by Amanda Scott
“This cannot be the Esk,” she said. “We crossed it again just before we arrived at Jess’s cottage. We must be well to the east of it now.”
“Aye, that’s right,” he said. “We crossed the Esk near Langholm, where the horse races will be next month. Jess lives in Ewesdale, and this is Tarras Water. Tarrasdale is Scott country, so we’re safe enough for a bit. We’ll follow Tarras Water to the top of Pike Fell yonder. On the other side, we’ll meet with Hermitage Water and follow it along down to the castle. That way, we’ll avoid meeting your brother if he should decide to visit Buccleuch and present a demand for a hot trod. He’d follow the Liddel to Hermitage Water and follow it north to the castle.”
They rode in silence for a half hour after that before Janet noticed that the reiver kept glancing at her. His expression was unreadable, but for once she could discern no amusement. He seemed somehow to be measuring her.
“What?” She cocked her head. “Why do you keep looking at me as if my hair had turned green or I’d got a smudge on my nose?”
“Is that how you think I’m looking at you? I was only trying to judge whether you seemed able to ride all the way without stopping. You were awake most of the night, lass, and by my reckoning the morning is more than half gone.”
“You were awake all night,” she pointed out.
“Aye, but I’ll warrant that I’ve had more rest than you have these past days.”
She could say nothing to that. He had had much more time for resting.
“I’m not tired,” she said. “You need not fear for my safety.”
“This is wild country,” he said. “We’ll have no track to follow, only the water, and much of the time we will not be able to ride alongside it. There is too much shrubbery, and in places the terrain is unreliable.”
She soon found that his description of the terrain was an understatement. The country was as rugged and bog-ridden as any she had ever seen. Cumberland, by comparison, was a gentle land. She hoped the gray mare was sure-footed.
Sir Hugh Graham did not discover that his prisoner had escaped until an hour after sunrise, because his man allowed him to oversleep. Since it had been unusually late when he got to bed, Hugh had not chided his servant. The prisoner certainly would not complain if his hanging was delayed.
Accordingly, Sir Hugh had broken his fast and attended to other morning duties before shouting for his men to prepare the reiver to meet his Maker.
Ten minutes later, Geordie rushed into the hall, white-faced and wide-eyed. “Master, he’s vanished!”
Sir Hugh looked up from papers he had been reading at the hall table. “What the devil do you mean, ‘he’s vanished’?”
Geordie spread his hands helplessly. “He isna there, sir. The doors be locked, both of them, and I ha’ the keys myself.”
“Then he must be in the cell.”
“Aye, that he must, but he isna there, I tell ye. ’Tis a witch’s spell, most like, or one cast by Auld Clarty.” Geordie made a hasty sign of the cross.
With difficulty Sir Hugh controlled his temper enough to say, “Search the castle, every inch of it. And if he got outside the walls, find out how he did so. And, Geordie,” he added in a soft but menacing tone as the man turned to leave.
With visible reluctance Geordie turned back. “Aye, master?”
“If he has got away, I shall not waste his gallows. Whoever is responsible for this will hang, every man jack of them.”
Sir Hugh got up to follow when Geordie hurried from the hall, but as he strode to the doorway, another thought struck and he shouted for a lackey. When one came running from the kitchen, Hugh said, “Has Mistress Janet arisen yet?”
“I dinna ken, master.”
“Then find out, damn you!”
In minutes he learned that his sister was nowhere in the castle and that no one had seen her all morning. Within the hour he learned that the prisoner was likewise nowhere to be found.
“Shall I ha’ the lads ready theirselves t’ ride after him?” Geordie asked.
“And which way do you think they should ride?” Hugh asked curtly.
Geordie thought for a moment, then said, “North, sir?”
With a sigh, Hugh said, “Send parties to the usual places to ask if anyone chanced to see him. If you get word of the direction he took, we can organize a pursuit. Give them two hours. If you cannot get word of his direction, we shall ride to Hermitage and demand that the damned Scots find him and return him to us.”
