by Amanda Scott
“I’ll wear my hair in a net,” she said as Ardith fastened the tiny hooks and eyes on the tight bodice. “I will show you later how I like to arrange it, but I want to inspect the household today, and it will look tidy enough in the net.”
“’Tis gey beautiful,” Ardith murmured, her attention focused on the lacing at the back of the bodice. As she drew the laces tighter, she added, “I ha’ never seen hair as pale as what yours is. Almost silver it is, like moonlight.”
“Aye, and it is gey fine, too,” Janet told her with a chuckle. “You will find that it does not plait well, or curl. I like to twist it in a knot at the back of my neck, to keep it out of the way, but when we must bow to fashion, there are ways.”
“’Twould be a pity and all to crimp it, I’m thinking,” Ardith said with a speculative look.
“And useless,” Janet told her. Twenty minutes later, she stood before the looking glass, pleased with what she saw. Her hair was smoothed back from her brow and confined in a ribbon-trimmed net. The green satin dress made her eyes look green and gave her skin a soft, creamy look. Pinching her cheeks to force more color into them, she announced herself ready to inspect the household.
“Ye’ll be wanting to break your fast first,” Ardith said.
Janet agreed, and allowed the young maidservant to guide her to the master’s hall, where she found Sir Quinton discussing a meal rather larger and more varied than what was customary at Brackengill. Joining him, she contented herself with a freshly baked roll and a mug of milk.
“I like that dress,” he said. “It becomes you well.”
“Thank you,” she said. “It was kind of you to buy me more clothes.”
“You’ll need more than those,” he said. “We’ll ride into Hawick one day soon, so you can meet Francis Tailor.”
“I am almost afraid to face him,” she said. “I shudder to think what you must have done to make him provide such a fine wardrobe for me.”
He chuckled. “He was glad he could please me—and please Buccleuch, too, for that matter. If you are worried that Lady Roxburgh is running around naked, you need not. Her husband will thank me for saving him the expense.”
“Let me write to Hugh before you commission any more,” she said. “Doubtless once he’s got over his anger, he will send my things to Broadhaugh.”
“Don’t count on that, lass,” Sir Quinton warned. “He said he’d see you married in your smock, and he meant it. I doubt that he will give in easily. At all events, we won’t ask him for favors yet a while. I can provide all that you need.”
“You should not have to do that,” she protested. “I am entitled to a dowry.”
“Nevertheless, we will not trouble your brother. I am not Croesus, Jenny, but I can look after my wife.”
She opened her mouth to object again to the nickname, then shut it when she saw that he was gazing at her with amused anticipation.
Gently, he added, “You will want things for the household, too, I don’t doubt. Make a list.”
Glad that he was proving to be reasonable, Janet turned her attention with pleasure to the household, soon finding her feet in familiar tasks and problems. She had feared at first that Sir Quinton’s people might look upon her as an interloper, but she quickly learned that everyone at Broadhaugh shared Ardith’s delight. Not only had word spread that Janet had rescued their master but his people seemed to take pride in having a mistress at Broadhaugh again.
The next week passed in a flurry of housework. At Janet’s insistence, Sir Quinton hired more maidservants. The kitchen buzzed with activity. Mops and brooms found their way into areas that had not seen the effects of either in two years, and the flagstones in the hall gleamed after a good scrubbing. Wood shone with new polish. Bed curtains and window curtains came down to be shaken, even laundered, and then went up again. Arras cloths, too, came down to be cleaned. Glass windows glistened again, and men dusted and painted every shutter.
Janet discovered with delight that smoke-blackened beams in the hall and bedchamber ceilings, when cleaned, revealed brightly painted scenes, some illustrating familiar Biblical texts, others well-known ballads. Linen presses were turned out, chimneys cleaned, and every pot was scrubbed. Indeed, in less than a fortnight every corner of Broadhaugh showed signs of her energy and competence. No longer did chimney soot fall into pots to flavor everything cooked over the kitchen fire. Maidservants sang as they set to their work; delightful odors emanated from the kitchens, putting smiles on the men’s faces as they attended to their chores; and laughter frequently rang through the castle.
