by Amanda Scott
“Young Rab was a reckless lad but an honorable one, and courageous,” Ormiston said. “I’m sorry we’ve lost him, but I’ll be ever grateful to him for saving you.”
“I expect I’ll be grateful one day, too, sir. At present, I grieve his loss too keenly to feel other than selfish when gratitude stirs, and deeply indebted.”
“I do understand that,” Ormiston said. “What happened then?”
“Auld Nick and Corby went for the lancer’s horse, and two of my lads got to us. That was damned fortunate, because I’d flung myself off Nick to aid Rab. But it was too late. He was losing blood too fast, and although Jock and the lads routed the ambushers, I couldn’t stop the bleeding. Rab could barely speak, but he told me not to fret, that he’d always known his life would be short. He worried about Benjy and Robina, though, and Coklaw. He… he made me promise to keep them safe.”
“That settles it then,” Ormiston declared. “You must tell Douglas about that promise. In fact, you must leave for Scott’s Hall in the morning. I’d go with you, but you’ll do better, I think, on your own.”
“What about Anne Kerr?”
“We’ll discuss that later,” Ormiston said glibly. “I cannot tell them not to come for Beltane. However, I will think more about Lady Anne.”
A disturbing memory fluttered in Dev’s mind that one Coklaw estate was called Ormiston. “With respect, sir, are you thinking that I might marry Robina instead?”
“You could do worse,” Ormiston said. “But we’ll think no more of bridals. You are old enough to serve as Robina’s guardian, and Benjy’s, for now.”
Angry words leapt to Dev’s tongue, but he swallowed them, knowing that defiance would only arouse his parent’s ire. It would do himself no good, either. He’d be wiser to bide his time and devise calmer arguments.
“Archie is gey contrary,” he said. “He has a hard time making decisions and tends to go counter to what anyone else suggests to him.”
“If you have learned that much about him, I warrant you can easily parley with him,” Ormiston said with a speaking look. “Ask Wat Scott what he thinks about it when you see him. He has a wise head on young shoulders, does Wat.”
Dev stifled a grimace. Wat Scott could think and say what he liked. Robina’s opinion would be a flat negative, and she would not hesitate to express it.
Nor, he reminded himself, could he expect Douglas to appoint him to the post. He was, after all, the newest and least experienced of Archie’s knights.
The site Benjy had chosen for his tree being suitable for the project, Robina agreed Wednesday morning to help him find a good sapling. So, after breakfast, they made their way painstakingly through the thick hawthorn border that separated the castle clearing from its adjacent woodland.
Benjy was particular, and since the hawthorns would not flower for another month, he found it hard to make a choice, but Robina possessed her soul in patience, knowing that the matter was important to him.
“There are too many plants that look healthy and strong,” he said at last. “I dinna ken which is best.”
“I remember Mam telling me that plants, like most people, prefer to stay near where they were born,” Robina said. “Mayhap you should choose the best one that lies nearest the rise you chose for its new home.”
“I know just the one, then,” he said, nodding. “I’ll show you. Then I’ll tell Sandy to send a lad out to dig it up for us and replant it.”
“Don’t you think, since it is going to be your special tree to honor Rab, that we should do the work ourselves?” Robina asked gently.
He looked at her, grimaced, and said, “I didna think o’ that.”
“Well, now that you have, what do you think?”
With a sigh, he said, “That ye’re right, Beany. I think Rab’s spirit be more likely to stay in a tree that we planted ourselves.”
“I agree,” Robina said. “But you may run and shout at whoever is on the gate to send out two shovels and a spade for us. Then meet me at the rise.”
He ran toward the gate, and Robina heard him shouting as she returned to the rise he had selected and studied it. A narrow sike flowed nearby, and low hawthorns grew beyond it at the perimeter of the clearing. Benjy had chosen well.
He joined her minutes later, lugging two shovels and a spade.
“I should have said to ask for a rake, too,” she said. “This ground is covered with twigs, weeds, and other debris. But we can scrape it clear with our shovels. Then I’ll prepare your sapling whilst you pull up any weeds around where we’ll dig its hole.”
