Tamed by the Barbarian

by June Francis

  ‘I will certainly look out for him,’ said Mackillin, strolling towards her. He reached up both arms to help her down from the boulder. Was that regret he could see glistening in her lovely eyes? He wanted to sweep her off her feet and do what his father had done with his mother twenty-six years ago. He imagined placing Cicely on his horse and carrying her off to his keep in the north. Yet he knew it would be foolish to act so recklessly with his parents’ example before him.

  As soon as he set her on her feet, she stepped back and, forcing a smile, said, ‘Fare thee well, Mackillin. God grant you a safe journey.’

  He thanked her and rashly took one of her hands and brushed the back of it with his lips before turning and striding away.

  She was immensely touched by his action and could feel her skin tingling where his lips had touched it. She chose not to watch him until he was out of sight, but gazed over the river. She hoped the vole had reached the far bank safely and prayed that the emotions striving for prominence inside her would abate and she could feel her customary calm, sensible, accepting and adaptable self. She loved her home and the twins; although she would grieve for her father for some time, once Diccon returned and they married, they would live happily after, helping her brothers to cope with the heavy responsibilities that had fallen on to their shoulders.

  Mackillin gazed down at Jack with a smile. ‘You will behave sensibly and not use that arm more than necessary?’

  Jack swung his arm back and forth and bit back a wince, saying, ‘See. It’s fine. Will you not come and visit us again, Mackillin?’

  ‘I can make no promises, Jack. You will have a care for your sister?’

  ‘Aye. But it should have been your task,’ he said boldly. ‘You should not be leaving without your reward. If Father knew you were going empty-handed, he would not be pleased.’

  ‘We’ve spoken of this already, Jack,’ rasped Mackillin, trying to be patient. ‘I cannot marry your sister. Besides, aught else, she is intent on marrying Diccon Fletcher.’

  ‘But Cissie would make you a good wife,’ insisted Jack. ‘You cannot have failed to notice how admirable she is in so many ways. Where she might fail in your notion of the perfect wife, Father would say she is young enough to be moulded into shape.’

  Mackillin sighed heavily. ‘I am aware of your sister’s fine qualities, but it cannot be. I need allies, Jack. I must take a Scottish bride.’

  Jack looked deeply disappointed. ‘But Father wanted you to marry Cissie. He must have believed you were right for each other. If you don’t marry her and Diccon gets killed, then that horrible Husthwaite might return and…’

  Mackillin steadied his horse, which was desperate to get the fidgets out of its legs. ‘Then you must waste no time getting in touch with Master Fletcher, so he can deal with him.’

  Jack frowned and kicked at a pebble. ‘I can’t do that until Matt comes home, but don’t you concern yourself any more about us. We’ll manage. Thank you for bringing me home and I pray you have a safe journey,’ he said in polite tones before turning and walking towards the house.

  Mackillin felt thoroughly bad-tempered. Jack made him feel in the wrong, but then he was only a lad and didn’t understand that marriage was a serious matter and involved making useful alliances. He signalled to Robbie, who was standing by the stable entrance, talking to Martha. She looked vexed, but Robbie shrugged and climbed on to his horse. Gathering the reins of the hired packhorses together, he followed Mackillin towards the path that led to the highway.

  Fortunately the road was passable and they only had to make one diversion due to flooding. They met few travellers on the way, and none that resembled Jack. By late afternoon they had reached York where they broke their journey. It was there that Mackillin received what was to be his first indication that his plans might be altered by the quarrels between the Lancastrians and Yorkists. They had skirted York on the journey to Milburn Manor, but now they saw the heads displayed on the Micklebar Gate. Mackillin felt sickened and his mouth set grim. His thoughts flew to Cicely and he wondered whether Diccon had been caught up in the latest battle. If so, was he dead? If she suffered the loss of another that she loved, might it break her heart? He decided he needed information.

  Over supper in a tavern, Mackillin got into conversation with an injured mercenary. Apparently the Duke of York had left the safety of his castle walls on the eve of the New Year to do battle with a greater force of Lancastrians. The result of this folly was that he and his sixteen-year-old son had been killed.