He did not tell the man that he suspected Janet had had a hand in the reiver’s escape. If she had, she had committed march treason and there would be those who would demand her death. Angry as he was, he did not want that. He would bide his time, but he would lay hands on them both again, and when he did, he would see to it that they paid heavily for their mischief.
Janet had been following the reiver over rocky outcroppings and through boggy meadows for over an hour when he said casually, “For a lass, you ride as well as any I’ve seen.”
The compliment caught her off guard. She knew that she was a competent horsewoman, even a skilled one, but Hugh was a man who favored criticism over compliments, and he could always find something to criticize.
With warmth in her cheeks she thanked him, glad that he was not looking directly at her, for she was certain that he would discern both her amazement and her delight. She did not think it wise to give a man like Redcloak the satisfaction of knowing how deeply his words had touched her.
They did not speak much after that, except when he pointed out certain signs now and again of his own men’s passing. It fascinated her that he could tell who had crossed their path and which way the rider had gone, just from a few scratches in the dirt.
“Bless you, lass, it’s how we communicate,” he said. “If there’s a raid, we cannot always wait for everyone to arrive at the meeting place, you see. So I leave my own sign for the stragglers, pointing the way.”
Despite the signs they saw, they encountered no one, and although they pressed on without stopping more than necessary, the afternoon had advanced considerably when Janet caught her first glimpse of Hermitage Castle.
As big as it was, she thought she might have suspected its identity even had the reiver not said, “There it is, lassie, the strength of Liddesdale.”
Eerie, bleak, and forbidding, even in slanting sunlight, the rectangular castle loomed to the north of a thicket of trees lining Hermitage Water. Set against the bleak brown and snow-white moorland of Liddesdale, it was one of the largest castles she had seen, but it had little in common with the fortress-palaces that were springing up in northern England. Hermitage was stark and, except for its enclosed, overhanging battlements and iron grills over windows on the topmost level, it bore not a touch of decoration, although the high flying arch linking two corner towers at the north end was striking. To her right, beyond the central block, she could see another tower and the peak of yet another beyond it to the north. Built of squared, close-fitting ashlar, its soft brown color suited the landscape.
She had heard much about the great Scottish stronghold, for it was a royal and ancient seat. For many years it had belonged to the notorious Stewart Earls of Bothwell. During their stewardship, Mary Queen of Scots had once ridden fifty miles to Hermitage to be with her lover, the fourth earl, and had nearly died of her adventure. The fifth and last Earl of Bothwell had been a strong presence in the Borders, but it was not just his Stewart name or his personal power that had made him so. It had been his stewardship of the royal castle of Hermitage. That stewardship, and its power, had passed from him to Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch, and she had heard it said more than once that Buccleuch was an even more fearsome adversary than Bothwell had ever been.
Janet saw that Redcloak was watching her. “It is a fierce-looking place,” she said, wetting suddenly dry lips. “Must we truly go inside?”
“Aye, we must,” he said, “but you will be safe, lassie. I do not mean to hold you to ransom, nor would my la
ird allow it. We’ll think of a way to see you safe again even if it means consigning you to Scrope’s personal guardianship.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I do not like Thomas Scrope or his lady wife,” she said. “They think only of gaming, the pair of them, and their household is generally a shambles because he cannot pay his debts.”
He chuckled. “I’ve heard that said of him myself,” he said. “Also that he is a coward. What do you hear of Hermitage?”
She shrugged. “That its present master is as fierce as his predecessor.”
“Aye, that’s true enough, but Buccleuch has an image to maintain, after all. I referred to the castle’s history, though. Do you know aught of that?”
“I have heard tales,” she admitted. “It is an important stronghold.”
“If you are going to get on with folks hereabouts, it would be as well to know more than that. It has stood here more than three hundred and fifty years, after all. A chap called Sir Nicholas de Soules built it. They say he was the King’s butler.”