Sir Quinton’s man, Tip, became Janet’s willing slave and, whenever his master did not require his services, could be found harrying lackeys to do her bidding more quickly, or doing small favors for her himself. Janet had arranged for Tip’s elderly mother and numerous other tenants in similar circumstances to receive fresh-baked bread from the castle bakehouse once a week, just as she had done at Brackengill, and Tip was almost puppy-like in his gratitude. She supposed that once the cheerful little man grew accustomed to her ways, his close attendance would ease, but for the present she welcomed help from any quarter.
At the end of the fortnight, Sir Quinton made good his promise to take her to Hawick, and despite the awkwardness of the sidesaddle Margaret had lent her—which he insisted she use—both the excursion and the bustling little town delighted her. They entered through the west port at the top of a row of houses that divided two streets, and followed the one on their right until they came to an intersection.
Sir Quinton said, “We’ll follow the Howegate down to the Auld Brig, which connects the western portion of the town to the High Street.”
“Hawick is larger than I expected,” Janet said.
“Aye, well, it’s the only proper town south of Jedburgh. Its biggest claim to fame is that when the English attacked thirty years ago, the townsfolk threw all their thatch into the streets and set it afire. The smoke was so strong and smelled so bad that the raiders could not enter the town till they had put out the fires. It was ironic, too, because before then the English had spent the day setting all of Teviotdale afire and had come to Hawick expecting to find food and shelter. Instead, the townsfolk, knowing their purpose, took all their goods to Drumlanrig Tower yonder.” He pointed toward the tall stone pele tower on the east bank of the Teviot.
“What did the English do then?”
He shrugged. “They burned the rest of the town. Most of these buildings are new since then, although they spared Drumlanrig. Although Douglas is kin to us, he was friendly to Elizabeth then, and they did not want to alienate him by burning his tower. We’ll cross here,” he added. “Francis Tailor’s shop is by the Market Cross.”
Janet nodded, content to follow where he led, and when they reached the tailor shop, she found Francis and his wife helpful and her new husband generous. Not only did he buy her clothing but also a new sidesaddle similar to the Italian saddle Hugh had given her. By the time they returned to Broadhaugh she was in full charity with him. She looked forward to showing off her new wardrobe and felt confident that they would deal well together. Thanks to his delight in her as a bed partner and housewife, and her determination to bring Broadhaugh swiftly to her high standard, this happy state of affairs continued for some time.
That Sir Quinton still showed little interest in preparing ground for crops Janet attributed to continuing gloomy weather. Although the air had warmed enough to bring sleet or rain rather than snow, she knew that spring might not reveal the effects of its gentling hand on the landscape for several more weeks. He had mentioned having business to tend in Edinburgh, but he did not think it safe to leave her or Broadhaugh just yet. Still, she could tell that he was growing bored with lack of real action, and restless. The only thing he seemed to talk about with much interest was the forthcoming horse races at Langholm.
When word reached them of a raid carried out by the men of Eskdale against a hamlet in the English west march, she could almost feel hi
s yearning. Wisely, she said nothing, but when Buccleuch and Margaret paid a visit nearly a month after the wedding, not an hour had passed before she spoke to Margaret of her concern.
“He’s like a hen on a hot griddle,” Janet said after a tour to show off the changes she had wrought. The two women had settled in a small sitting room near the room she had taken for her bedchamber, just above Sir Quinton’s.
“I know what Quin can be like,” Margaret said with a chuckle. “Let me see if I can help remedy the situation.”
When they sat down to eat their supper that evening, Buccleuch said abruptly, “I’ve been thinking, Quin. I ought to have a deputy, and you ought to learn what duties I bear as march warden and as keeper of Hermitage and Liddesdale.”
Looking interested, Sir Quinton said, “What would you want me to do?”
