by King, Susan
"Nah, nae protection," Archie said. "Just witnesses."
"Will you make your mother and sister spend time in the dungeon to keep me company?" Tamsin asked. She knew she sounded sarcastic, and did not care. "Or will you let me out for a little each day, to take in sunlight and air for their benefit?"
He sent her a sour glance. "A few days in a dungeon might tame that tongue."
"'Twould likely make it worse," she retorted.
Archie smiled indulgently at them. "Tell me," he said after a moment of tense silence between Tamsin and William. "Your mother, Lady Emma, is at Rookhope again? I know she left there, years ago... after ye were taken away as a lad. A fine, bonny lady, yer mother. I didna know she had returned. I heard she had married Maxwell o' Brentshaw."
"She did, fifteen years ago. He died last year, and she came to live at Rookhope again."
"Ye stayed away from Rookhope a long while, lad. Years more than the span o' yer confining."
"I had a place at the king's side," William said. "I went to Rookhope Tower only occasionally, until last year. Now..." He shrugged. "A few of my kin live there with me." He slid Tamsin a glance. "Though we rarely use the dungeons."
"Then you must get someone to sweep them out," she snapped.
"Indeed I will," he growled.
"A fortnight might nae be long enough for you two," Archie observed. "Ye may have to keep her longer, Rookhope... er, until Musgrave and I work out our differences."
"I think not," William said.
Tamsin leaned toward her father. "I know what evil scheme you have in mind," she said between her teeth. "Stop."
Archie blinked at her innocently.
William looked out over the hills, his hand still on the bridle of Tamsin's horse. She tugged at the reins, and he let go easily, surprising her. But he sent her a warning glance.
Swiftly, acting on impulse, she leaned forward and kneed her horse, surging along the road in the direction of Merton.
William swore and shouted her name, echoed by Archie. She heard the steady thud of hooves behind her. If she had her way, neither of them would catch up to her. She was a skilled rider on a swift horse, and lighter by far than her pursuers.
She guided the gray off the road, urging him to a long, easy gallop across a flat meadow. Then she tucked low and let him sail over a hedge. She knew the land here, knew the swells and slopes, and veered the horse toward another track that would take her around behind Half Merton. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed her father and Scott riding toward the hedge.
Galloping low and swift along a straight track, she soon neared a forking of the path. She saw something in the earthen crossing, and reined in so quickly that her horse whickered and turned. Tamsin leaned over to look at the ground.
A few stones lay in the dust, along with some scratchings in the earth. The stones outlined a small heart, with several long intersecting lines, one ending in an arrowed point.
The design was a patrin, a sign left by Romany to indicate the direction they had taken, and understood by their kind. Such signs were hardly noticed by unpracticed eyes, and made little sense except to the Romany. Tamsin could read the symbols as clearly as she could read English, French, and Latin.
The heart referred to a specific location, more than a dozen miles from the crossroad, in the territory of Liddesdale. And the straight lines, with one angled point, showed the direction the group had taken.
Tamsin circled her horse in the road and glanced toward Merton, so close that its crenellated tower roof rose into the sky, separated from the road only by a wide swath of trees. Then she looked back at the men riding behind her. She saw Archie point toward her, and saw William Scott lean low to urge his horse faster along the track.
Tamsin turned the horse and took the left fork.
* * *
She was gone by the time they reached the crossroad. William cursed under his breath and circled his horse.
"She's off to Merton," Archie said, pointing to the right.
"I saw her ride left," William answered impatiently.
"She has nae reason to ride that way. If she did, likely she means to circle around to Merton along that road."
William looked down at the ground, as he had seen Tamsin do just before she rode off. An arrangement of stones and lines in the dust caught his eye. "What is that?" he asked.
Archie peered down. "Stones, Will Scott."
"More than that. Gypsies leave signs for other bands of gypsies to recognize. I have seen similar markings in the road before, though each one differs. Tamsin surely knows what this one says. She took the left fork for a reason." He looked up. "I think I'll find a gypsy camp in that direction—and your daughter as well."
