Border Fire

by Amanda Scott

  “Most likely, she and Jamie will enjoy a debate that will occupy them for some months, but in the end his need to give her contentment may well result in his ordering Buccleuch to London to face her.”

  “Godamercy,” Janet said again. “Well, if he goes, I must go with him.”

  “You will do no such thing!”

  “But I must. It was as much my doing as anyone’s, and so I must tell her.”

  “And what about me? Do I accompany you or remain safely at home?”

  “You can’t go!” In her haste to assume some of Buccleuch’s blame, she had not thought of that. “What if she clapped you into the Tower?”

  “I suppose it would be better if she clapped my wife up instead.”

  His tone was sardonic now, and she knew that he was growing angry again. Swallowing hard, she held her tongue, unable to think of anything to say that would soothe him or make him understand her feelings.

  After a long moment, he said, “What would you say to her if you did go?”

  “You’re teasing me now,” she muttered resentfully.

  “Perhaps, a little, but you have a habit, sweetheart, of acting first and thinking afterward, and once you get a notion in your head, it isn’t easy to get it out again. Imagine yourself in London with Buccleuch. Imagine him facing Elizabeth, telling her that he did not lead the raid, that in fact it was Lady Scott who did.”

  “But he would not! Indeed, it was Hob the Mouse, and the Laird of Todrigg, and Gaudilands—”

  “Just imagine it,” he said sternly as he stood up and assumed a royal posture with his arms folded across his chest and his feet apart. “I shall be Elizabeth. What will you say to me after Buccleuch betrays your part in the matter?”

  His eyes narrowed, and in that instant he looked as fearsome as any monarch might, and she saw how absurd her suggestion had been. She had never seen the queen, but she had heard much of her temper, and she could not, in her wildest fantasies, imagine the powerful Buccleuch offering his cousin’s wife up as a sacrificial lamb.

  “Lady Scott,” Quinton said in that daunting, royal manner, “is it true that you led the Borderers who attacked my castle at Carlisle?”

  “Aye, madam,” Janet snapped, deciding to play his silly game and see how far he would take it. “’Twas all my doing. The men rode because I asked them to.”

  The gimlet gaze narrowed even more. “Rise, Lady Scott, and approach. One does not remain seated in the royal presence if one wants to keep one’s head.”

  Setting her mending aside, Janet got up and made a deep curtsy. What began in a sense of mockery, however, suddenly no longer felt like just a silly game. The Queen of England carried the power of life and death in the flick of a royal finger.

  “Approach, Lady Scott,” Quinton repeated softly.

  Janet obeyed, coming to a halt a few feet away from him and trying to control fluttering nerves by reminding herself that it was just a game.

  “You are our subject, are you not?”

  Forcing calm, she said, “It is true that I am English by birth and breeding, madam, but I married across the line. My husband claims my loyalty.”

  “Very prettily said. Did your husband command you, then, to lead that impertinent raid against our castle at Carlisle?”

  Janet hesitated, worried less about what an imaginary queen might think of her reply than what Quinton would think. She would not prevaricate, however. She said, “My husband commanded me to leave everything to Buccleuch, but when his diplomatic efforts failed, I took matters into my own hands.”

  “Indeed, madam. We wish to know how you dared to undertake such a presumptuous venture against the queen’s peace, particularly when you acted in direct opposition to your husband’s will.”

  Straightening, Janet lifted her chin and said firmly, “What does a woman not dare to do when her honor and all else that matters to her is at stake?”

  The harsh look on Quinton’s face eased, replaced by a reluctant smile.

  “Well said, lass. Such a declaration might well sway Elizabeth. Indeed, Buccleuch could do worse than to say much the same thing to her when our Jamie orders him off to London to face her.”

  “You do think that will happen, then.”

  “Aye,” he said. “She is a cantankerous old woman who likes to get her way about things, and Jamie is determined to placate her for the sake of peace.”

  “Do you not wish to placate Jamie?”

