And lead them, he did. They would join him in songs of war, blending their voices with his until they swelled with the same united thunder as the hooves of their horses when they rode the hills.
She had shivered, then, for she could feel the rumble of battle in those notes.
But this was a song he had not sung to the men. It did not echo with the rhythm of the hooves, pounding over the hills. It did not carry the beat of war.
This melody lilted, surprisingly so, for the voice he brought to it.
Brave and true and strong she was
And special of her clan
A woman sought, a woman found
She wed that Brunson man
Brave and true and strong she was … A woman she would like to be.
‘You’ve not sung that before,’ she said, when the last note had faded. Afraid to ask him why.
He shrugged. ‘It’s one of the oldest of the Brunson ballads.’
‘Of the First Brunson?’ That name she knew. Impossible rival.
‘Of the woman he loved.’
Loved. The word streaked through her, as sharp and as strong as lightning. She had heard all that in the words, in the voice, in a song that seemed to speak more powerfully of love than the words he had spoken.
She swallowed. ‘Who was she?’
He shook his head. ‘All we have is the song.’
Then, a soft smile. ‘Maybe she was the one. The one who saved him.’
‘What did they call her, this woman?’
‘It was strange. The First Brunson had no name, or none we ever heard. But she did. They called her Leitakona.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Woman looked for. And woman found.’
Chapter Fifteen
As they road into Storwick land, morning spread across the sky, achingly blue, the sun casting shadows in what Stella once had thought was the proper direction.
The family tower rose in the distance, gradually growing taller with each clop of the horses’ hooves. All familiar to her, the land of her childhood, no longer looking like home.
When they reached the tower, the walk bristled with men carrying long bows, poised to let their arrows fly, with puzzled expressions on their faces.
Rob looked at her, waiting. This was her home. It was her place to speak.
‘I have returned home. And I bring Hobbes Storwick to be laid to rest on his home soil.’
Her two cousins emerged from behind the wall of archers. ‘And who is with you?’ Oswyn said.
‘I am Black Rob Brunson,’ he roared beside her, for once unwilling to hold his tongue. ‘Head man of the Brunson clan. I come in peace to bring your leader home to you.’
‘Are you the man who killed him?’ Humphrey this time. And neither had given the men an order to put down their bows.
‘I am not!’
Stella lifted her hand, afraid he might lose his head at the insult. ‘You all know well that my father was on his final journey when he was taken. He asked Rob Brunson to bring him home and you will not harm him for fulfilling Hobbes Storwick’s last request. Now let us in!’
The men lowered their bows. Her cousins whispered to each other and, if she could interpret their expressions rightly, started to argue.
Then the gate below them opened and her mother rushed out, trailed by a few servants.
The servants ran ahead to lift her father’s body from the cart that had borne him all the way from Carwell Castle. Stella dismounted and threw herself into her mother’s arms.
Home.
She heard the hooves behind her and twisted away from her mother to see Rob turn the horse, ready to leave.
‘Wait!’ She stretched out her arm.
If he rode away now, he would leave her an empty shell. In all the hours of last night, they had never faced the truth of this moment, never planned how they would say goodbye.
She was not even certain he would heed her, but he paused. Then, before them all, he met her eyes. One look. Everything words could not say. As brave a thing as either of them might ever do.
Her mother gripped her arm, as if trying to tug her home, but Stella did not turn away from Rob. ‘It is because of you he came home at all. You honoured him by your act. Let us honour you. Stay with us to see him buried.’
Stay with me. Just a little longer.
His gaze left her to flicker over her mother and the line of bowmen on the wall. Brave, she knew. He could face death and never flinch.
Was he brave enough to stay with her a few more days? Brave enough to face goodbye all over again?
His eyes returned to hers and all the rest fell away. ‘If ye like.’
She let go her breath. Another day. Or two. Or three.
Rob cursed his weakness. To stay would only make it harder to leave later. Here, there would be no kisses, no touches, no joining. Only the agony of seeing her within reach of his hand, yet out of his grasp.
He no longer had to watch her to know where she was, so he let his eyes roam the Storwick stronghold. He knew the shape and size of it. Larger than the Brunson Tower. Smaller than Carwell Castle. Knew its vulnerabilities and its strengths and had come up against both in more than one attack, but always from the outside.
Three months it was since his men and Carwell’s had swooped down with fire and spear and taken Hobbes Storwick captive, yet holes in charred straw still sagged where thatched roofs once protected the outbuildings.
The sight unsettled him. He knew what they had done, of course. Had done it on purpose. But coming to the compound as a guest, no matter how unwelcome, and seeing the destruction gave him pause.
But it told him more than that his emotions had changed. Three months was long enough for roofs to be repaired and walls cleaned. Weaklings, Hobbes had said, of the squabbling men on the walk. Truth was all around him.
Hobbes Storwick had not groomed a successor, as Geordie Brunson had. And now the Storwicks had no leader.
Home.
Stella walked through the gate, trying to match the word to the place. I am home.
Yet this yard was strange to her now. She expected to hear Beggy humming off-tune at her cooking. Or to see Wat run up to take her hand.