  ‘What of York’s heir, Edward?’ Mackillin asked.

  The man lowered his voice. ‘Some say he’s the rightful king of England. That parliament agreed to the seven-year-old Prince of Wales being set aside and York declared Henry’s heir. The King’s said to have put his name to it, but the Queen’s like a she-wolf fighting for her young and won’t accept it.’

  ‘So young Edward’s still alive?’

  ‘He weren’t at Wakefield. It’s believed he spent Christmas at his father’s castle at Ludlow.’

  Mackillin was relieved. He considered it unlikely Diccon would have fought in the recent battle if Edward was not involved, so he need not worry himself about Cicely being left without a husband.

  Yet that night he dreamt of her and woke fevered and aroused. He lay, imagining her in his arms, picturing her sweet, sad face, wanting to wipe away her grief and plant laughter in her eyes. He told himself he must banish such imaginings and concentrate his thoughts on getting safely to Scotland to take up the reins of his new life. It was going to be difficult enough settling down in one place without yearning for a Yorkshire lass who had shared his kisses.

  The next day Mackillin and Robbie made good speed despite there being much trafficking on the road between Kingston-on-Hull and York. When they arrived in the port, Mackillin left it to Robbie to return the packhorses to the Milburns’ shipping agent and headed through the bustling streets to the quayside near the junction of the rivers Hull and Humber. Gulls screeched overheard and there was a keen wind. The salty tang of the sea brought him a momentary calm and he told himself that he really was looking forward to setting sail again.

  He praised God when he found his ship at the quayside and wasted no time hailing the mariner on deck. Soon he was sitting in his cabin, eating oaten bread and grilled herring washed down with a tankard of hot spiced wine. When he had finished, his master mariner handed over two scrolls.

  ‘One is from your lady mother and a messenger delivered the other to Killin Keep. As you will note, the seal has the royal crest stamped on it.’

  Mackillin frowned, wondering what the young king of Scotland wanted from him. He untied the ribbon and broke the royal seal and flattened the parchment on the table. The message was addressed simply to the Laird of Killin and summoned him and his men to foregather in support of Queen Margaret, wife of Henry VI of England, to free her husband from the Yorkist rebels. Apparently it was imperative that he did this as it was in Scotland’s interest that Henry was restored to his throne. There was no reason given why it was imperative and that annoyed Mackillin somewhat.

  He rolled up the scroll and stretched out a hand for that sent by his mother and broke the seal.

  To my son, the new Lord of Killin,

  I pray to the Holy Trinity and all the Saints that this letter will find you in bodily health and in good spirits. It was with deep foreboding I received your courier under my roof, but he soon assured me of your well being and gave me your missive concerning your promise to this dying merchant. You are a fool, Rory, and I can only hope that you do not regret the promise you made to him. I look forward to seeing you as soon as Almighty God brings you safely home. I do hope you will be pleased to know that Mary Armstrong is keeping me company. She is now eighteen and is looking forward to being reacquainted with you. She talks of your being her brave lord. I pray you will not disillusion the poor child. Her father is keen on a match between the two of you. Unfortunately he and most of his clan hav
e been called away on the orders of the king and I fear the message that has come for you will contain a similar command. I am making what preparations I can to keep your inheritance safe and I pray for the day when we can toast your health in the excellent vintage you sent home.

  Your mother, Lady Joan Mackillin.

  Mackillin swore beneath his breath as he reread both messages and felt a rising fury. Why in God’s name should he have to embroil himself in a cause he had no reason to support and, in so doing, possibly sacrifice his life? He rolled up the scroll and tapped it against his teeth, aware of his master mariner’s eyes upon him. Did he have any idea what was written in the scrolls? If not, all Mackillin had to do was to give the order to set sail for home.

  Yet an inbuilt honesty prevented him from doing so. ‘Angus, do you know aught of the contents of these missives?’

  ‘Aye, Mackillin. King James and the dowager Queen have summoned as many fighting men as they can to support the King of England’s cause.’

