by Amanda Scott
Chapter 8
The path to the Hawick road followed the Clearburn, which flowed from a loch northeast of the Hall to its confluence with the Rankilburn just west of it.
Despite the overcast sky, Molly reveled in the fresh air and lively conversation that she enjoyed with the ladies Janet and Bella. They seemed ever lighthearted and amiable, even when they disagreed. And they never talked only to each other, as the men in her family often did, as if she were invisible.
She had learned never to complain about such treatment, and to hide her feelings, as well. Neither Janet nor Bella had given her cause for complaint or concealment. With them, she was able simply to relax and enjoy the outing.
About a mile from the Hall, Janet pointed out a deep ravine through which the Clearburn flowed but that they were skirting.
“That is the Buck Cleuch,” Janet said, enunciating both words carefully. “Seanachies say that an ancestor of ours killed a stag there. Then he carried it out of that steep cleuch on his back and laid it at the King’s feet. As reward, the King named him Ranger of Ettrick Forest and gave him land including the cleuch. That is how the name Buccleuch came to be. Sithee, Granddad used it before he inherited Rankilburn, because he and Gram lived in the cleuch for a time at Raven’s Law Tower. Wat means to style himself as Buccleuch, too.”
Wat was riding ahead of them with Geordie—the captain of his tail—and another man, while the rest of the men followed the women. The two dogs Molly had met the first night chased each other back and forth as they traveled.
When the road narrowed and the three girls could no longer ride easily side by side, Wat reined in and waited for them to catch up with him.
“Bella,” he said then, “would you like to ride ahead of everyone with me to help Geordie and Ferg keep their eyes out for trouble?”
Accepting his invitation with a grin, Bella barely remembered to say farewell to her sister and Molly before urging her mount to a lope beside his.
Watching them, Janet exchanged a smile with Molly, who said, “Your brother is thoughtful, is he not?”
Janet’s smile widened. “He is when it occurs to him to be, doubtless because he was raised to know he would inherit great responsibilities. Our brother Stephen has only himself to consider and is not nearly as thoughtful.”
“It must be more than that, though,” Molly protested. “My brother Will knows he will inherit our father’s estates, but Will does not care about anyone save himself. My brother Thomas sometimes does. In troth, though, the only other man I can recall meeting who gave true thought to others, Lady Janet, was your lord father.”
“Prithee, do call me Janet, Molly,” Janet said with a direct look. “Surely, by now, we can behave as sisters or at least close friends.”
“You talk as if we have known each other for weeks instead of days,” Molly said with a grin. “But I will try to remember.”
“Good. As for men thinking mostly of themselves, I believe that is true at times of the best of them. But I’d wager that even your Will, villain though you paint him and villain though he must be, will have to consider the good of your clan when he does inherit those responsibilities.”
“Perhaps,” Molly said doubtfully. “At present, though, he resents any hindrance to getting his own way. My father is much the same, and as for—”
Realizing that she was about to mention Tuedy, Molly snapped her mouth shut, drawing a quizzical look from Janet. Hoping to cover the near-blunder, Molly said ruefully, “I should not speak of my kinsmen so.”
Janet glanced ahead at Wat and Bella and the two men-at-arms behind them, with Ramper and Arch running now alongside them.
Then, looking over her shoulder at the other men riding some distance behind them, she said quietly, “You have said naught about why you came to the Hall, you know. I ken fine that I have no right to demand explanations, so I shan’t. But if you would like to tell me, I’d like to know. I’m no gabster, I promise you.”
Molly felt an unexpected prickle of tears in response to Janet’s kindness.
Welcoming the opportunity to confide in her but uncertain of how much she should say, she said briefly, “I’m afraid I ran away from home, got lost, and hid in the shrubbery when I heard his lordship and his dogs coming toward me.”
“Faith, were you afraid of Wat?”
“I’d have feared anyone then. Two of my brothers and a friend of theirs were searching for me, and I heard Will’s dogs baying. His lordship sent the men and dogs away and took me to the Hall. He has said I may stay as long as I must.”
