The Heather Moon

by King, Susan

  "I've had two wives and three bairns, and I am weary o' death visiting me," Archie answered. "I have this wee bairn left to me and I'll keep her close. Losing kin is too hard, Cuddy. Too hard." He lifted the reins. "Let's get this lass home."

  "Look, wee Tamsin misses the boy too," Cuthbert remarked. "Are ye sad, wee girl?"

  Archie glanced down. Tamsin frowned, the glint of tears in her eyes. She lifted her right hand to wave.

  The boy in the glen looked up and saw that, and waved in return. Archie felt a sharp tug deep in his heart.

  "Och," Cuthbert said, "d'ye think she knows that he was meant for her, and now she's lost him? That we've all lost him?"

  "How could she know? Nor will we tell her, not ever."

  "So she will never meet that fine lad." Cuthbert sighed. "Well, this day has made my heart full sore. I will have to make me a ballad about William Scott and the gypsy lass."

  Archie groaned. "Yer ballads are the worst I ever heard!"

  "Will-yam Skoht," the child said softly.

  "I thought she didna have the Scots tongue," Cuthbert said.

  She looked up at him. "Tongk," she repeated.

  "She's quick, this one." Archie patted the girl's silky head. "John Faw said she speaks Gypsy and some French, which he taught to her. Said she's a clever one."

  "But how do we teach her Scots?" Cuthbert asked. "I am no classroom dominie to teach a child, nor are you."

  "I will find her a tutor." Archie watched the party below disappear into a passage between two hills. He sighed and turned his horse away.

  "God's own wounds," he muttered. "Allan Scott o' Rookhope was the best of rogues. I will never forget the injustice that was done this day. Never."

  "Nor I. And if that lad ever decides to avenge his father, he will have Armstrongs and Elliots riding at his back."

  "Aye so. Rogue's Will Scott coulda been my own good-son, wed to my wee lass here."

  "Archie man, what must be, must be," Cuthbert said. "Ye'll find her a husband. Ye have years, yet. She will be a pretty chit, despite all."

  Despite all, Archie thought to himself. The child stirred in his arms and settled against his chest as they rode. Soon she drifted to sleep and her tiny left hand slipped free: a fingerless wedge, curled like a claw, with a normal enough thumb. What an odd little claw she had, Archie thought; it was soft and smooth and sweet as any babe's hand. He tucked it gently under her cloak, and held it protectively for a moment.

  He wondered if he would find a husband for her at all when the time came, let alone one to equal the son of the Rogue of Rookhope. Whatever came of the future, he would keep this wee bairn safe, he thought, and nodded to himself.

  Chapter 1

  Your pardon, lady, here you stand (If some should judge you by your hand) The greatest felon in the land Detected.

  —Ben Jonson, Masque of the Metamorphosed Gipsies

  July 1543

  Her eyes were a cool, delicate green, even in torchlight, but her gaze was hot and furious. If her gloved hands and booted ankles had not been bound, William thought, she might have thrown herself at him in a rage.

  Of the men gathered in the dungeon cell watching her, William Scott stood closest. He had advanced toward her, while his English host, her captor, stayed by the door with his guardsmen in trepidation.

  She watched William warily, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, breath heaving beneath the old leather doublet she wore. Despite men's clothing and the agile strength of her resistance, not one of them had mistaken her for a lad. She was clearly female, with well-shaped curves beneath doublet, breeches, and high boots.

  Besides, William thought wryly, only a woman could cast a glare that would make several armed men hesitate.

  She reminded him of a cornered wildcat: lithe, tawny, eyes blazing. Still, he saw a flicker of fear in her gaze. He remembered too well what it was like to be confined, bound, watched like a mummer's animal. Though he had been a lad at the time, the day of his own capture—the day his father had been hanged—still burned clear in his memory.

  He edged closer. "Be calm, lass," he murmured.

  Her glance darted from him to the others, sparking like green fire. She looked down at the man who lay collapsed at her feet. Large, blond, bearded, and considerably older than the girl, he seemed barely conscious, blood seeping from a wound on his brow. She stood over him, William realized, like a fierce guardian.

