by Amanda Scott
Since she did not want to tell him that she had watched him and only him from the moment he took off his helmet and she saw the mop of reddish curls, she said instead, “I was terrified that you had seen me, of course. I dared not take my eyes from you after that, lest you tell him.”
“Still, you must have—”
Impatiently, she said, “Have you listened to nothing I have said? I did not see him clearly then, and I never saw him after that until the night he fell into the river. Then it was dark except for the moon, and everything was in shadows. I was not near enough, in any event, to get a good look at him.”
“Yet you would have had Scrope and those jurors believe that you and not your sister killed him,” he reminded her flatly.
“My sister did not kill anyone,” Laurie said, wishing almost the instant the words were out of her mouth that she had kept silent rather than let him hear the note of desperation in her voice.
“Then you did.”
“No!”
“One of you must have done so,” he said. “Cornus Grant saw you.”
“Cornus Grant lied!”
Suddenly, believing she could discern a purpose in his insistence that she talk about the incident, she said, “Why do you pursue this now? Do you mean to use what I say to you against me at the next wardens’ meeting? I should have realized your intent before now. I will say no more about it.”
“Just answer me this,” he said quietly. “Did you murder Martin Loder?”
“No!”
“‘No,’ you will not answer the question or ‘no,’ you did not kill him?”
She hesitated, but she could not let him think her a murderess any more than she could think of May as one. “I swear before God that I did not kill him.”
“Then just how far did you intend to press Scrope?” he demanded. “Suppose that he had insisted on carrying through to your sister’s judgment. Would you have declared yourself the murderess before them all?”
“I certainly hope that I would have,” she retorted, looking daggers at him.
When he shot them right back, she added defiantly, “I would do anything to protect May. If declaring myself the killer would have forced his lordship to delay her sentencing, I would have lied to him and to everyone else.”
“It would be as well, mistress, if you never lie to me,” he said, the dangerous note back in his voice.
She looked away.
Gently, he added, “Do you know what I do to liars?”
Her throat threatened to close, but she managed to say, “No, what?”
“I beat them,” he said.
She believed him, because it was exactly what she had expected him to say.
Fifteen
Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,
harm shall thee befall…
LAURIE’S FIRST IMPRESSION OF Brackengill Castle, against a dusky sky, was one of bleakness. Accustomed to Aylewood, perched on its high, rocky outcropping, she thought Brackengill—surrounded by low-rolling, nearly barren grassland—both gloomy and vulnerable. From a distance, the gray stone wall looked no higher than the eight-foot one around Aylewood Tower. But at Aylewood, a steep, uphill approach served to augment the wall’s height.
Not until they had forded the River Lyne did she realize that Brackengill, too, sat on a hill. The slope was gentle, but as they drew nearer, she saw that the castle was imposing. Its curtain wall was twice the height of the one at Aylewood and looked strong and forbidding.
She knew that Sir Hugh was watching her, waiting for a reaction, but she did not speak. Seeing the great walled castle brought home to her—as the handfasting and even his threat to examine her had not—just what she had agreed to. She was far from home, and the closer they got to Brackengill, the more vulnerable she felt. A thicket of trees stood halfway between the castle and the frothy river. Otherwise, only distantly scattered, wind-sculpted oaks dotted the undulating landscape. In the faint light of dusk, everything seemed gray, and Laurie’s spirits sank further when movement on the ramparts revealed men-at-arms keeping watch. Her pony, sensing her unease, tossed its head and whinnied.
The gates remained shut until the riders drew near, then swung wide to admit them. Flaring torches already lit the courtyard, where more men-at-arms waited at the ready, stepping back only when Sir Hugh gestured to them to do so.
Stable lads ran forward then to take the horses, and she saw young Andrew slip down from his pony and hurry to help them.
When Sir Hugh dismounted and turned to help her, her tension increased until it felt as if every nerve in her body were taut and screaming.