“So you are afraid to go home,” Janet murmured. “That makes me sad, Molly. Home should be the one place a person can always go—and be safe.”
A tear spilled down Molly’s cheek. Annoyed, she dashed it away, belatedly and painfully remembering her bruise. She avoided looking at Janet.
Janet laid a gloved hand on Molly’s forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “This is not the best time to talk of this,” she said. “But if you do want to talk without Bella’s hearing, you need only ask me to aid you with something. Come to that, since you get on well with Wat, you might confide him, instead. He is utterly trustworthy when it comes to keeping one’s confidence.”
“I did tell him what happened, because he asked me,” Molly said.
“There, then, you see. He has not said a word to Bella or me. He may have told Gram what he knows, but that is like talking to oneself. She will not repeat it.”
“By my troth, Janet, I would like to confide in you, too. But I do think I ought to talk to him first. Not about you… about your trustworthiness, I mean—”
“I understand,” Janet interjected with a grin. “You fear that Wat might think your tale unsuitable for me to hear. But I doubt that he will. He would not have brought you to us had he thought you were an unsuitable person for us to know.”
Molly recalled then that Janet was just a year younger than she was. Moreover, Janet belonged to a family more willing to discuss certain subjects than the Cockburn men were. Accordingly, Molly decided to risk asking the question that had tickled her mind since learning what the abbot had said about her marriage.
“Janet,” she said, lowering her voice even more, “having neither a mother nor a grandame to ask, I ken little of womanly things. Do you ken aught about maidenhood? I mean, do you know precisely how one stops being a maiden?”
“Why, one marries, of course.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Molly said with a sigh of disappointment.
Wat was listening with only half an ear to Bella’s questions about the lady Rosalie and answering them as well as he could. At last he said, “Wheesht now, lassie. The truth is that I know almost as little about Aunt Rosalie as you do.”
“Blethers,” she retorted saucily. “You ken much more.”
“If I do, ’tis only because I’m older and have quizzed Gram more often about her family than you have. When we meet Aunt Rosalie, we’ll both learn more.”
He had glanced back several times and noted with satisfaction that Molly and Janet seemed to be getting on well. He could not have said why it mattered to him that they did. However, it occurred to him now that if Molly had to return to Ring Tuedy, he would want to keep an eye on her for her own protection. That would be easier to do if she and his sisters became friends.
They rounded a turn a short time later and saw a dozen or more riders coming toward them. Wat recognized the Westruther banner leading them and noted the two women in the party, one more stylishly dressed than the other.
“There they are,” he said. He raised a hand, greeting the oncoming riders and, at the same time, warning those behind him to rein in.
“Gram said Aunt Rosalie would have only her attire woman, a courier, and perhaps a pair of outriders,” Bella said. “I see many more people than that.”
“Cousin Garth must have sent some of his own. In fact,” he added, belatedly recognizing the gentleman beside the stylish woman, “he has escorted her himself.”
Sir Garth Napier, Lord Westruther, spurred his dappled horse to meet them.
His companion, in a fur-trimmed, blue-gray cloak, with her abundant still-dark hair confined in netting under a white veil, continued sedately on her gray palfrey.
As the two men met and shook hands, Westruther—a man with graying dark hair and beard, nearly sixty years behind him, and still a respected warrior with a warrior’s physique—said, “We learned of your father’s death yesterday, lad. I ken fine how it is to inherit sooner than one expects, for, as you know, that happened to me, too. So I’ve come to offer condolences and do what I can to aid you.”
“I’m delighted to see you, sir, and with Quarter Day approaching, I do have a few questions for you. But first,” he added as Molly and Janet rode nearer to join them, “may I present the lady Molly Cockburn, who is staying with us at the Hall.”
Turning then to Molly with a smile, he added, “This is my cousin and granduncle, Lord Westruther.”
Smiling back at him, Molly politely greeted Garth.