  William advanced steadily, his palm held out. "Be calm, lass, we only want to talk to you."

  She shuffled backward, keeping her balance even with bound ankles. Long tendrils of dark, curling hair spilled over her eyes. She shook the silken veil back, glaring.

  "Take care, man. If you go closer, she will attack," Jasper Musgrave, his host and her captor, warned behind him. "I know her. A savage—half Border Scot, half gypsy. A wild girl, that one. 'Tis said no man will wed her, no matter how her Scottish father bribes and begs them."

  William noted the understanding, and a flash of hurt, in her eyes. "She's no savage," he murmured over his shoulder. "She defends herself and her companion. She thinks we mean harm."

  Musgrave laughed harshly, shifting his great bulk a step or two closer. "And so we do! She and her father, and the rest of their comrades, took four of my horses."

  "The man is her father?" William frowned. He had first seen the prisoners only moments ago, after his host had led him down to the dungeon. The hour was past midnight, but he and Jasper Musgrave had sat late by the fire, drinking Spanish sherry and negotiating a complex matter of couched bribery and cautious acceptance. But the mellow flavor of good sherry had not disguised the sour taste of the discussion.

  Jasper Musgrave's men had come into the great hall to inform their lord that they had captured two Scottish reivers who had stolen some horses. The rest of the thieves had fled, but they had imprisoned the two in the dungeon. Musgrave had asked William, as his Scottish guest and a member of a reiving surname himself, to witness their interrogation.

  "Aye, they are father and daughter," Musgrave said now. "Border scum from the Scottish side. They and their kin have plagued me for years. My land lies just south of his land, and but six miles separate our towers. I might see them hanged for this, now that I have them in my keeping at last." Musgrave gestured toward the man on the floor. "'Tis our good fortune that he took a sore hurt. We would have had a struggle indeed, had Archie Armstrong kept hearty this night."

  "Armstrong!" William glanced at him. "Of what place?"

  "Merton Rigg," Musgrave said. "Half Merton, some call it, because the tower sits directly on the—"

  "Directly on the Border line, in the area called the Debatable Land," William supplied, remembering. "Merton sits half in Scotland and half in England, since the house was built before the current border was shifted."

  "Aye," Musgrave muttered. "And the English part of that land is mine. The case has been in the Session courts since our fathers' time. No judge will settle the boundaries of our portions, since that would entail a change in the national borders." He looked closely at William. "You know Armstrong of Merton Rigg?"

  "My father knew him long ago. They rode together."

  "Your father was a notorious scoundrel. You had the favor of your Scottish King James once, but he's dead now, and a mere infant girl the heiress of his kingdom. You do not have your king's favor any longer, William Scott. You're naught but a rogue yourself now." He smiled and folded his hands over his belly. "And just the sort of rogue we need—a canny Scot who still has ties to the crown, and yet has sense enough to join our cause."

  "Aye, I've sense enough," William muttered bitterly. He saw that the girl listened, her eyes keen, her breath heaving beneath the old frayed leather doublet. He glanced down at her father, a brawny heap on the earthen floor, blood smeared over the man's face and blond head.

  Despite the wound, and the whitening of the man's once-reddish whiskers, William recognized those strong, handsome features. Archie had been a close comrade
of his father. William remembered the man as huge, blond, often laughing. He had been young when Armstrong had lost his two sons to execution by hanging, but he remembered his own father's distress over the incident. Archie's daughter was much younger than her brothers would have been, he thought, younger than his own thirty years.

  As he stood watching the girl and her father, waiting while Musgrave muttered some orders to the guards behind him, William remembered something further about Archie Armstrong. An image came back to him with a near-physical shock.

  He had seen Archie on the day of his father's death. While he had ridden through a narrow glen, his horse led by the men who had taken him prisoner for the Scottish crown, he had looked up to see Archie seated on horseback on the crest of a hill, watching the party ride past. His father's friend had lifted a hand in a faithful salute.