  ‘And what can we expect in return? What good will it do Scotland if we fight?’ he rasped. ‘What encouragement can I give to Killin’s men to risk their lives for the sake of the King and Queen—of England of all places? How am I to pay their wages if I agree to answer this royal summons? What rewards are on offer?’

  ‘No wages are to be paid from what I’ve heard,’ Angus answered, shaking his hoary head. ‘I do know you are not the only Borderer to be summoned in like manner.’

  ‘My mother speaks of the Armstrongs answering the King’s summons.’ He scowled, recognising the quandary he was in.

  ‘Rumour has it that no northern lands or the Midlands of England are to be raided, but further south where the Yorkist strongholds exist can be.’

  Mackillin’s scowl deepened. He did not like what he was hearing despite the knowledge that it was common practice for armies to pillage for food and fodder. He despised such behaviour and thought it would definitely not endear the Scots to the southern English. At least he could console himself with the thought that Cicely and the twins would be free of attack at Milburn Manor because of it being in the north.

  He pictured her safe indoors, working at her embroidery. The image was shattered by the sound of hurrying feet. The door burst open and Robbie entered the cabin. There was such an air of suppressed excitement about him that Mackillin started to his feet. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  Robbie gripped the other side of the table and gazed across at him. ‘Several kinsmen of the Milburn I slew in Bruges are in the shipping agent’s house. I saw them with my own eyes.’

  Mackillin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did they recognise you?’

  ‘One of them knew me all right,’ he said grimly. ‘I think they’re up to no good, so I promised a lad half a groat to keep a watch on them.’

  Mackillin’s eyes burned in his weatherbeaten face. ‘Good man. Eat and drink and then return there. I want to know what mischief they are brewing and whether it has anything to do with Mistress Cicely and the twins. In the meantime I must write a message for my mother.’

  Robbie stayed him with a hand. ‘I think the Milburns and the agent are in league with each other. I caught a glimpse of a youth in a back room and he appeared none too happy. His face was swollen and bruised, but he reminded me of Jack.’

  Mackillin clenched his fist. ‘It must be Matt. Possibly he looked downcast because the agent has told him of his father’s death.’ He frowned. ‘Nay, it has to be more than that. He’d waste no time hurrying home to Jack and Cissie…and why the bruised face? His kin must have beaten him up and no doubt they plan worse.’

  ‘I reckon they have murder in their black hearts,’ growled Robbie.

  Mackillin nodded. ‘I wonder if that slimy toad Husthwaite is in this as well. If so, Cissie and Jack could be in danger.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Mackillin rubbed his unshaven jaw. ‘It looks like I’m going to have to change my plans yet again.’ He ordered food to be brought for Robbie, and as his groom ate, Mackillin told both his master mariner and Robbie exactly what he intended doing and what he wanted them to do.

  Cicely could no longer keep still and began to pace the floor. Not only had Matt and their men failed to return, but while she had been in the village, Jack had gone off in search of his twin. Fortunately he had taken Tom and the dogs with him; even so, she was frightened for him.

  She toyed with the crucifix about her neck, thinking it was five days since Mackillin had left and within hours of his departure Jack had climbed into the saddle. He had not ridden far that first day, but on the second he had travelled into Knaresborough and returned, exhausted and in pain, with the news that Master Husthwaite was not at his house but, according to his servant, had left for Kingston-on-Hull several days ago. Cicely could only be glad that the man was miles away but, even so, she wondered what had taken him to Kingston-on-Hull. What if he was in cahoots with the shipping agent and the Milburns? What if Matt…?

  She shook her head, not prepared to believe he could be dead. Jack would have known of it. The twins sensed when the other was in trouble. She continued her pacing, her prayers for her brothers interspersed with thoughts of Mackillin: his smile, the tales of his travels that he had spun in his attractively accented voice. She could see him in her mind’s eye raising an eyebrow as if questioning her belief in his ability to stop Jack behaving foolishly. Even so, she would have trusted him to do so if he had still been here.

