by Amanda Scott
Her tension had increased despite their obvious anticipation, or perhaps because of their silence. It had not grown so quiet the previous night until she had been singing for several minutes. They seemed to expect more of her now.
At least she need not worry that anyone would recognize her, because she had never met any Englishmen. Therefore, she could easily pretend she was no longer Baroness Easdale but just common Bonnie Jenny with a pleasing voice.
Taking her seat, she positioned her lute and began gently to pluck the notes of her first song. As usual, the sound soothed her and stirred memories of home. She played it once all the way through before she began to sing.
The love song had five verses, and by the third, she had lost herself in the music, unaware of how quiet the hall was until notes from a second lute joined hers. Sure that it must be one of the other minstrels, she hoped he would not miss a note.
Distracted only for that moment and quickly realizing that she could trust the other musician, she concentrated on the song.
A beat before she began the fourth verse, a man began to sing behind her, changing the lyrics to suit a lad singing to his love instead of a lass to hers. His voice was rich and full, his skill with the lute exceptional, so although she kept plucking the tune, she remained silent until the verse ended.
Then she stood and faced him to sing the last verse with him.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a long purple cape and a matching, white-plumed cap. Although his clothing was that of a troubadour and the rakish plume obscured much of his face, something about the man seemed familiar.
He was not a minstrel with whom she had traveled, which suggested that he must live in the castle. Not until he swept the plumed cap from his head and bowed to her at the end of the song did she recognize Sir Hugh Douglas. But she did so then with such astonishment that she had all she could do to retain her composure.
Hugh knew the moment she recognized him. He had wondered how she would react and felt a stirring of admiration when she just stiffened slightly.
She relaxed at once, smiling, and he knew the thunderous applause and foot stomping from their delighted audience helped her keep her composure.
Doubtless, too, she had not yet realized that he had come for her.
Instead she was probably wondering what had brought him. Thanks to his troubadour’s garb and performance, perhaps she suspected that he’d come as a spy.
The commander of Lochmaben’s garrison raised both hands, and the audience quieted again.
As the lass turned toward the dais, the commander said in a voice that carried easily to the rear of the hall, “We had heard of Bonnie Jenny but not that she sang with another fine gleeman. Your music pleases us. Prithee, sing us another.”
The lass curtsied to him and then turned again to face Hugh.
He bowed, hoping to indicate that he would leave it to her to choose the song. He could play most well-known ballads. For any he did not know, he could still play appropriate accompaniment after listening for a short time.
She was quiet long enough to make him wonder if her nerves had overcome her at last, although she still looked perfectly calm.
Content to watch her, he felt no impatience. Dim gray daylight showed in several very high, very small windows, but the true light in the hall glowed from a multitude of candles and cressets, gilding her shiny hair.
Having seen her before only in a formal caul and veil, with her eyebrows and forehead shaven, he had not imagined what color her hair might be.
Now he saw that her hair and eyes were exactly the same soft golden-brown. Perhaps the candlelight played tricks with her irises.
Gazing straight at him, she plucked a string, then another and another. The tune was that of a century-old ballad most folks called “Fairlie Roads,” a tale of the battle of Largs, when King Hakon of Norway, taking advantage of a famine in Scotland, had tried to assert his lordship over the western isles. The ballad derived from old seanachies’ tales, and therefore was well known. It was also many, many verses long. Hugh devoutly hoped she did not mean to sing them all.
With a smile and a nod, he matched his plucking to hers, moving closer and then standing beside her so she could turn toward the dais again and still see him. He knew the commander was more interested in her than in him, so it would be wiser for her to avoid giving the man her back as she sang.
The ballad was a favorite with Scottish military men, and Hugh knew all the words. By letting her sing the first line of each verse, he learned with relief that she skipped five verses for every one she sang, concentrating on those lauding the Scots.
Thus, they soon came to the climax of the tale, when weather favored the Scots with gale-force winds that forced their Norse attackers to withdraw in defeat.
