by Amanda Scott
In the meantime, he had to move with extreme caution, because the landscape teemed with potential enemies. Whether the bonny Elspeth was one of them remained to be seen.
Midgeholme Castle, Cumberland, England
The slap was unexpected, but Eleanor, Lady Percy, dared not complain. Clapping a hand to her stinging cheek, she gazed through welling tears at her half brother, the Scottish Earl of Angus. He had stormed into her bedchamber without a thought for her privacy, whereupon she had leaped up, thinking something horrid had happened. The result was that she had just made it easier for him to slap her.
“Well?” Angus’s voice was harsh. Although he was fourteen years her senior, age and experience had done nothing to mitigate his volatile temper.
Drawing a deep breath and resisting an urge to wipe her damp eyes with her handkerchief, she said evenly, “Well, what, sir? As I do not know what precipitated your displeasure, I can scarcely—”
He raised his hand again, menacingly.
“Archie, I beg of you! What is amiss? I have done nothing to anger you so.”
“Have you not? Have you not, Nell? Who was that man you nodded to earlier? What of him, eh?”
“What man?” Her heart was beating so wildly that she feared it might jump out through her mouth if she held it open too long. “I… I have nodded at several men since we arrived here at Midgeholme yestereve.”
“I have noted that, and since I mean to arrange a marriage for you whilst we’re here, I’ll thank you to mind your manners more carefully.”
“I do not want a new marriage,” she said, hoping to divert him even if it meant another argument on that tired subject. He had been plotting and planning new marriages for a year and a half now, and although she had managed so far to disrupt each one, she knew her luck could not hold out much longer.
“You’ll marry when I command you to marry, Nell, but presently I want to hear what you know about Sir William Smythewick.”
He was watching her narrowly, and she hoped he could not detect her relief. “I know no one named Smythewick,” she answered truthfully.
“And what of Sir Patrick MacRae?” he asked silkily.
Realizing that he had led her into a trap, she deftly turned the strength of her shock into equally strong annoyance, saying, “Godamercy, sir, if you mean to ask me about every man here at Midgeholme, I know not what to say to you. At present, the only ones I know by name are your men and our host.”
He held her gaze for a long, tense moment, but she bore up under his fierce scrutiny until he gave a sharp nod and said, “We’ll soon see, madam, for if it is MacRae, you certainly ought to have recognized him. I’ve sent men and dogs to track him down, and when they catch him, we’ll get the truth out of him. Then may God help you if you have lied to me, for I will make you sorry you were born.”
She believed him, for he was a violent man and had made her sorry before. And all this, she thought, for a single unguarded moment. She had been at Midgeholme less than twenty-four hours when, seeing a group enter the great hall for the midday meal, she had suddenly encountered the gaze of one of the last men she had expected to see at Midgeholme, or anywhere in England.
Something in his expression warned her, and she had let her gaze slide past him to another in his company. But apparently someone had noted that single unguarded instant of recognition and had reported it to Archie.
Perhaps the man in Lord Dacre’s retinue who had waved to Patrick had been the one. Whether he had recognized Patrick as Patrick or as someone called Sir William Smythewick, Patrick had slipped away soon afterward. How he had managed it she did not know. One moment he had been there, the next he was not.
“Wherever you are,” Nell murmured, “may God grant you safe haven.”
Finding the cave again, Patrick examined the area near its opening to make sure that in departing he and the lass had left no sign of their presence. Knowing he might have cause to seek the cave’s shelter again, he left signs that, while not noticeable to anyone else, would lead him back to it.
Then, deciding to give Elspeth time to settle into her normal routine before making his appearance, he explored the nearby woods in case he had to hide there again. As he moved about, he remained alert, knowing that as long as he could hear woodland wildlife going about its daily business, the nearby area was safe.
