by Susan King
But something strange had happened, that day, when he saw Mairi's face in the thing, before he had ever met her. He was normally skeptical of supernatural claims, and had no trace of the fabled prophetic Sight that some Scots were said to possess. But he had seen her—he knew that now. Perhaps it was some sort of charm stone. There were stories of such things.
But why would it be carried on a Spanish ship—and why would spies attack to retrieve it? And why would Mairi Macrae's face appear to him in the thing?
Unable to answer his own questions, he put the mirror back in his leather pouch. Then he slid his dagger free and slit the silk lining of the pouch—a hidden pocket. And there, tucked safely away, was a parchment sheet, its red wax privy seal still intact.
Rowan nodded in satisfaction. Then he closed the pouch and slipped its loop onto his belt. Mairi had told the truth. She had not taken his coin or valuables, or even the stone mirror.
And she had not found the warrant regarding Iain Macrae.
The document ordered Simon Kerr to give custody of Macrae to the English warden. The English would not have much sympathy for a Scot accused of treason. The parchment, in effect, was Macrae's death warrant.
Mairi's impassioned and persistent defense of her brother made Rowan wonder, now, about Iain's guilt. So he intended to investigate the matter himself.
But the writ must be delivered and the council must receive a statement signed by Kerr and Rowan, of the delivery. Rowan had two weeks before he himself could be charged with obstruction. And he needed the Crown's support if any charges were laid against him concerning Spanish gold, as Geordie Bell had hinted might happen. So he had to work quickly, although first he would have to fetch Alec's son.
He walked toward Valentine, still nuzzling at stray grasses near the old chapel, and paused when he saw a small, distinct bootprint. Frowning, going inside, he entered the nave.
Roofless, its pointed walls soared toward the blue sky, broken stone softened by moss and ivy. Rowan walked along the aisle, following the footprints. He suspected whose they were.
On the collapsed altar slab, he saw the imprint of a hand pressed into the undisturbed grime of decades. Turning, he saw more prints—this time on a side doorjamb that led down into the crypt. He went there, boots scraping softly in the silence.
He had not been here since he had been a lad. Once, he remembered, he and Alec had sheltered in the crypt during a heavy storm and had the fright of their young lives.
Curving steps led downward into darkness as Rowan descended toward the Lincraig crypt. He smiled a little, remembering how his brother had frozen in panic when a burst of lightning had illuminated the tombs. Rowan, at eleven, had summoned enough courage to enter the dark chamber with its carved stone tombs and engraved memorial brasses. Alec had fled up the stairs to wait.
More lightning had brightened the carved faces on the tombs, and Rowan had soon run back up the steps to catch his brother's hand and run out. Alec had only calmed down when Rowan had reassured him there was nothing to fear.
Later, Rowan had returned alone, at first to test his bravery. After that, as his fears diminished, the crypt became a refuge. He found a certain peace in the silent tomb, a balm for youthful loneliness. As a young man he had taken Maggie here; but she had not appreciated the peace as he did, refusing to enter.
Now, walking down the steps, he felt the tranquil silence surround him. He gazed at the tombs and brasses, pausing for a moment to honor his ancestors.
Then, his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw the imprint of fingers on one of the effigies.
Mairi Macrae had been here, where only Rowan Scott had set foot for decades. More footprints, small and narrow, disturbed the dust on the floor.
Puzzled, he wondered if she had taken refuge here while planning to waylay some unsuspecting traveler. Turning to leave, his hand bumped softness where only stone should be. Bending, he saw a cloth bundle tucked between the little pillars that decorated the side of a lady's tomb. He drew out the packet and laid it on the effigy's knees.
Inside the cloth were folded pages. More than one bore the seal of the privy council. Quickly he scanned the contents. Dated two months earlier, the writ ordered Simon Kerr to interrogate the spy Macrae and send word of the result. But the paper had never reached Kerr. A highway thief had snatched it from the council's messenger.
A broken stick, painted red, clattered to the floor. He picked it up, recognizing part of the red wand carried by the king's messengers at arms. The wands were broken by the messengers themselves if the secrecy of their packets were compromised. Indeed, Rowan thought.
