Tamed by the Barbarian

by June Francis

  As Mackillin watched her disappear from sight, that mixture of pity and dismay he felt deepened, overlaid with another emotion that he did not want to acknowledge. He had forgotten Jack had mentioned his sister was comely. If he had remembered, then he might have guessed her identity immediately. Even so, his not knowing she was the daughter of the house did not excuse his handling of her. Yet his body still thrilled with the memory of her in his arms. It was just as well that his sojourn here was of necessity to be short, otherwise he might be tempted to claim the reward the dead Nat Milburn had offered him.

  ‘I’ll go after her,’ said Jack, looking mortified.

  Mackillin stayed him with a hand. ‘Allow her time to gain control of herself.’

  Jack hesitated before nodding. ‘So you kissed her. Is that why she screamed?’

  ‘How could it be? She screamed before I touched her.’ There was a noise behind them. ‘Here is your explanation,’ said Mackillin, facing Master Husthwaite as he appeared, leading his horse.

  The man’s jaw was swollen and showed signs of bruising. ‘So you’re returned, Master Jack.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the scowling youth.

  ‘Gabriel Husthwaite, nephew of your father’s man of business. He died recently and I have taken charge of his affairs. This family will have need of my services if my surmise is right and your father is dead.’

  ‘Aye. Set upon and murdered.’ Jack looked towards Mackillin with an uncertain expression. ‘This is the man Father’s agent spoke of in Kingston-on-Hull.’

  Mackillin’s mouth tightened as Master Husthwaite smiled thinly. ‘Mistress Cicely wouldn’t have it that he was dead, but I told her it was the most likely explanation for his absence.’

  ‘So that is why she screamed,’ said Jack, running his free hand through his fair hair. ‘Yet she—’

  ‘Nay, it is not,’ growled Mackillin. ‘He was making a nuisance of himself, behaving in a manner that was unacceptable to your lovely sister.’

  Master Husthwaite cast him a sly look. ‘Was my behaviour so different from yours? You demanded a kiss for your pains when you believed her to be a serving girl.’

  Mackillin turned to Jack and said in a low voice, ‘Forgive me. She called me a barbarian and wanted to stick a knife in me.’

  ‘It’s because you’re a Borderer, Mackillin. I’m sorry,’ said Jack. ‘My great-uncle and grandfather used to tell us such hair-raising tales of the Scots reivers that we couldn’t sleep nights.’

  Master Husthwaite stepped forward, ‘Mistress Cicely needs a curbing hand on her bridle. She threatened to do the same to me. I was only defending myself when this Mackillin came in on us.’

  ‘You lie. There was no sign of a blade and you were rolling her in the straw, man,’ said Mackillin, his expression disdainful. ‘She wanted none of you.’

  The man sneered. ‘Nor of you. Get back to your own land. This family’s affairs are in my hands and have naught to do with you, barbarian.’

  Mackillin’s anger boiled over and he seized Master Husthwaite by the throat of his surcoat and hoisted him into the air. Thrusting him on to his horse, he said, ‘Be gone from here before I put my fist down your throat and rip out your tongue.’ He hit the horse’s flank with the flat of his hand.

  Master Husthwaite scrabbled to get hold of the reins and slid sideways but Mackillin forced him upright as the horse set off at a trot towards the beaten-earth track that led to the village and then the highway that would take him to Knaresborough, more than a league away.

  Jack frowned. ‘I don’t like this. Father would never have agreed to such a man taking charge of our business affairs.’

  ‘That man’s a rogue. Is there someone else you can turn to help you deal with him?’

  Jack nodded. ‘There’s Diccon, but I don’t know where he is…and there’s our stepsister’s husband Owain, who was a close friend of Father’s. I imagine Matt or Cissie will contact them. I wonder where Matt is?’ He glanced around. ‘He must be out somewhere. Otherwise he would have heard the commotion and come running to see what was going on. I hope he won’t be long. You will stay the night and speak to him?’

