by Amanda Scott
“Your people serve you well, my dear,” Margaret said cheerfully, “Hob will see to everything, and you and I can talk quietly upstairs by ourselves.”
By the time they reached the master’s hall, Janet had her emotions under control again. Gesturing for Margaret to take Quinton’s comfortably padded Italian armchair, she said, “Surely, if Buccleuch has ridden to Hermitage, his leg must be mending more swiftly than anyone expected.”
“He is roaring,” Margaret said, “so I presume that he is as fit as he can be at the moment. Nonetheless, he required assistance to mount his horse, and it was clearly a painful ordeal for him. I doubt, from what Alys the herbwoman and others tell me, that he will be himself again for yet another month or longer.”
“Godamercy,” Janet said. “Then what can he do about this?”
“He has sent word to the English ambassador in Edinburgh and to King Jamie,” Margaret said. “He is certain that Jamie will write to Elizabeth himself.”
“London,” Janet said, frowning. “They must send all the way to London.”
“Aye, but Buccleuch says they will make all speed. We should know the queen’s answer in a fortnight or mayhap even less time than that, he said.”
“A fortnight.” Janet sighed, adding, “That is very fast, I know, but it seems like a lifetime. And for Quinton, it may be just that.”
“I know that you must miss him dreadfully, for ’tis clear that you love him,” Margaret said. “I tell you, though, they will not dare to harm him.”
Janet did not believe her, much as she wanted to, but she could hardly say so, and thus she made no objection when the older woman changed the subject. However, as the days passed, her worries increased until she could scarcely concentrate on anything. The weather continued to produce as much rain as sunshine, which did nothing to lift her spirits, and things now ran so smoothly at Broadhaugh that she did not have to give much thought to daily chores. At times she found herself wishing that she had more to do.
It was not that she missed Quinton particularly, or so she told herself at least once a day. She was merely fearful for his safety, as anyone would be who had a grain of compassion. And she was angry, too, of course, as anyone with a sense of justice must be. But for Margaret or anyone else to suggest that she had fallen in love with her husband was nonsense.
Even to suggest that she missed him was putting the matter too strongly. She was not lonely. How could anyone be lonely who was surrounded by loyal followers and who had grown up in the manner that she had? Even men known to number among Rabbie’s Bairns frequently appeared at Broadhaugh to ask her for news, and they all promised to do whatever they could to help. No one should be lonely with support like theirs.
She had often longed for Hugh to go away just so that she could have solitude and the freedom to do as she pleased without facing censure or carping—or worse. And just as it had been with Hugh, with Quinton around, no one could ever wonder who was in charge. Even though the people at Broadhaugh showed her respect, and even though Quinton had given her free rein to run the household, she knew that oftentimes his people went to him to make sure that they should carry out her orders. He had never countermanded one, to be sure; but still, there it was.
She felt the lack of his presence more than she had felt Hugh’s, though, for Quinton had seemed larger than life from that very first meeting. Even as a prisoner in a dungeon he had made his presence more strongly felt than any other man had. She always knew when he was within the walls of Broadhaugh, too. The place fairly crackled with his presence and felt lifeless by comparison with him gone.
She had slept in his bed every night that she had spent at home since they had taken him, but who would not do the same if they had the right? His bed was more comfortable than hers was. When she recalled waking with lustful intent from a dream in which Quinton’s arms were wrapped around her to find herself alone in his bed, a tear trickled down her cheek. She brushed it away. She did not miss him and could not imagine why she felt like weeping. In any event, he would be home soon, or the good Lord would be hearing some straight talk during her daily prayers.
Since she knew from a tale that one of Hugh’s tutors had told her that the gods only helped them who helped themselves, she decided to do her part without bothering to consult anyone else. Accordingly, she sent a message to Lord Scrope, formally requesting permission to visit her husband.
Scrope’s reply came swiftly, informing her that to the best of his knowledge her husband was not residing at Carlisle. In any event, the message went on, Sir Hugh Graham has informed us that he objects strenuously to his sister’s penchant for fraternizing with felons.