  “I don’t care a whit for Jamie’s feelings,” he retorted. “My loyalty is to Buccleuch and to our Borderers. When Buccleuch wants peace, we will have it.”

  “Here, too, Quinton? Will we have peace at Broadhaugh?”

  He looked thoughtfully at her, and in that moment she knew that if the English Queen held the power of life and death in the crook of her little finger, Quinton held the power of happiness or misery in the twitch of an eyebrow. Her heart pounded, for she knew that his answer mattered more to her than she had thought it could.

  He said, “Is it true that everything that mattered to you was at stake in Carlisle?”

  “Aye, sir,” she said quietly. “I knew that my going would make you angry, but I could not sit meekly at home and wait for others to decide your fate. Are you still angry with me for taking part in the raid?”

  “Lassie, how could I stay angry with you for saving my life? If our Jamie had ten thousand men possessing courage like yours, he could shake the firmest throne in Europe. You should know,” he added gently, “that already, whenever my men or Buccleuch’s speak of the Carlisle raid, they speak of you as ‘Janet the Bold.’ Doubtless, they will soon be singing ballads about your exploits.”

  “Does that mean,” she said bluntly, “that you will pay greater heed to my opinions in future, sir, and not simply issue commands to me?”

  “Do you truly want peace, Jenny?”

  “Aye,” she said, sighing, “I do.”

  He pushed a hand through his hair, a boyish gesture of rueful irritation. “I’ll tell you true, lassie, you can make me as angry as I’ve ever known myself to get, and although the anger I felt when I realized what you had done has passed, I do not know that we will ever live in true peace. We’re going to have children eventually, and I cannot imagine us agreeing on everything even without them. Once we have them, it will be impossible. We’re both of us too hardheaded and stubborn, and we both seem to fire up too quick. We’re going to fratch, Jenny lass, and when we do, the rafters will quake. But I think we’ve both learned some things.”

  “Aye,” she said, “but have we learned enough?”

  “We’ll see, but I’ll tell you this, lass. I love you as I never believed I could love anyone, and I know now that you love me. We have learned a bit about the art of compromise, and we can learn more. I’m willing if you are.”

  She was quiet for a moment. He had offered no apology, but neither had he demanded one. Compromise did have its points.

  “I’m willing,” she said. “Oh, Quinton, I’m more than willing. I do love you so. Who would have thought that an Englishwoman and a Scotsman could care so passionately for each other?”

  “Passion is but one way for strong feelings to reveal themselves, sweetheart, and passion can stem as easily from love as from anger. England and Scotland will learn other ways, too, I’ll warrant. When Jamie holds the thrones of both countries, there will no longer be any Border, after all.”

  “There will always be a Border,” Janet insisted.

  “Nay, lass, not when they blend us all into one country, but I don’t want to talk any more about politics tonight, national or personal. Come here to me.”

  “Are you giving me arbitrary orders again, sir?”

  “I am, and you will obey them, madam, or pay the penalty.”

  “What penalty?”

  “You will see if you do not obey me.” His eyes twinkled.

  She lifted her chin. “I think, sir, that you must learn to put your orders more diplomatically. You should soothe me, and pay
me pretty compliments.”

  “I’ve no patience for soothing. I’ve a glib tongue when I require it—”

  “Aye, and nearly talked yourself into a hangman’s noose with it before we’d ever met,” she reminded him. “What if I had not been at hand to save you?”

  “My Bairns would have found me in time.”

  “As I recall, they were all still at home when we reached Broadhaugh.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a fact, right enough.”

  She grinned, then shrieked when he caught her arm and pulled her into an embrace. The shriek turned to muted chuckles when he kissed her, but she quickly responded to his passion. His lips felt hot against hers, and his hands moved over her body possessively, seeking ties and laces. In moments, her skirt and petticoats fell to the floor in clouds of lace and cotton. Her bodice soon joined them, then her stays. His mouth held hers prisoner until she stood in nothing but her smock. Then he straightened, but his hands moved teasingly over her breasts, making her gasp at the sensations that surged through her body.