“Rather an isolated place to keep one’s butler, I should think,” she said dryly.
He chuckled. “Most likely he’d risen a bit before he built Hermitage. The English didn’t much care for having so strong a castle right on the Border, however, so they fought over it, and it spent nearly as much time in the hands of your people as mine during its first hundred years. Then Sir William Douglas seized it. A ruthless man was Sir William. When the King failed to make him Sheriff of Teviotdale, he rectified the error by imprisoning the new sheriff at Hermitage and starving him to death. After that the King agreed to let Sir William take his place.”
“If this discourse is intended to make me look forward to my visit, let me tell you that it falls short of the mark,” Janet said tersely.
He chuckled again. “Dinna fash yourself, lass. All will be well, I promise you. Now, where was I?”
“Explaining rather more of the history of Hermitage than I wanted to hear,” Janet retorted. “For that matter, how is it that you know so much about it?”
He shrugged. “It behooves one who answers to Buccleuch to know as much as he can about the man and his holdings. I do what I must, lass, that’s all.”
“Well, I do not know much about Buccleuch other than that he is a man whom many fear, so tell me more about him.”
“Well, he is stepson to the fifth Earl of Bothwell.”
“I have heard of Lord Bothwell,” she said sagely.
He grinned at her. “Everyone has heard of Bothwell. The Earls of Bothwell owned Hermitage for more than a hundred years, but the fifth earl forfeited his lands two years ago when he went into exile, so he has lost Hermitage forever. He married Buccleuch’s mother after Buccleuch’s father died, and it now belongs to the Scotts, to Buccleuch.”
“Because Bothwell is in exile?”
“Partly, but Buccleuch is also connected to many other powerful families, including the Douglas of Angus.”
“Did Buccleuch have naught to do with his stepfather’s crimes, then?”
The reiver shrugged, saying lightly, “I hope you know that that is not a topic of conversation in which to indulge with Buccleuch. It is enough to say that Jamie saw fit to pardon him for any wrongs he might have committed in his youth.”
They were close enough now to see men on the battlements, indeed to see gun barrels poking through several of the gun holes.
“Are they aiming those guns at us?”
“Oh, aye, I suppose they are. The Crown has spent a fortune over the past forty years, installing artillery here. They put gun holes everywhere, as if they expect the place to be attacked with artillery.”
“But surely it might be,” she replied reasonably.
He shook his head. “Look around you, lass. What are the chances that anyone is going to drag heavy artillery into Liddesdale? Bringing in those guns that you see took them months and cost several lives. Fortunately, when one brainless dolt suggested building a road to make it easier, a brighter chap pointed out that the English would get more use out of such a road than we ever would.”
“There are still arrow slits, too, I see.”
“Aye, and while Hermitage is impervious to arrows, its attackers are far more likely to carry bows and arrows than heavy guns.” As he spoke, he took off his cloak and turned it inside out, waving it over his head. “They recognize me now,” he said when a banner waved wildly from me battlements.
Janet drew a deep breath as they neared the entrance. The walls towered above her, and it was all she could do to maintain her placid demeanor. Hermitage was a stronghold, not a residence. Although Buccleuch was married, there would be no women here. Of that she was certain, for maidservants had better sense than to seek work at all-male establishments. She did not know if that small fact had occurred to Redcloak, or if he would see that it could pose any problem.
He led the way, and by the time they reached the gate, two men-at-arms and a pair of lads had emerged to greet them.
“He’s waiting above,” one said, shooting a curious glance at Janet.
She was wondering how she was to dismount with grace and without losing Jemmy Whiskers, but Redcloak had already thought about that.
“Here, mistress,” he said, tossing his reins to one of the lads and moving to her left. “Hand me the wee one first, and then I will lift you down.”
Grateful for his assistance, she did not argue but handed him the small, warm cat. Jemmy stretched and yawned but made no objection when Redcloak handed him to an astonished man-at-arms.