“And here is our Rosalie, impatient to meet you, too, my lady,” Garth said, turning to introduce her. Wat-lad,” he murmured with a boyish grin while the two women exchanged courtesies, “I must tell you that your aunt does not like to acknowledge that she is a grandmother, let alone a grandaunt.”
“Art telling tales again, Garth?” Lady Rosalie demanded, her dark hazel eyes sparkling. “I’ll not have you sullying Wat’s ears with your nonsense. At least, I assume this is Wat. Are you not, my lord?” she added with an arch, even flirtatious toss of her head—more worthy of Bella, Wat thought, than a lady nearing fifty.
“I am Walter Scott, aye, my lady,” he said, noting that another man some ten years younger than her ladyship, with light auburn hair and blue eyes, had eased his mount up beside hers.
“Let us talk as we ride, my lords,” Rosalie said. “I want to see Meg.”
“You might present your companion to them first,” Westruther said dryly.
“Oh, aye, this is my steward, Len Gray,” she said. “He has looked after me since my husband’s death two years ago in Wales. Richard—my husband,” she added with a glance at Molly—“sent him to me just before he died. Len is Scottish by birth, from Fife. But somehow he ended up in Northumberland with the Percies.”
Recalling Lady Scott’s worry that Rosalie might carry spies in her train, Molly looked carefully at Len Gray and decided that he did not match her notion of a spy. He was mannerly, good looking, and had eyes only for the lady Rosalie.
Her ladyship seemed to take his presence for granted but dismissed him, saying, “Look after Potter now, Len, if you please. She will be unhappy riding by herself, and I want to talk privily with my nephew and nieces, and their guest.”
As he turned away, she added with a droll look, “Potter is my attire woman. I own, though, had she not been wondrous good about turning me out in style, I’d have dismissed her long ago. Sithee, Richard presented her to me soon after we married, and I’m sure he expected her to spy on me for him. He was ever suspicious of my behavior when I was out of his sight, although I vow I was a saintly wife to him. I missed him dreadfully when he died, too.”
She chattered on cheerfully as they turned their mounts back toward the Hall, and her lighthearted manner fascinated Molly. It also shocked her, especially Lady Rosalie’s airy admission that her husband had not trusted her. Surely, such a lack of trust must have been painful to endure.
By then, Wat was riding ahead of them with Westruther, but Molly knew that both men must be able to hear Lady Rosalie as she chatted on.
Wat glanced back a short time later, his eyes twinkling. He winked.
Molly felt heat flood her cheeks and ruthlessly suppressed a smile, lest her ladyship notice. But Rosalie was talking over her shoulder just then to Janet.
When they reached the Hall, the men dismounted swiftly. But when Wat turned to aid Rosalie, Molly saw that Len Gray was already helping her dismount.
Turning then to aid Molly, Wat said, “I hope you enjoyed our ride. I ken fine that it may not have been as long as you had hoped.”
“I am grateful just to have got into the fresh air and beyond the wall, sir. Thank you for letting me go with you.”
Then, noticing beyond him the straight-backed, slender figure appearing in the central tower’s open doorway, she added, “I think your grandame must be as eager to see Lady Rosalie as Rosalie is to see her.”
Her smile lingered as she watched the older women greet each other with fierce hugs and laughter. Next, Lady Meg hugged Westruther just as fiercely.
Glancing at Janet and Bella, and meeting Janet’s twinkling eyes, Molly thought again of how wonderful it must be to have such a family.
The next day, Thursday, she saw Westruther and the ladies Meg and Rosalie only at meals. The women claimed that they had much catching up to do, and Westruther slept in and spent his afternoon with Wat in the latter’s privy chamber.
Len Gray was like a wraith, Molly thought. He rarely spoke except to his mistress or her woman, or to relay requests to servants on their behalf.
She spent most of Friday with Janet and Bella. However, to her surprise—and clearly, to theirs as well—Wat offered to ride out with them early Saturday morning, saying that Westruther was sleeping late again.