  “Bedtime, sweetheart,” he murmured, scooping her into his arms only to kneel a moment later and lay her gently on the furry hearth rug.

  “What if someone comes in?”

  “My people know better than to interrupt their lord when he is engaged in important business.” Rising, he cast off his doublet, stripped his netherstocks and boots from his legs, then stood a moment in his shirt, gazing down at her. “You are the bonniest lass in the Borders, sweetheart, on either side of the line.”

  “Aye,” she said, smiling lazily up at him, “and you are the luckiest man, sir, to have Janet the Bold for your wife.”

  Chuckling, he removed his shirt and lay down on the rug beside her. “Show me how bold you are, sweetheart,” he said. “I would have you serve me.”

  “More orders, sir? I would prefer that you serve me.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I see that another compromise is in order.”

  “Compromise? But how can one compromise on such an issue?”

  “I’ll show you, lass.”

  And, to her delight, he did.

  Dear Reader,

  I do hope you enjoyed Border Fire. The inspiration for the story came partially from reading a host of Border ballads and partially from the author’s interest in her own family’s genealogy. The general plot is based on The Ballad of Kinmont Willie. The version used is cited in Scottish & Border Battles & Ballads by Michael Brander (Charles N. Potter, Inc., New York, 1975) and also in many other sources. Quotes used for chapter headings come from Kinmont Willie and also, generally when referring to the heroine, from Hardyknute or The Battle of Larges (same source). There is an exception, of course, in that the quote for the first chapter appears in various forms in numerous Border ballads. Apparently, the Liddesdale men ought to have stayed at home on more than one occasion.

  Since Kinmont Willie was a real person, and definitely was not the stuff of which heroes are made, I took certain liberties, the greatest of which was letting the heroine do much that, in reality, Buccleuch or others did.

  The general details of the raid are as historically accurate as I could make them (if one omits the presence of the prisoner’s wife). The information came not only from the ballad, which is more dramatic than accurate in spots, but also from the following: Border Raids & Reivers by Robert Borland, The Steel Bonnets by George MacDonald Fraser, Upper Teviotdale & the Scotts of Buccleuch by Mrs. J. Rutherford Oliver (1887), and The Border Reivers by Godfrey Watson. I heartily recommend them all to anyone interested in learning more about the Border reivers.

  Generally, I avoid long bouts of historical description, but in the case of Hermitage Castle, I wrote more than usual. I did so for the benefit of readers who, like me, fell in love with the Earls of Bothwell in Jan Westcott’s wonderful books, Border Lord and The Hepburn. Realizing that they might like to know how a castle that figured so powerfully in Bothwell history had fallen into Scott hands gave me the little excuse I needed to include a good deal of its history.

  I suspect some of you might also like to know that young Wattie did achieve his majority before inheriting his father’s position. He was 24 when Buccleuch died in 1611. Wattie was, in fact, the first of the Scott heirs to do that since 1470. He was also said to be the first of his line to the during a time of peace in the Borders.

  Lastly, lest you think that some of the distances traveled by the Borderers seem too great, either when raiding or just going to the horse races, let me assure you that they are not. According to all sources, men and women of the Borders were intrepid riders and the Border ponies they rode were sturdy, sure-footed, and fast. They are known to have traveled amazing distances on many such occasions.

  If you enjoyed Border Fire, I hope you will watch for Border Storm, coming in January, 2001.

  Sincerely,

  About the Author

  A fourth-generation Californian of Scottish descent, Amanda Scott is the author of more than fifty romantic novels, many of which appeared on the USA Today bestseller list. Her Scottish heritage and love of history (she received undergraduate and graduate degrees in history at Mills College and California State University, San Jose, respectively) inspired her to write historical fiction. Credited by Library Journal with starting the Scottish romance subgenre, Scott has also won acclaim for her sparkling Regency romances. She is the recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award (for Lord Abberley’s Nemesis, 1986) and the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award. She lives in central California with her husband.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Border Trilogy

  One

  Shrill was the bugle’s note,

  Dreadful the warrior shout…

  The Scottish Borders, August 1596

  A DRIZZLING, EARLY MORNING rain had cast a dark, gray gloom over Liddesdale when, without warning, shortly before sunrise, the English army struck.

