“I need to know what you mean to do about the Grahames,” Cicely said. “My husband should be avenged, even as he avenged his brother’s death at their hands.”
“I want no border feuding; nor did Ian, for Ambrose has told me his dying wishes,” Sir William said to her. “But I should not object if you wrote to your friend Queen Joan. Perhaps Scotland’s queen can urge her royal relations in England to speak with their warden in the northern marches. Let them punish the Grahames. It will take time, my dear, but other lives will be saved. I want no more widows like you and Marion Douglas weeping for the loss of their men. Nor do I wish to lose any more good men.”
He took her small hand in his, tucking it into his arm as they walked from the hall towards the door of the house. “I am sending you my own son to watch over Glengorm. He will come within the next few days, for the ground is already frozen and winter is about to set in. I do not want you and your folk unprotected, for while winter is not usually raiding season, one cannot now be certain, given the dishonorable actions of the Grahames. It is my duty to see you are protected, Cicely. You need have no fear, for Kier will keep you and Glengorm safe for the Douglases.”
They passed through the open door. Sir William’s horse and men awaited him. The clan chieftan kissed Cicely upon both of her cheeks, then mounted his animal and, raising his hand, signaled his men to begin their journey home. She waved her hand in a gesture of farewell, watching in the cold morning air until Sir William and his party were out of sight. Then, calling for her fur-lined cloak, Cicely walked down the path leading to the village to see her sister-in-law, Marion Douglas.
Marion’s two little daughters tottered towards her as she entered the large, comfortable cottage where they lived. Marion, sewing by the hearth, jumped up to greet Cicely shyly. “Sit down! Sit down!” she invited. “I am honored by your visit.”
“I came to tell you that Sir William came last night. He was shocked to learn that both of our men were gone. We were all so intent on Ian’s well-being that no one ever sent to him when Fergus was killed. I’m sorry.”
Marion Douglas reached out to pat Cicely’s cold hand. “I understand,” she said.
“Sir William has appointed one of his sons to come to Glengorm to protect us all,” Cicely said with a wry smile, and Marion laughed, understanding. “I thought you would want to tell your mother this news.”
“I think she would appreciate hearing it from you,” Marion said. “She has liked you from the beginning, but you rarely come into the village.” Getting up, she went to the cottage door, opened it, and called out, “Fetch my mam. The lady is here.”
Within another moment or two Mary Douglas came into the cottage, and with her came most of the women in the village. They crowded into Marion’s cottage, looking anxiously to Cicely, and remaining very silent, which was unusual.
“Good morrow,” Cicely greeted them when it became apparent that not another of the village women could get into the dwelling.
“Good morrow, my lady!” they chorused back at her.
“I thought to give my news to you first,” Cicely said to Mary Douglas, who was acknowledged as a woman of importance among her peers. Cicely understood the importance of respect given within the small community.
Mary smiled, and her eyes twinkled. “This will be easier on me, my lady,” she said. “And more will hear it right than get it wrong.”
Cicely laughed softly, and nodded. Then she turned her attention to all the women within the chamber. “Sir William came yesterday to pay his respects to the laird, God assoil him, and to bring us his condolences,” she began, and there was a low murmur of approval as heads nodded. “He is concerned for the safety of Glengorm,” Cicely continued, “and so he is sending us his son, Kier Douglas, to mount our defense against the Grahames and their ilk.” Cicely put her hand on her belly. “My bairn cannot take up the duties his father left him until he is grown. Douglas lands must not fall into the hands of others. Our defender will arrive in a few days’ time, and I wanted you to know.”
“It is good of you, my lady”—Mary Douglas spoke for them all—“to do us the courtesy of coming to bring this news. I thank you.” She turned to the others. “All right, you have heard what you needed to hear. Get you gone back to your own cottages!” And as the others exited, the older woman turned to Cicely. “When it is time for the bairn to come,” Mary Douglas said, “I want you to call for me as well as the midwife. I know as much as she does. Now, can you tell me what Sir William said about this son of his?”
“He spoke more with the priest than he did with me,” Cicely responded. “I know little other than that the man is his son, and will mount our defense for the heir.”