He listened particularly for altered notes in their chatter, for he knew that one could follow an enemy’s progress by heeding the squirrels’ warning scolds and the echoing cries of the raven, followed as both inevitably were by ominous silence. Most creatures fell silent at his approach, but they soon resumed their normal chatter after he passed, recognizing that he meant no harm.
The sun was much lower in the afternoon sky before he extended his rambles to include the area along the cheerfully babbling burn. Moving uphill from the water, he found a vantage point from which he could see some distance to the north. He perceived no sign of his seekers, which gave him cause to hope they had moved to the northeast in mistaken belief that he was making for Edinburgh or Stirling.
He was in no hurry, however, being more concerned with staying alive.
He was in Douglas country, and although none of that obstreperous, divided clan was in good odor with the King of Scots, Douglases still wielded strong influence throughout the Borders. Stubborn adherents to the defunct Black Douglas and those loyal to the Earl of Angus, the Red Douglas, rarely saw eye to eye, but when pressed, a Douglas of any ilk remembered first that he was a Douglas.
Fin’s Molly was Angus’s niece, but she had had scant time to cultivate her Red Douglas connections, for she scarcely knew her own mother. Angus had abducted both Molly and her little sister when they were children but had gone into exile soon afterward, taking their mother, Eleanor Douglas Gordon, with him. James, King of Scots, had controlled Molly’s wardship and had sent her to the Highlands, where she had lived happily and eventually married the Laird of Kintail.
Her mother, now Lady Percy, had reunited with Molly nearly two years before, at which time, for reasons unknown to Patrick, the two had decided that Molly’s sister, Bessie, long missing and presumed dead, was alive and being held prisoner somewhere. In hopes of persuading Angus to reveal Bessie’s whereabouts, Nell Percy had returned to England, where Angus still lived in exile.
Kintail had sent searchers to scour the area around Tantallon, Angus’s seat on the east coast of Scotland. But although they expanded the search to include the east and middle marches and Douglas holdings in the west, everyone who had heard of the child insisted she had died soon after Angus abducted her, and the searchers had long since given up. Molly had tried writing to Nell but without success, and no one at Kintail had heard from her since her return to England.
Patrick had seen her unexpectedly at Midgeholme, however—indeed, she had nearly unmasked him—and he knew that she was living as Angus’s prisoner. Therefore, despite the slight connection, he could not count on help from any Douglas and would have to take great care until he was safely out of the Borders.
When he judged the time to be nearly five o’clock, he moved purposefully toward Farnsworth Tower, easily identifiable even had he not followed Elspeth, since it was the only tower standing near the burn. The place looked secure and was clearly the property of a man of worth.
Patrick wished he had thought to quiz Elspeth more carefully about Sir Hector. He had not done so for fear of revealing a stronger than normal interest, but applying to the man for a position when he knew little about his antecedents or politics was a risky business. On the other hand, nearly everything he had done for the past eight months had been risky business.
Straightening his shoulders and grinning in anticipation of yet one more battle of wits, Patrick strode confidently to the stone stockade’s timber gate.
Farnsworth Tower was typical of its ilk, a robber baron’s fortified tower overlooking a vast expanse of land in every direction. Even the woodland flanking its water source stood at a s
afe distance, near enough for general protection, far enough away that it would provide an enemy with no useful concealment. And doubtless Farnsworth boasted a well inside its wall. Five stories tall and wide enough to look comfortable, the square tower sat solidly on a knoll surrounded by its solid stockade, commanding a clear view of approaching visitors.
The gate was shut, but at Patrick’s approach, someone shouted from the walkway atop the wall, demanding that he identify himself.
“They call me Patrick the Falconer,” he shouted back. “I beg leave tae speak wi’ Sir Hector Farnsworth.”
“Be he expecting ye?”
“Nay, but I’m told he has need of a man tae tend his birds.”
“Wait there, and ken fine that there be six armed lads up here a-watchin’ ye.”
“I’m peaceable,” Patrick shouted.