Buccleuch shrugged. “As to that, who can say? You could go along as my aide to the Truce Day if that want-wit Scrope ever makes up his mind where to hold the blessed thing. Perhaps I could also leave upper Teviotdale in your care whilst I’m fixed at Hermitage. The title of deputy will give you more power, and perhaps I can arrange for a small stipend from Jamie, as well. What say you?”
To Janet’s surprise, Sir Quinton did not point out that Buccleuch had never before required the services of a deputy, or to enumerate duties that would make serving difficult—the sort of casual argument that she had learned was characteristic of him. He just nodded and said, “I am yours to command, Cousin, as always.”
“Good, that’s settled then.” Buccleuch looked at his wife and grinned.
Margaret quickly asked Sir Quinton a question about one of his tenants, and Janet hoped that he had suspected nothing untoward in Buccleuch’s sudden offer.
If Sir Quinton suspected her hand or Margaret’s in his new position, he said nothing about it. Indeed, he seemed to take the new duties seriously, even to enjoy them, and she began to hope that his raiding days truly were over. She indulged this hope for no more than five days, however, before she discovered its futility.
On the evening of that fifth day, she and Sir Quinton were walking together in the bailey, chatting with lads who were tidying up at the end of the day, when the guard at the postern gate suddenly flung it wide to admit Hob the Mouse. The big man leapt from the saddle before his pony had come to a stop.
“Master,” he cried, “raiders from Kielbeck have raided Cotrigg village! They forced everyone outside, then fired the cots and killed Ally the Bastard’s wife, his cousin Jock o’ Tev, and Jock’s three bairns!”
Shocked, Janet gasped, “They killed children? They cannot have done that!”
Sir Quinton’s hand clamped onto her arm, silencing her. “Gather the lads,” he ordered. “We’ll meet at the usual place in an hour.” As Hob ran back to his pony, Sir Quinton said grimly, “You go inside, lass, and stay inside. I’ll leave lads to guard you, but take no chances. Don’t even stand near a window until I return.”
“But who can have done this? And where are you going? We’ve enjoyed weeks of peace, sir. Don’t you see that if you retaliate it will all start again?”
“What I see is a disobedient wife,” he retorted. “Get inside and upstairs now, where I know you will be safe from harm. I must go.”
“But—”
The rest of the sentence stopped in her throat when he grabbed her arm and pushed her ahead of him into the castle. Inside, he released her, but when she turned angrily to face him, he snapped, “Get up those stairs, and don’t argue with me. This is not a matter of countries or kinsmen, or one that lies just betwixt you and me. They have attacked my people and my land. You cannot expect me to let them get away with it. Now, not another word unless you want to make me really angry, and I promise you, you don’t want that. Go on now.” He pointed, and she went.
Chapter 13
“‘Go saddle for me the brown,’ says Janet,
‘Go saddle for me the black…’”
FURIOUS AND FRIGHTENED, JANET went to the master’s hall. An hour later she still sat staring into the fire there, listening to it crackle while her fear warred with her anger. She remembered her threat to young Andrew—long ago now—to skelp him if he dared wave a weapon again before he reached adulthood, and wished she could make the same threat to Quinton and make him believe her as Andrew had.
Just the thought of confronting her large husband and threatening to raise a hand to him brought a reluctant smile. The threat would be as useless with him as it would be with Hugh. She did not think that Quinton would knock her against the nearest wall or drag her by her hair to her bedchamber and lock her in—both of which remedies Hugh had employed in the past. But neither would Sir Quinton Scott, Laird of Broadhaugh, stand for being ordered about or scolded by his wife.
The fire crackled again, and sparks shot into the air. As she watched, her agile imagination began presenting her with pictures of the Bairns riding into England to avenge the murder of Jock o’ Tev, whoever he was—or Ally the Bastard, for that matter. Had she been at Brackengill, she would have known everyone involved. Thinking about home, she understood Sir Quinton’s fury.