Mary Douglas nodded. “I’ll see what Ambrose has to say.”
“I swore to Ian before he died that I would not risk Glengorm lives avenging him, but it goes against my grain to allow the Grahames to run free. I have another way of exacting our revenge, however, and when it is complete I will tell you,” Cicely told her two companions. Then she arose. “I must get back to the house,” she told them.
When she had departed, Mary Douglas turned to her daughter. “If the bairn the lady carries is a lass, then Sir William surely means to give Glengorm to his son,” she said. “It is what I would do in this situation if the decision were mine.”
“I wonder if the lady realizes it,” Marion said.
“If she doesn’t know now, she will soon enough,” Mary Douglas said. “Well, better another Douglas than a stranger. And Sir William is clever enough to make certain the king will approve what he is doing, lest James Stewart send another to fill our dead laird’s place. These be Douglas lands, and have been forever.”
Mary Douglas was astute to understand the way of their world. But before Sir William departed for Perth, where the king was now in residence for the winter, he called his son Kier to him. The two men met privily in Sir William’s small library, where father invited son to join him in a comfortable chair by the fire, a dram of whiskey in each of their hands.
Kier Douglas was a tall, slender man with hair as black as a moonless night. He kept it cropped short, for he had no patience to bother with longer locks. His eyes were a startling blue, light, yet rich and deep in color. Those eyes now looked directly at his father curiously. “What happened at Glengorm that they needed you?” he asked his sire.
“Ian Douglas and his younger brother, Fergus, are both dead,” Sir William said.
His son raised a questioning thick black eyebrow.
“The Grahames raided earlier in the autumn. Glengorm went over the border and took back what was his, killing several of the English in the process. Ben Duff was with him, for he too had been raided. Several weeks passed and the Grahames returned to demand a parley with Glengorm. They massed themselves across that little loch bordering his village and meadows.” Sir William sipped at his whiskey, then continued.
“When Glengorm honored their request, the Grahames launched a flight of arrows across the span separating them. Fergus Douglas was killed when he threw himself in front of his brother to protect him, but Ian nonetheless sustained two wounds. The damned young fool broke the shafts of the arrows piercing him, rallied his men, and rode across the loch after the Grahames, who had now taken flight,” Sir William said.
“He rode across the water?” Kier Douglas was impressed. “He was wasting no time, was he? He caught up with the Grahames, I assume.”
“And put all in the raiding party to the sword. The carrion birds hung above the hills for days, I’m told,” his sire replied.
“Why did he die?” The younger man put his booted feet towards the fire.
“One of his wounds wouldn’t heal,” Sir William said. “He finally succumbed to it, leaving a young wife who is carrying their first child, and no other male heir in the direct line but for the priest, Father Ambrose Douglas. Fergus Douglas had a wife, but he produced only two little daughters. Both Ian’s widow and her unborn child stand in d
anger of being taken over by some other family. But it’s Douglas land, and I won’t have it fall into the hands of some other clan.”
Kier Douglas knew what was coming. He drew his feet back from the hearth.
“I want you to go to Glengorm,” his father said. “If the widow births a son you will remain to help raise him. But if she births a daughter I will make you laird of Glengorm, and your male heirs after you.”
“And the widow?” Kier inquired casually.
“There’s none that I know of who engages your heart,” Sir William said, “and ’tis past time you married, Kier.”
“Is the widow to have no say in it?” the younger man asked. “Or will she do as she is told, like all women being bartered into wedlock?”
His father smiled. “Ogilvie’s daughter was ten years ago, Kier, and you are long past sulking. Her father didn’t think you good enough for his lass. I think you were too good for her. Your mother was a Stewart. Glengorm’s widow will be practical, for her child’s sake if not for her own. Woo her if you will, for your reputation for wooing is formidable, my son. But when the night falls marry her, bed her, and get bairns on her.”
“What is she like?” Kier wanted to know.
“Auburn hair. Blue-green eyes. English,” Sir William replied.
“English? You want me to take an English wife?”
