Border Storm

by Amanda Scott

  “Godamercy,” Laurie said, looking down at herself. “I must look a fright, and I’d lost all track of time. I’ll go at once.”

  “Nancy,” Meggie said as Laurie wiped her hands on a towel, “go and tell our Peter and Andrew to come in now, and to bring some others to help set up the tables. I’ll give John his supper whilst they do, and you can ha’ yours, as well.”

  “Thank you, Meggie,” Laurie said with a smile. “I enjoyed helping you.”

  “Ye’re daft, mistress, but ye’re right welcome.”

  Laurie turned toward the service stair but stopped when a deep male voice said urgently, “Meggie, they’ve taken your Andrew!”

  Turning sharply, she saw Geordie, his body filling the doorway to the yard. He paid her no heed, though. His attention was riveted on Meggie.

  She stared back at him, speechless, her cheeks devoid of color.

  “Who took him,” Laurie demanded. “Where?”

  “Scrope,” Geordie said curtly. “Said he means to hang the wee lad.”

  A shout from the yard drew his attention.

  Laurie saw Meggie’s expression change to one of hope. “What is it?” Laurie said. “Do you think they’ve brought Andrew back?”

  “Nay,” Geordie said. “The master’s home. He’ll soon sort it out. I’ll go and tell him straightaway.”

  “I’m going with you,” Laurie said, tossing aside the towel she still held.

  Seventeen

  The next step that she stepped in,

  She stepped to the middle…

  IT WAS GROWING DARK when Hugh and his men rode into the bailey at Brackengill. He was hungry again and hoped they had something good for supper. Scrope had put him right off his appetite at Bewcastle.

  He heard one of the men shout to Geordie that he was back, but he paid no heed, thinking only of going in, taking off his jack-of-plate, and eating his supper.

  Dismounting, he handed the reins to a lad who ran up to take them. But as he turned toward the main tower, he saw Geordie hurrying toward him from the kitchen wing. Following, her skirts swirling around her slim legs, was his hostage.

  Hugh noted that Mistress Halliot looked rather disheveled, as if she were in some agitation. Wisps of hair had escaped her cap, and her right cheek was smudged with soot or something similar. Her smock lay open above her low-cut bodice, and her soft white breasts heaved in her effort to keep up with Geordie.

  Alarmed, Hugh strode to meet them.

  Ned Rowan caught up with him as well.

  “What’s amiss, Geordie?” Hugh asked, forcing his gaze to his henchman.

  “That bastard Scrope’s arrested Meggie’s Andrew,” Geordie said.

  Hugh glanced at Rowan and saw the man’s fists clench.

  His own jaw tightened, and a muscle twitched high in his cheek. He liked Andrew, and the lad was young, not yet ten years of age.

  “Does Meggie know yet?” he asked Geordie.

  Mistress Halliot answered, saying, “Aye, sir, she does. She is beside herself with terror for the lad. Geordie told us that Scrope means to hang Andrew, but surely he won’t hang a laddie so young.”

  “He won’t if I can stop him,” Hugh said grimly. To Geordie, he said, “Have you given orders to the men yet?”

  “Nay, master. I only just got back m’self, and when the men on the wall saw ye coming, I waited t’ talk wi’ ye first, but I did think I should tell Meggie.”

  “How the devil did they take him?” Hugh demanded.

  Geordie flinched at the tone and shot a wary glance at Rowan before he said, “The lad were awa’ nigh the whole day, master. I thought he’d gone over Haggbeck way to help ’em mark kine there. Howsomever, when one o’ the men came here wi’ a message, I learned the wee laddie’d no been there at all.”

  “Where was the young devil then?” Rowan snapped.

  “By what I can make out, captain, he were in that thicket near Granny Fenicke’s cottage,” Geordie said, evading Rowan’s sharp gaze. “It were one o’ Scrope’s land sergeants, Francis Potts, that grabbed the lad, master. But by what Granny Fenicke said to me, ’is lordship were there, too.”

  “It must have happened whilst they were on their way back to Carlisle from Bewcastle,” Hugh said. “But why would they take Andrew?”