He would be leading them now, his cloak flying behind him as he rode. The memory of his heavy frown and his anger when he had walked away made her sad, because she did not want to fight with him. They were bound together for life, and to face a future filled with such strife was unthinkable. Somehow they had to reach a reckoning that they both could live with. First, however, both of them had to survive the night ahead.
More pictures filled her mind. To reach Kielbeck, Sir Quinton and his men would most likely cross the Liddel south of Hermitage and the Border somewhere in the Larriston Fells, where she knew that armed guards made their rounds in plump patrols of as many as forty riders. Several of the men—and Sir Quinton himself—had assured her that he knew the Cheviot Hills and the fells between them and Bewcastle Waste better than any other man alive. Still, she knew that he had nearly met his end on those fells before, and she could not believe that he and the others could ever again slip through that heavily guarded area with impunity. What if this turned out to be yet another of Hugh’s traps to catch Rabbie Redcloak?
Getting up, she paced back and forth, her full skirts swaying in her agitation. Her thoughts tumbled like the turbulent waters of the Teviot through her mind. One moment she felt as if she were drowning in fear that Sir Quinton would be taken, the next she seethed at his refusal to discuss his decisions or intentions with her.
Jemmy Whiskers, curled by the fire, opened his eyes and laid back his ears in disapproval of her unpredictable movements.
“He should talk to me about what he means to do,” Janet informed the little cat. “He should allow me to have at least a part in his decisions if for no other reason than my knowledge of the English. I was one of them for two decades, was I not? I have heard Hugh and his men talk about tactics and strategies. I know how they think, so I could help if only that stubborn dolthead would let me.”
A more important reason, she told herself, was that a man should treat his wife like a part of himself. He should look not only to his henchmen for help but to her, as well. Women often saw things in a different but nonetheless useful light.
“I hate being left out of important matters,” she informed the cat, which now, except for the occasional flick of an ear, studiously ignored her striding agitation. “All my life men have told me that what they do is none of my affair, that it does not concern me,” Janet went on, “and that is just plain foolishness. Men are fools. One has only to see how they manage events like this one to see that. They think with their swords and their cocks and naught else.” Biting her lip, she looked sharply about to see if anyone else could have overheard her. Except for Jemmy Whiskers and herself, the room was empty. Feeling guilty nonetheless, she muttered, “I should not have said that about cocks, Jemmy.”
The cat blinked, then shut its eyes and did not open them again.
Janet sighed and walked to the
window near the chimney. It was drafty there, and the fire’s warmth did not reach her. Lifting her skirts, she climbed onto the bench and looked out, recalling only after she had pushed the shutter wide that Sir Quinton had warned her to stay away from the windows.
The prospect might have delighted her on another, less tension-filled occasion, for moonlight gleamed on the Teviot as it wound its way past the foot of the crag, turning the river into a glittering dark ribbon. Pale, silvery light cast shadows where trees dotted the landscape beyond it and revealed gently rolling undulations. She was looking the wrong way, though, and she felt frustrated. From the ramparts beyond Sir Quinton’s bedchamber, she could look toward Hermitage and England, but even from there, mere looking would avail her naught.
An idea stirred. She gazed thoughtfully at the cat, measuring the idea’s merit in her mind. If Sir Quinton caught her, he would surely be tempted to use her as Hugh had so often used her, and no one would blame him if he did.
“But if I stay here, Jemmy, he will come home to a demented wife. I will be happier doing something—anything. And perhaps, if aught goes amiss, I can help.”
On the thought she jumped down from the settle, snatched up her skirts, and hurried from the room. Growing excitement banished lingering concerns about what her husband might say, and she sped up the stone steps to her bedchamber, only to stop on the threshold when a disconcerting thought struck her. “Why, I have no clothes here suitable for—”
Looking around, she bit off the words before saying anything else aloud. She would do her purpose no good if some well-meaning lackey overheard her muttered scheming. Thinking swiftly, she went down to Sir Quinton’s room instead and stood looking around in growing frustration. He was too big. Nothing he owned would fit well enough to do her any good. She had to find someone to help her.
