The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

by Amanda Scott

  “You know Cardinal Beaton?”

  “Aye, I do.”

  “But he is very powerful. Even Sir Hector holds him in awe.”

  “I don’t doubt it. I swear the man has agents throughout Scotland and England—in Europe, too, even at the Vatican. I am but one amongst hundreds, and I nearly met disaster following someone for him from London to Cumberland.”

  “Who?”

  “That I am not going to tell you, mo chridhe. You are safer not knowing.”

  “That’s why you were running from those men the day we met.”

  “Aye, their master and his friends would like to see me hanged.”

  “How did they unmask you?”

  “A man I knew years ago recognized me. Fortunately, he thought I had good reason to be there, and I managed to slip away before he could learn his error.”

  “It seems to me, if you were deceiving people, you should have expected that to happen,” she said. “Spying is a crime, is it not?”

  “I can see we need to discuss this at length,” Patrick said. “It was not, however, the conversation I had in mind a few minutes ago.”

  She did not smile, and her voice was tight when she said, “I know it is not. Clearly, you are a man of consequence, so I suppose I should not think less of you for expecting a woman in my position—particularly one so brazen as to follow you across the west march—to fall into your arms at the first hint that you’d welcome her. But I do think less of you. Men in your position should take more care.”

  “You are right,” he said quietly, feeling small.

  “I know I am,” she said. “A man in your position wields power over lesser persons and should, therefore, treat them with careful respect.”

  “Mo chridhe, I—”

  “l asked you before not to call me ‘sweetheart,’ ” she said, stepping away from him. “I would prefer that you just call me Beth.”

  “Master!” Jock shrieked. “Mind Zeus!”

  Startled, they turned as one to see the hawk rising into the air, jesses dangling. The creance had come loose, and Zeus was flying free.

  “How did ye do that, Claud?” Lucy asked.

  “Me! I thought ye did it. Should we bring it back?”

  “Nay, I’m no so clever as that,” Lucy said innocently, “And I dinna think we should interfere, Claud. D’ye no want tae ride the hawk?”

  He regarded her suspiciously. Was it possible that his current love was playing tricks on him? “I dinna want tae ride the hawk,” he said firmly, still watching her. “We’ll just keep our eye on the lass, as we should.”

  Beth stared in horror as Zeus soared up and away. She had heard tales of hawks and falcons escaping only to be entangled on branches by their jesses and left to hang upside down until they died.

  “Keep watching,” Patrick ordered. “He’ll be seeking prey. He has not eaten.”

  Hearing Thunder bark, Beth glanced away from the hawk long enough to see that the deerhound had abandoned their campsite and was loping after him.

  “What if Thunder catches him?” she cried.

  “He won’t, but mayhap he can keep pace with him. Zeus will take to the trees. Jock,” he shouted, “run up to the ridge and shout if he heads toward our camp or over into Annandale. We must catch him.”

  The boy dashed up the hillside.

  Beth saw Zeus circling lower over woodland below them.

  Patrick saw him, too. “Those woods lie along Douglas Water,” he said. “I’ll head toward the north end of them. You go south.”

  Their mission seemed doomed to failure, but Beth obeyed without question. Entering the woods, she listened for any sign that the hawk was near but heard only rushing water nearby, and Patrick’s whistling. It was the hawk’s special tune, and she knew that as long as she continued to hear it, Zeus had refused to obey its call.

  She tried to whistle the tune herself, but she could not get it right.

  Slanting golden sunbeams pierced the canopy overhead. It was too thick to let her see the sky, and thus her chances of finding the hawk seemed dim. She kept walking and watching, but her thoughts drifted back to when Patrick had kissed her.

  They had been so happy, so filled with laughter, and yet the mood, her mood, had changed abruptly. She knew that she cared for him. Indeed, she cared too much for her own good, but no matter what Maggie Malloch had said about following her heart, following it now could bring her nothing good.

  Things had been bad enough when she had thought Patrick was just a man of somewhat higher stature than a falconer. To learn that he had actually spoken to Cardinal Beaton, the man many called the most powerful in Scotland, meant the falconer was far grander than she would ever have imagined.

