That was when she saw it, hidden by the curtains at the head of the bed. Atop the pillow there lay the embroidered thistle she had given him.
She reached for it, her fingers shaking. There was the secret she had hoped to find. Proof not of guilt, but proof that he cared for her, despite his effort to deny it now.
No proof at all. It’s a valuable piece. He could sell it if he liked.
Then why keep it here? Her heart argued.
She had travelled from tower to cellar, asked questions of Hew and the other servants, yet she had found nothing that would brand Thomas Carwell as anything other than a faithful Warden of the March.
And a man who, if he did not love her, at least thought of her fondly. Did that mean...?
From the stair tower, the rumble of his voice, the sound of his step, rose to meet her. He must not find her beside his bed, sighing over his pillow.
She ran back to the door. Too late to disappear, but if she stood outside the room, he need not know she had crossed the threshold, or wonder what she had seen.
Thomas frowned as he reached the top of the stairs. ‘What do you seek here?’ The words harsh.
Behind him, Hew looked from one to the other, silent.
‘You did not forbid me this room,’ she answered, to forestall having to explain. Yet she could not hold back a smile.
If he loved her, would he not smile in return?
‘I did not.’ No smile joined the words.
Was he struggling against the desire to hold her? Or was she seeing only what she wished?
He did not wait for her to speak again. ‘But there is no reason for you to be here.’
‘Bed linens,’ she said, quickly, ‘for our guests. I thought you might have more in your room.’
‘I do not.’ Not a word, or a glance beyond that.
She nodded, cloaking her disappointment in silence, then headed for the stairs. ‘I’ll look elsewhere, then.’
But as she passed him, his fingers brushed her sleeve. ‘Next time, Bessie, ask Hew or one of the servants to look for what you want.’
‘Hew was with you and I did not want to interrupt the work of the others.’
‘Never an interruption to help you, my lady,’ Hew said, nodding to them both as he crossed the threshold that Thomas had just forbidden her.
‘Bessie...’ Thomas’s voice gentled when Hew was out of range, ‘...you need not do everything alone.’
You do. She did not say it and her smile escaped, sadder than she had hoped. Solitary Thomas, they had called him. Now she knew why. He had no wife, no family and no plan for either that she could see. At least, not one that included Bessie Brunson.
His fingers still rested on her arm and he glanced below her waist. Trying to read hope in his expression, she cradled the place where a babe would grow and shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
He pulled back his hand and nodded, a sign she was dismissed.
She turned her back on him, and left. Perhaps, once again, she would need something stronger than a smile.
* * *
The news that King James had reinstituted the siege against Angus did not come to Thomas via the King’s messenger.
It came in a message from the English Warden.
The King had sent a very different message. In it, he called on all Scottish subjects to honour the new treaty with the English ‘on pain of death’.
Yet here, in writing, signed by William, Lord Acre, came word that Angus’s castle was again under siege, with the King’s new commander hurling cannonballs at the walls.
Thomas stared from one message to the other as the sun sank and the light grew dim, turning over the implications, trying to assess their meanings.
His first impulse was to call for his men and ride to fight against his old enemy, though in Thomas’s judgement firing cannon at a thick-walled castle surrounded on three sides by the sea was a waste of good gunpowder.
But it sounded exactly like something the young King would do: make a frantic, final effort to snatch revenge that would be impossible once Angus slipped across the border to England’s shelter.
But the King had not summoned him. Worse, the King had not even notified him of the attack. What did that say about his relationship to the King?
That the sands might be shifting.
He looked back at Lord Acre’s message. Though news that a Scottish king had attacked a Scottish lord was sent from an English Warden, the specifics rang true enough that he believed it.
What he didn’t know was why Acre had sent it. He wanted to think it meant the man would be open to taking Angus if the man ever escaped to England. What he guessed, however, was that the message was a veiled threat. One meant to say that if Scotland breached the spirit of the treaty, England might breach its letter.
And that his trip across the border to meet with the Warden in Carlisle might be more dangerous than he had imagined.
Well, that did not surprise him. He knew the
perils of his life and was normally able to avoid the worst of them.
What surprised him was his next thought. It was not fear of death, nor resolve to name his cousin as heir so the succession would be clear. It was something much simpler and more primitive.
If I die, who will take care of Bessie?
Chapter Eighteen
Bessie had worked untiringly all week and the result, while nothing to rival Stirling, was a hall of smiles.
Short notice and cold weather meant the gathering was small and predominantly male. In the summer, more of his family would come. There would be music and dancing...
She glanced over at Thomas and stopped her wandering thoughts. If she were here when summer came.
Both men and women studied her with curious eyes, but the Carwell clan was not prone to blunt questioning.
She was grateful for their circumspection, though it must have been evident that the servants were taking direction from her, something at odds with their convenient tale of her visit.
