The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  Once. He’d seen it once. He’d seen himself in eyes shining with love, and he’d felt ten feet tall. He’d never felt that way since.

  He turned and walked away, well aware that no one asked him to linger. He mounted his waiting horse, Jack. Back to the tower house?

  That was a lonely thought. Since Rory and his wife, Bethia, left, the life seemed drained from the stone structure. On a rare impulse, he headed Jack toward the loch up beyond the hill, the one where he’d met Janet years earlier. Nine years and three months earlier, to be exact. She was married now, to a Campbell. She had a son.

  The thought brought a familiar ache to his heart. He’d kept up with the gossip about her. He’d heard that her brother had fallen at Culloden where he’d fought for Prince Charlie. He knew that her father had died shortly afterward and that all his estates had been forfeit. He also knew that Janet’s husband had not received the Leslie estates, probably because he had not joined Cumberland at Culloden. Instead, they’d reverted to the king who had awarded them to an Englishman who had fought with him.

  He’d remember how much she’d loved her father. Unfamiliar with prayer, he nonetheless had stopped in the small chapel next to the tower house and prayed for her and the man he’d once hoped would be his father-in-law. He doubted whether God had heeded his prayer; he’d not been practiced at such an undertaking. And he had his own doubts about the value of prayer and even the very existence of God. He’d seen too much cruelty, too much inequality, too much killing. If God permitted such injustices, then what use was He?

  Still, for Janet’s sake, he’d tried. Little enough.

  It was very late afternoon when he reached the loch. The sun was setting, spreading streaks of color across a cinnamon sky. The last rays colored the loch with a sprinkling of gold and the surrounding hills were dark with heather.

  The quiet serenity of the Highlands usually quenched the ache inside him. Tonight, it sharpened the pain, deepened it until it overtook everything he was. It smothered him. He saw Janet Leslie, her brown hair framing a serious yet delicate face, her eyes banked with quiet fires of passion. He saw the shy smile, thought of the sweetness of her touch, remembered how it had turned sensuous, yet never lost its gentleness.

  God, how he longed for her, for someone to touch, to talk to, to share the simple pleasure of a sunset.

  “You and me, Jack,” he said to the horse. He’d named the beast as a reminder of Rory. The stallion was as duplicitous as his cousin—calm one moment, all rebellion the next. Wild and longing to be free.

  Everything Neil wanted to be but couldn’t. He was grounded in responsibility, in practicality.

  Rory’s disguises from his days as the Black Knave were still hidden in a cottage now abandoned. Neil knew he should destroy them, but he’d never quite been able to do so. They represented something to him, a reminder that never again should he judge another human being so heedlessly.

  He watched the sunset fade into dusk. A mist rose over the lake, softly eclipsing it.

  He turned Jack toward Braemoor and thought again of Rory. Would he ever be as courageous as his cousin? As bold? Even as honorable? Or was he just fated to plod along, waiting for the madness that had overtaken his mother?

  He walked Jack down the treacherous path back to rolling land, then mounted. He urged the animal into a trot, then a canter and finally a gallop. He wanted to leave the ghosts behind.

  But he knew they would always lurk deep inside.

  Alasdair Campbell, the Earl of Lochaene, died in the wee hours of a Friday. He died in agonizing pain.

  Janet had been summoned by a servant and hurried to his bedside. His mother and one of his brothers were at his side.

  “The physician has been summoned,” Alasdair’s mother, the dowager countess, said.

  The earl was no longer handsome. His face was pale and distorted, his hair lank, his body twisted with agony. He screamed with pain.

  “Dear God,” Janet whispered. “What happened?”

  The dowager countess, Marjorie, looked at her with suspicion in her eyes. “He was well earlier.”

  As mistress of Lochaene, Janet had often attended sick and wounded members of the household. She’d done the same back at her own home.