His gloved hands firmly encompassed her waist. She felt the length of his fingers, the strength of his hands. Then, with no apparent effort, he lifted her and set her down in front of him. “Welcome to Brackengill, mistress,” he said, still holding her. His voice was low and vibrant. He looked right into her eyes.
Standing so close, he seemed particularly large and intimidating, and she could not think of a reply. She could only think of his threat. She had not dared to ask him if he had changed his mind, lest he say no.
“I’ll wager that you are hungry,” he went on, releasing her and offering his arm. “Shall we go in and see what my people can offer for our supper?”
Still tingling where his hands had touched her, Laurie nodded and laid her hand on his arm. Her stomach growled, but her apprehension and curiosity were stronger than her desire for food. “I’ll need the satchel that’s tied to my saddle.”
He nodded. “Someone will take it in for you,” he said.
The warm glow of the torches lit the central area, revealing men’s faces here and there but not the more shadowy corners. Ahead, light gleamed cheerfully from arched windows on the second level of the main tower.
As they approached the entrance, she became aware that men in the yard were still watching her, muttering and whispering to one another.
Knowing that those who had not been at Lochmaben must wonder who she was, and certain that the men who had been there were relating everything they knew, she gathered her dignity. She did not want to admit her fears even to herself. She would certainly not allow these men to see how she felt.
Lackeys sprang to open the door, and she saw that, like its Aylewood counterpart, it boasted heavy iron reinforcement and an iron yett, or gate, as well.
Following Sir Hugh up a spiral stairway, she entered a spacious hall with rushes on the floor. The aroma wafting from them told her that no one had changed them in some time but that someone had recently scattered herbs to cover the smell.
Lackeys were hastily setting up tables for the newcomers’ supper, stepping over dogs that sprawled here and there, but one hurried to them to take Sir Hugh’s cloak and gloves, and Laurie’s as well.
The chamber occupied the entire floor of the tower, for she could see arrow slits along the rear wall, opposite the arched windows she had seen from the bailey. Candles and firelight set shadows dancing merrily on the high, vaulted ceiling.
A vividly colored arras cloth and turkey carpets draped the walls. At the far end, beyond a dais on which the laird’s table stood, an enormous arched fireplace roared with a blazing, crackling fire. Sparks shot high and wide.
Hearing echoing cracks behind her and feeling heat, as well, she turned her head to see a second fire blazing in a second fireplace, a twin to the first. A portrait above the second one depicted a pale, pretty woman in a rose-pink gown. She stood with a hand resting on a carved wooden armchair, her eyes submissively downcast.
“That is my mother,” Sir Hugh said. “My father had it painted shortly before she died.”
“She was young,” Laurie said.
“Aye, she was.”
Silken rustling punctuated by the click of hard heels on stone drew Laurie’s attention to a doorway at the left end of the hall. As she turned, a tall, frail-looking lady of indeterminate age bustled in, wearing a gown of black velvet over a swaying French farthingale. A lacy veil did little
to conceal her elaborately dressed red hair.
“My dear Sir Hugh,” the lady exclaimed when she saw them, “how glad I am that you have returned! Your entire household—as I need not tell you—is delighted to welcome you home.” Blinking myopically at Laurie, she added, “But who is this lady, if you please?”
Sir Hugh replied, “In a manner of speaking, madam, some might say she is my wife. You need not consider her any such thing, however.” Drawing Laurie forward, he added, “May I present Laura Halliot. She will be staying with us for a time.” To Laurie, he added, “As I told you before, Lady Marjory is my uncle’s widow and presently makes her home at Brackengill.”
“I am happy to make your acquaintance, my lady,” Laurie said with a curtsy.
“But I do not understand,” Lady Marjory protested, making her curtsy but fixing a bewildered gaze on Sir Hugh. “Did you say you are married?”
Laurie looked at Sir Hugh. With an impatient gesture, he said, “Mistress Halliot can explain the details to you later, madam. Suffice it to say that there was a ceremony but only one of political necessity.”
“But what ceremony?”
“Only a Scottish one. They call it a handfasting.”
