by Border Lass
“Do you admire Fife?” he asked. “Or has the princess persuaded you that he is evil enough to command murder?”
She grimaced. “I do believe he is capable of commanding murder. But I am still not persuaded that I can safely speak all my thoughts of him to you.”
When his jaw tightened, she added, “I will admit that I do not admire him, but neither has anyone yet persuaded me that he ordered James Douglas’s murder. You were at Otterburn. What is your opinion of that business?”
“I have none, lass. I was there, to be sure, but so were two thousand other Scots and eight thousand English. I was with Buccleuch—the old laird, not Wat.”
“Wat was with James Douglas, I believe.”
“Aye,” he said. “My lads and I were with old Buccleuch in the water meadows where the Otterburn meets the Rede, and in fierce battle, too. The English horses had foundered in the mud, forcing the men to splash across the Rede, afoot.”
“Is that why they lost the battle even though they had so many more men than the Scots had? Because they were afoot and the Scots were not?”
“Nay, they’d surprised us before dawn, so we were all afoot. They lost because Hotspur grew impatient and attacked with his army still strung out from Otterburn to Newcastle. And, too, their men who fled back along their line greatly exaggerated our numbers, terrifying all they told. So those men turned tail as well.”
“Then you did not see James fall. Wat Scott did, you know, or nearly so. He stumbled over him where he lay grievously wounded. I thought of that when you said you had been with Will Douglas. Horrible experiences for both of you, but—”
“War is horrible, lass,” he interjected. “But the only other choice is to let the enemy have its way with Scotland. We Borderers know what that is like.”
“Aye, but not all agree that it is something to dread,” she said. “My mother is English, and she believes that if Scotland became just another county of England, true peace would reign at last and bring prosperity to all.”
“Surely you don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It sounds well if one could only believe that Borderers on both sides of the line would stop raiding each other’s herds, or that Scots could thrive under English rule.”
“What does your father think?”
“He stays neutral because of my mother and her powerful English kinsmen. Sithee, she is cousin to the Earl of Northumberland. Family alliances on both sides have kept Elishaw Castle safe, although it lies less than three miles north of the present borderline. Also, because of the way that line can shift in times of conflict, we have ended up on the English side more than once in my own lifetime.”
“So your father must agree with your mother, at least to some degree.”
“My father does not often speak his mind,” she said. “But I can tell he doubts that the raids and reiving will stop, or that true peace will ever come. Borderers, he is fond of saying, will always be Borderers.”
“Forever is a long time, so I doubt we’ll live long enough to know who is right,” he said. “But I have allowed you to divert me yet again. Let us return to your continuing concern that I may be Fife’s man.”
“Well, you must admit, I would be foolish to discuss Sir Harald further with you if you are, or to follow your advice with regard to him.”
“Then suppose we talk more about Fife, and James’s death.”
She regarded him suspiciously. “You could just be trying to find out from me what Isabel knows, so you can tell Fife.”
He met her gaze easily and held it as he said, “I liked James, and Will was a very good friend. I want to know the truth.”
Discerning no trace of that earlier jaw-tightening anger, she said, “Everyone must know by now what Isabel thinks the truth is about James and Will.”
“I’m told, though, that she tends to see Fife’s fine hand in everything.”
“I cannot deny that,” Amalie admitted. “She has cause, though. When her younger brother, David of Strathearn, died of mysterious causes, Fife assumed guardianship of David’s tiny heiress daughter and married her to one of his loyal vassals. So Fife now controls all of Strathearn as well as so much else. Still, and although Isabel knows Fife better than I do, she may be wrong about Will’s death.”
He was silent for a moment before he said, “But she could be right, too. Fife is a schemer. Moreover, Will was acting as some sort of ambassador to the English in Danzig. That was not a role Will had ever played before or the sort of role at which he was adept. The most likely person to have appointed him, though, is Fife.”
“But what would that have had to do with Will’s death?” she asked.
“He moved from Königsberg to Danzig because of it,” Garth said. “That in itself might mean nowt, because the two towns lie close to each other. But the Scots were nearly all in Königsberg, so it separated him from most of his own men. That may mean a good deal, because he had only a few men with him that night.”
“Many have come to believe Fife’s primary goal is to rule as King of Scots and not just as Governor of the Realm,” she said, thinking aloud.
“If that is so, it may explain his sending an ambassador to the English in Danzig, but it also suggests that his plotting has increased in scale and purpose. I’d suggest, therefore, that he’s not troubling himself much to provide you a husband.”
“So now you are saying that it is all Simon’s doing,” she protested. “But you told me yourself that whatever Simon wants, Fife must first approve.”
“Aye, I did,” he admitted. “But this Harald Boyd doesn’t seem much of a fellow to me. I don’t see what Fife gains by arranging such a marriage to you.”
Annoyed that she had failed to make him see connections that seemed clear enough to her even if she couldn’t explain them more logically, she said, “Very likely you are in the right of it and I am imagining things. Look, sir, you can see Sweethope House ahead, just through those trees beyond Eden Water.”
On those words, she urged her mount to a canter, forestalling further conversation until they had forded the glacially formed tributary.
