.

  But instead of the serious face Bessie normally presented to the world, he saw hers light up. She did not laugh, or even a smile, but something...glowed.

  It made him want to pound the boy to pieces.

  * * *

  Bessie was pleased with herself as the dance ended. It had been familiar, the steps easier than the others she had tried. Or, perhaps, she just felt freer with Oliver Sinclair, a man who meant nothing to her.

  ‘Jamie and I sneaked out of the castle last night and wandered Stirling,’ he said, with a wicked smile. ‘We didn’t get back until after break fast.’

  ‘Last night?’ She had heard no bustle of preparations last night. And no trumpets of welcome in the morning.

  ‘Oh, not on official business.’ The man’s very curls seemed to smile. ‘No one knew he was the King. He told the tavern keeper he was just a good man of Ballengeich.’

  She glanced up at the dais, where the King stood close to Thomas, whispering. More secrets?

  She forced her attention back to Sinclair. ‘And what do you and the King do, when you wander the streets of Stirling disguised as good men?’

  He grinned. ‘We frig a wench or two.’ He said it proudly, as if to impress her with his prowess.

  She raised her brows. ‘Long Mary is not enough for the King?’

  He glanced over at the woman, then back to Bessie. ‘One woman is never enough.’ He snickered.

  One woman is never enough. Was that the life of a woman at the court? No wonder the Marys were so cynical. Taken one day. A favourite the next. Tossed aside tomorrow. And even when crowned with marriage, a woman could not, apparently, expect a faithful husband in her bed.

  It was a place more foreign than Bessie had imagined.

  The dance ended, but Sinclair’s clammy hand still squeezed hers, leading her off the floor and into the empty corridor. She tried to turn away, but he blocked her path and tipped her chin up, forcing her eyes to his.

  A nest of vipers, Johnnie had said. That’s how it felt, to face this man, whose eyes slithered over her like a snake’s.

  ‘What?’ he said, pouting. ‘No kiss? Do you think you are too good for me?’

  Anger, unexpected, flared and she braced her arms against his chest to push him away. ‘Do you think I am good for nothing but to be laid horizontal?’

  At home, a woman’s life had been nothing but work. Here, where servants did the most difficult labour, a woman’s purpose was to provide pleasure of a different kind. She belonged to neither world.

  Suddenly, Carwell’s arm was strong around her waist and she was slipped gracefully away from Sinclair’s reach. ‘Come, Elizabeth. You are needed at the dance.’
<
br />   She had no time to quell her anger. As he led her away, she saw only another man, seeking to bend her to his will. ‘Do you think being forced to dance any different than being forced to kiss?’

  His steps remained smooth. ‘Do you?’

  She shook her head, wishing only she could escape all of them. Escape her conflicting feelings about this man.

  ‘If anything happens, your brothers will hold me responsible.’

  The word echoed between them, but he met her startled glance. This time, his eyes said. This time I will not fail you.

  Gratitude and resentment warred. She did not want to be grateful to this man. Did not want to feel protected by his very presence, so she fought him with words that came by rote. ‘I told you I could take care of myself.’

  He shook his head. ‘Here, a woman needs care of a different kind. I think you’ve discovered that.’

  They paused at the arched entry to the hall and she was assaulted with swirling colour and movement. ‘Can we...go outside?’ She needed to feel the earth beneath her feet. Needed to find some balance.

  Needed to find Bessie Brunson again.

  Wordless, he studied her face, then nodded.

  Suddenly, she was covered by a cloak and he led her to a corner of the palace she’d not yet discovered. In the distance, snow covered the hills, and above her the sky, surprisingly cloudless, was crowded with stars. She took a breath, glad even of the cold air, unsullied by spices and roasts and sweat.

  Settled, she could face him again, to say what need be said. ‘You have my thanks.’

  He nodded. His eyes, too, seemed to search the hills, looking for the direction of home.

  ‘You are very watchful,’ she said. ‘You understand the dangers better than I. Yet you have no women in your house.’

  He stiffened, his eyes still on the hills, as if struggling to subdue a painful memory. ‘I live...alone.’

  ‘No kith? No kin?’ She tried to imagine a life without parents and brothers and cousins. Failed. ‘But the Carwell family...’

  ‘Has come down to me.’ He tried to smile. ‘And a distant cousin.’

  ‘Then you must marry.’ She had not thought of it before and the thought was not pleasant. But what did she care what this man did or who shared his bed? And his life? He owed his family an heir.

  ‘I did.’

  He said nothing more. As if once had been enough. As if there could be no other than the one who had died.

  And she was jealous, suddenly, of someone who had known, understood him, intimately. Someone he must have loved.

  An unwelcome emotion.

  ‘And now you are going to ask me more.’

  She blinked. She had deliberately not asked. ‘I am too blunt,’ she said, regretfully realising it was true. Here at court, no one asked a question, or spoke a truth outright. ‘It is not my place.’

  ‘No,’ he said, with more directness than usual. ‘It is not.’

  Silence stretched between them, yet she held her tongue, sensing he had more to say. The scent of burning logs drifted from the chimney of the royal quarters. Servants must be preparing for the King to retire.

  ‘She was with child.’

  ‘What?’ Uncertain of his whisper.

  ‘She was with child when she died.’

  And her heart hurt for him all over again. Yes, he had sired an heir, only to look down at empty hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, simply.

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  But not long enough, for she could tell he had not forgotten.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bessie left Carwell to his memories and returned to the hall, regretting her rudeness. Yet he remained in her thoughts. His lessons. His pain. His past.

