by Amanda Scott
Only too easily could she imagine herself alone with him again. Only too easily could she recall the radiant warmth of his hand, the way his deep, melodious voice had touched her soul, and the memory stirred feelings and fantasies that she had never before experienced but which she instantly recognized as wicked, or at least carnal. She remembered the way his fingers had caught hers, the way he had drawn her nearer before Geordie’s voice broke the spell. She knew from the way the reiver had touched her that she had stirred something in him, too. Could men be wanton?
That he would live only until sunrise made her want to cry, and her sorrow made her wish she could touch him just once more before he died.
In his cell, the prisoner had decided from what little he had seen of Janet Graham that she was a bonny lass but a bit of a fool. Remembering the touch of her slim fingers when she had given him the mug and taken it back again gave him some pleasure in his otherwise dismal solitude, though. He hoped again that if Sir Hugh had learned of his sister’s bold defiance, he had not been too harsh with her.
The reiver had spent most of the time since her visit thinking about her, giving his imagination free rein so long as it pictured him with her and did not dwell on images of a gallows rope. He found it easy to close his eyes and imagine himself with her. He could imagine her in his bed at home. He could imagine stroking her smooth skin—surely, it was smooth and unblemished, rosy and clean. He wondered what color her eyes were. They would be blue, he decided, a soft, true blue.
She was proud, and he liked proud women.
The door at the top of the stone steps crashed open, shattering his reverie. The flood of fading daylight from outside seemed as bright as the noonday sun. He heard the unmistakable sounds of hammers, hammering nails into wood.
“Ye hear that, ye thievin’ reiver?” The guard’s voice echoed down the stairs, reverberating off the stone walls, a roar of sound in the hitherto oppressive silence. “That’s your gallows they’re a-building, reiver. What do ye think o’ that?”
The door crashed shut again, and again blackness closed around him.
Scratching sounds at her door sometime later diverted Janet’s thoughts to more practical matters. She did not bother to command the visitor to enter, for she knew that to do so would be useless. No servant’s hand caused the noise. She went to open the door, then stood back to let Jemmy Whiskers enter.
The small orange cat strolled in, tail high in its usual stately, silent fashion, as if its size and weight were ten times greater than the reality. Studiously ignoring her, the cat padded to the hearth, where it halted and gazed at the cold stones for a long, silent moment. Then, glancing over a shoulder, it made a brief inquiring noise.
“Very well, I will light the fire,” Janet said, shutting the door and going to fetch the tinderbox. “I have had more important matters to think about, and it will not grow warm straightaway. If you are cold, you may jump onto the bed.”
She had passed the intervening time aimlessly, her mind seeming unable to grasp any thought and hold it. Her fury with Hugh proving pointless, she had tried to think of her duties, of tasks that remained undone or that should be accomplished in the days ahead. But, although the minutes passed, they did not pass with any speed. She was not a sedentary creature by habit, and the time that had crept by had shown her that long periods spent so would surely drive any sane person mad. That thought had led her inevitably to think of the prisoner again.
Kneeling to light the fire, she coaxed it patiently, aware of the cat’s intense supervision. When it was well started, she closed the shutters and drew forward a small, low bench of the sort known as a cracket. Sitting, she watched the flames, letting her thoughts take what course they chose. When the cat jumped onto the cracket beside her, she touched its head, stroking lightly.
Jemmy Whiskers purred, turning his face up into her palm and pushing against it. She stroked under his chin with a fingertip, glad of his company as her thoughts lingered on the tall, broad-shouldered man in the dark dungeon cell.
She could not doubt that Hugh would keep his word. Though he did not always believe himself bound by rules others had made, he did pride himself on being true to his word when he had given it. It shocked her, therefore, that he could so easily disdain a law that he had sworn to uphold. How dared he reduce a solemn oath to a mere quibble!
