by Susan King
"Aye. Now, what is this business with my brother?"
"You've heard some o' that sorry tale? And you heard of Maggie's death in childbed," he added.
Rowan nodded, once, sharply, and could not speak.
"If you still carry a grudge against Alec, you've a right to it, hey. I told him so myself. 'The Black Laird will take you to account now for stealing that lass,' I says to him, but—"
"And what is this about spies?"
"—but Alec did not seem to fear seeing you, though he should," Sandie continued. Rowan remembered his cousin's long-winded penchant for expressing himself. "Spies. Hmph. Well, as I understand, Alec rode out to fetch Iain Macrae, who lives south o' the Lincraig Hill—"
"A Highlander?"
"A young Highlandman who wed Devil Davy Armstrong's daughter. He pays rent to you, which your grand-sire takes in. Macrae has been a bonny friend to us, but now Simon Kerr has put him in a dungeon for some deed." He shook his head. "Alec and Macrae rode out after a gang that's been foraying near here. Those tricksters had shifted your own cattle from the south pastures. Heckie Elliot—"
"Heckie's Bairns," Rowan said, half to himself.
"You're muckle well informed for a man just arrived."
"I met Mairi Macrae, Iain's sister," Rowan said. "And Devil Davy's lad."
"Devil's Christie," Sandie said, nodding. "And Macrae's own sister—now there's a bonny lass to rest a weary eye." Sandie grinned. "If I were younger I'd court her myself. Sweet as honey, that one."
"Aye," Rowan said dryly, touching his fingers to his head wound. "Go on. Alec and Iain rode out."
"To reclaim cattle snatched from Blackdrummond land."
"Hot trod?"
"Well, nae quite a hot trod in the legal manner, wi' a burning peat on a lance, and a troop o' warden's men. Just the two men after the reivers."
"I thought Alec had more sense than that. Go on."
"The next day Simon Kerr rode here to say that Iain was taken and Alec had fled, a broken man. An outlaw. Spies, says Kerr, both of 'em." He spat. "Spies! Simon Kerr is a brute—"
"Sandie," Rowan said patiently. "Alec went where?"
"Into the hills. Kerr said Iain had Spanish gold among his booty. The English want him, see, to hang him now. And that's all we ken o' the matter," Sandie finished, folding his great arms over his chest.
"What do you think happened?"
"They reived gear off naughty English papist spies, and they snatched something by mistake. Why else would they have a Spanish load with them? What good would that be? Cattle and sheep, aye, and steel back-and-breasts, a wheel-lock or two, good gear to take. But Spanish gold is poison in Scotland."
"Poison pays well when 'tis melted down. The Scottish council and the English government are looking for Scottish agents in league with Spain." He nodded to Sandie. "Thank you for the news. I'll go up now."
"Knock loud at the yett. Your grandparents can hear as keen as dogs, but that lazy serving lass is half deaf."
* * *
Ivy vines climbed the barnekin wall, framing two massive gates. The outer one of crisscrossed iron and an inner door of stout, iron-studded oak stood wide open.
Rowan saw his grandfather waiting in the shadowed entry. He stepped forward, sunlight glinting over his silvery hair and his lean face. Rowan saw that his grandfather had changed little. Thinner and older, but still whip-hard and stern.
Jock Scott lifted an eyebrow as he surveyed his grandson's bruised, bearded face, and took in the Highland plaid, the bare feet. Then he gazed out over the hillsides beyond, squinting keen blue eyes against the sunlight.
"My father built this place," he said in the calm, quiet voice that Rowan remembered well, a voice that had commanded great respect though it was rarely raised. "High on this hill, so that he could watch out over the glen and the moors. Blackdrummond Tower has always been a stronghold for our Scott kinfolk."
"And ever will be," Rowan said. "I thank you for keeping it for me, sir."
Jock Scott nodded. "My elder brother inherited Blackdrummond from my father. I inherited Lincraig, that ruin, and little I could do wi' it o'er the years. This tower is yours now, Rowan. The night your father and my son—and our other kinsmen perished at the hands o' Kerrs—that was a black night for Blackdrummond."
Rowan nodded, knowing well the litany of that terrible night twenty-five years ago, when the deaths of his father and uncle and cousins left Blackdrummond to him, though he was a child. "You were but a lad, and Alec so small. And your mother birthed another too soon and died too," Jock finished quietly.