  She paused to look over the room, glad to see Sinclair dancing the galliard with Wee Mary. With Carwell’s instructions in mind, she could see that Wee Mary did more smiling at Sinclair’s kicks than footwork of her own.

  One of the King’s pages touched her arm. ‘The King would speak to you.’

  They call him the King of Love.

  What now? she thought, wishing she had Carwell’s guidance.

  The King, fortunately, did not have such designs on her. A private word was spoken in full view, just not heard beyond her ears.

  ‘You are enjoying the court,’ he began, in a tone more jovial than when he had last spoken to her.

  It was not a question, but the answer, she was astonished to realise, was yes.

  Although she was out of place and longing for home, she was gradually finding her way here. And though she had stumbled, just as in the dance, she was learning, one step at a time, to move with grace. Some day, all this would be behind her and she would be Bessie again, climbing the steps of the tower. But today, she was content.

  But she was accustomed to telling truth, and when the truth was too difficult to tell, she remained silent, so the King received only a nod in answer.

  ‘I have decided what’s to become of you,’ he said.

  That jolted her to speech. ‘To become of me? You will keep me here until you are satisfied of my family’s good behaviour.’ He had already told her as much. ‘And that if you doubt them, it might be a long time before I can go home.’

  He shook his head. ‘Home? As your disobedient brother did? No. Your stubborn family has jeopardised my treaty. That will not happen again.’

  ‘You intend to keep me at court?’

  ‘I intend to see you married.’

  ‘Married? To whom?’ She knew nothing of how to speak to the King, but the thought was too astonishing.

  ‘To Oliver Sinclair.’

  Stunned, she glanced over at Sinclair again. A fine-looking man. Better than Fingerless Joe. A man she might have idly dreamed of as a husband a few months ago.

  Not now.

  She swallowed, trying to think. Blurting a refusal to the King would only anger him.

  Flexible. I do not speak only of the dance.

  ‘I see why Your Grace would want to keep me as a hostage,’ she began, speaking as calmly as if that had always been expected. ‘But wouldn’t Lord Sinclair want a wife more experienced with the ways of the court?’

  ‘He will do as I say. An alliance with one of the strongest families in the Borders benefits him as well as me.’

  ‘And how will it benefit the Brunsons?’

  Too late to bite her blunt tongue. Anger already edged the King’s eyes. ‘I honour your family by joining you with my favourite minion.’

  His favourite minion. The closest thing to a friend a King might have.

  ‘My brothers will never agree.’

  ‘They will if they want to see you again.’

  So was this her duty to her family? To marry a man her brothers had never met, without their permission, and never return to live on the Borders again?

  Worse, after he bedded her, Sinclair would be off to find another wench. No. That she would not abide, even if it was her duty. ‘I cannot say yes.’

  ‘You cannot say no,’ he returned. ‘I’ll give you a week. Then I’ll make the announcement. Now go. Dance with him. He is waiting.’

  She looked at Sinclair again. He was watching. Smiling. Knowing exactly what the King had just said.

  She could not bear to spend another minute with Sinclair, let alone a lifetime.

  Rescue me again, she thought, searching the hall for Carwell.

  * * *

  Before he returned to the hall, Thomas had cleansed himself of memories. When he re-entered, he was surprised to see Bessie up on the dais with the King. He watched their conversation with increasing unease.

  In fact, he was watching everything the King did with increasing unease.

  Distracted by Bessie Brunson and seeing his revenge on Angus within reach, he had forgotten to keep his mind open for all possibilities. And threats. He had allowed himself to believe the King’s appointment meant the young man’s total support, forgetting that this King was too new, and too young and u
ntried, to be predictable.

  What should I do now?

  Watch and wait, he had said, believing they had time before the King acted.

  Maybe there was no time.

  Elizabeth’s head was tilted, her lips tight, the way they looked when she wanted to speak, but didn’t. Then she turned away and approached Sinclair. The man smiled. Leered.

  He saw her lips move. Watched the man blink.

  Thomas felt himself smile. She must have spoken to the man like Bessie Brunson. Sinclair would have to get used to that.

  The smile turned to a scowl. He did not want the man to get used to it. He was now used to it.

  Sinclair guided her on to the dance floor. She had learned to sway. Learned to listen for the music, to bend to it. But she was still stiff and stumbled over Sinclair’s feet during the turn.

  His smile returned. She had not stepped on his toes the last time they took the floor.

  He looked back at the dais. What had King James said to her? And why had she gone to Sinclair immediately afterwards?

  * * *

  The King declared the evening ended shortly after, returning to the royal quarters with Sinclair, leaving Elizabeth to walk with Wee Mary. Neither woman smiled.

  Just before they stepped into the courtyard, Thomas stopped them, signalling Mary to go on alone.

  ‘What happened with the King?’ Now he was as blunt as she, unable to wait for answers. ‘Why were you so long with Sinclair?’

  She raised her eyes and he could see the stark pain there. ‘The King intends me to marry him.’

  ‘What!’ Someone across the courtyard turned to look at them.

  He must have shouted. He never shouted.

  ‘It’s his price for my family.’

  Hostage. Prisoner. Those he had expected. But not wife.

  His first thought was to pummel Sinclair into a bloody pulp. His next thought was the realisation that he was not thinking at all.

  And now she looked up at him, eyes dark in a pale face, as if he could provide the answers. ‘I cannot marry if my family does not consent. Or even know.’

  He shook his head, wishing it were so simple. ‘Johnnie married without the King’s approval. Would you have his marriage annulled?’