  He had said, too, that he had a master who was hostage to the King. Ordinary gentry did not have masters who drew royal attention, nor did they give orders as casually as Patrick did. Plainly, Patrick was a man of rank, and men of rank did not marry maidservants—not even ones to whom wee people appeared, and just, one middle-aged, rather plump wee person at that.

  She saw movement ahead, and for a moment thought fearfully of wild boars and the like. Then she recognized Thunder running through the trees like a fleet but silent gray shadow. He did not bark, but when he stopped a few yards from her and turned, she knew as clearly as if he had spoken that he wanted her to follow.

  Catching up her skirts, she ran, following him easily, leaping over fallen logs and darting around bushes as if her feet had taken wing. When he stopped again by a tree and looked up, she knew what she would see, and even before she reached it, she heard Zeus mewing overhead like a lost kitten.

  The tree had been lightning struck, for its top was charred, and Zeus glared at her from a high, stubby black limb, his fierce look at odds with his pathetic mewing.

  “Good lad, Thunder,” she said quietly, patting the dog’s rough fur. “Fetch Patrick now.” She pointed. “Go.”

  She was accustomed to feeling as if animals understood her, but those animals were, for the most part, ones she had grown up with. So it was with particular satisfaction that she saw Thunder lope off toward where she had last seen Patrick. She did not want to shout for him, lest Zeus take fright and fly away.

  He cheeped again, and she said, “Foolish Zeus. Not many goshawks would reject a home in the royal mews.” She held out her gloved fist. “Come down, Zeus.”

  Again she tried to imitate Patrick’s whistle, but Zeus turned, flicked his tail at her, and disdained further acknowledgment of her invitation.

  “Zeus, please.”

  The hawk turned and glowered at her, hunching a shoulder.

  Did he realize that she had no food for him? It had been foolish to come after him without a bit of rabbit liver. Were his jesses tangled on the limb? They did not seem to be, but perhaps—

  With a single flap of its great wings, the hawk lifted off the branch and swooped down to her glove.

  Startled, she nearly ducked away but managed to hold herself steady.

  “Good lad,” she said, just as she had to the dog. Then, realizing that Zeus was still free, she caught his jesses and wrapped them securely around her gloved fist, saying, “Patrick will be pleased with us both, I think.”

  She walked slowly and steadily, but apparently Zeus had had enough adventure for one day, because he sat quietly, giving a soft mew or cheep from time to time, as if he were chatting with her.

  As she emerged from the woods, she heard a distant feminine shriek and saw Thunder nearing the crest of the hill, racing in the direction of their camp.

  More shrieks followed.

  She saw no sign of Jock, and since she was sure Thunder would have stayed with Patrick had he found him, she hurried after the dog. As she crested the hill, still some distance from where they had made camp, she saw several armed men. One reached out and grabbed Thunder by the scruff of his neck.

  As he did, the dog’s speed and weight pulled him to one side, revealing the astonishing sight of a large, redhe
aded figure sitting on a flat boulder near the little burn where they had camped, wrapped in a voluminous cloak and petticoats with its head submissively bowed.

  Claud and Lucy Fittletrot suddenly found themselves sitting in a ring of bright flowers on a sunny hillside, staring at each other in amazement.

  “What happened?” Claud demanded. “What did ye do?”

  “I? I did nowt! What did ye do?”

  “Ye ken fine that I did nowt,” he snapped. “One minute I were watching our lass seeking the bird, and the next I were here a-staring at ye. What place is this?”

  Lucy shrugged. “We are near the dancing place, I think, where me people play music and dance every night. Will ye dance wi’ me, Claud?”

  Exasperation stirred. “Lucy, we canna dance till we find the lass.”

  “We’ll find her, Claud. They be going tae Stirling, they said. We’ll find them there, ye’ll see. They willna get there for a day or two, but I can amuse ye betimes.” Giggling, she leaned over and pulled off his shoe.

  “Here! What be ye doing?”