Border laws had been hammered out over the centuries to protect everyone on both sides of the line. Although the clans had occupied much the same land over that time as they did now, the line itself had changed numerous times. Even Brackengill had once been on the Scottish side—as had all of Cumberland—as part of the kingdom of Strathclyde. Four long centuries had passed since then, and throughout that time men had labored to produce the laws under which all Borderers now lived. For Hugh to ignore one of the most powerful of them was a measure of his fury with Rabbie Redcloak and his Bairns.
She wondered again what Scrope would think of Hugh’s decision to hang the reiver; however, since she could think of no way to bring the matter to his attention and stir him to act before the horrid deed was done, she rejected that line of thought as unproductive. She wondered next if anyone nearer than Carlisle could change Hugh’s mind, but soon discarded that thought, as well. If she could not persuade Hugh to do the right thing, no one could. Nothing could save the reiver now.
Unless…
She looked thoughtfully at Jemmy Whiskers. “Could I possibly do it alone?”
The little cat’s eyelids had been drooping, but they opened in response to her voice. Taking her words as an invitation, Jemmy murmured sleepily and climbed into her lap, nudging her hand with his head, encouraging her to go on stroking him.
She complied, finding it possible at last to bring order to her thoughts. He would need a horse—preferably his own if she could identify it and provide it for him—and he would need food, in case he had to hide out for a time before he could get safely across the line. He would also need to know the safest route to take. First, however, he would have to get free of the dungeon, free of the guards, free of Hugh.
It occurred to her that by now someone might have told Hugh about her visit to the prisoner’s cell. He clearly had not learned of it before their discussion in the hall, but it was only a matter of time before he did. If he had learned of it, she would know soon enough, and she would have no chance to get near the dungeon.
He had been in a hurry to get to Bewcastle, though, and she doubted that he would have concerned himself with his captive before leaving. She did not think that Geordie would have volunteered the news of her visit, in any event. Someone else would have had to do so, and most of the men liked Geordie and would have been reluctant to subject him to a tongue-lashing or worse. If Hugh had not known before leaving, she had at least a small chance of success, for he would not return until late. She had to make the attempt.
Providing the reiver with his own horse was possible if she could identify it, and the food would present little difficulty, since there was plenty left over from dinner to provide supper for the household and still leave some for him to take with him. The great problem was the guard at the dungeon entrance and anyone else who might still be awake in the stable or the bailey at an hour suited for whatever plan she decided to attempt. The middle of the night would be best insofar as the castle was concerned, for all but the rampart guards would be asleep then; however, Hugh and his men might return by midnight, and anyone moving about after that would look suspicious. She would have to act sooner.
She did not think the guards on the ramparts would try to stop a lone rider leaving by the postern gate before midnight. They would assume that the men below knew him and had approved of his leaving. In any case, she could think of no way to incapacitate the men on the walls, nor could she justify putting the entire castle at risk of attack to save Rabbie Redcloak. Besides, Hugh would kill her if he came home to learn that she had somehow disabled all of his guards.
The cat murmured, annoyed because sh
e had stopped stroking.
“I have things to do, Jemmy Whiskers.” She set the cat down and went to open a shutter and look out. The landscape was dark, and there was no moon yet. “It’s freezing,” she said to the cat. “I shall need my warmest cloak.”
Collecting a heavy, dark wool, fur-lined cloak from the wardrobe, she draped it over her shoulders, leaving the hood down while she searched for gloves. Rejecting patens in favor of heavy boots that would give her more freedom of movement, she left the bedchamber, letting the door swing to behind her. Then she had to open it again when the cat loudly protested being left behind.
Crossing to the service stair, she hurried down to the kitchen with Jemmy Whiskers darting ahead of her. The cat ran into the kitchen, but Janet paused just outside to listen. Only female voices sounded within, so she peeped round the doorway to reassure herself that the sole occupants of the chamber were the two maidservants, Sheila and Matty, busy preparing supper for the household. The sight made her realize that her hastily conceived plan required adjustment.
“Matty,” she said briskly as she entered, “I am going to walk outside for a few minutes to get some exercise before I eat my supper.”