He showed her his sapling, one of the first he had liked, which amused her. It looked sturdy enough to survive and small enough not to have widespread roots, so she set him to weeding and carefully dug a trench around the sapling. When the trench was deep enough, she looked again at the sky.
She had been eyeing it all morning, because the gathering clouds had lowered and darkened more swiftly than usual. However, if it did rain before they finished digging the hole, the trench water would protect the sapling and soften the dirt in their hole.
Although Benjy was eager and worked hard for a time, his shovel was heavy, and he soon tired. Robina continued digging the sapling’s hole, and when next she looked at her brother, he and Tig had curled up together amid the hawthorns and were fast asleep.
Smiling, she returned her attention to the hole. She had shortened the skirts of her kirtle and shift by tucking them up under her leather girdle. So, despite work that warmed her, she soon noticed that the temperature was fast falling.
The likelihood that they would finish that day looked smaller and smaller.
Whenever her shovel struck a rock, she dropped to a knee, picked up the spade, and uncovered the rock carefully to avoid unnecessary damage to the shovel. Then the blade scraped another object, one that she discovered was a strange reddish-brown color and smooth. Using just her hand, she cleared enough dirt away to recognize it as crockery.
Although she suspected that the rise must be an old midden and would reveal only broken bits of things, she took care not to break what she had found until she could see what it was. To her surprise, it began to look as if someone had thrown away a crockery vase or jar. She glanced toward Benjy.
“Dinna tell him yet, Beany. Learn more about it first!”
A flash of lightning overhead and an explosive thunderclap at nearly the same time startled her and warned that time was short. Benjy’s cry of distress told her that the thunder had startled him, too, and wakened him. Tig stood guard beside him, glowering at the sky.
Benjy scrambled to his feet, but Rab was right. She would not tell him, not yet.
With a second blast of thunder, the clouds burst, unleashing a torrent of rain.
Soaked before she could think, Robina swiftly scooped a layer of dirt over her discovery. Then, just as swiftly, she set rocks and pebbles in the hole and tried to shovel her dirt pile farther away so it would not wash back in.
“Come on, Beany, afore we drown!” Benjy shrieked, grinning. “It must be nearly time to eat, too, so I’ll take the spade if you can carry the shovels. Hie in, Tig!” he shouted to the dog, as he took off running.
Robina needed no further urging, but she feared that, despite her efforts, the hole would fill with dirt again before they returned.
Dev was midway along the Borthwick Water trail when the cloudburst struck and a wind began to blow. He and his men carried oilskins, but he loathed wearing one. He had expected the rain to begin with a sprinkle.
Two of his men had donned oilskins earlier, but the rest scrambled for theirs now as he did. He wore his steel bonnet, but his head was the only part of him not immediately soaked. He could barely see two feet ahead, but he knew that Auld Nick would remember the way. They had been to Scott’s Hall many times, and Nick was smart. He would keep to the oft-traveled path unless Dev commanded otherwise.
At their usual pace, the Hall was a half-hour away. However, the trail quickly became slick
with mud, so they had to take care, lest one of the horses injure itself or slip off the trail into the fast-flowing Borthwick Water.
He loathed any rain heavier than mist, but he and his men had ridden in all elements. They knew he’d get them out of the downpour as soon as he could and would not want to hear any grousing unless he was doing it.
By the time he could make out the Hall gates through the gloom ahead, he was silently muttering imprecations to God. Why had a perfect being not created rain to water trees and plants without making men miserable?
The gates opened as they approached, and the watchman on the wall walk—doubtless near drowning, too—waved them in.
Dismounting beneath the stable’s overhanging thatch, Dev gave thanks that the wind no longer blew rain into his face. He had begun to aid his equerry with Auld Nick when he heard a shout and recognized Wat Scott’s deep voice.
Seeing his host descending the stairs of the keep to the cobbled yard, Dev said to his equerry, “I must go, Eckie. Tell Coll to see to himself before he looks for me.”
“Aye, sir, and I’ll see that his pony gets dried and fed, too.”