  Lucy lay on her stomach and caught hold of his toes. “I’ll show ye summat ye’ll like, Claud. Pay heed now.”

  Her hands were warm on his foot, and her fingers pressed firmly into the pad below his toes. The feelings that shot through his body were unlike any he had felt before, and when she began to suck his toes, he nearly swooned with delight. All thought of his charge slid into oblivion.

  After sending Beth to the south end of the woods, Patrick had headed north toward the confluence of Douglas Water with the River Clyde. They had been following Douglas Water since late the previous day, and they would follow the Clyde when they met it until they reached Bothwell Castle, where he knew a track that headed north, skirting Glasgow.

  They were deep in Douglas country, and he had taken care to avoid meeting travelers, keeping to ridges, away from the main tracks, which followed the water routes. But with Zeus free, he had no choice. If the hawk looked for a perch, it would seek barren top branches such as those he could see amongst the trees near Douglas Water. So intent was he on watching the sky that he nearly missed the movement of horsemen through the woods near the bottom of the hill.

  The riders wended their way south, clearly following Douglas Water, and they would soon encounter Beth if she did not have enough warning to elude them. From where he stood, he could see sunlight glinting on steel weapons or jacks-of-plate, but he could not make out any banner that would tell him who they were.

  Trepidation stirred, not for himself but for the lass. Not only were they in territory where doubtless many were loyal to Angus but the riders could be English, searching for him. Or, they could as easily be armed henchmen of some local baron, or—even this far from the Border—they might be Jock’s reivers looking to reclaim Jackie the pony. In any event, Patrick dared not trust them to leave the unguarded Beth alone. At best, they would enjoy teasing her. At worst—

  On the thought, he turned and ran up the hill, away from the trees, knowing that at least one horseman would be alert enough to spy such movement. If he could get over the ridge to the other side, he might reach their camp in time.

  When he heard a shout, he knew the riders would follow, but even so, until he reached the ridge top, he affected a limp, hoping that if they believed him injured, they would also believe it unnecessary to push their horses up the hill. Once over the crest, he increased his speed, running full out until he reached the shelter of the woods where they had camped.

  Unsheathing his sword as he ran, he flung the sheath, belt, and his jerkin into thick shrubbery, yanked the borrowed cloak, wig, scarf, and petticoats free of the pack where he had stowed them, jammed the wig on his head, and scrambled into the clothing. He was not concerned about how it fit, only about concealment.

  As he tied the cloak strings and straightened the petticoats and wig, he realized that his rawhide boots might give him away and that if he moved about, the cloak would not cover him sufficiently. So he sat on a flat boulder near the trickling burn and yanked and arranged the petticoats to cover all but the tips of his boots. Sliding his sword under a pile of leaves at the base of the boulder where it would be handy if he needed it, he straightened his wig, wrapped the scarf around his neck, and tucked his chin down into it, hoping the arrangement and the quick shave Jock had given him that morning would suffice to conceal his gender.

  It was shady, so he could avoid strong sunlight, but as he watched the horsemen bearing down upon him, his heart seemed to pound in time to the thundering hooves. He still could not make out the banner, but when he judged that the time was right, he let out a falsetto shriek, paused, and then screeched again. The first rider wrenched his mount to a plunging halt and slid from the saddle, drawing his sword. “Why the devil be ye screeching, ye auld besom?”

  “An enormous man! Limping!” Patrick made a gesture toward the tumbling burn, careful not to disarrange his cloak. “Yonder!”

  The first man waved three others on, but two stayed with him.

  Patrick now recognized their banner, but it was too late to take advantage of it had he dared to do so. Silently, he cursed the first man for not leading all five of his cohorts off after the mythical limping man.

  “What be yer name, mistress?” the leader demanded.

  “Pray, do not leave me,” Patrick said, clutching his hands together under his chin and hoping the weak falsetto voice he affected sounded feminine enough to keep them from snatching off his wig. “That horrid man gave me such a fright!”

  “Ye say ye saw a man wha’ limped pass this way?”

  “Did I not just say so, sir?”

  “But what be ye doing here all alone like ye are?”