The next letter was a similar one from the council, with another date—and Kerr had not seen that one either. The last two pages were written in a cramped hand in what he realized was Spanish. A letter of some kind, or a long document.
Rowan swore out loud, his voice an abrupt echo.
Wrapping the packet and broken wand, he shoved the whole inside his doublet. Then he took the steps in pairs, his boots ringing in angry echo toward the sunlit chapel.
Mairi Macrae was not only a thieving, spying wench—she had caused even more danger for her brother. The missing orders had led the council to issue the more serious warrant that Rowan himself was bound to deliver.
* * *
Where the road forked and plunged into wildness both ways, either boggy moorland or craggy slopes, Rowan guided Valentine right toward Abermuir. The left fork would take him back to Blackdrummond, but he had other business.
Mairi and Devil's Christie were clever, he thought, to watch from the Lincraig hill for messengers. The highway there was rough and isolated, hardly traveled except for those with business at Blackdrummond or Abermuir.
His temper was thoroughly soured after his tour through the ruined chapel. And he wanted to know how Mairi had come by the Spanish letter, which would not have been carried by King James' messengers. He had almost accepted her as charming, stubborn, a bonny lass defending her brother by unusual methods. He had thought her innocent if misguided—until he found the packet in the crypt.
Now, he told himself that Mairi was an integral part of the network of agents to which Iain, and Alec, belonged. He wondered if that damnable Spanish gold—missing salvage—was stashed nearby, with Mairi fully aware of it.
And he wondered with fresh dismay if Davy's lad, Devil's Christie Armstrong, was involved as well.
He swore low and rode on as the sun slipped down behind the hills and an autumn chill gathered. The advent of winter, with its longer, darker nights, marked a season of reiving in the Borderlands. Rowan glanced around and behind him. He had best be wary—a night like this could invite a host of scoundrels to venture out on the roads.
Soon, hearing hoofbeats, he looked ahead. Five men rode across the moor, their steel breastplates, helmets, and lances gleaming in the sunset light.
Warden's troopers, he realized, slowing Valentine to a halt to wait. The men saw him and one of them spurred toward him. A big man, heavily bearded, he rode stiffly. A gun was sheathed prominently in his saddle loop.
"God give you good day, sir," Rowan called pleasantly.
The trooper halted. "Who would ye be, sir?"
"Rowan Scott o' Blackdrummond. You?"
"John Hepburn, land sergeant to Simon Kerr, warden o' the Scottish Middle March. Can ye prove yer name?"
"I can, and I'll show my proof to Simon Kerr."
"Then ready it, for the warden rides this way." Hepburn gestured behind him. Another man now crossed the moor. Even at a distance, Rowan saw that this man had the wide build, swarthy coloring and coarse features of the Cessford Kerrs. He folded his hands over his saddle and waited.
"He says he's Blackdrummond, sir," Hepburn called.
Simon Kerr halted his horse and openly glared at Rowan. His nose was red in the chill and his close-set eyes snapped with fury. "You are over a week late, Master Deputy!"
"But I am here, Master Warden," Rowan replied easily.
<
br /> "I trust you bring an order from the council."
So soon, then. Rowan nodded. "A writ from the king's council. It requires your signature on a return statement."
Kerr walked his horse closer and held out his hand. "Give it, then. I have been waiting weeks for word from the council. How did you get past the damned riding thieves that harry travelers along the Lincraig road?"
"I saw nothing," Rowan said with a shrug. It was almost true. He extracted the water-stained letter that Mairi had returned to him and handed it to Kerr. "Got a bit wet but it can be read. The council knows that its messengers have been plagued along this part of the road," he added.
"Cursed tricksters!" Kerr growled. "Never about when I send patrols. They say the haunts o' Lincraig ride this road. But I believe more strongly in wicked thieves looking for the crown's gold," he said as he unfolded the letter. "But my troopers have better things to do than lay in wait for petty robbers. Jesu, this paper is near illegible. Did you use it for a rain bonnet, man?" He read the page, lips moving laboriously. Then he shot Rowan an acidic look. "Why in the name o' Christ has the council sent me a Blackdrummond Scott for a deputy?"
"I suppose they had their reasons," Rowan said mildly.