Grinning at the fellow, Redcloak said, “Just hold him till the lady has dismounted and can take him back. And watch weel, man. He has sharp claws.”
“Aye,” the man grunted.
Redcloak returned, and by then Janet had managed to slip her right leg over the saddlebow. Again she was grateful for the mare’s good manners, for the little beast stood as still as if she dealt with ladies and skirts every day. Redcloak lifted her down as if she weighed no more than the cat.
His hands were firm and warm at her waist, and when he set her on the ground, he drew her close enough for her breasts to touch his chest. That he did it on purpose was clear from the wicked glint of mischief in his eyes. For the first time since catching sight of the forbidding castle, she forgot about Buccleuch.
She remembered him quickly, however, when they entered the stronghold and she heard the heavy door bang shut behind them. They were in the southwest tower, in a dimly lighted chamber.
The reiver said to the lackey, “He is above, you say?”
“Aye, sir, in his private apartments.”
“We’ll find him, thank you, lad. This way, mistress,” he added, taking Janet’s elbow and urging her toward a spiral stairway off the corner of the chamber. “Just keep going up till I bid you stop,” he said.
That the master’s private apartments were near the top of the castle did not surprise her. They would be where he could enjoy the luxury of windows without worrying about invaders gaining entrance through them. At the next level, she saw through an arched doorway into a great central hall that filled most of the castle’s central block. Doubtless it was the great hall and served the men-at-arms and servants for dining and sleeping. The laird would want private accommodations when his family visited, or for any entertaining that he might choose to do.
The southwest corner tower was clearly the finest of the four. She could tell from its warmth that the kitchens lay at its lowest level. The heat from their ovens would augment that of the fireplaces on the upper floors.
“There,” Redcloak said when they reached the next level.
Janet turned and passed through a stone archway into a well-appointed hall nearly as large as the one below, with a hooded fireplace in one corner, carpets, arras hangings on the walls, cushioned benches at the long table, and several chairs, one of which had arms. Lighted by late afternoon sunlight through a narrow arched window opposite the stairway, the hall appeared presently to be unocc
upied.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Redcloak said as if it were his own home. “I’ll find him.”
Janet looked around. “Would there perhaps be…” She paused, wishing Hermitage had a hostess who would understand her predicament without words.
Redcloak grinned at her. “There is a closet just through that wee archway yonder. No one uses it but the laird and his chosen friends.”
Hoping she would not find Buccleuch there, she left Jemmy Whiskers in the master’s hall, went through the indicated archway, found the necessary, and quickly attended to her business. Returning to the hall, she found it still empty except for her cat. Picking him up, she sat gingerly on one of the cushioned benches, and as she was trying to decide if she wanted Redcloak and Buccleuch to join her or leave her in peace, she heard an unfamiliar masculine voice in the stairwell.
“So there you are! Who the devil is the wench you’ve brought with you?”
“Now, Wat—” She recognized Redcloak’s voice.
The other retorted angrily, “Mind your tongue if you don’t want to feel the flat of my sword across your back, you damned, impudent reprobate.”
“If you think you can, my lad—”
“Christ’s wounds, would you flout my authority? Scrofulous jackstraw! You deserve flogging. Why, at the very least, I should—”
“Mind your tongue,” Redcloak interjected calmly. “The lady awaits us in your hall, and I’ll warrant that she can hear everything we say.”
“Sponge-wit, when I think what you deserve for this—”
“Then do not think about it. You are too young to the of an apoplexy.”
A scowling, slender, dark-haired man who looked to be in his early thirties strode briskly through the archway, and the energy crackling from him brought Janet instantly to her feet.
Redcloak said blandly, “Laird, may I present Mistress Janet Graham.”
Still holding her cat, Janet curtsied low, knowing that she faced the Laird of Buccleuch.
“Graham? Graham!” he sputtered. “Christ’s blood, Quin, tell me she is not kin to that damned, hasty-witted moldwarp at Brackengill!”