As they began to ascend the low hill to the stables, Garth said, “I hope we can talk again soon. Discussing things helps me think, and you have a quick mind.”
She had been ignoring him, but now she turned to look right at him.
“And, too,” he added softly, holding her gaze with a lurking twinkle in his eyes, “you still know something that I want you to tell me.”
Trying to cover the warm rush of sensations that surged through her body, she said with hastily assumed dignity, “I have not yet decided that I should.”
“Perhaps it will help if I tell you a tale from my childhood.”
She returned a look intended to quell any expectation he might have that she would help him in any way, for any reason.
But when he shrugged and looked toward the house again, disappointment stirred. She was more interested in his childhood than she had realized.
Continued silence increased her curiosity until she muttered, “Tell me, then.”
“ ’Tis just a small thing,” he said, still looking ahead as if his interest lay only in reaching the stable. After a pause long enough to make her wonder if he expected her to beg him to tell the story, he said, “When I was nine, my father had a fine black destrier. He was a magnificent brute—powerful, vicious, and well tested in battle. Father ordered me to stay away from him, but my pony was elderly and disappointingly tame. The destrier fascinated me.”
“So you defied your father and rode the destrier.” She had taken enough of his measure to be sure of that much, at least.
“This is my story,” he said. “I’ll thank you to let me tell it in my own way.”
She grinned. “I’m waiting for the good part, but if your father was as mild of temper as you seem to be . . .”
“If I’ve somehow given you that impression, you should perhaps recall our first meeting and r
econsider it. I do have a temper, lass. In fact, I inherited it from him. The ‘good part,’ as you call it, is that he took a stiff tawse to my backside.”
“It was a dangerous thing to do,” she said. “It was his duty to punish you.”
He grimaced, clearly remembering. “I couldn’t sit for a sennight.”
Grinning saucily again, she said, “He just wanted to make sure you would never try such a stunt again. But doubtless it also did you some powerful good.”
“Aye, perhaps, but as soon as I could sit, I got right back on the brute.”
She frowned. “What did your father do then?”
“Thrashed me again, of course, and again the next week, and the next.”
“Mercy, you had no sense as a child!”
“None, but a month later, he gave me a fine horse of my own. Persistence pays, lass. You’ll see. Resistance is nobbut one more obstacle for a determined man to overcome. Remember that as you puzzle over what your decision will be.”
That she did not reply came as no surprise. Garth had noted that she crawled into a shell of silence whenever he questioned her, but he believed she would tell eventually. She did not seem devious, just wary.
He wondered again what had made her so.
As they rode between the thorn hedges flanking the track and stables, he heard voices and noted that she had heard them, too. One sounded angry, the other even and controlled. The latter he recognized as that of Angus Graham.
He could discern little yet of what either man said but easily recognized the tones of a superior taking an inferior to task. Not until the horses rounded a curve in the track did he see them near the horse pond and recognize Harald Boyd.
Boyd saw them at the same time and instantly stopped berating the stable master, thus giving Garth a good idea of what their discussion had concerned.
He glanced at the lass again. But if she had deduced what he had, she gave no sign of it. He saw only a shallow crease appear between her eyebrows.
“There you are, my lady,” Boyd said, striding to meet them and casting Garth a look of disapproval. “We were concerned by your long absence. But the princess’s man here said you took two stout grooms along. Where are they now?”
Wrapping herself in dignity worthy of Isabel herself, the lass looked down her nose at him and said coolly, “How is that any concern of yours, Sir Harald?”
“Why, because Isabel will be worried, of course. It is a great part of my duty here to make sure that nothing does worry her. Here, let me help you dismount.”
Garth said nothing, but as he dismounted, the intrusive Boyd held up his hands to the lass. Muscles throughout Garth’s body tensed at the sight.
“Come now, allow me, my lady,” Boyd coaxed audaciously.
That she let him assist her was another affront to Garth’s good nature. But he stifled the reaction and waited patiently for Boyd to set her down.
Then, mildly, Garth said, “Did the princess ask you to find her ladyship?”
Boyd looked startled, as if he’d just recalled he was not alone with the lass. He recovered quickly, saying, “Nay, but when the lad here said you had ridden out to join her ladyship, and I next learned that she had gone out before dawn with only two young grooms to attend her— Where the devil are they, anyway?”
Garth gestured without looking. “They are coming now. As for that lad yonder, you’d best treat him with respect if you want more than common service from Isabel’s stables. He is her stable master and has served her for years. I’d wager his standing is stronger with her than yours, my lad.”
Boyd glowered, glanced at Amalie, and swiftly converted the look to a boyishly rueful one that made Garth want to smack him. Boyd said lightly, “I suppose I must apologize to the man then, must I not, your ladyship?”
“That is not for me to say,” she said dismissively, turning away. “If Isabel is looking for me, I expect . . .”
“Oh, no, my lady,” Boyd said. “She was looking for Sir Garth and asked me to seek him in the stables. He is to present himself to her straightaway.”
“Then, come, my lady,” Garth said, extending an arm. “We should both present ourselves, I expect. Where is the princess, Boyd?”
“In the wall garden with her ladies,” Boyd said. “I’ll take you.”