We were at Stirling for Christmas with the court. He offered to escort me home. Yes, soon. His duties as Warden took precedence.
‘Ah, so you met at court.’ Thomas’s aunt, Canny Carwell, suddenly smiled with interest. A widow, she was there with her son, who had just turned sixteen. ‘And is it true that King James is now fully in charge?’
Bessie nodded, deciding there was no reason to explain exactly when and where she had met Thomas. ‘Yes, he is.’
‘I’m sure he and my George will be fast friends,’ the woman said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘George is the Carwell heir. Or he will be soon.’
Say it gently, Bessie girl, she reminded herself. ‘Oh? You mean he is heir until Thomas marries and sires an heir.’ Some instinct led her to rest her hand on her belly, although she was losing hope that a babe had taken root.
Condescension touched the woman’s smile. ‘You’re a stranger here so you do not know,’ she said. ‘He’ll never marry again, despite his duty, though I cannot blame him. We all thought Annabell, well...’
The woman shook her head, letting words die off.
The mysterious Annabell. Once, Bessie had been sure his first wife was a beloved paragon, someone Bessie could never emulate and Thomas would never replace.
But since she had come to Carwell Castle, she had heard whispers and seen evidence that put her invisible rival in a different light.
Maybe this woman would tell her what. ‘What, exactly, did you think of her?’
Shock and suspicion first. The woman swallowed and looked over her shoulder, to be sure she would not be heard. Then she leaned closer and whispered, ‘She was not of this world.’
And at that, she turned away.
* * *
As the evening went on, Thomas watched the boy, George, and found his conviction wavering. No more than King James’s age, if he remembered rightly, the lad was more than ten years younger than Thomas himself. Old enough to be considered a man and young enough to act like a boy
. A dangerous combination.
‘When are you going to tell them?’ The boy looked over the hall, grinning, as if waiting for the moment he would be the centre of attention.
Thomas looked down at the boy, who had yet to achieve his full height. Or, it seemed, his full manners. ‘I haven’t decided.’
‘Did you tell the King that I am now your heir?’
‘King James and I had more important concerns.’
‘When will I meet him?’
Thomas frowned. ‘I thought you might first ask what the King and I discussed.’ Not that he would have told him.
Even then, George did not ask. ‘I want to go to court. Mother promised I would go to court.’
Thomas throttled his frustration. ‘Before you worry about court, you would do well to learn the duties of the Carwell laird and the Warden of the March.’
George shrugged. ‘Not until you die. And you look healthy to me.’
Thomas put a stern hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Before you meet the King, you would be wise to learn to express some humility and gratitude. Or I may change my mind.’
‘You can’t do that. I’m the closest in line.’
Thomas let him go, wanting to kick him back to his mother’s side.
No. He would not be sending George to court. King James would eat him alive.
If Thomas did not kill him first.
* * *
As Thomas had asked, no dancing was planned, but there was music. The Carwells knew ballads of their own and when she could follow the melody, she raised her voice to sing along.
Thomas did sing, though he let himself blend with the rest. A passable voice, she thought. Not one that would rival Black Rob’s.
Aye, she might not be a dancer, but a voice had been born in her.
When the song ended, Thomas looked at her, admiring. ‘You’ve an angel’s voice.’
Strange to think he had never heard her sing.
She smiled. ‘Brunsons sing.’
They don’t dance.
Her father’s words. Ones she had spoken to him the first night.
‘Would you sing for us?’ It was Canny Carwell who asked.
Bessie looked to Thomas for permission, then looked out over the guests, relaxed after an evening she had created, and for just a moment it felt like home.
‘I’ll sing you the Ballad of the Brunsons.’ And so she began:
This is the story, long been told
Of the brown-eyed Viking, man of old
Left on the field by the rest of his clan
Abandoned for dead was the first Brunson man
Abandoned for dead was the first Brunson man.
The verses spun themselves across centuries, from the First Brunson down to her father. Soon, the rest of the guests joined in when she reached a familiar refrain.
Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars,
Strong as the wind that sweeps Carter’s Bar.
The notes were part of her blood. The words lived in her bones. All the strangeness of Stirling finally fell away. She was a Brunson. And if she chose to give herself as wife to Thomas Carwell, he would be a lucky man.
Tonight, she would remind him of that.
* * *
Thomas did not join the singers this time. Instead, he listened. In awe.
Strange to think he had bedded the woman, yet did not know that her voice could slip over his skin like velvet. He had heard blunt words pass her lips and seen her mouth keep her silences, but he had never heard soaring notes of song rise up her throat and into the air.
Till now, her voice had carried the notes firm and strong. But it trembled as she began the next verse. It was the last, he realised. The one that sang of her father.
A Border rider born and bred
A man more faithful never found
Loyal to death and then beyond
To death and then beyond.