They rode again Sunday morning before the family, their guests, and a number of their servants walked to Rankilburn Kirk. The walk was pleasant, but after the service, the rain that had threatened off and on for a sennight finally poured in a deluge that sent them hurrying back to the Hall.
Running across the courtyard with Wat, soaked to the skin but invigorated by her dash through the downpour, Molly looked up with a grin at the equally sodden Wat when he shoved the central tower’s heavy door open to let her precede him inside.
To her delight, he grinned back as he pushed strands of wet hair off his face and followed her in. “I think you enjoyed that,” he said.
“I did,” she agreed. “But I must change my clothes before we sit down to eat.” She glanced back at the others, walking fast but keeping their dignity.
“What is it, lass?” he asked.
“Until today, I did not know that you had your own priest,” she said. “I ken fine that you may do as you please, but I do wonder why you rode all the way to Melrose to ask the abbot about marriage laws instead of asking your priest.”
“Father Eamon is nearly my own age, as you must have seen,” he said. “I doubt he can know much more about such things than I do. Even if he does, I have faith that the abbot will keep what I tell him to himself, but Father Eamon always kens the local gossip, which makes me suspect that he may contribute to it.”
She nodded. “I ken fine that Father Jonathan, my father’s priest, exchanges gossip with other priests. That is one way that Father gets his news. He also lets mendicant friars stay at Henderland, of course.”
“We do, too, although we haven’t seen one in some time,” he said.
“Did you neglect to present me to Father Eamon because you feared that he might speak of my presence here?”
“That is one reason,” he admitted. “I think he knows better than to speak of anything that concerns me or my guests, though. And I did not mean to imply a lack of trust in the man. He is a good priest, just a young one and, as yet, untested.”
“I saw Lady Meg talking to him,” Molly said. “I thought he looked at me.”
“He admires Gram. If she told him to keep a still tongue, I believe he will.”
Molly had little faith in the young priest’s sense of honor, especially if he was a friend of Father Jonathan, but Westruther joined them then, ending their private conversation.
Wat hoped he had laid Molly’s fears to rest. He knew she was afraid that Father Eamon might reveal her whereabouts to her family, but in truth Wat himself had spared little thought for the Cockburns or the danger they might be to her.
His thoughts had been with the men out seeki
ng word of Gilbert Rutherford. Several had reported, but none had found hint or clue of the reiver’s whereabouts.
Monday was Martinmas and thus Quarter Day. By then he had spent two evenings with Westruther, discussing what Wat knew and did not know about his father’s dealings with his tenants.
At the end of their discussion Sunday evening, Westruther had clapped him on the back and grinned. “I’m impressed, lad,” he said. “You know much more about your estates and people than I knew when I inherited mine.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wat said sincerely. “I know that Father taught me well, but in troth, I surprised myself with how much I’d learned from him. I do feel more confident now about the meetings tomorrow, though.”
“You’ll do well,” Westruther said firmly. “I’ll be here, so if you meet with something that bewilders you, just order a brief halt, so we can confer privily.”
Monday morning dawned with eerie stillness, gray and drizzly, but men came in pairs and groups to pay their rents. Wat spent the day in the Hall’s inner chamber, meeting with one at a time, while Westruther sat silently in a corner.
Seeing him there, Wat recalled the many times he had sat there as a boy, watching and listening as his father met their people on Quarter Day. From then on, it was as if, instead of Westruther, Robert Scott was watching. Wat could even hear his father’s voice in his head, offering advice, as he talked with people.
Besides seeing to affairs of business, and grievances, Wat asked each man he met what he knew about the reiver, Rutherford. Although most men recognized the name, none would admit knowing more about him than that he was ruthless.
Westruther knew no more than that about the reiver, either. “My estates, being far from the line,” he explained, “lie well out of most raiders’ territory.”
Tuesday, midmorning, Wat gave orders to saddle horses, so he could ride out and see if any searchers had returned to their cottages. Geordie and Westruther had joined him in the yard when the tall gates opened to admit four horsemen.
The first two were men-at-arms. The third was a stranger in priestly garb.