“That will not be necessary,” Garth said firmly. “We’ll find her.”
“I must change this dress first, sir,” Amalie told him. “ ’Tis an old one I wear only for riding. I must not go to her without first tidying myself.”
“Then I’ll go with you into the house first,” he said.
“It has been at least half an hour since she sent me to look for you,” Boyd said. “I warrant she must be growing impatient, and the outer gate to the walled garden lies just there at the end of this track. I will engage to see the lady Amalie safely to the house. Indeed, I bear messages for her.”
Further annoyed, Garth hesitated, but Amalie said, “Thank you for your escort, sir. Pray tell Isabel that I shall come to her as soon as I can.”
He nodded and then watched with gritted teeth as the fashious slink patted the hand she placed on his proffered forearm.
A moment later, Garth was asking himself why he should care. The lass believed she could take care of herself, so he should let her. He was more concerned—or ought to be—about why the princess wanted to talk to him.
By the time he reached the indicated gate, he had remembered that he wanted to talk to Isabel. Even so, he glanced back to see that the lass and her escort had disappeared into the hedged front garden.
How was it, he wondered, that Boyd could have messages meant for her?
“You picked a fine morning for your ride, my lady,” Sir Harald said as she set a brisk pace through the front garden. “However, one doubts that the princess encourages her ladies to ride with only grooms to protect them.”
“What messages do you bring me, sir?” she asked, ignoring his tiresome comment and lifting her hand from his arm. She had nearly done so when he’d patted it but had not wanted to reveal her displeasure so blatantly then. Even now, she brushed a wisp of hair from her face as if she had raised her hand only for that.
“ ’Tis from your family,” he said with a truly charming smile. Whatever Sir Garth thought of Boyd, her father had been right. He was a handsome man.
His features looked as if a master sculptor had chiseled them. His hair was dark with a slight wave, his brows straight dark slashes, tilting slightly upward over pale blue eyes. His smile was quick and boyish, reminding her of her brother Tom.
The resemblance was not a point in Boyd’s favor.
“What is the message?” she asked again, more bluntly.
“Just that Sir Iagan and Lady Murray mean to stop here on their way home to Elishaw, my lady.”
“If you had such a message, why did you not tell me yestereve?”
Smiling ruefully, he said, “Dare I admit that I was so stunned by your beauty that I forgot? ’Twould be the truth, but I fear you will accuse me of flattery.”
“I accuse you only of delay. When did you come by this message?”
“At Perth. That is, at the festival on the Inch near Perth, to celebrate her grace’s coronation. Your parents and brothers were there, and when your brother Simon presented me, your parents asked me to relay the message to you. Simon suggested you might reward me for the warning. Dare I hope he was right?”
“Reward you? Sakes, what sort of reward had you or Simon in mind?”
“As you have already shown yourself to be a bold, adventurous lass, I’d hoped I might win a kiss or . . .” He shrugged, clearly leaving the options open.
Foreboding swept through her. Only if he were the man Simon expected to force her to marry would he dare speak to her so. But what had Simon told him?
“I thank you for the warning,” she said, letting the chill she felt cool her tone as she put more distance between them. “I would be more grateful to you, though, if you would remem
ber to address me properly. You are too familiar, sir.”
“I meant no offense, my lady. Indeed, I had hoped we might become fast friends. Simon and Tom assured me that you were of a friendly nature.”
“I expect they thought they were being helpful, sir,” she said, fearing her brothers had told him more than that. “In fact, I prefer to choose my own friends.”
“Aye, sure, lass, I understand.”
She gave him a look.
Meeting it, then reacting with a clap to his head, he said, “Sakes, but I must beg your forgiveness again, my lady.”
“Just try to behave yourself, Sir Harald. This glib manner of yours does not please me. Nor will it please our royal mistress if you display it in her presence.”
He bowed. “You will have no cause in future to complain, my lady. May I see you to your chamber now?” he added as they reached the steps to the house.
“This is far enough,” she said, repressing a shiver. “Perhaps no one told you, but men are not allowed in this part of the house except in the entry and the hall. Some have rooms in the north wing but do not come through the house.” She saw no reason to mention the north-wing door under the rear service stairs, near the door to the walled garden, or her disbelief in his ignorance of the house rules.
However, instead of taking her words as dismissal and leaving, he looked her in the eye and said in a harsher tone, “Do not think to dismiss me so abruptly, Lady Amalie. In future you may come to regret such rude behavior.”
If she had needed confirmation that he was Simon’s chosen husband for her, she now had it. For no other reason could she imagine a man of his stamp—and a knight of the realm, at that—addressing her so.
She said, “I do thank you for your escort, sir, but I must not tarry.”
With a nod, she hurried inside and upstairs to her chamber, thanking the fates that the house was large and sprawling enough to provide each of Isabel’s ladies with a small room of her own near the princess’s chambers.
She did not like Harald Boyd. He was too glib, and his charm seemed false. She had thought his patting her hand too familiar a gesture, but she recalled that Sir Garth had put his hand over hers, too, at Scone. She had not thought about it then or since, other than to note at the time the warmth of his touch.