It was not a reassuring missive, but she could not complain to anyone, since she was fairly certain that Buccleuch would not approve of her having written to Scrope without first applying to him for permission to do so. Although Hob the Mouse knew where her messenger had gone, she told no one else what she had done, but when ten more days had passed without word from Buccleuch, she could stand it no longer. Sending for Hob, she said, “Order out an escort for me. I mean to ride for Hermitage within the hour. Get word to Rabbie’s Bairns, too, to hold themselves ready in the event that I shall require their help.”
“Mistress, ye carina—”
“Do not tell me what I cannot do,” she snapped. “Arrange for that escort and arm them well. Then send word out to the others. If Buccleuch refuses to do anything more to help Quinton, I must ride to Carlisle myself and confront Lord Scrope, and I will need the Bairns as well as our own men to protect me.”
“But, mistress—”
“Not another word, Hob. You would not dare to argue with me if the master were here.”
“But if he were here…” His words trailed to silence in the face of her increasing anger. Abruptly, he nodded and went out.
Calling to Ardith, Janet told her to pack clothes to take to Hermitage. “Tell Tip that I want the clothing that he provided for me before, which I returned to him, and a suit of clothes for the master in case Buccleuch should succeed in getting him released. You will have to come with me,” she added. “There will be the devil to pay over my doing this, but at least if I have another female with me and ride there properly on a sidesaddle, Buccleuch cannot simply order me to ride home again.”
He could, of course, and she knew it. She could think of little else during the maddeningly slow ride south to Hermitage, but she told herself over and over that she would not let him send her home. By the time her little company passed through the gates, she had nearly convinced herself that he would not.
Quin thought the prison accommodations at Carlisle vastly superior to those at Brackengill if only because, thanks to a small barred window set high in one wall, his cell enjoyed regular daylight. Its furnishing left much to be desired, for there was no bed or even a bench to sit on. However, there was also no muck on the floor, merely a pile of rags, their origin impossible to guess, to ease its hardness.
Unlike Sir Hugh Graham, Scrope did not starve him, but the single meal he got each day consisted only of bread and water, and occasionally some soup. He had suffered a few bruises at the hands of Francis Musgrave’s men before his arrival at Carlisle, but he had recovered from them and had suffered none since, although his guards delighted in entertaining him with speculation about whether Scrope would hang him, drown him in a pit, or simply send him to the queen as a gift. He knew that he had lost weight, and the lack of food made him weak, but he would not give in to that. He worked daily to maintain what strength he had.
Worst of all was the boredom. The window was too high to look out unless he pulled himself up, which he forced himself to do daily for the exercise. He could not hold himself there for long, however, and he took good care whenever a guard entered to present the image of a rapidly weakening prisoner. The window faced east, and knowing that he was looking homeward gave him a sense of peace.
To ease the boredom and occupy his mind, he often thought of Jenny. Seeing
her cry when they took him away had hurt him more than the beating they gave him later. It had also stirred his temper, though, to know that she had witnessed his humiliation. Had they given him any chance to fight back, he did not doubt that he would have given a good account of himself.
He spent a good portion of each slowly passing day sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall opposite the cell door, with his eyes closed, imagining Jenny at Broadhaugh. Doubtless she was making life miserable for Buccleuch, he thought, but perhaps Buccleuch could handle her.
The thought made him smile. He doubted that anyone could handle his Jenny. She was probably wishing right now that she had been born a man—a very powerful man—so that she could lead an army of ten thousand to free him. She also was probably wishing that she had not promised to curb her impulses. She was gey impulsive, was Jenny.
Over the long, lonely hours, various images presented themselves: Jenny with her long, silvery hair hanging free to her waist; Jenny with her hands on her hips, spitting fury at him; Jenny laughing; and Jenny in bed beside him, moaning with pleasure as he stroked her soft and supple body and made love to her. That thought stirred memories of another body, a furry one, stretched along his backside, purring.