“But I know about handfasting,” Lady Marjory said. “Brampton told me about it long ago. He said it is a form of marriage, one of the odder ways that Scots marry but a marriage nonetheless. Are you Scottish, Mistress Halliot?”
“Yes,” Laurie said. “My father is warden of the Scottish middle march.”
“Godamercy, but when did this extraordinary event take place?” Lady Marjory demanded. “I vow, sir, I was not aware that you had even formed an intention to marry. Indeed, I should have liked to attend your wedding, even to assist you in preparing for it.”
“There was no need for you to do either, madam,” Sir Hugh said. “It was not a true marriage, you see, only a rite performed to protect Mistress Halliot’s good name. I should explain that she is a hostage consigned to my care and protection until the person for whom she has pledged herself returns to face justice. Her father insisted on the ritual, and Scrope agreed to it before I could refuse. That’s all.”
“Still, it was a form of marriage, was it not?”
“It was. Nevertheless—”
“Then I do not think it is either wise of you or kind to make a game of her position, sir,” she said archly. “Hostage, indeed! I am persuaded that a handsome young man like you can have no need to drape a wife in chains to keep her. Moreover, you should use her proper title when you speak of her, even to me.”
Sir Hugh, gaping at her, appeared to be at a loss for words.
With an understanding smile, Lady Marjory said, “I see just how it is, my dear sir. Brampton was exactly the same.”
“Pray, madam, what are you talking about?”
“Why, for at least six months after our wedding, your uncle persisted in presenting me as Lady Marjory Hatherlea instead of Lady Marjory Graham.”
Laurie looked to Sir Hugh for an explanation.
He was still staring slack-jawed at Lady Marjory, but he collected his wits enough to say, “I’m afraid that you still do not understand, madam.”
“Oh, but I do, sir! I tell you, it was by turns both amusing and exasperating for me. Brampton generally corrected the surname when one drew his attention to the error, but he could never bring himself to call me plain Lady Graham.”
“But why should he?”
“Well, I should have been just as happy had no one known that my father was an earl, but Brampton took pleasure in puffing off that noble connection. So Lady Marjory I remained. But in your case, for dear Lady Graham’s sake, one hopes that you will quickly learn to employ her correct title.”
Sir Hugh’s mouth shut again, and his lips pressed together so tightly they looked white at the edges. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Noting these ominous signs, Laurie said gently, “Indeed, my lady, there is no need to call me so. The ritual to which Sir Hugh referred took place, just as he said, for no reason other than to protect me. You see, my father feared that Sir Hugh might exploit the authority he now wields over me, that he might—”
“Oh, but my dear, husbands always take such advantage of their wives!”
“That will do, madam,” Sir Hugh said sharply. “Pray, say no more about the matter now. We can discuss it later if you insist.”
Lady Marjory, though silenced, still looked doubtful and unhappy.
“Truly, my lady,” Laurie said, “I shall stay here no longer than I must. I assure you that I do not look upon him as my husband, and neither should you.”
Lady Marjory’s frown deepened. “But a form of marriage is still a marriage, is it not?” When neither Laurie nor Sir Hugh replied, she repeated, “Is it not?”
“One must suppose that, in some ways, it is,” Laurie admitted reluctantly.
Sir Hugh did not offer an opinion.
“Well, if it was a marriage, then it follows that you are Lady Graham,” Lady Marjory said with satisfaction. “Moreover, it now becomes most fortunate that Brampton insisted upon my remaining Lady Marjory. Otherwise, we should have two ladies Graham in this household. I think that is always confusing, do not you?”
Visibly giving himself a shake, Sir Hugh found his voice at last and said sternly to Laurie, “This household will refer to you as Mistress Halliot. That is how I wish it to be, and so that is how it will be.”
Lady Marjory raised her hands in protest. “But, my dear Sir Hugh—”
“Madam,” he interjected angrily, “unless you wish to incur my strongest displeasure, you will not refer to her again as Lady Graham.”