He decided that he had little to fear from the interview ahead, for he was confident that he knew as much about birds of prey as any ordinary falconer did. During the childhood he had shared with Fin Mackenzie, and since their years at St. Andrews University, the Mackenzie falconer had taught them all he knew, and Patrick had learned even more than Fin had. For one thing, the crusty old falconer had been quicker to punish faults in the MacRae whose duty it was to look after the Mackenzie than to punish the Mackenzie himself. For another, Patrick had displayed more patience than Fin. Neither had had much to begin with, but Patrick had discovered a well of it within himself where raptors were concerned.
He had to exert more patience than he liked now, first waiting for the man-at-arms to return and then for the tall, heavy gates to open and admit him.
“I’ll take ye tae the laird,” his greeter said, looking him over with a frown. Since he was much smaller than Patrick and built on a wiry frame, the man’s wary glances were not surprising. Patrick was accustomed to smaller men regarding him with both disapproval and awe, and it did not bother him except when he feared their suspicion might lead them to act without considering likely consequences.
He wondered as he often had what it must be like to look up at someone else all the time. The only man he knew who was taller than he was, was Fin Mackenzie, and the difference was slight. Moreover, since he knew that he was better with weapons than Fin, and since Fin knew he had nothing to fear from Patrick, the two had not really tested their mettle against each other since childhood. A near exception had occurred a year ago when Fin had lashed out angrily at a flippant remark of Patrick’s, and had sent Patrick toppling into the swift-flowing tidal channel between Eilean Donan’s islet and the nearby mainland.
Fin had thrown him a rope before the tide could sweep him away, and Patrick, feeling guilty about the remark, had apologized. Even so, whenever he remembered the incident, guilt nagged him. The remark, stupid and impulsive, had flown from his impertinent tongue before he had come to know and admire Molly Mackenzie. He had never apologized to her for it, although she had witnessed his unexpected swim. He had been ashamed to tell her what he had said, and he was as certain as one man could be about another that Fin had never told her.
It seemed odd that just thinking about relative sizes would bring that incident to plague him now when he was miles from both Fin and Molly, striding across Farnsworth Tower’s inner court in the wake of his guide. Generally, it was easy to separate his mission from anything personal, but as he followed the man up steep wooden steps, his thoughts drifted to Molly again. Inside a shallow archway at the top, his guide unlatched and pushed open a tall timber door, whereupon Patrick ruthlessly dismissed everything from his mind except the confrontation ahead.
In the courtyard, he had automatically noted the layout of the tower, and he knew the steep wooden stairway had brought them to the second level. When the door opened onto a wheel stair, he deduced that they were above the great hall. The guide went up three steps to another door. Rapping sharply, he opened it and led Patrick into a private chamber that was clearly a sanctuary of the tower’s master.
A colorful Turkey carpet covered the timber floor, instantly proclaiming the master of Farnsworth to be a man of wealth, for only people with money to spare walked on carpets. Most who could afford them draped cold walls with them rather than laying them underfoot. The primary piece of furniture in the room was a large, well-polished writing table upon which rested five or six thick, rolled documents, an inkwell, and an ironbound desk box. Sir Hector Farnsworth sat behind it in a carved armchair, a quill pen poised in his right hand as he looked steadily at Patrick.
Grizzled and blue-eyed, Sir Hector appeared to be somewhere in his fifties. His gray beard was neatly trimmed and his hair cut fashionably short, just touching the frilled lace at his collar band. Over his white shirt and plain green woolen doublet, he wore what appeared to be a short black gown faced with gray fur, its sleeves puffed and full from elbow to shoulder. He did not get up but dismissed Patrick’s escort with a gesture.
As the man was leaving, Sir Hector said, “Stand just outside the door, Gray. I will require you shortly either to show this man out or to take him to the mews.”
“Aye, laird,” Gray said, shutting the door behind him.