  A dark-haired child sat in Archie's lap that day. She, too, had waved to William, and he recalled waving back. He remembered, with a deep pang of emotion, how desperately he had wanted to break free from his escort and ride toward the refuge and welcome of his father's friend.

  He stared with sudden wonder at Archie's daughter. She would have been no more than five or six the day William had been taken. Surely this half-gypsy was that dark-haired little girl.

  Her solemn salute, and her father's, had meant a great deal to him. In the midst of the grief, fear, and anger that he had endured that day, their silent, respectful farewell remained in his memory as a shining moment of precious value to him.

  "And Archie is another scoundrel dropped into our laps," Musgrave was saying. "I'll convince him to lend us his support, too, for our little scheme, or I'll offer him a noose. What say you to that?"

  William drew his breath, summoned himself out of intense memories and back into the dungeon cell. "Archie? He's naught but a minor laird and a midnight raider," he said in a deliberately casual tone. "I doubt he will be of any use to us. Were I you, I would let him go."

  His immediate instinct was to discourage Musgrave from involving Armstrong in this scheme. He would not see this particular Borderman brought low if he could help it. William resolved, fists clenched, to do whatever he could do to set these two free. He owed them something, he thought. He owed them that much.

  "Ah, he is just the sort of scoundrel we need," Musgrave countered. "Besides, Armstrong and his daughter have ties to the Egyptians that wander the Borderlands. That could be quite useful indeed."

  "Egyptians?" William asked, startled. He caught the girl's quick frown, saw in her glittering green eyes that she listened intently. He turned and lowered his voice. "Gypsies? What use could they be?" Impatience surged through him. "You had best explain this cause to me in full, Jasper, if you want my help in your plan."

  "I told you," Musgrave said smoothly, remaining in the shadows. "King Henry needs a Scotsman such as you, with influence at court and respect among the Bordermen. But we can make good use of a common marchman like Archie."

  "I am curious to learn the whole of your plan," William said. He sensed the girl watching, listening, though he did not look at her just then.

  "You will learn all in good time. Rest assured, 'tis a grand scheme."

  William was weary of Musgrave's elusive games. He had been trying to learn the truth of the plot for two days. He had heard only a few vague references to King Henry, the eighth of that name, and some mumblings about the good of Scotland and the infant queen, Mary Stewart. But he had heard enough, and suspected enough, to make him determined to find out the rest.

  "I will hear this grand scheme soon or I am gone," he replied. "And with me, my influence at court and in the Scottish Borders."

  Musgrave shot him a dark glare. "First I'll learn what Archie Armstrong was doing on my lands at night, and with my horses in his grip." He moved forward, breathing heavily. He was thick-jowled and huge, his width more remarkable than his height. He could have made two of any man easily, William thought, watching him.

  "See you here," Musgrave said, "Armstrong may not be able to confess his crime now, judging by that head wound. But the girl can tell us what happened to my horses. Untie the cloth over her mouth so she can answer my questions. That vixen might attack me, but she'll not go after you, a Scotsman and a friend to her father."

  William cast Musgrave a sidelong look just short of a glare. He had been cultivating the man's good opinion and had best not undo it now. His own reputation had led him to this. Most Bordermen knew that William Scott had been a captive of the crown and then a friend of King James of Scotland.

  Currently, though, he was in disgrace at the royal court under James's queen dowager, Marie of Guise. And Musgrave believed William Scott was bitter enough to be disloyal as well as disgraced. William wanted to encourage that impression.

  When Musgrave had approached him a few days ago with a covert offer of gold and hints of a secret English plot, William had shown great interest. He had visited the man's castle on the English side of the Border to discuss certain possibilities. He played the good comrade, and the foul Scot.

  Most Scottish Bordermen in Liddesdale, where his own Rookhope Tower was situated, and in the Debatable Land, where Armstrong's Merton Rigg lay, knew Jasper Musgrave, whose castle lay within a moonlit ride over the border. The man had a reputation as a clever English scoundrel, not above treachery and thievery. William did not know him well personally, although his cousin Jock Scott was enamored of the English girl who was betrothed to Jasper's son.