“But I do not understand, my dear sir! Indeed, I have no wish to displease you. Quite the contrary, I wish only to make your life comfortable, but I think ’tis you and your lady who do not understand. For how can it be—?”
“God’s wounds, woman,” Hugh roared, “hold your tongue and do as I say!”
“Yes, of course,” Lady Marjory said, bowing her head submissively.
Watching her, Laurie had a sudden, irrelevant thought that it was a pity Blanche could not see her, for Lady Marjory’s deference was far more believable than Blanche’s would ever be. Glancing back at the portrait over the fireplace near the main entrance, she wondered if Graham men purposely married meek women.
Lady Marjory recovered gracefully, saying, “We should not keep dear Mistress Halliot standing after her long journey, should we, sir?”
Sir Hugh did not deign to reply, and Laurie saw that it still was only with strong effort that he controlled his temper.
His gaze met hers briefly and moved away again.
Unabashed by his silence, Lady Marjory said kindly, “If you will permit me, my dear Mistress Halliot, I will show you upstairs now, and—”
Breaking off with a comical look, she turned back to Sir Hugh. “One must suppose under such circumstances, sir, that you do not want her to sleep in your bedchamber. Therefore, pray tell me where she is to sleep.”
When he hesitated, she said, “If you do wish her to share your chamber, you have only to say so. You are master here, and your wish is—”
“I will not sleep with him,” Laurie said hastily. “He—”
“Enough, mistress,” Sir Hugh said with an audible sigh. “I will try to explain matters more clearly to her ladyship whilst you refresh yourself.” Turning his head toward the door through which Lady Marjory had entered, he shouted, “Nancy!”
Light, rapid footsteps preceded the entrance of a child of ten or eleven, who bore a strong resemblance to Meggie’s Andrew. She wore an apron over a plain gray dress and a simple white cap tied under her chin. Long sable curls fanned nearly to her waist, and she carried an unlit torch. Skidding to a halt before them, she bobbed a one-handed curtsy and said, “Aye, master?”
“Take this lady upstairs to Mistress Janet’s bedchamber. She will sleep there for the present.”
“Aye, Sir Hugh. This way
, m’lady, an it please ye. I’m Nancy.”
“And I am Mistress Halliot,” Laurie said, correcting her gently.
Wide-eyed, the child said, “But me mam said ye’ve married wi’ Sir Hugh. She said I should say m’lady. The men in the yard be saying the same, and our Andrew did say—”
“Nancy,” Sir Hugh snarled.
Flushing, the child bobbed another curtsy and said anxiously, “Aye, sir?”
“Stop chattering and take Mistress Halliot upstairs. And do as she bids you!”
“Aye, sir. This way, mistress.” She bent to light her torch from the nearby fire, then glanced back as if to be sure that Laurie followed her.
Laurie had taken but one step when Lady Marjory said, “I shall be along shortly to help get you settled, my dear. In my experience, new places are always confusing. I believe that you will be glad of my help.”
“Thank you, madam,” Laurie said, not knowing what else to say and feeling bemused at the memory of the frail, kindly lady standing up to Sir Hugh. Avoiding his gimlet gaze, she hurried after Nancy without saying another word.
The service stairway, like the one from the main entrance to the hall, spiraled upward in a clockwise direction, as most such stairways did. Laurie knew the direction of the spiral meant Brackengill men had historically been right-handed, for it gave such men the wider part of the stairwell to accommodate the sweep of their swords when defending against an enemy attacking from below.
Ferniehurst in Scotland was the only castle she had seen with a stair that twisted to the left. The stairways there all did, because Kerr men were left-handed. Indeed, in the Borders, “ker-handed” meant left-handed.
Nancy pushed open a door on the second landing to reveal a gloomy chamber of shadows. With an apologetic smile, the little girl darted in, and from the threshold Laurie watched as she tried to open shutters on a window wider than Laurie’s own at Aylewood, without putting down the burning torch.
Smiling for the first time since her arrival, she went to help.