But something else was familiar. Something she had not missed in her time away.
The way they looked at her.
She had nearly forgotten the way everyone kept a respectful distance, as if God had placed her in a bubble to make them keep their distance.
Rob Brunson had had no such qualms.
Even now, he walked close behind her, as if he might have to protect her at any moment, though he was the one in danger.
The memory of last night swept over her. His flesh, pressed to hers, the scent of his skin, the way she had writhed beneath him in joining …
She lifted her chin, certain her cheeks had coloured with the thought. She refused to remember the closeness of last night. Not here, while Humphrey and Oswyn were staring at her, waiting for proof that she was some sort of prophet.
No. She was not the same woman who had called this place home.
Her mother came closer, drawing her from Rob’s side, and Stella met her eyes, full of questions and sorrow.
She wanted to say he had not suffered at the end. She wanted to say he had spoken of his wife and had reconciled with his God. But all she could remember was eyes still angry.
And that he had asked for Rob.
‘They cared for him,’ she began, meaning to reassure. ‘At the end. He …’
And then neither of them could speak for the tears.
‘And did they care for you, child?’
There was an edge to the question. How much could her mother see? And how could she even begin to explain what had happened over the last weeks?
‘Yes,’ she said, finally. ‘They did.’ To say another word would be to admit all.
‘But—’
‘Go. Rest. We’ll talk later.’
And her mother withdrew with her hus
band’s body and her grief.
Behind Stella, the rustle of men. She turned to see that Rob had been surrounded by Storwicks, held tight as by a living cage. Her eyes met his, but she could not let hers linger.
‘He is here because your head man asked him to come,’ she said, as the men escorted him out of her reach. ‘He must come to no harm.’
‘That does not mean we must leave him free to roam and spy.’ Humphrey’s voice grated on her ear as she looked up to see him walk down the stairs from the wall. He was one of the Red Storwicks that Stella had claimed to be, red-haired and blue-eyed with skin so fair it chapped in the summer wind.
Oswyn, younger, smaller, and darker, came after.
‘I have brought my father home,’ she said, as they came closer. ‘We will give him the burial he wanted.’
Or the one her mother did. The priests would come. They, too, would look at her, waiting the way that Humphrey and Oswyn waited now, standing just a foot too far away.
‘So,’ Oswyn said, clearing his throat. ‘Did you do a miracle, then, while you were gone?’
She started to shake her head, to say no, to face his disappointment and her own. Then, she smiled instead. ‘Aye,’ she answered. ‘I brought my father home.’
He looked at her, sceptical. ‘How is that a miracle?’
How could she explain how many small guided, steps it had taken to get here? Even those she had once thought misguided, like her first headstrong move across the border. Somehow, step by step, day by day, she had crept closer, too close, she had thought, to Rob Brunson. Close enough that he took her to Carwell, so she could see her father before he died. Close enough that her father asked to be brought home.
And that Rob had said yes.
She smiled, thinking of God’s mysteries, and motioned her head towards Rob, surrounded by Storwicks in the courtyard’s corner. ‘You see that man?’
Humphrey looked over his shoulder. ‘Aye. What of him?’
‘That’s Black Rob Brunson.’ The name rolled off her tongue, delicious, for she knew the taste of the man, as well as the legend.
‘You tell me nothing I don’t know,’ Humphrey said.
Oswyn swallowed, silent, and nodded, his eyes shifting from Rob back to her.
‘He is here because of Hobbes Storwick’s last request. Here because he honoured the dying wishes of his sworn enemy. Here to pay his respects before a fellow warrior is laid to rest.’ Her heart swelled with the words. All these things he had done for her, yes, she knew that, but also because he honoured her father. ‘A Brunson paying respects at a Storwick funeral. I can think of no greater miracle than that.’
The Bishop of Glasgow may have severed the men of the Borders from the church, but this family, Rob saw, still clung to theirs. Hobbes’s wife insisted a priest be sent for, so Rob was forced to wait until one could be brought.
In the meantime, he found himself an unwelcome guest of the Storwick family. ‘Guest’, in this case, meant that he was a prisoner instead of a dead man. They treated him much as he had treated Stella at the beginning. He was given a room, one even finer than his own, boasting not only a curtained bed, but a tapestry on the wall. But the room came with a guard at the door and no opportunity to roam at will.
And no moment alone with Stella.
Better that way. He must break the habit of her.
He saw her only in the Hall, at meals. He was isolated. Put at the end of the table, served, but not spoken to. And she, it seemed, had near the same treatment.
The mother had retired to her room in grief, so Stella sat alone at the high table. No one else laughed with her, or spoke to her in passing or of small things. She had wept, he could tell that, and it hurt his heart.
Bessie had looked just so, after their father had died.
But no one else seemed to notice or care. No one came forwards to comfort her. No one took her hand or put an arm around her shoulder. Neither adult nor child came close enough that her hem might touch a boot. Even the serving girl stood out of reach, as if afraid to enter some invisible halo surrounding her.