Turning toward the central one of the three towers composing Scott’s Hall, Dev realized that Wat wore only a linen shirt, leather breeks, and his rawhide boots. Nevertheless, he was grinning like a dafty and tilting his face to the driving rain.
His brown hair, already soaked, looked black, and his deep-set eyes gleamed with childish delight before, briefly, he shut them. Then, looking at Dev and extending a hand, he said, “You look miserable, Dev-me-lad. Don’t you love the rain?”
“You know I don’t,” Dev said. “I’m glad to be here, though, even if I have to suffer your notion of wit. Take me to your fire, sir, so I can dry myself. I’m soaked to the bone.”
“Aye, anon,” Wat said. “Geordie, put these lads in the east tower when they’ve tended their horses, and have someone build up the fire there. They’ll want to dry out. Some may welcome dry clothing, too, if you can find any.”
“Aye, laird, I’ll see to it,” Geordie Elliot, the captain of Wat’s fighting tail, said as he emerged from the stable. “Auld Nick looks well, Sir David,” he added when Dev reached to shake his hand. “Ha’ ye misplaced Jock Cranston?”
“Jock’s attending to other business for me, Geordie. It’s good to see you.”
“Come along, you rain-feardie,” Wat said with another grin. “I warrant I can find dry clothes for you, too, if you brought none with you.”
“I brought other clothes, but they’ll be as wet as I am, despite the oilskins. The wind was fierce before we reached your glen.”
“Let’s go in, then, and get you dry,” Wat said. Leading the way upstairs past the hall entrance, he stopped at a bedchamber that Dev had used before. Wat gestured for him to enter and then followed him in.
Seeing towels and a pile of dry clothing awaiting him on the bed, Dev shot his host a wry smile. “Are you always prepared for soggy visitors?”
“One of my lads saw you from his post on the east hill yonder and rode to warn us,” Wat said as he shut the door. “Before I ask what brings you, Dev, I want to hear more about that fracas at Chesters. I was shocked to hear of Cousin Rab’s death and surprised by how fast they buried him. Due to my own duties, I had not seen him for an age, but I know the two of you had become fast friends.”
“Aye; he was five years younger, but we understood each other from the start, and he soon became my second-in-command,” Dev said, stripping off his wet clothes.
He described the ambush at Chesters and Rab’s heroism. “I’m here today only because of him and Black Corby,” Dev added. “I won’t forget that. I saw him home again afterward, and if his burial was quick, it was because I could not stay and Greenlaw was too upset to attend to it.”
Nodding, Wat said, “You were wise to act swiftly then. I should warn you that Gram will want to hear all about Rab’s death, and his burial, too. So will her sister, the lady Rosalie Percy, who is visiting us. The Gledstanes are their cousins, too, after all.”
An involuntary smile touched Dev’s lips at the thought of Wat’s paternal grandmother, Lady Meg Scott, a woman as strong and determined in her way as Ormiston was in his. When Wat’s people referred to Herself, they meant Lady Meg, rather than Wat’s mother or his wife, Molly.
“If Lady Meg demands details, or even my head, I am certainly not man enough to defy her,” Dev said, reaching for one of the towels. “She won’t want to hear the worst of it at suppertime, though, with others at the high table.”
“Nay,” Wat said. “Nor will Aunt Rosalie want to hear the details.”
“You called her Rosalie Percy,” Dev said, briskly drying himself. “I know that Lady Meg’s mother was a Percy and that Meg has sisters, but I’ve never met Rosalie.”
“She is Gram’s youngest sister. She married Richard Percy, who died in Wales a few years ago. Rosalie barely knows her two sons, because he fostered them elsewhere in England when each one turned eight. So when he died, she returned to Scotland and stays a portion of each year with her siblings and their families. You’ll meet her at supper.”
“Before then, I should tell you that I’ve been to Hermitage for Archie Douglas,” Dev said, setting aside the towel and reaching for a pair of dry braies. “His constable there wants more men. He fears the Percys may attack Liddesdale.”
“Unlikely,” Wat said. “They seem content to raid Scotland by way of Carter’s Bar and the fells. Still, I expect Archie sent you to see if I’d provide more men for Hermitage.”