As the song ended, it occurred to Hugh that she would be wise to avoid more military ballads, especially ones where the English suffered defeat, but she began a love song next. As he sang it with her, he found himself watching her again and was sure that every other man in the hall must be doing so, too.
Her voice was pleasant and natural, and very soothing. But it was not her singing as much as the way she seemed to lose herself in the music that made her so fascinating. She soon turned a little toward the lower hall, so that she seemed to be singing to individuals there as much as to the men on the dais.
When the song ended, they both turned and bowed to the dais. Then she walked to a table at the back where the other minstrels sat. Following her, he braced himself when the man who had led the company at Annan House rose to greet him.
“Ye’ve a fine voice, troubadour,” he said.
“I thank ye, sir,” Hugh replied, relaxing. He had wondered if anyone in the company had paid sufficient heed to those sitting at Annan House’s high table to recognize him, but if they had not recognized the young baroness, he thought the likelihood was even greater that they would not recognize him.
“ ’Twas a good turn,” the leader said. “The two o’ ye make a fine pair.”
As Hugh answered glibly, he saw that one young woman, sitting by herself at the far end of the table, seemed to pay him close heed. When Lady Easdale went to sit beside her, he deduced that she must be the missing maidservant, Peg.
Returning his attention to the leader of the company, who had just asked from whence he had sprung, Hugh decided to spin much the same tale he had spun the soldiers at the gate. “I come from Annan House, sir.”
“Indeed, how so?” the man asked.
“Sithee, I am bidden to Threave Castle soon, to sing for the Lord of Galloway and mayhap the King of Scots. My lord Dunwythie did tell me a band of minstrels that had performed for a feast there yestereve were likewise bound for Threave for that same occasion. He suggested I’d be safer did I catch up with ye and travel in your company. If ye be their leader, sir, what say ye?”
“If you can get our Bonnie Jenny to flirt with ye as ye sing, and with the men in the audience, I’ll thank ye for it. If ye think they shout for her now, think what they’ll do if each man of them believes she sings just for him. Can ye do that?”
Willing to promise nearly anything if the company would accept him as a fellow minstrel long enough for him to talk with the lass and persuade her to go quietly back to Annan House with him, Hugh nodded.
“Aye, sure,” he said. “I ken fine what ye want her to do.”
“Then ye’re welcome to travel with us. We go to Dumfries from here to perform for a sennight at the sheriff’s behest. But ye’ll no mind that, for he’ll pay us well and we’ll divide the gelt in the usual way.”
Hugh had no idea what the usual way was and no wish to meet the Sheriff of Dumfries in troubadour’s guise. But as certain as he was that he would no longer be with them when they reached Dumfries, he agreed without hesitation.
Jenny kept an eye on Sir Hugh, wondering who had come with him. She had no doubt that he had come to find her. But surely, neither Phaeline nor Dunwythie would expect her to travel
alone with a man who was not yet any kin to her, with only Peg to protect her. He had to have brought someone else with him.
A chill shot up her spine at the thought that he might have brought Reid.
The men-at-arms and their leaders had begun eating shortly after everyone gathered in the hall for the midday meal. The other minstrels performed throughout, eating as they found time, but Jenny had not felt like eating before her performance.
Now, taking a seat beside Peg, she felt ravenous.
A few others were eating at the far end of the table but paid no heed to the two young women. Staring past them at the Joculator and Sir Hugh, who were still talking, Peg muttered, “Sakes, but isna that—”
“Aye, it is,” Jenny cut in hastily. “But do not speak his name here. I cannot think how he got in or why he has come for me. I am naught to him, Peg, so he cannot care that I have come away. But he may not have come alone.”
“D’ye think he’ll tell the Joculator and all them others who ye be?”
Jenny had given the question some thought. “I don’t think he will,” she said as she helped herself from a platter of sliced lamb.