Rowan shook his head against the burden of the grief. He had moved on, having been a boy, but he knew his grandfather still remembered, for he had been a man and carried the grudge. Jock Scott, called the Firebrand then, had made a vicious retaliatory raid of slaughter and burning upon the Kerrs that still echoed in local memory. The flames of the feud had burned between Kerrs and Scotts for years afterward.
"Long past, sir," Rowan said. "You and Anna were fine guardians for Alec and me."
Jock shrugged. "You were nae trouble."
"You were always the true laird of Blackdrummond," Rowan said, "although 'tis chartered in my name."
Jock shook his head. "I am laird o' Lincraig that has not been whole for generations. And laird o' Newhouse, that burned too. There's never been coin to rebuild."
"Blackdrummond is your home."
"And yours." Jock glanced at him. "Welcome. Your grandmother will want to know if you got the letters she sent you in England. We had nae word from you until you were released."
"Grandmother wrote to say that Alec had taken a wife." Rowan paused. "But I rarely had letters, probably thanks to the posting services of the guards and warden."
"You know about Maggie?"
"Aye, I heard that." Rowan stared out over the landscape, feeling as gray and hard as the rocks at his feet.
"And Sandie told you the latest news o' Alec?"
"Aye. I had heard some of that in Edinburgh."
"I will believe Alec went reiving and committed March treason in moonlight. But he would never do true treason. He is no spy. Tell that to the king's council. You are deputy now."
Rowan said nothing. He gazed southward, toward the rounded slope of Lincraig Hill. He was not inclined to help Alec—nor betray the Lincraig riders.
Jock turned. "That's a handsome bruise."
"I, ah, met the highway riders o' Lincraig."
"Purse shifters! You outran them, o' course."
"A tricky thing in the murk and the rain. My horse slipped in the bog," Rowan answered. "I went down."
"Some say the ghosts o' Lincraig ride that moor." Jock gave him an amused glance. "Lost your gear and your horse to your own ancestors, did you?"
"I'll have my gear back within a day," Rowan said.
"Blackdrummond to the bone," Jock said. "Anna will want to coddle you. Let her, will you." He laid his hand on Rowan's shoulder, a rare expression of affection that warmed like no fire or dram could have done. "Come in and bide, then."
Feeling the truth of the welcome, Rowan smiled.
* * *
"'Tis no bairnie's drink," Anna insisted.
"'Tis," Jock said. He settled in his wide elbow chair. "'Tis."
His wife handed a pewter flagon to Rowan, and looked sternly at her husband. "'Tis an English recipe from my own mother. Cream, honey and healing herbs. Look at his pate, man, he's sore injured and needs a posset, not a dram of that Spanish sherry wine that would be like a horse-kick to the head."
"Only an Englishwoman would give a braw Scotsman a bairnie's posset o' hot milk and honey." Jock's eyes twinkled as he raised his own flagon to his lips and drank.
Rowan, watching, knew how much Jock enjoyed teasing Anna. And he knew she gave it back often enough.
Anna fisted her hands on her hips. "You took me from my English family in the middle of the night fifty years ago. D'you expect me to change my English ways so quick?"
> Jock twisted his mouth awry and looked at his grandson. "Still the fiery wee bride I stole on the eve of Arthur Musgrave's own wedding. He will die happy, that auld man."
Anna batted her hand gently at Jock's head. "You'll be the one to die happy, auld man," she said softly, smiling.
"Me?" Jock smiled, and Rowan saw the happy glimmer in his grandfather's eyes.
Rowan bit back his own grin and lifted the pewter cup to his mouth. He sipped the cloying, creamy stuff slowly.
"There, see you, Anna, he does as you say," Jock said.
"Hah, and never did, for he was made in your mold," she replied. "Rowan, if you want more of the beef roast, or another bowl of porridge, I'll have Grace fetch some from the kitchen."
He shook his head and pushed away the empty bowl near him. "My thanks, Granna, I am full to bursting." He patted his stomach and glanced up. His use of the childhood name pleased her. She smiled, her cheeks rosy, her white hair wrapped about her head in thick braids, her green eyes softening. But she set her hands on her hips and scowled as if he were small again.