“Damnation,” he muttered, “I even miss her blasted cat.”
Chapter 21
“Wow Christ’s curse on my head,” he said, “But avenged of Lord Scrope I’ll be!”
WHEN JANET ENTERED THE master’s hall at Hermitage, Buccleuch was sitting at his table with his estate books spread out before him and his leg propped up just as it had been the last time she had seen him. Lines of pain and worry etched his face, making him look older. “What is it, lass?” he demanded. “What’s amiss now?”
“What is amiss, sir, is that I have heard not a word for nigh onto a fortnight, and I could not sit still at Broadhaugh for one minute longer.”
“There be naught else for you to do, come what may,” he said, scowling.
“Then I will wait here at Hermitage until someone brings news,” she said, striving to sound implacable.
His eyes narrowed. “Send your lass upstairs,” he said. “Hob, you go down to the great hall with the lads. I’ll send for you when I want you.”
Hob left without comment, and swallowing hard, Janet nodded to Ardith. When the maid had gone, she braced herself, certain that she was about to experience the full force of Buccleuch’s famous temper. Before he spoke, however, the door opened again, and the Laird of Gaudilands strode in.
He nodded at Janet, then said to Buccleuch, “Ha’ ye no told her yet?”
Buccleuch’s scowl grew even fiercer. “Shut your gob, you fool!”
“Told me what?” Janet demanded, then answered her own question. “You’ve heard from Queen Elizabeth!”
“I have not,” Buccleuch retorted. “Her guts-griped pigeon of an ambassador refuses to write to her, and although our Jamie persuaded the fen-sucked dogfish to write to Scrope, that letter got us no more than my own. Scrope still insists that he’s got no one but a notorious reiver locked up at Carlisle. Even were that so, it still touches my honor,” he added in a near growl. “The spleeny English have flagrantly violated Border laws upon which we all rely. Worse, they’ve infringed on my powers and they seem to think that there is naught I can do about it.”
Janet bit her lip, forcing herself to keep silent.
A gleam of appreciation lit Buccleuch’s eyes. “Speak up, lass,” he said. “You’ve shown courage till now. Don’t keep your thoughts to yourself.”
Raising her chin, she said frankly, “I was just thinking, sir, that of all those Border laws, inviolability of the truce seems to be the only one to which you and your Borderers pay any heed whatsoever. Yet here you are, behaving much as you would if the sky had fallen.”
“Aye, and what if I am?” he retorted. “The whole object of declaring a day of truce is to ensure that those who attend—particularly the witnesses, of course—can travel in peace without risking intimidation, assault, or battery on the way. Moreover, that scrofulous bastard Scrope informed the queen’s ambassador that our truce lasts only from sunset the day before to sunset on the meeting day.”
“Well, I know that is not what they agreed to at Dayholm, but if there is some question about that in other—”
“There is no question,” he roared, adding more mildly, “You have only to think on it, lass. What good would be a truce that ended before most folks had got well away from the ground? ’Tis naught but that distempered malt-worm Scrope spitting lies again through his rotting yellow teeth! He had no business to seize Quin or any other man within my jurisdiction.”
Agreeing, she said bluntly, “What do you mean to do about it?”
“I can tell you what I’d do if I had all my limbs about me,” he snapped. “I’d raise two thousand angry Borderers and bring the walls of Carlisle down on that bat-fouling miscreant Scrope’s head.”
“But you do not have all your limbs about you, sir,” she said. “Nor can you ride so far with your bad leg. Have you any deputy who could lead your men?”
“No one with my genius,” he replied. “That is not conceit,” he added when she raised her eyebrows. “It is plain fact. Our Borderers will not follow just anyone. The only man they might follow as easily as they follow me is Quin. Neither Todrigg nor Gaudilands, nor any other man hereabouts, has our ability or my power. I’ll have to think long and hard about this, but I will think of something.”
Though she was dying to make a suggestion, Janet held her tongue, and this time he did not command her to speak.