  Mackillin looked up at the louring sky and nodded. ‘Aye. We would not get far before darkness fell. Now inside and see to your sister while Robbie and I deal with the horses. And, Jack, do not mention aught about your father’s offer to reward me with her hand in marriage. I cannot accept it.’ He urged Jack in the direction of the house. ‘I will see the baggage is taken indoors for you to unpack at your leisure.’

  Jack thanked him and hurried after Cicely.

  He found her kneeling in front of the fire, stroking one of the dogs. The face she turned towards him was tear-stained and when she spoke her voice shook. ‘I must believe what you say is true. I know you would not jest about such a matter as our dear father’s death.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Cissie.’ Awkwardly, he put an arm about her shoulders. ‘I’ve dreaded breaking the news to you. Where’s Matt?’

  ‘He’s gone to Kingston-on-Hull for news of you from Father’s shipping agent. It was in his heart that he might find you both there.’

  His blue eyes darkened. ‘The agent did not mention him. When did he leave?’

  ‘Only this morning and he took most of our men.’ She sighed and got to her feet. ‘So you spoke with the agent. What did he have to say?’

  ‘He did not seem surprised to hear that Father was dead and spoke of Master Husthwaite. I had no idea his uncle was dead. A courier should have been sent to one of our agents in Europe, then word would have reached us and Father would have come home.’

  ‘I did not know of the elder Master Husthwaite’s demise until now and as far as I know his nephew has had no proper legal training, but only acted as his clerk.’ Her voice was strained. ‘Anyway, it is pointless discussing this at the moment. We need to get word to Diccon.’

  Jack nodded. ‘You know where he is?’

  Her expression was sombre. ‘No. But most likely Kate or Owain will know how to get news to him. They all must be informed of Father’s death.’ She paused as tears clogged her throat and had to swallow before continuing. ‘If Diccon cannot be found, no doubt Owain will help us deal with Master Husthwaite if he should prove really troublesome.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Cicely wiped her damp face with the back of her hand. ‘Tell me, did Father suffer? Were the devils responsible caught and punished?’

  Jack kicked a smouldering brand that had fallen onto the hearth. ‘Death came swiftly for him, but not before he had wrung a promise from Mackillin to see me home safely. He killed one of them and so did Robbie, but another escaped.’

  Her fingers curled into the palms of her hands. ‘I can’t understand how Father believed he could trust a Border reiver to do his bidding,’ she cried.

  Jack looked uncomfortable. ‘He is not what you think. I saw how they recognised each other.’

  She was amazed. ‘How could Father know such a man?’

  Jack sought to scratch his itching arm beneath the splints. ‘They’ve both travelled. Mackillin owns his own ship. They must have met for the first time before Father promised our stepmother to stop his wanderings—after he inherited this manor from our great-uncle and chose to live here, rather than in Grandfather’s house, which was ramshackle.’

  ‘I remember. I was twelve summers when Great-uncle Hugo died and left no issue. Father decided to run the two manors as one,’ she murmured through lips that quivered.

  Jack’s expression was sombre. ‘Five years ago. Matt and I were ten. Most likely Father and Mackillin met in Calais.’

  Cicely sighed and picked up the pillowcase she had been embroidering before she had left the house earlier that day. ‘That’s where Diccon met Edward of York. Father was angry because he was so taken with him and spoke of allying himself to his cause.’ She put the linen down again, too upset to sit and sew.

  Jack grimaced. ‘You couldn’t expect Father not to be. H
e’s supported Henry of Lancaster all his life, despite his being half-mad and a hopeless king. More priest than soldier, so Father said.’

  Cicely nodded. ‘This is true and why I suppose Diccon has gone over to the side of York, despite his having been born and raised in Lancashire.’ Yet that was not her father’s only reason for withholding his permission for her and Diccon to wed…the fact that he was landless and had little in the way of money most probably had a lot to do with it, too.

  Jack sighed. ‘I’m tired and in no mood to worry myself about the affairs of York and Lancaster right now. We have enough troubles of our own. Father would expect you to show all courtesy to Mackillin. Food and shelter is the least we can provide him with as he refuses to claim the reward Father offered him.’

  Cicely’s eyes sharpened. ‘So that’s what brings him here—the promise of a reward.’