"You hardly tasted that meal, and you are thin as I have ever seen you, with a swollen egg on your pate, and dressed as bare and strange as a Highland loon. Where did you get such a plaidie? 'Tis not Lowland make."
Rowan sighed, and held out his hand to Jock. Wordlessly, his grandfather handed him the flagon of sherry. Rowan downed a long gulp.
"I got the plaidie from a Highland lass," Rowan said. "Mairi Macrae." Jock raised his brows. Anna smiled.
"A pretty lass, and a kind one," she said. "Simon Kerr has taken her brother, God knows why. But no surprise to me that she helped you when you were robbed by shifters and thieves. A good lass, that one."
"Mmm," Rowan said, and sipped again.
"Go easy, Rowan," Anna said. "'Tis drawn from that cask of Jerez wine. You'll feel its kick later. Tell me again what you told Jock and Sandie. About your duties."
Rowan nodded, and leaned forward. In a low voice, he explained the assignment from the privy council, and answered his grandparents' questions. He mentioned the Spanish shipwreck and told them what the council believed of Alec Scott's involvement. He made no more mention of Mairi Macrae or the Lincraig riders.
While they talked, Sandie Scott entered the hall, taking a seat by the fire. When Rowan finished, his cousin chuckled.
"A Blackdrummond Scott made deputy to Simon Kerr!" Sandie grinned. "I like that, I do. The council has humor."
"Or a wish to set lawmen at each other's throats over an old feud," Anna said.
"It is not easy to find a clean man for a wardenship in the Borders now," Jock said. "Every warden, deputy and land sergeant in Scotland has ridden reiving himself, or feuds wi' a riding family."
"Simon Kerr turns a blind eye to some o' the night riding that goes on in this March," Sandie said, "if the reivers give him a share o' what they snatch."
"He's the son o' a spoiler and a murderer," Jock said. "He took Iain down and he's after Alec. And he's a Kerr."
"Will you ride down the highway thieves now?" Sandie asked. "No man has seen their faces."
"I will find them," Rowan said.
"They say that the haunts o' Lincraig—" Sandie began.
"Nonsense," Jock muttered.
Anna leaned over and murmured something into her husband's ear. "Aye, Rowan kens that matter," Jock said.
"And the rest?" she asked. Jock shook his head.
Puzzled, Rowan looked from one to the other. "What is it?"
"We had a message from Alec last week," Anna said.
"You know where he is?" Rowan asked sharply.
"Nay. But he sent a letter," Anna said. "He needs our help."
"He has no right to ask," Rowan growled.
"Oh, he does," Anna said. "For Jamie."
"Who?"
"His son," Anna said. "Alec wants us to fetch him."
"His son?" Rowan felt as if a lead ball had slammed into his gut. "I thought the child died with Maggie."
"No," his grandmother said. "Jamie, he's called. He's over two now. Strong and bonny, a dark and lovely lad."
Rowan turned a stony glance to the fire.
"Alec has a bastel house nearby," Jock said. "He handfasted to a lass some months ago to help raise the bairn. He knew the laddie was a handful for your grandmother."
"No handful, that wee angel. But Alec chose poorly. The lass has a good heart, but she is no woman for this life."
"Where is the child now?" Rowan asked.
"With Alec," Anna said. "After Alec fled, I went to his house and found the lass and bairn were gone too. She followed Alec into the hills. She should have come here."
"A man came to our door last week," Jock said. "Lang Will Croser, he's called. He brought word from Alec. The lass fled and left the bairn wi' Alec. So now Alec wants us to fetch him."
"Now that you are here, you can go fetch him." Anna smiled at Rowan.
"I cannot go off to coddle a bairnie. I have duties here as deputy. Alec made this cursed maze of his life, and he can sort this out himself."
"He betrayed you in the lowest way a brother can do," Jock said. "But his wee lad is your nephew. And our great-grandson. I want the lad fetched here."
"Let Alec find a nursemaid wherever he is."
"Alec sent word that the lad is in danger," Jock growled.
Rowan glanced up sharply. "How so?"
"Alec is a broken man now, an outlaw," Jock answered. "The English want him in their custody. Lang Will said the English warden is looking for the child in hopes of flushing out the father. They mean to find the bairn and take him hostage."