“If an English wife is good enough for the king, an English wife is good enough for you, my son. Lady Cicely was Queen Joan’s closest friend. She came with her from England. It’s an excellent match for you. Her father is an earl.”
“And she married a border lord?” Kier Douglas was surprised. “What aren’t you telling me, Da? There’s more to it, isn’t there?”
“Aye, there’s a story there,” his father answered, chuckling. “Get her to tell you how it came about that she wed Ian Douglas. You’ll be amused. Your cousin Ian was a bold man as well as a brave one, and he loved his wife deeply.”
“When do you want me to go?” Kier asked his sire.
“Immediately,” the older man answered. “I don’t want Glengorm unprotected with winter setting in, and once word of Ian Douglas’s death gets about, the avaricious will begin to gather. The lady and her folk are very vulnerable. The captain of the men-at-arms there is one Frang. Make him your ally. He’s loyal to Glengorm.”
Kier Douglas drained his dram cup, then stood up. “I’ll be gone before first light. There’s a border moon, and if I leave early I can reach Glengorm by afternoon.” He stood up and held out his hand to Sir William. “Thank you, my lord, for this opportunity,” he told his father. “I will not disappoint you.”
Sir William rose to his feet and shook his son’s hand. “I know you won’t,” he told him. “I am proud of you as your mother would have been. You’re a fine man.” Then he clapped the younger man on the back and sent him off.
Kier Douglas walked upstairs to his chamber, calling out for his servant, Quin. “We’re leaving Drumlanrig,” he said, “and going to Glengorm.”
“ ’Tis not even civilized at Glengorm,” Quin answered his master.
Kier laughed aloud. “Perhaps not. I’ve never been there, but unless you want a new master you’ll come with me, for it’s to be our new home.”
“Leave you? Never, sir! I’ve been with you since you were five, and your da took you away from the old woman in the nursery of the house,” Quin responded indignantly.
“Then let’s pack, for we’re leaving before first light. My father wants us there quickly. Winter is setting in,” Kier told his servant.
“Why are we going to Glengorm?” Quin wanted to know.
Kier explained.
“Ah,” Quin replied. “Your da is giving you an excellent opportunity. He’s always favored you, sir. You’ll be the laird of Glengorm soon.”
“If the bairn born to the lady is a lad I’ll be his governor. He’ll be the laird,” Kier reminded his serving man.
Quin shook his head. “If the bairn is a lad he will have to be healthy and grow up, sir. Many bairns don’t. Some die in their first year. Others by the time they are five or so. Nay, sir, you’ll be laird of Glengorm.”
“Don’t wish bad fortune on the bairn or its mam,” Kier Douglas said. “Losing her husband has been tragedy enough for the lady.”
“She’ll be your wife and give you other bairns,” Quin said fatalistically.
“Pack everything,” his master said. “We’ll take a packhorse.”
The two men set about stowing all of Kier Douglas’s worldly possessions in a small trunk and several saddlebags. When they were finished Quin bundled his own few belongings into two saddlebags. He didn’t have enough to leave behind. The two men then slept briefly, rising as the full border moon spilled into Kier’s chamber. They dressed in warm clothing, and Quin woke another serving man who was sleeping in the hall to gather their luggage and bring it out into the courtyard of the house, to be loaded upon the packhorse and the two horses they would ride.
And while the two servants worked, Kier went down into the kitchens of his father’s house. He wrapped a small roasted chicken, some bread, and cheese in a napkin. When he had filled both the flasks the two men would carry with watered wine, he hurried back upstairs into the hall. There he stopped a moment, looking about the room where many happy hours of his childhood and youth had been spent. He pictured his stepmother in her chair by the fire, a small embroidery frame and needle in her hands. He saw his younger siblings playing near her. By birth he was bastard-born, but he had been fortunate never to know anything but love from his family. Turning, he left the hall.
In the courtyard the animals were packed and waiting. Quin was already mounted. Kier Douglas vaulted into his saddle and, without a word, turned his horse’s head, directing it from the courtyard. Quin, by his side, led the packhorse. The landscape about them had a light dusting of snow from several days past. The full moon reflected off of it, making the track they followed quite clear. They rode for several hours, finally stopping to rest the horses and eat their scant provisions at dawn.