"That could be, though I dinna know what those markings mean. She does have some canny 'Gyptian tricks." Archie glanced at William. "As ye may find out."
"I have scant tolerance for gypsy tricks just now," William said. "But I must find the lass."
"Go to, then. I've just been treated to two days o' Musgrave's sorry hospitality. My belly is empty, and my headcrack pains me sore. I'm riding on to Merton. If she's gone to Johnny Faw and that gypsy lot, she'll return home to Merton when she's ready. She does what she wants, that lass, but she always comes back to her da." He smiled. "Be patient, lad."
William sighed and looked along the empty road. "I dinna have the leisure to wait upon her whim," he said.
"But ye gave yer word to Musgrave to hold her for a fortnight, and ye'll do it, hey?"
William thought Archie looked oddly hopeful. "You seem eager to obey Musgrave's wishes of a sudden."
"Jasper knows I'm a disobedient sort, 'tis why he threatened my lass. I dinna want her in his keeping. But yer custody o' my Tamsin is a different matter."
William looked at him. "Why?"
"Ye said ye would keep her safe."
"Aye," William said slowly. "Why do you want me to keep her at all? She's run from me. I would think you'd applaud that."
"I do applaud her spirit. But I have my reasons to want her in yer custody." Archie paused. "I dinna know why ye support a man like Musgrave, but I'll wager 'tis secret games o' some sort. Politics, and suchlike, which I dinna care for, myself."
William eyed him steadily. "I have my reasons as well."
"And I'll ask nae questions. I trust ye for a man o' yer word and I'll hold ye to it. Ye said ye'd keep the lass well."
William inclined his head, studying Archie. The man's eagerness in this made him wary. "I think you might have some plan of your own, Archie Armstrong."
"Me? Och, my thinking is simple, man. If ye keep Tamsin, Musgrave will think I'm doing what he wants," he said blithely.
"Ah," William said. "And will you?"
Archie paused. "I willna do what that coney orders. But I want my lass safe, so I want her wi' ye."
"You intend to break your word to Musgrave."
"Word given under force and duress is meaningless. When I give my word in honor, I keep it. But I willna do what Musgrave demands. Nor that sneakbait rascal, King Henry."
"You take a great risk."
"Aye. And I will trust ye to say naught to Musgrave." Archie watched him. "I see yer father strong in ye, lad. Nae just in yer bonny face, but in the help ye gave to me and my lass. And I think yer heart is as loyal and good as was Allan's. Am I wrong?" he asked softly.
William looked away, his throat tightening. He felt gratitude wash through him, sudden and deep, bringing him to the surprising brink of tears. Archie, who had known Allan Scott better than most, had given William a precious part of the father he had lost with but a few honest words.
He strove for his voice. "If you wish to go against Musgrave," he finally said, "'tis your matter, and I'll say naught of it. And I'll keep your lass safe at Rookhope for so long as must be."
"Aye, then." Archie nodded. "I'll take her back when Musgrave loses his interest in keeping a hold over me."
"That may never happen," William said wryl
y.
"True," Archie said with a little grin. "Then ye needs must keep her, hey." He grew solemn. "Musgrave may go after me when he finds I dinna support King Henry's secret matter after all."
"Aye. He wants that list."
"Och, now, I didna say he wouldna have a list."
William frowned. "What do you have planned, Archie?"
"If Musgrave doesna have to tell his scheme, then I willna tell mine." Archie grinned.
"You're an auld scoundrel." William smiled reluctantly. "And your daughter is a troublesome lass. I had best find her, I think."
"'Twould be wise," Archie said.
William sighed. He had few enough threads to follow in unraveling the English plan. The Armstrongs, father and daughter, were his best link just now to the whole truth of the scheme. But now Archie and Tamsin had gone in unexpected directions, the girl quite literally.