The two maids exchanged a glance that told her they knew that Hugh had ordered her to keep to her room. However, Matty said only, “’Tis like ice out there, mistress. Ye’ll catch your death.”
“You know better than that,” Janet said, smiling. “However, if it is truly so cold out tonight, perhaps the men would enjoy a toddy later to warm them. I will think about that whilst I walk. You go ahead and serve the household when you are ready. You can serve mine upstairs after you have finished eating your own.”
“Very well, mistress,” Matty said, nodding.
Janet left through the kitchen door, walking briskly, her way lighted by the warm glow of torches set into brackets on the wall. The cold was even sharper than she had expected, for a breeze eddied in the bailey, making the torches waver and flicker. The area was sheltered from the winds that seemed always to blow, albeit not so sheltered as her bedchamber, which faced to the east, and neither was as cold as the open moors would be. She hoped that Hugh had allowed Rabbie Redcloak to retain his signature cloak. If he had not, the man would freeze. Perhaps she should take him one of Hugh’s, just in case.
She frequently walked around the bailey for exercise before supper, so the men paid her little heed. They would be gathering in the hall soon for their meal, and that, she knew, was the thought uppermost in their minds. As she walked toward the stable, she saw that many of them were already moving toward the main entrance, leaving behind only those who guarded the walls.
When she saw the stable lads join the others, she walked into the stable, noting that one of the younger men stood guard outside the door leading to the dungeon. She saw him look at her, and raised a hand in greeting.
Inside the stable, the lads had extinguished the torches while they had their supper, but radiance from those outside provided light enough for her purpose. She walked slowly from stall to stall, recognizing many of the animals by location and size. Her own gray gelding pushed its muzzle against her shoulder, and she wished that she had a sugar lump or carrot to give it. She would bring it something special next time to atone for the oversight.
At the end of the row of stalls, she found what she sought. The pony there was larger than the others, and remembering the height of the captive and the breadth of his shoulders, she knew it must belong to him. Hugh would appreciate its size, for he was also a large man. The horse snorted, and she wondered if it were uncut but dismissed the thought even as it formed. A stallion would smell the mare two stalls down even when she was not in heat. The horse stood calmly and so was doubtless a gelding.
Leaving the stable, she bade the dungeon guard a good evening. “Have you just begun your watch, or do you near the end of it?”
“Nearing the end, mistress,” Small Neck Tailor said. “Yaro’s Wat will take my place when he’s eaten his supper. Then I’ll get mine. I’ll be glad to get it, too, I can tell ye.”
“I’m sure you will,” she said. “There is plenty of the ham from dinner left over, and I saw Matty slicing cheese, so I am sure you will get plenty.”
He smiled, clearly looking forward to the ham and cheese, and she hurried back to the kitchen entrance. She had seen no sign that anyone outside remembered that she was in disgrace with Hugh. Not that the men were any more likely than Sheila or Matty to speak of that disgrace or to order her back to her bedchamber. Still, she would have much more difficulty putting any plan into action if the men believed that Hugh would punish anyone who obeyed a command of her giving.
Back in the kitchen, she found only Sheila, putting food on a tray.
“I’m nearly ready to take your supper up, mistress.”
“Good,” Janet said. “Bring some of that sliced ham and cheese, too, will you, and maybe a manchet loaf or two. My walk has stirred an appetite, after all.”
“Aye, mistress, gladly.”
Upstairs, Janet waited until the maid had brought her tray, fetched wood for the fire, and gone away again. Then, hurrying to Hugh’s room, certain that his man would linger in the hall, she found a thick woolen cloak in his wardrobe and carried it back to her room. There she drank her milk and ate some of the bread but put the ham, cheese, and the rest of the bread into a drawstring bag for the reiver.
She sat comfortably by the fire with Jemmy Whiskers curled in her lap for an hour or so until Sheila returned to take away the tray. While the maid was in the room, Janet exerted herself to look like a woman about to prepare for bed, and after that, time passed slowly, but it passed. At last, setting down the cat, she got her cloak and Hugh’s and, draping the former inside the latter, swung both over her shoulders. Their combined weight was enough to make her grateful that she did not often do such a thing.