  Geordie hesitated, shooting another wary glance at Rowan. When Hugh moved impatiently, however, the man said hastily, “Granny said Potts told her Andrew tried to murder ’im! Said he would ha’ murdered Scrope, too. ’Cause he’s a Graham, she said, Scrope means t’ hang the lad straightway when they get back.”

  “But that must be nonsense,” Laura exclaimed. “Andrew? Murder? That charge is more absurd than the one against my sister.”

  “Aye, perhaps, mistress,” Geordie agreed. “But they do say the wee rascal fired a pistol at them. Granny even showed me the one they say he fired. Said one o’ Potts’s men flung it into the thicket when they took it from the lad.”

  “When I get my hands on him,” Rowan snarled, “I’ll soon teach him about murder—and about firing pistols without anyone’s leave to do so!”

  “I just hope you can get your hands on him,” Laura said. Turning to Hugh with a worried frown, she added, “But what could he have been thinking, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” Hugh said gruffly, wishing he could give a better answer, one that would smooth the frown away. “Ned or Geordie might know.”

  Rowan said with a rueful sigh, “Doubtless, he thought Potts and his men were reivers, mistress. Andrew’s fair got a bee in his head about shooting himself a Scots reiver. He’s talked about it ever since the bluidy Scots killed his da last year. The bairn wants revenge for Jock’s death.”

  Hugh said, “But where did he get the pistol?”

  Rowan looked at Geordie.

  “It were a wheel-lock,” Geordie said. “I left it wi’ Granny Fenicke.”

  “Likely it were Jock’s wheel-lock, then,” Rowan said. “Meggie left it at the cottage, but Andrew’s always in and out o’ the place and there’d be none to stop him from taking it.” He added grimly, “Scrope willna waste time, master. Since the raid, he’s been set on hanging as many Grahams as he can.”

  A vision of Janet flitted through Hugh’s mind. If she were to learn of Andrew’s predicament, she might well persuade Buccleuch to ride for Carlisle again. She might even go herself again if Quin were not at home to stop her, and Hugh could not let Scrope get his hands on anyone so close to him.

  “Order fresh horses saddled,” he told Rowan. “We’ll take a score of the lads with us, but tell them not to dally. I want to leave within the hour. Come inside now, mistress,” he added. “You should not be out here.”

  “Should I not?” She looked at him, her dark eyes wide.

  He supposed he looked murderous. He certainly felt murderous. But he did his best to speak more gently to her.

  “It is chilly,” he said, offering her his arm. To his surprise, she wiped her hand on her skirt before placing it on his forearm.

  When they entered the hall, he half expected to find Lady Marjory lying in wait, but the only ones there were two lads setting trenchers on the tables for supper. The thought of food reminded him that he should speak to Meggie.

  “You go along upstairs now,” he said to Laurie. “You’ll want to tidy yourself before you have your supper, and I must go down to Meggie.”

  Instead of obeying, Mistress Halliot turned and put a gentle hand flat against his chest as she looked up into his eyes.

  He felt his loins stir, and swallowed hard. “Aye, mistress?”

  “You will save him, won’t you, sir?” Her voice was low-pitched, throaty. Her gaze held his. He could hear the echo of Scrope’s words in his head:

  “She’s your wife, Hugh. Make the most of it.”

  Resisting a strong impulse to put his arms around her and promise her whatever she asked of him, he said evenly instead, “I will do what I can. Carlisle is less than ten miles from here, so even in darkness, the
journey will take only a couple of hours. I’ll not try to get back tonight, though, so don’t look for me. We’ll return in the morning, come what may.”

  She nodded and turned away, and Hugh went reluctantly to the kitchen.

  Jock’s Meggie was stirring something in the big pot that hung on its swey over the kitchen fire, her gray overskirt and red-flannel underskirt kilted back to protect them from the flames. Strands of reddish-blond hair had escaped from her cap, and wisped around her face in much the same way that Laura’s had. Nearby, her daughter Nancy cut vegetables at a small table. Her face was streaked with tears.

  In an alcove near the fire, Meggie’s baby slept peacefully in its wicker basket. The kitchen was warm and redolent with odors of roast mutton and baked bread. Hugh realized again how hungry he was.