  She was alarmed at the white in her husband’s eyes, the obvious pain he felt. For all his faults, Alasdair was not one to moan. If he said he was sick, he was really sick. She recalled her thoughts three days earlier. She’d wanted him dead.

  But now faced with just that, she knew she didn’t want it at all. She did not want to be responsible for another’s death, even that of one she despised.

  She had no idea, though, what was wrong with him. His servant said he’d been sick since last evening with pain in his stomach, that he’d been vomiting.

  Marjorie glared at her. “What did you do to him?”

  A chill ran down Janet’s back. “Nothing. I have not seen him today, and he was fine yesterday.”

  “Exactly,” the dowager countess said. “Nigel said you were in his room yesterday when he took up a tray.”

  Janet nodded. Her husband had been drinking. He’d commanded her presence along with another bottle of brandy after a day of hunting with his brother, Reginald. She’d been forced to stand as he had steadily drunk its contents, as he’d recounted all her failures as mistress, wife and mother. He’d then ordered her to his bed, but thank God he’d passed out before he could do anything. She’d left, retreating to the safety of her own chamber after checking the children. Colin had been awake, staring solemnly up at her from the cradle she’d insisted on keeping in her room. She distrusted Molly, the woman her husband had employed to care for the children. The woman, Janet thought, had been employed more to keep her husband’s bed warm rather than to take care of the children.

  She’d been grateful for that in the beginning. It meant fewer visits to her bed. But then she’d seen the woman strike Annabella. She’d tried to discharge her but Alasdair would not hear of it.

  “I will get some herbs,” Janet said.

  “No,” her husband said. He groaned, then looked up at her with wide pain-filled eyes. “What did you do?” he asked. “What did you put in the brandy?”

  All the eyes in the room went to her. She felt the blood drain from her.

  She started to shake her head in denial.

  “Get her out of here,” her husband said.

  Reginald glared at her, then took the several steps to her side. “Ye’d best leave,” he said.

  Janet realized instantly that she had no choice. “The physician?” she said, knowing that the only one was in Inverness, hours away.

  “He has been sent for,” the dowager said, her brown eyes glittering with malice. She’d never liked Janet, had shown only disdain for her Jacobite family. Janet knew her husband would never have married her without the dowry her father had provided, along with hopes that he would some day inherit her family’s property. The fact that it had been taken by the English king had been a bitter disappointment.

  Only the birth of her son had kept him from divorcing her. He’d wanted a son more than he wanted to be rid of her.

  What a bitter bargain she’d made.

  She didn’t know what time it was, only that it was predawn. Colin was asleep in the nursery, the lasses in the room next to his, and she did not want to wake them. Nor did she wish to return to her chamber. She lit a candle from one in the hallway and carried it up the steps to the parapet of the sprawling ancestral home of the Campbells of Lochaene. ’Twas a smaller dwelling then her childhood home, smaller even than Braemoor. The rock edifice was built for defense, not for comfort, and its rooms were small and bare, the circular stairs steep and uneven. No tapestries warned the rooms, nor carpets the floors.

  When she’d come to Lochaene as a bride, she’d tried to convince her husband to purchase a carpet for the nursery. The floors were so cold and the wind often cut through the windows. She’d discovered then that he cared far less for the com
fort of his children than he did for his frequent trips into Edinburgh and the horses he’d buy, then often ruin.

  But now she wanted, needed, the cold jolt of night air. She left the candle inside the door so it would not flare out, then went out onto the parapet. The sky was threatening. Large bulbous clouds rushed across the sky and masked the stars, though torches lit the courtyard this night. She couldn’t see beyond them, but she knew the land well. Mostly bare moors and low lying hills, the land had been cleared of its farms and the crofts and turned to shaggy cattle and sheep. It was a lonely place, dark and gloomy with none of the wild scenic beauty of her home.

  Forced by the cold to return to the questionable warmth of the interior, she went to the nursery. Colin was still asleep. She next checked on the lasses.