The final notes faded into rapt silence, admiration more potent than applause.
She smiled at him.
‘Brunsons sing indeed,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘And some of us dance, too.’
From the outer edge of the crowd, someone tuned up a fiddle. Another joined him and the crowd started forming a circle, ready to dance.
No dancing, he had vowed. Yet he could not stop his guests from their amusements.
Bessie stood and held out her hand. ‘Come.’
He hesitated, fearing he could not touch her without taking her into his arms, and his bed, again. Still, it was a circle dance, done with all their guests. As long as they stayed in public sight in the hall, he would be safe.
He grasped her hand, and led her to the circle.
* * *
Bessie had never enjoyed a dance more.
After her song, she felt the family’s suspicion weaken. Now, to the echo of duelling fiddles, they all circled the hall, changing partners, smiling, laughing, even missing a step without judgement.
The dance separated her from Thomas, yet his eyes seemed to follow her. So did his smile.
This is how it could be, she wanted to say. We could have a house full of music and laughter.
Did he hear her thoughts across the room?
Did he share them?
* * *
At the end of the dance, Thomas was across the room from Bessie. It seemed too far away. Smiling, she pulled back her hair, wild from the dance. A flush touched her cheek and she was catching her breath.
A distant cousin leaned to speak to her and Thomas took a step towards them. No reason for the man to be so close—
His Aunt Canny stepped in front of him. ‘It’s time for announcing, isn’t it?’ She did not wait for his answer, but called out to the room, waving them closer, ‘The laird has tidings for us. Come, listen.’
Over her shoulder, he watched the smile on Bessie’s face turn to puzzlement.
And then to concern.
* * *
Bessie watched him from across the room and held her breath.
No joy touched Thomas’s face. Had someone discovered their betrothal? Was he being forced to reveal it?
Nothing you will have to deny. And she had said nothing.
She looked around the room. A careless comment from a servant. An exchange overheard. Anything was possible. But if word had escaped, it wouldn’t matter how. Wouldn’t matter that it had not been her fault. His anger would be just as deep.
Or maybe, it was something different. Something...worse.
Canny Carwell stepped to the side, beaming.
The heir...or will be soon.
Yet the set of his jaw, the tightness of his lips, a murderous light in his eyes...none of those portended happy news.
‘I welcome you all here,’ he began, ‘and thank you for travelling in winter’s cold. I know that things have been...’
She watched him search for the word.
He started again. ‘In the last few years, since my father’s death...’
Murmurs of God rest his soul floated, overlapping, through the hall. Fingers fluttered into the sign of the cross.
And the guests exchanged confused glances.
He cleared his throat. ‘King James has seized his throne and removed the Earl of Angus from power. The wardenship has been restored to us. A treaty has been signed with England, extending the peace. A new day has come. Reason enough for celebration.’
He raised his tankard. ‘To King James the Fifth. Long may he reign.’
As they raised their drinks in response, someone in the back called out, ‘And to Laird Thomas Carwell. Long may he live.’
A smile touched his face. He blinked and nodded in silent thanks.
And as the rest sipped their ale, Bessie watched Canny Carwell, who looked as though she had seen a dead mouse in the bottom of her cup.
* * *
At evening’s end, Bessie let Hew see the guests to their rooms and she followed Thomas from the hall.
‘What you said,’ she beg
an. ‘I know your people approved.’
‘Do you?’
She tried to read his face, but the candlelight was too uncertain. So was she. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You thought I should laugh and dance. Was that enough for them, do you think?’
Asking her opinion, truly. As if she had a right to give it.
As if she were his wife, even though he had not trumpeted their betrothal.
She pressed herself to his side, hugged his arm to her and laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do. Enough for now.’
We could be so happy, she wanted to say.
And then they were at her chamber door and she put her arms around his neck, gently pulling him into the room.
Now. Surely now.
‘I am your wife, Thomas. Whether life goes well or ill from here. No matter what my brothers choose to do, we were betrothed in the sight of God and consummated our union.’ She smiled. ‘More than once. It is time for me to take my place at your side.’ She nodded towards the other end of the hall. ‘And in your bed.’
She felt him yield, sway towards her. She lifted her lips to meet his. And then, arms entwined, bodies pressed, she could feel him, roused...
Then his lips broke away. He set her aside and stepped out of reach.
‘We are both tired and not thinking clearly. You have worked too hard the last few days. Sleep well.’
He took a step towards his tower, then looked back. ‘I will be gone when you wake.’
You’re a Brunson. Remember that. But the wave of humiliation drowned her pride. Her thistle on his pillow had meant nothing. He did not want her. No more than the first boy had. Nothing could be more clear.
‘Where do you go?’
‘To meet with the English Warden. To plan for Truce Day. As the treaty requires.’ Each word seemed hard-edged.
Captive of the Border Lord Page 17