He knew now that Musgrave meant to organize an English effort to steal the Scottish queen. But he did not yet know how, or when. More details were necessary if the attempt was to be thwarted, and the girl and her father could lead him to those details.
His obligations were coming together like paths in a crossing, he thought, looking down at the road. In addition to the promise he had given Musgrave to remain involved in the scheme—and he would, he thought bitterly—he had also promised Archie to watch over the girl.
"Go on to Half Merton," he told Archie. "I must go home to Rookhope first. But then I intend to ride out in search of your daughter."
"Good. I'll send word to ye if she's at Merton. Otherwise, you can ask any farmer or Borderman in this area if the gypsies have passed through here, and so find them fast enough. But be warned, the gypsies can be a naughty lot if a man tries to take away one o' their women."
"Then I'll have to convince her to come with me willingly."
Archie studied him for a moment. "I will give ye one caution, Will Scott, from a father," he said. "Treat my lass wi' courtesy. Or ye'll find me as stout an enemy as a friend."
"You have my word on it." He paused. "I too am a father. I have a daughter but eight months in age."
"I thought ye had nae wife!"
He looked away. "Katharine's mother died at her birth."
"Ah. Then I will wager," Archie said softly, "that ye would give up yer life for that wee bit lassie o' yers."
"I would," William said.
Archie nodded as if satisfied with something. He gathered his reins and turned his horse toward Merton Rigg. "Luck be wi' ye," he called over his shoulder. "I dinna envy ye the task o' bringing back Tamsin if she doesna want to come wi' ye. But if any man can convince her, Will Scott"—he grinned—"I think ye are that man."
As William watched him ride away, he had the disquieting sense that Archie had spoken of far more than finding and keeping a gypsy lass for a fortnight.
Chapter 6
"What news, what news, bonny boy?
What news hes thou to me?"
"No news, no news," said bonny boy,
But a letter unto thee."
—"Bonnie Annie Livieston"
For several miles, William followed a drover's track along a ridge that skimmed the hills like a raised spine. The track provided a fast northeast route between the disputed area on the edge of the Border, called the Debatable Land, where Merton Rigg was located, and the territory of Liddesdale, which contained Rookhope lands.
The Debatable Land was an area along the western part of the border line, disputed by England and Scotland alike. The territory was a lawless land where outlaws and scoundrels hid from authority, and free and honest men scarcely dared to leave their animals pastured. Merton Rigg lay on the easternmost tip of the debated area.
Liddesdale, whose boundaries began a few miles farther north, was scarcely more lawful, filled with scores of Scottish Bordermen who made a sound living on the basis of borrowing good livestock and gear in the dark of the night. Generations of burning and looting at English hands had brought parts of the Scottish Borders to a wild, ungoverned state. Constant complaints from the crowns of both England and Scotland, and continual efforts to establish order there, had been by tradition either ineffectual or far too harsh.
Reivers and thieves as well as cattle drovers often took the ridge road, and William kept his gaze wary as he rode. He knew the track was most dangerous on moonlit nights, when reivers brought livestock secretly over the hills, either heading out of England or out of Scotland. But now all seemed quiet along the route, and the bay covered the distance with long, fast, efficient strides.
Within an hour, William rode over moorland and hills that belonged to him, all part of Rookhope Ryde, as his property had been called in his grandfather's day. Daylight faded and the sky took on a dense pewter cast, edged with indigo along the horizon. The wind grew strong and cold, and the air heavy, as if a summer storm approached.
Soon he saw the stark silhouette of Rookhope Tower, situated on the crest of a hill. Backed by acres of dense forest and fronted by a steep slope that led to a narrow glen, the stone keep was naturally protected by its setting. From the rooftop a wide view could be had of the surroundings, and access to the tower could be difficult.
As he rode, he noticed the portcullis in the outer wall slide upward. Two horsemen streamed out through the opening and headed down the western side slope. A path had been worn over centuries there, since the incline was the most gradual of the slopes that surrounded the tower property. One of the men saw William coming along the road and hailed him with a wave.