  Meggie raised her free hand to brush hair from her eyes and saw him. Straightening hastily, she bobbed a curtsy and said anxiously, “Master, what’s to be done about my Andrew?”

  “I’ll get him back, Meggie.”

  From behind him, Nancy said angrily, “That Scrope’s taken him, as if our Andrew was a Scotsman!”

  Hugh turned to her and said gently, “Aye, lassie, but as I told your mam, I mean to bring him home again.”

  “Aye, ye will,” Nancy said confidently, “and if ye canna do it, Mistress Janet will. There now, dinna cry, Mam. We’ll get him back afore the cat can lick its ear.”

  Hugh realized with shock that the child had more faith in Janet’s ability than his to retrieve Andrew. Exchanging a look with Meggie, he said, “Don’t fret now. We’ll get him back.”

  “Aye, master.” Meggie’s tone was subdued. “I’ll pack food for ye to take wi’ ye, shall I?”

  “Thank you. Send someone to fetch a couple of lads to help you, and to carry it to the horses. I want to be away within the hour.”

  He did not linger, nor did she try to delay him.

  Forty minutes later, having successfully eluded Lady Marjory, he rode out, followed by twenty of his men, all well armed and accoutered for battle. Not only did they usually dress so when they went outside the castle wall but with both Meggie and Laura depending on him to succeed, he would bring the walls of Carlisle down on Scrope’s head, if necessary, to get Andrew back.

  The moon had risen when they reached the great castle perched on its hilltop above the River Eden, giving light enough to let the guards at the gate recognize the banner of their master’s deputy. After a slight delay, while they summoned their captain to confirm Hugh’s identity, the gates swung wide, allowing the party from Brackengill to clatter into the bailey.

  Looking up at the massive walls around them, Ned Rowan muttered, “They say Carlisle be the strongest castle in all Britain.”

  “Aye,” Hugh said, “despite Scrope’s cheese-paring maintenance.”

  Carlisle was not a showy castle of towers and crenellated battlements but a great square red keep that squatted like a piece of living rock behind plain, massive walls that extended to girdle the city. It was a castle built to keep enemies out and prisoners in, and in general, it succeeded well at both tasks.

  The only time in Hugh’s memory that an enemy had breeched its walls and a prisoner had escaped was the recent raid, and the little band of raiders had succeeded with Scrope himself on the premises. Fearing that a massive army had invaded his stronghold, the warden had barricaded himself in his hall.

  Dismounting in the inner bailey, Hugh entered the hall, accompanied only by Ned Rowan. The great chamber was filled with men, laughter, and an air of celebration. The supper tables were still up, and ale was flowing freely, for Scrope was entertaining company. The porter blew his horn to announce the new arrivals.

  “Sir Hugh Graham of Brackengill and his captain, your lordship.”

  “In good time, Hugh,” Scrope shouted, gesturing him forward. “I expected you sooner, but you come in excellent time, nonetheless.”

  Relief surged through Hugh. Despite his confident words to Laura and to Meggie, he had half expected to learn that Scrope had already hanged the boy.

  “I would have a word in private with you,” he said when he could make himself heard above the din. He recognized captains from Brougham, Dalton, Muncaster, as well as his cousin Musgrave from Edgelair.

  Scrope grinned and raised his mug, saying, “So you’ve learned about my newest Graham captive, have you?”

  “He is my kinsman,” Hugh said, his voice carrying easily to the others in the great chamber. “I have come to plead his case to you, my lord.”

  “He tried to murder Francis Potts. He could have killed me, as well.”

  “I suppose I should be gratified that you credit him with so much skill,” Hugh said sardonically. “Are you aware that he is only nine years old?”

  “He fired upon my party,” Scrope said stubbornly. “He deserves hanging.”

  “He deserves a skelping for taking the pistol without permission,” Hugh said. “Had he actually shot anyone with it, my lord, you might have cause to punish him, but he thought he was shooting Scots reivers.”

  “He was shooting at my men,” Scrope said indignantly. “Doubtless, he would have shot me, as well.”

  Noting Scrope’s choice of words, and striving to retain his calm, Hugh said, “But you were not riding with your advance party, my lord. I’ll warrant that you were some distance behind them, as usual. Moreover, you must admit that Francis Potts does not accouter his men well. They do look like thieves.”