They simply watched her, and left her alone.
All my life, people looked at me. Watching. Waiting. Expecting me to do something worth being saved for.
That had bound them. He could see that now. As she grew, no one had been willing to touch her. As he grew, everyone had given him a wide berth. Respect. Fear. Awe. It didn’t matter what you called it, the effect was the same.
A life alone.
And for those few times, those few nights together, neither of them had been alone. Now, forced to stand apart from her, he ached for the one person unafraid to touch him.
One night, he had said. One would have to last for all the ones to come. But though his body pined for her, it was his heart that had suffered the mortal wound. Who else was willing to challenge him as she did? Who else was willing to tease and argue and love what he had done while asking for just a little more?
Who else would demand fish and then help build the trap to catch them?
She had asked him to stay and he had said yes. Not because he respected Hobbes Storwick, though now that he was head of the clan, he had more sympathy for the man.
No, he stayed because he was not ready to let her go.
And he must. There was no other answer. King James would ride in a matter of weeks, mayhap days. And when he did, Stella Storwick must be safely on her side of the border.
Yet the thought made him feel as if his heart were being ripped from his chest.
Stella had forgotten how scarce priests were on the Borders. It took her cousins till week’s end to find one who could bury her father and even then, the mass he read was a ragged thing.
They held the service in what had once been a chapel for the tower. Stacks of hay, ready for re-thatching the charred roofs, had to be moved to make room.
Stella did not recognise the priest. He carried a sword, his garb was as tattered as a battle flag, and when she got close enough to kneel for his blessing, she caught a whiff of wine on his breath.
Even so, she was surprised he did not know of her. When she was a child, men of God had visited regularly, watching her, like the rest, as if she might sprout wings at any moment. Someone had spoken of certifying the miracle with the Church, but she did not know what had come of that. It had been many years since the monks had named her saved by God.
Perhaps only the Storwicks remembered now.
The consecrated burial ground was not far away, beside a church long abandoned. She watched the men lower her father into the grave. Then, holding her mother’s arm, she turned to leave.
‘Is there no one to sing for him?’ Rob was suddenly at her elbow, tall, quiet and full of strength. Still, she could tell the church ritual had made him uneasy.
‘Sing for him?’
‘Do you not sing to honour the dead? Do you not create a new verse to hand down his name?’
Her mother shook her head. ‘There is no one left to do it.’
He looked over his shoulder at the grave, fast being filled. ‘He did not die as a warrior should, but he deserves to be honoured.’
Stella glanced at her mother, expecting her to protest. Instead, she waved a hand, too weary or grief-stricken to care. ‘Do as you like. He is gone now.’
Leaving them, Rob returned to the grave. The men with shovels raised them, wary, as if they thought Rob might have come to piss on it. Instead, he gazed into the dirt for long minutes.
Her mother did not wait. With a murderous look behind, Humphrey moved to flank her right, Oswyn her left, and they walked back to the tower.
Unmoving, Stella watched, neither joining her family nor Rob, but unable to leave him.
Finally he began to sing.
The tune was new. The verses few. Rob could have chanted of mayhem and destruction wreaked upon innocent Brunsons. Instead, he sang of a man of courage, beloved by his family, in a voice so deep and in words so true that the men filling the grave leane
d on their shovels and bowed their heads.
And as the final notes floated into the hills, she heard the words with a shudder.
And what will be his legacy?
What mark upon the hills?
When Hobbes Storwick lies in his grave
Who will remember still?
No one left, her mother had said. Without her father, what would happen? Of all the care he had taken, all the things he had done for the Storwicks, he had never trained a successor. Without a son, without a marriage for Stella, there had been no obvious heir.
Rob turned to look at her, the question of the song lingering in his eyes as if she might have the answer. Instead, her tears came again, tears for Hobbes Storwick and for the future.
She waited until he had come to her before she tried to form the words.
‘Thank you.’ Just two words and her eyes filled again. Her father dead. And a Brunson the one who seemed to mourn him most.
He answered only with a shrug and open hands.
As one, they turned towards the castle. She longed to curl into his chest, to feel his arm around her shoulders, to take comfort in his closeness. Instead, they walked a safe distance apart, afraid of even an accidental touch.
‘Is it near?’ Rob’s voice, still close. ‘The well where it happened?’
Stella’s steps slowed. She had told him, of course, but they had never spoken of it since. ‘Near enough.’ She knew exactly where it was, the better to avoid it.
He folded his arms, a gesture that on another man would have been threatening. Instead, she felt he was holding himself back from touching her. ‘Would you show me?’
She looked away and folded her own arms, shielding herself from the fear. ‘I never go there. Someone else draws water.’ Someone else had done everything for her in this life. Its own kind of prison.
‘It’s nay more than a hole in the ground, Stella. You spent the night with worse.’
She smiled. ‘With you?’ Yet she knew his meaning.
‘Sometimes, we must face the fear.’
Perhaps, with him beside her, finally, she might. But what came after, losing him … ah, that was a fear she would face alone.
Taken by the Border Rebel Page 15