  Would she have trusted Diccon to the same extent? She screwed up her face in anguish, knowing she had to stop thinking about Mackillin and have faith in Diccon. It was unlikely that she would ever see the Borderer again and that had to be for the good. She must look to Diccon for help. Why hadn’t he sent word? Where was he? Was he alive or dead? If he cared for her as much as he’d said he did, then he should not have stayed away so long. Hurt and anger rose within her and she could hardly contain it, so began to pace the floor once more.

  Suddenly she heard voices outside of the house and instantly hurried towards the entrance, only to still when the door opened to reveal Master Husthwaite and two rough-looking strangers standing there. Her heart bumped uncomfortably against her ribs and she reached for the dagger at her waist, only to remember she had dispensed with it since putting on mourning. She swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat and said, ‘What are you doing here, Master Husthwaite? Who are these men?’

  The clerk’s eyes darted about the hall and he smirked in a manner that sickened her. ‘All alone, Mistress Cicely?’ he said, strutting across the hall towards her.

  She was more alone than he realised because Martha and Tabitha had gone into the village to visit their families and had not returned yet. But this horrible man was not to know that. ‘It might appear so, Master Husthwaite, but my brother is within call…and Mackillin, too,’ she added for good measure.

  His smirk vanished. ‘You lie! I returned from Kingston-on-Hull three days ago and I received news this morning from my companions that the barbarian was seen there. No doubt he’ll have discovered by now that Queen Margaret is gathering a great force in Scotland to rescue her husband, King Henry, from captivity, and he’ll be bidden to join that host.’

  His words so shocked her that she felt dizzy and had to grip a nearby chair. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why should the Scots support the queen of England?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s true, none the less. Also, I regret to inform you that your brother’s shipping agent has seen no sign of Master Matthew.’ There was an expression of malevolent pleasure in his mud-coloured eyes. ‘Perhaps he and his men were caught out in the blizzard on their way to Kingston and wandered off the road into a mere. We shall never know,’ he added.

  His words intensified her fear and she felt chilled to the bone and hugged herself in an attempt to infuse some warmth into her body. Then a thought presented itself to her. ‘What is your purpose in bringing me such news? Unless you have proof, your words are just suppositi
on and worthless. I would ask you to leave.’

  His brows hooded his eyes and he sneered, ‘Surely his continued absence is proof enough. Why is it, Mistress Cicely, you never believe me when I tell you the truth? Was I not right about your father?’

  ‘Aye! A matter I find suspicious now.’ Her glance darted to his unsavoury-looking companions. ‘Will you please go and take your friends with you.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ growled the fairer-haired one, whose beard covered half his chest. ‘I’m your cousin, wench, and me and my brother are here to take over as masters of this manor.’

  ‘Never,’ she cried, remembering what Mackillin had said about her northern kin. ‘Even if Matt were dead, which I don’t believe,’ she added stoutly, ‘Jack would inherit.’

  ‘Soon get rid of him,’ said the other man, swaggering over to her. He made to chuck her under the chin, but anger replaced her fear and she smacked his hand away and darted behind a table. ‘Get out! Our great-uncle disowned your branch of the family and you do not belong here.’

  His eyes darted venom. ‘You said she needed a strong hand, Husthwaite. I deem we should show her now who’s in charge here.’

  Husthwaite spat out, ‘Remember what we decided! You’ll get naught without my aid. I’ll see she gets what she deserves.’

  ‘You have no right to come here and threaten me,’ said Cicely, trying to infuse steel into her voice.

  ‘No right, you say!’ Husthwaite breathed deeply through his thin nose and from a leather satchel withdrew a sheet of parchment. ‘I have more right than you think. I have your father’s will here. I find it satisfying that a sum of a thousand pounds has been left to provide you with a dowry and that in my uncle’s place I am your guardian.’

  She was aghast. ‘You my guardian? Never! If I was to need a guardian, then Father would have named my stepbrother or my stepsister’s husband, Owain ap Rowan, to fill that role.’ She leant across the table and almost managed to snatch the parchment from his hand. As it was she tore a strip off the bottom before he was able to draw back his arm.