  Jack frowned. ‘I should not have mentioned it. I told you he has no intention of claiming it.’

  ‘So he says,’ she said scornfully. ‘He deceives you. He must know Father is a wealthy man. Perhaps he intends to take more than he was offered.’

  Jack flushed with anger. ‘You insult him. Mackillin could have cut my throat and stolen our extremely valuable property any time these last ten days. I know he kissed you, Cissie, but you mustn’t hold that against him. It was a mistake.’

  Pink tinged her cheeks and she bent over one of the dogs, noticing it had bits of bramble in its rough coat. She gently removed the thorns and said in a low voice, ‘He thought I was a servant girl. That’s his excuse for behaving like a savage.’

  ‘He’s no savage. You must curb your tongue, Cissie, and be thankful that he sent Master Husthwaite packing.’ Jack sighed. ‘It seems so strange being home without Matt and Father here. It’ll never be the same ever.’ His expression was bleak.

  She agreed, thinking that the long winter evenings were even more depressing since her stepmother had died two years ago. She could only hope spring would come quickly, so they could at least spend more time outdoors. It was difficult filling the hours at this time of year because most of the tasks suited to the long dark evenings had been completed—the bottling, the pickling, the salting of meat and the making of candles—although there was always embroidery, darning, as well as salves and soap to make to keep her busy, but that left her mind free to wander and worry about Diccon. She sighed heavily, wishing desperately for her father to still be alive, but that was a wish that couldn’t come true. Instead she was going to have to be polite to Jack’s rescuer and that would not be easy.

  As if he had read her thoughts, her brother said, ‘A hot meal and a warm bed is little recompense for all Mackillin has done for us. Right now some mulled ale would not go amiss.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll want me to give him the best guest bedchamber and prepare a tub for him as well,’ she muttered.

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ said a voice that caused her heart to leap into her throat and she wondered why the dogs had not barked a warning.

  She took a deep breath, pausing to gain her composure before facing Mackillin. He was standing only a few feet away and not only looked unkempt, but stank of horse and dried sweat as well as something indefinably male. She was amazed that her body should have reacted to his the way it had done. He was so large and strong, but she would not be scared of him.

  ‘Of course, you must have the best bedchamber. You saved my brother’s life and brought him home to us.’ She tried to infuse warmth into her voice, but it sounded stiff.

  He inclined his shaggy head. ‘I gave your father my word.’

  ‘And you honoured it.’

  ‘Even barbarians keep their word, occasionally.’ His eyes sent out a challenge to her, daring her to deny that she believed him incapable of behaving like a gentleman.

  She held his gaze. ‘They have their price, though.’

  Mackillin glanced at Jack. ‘I did not tell her,’ he said hastily.

  ‘Good.’ A muscle twitched in Mackillin’s jaw. ‘I assure you, mistress, you would not wish to pay my price if I were to demand it. Now I would ask only for pallets and blankets for my man, Robbie, and myself. Here in front of the fire will do us both fine.’

  But before she could comment, Robbie spoke up. ‘Nay, Mackillin, you’re a Scottish lord now and should have the best bedchamber.’

  Cicely stared at Mackillin in amazement. ‘Is this true? You’re a Scottish lord?’

  He shrugged. ‘My title is new to me.’

  ‘That’ll explain it,’ she said drily.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Explain what?’

  She shook her head, knowing she could only say that no sane person would look at him and believe him to be a lord. He could not be blamed for his garments being travel-stained, but they were definitely not made of the finest materials. Beneath his cloak he wore a common leather jerkin instead of the embroidered surcoat and velvet doublet befitting his rank. Her gaze moved downwards and she noted that, instead of silk or costly woollen hose, his legs were shockingly bare. Still, if he was a lord, her father would have expected her to treat him as one.

  ‘I’ll prepare the best bedchamber, Lord Mackillin.’

  ‘Despite my appearance?’ he said softly. ‘Forget it, lass. I will not put you to the bother of preparing a bedchamber for one night. You have enough to trouble you this day.’

  She did not deny it and inclined her head. ‘If you will excuse me, then. I have yet to tell the servants of my—my father’s death.’