  “Mama,” Grace said from her bed, wriggling to a sitting position. Grace, at seven, was the oldest of the sisters, a grave, slender waif of a child who, though timid on her own behalf, could be fierce in defense of her sisters and baby brother.

  She loved the lasses as much as if they had come from her own body. Grace with her quiet dignity, Rachel who wanted nothing as much as to love and be loved, and little Annabella who was all mischief.

  Janet went over to Grace and placed the candle on the table. She sat carefully as not to wake the other two girls, then gathered Grace in her arms, holding her tight. She felt the lass relax and snuggle deep against her. In minutes, the lass was asleep, but Janet couldn’t relax. She wanted to be downstairs in Alasdair’s room. She knew what he had implied, but she couldn’t believe he really meant it.

  It was still dark when she heard a knock on her door. She gently replaced Grace into the bed and padded over to the door, opening it.

  Molly stood there, her face drawn and pale. “I was sent to tell ye. The earl is dead.”

  Chapter Two

  The day of the funeral was as dark and dismal as the event.

  Alasdair had been dead for four days. Janet had forced herself to perform the necessary tasks expected of a wife. She’d closed his eyes and placed coins on the eyelids to keep them closed. She washed and anointed the body and clad it in the deid-claes.

  A joiner had straightened out the body and measured it for a coffin. It had arrived earlier today.

  Janet attended to it all in a state of numbness. She kept remembering the wish she’d made days earlier. Guilt warred with relief that he was gone, that the children would be safe.

  He looked different. Even peaceful. He’d been a handsome man when she’d wed him. In four years, he’d grown large and his face red and puffy with drink. Now he looked as she had first seen him. It made her wonder whether she’d had anything to do with his descent into drink and cruelty or if he had always had it in him. Certainly, his family was short on love and compassion.

  Word had gone out about the funeral. She realized that there would be numerous people attending, if not out of love for or respect for the Earl of Lochaene, then out of curiosity about his widow.

  She knew about the rumors. She knew they were being spread by her sister-in-law and the dowager countess. Murder was whispered. Gossiped. Passed on from family to family in the Highlands.

  Poison was mentioned. Arsenic. Caffeine. Belladonna. Opium. But the physician who arrived after the death could not swear to its cause.

  When the local sheriff arrived, murder was mentioned but nothing could be proven. A servant had overheard her threatening the earl; the earl was a healthy man who suddenly succumbed to an unknown ailment. Both facts cast suspicion, but nothing was conclusive.

  It was suggested that Janet’s room be searched, and the sheriff had done so. They found nothing in her room but did find arsenic in her sister-in-law’s room since she used it for her complexion. It was a substance Janet had disdained and now was relieved she had.

  Still, the rumors persisted. Janet knew that many believed her guilty because she would have the most to gain from the earl’s death. She wondered whether it was only a matter of time before her husband’s family convinced the authorities to do more than question.

  Because of the inheritance laws, her son inherited. Alasdair had made no provisions for a guardian and thus she gained control of Lochaene. It was a control she hadn’t sought.

  Yet on the day Alasdair was buried, she’d never felt such a sense of freedom. Guilt warred with relief. She was free. The lasses were safe. Her son would grow up with love.

  Neighboring lords—either out of curiosity or loyalty—had been arriving for the past two days. She had ordered food and drink prepared after a battle with Marjorie.

  “You should be hiding in your room in shame,” Marjorie had said.

  “I have nothing to be ashamed of,” Janet retorted.

  “My son was in good health.”

  “Your son ate and drank too much.”

  “You were a poor wife.”

  “I gave him an heir.”

  “Then poisoned him?”

  Janet forced herself to stare into Marjorie’s glittering eyes. “I am Countess of Lochaene now. I will not tolerate those kinds of accusations.”

  “I am not finished with you,” Marjorie said. “I told my son not to marry a Jacobite.”

  “But he did, did he not? That there was no inheritance is no’ my fault. Complain to his grace, the Duke of Cumberland.”

  “Whore.”