William narrowed his eyes and recognized them both. One, the younger of the two men, was a friend whom he was glad to see. The other, an older man, was closer to a personal enemy than any man he knew, though they had always maintained a veneer of chill politeness when dealing with one another.
He frowned, and halted his horse along the road to wait. The men headed toward William in the failing light, clods of earth spitting away from the horses' hooves.
"Will!" The man in the lead lifted a gloved hand in greeting. His handsome features were framed by a neatly trimmed auburn beard and cropped hair, and he smiled as he rode closer, halting his horse a few feet from William.
"Good day, Perris." William nodded toward his friend, his greeting cool only because of the presence of the older man who pulled his mount to a stop beside them.
"We were just leaving Rookhope," Perris said. "How fortunate to meet you out here. We thought we would miss you altogether, and have to return later this week." William smiled, flat and tense. He regarded Perris Maxwell as a kinsman as well as a friend, for his mother had married Perris's uncle, Maxwell of Brentshaw, years before. Bound by marriage kinship, they also knew each other within the royal court, where Perris, schooled in the law, acted as a royal advocate for the king's widow, the queen dowager, Marie of Guise.
William looked at the man beside Perris and inclined his head. "Malise. Greetings."
"William," Malise Hamilton said. His dark blue eyes and closely cut silver hair gleamed in the low light. "How fortunate, as Perris says."
As always, when he saw Malise Hamilton, William felt tension infuse him. He and Malise were linked by tragedy and resentment, even hatred. Not only had Malise Hamilton been a member of the escort who had taken William away from Rookhope Tower the day his father had been hanged, but Malise was also the father of the woman William had loved and lost, the mother of his child.
Because of the bitter, unresolvable bond between them, William found it wisest to simply avoid the man whenever possible. He summoned control over his anger now, as he faced the man but a hundred yards from the site where William's father had died and Malise had taken a young lad prisoner.
They were further linked by the existence of Katharine. The thought of his infant daughter's welfare gave him reason to school his hatred for her grandfather.
"We arrived at Rookhope this morning on official crown business, but you were away," Malise murmured. "Your sister Helen acted as a gracious hoste
ss in your absence. Poor lass."
William sucked in a quick breath at Malise's condescending reference to the scarring that his younger sister Helen had endured after a smallpox attack years ago. He began to utter a hot reply, but Perris leaned forward to interrupt him.
"Lady Helen is hardly a poor lass," Perris said. "She is blessed with an abundance of charm and grace. I find her lovely and delightful. I confess, your remark surprises me. Do you find something to pity in her?" The smooth question was a dare.
William joined Perris in staring at Malise, who cleared his throat and shrugged. "Not at all, of course. Your mother was ill and kept to her bed," Malise went on. "She never came down to offer hospitality."
"Perhaps she had an ague," William murmured. He realized why his mother had kept to her chamber, and suspected Malise knew, too. Lady Emma could not tolerate Hamilton's presence on the rare occasions that the man visited Rookhope.
"Katharine is beautiful," Malise said. "She reminds me of her mother at that age."
"Aye." William nodded brusquely. "You said you are here on official crown business. You could have sent a footrunner."
"Madame the Queen Dowager sends her personal regards to you," Perris said.
William stared at him, astonished. He had been shunned at court for months. During that time, he was sure that Marie of Guise, King James's widow, shunned him along with the rest.
"She wanted this private message delivered to you, written in her own hand." Perris reached into his doublet and pulled out a folded parchment closed by a red wax seal.
William accepted it warily, unsure if it boded ill or good.
"I told her that I would seek you out and give you the summons, since you and I have business between us," Malise said. "And I wanted to see my granddaughter, of course."
"Madame wishes to see you immediately, at Linlithgow Palace," Perris said.
William tucked the parchment away to read later. "Good," he said. "I have something to discuss with her myself."
"And what might that be?" Malise asked sharply. "We both are privy to whatever news is brought to Madame's attention, as you know."