  “I… I’m waiting for my mistress and… and her page.” Perhaps if they thought their search had disturbed persons of quality, they would move on.

  “Who be your mistress then?”

  “I do not think her identity need concern you,” Patrick said haughtily.

  “Now, see here—”

  A shout from one of the others diverted his attention, and Patrick, following the shouter’s gesture, saw Thunder dashing toward them.

  “Christ Jesus,” the first man exclaimed. “Seize that fiend, one o’ you lot.”

  Seeing one of the others reach for the bow stretched across his back, Patrick said quickly, “The dog is friendly and quite valuable. Do not harm him!”

  “That be a deerhound,” the leader said.

  “Aye,” Patrick said.

  The man looked at him more narrowly. “Stay your hand,” he said to the man with the bow. “Deerhounds belong tae clan chiefs and the like. Catch it instead.”

  The erstwhile archer slipped from his saddle and faced Thunder, arms wide.

  “Look yonder,” the third man shouted. “A lass comes!”

  The leader looked at Patrick. “Your mistress?”

  “Aye, and if you value your life, my man, you will speak respectfully to her. Her father does not tolerate disrespect to his daughters.”

  The man trying to catch Thunder did so then, and although he stumbled a bit trying to hold him, the great dog stopped readily enough. Then it turned and stood calmly, watching Beth’s approach.

  “What manner o’ bird be she carrying?” the leader asked.

  “A peregrine falcon,” Patrick said instantly, hoping the man knew as little about birds of prey as it seemed he did. It was all he could do to suppress his delight at seeing Zeus again, and he wondered how the lass had managed to capture him. He added tartly, “lf you know aught of peregrines and the laws that govern them—”

  “Aye, I ken well that a peregrine be reserved for them o’ high estate, just as a deerhound be,” the leader said.

  “Earls, in fact, and men of even higher rank. Take care how you speak.”

  Beth strode toward them, her skirts swirling about her feet, her fist held high. Her flaxen hair was loose and flowing free, her stride was long and swift, and the hawk lifted its w
ings wide from time to time, steadying itself. They made a magnificent picture, Patrick thought, but his hands itched to wring her neck for walking so swiftly into danger. He barely dared to breathe.

  She stopped some yards away, looking uncertain and wonderfully beautiful.

  Before anyone spoke, Jock stepped out from behind a tree and bowed low, saying cheerfully, “Welcome back, me lady. How did ye fare wi’ your hunting?”

  Accepting her cue, Beth said, “We fared well, thank you, lad.” Pretending to ignore the men-at-arms, she looked at Patrick, saying, “Who are these men, Sadie? I do not recognize their banner, but I trust they’ve not dared to molest you.”

  Zeus bent his head to examine the tear in her sleeve.

  “Nay, my lady,” Patrick said in the grating, falsetto voice he had affected, his eyes narrowing. “As to who they be, I cannot say.”

  “What be your name, mistress?” one of the men demanded.

  Recalling Jock’s words and what Patrick had said about deerhounds, she gathered Lady Farnsworth’s persona to herself, ignored Zeus’s interest in the scratch he had put on her arm, and said haughtily, “I am Lady Elizabeth Douglas.”

  She felt safe enough, because although Patrick had said they were in Douglas country, she knew that the banner the men carried was not a Douglas banner. To the leader, she said, “Who are you, sirrah, that you dare to question me?”

  “Ye shouldna be wandering about on your own, m’lady,” the leader said.

  “Insolence! Do you dare give me orders, as well as to question me?” Now that, she thought, was pure Drusilla.

  “Nay, mistress,” the man said, “but since we dinna ken the man who ran this way, and since we ha’ no captured him, I’d advise ye tae go home straightaway.”

  “Very well,” she said, abandoning her haughty attitude in favor of a more conciliatory one. “We are going to my uncle. He will look after me.”

  “Aye, sure, and who would your uncle be then?”

  Since she had not the slightest idea whom to name, she was grateful when Patrick said, “We go to Bothwell. Her ladyship stopped only to let the hawk hunt for its dinner. I told her we should not tarry, but she does as she pleases.”