It seemed odd not to have gillies hovering or scurrying to serve her, but she rather liked knowing she need not wait for anyone.
When she had taken what she wanted, she said, “They won’t want any fuss, Peg, because anyone who did not know me well would think I had run away.”
“Aye, sure, but ye did,” Peg said, crumbling a roll.
“Nay, for I’m going back again soon. Are you going to eat that roll?”
“I’ve had plenty,” Peg said, handing it to her. “I had nowt else to do but eat, for I’m nae performer. But Bryan says I can help wi’ the mending. They’re always tearing things, he says, especially them as wears motley. Did ye ken they collect scraps o’ fabric wherever they go, to patch whatever wears out? Gawkus told me. And ye did so run away,” she added flatly.
Jenny shook her head. “I just decided to do something I wanted to do, and I’ll go back when I’ve had my adventure. I admit that I did not think it all through, though, especially consequences that you might face. I seized an opportunity, Peg, knowing well that it might never come again. Sithee, once a woman is married—”
“Aye,” Peg said morosely. “I ken fine that your man tells ye what ye should think and how ye should act, and when ye dinna do it, he clouts ye one, or worse.”
Jenny smiled. “Is that how it is in your family? I doubt that my father ever clouted my mother, because he never clouted me. In fact, he never raised his voice. Even his displeasure was quiet, but it was no less powerful for being so.”
“Aye, well, I’d liefer me own da were the quiet sort. He rages about like a dafty and me mam cowers when he’s on a tear. So do we all, come to that. Bryan’s no much like him but does as he pleases all the same.”
“I just hope I haven’t got you into grievous trouble.”
“I’ll get by, but look out,” Peg said, lowering her voice. “He’s a-coming.”
Although she kept her eyes on her food, Jenny knew Peg was not still talking about Bryan. Prickles shot up her spine, growing stronger with each heartbeat, as if the sensation strengthened with every step Sir Hugh took toward her.
“Good day to ye,” he said, taking a seat on the bench opposite them. “Folks do call me Hugo, and your leader has agreed to let me travel with ye to Dumfries.”
Although Jenny was not looking directly at Peg, she could see her jaw drop. Afraid Peg might say something that would land them both in the suds, Jenny raised the eyebrows Peg had drawn on her and said softly, “Hugo?”
“Aye,” he said with a slight smile, reaching to help himself from the platter of lamb. “Ye’ve a fine voice, lass. ’Twas a pleasure to sing with ye.”
Matching her accent to his, she said, “Thank ye, sir. Your opinion does gratify me, for ye sing much better than I do.”
“Nay, our voices differ, but they complement each other well, I think.”
Peg wriggled on the bench. “Whatever are ye—?”
“Not now, Peg,” Jenny said. “The troubadour must eat. We can talk later.”
He said, “I was thinking, mistress, that if we walk together for at time when we leave here, mayhap we could compile a list of songs we both enjoy singing. Your leader will doubtless—”
“We call him the Joculator,” Peg interjected.
Sir Hugh shifted his gaze to her, and Jenny nearly spoke up to explain that she had ordered Peg not to use titles or other formal means of address.
But he smiled at Peg and said mildly, “I thank ye for telling me, lass. The man didna say how I should call him.”
“As to that,” Jenny said. “I dinna ken what he prefers. I simply call him ‘sir,’ as I do most gentlemen.”
“Is he a gentleman then?” he asked, turning back to her.
Meeting his gaze, she said, “I dinna ken who he is or where he is from. I ken only that he was kind to us and gave us shelter. And he has a charming smile.”
“You ought not to have required shelter,” he said quietly, holding her gaze.
“I think ye should let me be the best judge of that,” she replied without a blink. “I was grateful for his kindness and feel much in his debt.”
Something hardened in his expression that sent the prickles up her spine again, but she did not look away.
Hugh forced himself to take a deep breath. He was not temperamental by nature, but when something did arouse his temper, the sensation he felt was sometimes so strong that he had to exert himself considerably to contain it.