Tying the drawstring bag to her girdle beneath the cloaks, she pulled on her gloves and hurried down to the kitchen.
Chapter 5
“I never yet lodged in a hostelrie
But I paid my lawing before I gaed.”
MATTY AND SHEILA WERE banking the great kitchen fire, and Janet’s entrance startled both of them.
Smiling, she said, “Before you and Sheila retire, Matty, I think we should take toddies out to the guards in the bailey. It is a very cold night, and I do not want them making excuses to slip inside rather than stay at their posts where they belong. Fetch some cider, please, and pour it into the pot on the hob. We’ll use the poker to hurry the heating, so set it in the coals now to get hot. Sheila, do you know where Sir Hugh keeps his brandy?”
“Aye, mistress,” the girl said, her eyes widening, “but we’re no allowed—”
“Never mind, I’ll fetch it,” Janet said. “The men are due a treat, but you are quite right to remind me that he does not like the servants to touch his spirits. I do not want his wrath to fall upon you for this instead of on me. Fetch out a half-dozen chopins. That should be enough, I’d think.”
“Aye, mistress. Are ye sure, then, about the brandy?”
“You just heat the cider,” Janet said, hurrying from the kitchen to Hugh’s small private chamber near the hall, where she knew he kept his French brandy in a wooden chest. She could hear the men in the hall laughing and talking, and someone playing a lute. They were settling down for the night, and since most of them slept in the hall, they would not disturb her.
She knelt beside the chest to open it. It was not locked, for Hugh believed—and with good reason—that no one would dare take anything from it. Since she wanted to make the toddies sufficiently potent to dull the guards’ alertness long enough to serve her purpose, she was tempted to take three bottles; but she decided that Matty and Sheila would balk at such a blatant misuse of their master’s brandy. The cider was potent even without the added brandy, and on such a cold night the men had doubtless drunk a good deal of ale with their supper. She settled for two.
Carrying the
bottles back to the kitchen, she opened them and poured their contents into the pot of warming cider.
“Mistress Janet!” Matty was scandalized. “Sir Hugh never said to give those men all that brandy to drink.”
Janet winked at her. “Sir Hugh annoyed me today, Matty. This will serve as excellent punishment for him, and the men will be glad of its warmth.”
“That cider’s strong by itself, mistress,” Matty said, exchanging a look with Sheila. “With brandy added, ’tis more like to put them to sleep, I vow.”
Sheila frowned. “The master will be gey wroth wi’ ye, mistress.”
Suppressing a shiver at how wroth her brother would be, Janet managed to say lightly, “He has been wroth with me before, and I expect that he will be again, but the men out there are cold. If they spend all their time stamping their feet to warm themselves, or slip indoors to seek warmth, they will not guard us well. I believe that if we do them a kindness, they will exert themselves more, and with reivers about, perhaps thinking about rescuing their leader…” She shrugged, letting their imaginations fill in the rest.
Matty said, “Sir Hugh’s new wall is stout, mistress. No heathenish reivers will get through it.”
Sheila did not look as confident, but since neither woman offered more argument, Janet was satisfied. In other circumstances she might have taken the opportunity to explain Matty’s error, but presently it suited her plan to let them both think scornfully of raiders, and to believe that with the guards even half-awake, Rabbie’s Bairns could never breach the castle’s stone walls.
When the cider was hot, she told Sheila to finish banking the fire and then to take herself off to bed.
“Matty can help me carry the toddies out to the men,” she said.
“I’ll help her, mistress. Ye oughtn’t to go out again on such a cold night.”
“Don’t be daft,” Janet said. “I’m dressed more warmly than either you or Matty. Moreover, there must be no doubt in Sir Hugh’s mind that this was my doing, so the men must see me. Now tend the fire as I bade you, Sheila, so that Matty can go to bed as soon as we have finished.”