  “Say that once more and I will force you to leave Lochaene. And now I go to see about the arrangements.”

  Keeping her head high, she marched to the kitchen. Once out of Marjorie’s sight, she slumped against the wall. She did not like confrontations. But she’d known in that moment that Marjorie was her enemy and would do everything she could to destroy her. She would not let it happen. She had four bairns to protect. That would make her strong.

  She’d been weak for so long.

  No more.

  Neil called himself every kind of a fool. He probably wouldn’t even reach Lochaene before the rites. But he had heard the rumors and he hadn’t been able to help himself.

  If there was one thing he knew, the girl who had touched him so tenderly years ago wouldn’t, couldn’t, be capable of murder.

  He also knew that, coming from a Jacobite family, she would have precious few friends these days. If he couldn’t do more, at least he could offer friendship. He didn’t let himself believe he meant anything else, considered anything else. Nothing had changed. He could never marry. The taint was still in his blood. But he knew what it was like to be alone in a hostile household.

  And Rory had taught him something about honor. So he had ridden over to his tacksman, Jock, and asked him to assume authority at Braemoor while he was gone. Jock had looked at him with amazement but had agreed.

  Then Neil had saddled Jack.

  He knew Janet would not welcome him. But the rumors worried him and instinct told him Janet may need help. She may well refuse his, but he had to extend an offer. He wondered whether Cumberland would be there. Neil detested the man, but he had been the recipient of his goodwill, mainly because of Rory. That small advantage might also help Janet.

  It brought a rare smile to Neil’s lips every time he thought of the irony of it. Rory had flummoxed Cumberland so well and thoroughly that the king’s brother never realized how he had been taken, that the man he’d rewarded was the man who’d been a thorn in his side for more than a year.

  And now Rory was probably somewhere in the colonies, flummoxing someone else. His cousin had done something fine. Neil, on the other hand, had become a mole on his own property.

  It was time to emerge.

  The great hall filled on the day of the funeral. Janet bore the ceremony and draidgie with the stoicism she’d learned in the past few years. As was the custom, she did not attend the burial. Wives did not. Instead, they stayed at the manor house and prepared the food and drink for the draidgie that followed burial.

  But she grieved. She grieved for what could have been and was not. She grieved for her hopes and dre
ams.

  She even grieved that Alasdair’s life had been so wasted.

  And she grieved for the lasses, for the expected mourning that would eclipse their lives even further. She had a black mourning dress she’d made when her father died, and plain black dresses had been hurriedly stitched together for the three little girls. She hated to see them in the dark clothes, for they looked sad and lost and uncertain.

  Thank God all the visitors would be gone soon.

  She went out to get some fresh air. The great hall smelled of stale ale and sweat and unwashed bodies. The lasses were back in their nurseries. One of her first acts would be to replace Molly.

  Mourners—or curiosity seekers—were still approaching. She watched one small group come in, and she bade them welcome then invited them in for food and drink. A lone rider followed them.

  She smiled automatically, then started. Memory prodded her. Her heart started to pound.

  It could not be.

  He was bareheaded, his hair dark as a raven’s wing even in the late afternoon sun. His seat was easy, his posture comfortable, his large but hard body familiar. It had been in her dreams often enough.

  She wanted to run inside. She didn’t want him to hear the rumors. She didn’t want him to see the paleness of her face, nor her too-thin body.

  He rode straight up to her and dismounted. A boy who had just taken the other horses into the stable for food and water appeared to take the reins.

  “I’ll do it,” he said in the deep rich voice Janet remembered so well.

  She curtsied. “Welcome to Lochaene, my lord.”

  “Countess,” he acknowledged, then softer, “Janet. Are you all right?”

  He was so big, so tall. Overwhelming. But it was the softness in his voice that disarmed her. For the first time in days, she felt tears gather behind her eyes.

  His hands remained at his side, and yet she felt a warmth she’d not felt since she left her father’s house.