  Earlier tonight, William had dined with both Musgraves, listening to flattery and increasingly blatant attempts at bribery. William had agreed, finally, to support King Henry's cause in Scotland. He had not put his name in writing, but the unsavory verbal promise he had made had left him with a cold feeling in his gut.

  But Musgrave had come to him with the bribe, and he felt an obligation to his queen, and to himself, to pursue it. He sensed a deeper, darker plot beyond King Henry's probable interest in stirring war between the two countries. William was determined to discover what the full scheme might be.

  He glanced again at the Armstrong girl and her father. Although he had convinced Musgrave to regard him as an ally, William could not condone taking down a laird's daughter like a common thief. The reiving incident had nothing to do with politics and intrigue, and needed to be resolved quickly.

  Frowning, he moved toward the girl. She shuffled back. "Easy, lass," he murmured, and took her by the shoulders. She stiffened under his touch but allowed him to turn her. He felt the fine make of her through leather and padding, strong bones and lean muscle beneath his hands. Tension seemed to thrum through her like drawn lute strings.

  When he loosened the knots behind her head, her hair tumbled over his fingers, jarring his senses. The softness and heathery scent were distinctly out of place in a cold, dank dungeon. She turned her head to stare up at him, and he saw the delicate gleam of small gold rings in her earlobes.

  She was lovely and fierce, yet he sensed her uncertainty. Sympathy surged through him. She reminded him of himself, years ago, in the first days of his royal captivity: bound, chained, grieving, and defiant, spitting like a cat but as terrified and vulnerable as a babe.

  "Untie my hands!" Her voice was hoarse.

  "Just the gag," Musgrave said. "I think her tongue is all we must needs deal with just now."

  She ignored Musgrave and stared at William. "I must see to my father!" William realized that much of her intensity sprang from panic on behalf of her father. Her gaze pleaded with him, begged him to listen. "Loose the right hand. I dinna need the left. Please, sirrah."

  He looked at the man lying in the shadows at her feet, fair head dark with blood, face pale and still. Without a word, William began to undo the ropes around her wrists. The hemp was twisted and the knots were firm.

  "Rookhope, leave her be," Musgrave said.

  "The man is sore hurt," William snapped. "You should have had someone tend to him sooner. Let her help her father." Musgrave lifted a br
ow at his sharp tone, but subsided.

  William worked at the stubborn knots, and finally slid his dirk free from the sheath at his belt. He slipped the blade carefully between the rope and the girl's gloved hands, easing the edge into the knot.

  She twisted to look over her shoulder, jerking her arms slightly; enough to throw off the course of the blade. The sharp edge sliced into her wrist and into the heel of his hand where he held the rope taut. Both winced, a shared intake of breath.

  "Pray your pardon," William murmured. He slit through the knot and freed her hands. She circled her right hand around her left wrist protectively. He noticed blood on her skin, and reached out to take hold of her arm.

  She yanked, but he held firmly. "Let me see," he said, and turned her gloved left hand to see a small cut on her wrist. The thin slice on his own hand stung and dripped, and spotted her wrist. He swiped at their mixed blood with his thumb.

  She gave him a startled look, wide-eyed and almost frightened, and jerked her hand from his. Then she dropped to her knees and stripped the glove from her right hand.

  With tapered fingertips and a gentle touch, she smoothed away her father's hair to examine his wound. Then she lifted her hand toward William. "I need a cloth. The gag will do." He gave it to her, and she wadded the cloth against her father's head wound, pressing firmly.

  William turned. "Water," he said to one of the guards. Musgrave scowled but did not interfere. Within a minute or two, the guard came back with a sloshing wooden bucket, which William took and set down on the floor by the girl.

  She dipped the cloth into the water and bathed Armstrong's head and face. When he shifted and groaned, she gave him a sip of water from her cupped right hand. "Da, easy, now. There."

  She bandaged his head, though William noticed that she held her gloved left hand stiff and awkward, half fisted. He wondered if she had been injured in the raid, but she did not seem to be in pain.