  Laughter erupted in more than one corner of the hall, and several of the men sitting at the high table with Scrope grinned openly.

  Sir Francis Musgrave said with a chuckle, “Cousin Hugh’s right about that, my lord. I say let the young rascal go. His father should tend to him.”

  “Who is his father?” Scrope asked.

  “A deceased tenant of mine, Jock Graham,” Hugh said, adding, “He fell in a fray last year, against the Scots. The lad feels his loss sorely.”

  One of the others at the high table said, “Seems a pity to hang such a young lad, my lord. Sounds as if he need only learn to tell enemy from friend.”

  “The trouble with you, Graham, is that you’re devilish soft,” Scrope said, swallowing what remained in his mug and setting it down with a snap. “Very well, I’ll give you the young rascal, for I’ve no doubt that you’ll see him punished.”

  “Thank you, my lord,”

  “Aye, well don’t think I’m doing it to please you.” Signing to one of his menservants, he sent the man to fetch Andrew, then said, “I’m doing it because I don’t want anything to spoil my celebration. Would you not like to learn its cause?”

  Hugh nodded. He could scarcely believe he had succeeded so easily and dared not trust himself to speak. Nothing he might say could improve the situation, but he could easily, and quite inadvertently, anger Scrope into changing his mind about the boy. Scrope was entirely capable of going back on his word out of spite.

  He was grinning now, though. “I’d no sooner returned here this afternoon,” he said, “than I received word from our ambassador in Edinburgh that Jamie has agreed to turn Buccleuch over to us.”

  “That surprises me,” Hugh admitted.

  “It was inevitable,” Scrope said. “Not only did the villain raid Tynedale, killing and looting like a wild man, but after refusing to appear at the wardens’ meeting to answer for his crimes, he dared to repeat them. He made it impossible for James to refuse a moment longer.”

  “I share your joy in the news, my lord,” Hugh said. “Has King James actually agreed at last to send Buccleuch to London?”

  “Not London yet, unfortunately,” Scrope said. “Sir Robert Cary, warden of our eastern marches, is to hold him in ward at Berwick until Buccleuch can arrange pledges to guarantee that he will stand to answer for his crimes. In due time, he will answer for raiding Carlisle, I promise you.”

  “But Berwick’s only a few miles from the border!” Hugh protested. “Moreover, Buccleuch can produce such ple
dges in a trice.”

  “Aye, and doubtless Cary will provide luxury on the same scale that Buccleuch enjoyed at Blackness,” Scrope agreed bitterly. “Still, we can expect no more at this point, and at least it will get Buccleuch out of my hair again.”

  “You may come to rue his absence,” Hugh said. “He is the only man in Scotland capable of keeping Liddesdale in order.”

  Scrope shrugged. “You worry too much, but without your uncle to speak for you in London, your days as my deputy might be numbered, in any event. ’Tis a pity Loder’s no longer with us. He’d have liked to take your place. Still, if those villains set foot in England again, I’ll deal with them if you and Eure cannot.”

  Hugh felt Rowan stir at his side and curbed his own temper with difficulty.

  Scrope added, “I can see you don’t like the sound of that, but that only proves what I’ve said before.” Loudly enough for everyone to hear, he added, “You’re soft, Hugh Graham, and you’ll never be aught else. Here’s your laddie now. Take him whilst I’m still in a pleasant frame of mind, and go home to that pretty little Scotch wife of yours.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” Hugh said, bowing stiffly.

  He left the hall, struggling so to contain his fury that he scarcely heeded whether Ned Rowan or Andrew followed him. Only when the men awaiting them raised a cheer at the sight of the boy did he collect his wits. Even then, he knew that Scrope’s arrest of Andrew was not what infuriated him now. It was the man’s disrespectful reference to Laura.

  “I’ll take the lad up with me, master,” Ned Rowan said, as they reached the others. “I’ve some few things to say to him.”

  Hugh nodded, knowing he could safely leave Andrew to Ned. The big man cared for the lad as if he were his own son.

  “Hugh Graham!”

  Turning at the shout, he saw with annoyance that his cousin Musgrave was striding toward him from the hall entrance.