  He nodded in response and turned to speak to Robbie and Jack.

  She had to force herself not to run to the rear of the hall. One of the dogs trotted at her heels. Beneath the stairway that led to the first floor was a door that opened to a passageway. If she turned left, she would come to the staircase that led to the turret where her bedchamber was situated but, instead, went right and soon found herself passing the buttery, the stillroom, the storeroom and the laundry on her way to the kitchen.

  She paused in the doorway, watching the cook taking his ease in front of the fire. The serving maid, Tabitha, was chopping herbs. Tom, a male servant, was conversing with her as he stirred a huge blackened pot that dangled on chains over the fire. Martha, a woman in her early middle years, was singing as she rolled out pastry. They had not heard her coming and started at the sound of her voice. ‘I have sad tidings.’

  Cook slowly got to his feet. Tabitha dropped her knife and Tom and Martha paused and gazed at Cicely. ‘What is it, mistress?’ asked the cook.

  ‘The master is dead.’ Cicely’s voice trembled as she fought to not give way to her emotions.

  Martha gasped.

  ‘We feared as much,’ said the cook with a doleful shake of the head. ‘He was a good master. He’ll be sadly missed.’

  ‘How did it happen?’ asked Martha, wiping her hands on her apron.

  Cicely repeated what Jack had said, adding that they had guests for the night in the shape of a Scots lord and his man. ‘Perhaps you can use the remains of the mutton to add strength to the barley soup I was going to have for supper,’ she said, feeling distraught.

  Cook nodded. ‘We could kill a couple of chickens, as well…and I’ll need to bake more bread.’

  She agreed. ‘I will leave it to you to do what is needful.’ Running a hand over her hair, she added, ‘You’ll be using the fire in here, so I will use the hall fire to mull some ale. Tom, will you fetch a couple of pallets and blankets from the chest in the passage by the best bedchamber?’

  ‘Aye, Mistress Cicely.’ He hurried out.

  Cicely fetched a jug of ale and a jar of honey from a shelf in the storeroom and, from a locked cupboard, removed cinnamon and ginger. Her grief was like a weight in her chest as she carried the items into the hall. There she saw her brother and Mackillin in conversation, standing where the baggage had been stowed in a corner.

  At her approach, they moved away and sat on a bench, watching as she placed a griddle on the glowing logs, and on
that an iron pot. Aware of Mackillin’s eyes on her, she prayed that Diccon would sense her need of him and come home. The disturbing presence of the Scots lord and Master Husthwaite’s arrogance made it imperative that she see him as soon as possible. Her concern was that he might have been caught up in fighting between the forces of Lancaster and York. Oh, why did he have to go and give his loyalty to the Duke of York’s heir? The trouble was that her stepbrother could be stubborn and, having little in material goods, was determined to make his own way in the world.

  Tom appeared with the bedding and placed it near the fire to air. She whispered to him to see that their guests’ horses had enough hay and water before supper was served. After a wary glance at the two strangers, he hurried to the stables, taking a lantern with him.

  Cicely did not leave the spices to infuse for long, certain that her brother and the men were so in need of a hot drink that they would not mind it not being too spicy. She fetched cups and ladled the steaming brew into them, whilst all the time she was worrying about how Matt, now heir to the estate, would cope with the terrible news of their father’s death.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed in the next few days,’ said Jack, watching her approach with their drinks. ‘There’s an eerie glow in the sky above the fells in the west.’

  ‘That’ll be the sunset,’ said Cicely, dismayed at the thought that if a blizzard set in they might be cut off and she would have to cater for two guests that she would rather be gone. Now was not a time for having to see to the needs of a guest, and a Scots lord at that! She needed to grieve and devote her hours to prayer for her father’s soul and Diccon’s safe return.

  ‘Is that cup for me?’ asked Mackillin, gazing down at her.

  She nodded, steeling herself to meet his eyes with a coolness she was far from feeling. ‘Aye, Lord Mackillin. Is there aught else you need? I could show you to a small bedchamber. Perhaps you’d like to change the garments you’ve travelled in…and have water to wash your hands, face and feet.’