They sheltered by a cairn, sitting with their backs to the stones while their animals browsed, using their hooves to scrape away the thin covering of snow so they might get to the grasses below. Kier opened the napkin, tearing the chicken in half and handing half of it along with half of the bread to Quin. He sliced the cheese into two wedges, and handed one to his servant. They ate silently, sipping from their flasks now and again. All was silence about them, but then as the sun began to peep over the eastern horizon a few birds began twittering and calling. The two men stood up, brushing crumbs from their breeks and cloaks. Then, turning, they simultaneously relieved themselves before fetching the horses and watering them at the little stream that bordered the clearing where they had stopped to eat and rest.
They continued on their way, and then in early afternoon a small party of horsemen came towards them. The man leading them wore a length of gray-black-and-white plaid across his chest and shoulder. He hailed the two riders from Drumlanrig. “Would you be Sir William Douglas’s son?” the man asked them.
“Who would know?” Kier asked, watching the man and his companions carefully.
“I’m Frang Douglas from Glengorm, my lord. We’ve been watching for you, for our mistress said you would probably come today. You’re on Glengorm lands now, and I bid you welcome. We’re relieved to have had Sir William send you to us.”
“I am Kier Douglas, Frang, and no ‘my lord.’ Just Sir William’s by-blow. But my father was concerned for Glengorm, with both my cousins dead and the lady not yet delivered of her bairn. How far do we have to go?”
“An hour, my lord, no more. The lady has instructed that as you are to have charge of Glengorm you will be addressed as ‘my lord.’ For all she’s English she’s a good lass, and has pretty manners,” Frang noted.
Kier smiled a brief smile. “I will respect the lady, and see to her care,” he said.
“Of course you will, my lord,
” Frang said. “You are Sir William’s get. You will know your duty to the family.”
Kier was rather amused by this pronouncement but said nothing more, and they rode onwards. The countryside about them was desolate. There wasn’t a dwelling in sight. “Where do your folk live?” he asked Frang.
“In the village below the hall,” came the reply.
“There is livestock?” Kier questioned the man further.
“Aye, my lord, but in the winter enclosures near the barns. When the snows come we bring them in for safety’s sake,” Frang explained.
Kier nodded. It was well thought-out. “Cattle? Sheep?” he inquired.
“Both, my lord, but more cattle,” Frang answered him.
Kier had no more questions for now. They rode on in silence until at last they came to Glengorm. The house stood dark on its little rise. It wasn’t particularly large, but it looked sturdy enough, and had several chimneys from which smoke curled lazily up into the cold afternoon air. There was a stable near the house, and a lad ran out to take the horses as Kier and Quin dismounted.
A servant came up to him. “Welcome, my lord. I am Tam. I will take you to the hall. My lady has been expecting your arrival.”
“When you have brought me to her,” Kier said, “help my servant, Quin, with my belongings, and see they are taken to my chamber. I do have a chamber, don’t I?”
Tam grinned. “Aye, my lord, you have a chamber. There are several for sleeping above the hall. This way, please.” He led Kier to the entrance of the hall. “The lady awaits, my lord. I’ll return and help your man.”
“Thank you,” Kier replied. Then he stood a moment, staring into the room. It was not a large hall. His father had a spacious hall. But though it was small, there was a warmth about the chamber, with its big hearth. At one end of the room the high board was situated, and behind it a tapestry hung. The trestles and their benches were set along one wall out of the way, for they would be needed only at mealtimes. There was an old oak sideboard that was black with age against another wall.
Kier stepped across the threshold into the hall. A woman sat quietly in a tapestried chair by the fire, sewing on some small garment. There were several large hounds dozing by the fire. Two small white terriers spotted him, however, and came yapping forward to greet him. Smiling, he bent to pat them, then continued on across the chamber to where Cicely sat, the dogs bouncing along beside him. “Madam,” he said, standing before her.
The Border Lord and the Lady Page 29