Patrick realized that he was staring at Sir Hector like an equal and quickly lowered his gaze, aware that he would otherwise appear rude or impertinent.
“My man tells me that you claim to be a falconer.”
“Aye, sir,” Patrick said.
“Where did you hear that I might be looking for such a person?”
“At Graham’s alehouse in Canonbie,” Patrick said. “A chappie there said ye lost your man nobbut a sennight ago.”
“Unfortunately, that is true. What references can you offer?”
“I ken the birds.”
With an impatient gesture, Sir Hector said, “God’s body, sir, I would hope you do, but I want to know where you have served before. If you are any good, I find it odd that you must seek work here.”
“Aye, sure,” Patrick said, nodding as if he only then realized what Sir Hector had meant. “I ha’ never served as chief falconer, sir, only as second, and I’d liefer no say where, lest ye think ill o’ me for nowt but havin’ served there.”
“I want to know, nonetheless.”
“Aye, well, it were across the line, then, at Naworth Castle, wi’ the laird there, but I dinna be English, sir, although I do ha’ kin on both sides o’ the line. Sithee, I thought it best tae learn wha’ I could where I could learn it. It were that or the reiving, ye ken, and me mam wanted better for me. She lost me father, reiving, and I promised her I’d keep tae the birds and beasts so as no tae end on a rope.”
He knew he was taking a grave risk by claiming connection to Naworth and Lord Dacre, but any tale he created would carry risk. An honest Sir Hector could not check this one as easily as some but might harbor suspicions about any man who came into Scotland from England. A traitorous Sir Hector would have contacts of his own across the line and be able to look into the story with greater ease, and since Angus had mentioned his name, Sir Hector most likely had at least one contact in England, which meant that at best his loyalties were divided.
“I know of Naworth Castle,” Sir Hector said, nodding. “Indeed, I have met Lord Dacre, because he serves as warden of England’s west march.”
“Aye, sir,” Patrick said, wincing inwardly at hearing that Dacre was a march warden. Still, the likelihood was small of a Truce Day being held under present conditions, with English Catholics fleeing the wrath of their king’s new church in droves, and with luck, he would be away soon. “I learned me craft at Naworth,” he said, “but I want tae be closer tae me kin, so I were making me way home when I chanced tae hear ye had need o’ a new falconer.”
Sir Hector grimaced. “I do, indeed,” he said. “My chap knew his birds, as you say you do, but he overstepped his place. If I employ you, I hope you will show better sense than he did.”
“I ken my place fine, sir. It be wi’ the birds.”
“See that you remember that.”
Sir Hector said, “I’ll call Gray back in now unless you have aught you want to ask me about your duties.”
“Nay, sir, I ken me duties fine. I’ll need only tae learn where I’m tae sleep and where I’m tae eat, and who tae tell when I find what supplies I’ll need.”
“Apply to my steward for supplies, and Gray will show you the chamber where my falconer sleeps. I’ll give you a fortnight’s trial unless I find cause to turn you off before then. If you prove satisfactory, I will pay you forty merks a year.”
“I thank ye, sir.”
“ ’Tis I who will thank you, I believe. Indeed, I would like you to do one particular thing for me if you are able. The King is to celebrate the birth of his second child soon, God willing, and I would take him a young hawk or falcon as a gift. Can you acquire and train one to the fist in short order, do you think?”
“How long will ye give me?”
“We leave for Stirling in about ten days.”
Patrick hesitated. For more than half that time, men would be seeking him on the Scottish side of the line. When Sir Hector raised his eyebrows, he said hastily, “The time be short, but if I can find the right bird straightaway, I can do it.”
“Excellent. See that you do. Gray!”
The door opened, but instead of the sinewy man-at-arms, Elspeth entered. Her smooth flaxen hair was tidily plaited, and she wore a simple white cap tied under her chin. She had also changed her apron for a fresh one, Patrick noted. “What is it, lass?” Sir Hector said.