  No beacon flamed. No voice cried out. The enemy had crept up during the night with—for the English—uncustomary stealth.

  A single horn sounded the charge, and after that, pandemonium roared. Two thousand heavily armed soldiers under the command of Thomas, Lord Scrope, Queen Elizabeth’s warden of the west march, descended on the unsuspecting citizens of Liddesdale.

  Most had little chance to defend themselves when soldiers in steel bonnets and plate crashed through their cottage doors, slashing men, women, and children without mercy. Men or lads who would have run to warn their neighbors were cut down before they could escape.

  As the army swarmed over the hills and swept inexorably up the dale, gunshots rang out and steel clashed against steel wherever a Liddesdale man managed to lay hand to pistol, sword, or dagger before meeting his Maker. Women and children screamed, and injured, dying men and horses screamed, too.

  At first, the attackers did not bother with livestock. Bent only on punishment, they fired cottages and killed without compunction, most caring little whether the victim was male or female, child or septuagenarian.

  Halfway along the dale, on Watch Hill, the grassy ridge between the Liddel and Tarras Burn, a lad of ten summers herded a flock of sheep. His father had said the sheep would not mind the rain, and he did not care if his son minded it or not. Wee Sym would drive them to pasture, willy-nilly.

  Sym did not mind the rain, although he had complained about it for form’s sake. He enjoyed the solitude of his days with the flock, and although he and his two canine companions had to keep a cautious eye on their charges, they had time now and again for more interesting activities as well.

  The first hint of trouble came from the dogs, unimaginatively named Lass and Laddie. Both abruptly stopped dashing and darting to turn heads as one toward the southeast, their softly folded ears lifting alertly. Attuned to these signals, the little shepherd stopped to listen. At first, he heard only the patter of the rain and the bawling of lambs, but his senses were nearly as well honed as the dogs’, and the horn’s ca
ll, distant though it was, was enough.

  “Tak’ ’em, Lad! Tak’ ’em, Lass!”

  Shouting the orders over one skinny shoulder, he took to his heels, certain that the well-trained Border collies would guard the flock and not wasting one precious second to make sure they obeyed. His toughened bare feet flew down the wet, grassy slope toward Tarras Burn, and when he slipped on a patch of mud, he slid downhill for a bit on his backside but picked himself up again without losing more than a moment’s time. Sharp pebbles did not slow him, or anything else. He knew every bog and obstacle that lay in his path, and his feet were quick and sure.

  At the bottom, leaping from stone to stone, he crossed the burn. Now, at the height of summer, it was safe enough, although it was known in spring flood to run with such speed that men said it was possible to drown in it. The burn was so wild then that it would dash out a man’s brains before his head went under.

  Most of the area around the burn was boggy, part of the infamous Tarras Moss that, along with the great primeval forest known as Tarras Wood, generally protected the inhabitants on that side of the ridge from English invaders. But, here and there, cottages occupied higher, dryer bits of land.

  At the first one, Sym shoved open the unbarred cowhide door without ceremony and shouted for the woman and three children gathered round the fireplace to flee. “Raiders comin’!”

  Without awaiting a response, he was off again, finding two men next in a sheep pen, marking lambs despite the drizzle. “Horns!” he shouted at them. “Raiders in the dale!”

  “To horse, Will,” the elder snapped to the younger. “Ride for Hermitage!”

  “But the laird’s clapped up at Blackness!” the younger protested.

  “His captain will ken wha’ to do. I’m for Broadhaugh, m’self.”

  Paying scant heed to the exchange, Sym was off again, having known before the men spoke what they would do and where each would go. It was not the first time in his short life that the English had attacked Liddesdale and its neighbors.