Gaudilands, having stood silently through the exchange, reddened when Buccleuch glowered at him and snarled, “What did you want then, besides to stir coals wi’ the lass?”
Visibly gathering dignity, Gaudilands said, “I had no such intent, Wat I merely came to see if ye’d decided what ye mean to do. We carina leave Quin moldering in a cell at Scrope’s convenience.”
Buccleuch grimaced. Turning to Janet, he said, “You’ll be wanting to have a wash, lass. You may stay to dine, but then you must take yourself and that young woman of yours back to Broadhaugh and leave this business to us.”
Drawing a deep breath to steady her nerves, she said quietly, “I mean you no disrespect, sir, but Quinton is my husband. I would like to hear your answer to the question that the Laird of Gaudilands just put to you.”
“You will not like it,” he said. “I made this leg of mine worse by riding here, and they tell me that I must not ride again for at least another fortnight unless I want to risk crippling myself permanently. I don’t, so we’re forced to wait a bit longer before we can do anything more to help Quin. Still, Scrope will not dare to harm him, and something may happen in the meantime to—”
“What will most likely happen is his untimely demise!” Janet retorted. “You cannot simply leave him there to rot! With respect, sir,” she added belatedly.
“Your ‘respect’ leaves much to be desired, lass.”
“I am a trifle overwrought, perhaps,” she admitted.
He cocked his head to one side. “I did not think you even liked Quin much. As I recall, you married him only because I left you little choice.”
Feeling a surge of heat in her cheeks, she had all she could do to keep her countenance. “I care for my husband as any wife should, sir. In any event, my feelings are irrelevant to the matter at hand. It would be a dreadful mistake to wait, sir. Surely, you can call upon his Bairns to help. They have offered to do what they can, and they are loyal. I warrant they would not fail you, or him.”
“So you care only as any wife should, eh?” He eyed her shrewdly for a long moment, and she found herself wondering if Margaret had confided to him her thoughts on that particular subject.
She did not reply, and after a moment, he said, “The Bairns would certainly follow me, lass. Moreover, lest you fear that I have put my leg above Quin’s safety, let me assure you that is not the case. I must consider the injury when I ju
dge the likelihood of a raid’s proving successful, however. I dislike feeling helpless, believe me, but under the present circumstances I’d prove more liability than asset, and my Borderers, like Quin’s, have better sense than to follow a weak leader.”
She could see that it had cost him to admit as much, but she said stubbornly, “I think you could persuade them to follow someone else, sir. If you were to name someone like Gaudilands or Todrigg as your deputy—”
“I told you, lass, neither has my skill,” Buccleuch said.
“Unfortunately, that is true,” Gaudilands told her. “Neither of us has a knack for keeping rogues like Rabbie’s Bairns in order. Recall that many are broken men who are as like to lend their loyalty to an English leader as to a Scot. A successful raid—especially one of the magnitude that you want—would depend on such men agreeing to follow our orders without constantly debating their worth.”
“If it please you, sir,” Janet said to Buccleuch, “I think I can persuade them. They…they have shown considerable loyalty to me, as well as to Quinton. I think that, for us, they would agree to do whatever you commanded of them, even were you not present to enforce your commands.” Realizing belatedly that her words might give offense, she added hastily, “I did not mean to imply that you require my support, or Quinton’s, to see your commands obeyed, sir, but—”
“I take your meaning well enough,” Buccleuch said dryly. “’Tis fortunate for you that I do. When I am not at hand to knock heads together, my own Borderers forget any sense of discipline. Few leaders have managed to engage the loyalty of the Liddesdale men, let alone those who live in the Debatable Lands, and no one has ever done so from a distance—not without sending an equally fearsome deputy.”
“Will you at least let me talk to Hob the Mouse, sir? I trust his instincts, and if he thinks he can lead the Bairns to rescue their master, he will tell me so. If he cannot, he will admit that, too, but if he can, would you perhaps provide some of your own men under the direction of either Todrigg or Gaudilands to assist them?”