"A pledge against Alec's good behavior?" Rowan asked. "That is Scots law, not English."
"Aye," Jock answered. "They will not pledge wi' signed papers and agreements. They will take him and hold him hostage for Alec's surrender. The lad could be harmed."
"Even if Alec gives himself to the law to protect his son, we might not see our Jamie again," Anna said. "The English keep hostages for years and years."
"No Blackdrummond Scott will be raised in England," Jock growled.
"I am English," Anna reminded him.
"Aye, and you taught our lads your English instead of good braw Scots, and you gave them clerky skills. But they are Scotts and Scotsmen. Alec's laddie will not be English!"
Anna looked at Rowan. "You fetch our Jamie," she said. "Bring him back to his kin."
"I'll ride wi' ye," Sandie said. "We'll give 'em a taste o' Blackdrummond law, hey!"
Rowan felt heat fill his face. He felt his grandfather's hard stare as well. He sighed. Maggie's child. He steeled his jaw against the thought. His own hope of a wife and family had been shattered when Maggie had wed Alec soon after Rowan was put in English confinement. The shock of that betrayal lingered in his heart. And here they sat, talking of Maggie's child.
Alec's child. Rowan clenched his fist in silence, aware that his grandparents and Sandie watched him.
He sighed again. "Where is this bairn?"
"In the Debatable Land," Jock said.
"Jesu," Rowan muttered. "You expect me to ride through that nest of vipers to fetch a babe in arms?"
"He's no babe in arms. He can run, and has several words now," Anna said proudly. "And he's taught to the jordan pot."
"What a fine riding comrade," he drawled. "This is madness."
"Sandie will go wi' you," Jock said.
"He knows less of bairns than I do."
"Jamie knows him," Anna said.
Rowan nodded. "Very well. But first I need to fetch back my horse and gear. And meet with Simon Kerr."
"You must hasten," Anna said.
"He's the Black Laird," Sandie said, grinning. "He'll have his gear back and take down the Lincraig riders in but an hour. He'll yammer what Simon Kerr wants to hear and be off to the Debatable Land by sunrise."
Rowan threw back the last of the sherry and stood. "Let me wash up a bit first, at least." He left the room, with his th
ree kin grinning behind him.
Chapter 9
"As for your steed, he shall not want
The best of corn and hay;
But as to yoursel, kind sir,
I've naething for to say."
—"The Laird of Knotington"
Mounted on a dappled horse from Blackdrummond's stable and wearing an old doublet and boots borrowed from his grandfather, Rowan passed Lincraig Hill at a canter. The castle looked lonely and deserted. Ahead, cattle and sheep grazed slowing over the hillsides.
The dale supported tenant farmers who raised herds and lived in stout bastel houses, the fortified stone and thatch buildings so common in the Borders. Most of the farms had been settled generations ago, still rented from the Blackdrummond laird. The tenant families took their living from cattle and sheep, since the hard, scrubby land yielded few crops.
The better part of many livings, Rowan knew, came from reiving in the night. Furtive and often violent trading of beasts and goods was the accepted custom of the Borders. Most of the Blackdrummond tenants engaged in some form of reiving, and defended their own goods and homes against both Scottish and English riders as well.
Now a deputy, he was obligated to discourage such activities. But he understood the custom and had ridden out more times than he could count.
Rowan watched tendrils of hearth smoke rise into the sky from the few squat, thatched-roof houses scattered over the hills. He was not here to harry anyone, but only to find the house of his tenant, Iain Macrae, and Macrae's bonny wee sister.
The laird wanted his gear back. That was all—for now.
He rode across the moorland. His recollection of the last time he rode through here on a rainy night were dim, but his memories of Mairi were clear enough.
That lass was a blend of contradictions, peace and torment whirled together like a wild sea: stormy or serene, astonishingly beautiful, equally capable of danger or succor. He had no doubt she would try to stir the tide if she saw him again.
Well, he would do so first. He fully intended to take her down, but it needed the right time. He owed her a few nights on a cold stone floor—although he would generously forgo the crack on the head. He had decided to leave Devil's Christie Armstrong be. The lad's father had been a good riding companion, and Rowan owed this favor to his son. And he guessed that Christie was under the charm of the lass.