Her mild look of inquiry had reawakened the annoyance he’d felt at having to search for her, and something more. The lass clearly had no idea of the danger in which she might have placed herself with her impulsive escapade.
He felt a strong urge to explain it to her in terms she could not ignore.
However, his quiet reproof ought to have produced a look of remorse, even alarm. Instead, she was looking at him as if she required an explanation from him, rather than the reverse.
Realizing that he could accomplish little until they were beyond the confines of Lochmaben, he applied himself to his food and said no more.
Shortly afterward, one of the minstrels came to say that the Joculator wanted them all to go outside and be sure their things were ready to load into the boats.
They would be leaving, he added, within the next half hour.
Hugh finished hastily and followed Jenny and Peg to the inner courtyard, now alive with activity. Members of the company hoisted bundles to their shoulders as men-at-arms hustled them to the forecourt and into boats, then ferried them across the water.
Because they had had to tether their horses and mules on the far side of all four ditches, in woodland some distance away, they straggled along in a sporadic line until they had collected all the animals and gathered to reload their gear.
Hugh found Lucas Horne and gave his basket into the man’s keeping, saying, “I trust you’ve made a few friends amongst the lads who tend their animals.”
“Aye, sure,” the man said, eyeing him speculatively. “T’ company be goin’ to Dumfries from ’ere, nobbut eight miles or so. Do I owe ye a silver groat, sir?”
Hugh nodded. “You do. I found them both.”
“That be that, then. When do we leave?”
“We’ll be traveling with them for a while. I’ve not yet had a chance to speak privately with her ladyship, although I believe she knows why I’ve come.”
“Then ye’ll soon sort it out,” Lucas said.
Hugh wished he felt as confident of that. Seeing Peg and her ladyship walking ahead, he left Lucas with the horses and hurried to catch up with them.
“I was told that your brother is a member of this company,” he said to Peg as he joined them. “Is that so?”
“Aye, sir,” she said, eyeing him warily.
“Mayhap you could walk with him for a time, so I may speak privately with your”—looki
ng about, he saw people near enough to hear—“with your companion.”
Peg turned to her mistress, but Lady Easdale nodded. “Go along, Peg,” she said. “He will not murder me.”
The maidservant looked doubtful, but she obeyed.
Hugh hoped that her mistress would likewise be obedient.
“As you must realize, my lady,” he said, lowering his voice to keep anyone else from overhearing, “I have come to take you back to Annan House.”
“Have you? I cannot think why you should.”
Her tone revealed only mild curiosity. Still, it nettled him. “You must know that I have come here only because Lord Dunwythie—your guardian, I would remind you— sent me to escort you back to him.”
“I do not question your purpose, sir. I question the need for you to come.”
“Doubtless you think my brother ought to have come for you,” he said.
“I do not think so at all,” she said. “I am not answerable to your brother. We shall not marry for some weeks yet.”
“Three weeks is not a long time, my lady. You should perhaps—”
“Prithee, do not call me so whilst we are with these people, sir. I warrant that my uncle and his wife would not thank you for revealing my rank to others just now. You will say what you please to me, of course, but I should prefer to stay plain Jenny whilst I am with this company.”
“I apologize and will certainly oblige you in that request,” he said. “I have been at pains to conceal my own identity, so you are right to remind me. But my position remains the same. We will depart from here as soon as we decently may.”
“I think that would be unwise,” she said.
“I did not ask for your opinion. Your uncle sent me to collect you, and he expects me to bring you home. He told me I should act just as he would.”
“Did he?”
“Aye,” he said, hoping that news would shake her from her calm defiance.
“I see,” she said. “But still, you lack his authority, sir. I am not answerable to you, and I suspect that you have no way to prove my uncle sent you. You have already lied to these good people, so to tell them now that you are someone else and have authority to take me with you… I think they will aid me to resist, do not you?”