"I hope you mean to honor those reasons," Simon snapped as he crammed the page into his belt pouch. "Naught I can do about it now. What else d'you have? Give it over. I have been waiting weeks for a damned warrant."
Rowan hesitated as Mairi's plea went through his mind, but he shut his heart to it. The lass was likely as much a spy as her brother.
"Deliver the warrant or suffer for it," Kerr snapped, wiggling his fingers. "I know they sent it with you."
Rowan shot him a narrow look and fished the folded page from the slot in his pouch.Simon grabbed the page and ripped the seal apart, scanning the contents.
"Good," Kerr grunted. "Let the English take the rogue, and hang him next truce day." He slid that page, too, into his pouch.
"I'll need a signed page on the delivery. When is truce day?" Rowan asked.
"I am awaiting word on that meeting. Best be ready to ride tonight, Blackdrummond. We mean to take down a few rascals."
"The Lincraig riders?" he asked quickly.
"Not those pesky rascals. I mean to catch Heckie Elliot and his gang. They've been riding out to rob and burn and squeeze criminal rent from the people in this dale."
"Do you know where they mean to ride tonight?"
"Nay. But we have men throughout the dale who will light signal fires when they see them coming. Heckie and them will have no more black rent from this territory. They've spoiled some of your own tenants, Blackdrummond. You will ride wi' us. Take a band o' troopers toward Lincraig, while the rest of us go another way. We will find that cursed Heckie."
"Fine. I'll take six men. That should be sufficient."
"Hmph. You may know the land and the people here, Blackdrummond, but you have not been about for a while. And my sergeants will be watching you," Simon said. "My own capable deputy is laid up wi' an ill foot. You are a Scott and a scoundrel, but you'll have to do for a deputy—for now."
"I'll ride out tonight, but I have not come here to harass reivers. The council gave me specific orders to interview the spy in your custody. They are waiting for my report."
"Send a footrunner to Edinburgh at your own risk, for the letter may never make it out past Lincraig." Kerr squinted at Rowan. "Blackdrummond you may be, but you've much to learn about your post. First lesson—I am the warden and you are the deputy. So I do not care if you are laird o' the moon. I give the orders here. For now, we head to Abermuir to discuss plans for the trod tonight. We ride out most nights. You'll learn to get your sleep in the day."
"I am well practiced at that," Rowan said flatly.
"Well, now you'll do so to keep the March laws and not break them," Simon said, turning his horse to ride off.
* * *
"Who sends a Scott after a Scott? Brother after a brother? Does the council take me for a lackwit?" Simon removed his helmet and tossed it on a chair, then unlatched his belt. "Archie! Where the devil are you!" His thick voice boomed through the great hall at Abermuir.
"I am to investigate the rumors of spies in the Middle March," Rowan said. "And I am to go after Alec Scott myself."
"I read it, though the ink was spoiled. Ride after your own brother? This is some Scott scheme." Simon turned. "Archie!" he bellowed. "Send the lassie wi' ale!"
Rowan removed his helmet and laid it on the table. "I do not care to help my brother or to hunt him," he said. "But the council wants it done."
"Alec Scott is a hard one to find. But if you can find him, best know he'll be hanged by sundown the day he's found. How does that sit wi' you?"
Rowan glanced away. "Do what must be done. I am also to report on this... Iain Macrae." He made the name sound unfamiliar on his lips.
"You'll speak to him when I say you may."
"It is not wise to obstruct the council's orders. I will see Macrae now or very soon." He looked steadily at Simon.
Simon yanked at the buckle on his shoulder. "Archie!" he yelled again. "I'm thirsty, for God's pity!"
"I want to see the items taken from Iain Macrae the night he was arrested," Rowan said.
"I sent a list to the council. If you are in their graces, you have seen the inventory."
"Aye. Fifty pieces of gold, thirty-five silver coins, several lengths of gold chains, a few gewgaws. But I was one of the officials who searched the beach near Berwick after that Spanish ship wrecked there—this stuff may match what has gone missing, so I must examine what you have here."
"Hmph." Simon unlatched another buckle, loosening the steel breast and back pieces he wore. "Nae harm in showing it to you. Archie, by hell, there you are!"