“He did,” Dev agreed, tying the cord of the braies at his hips. “He said something else, too.” He paused, reaching for the breeks that lay on the cot.
By the time he looked back, Wat’s eyes had narrowed. “What did he say?”
“That he might put one of his own men in charge at Coklaw.”
Wat was silent long enough for Dev to fasten the breeks. “I’d wager you can guess what I think about that,” Wat said then. “My father traded half of our Murthockston estate for half of Branxholm, and I mean to exchange the other half for the rest of it. It suits me fine to have Gledstanes at Coklaw, but I don’t want a Douglas living next to Branxholm.”
“Likely, you’ll want one of your own people at Coklaw then.”
Wat shook his head. “Archie wouldn’t agree to that,” he said. “He’d fear that I’d want to add the Coklaw estates to mine own. I’d never do such a thing to a nine-year-old laird and a cousin at that, but—”
“What would you think of my taking that post?” Dev interjected.
Wat raised his eyebrows. “Did Archie suggest that?”
“My father did,” Dev said dryly. “He thought you might favor such a solution and that I should suggest it to Archie. But…”
He paused because Wat was nodding. “Archie might agree to that, because he won’t want to displease Ormiston. How do you feel about proposing that solution to him?”
“Damned uncomfortable,” Dev said frankly. “It isn’t that the notion lacks appeal, but my father as much as admitted that he has an ulterior motive.”
Wat grinned. “Robina? Sakes, that would suit me just fine, although…”
“… Robina is likely to hand me my head in my lap,” Dev said.
“That is what I was thinking,” Wat said.
Eyeing him warily, Dev said, “I’ve no interest yet in taking a wife.”
“No one is suggesting that we summon a priest, my lad. But if Robby could be persuaded to accept you as warden of the castle…”
“When Rab lay dying, he did make me promise to look after Robby and Benjy, and Coklaw,” Dev said, suppressing his dislike of being maneuvered into such a situation, even by Rab, his own father, and Wat.
“Certes, that’s a fine point to make with Archie,” Wat said, nodding. “I can see that it’s true, too, by your so-reluctant demeanor, and so will he.”
Dev nodded. “It is true, but I did not tell Robina.”
�
�You’ve seen her, then.”
“Aye, when we buried Rab and again, briefly, Sunday night on my way back to Hawick from Hermitage.”
Wat eyed him as if he expected more, but Dev wasn’t about to tell him how or where he had first seen Robina Sunday night.
Wat said, “How is she?”
“As you might expect. Rab was her twin, after all.”
“Was she glad to see you?”
“Not exactly,” Dev admitted, sitting to pull on socks and boots that felt a bit snug. Sensing Wat’s speculative gaze on him, he held his breath, waiting for him to ask why not.
“I’ll ride to Hawick with you,” Wat said at last. “If we put it to Archie together, I warrant we can persuade him that it’s the best course for all concerned.”
Feeling much relieved, Dev said, “You do have a knack for persuading others.”
“I do, aye,” Wat agreed bluntly. “Are you ready to go down? They’ll be serving supper soon, and Sym Elliot will have told Gram, Molly, and my mother that you are here. They will doubtless be at the table before us.”
Dev was ready, so the two went downstairs together and found the women waiting as Wat had predicted.
He had failed, however, to predict their response to their plan for Coklaw.
The rain having continued to pour all afternoon, Robina spent her time indoors with the housekeeper and Corinne, attending to housekeeping tasks.
Benjy escaped to the stables, declaring that he’d be “helping the lads see to the ponies.” Privately, Robina hoped the “lads,” including Jock Cranston, would recall that he was Laird of Gledstanes and Coklaw and not just a pest, getting in their way.
The three women were in the boy’s bedchamber when Mistress Greenlaw declared her belief that they had finally found all of Master Benjy’s cast-offs and mending, and added as she picked up a basket of clothing from his cot, “I do suggest, m’lady, that you consider finding a lad to look after Master Benjy’s clothing for him. Not only because he is now the laird, but also because I found two pairs of his soiled braies, one set of netherstocks, and a good shirt under his cot.”