Rowan turned to see a young blond man hobbling along on wooden crutches. Tall and wide-shouldered, the man had one foot wrapped in thick bandages. A girl in a brown dress followed him, carrying a jug and pewter cups.
"Lucy, pour the warden's ale, and some for his guest," the young man said. He smiled at Rowan, who noticed that his nose and eye showed the swelling and bruising of a recent altercation, likely with some reiving rascal or another. "Sir, I am Archibald Pringle, one of the warden's deputies." He held out his hand.
"And I am the other." Rowan shook the offered hand, noting the strong, dry grip. "Rowan Scott of Blackdrummond." Archie nodded, smiled.
"Archie, get me out of this damn back-and-breast," Simon said. Pringle reached out to lift the steel breastpiece to the bench. The warden laid down the back piece and waved a hand toward the girl. "Pour the ale and do not spill it." She did so neatly and gave Simon a cup, and as he took several swallows, she hastened from the room as if eager to leave.
Simon crossed the hall to unlock a wall cupboard built into the far corner. Carrying a large metal box, he hefted that onto the table, then turned a key in the lock and flipped open the lid.
Rowan saw a bright jumble of gold inside. He lifted a heavy golden chain out of the casket, weighing the solid links in his hand. "Spanish make," he said. "I've seen such chains before. Spanish sailors wear them wrapped around their bodies, under their clothing. A life's fortune worn constantly. We found a few on the beach last August."
"Only a few, for all the sailors captured?" Archie asked.
Rowan nodded. "Likely many who wore these drowned from the weight of their chains before they got to shore."
"Papist lackwits," Simon grumbled, and slurped his ale.
Rowan sifted through the contents of the box. Cool, bright bits of gold and silver slid through his fingers. Many of the coins were similar to those he had seen on the Scottish beach.
One of the pieces was not a coin, but a small golden oval engraved with an image. He turned it and recognized the saint's medallion he had found in the sand himself—and stolen off of him at the inn.
How did it come to be here, in this horde of stuff supposedly taken from Alec and Iain? Had Mairi seen this
little piece too? He fingered the medallion thoughtfully and set it back in the box, perplexed.
"Well? Satisfied?" Simon asked.
Rowan closed the casket lid. "'Tis indeed Spanish stuff, and some came from the Berwick salvage," he said carefully. "I am sure of it."
"Lucky for you that we are holding one o' the spies here."
"I'd like to talk to the man as soon as possible."
"What is this about?" Archie asked.
"Blackdrummond has been sent by the council to look into this matter o' spies. And to replace you," Simon added.
"Temporarily, I presume," Rowan said.
"You will be the only deputy in this March if Pringle does not heal quick," Simon answered. "He's naught but a secretary now, and a poor one. His handscript is pretty foul." He lifted his cup to gulp more ale.
"You will need to pen a letter to the council stating that you received the warrant," Rowan reminded Simon.
"Archie will see to it. I'll send a pair o' troopers past Lincraig and on to Edinburgh." Simon wiped his hand across his mouth. "Will you let Scott do your duty tonight, Archie, or will you mount and ride wi' us?"
"My foot is not yet healed, sir. Cracked the anklebone in a football match," he added to Rowan. "Broke my nose as well."
"Football?" Rowan asked, surprised.
"A good match that was, too," Simon said. "My troopers had the Scotts and Armstrongs at their mercy. Many a bone was broken that day." He grinned in satisfaction.
"Did your side win the ball?" Rowan asked.
"Aye, and paid well for it," Simon answered. "Next night, some o' my own cattle were snatched. The bastards left a football behind so we'd ken who took the beasts. Damn Scotts," he added, glancing at Rowan.
"My kinsmen hate to lose a match," Rowan said affably.
Simon growled indistinctly and pointed toward his steel breastplate. "Archie, make sure my back-and-breast gets sanded down tomorrow. There's rust on it. And blacken it well wi' soot and sheep fat. You polished it too high last time. I shine like a damned faerie in the moonlight."
"Aye, sir," Archie said. Rowan noticed an amused glint in the deputy's brown eyes. "A warden should not be a beacon for reivers to find."
