Border Fire (13 page)

She had heard much about the great Scottish stronghold, for it was a royal and ancient seat. For many years it had belonged to the notorious Stewart Earls of Bothwell. During their stewardship, Mary Queen of Scots had once ridden fifty miles to Hermitage to be with her lover, the fourth earl, and had nearly died of her adventure. The fifth and last Earl of Bothwell had been a strong presence in the Borders, but it was not just his Stewart name or his personal power that had made him so. It had been his stewardship of the royal castle of Hermitage. That stewardship, and its power, had passed from him to Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch, and she had heard it said more than once that Buccleuch was an even more fearsome adversary than Bothwell had ever been.

Janet saw that Redcloak was watching her. “It is a fierce-looking place,” she said, wetting suddenly dry lips. “Must we truly go inside?”

“Aye, we must,” he said, “but you will be safe, lassie. I do not mean to hold you to ransom, nor would my laird allow it. We’ll think of a way to see you safe again even if it means consigning you to Scrope’s personal guardianship.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I do not like Thomas Scrope or his lady wife,” she said. “They think only of gaming, the pair of them, and their household is generally a shambles because he cannot pay his debts.”

He chuckled. “I’ve heard that said of him myself,” he said. “Also that he is a coward. What do you hear of Hermitage?”

She shrugged. “That its present master is as fierce as his predecessor.”

“Aye, that’s true enough, but Buccleuch has an image to maintain, after all. I referred to the castle’s history, though. Do you know aught of that?”

“I have heard tales,” she admitted. “It is an important stronghold.”

“If you are going to get on with folks hereabouts, it would be as well to know more than that. It has stood here more than three hundred and fifty years, after all. A chap called Sir Nicholas de Soules built it. They say he was the King’s butler.”

“Rather an isolated place to keep one’s butler, I should think,” she said dryly.

He chuckled. “Most likely he’d risen a bit before he built Hermitage. The English didn’t much care for having so strong a castle right on the Border, however, so they fought over it, and it spent nearly as much time in the hands of your people as mine during its first hundred years. Then Sir William Douglas seized it. A ruthless man was Sir William. When the King failed to make him Sheriff of Teviotdale, he rectified the error by imprisoning the new sheriff at Hermitage and starving him to death. After that the King agreed to let Sir William take his place.”

“If this discourse is intended to make me look forward to my visit, let me tell you that it falls short of the mark,” Janet said tersely.

He chuckled again. “Dinna fash yourself, lass. All will be well, I promise you. Now, where was I?”

“Explaining rather more of the history of Hermitage than I wanted to hear,” Janet retorted. “For that matter, how is it that you know so much about it?”

He shrugged. “It behooves one who answers to Buccleuch to know as much as he can about the man and his holdings. I do what I must, lass, that’s all.”

“Well, I do not know much about Buccleuch other than that he is a man whom many fear, so tell me more about him.”

“Well, he is stepson to the fifth Earl of Bothwell.”

“I have heard of Lord Bothwell,” she said sagely.

He grinned at her. “Everyone has heard of Bothwell. The Earls of Bothwell owned Hermitage for more than a hundred years, but the fifth earl forfeited his lands two years ago when he went into exile, so he has lost Hermitage forever. He married Buccleuch’s mother after Buccleuch’s father died, and it now belongs to the Scotts, to Buccleuch.”

“Because Bothwell is in exile?”

“Partly, but Buccleuch is also connected to many other powerful families, including the Douglas of Angus.”

“Did Buccleuch have naught to do with his stepfather’s crimes, then?”

The reiver shrugged, saying lightly, “I hope you know that that is not a topic of conversation in which to indulge with Buccleuch. It is enough to say that Jamie saw fit to pardon him for any wrongs he might have committed in his youth.”

They were close enough now to see men on the battlements, indeed to see gun barrels poking through several of the gun holes.

“Are they aiming those guns at us?”

“Oh, aye, I suppose they are. The Crown has spent a fortune over the past forty years, installing artillery here. They put gun holes everywhere, as if they expect the place to be attacked with artillery.”

“But surely it might be,” she replied reasonably.

He shook his head. “Look around you, lass. What are the chances that anyone is going to drag heavy artillery into Liddesdale? Bringing in those guns that you see took them months and cost several lives. Fortunately, when one brainless dolt suggested building a road to make it easier, a brighter chap pointed out that the English would get more use out of such a road than we ever would.”

“There are still arrow slits, too, I see.”

“Aye, and while Hermitage is impervious to arrows, its attackers are far more likely to carry bows and arrows than heavy guns.” As he spoke, he took off his cloak and turned it inside out, waving it over his head. “They recognize me now,” he said when a banner waved wildly from me battlements.

Janet drew a deep breath as they neared the entrance. The walls towered above her, and it was all she could do to maintain her placid demeanor. Hermitage was a stronghold, not a residence. Although Buccleuch was married, there would be no women here. Of that she was certain, for maidservants had better sense than to seek work at all-male establishments. She did not know if that small fact had occurred to Redcloak, or if he would see that it could pose any problem.

He led the way, and by the time they reached the gate, two men-at-arms and a pair of lads had emerged to greet them.

“He’s waiting above,” one said, shooting a curious glance at Janet.

She was wondering how she was to dismount with grace and without losing Jemmy Whiskers, but Redcloak had already thought about that.

“Here, mistress,” he said, tossing his reins to one of the lads and moving to her left. “Hand me the wee one first, and then I will lift you down.”

Grateful for his assistance, she did not argue but handed him the small, warm cat. Jemmy stretched and yawned but made no objection when Redcloak handed him to an astonished man-at-arms.

Grinning at the fellow, Redcloak said, “Just hold him till the lady has dismounted and can take him back. And watch weel, man. He has sharp claws.”

“Aye,” the man grunted.

Redcloak returned, and by then Janet had managed to slip her right leg over the saddlebow. Again she was grateful for the mare’s good manners, for the little beast stood as still as if she dealt with ladies and skirts every day. Redcloak lifted her down as if she weighed no more than the cat.

His hands were firm and warm at her waist, and when he set her on the ground, he drew her close enough for her breasts to touch his chest. That he did it on purpose was clear from the wicked glint of mischief in his eyes. For the first time since catching sight of the forbidding castle, she forgot about Buccleuch.

She remembered him quickly, however, when they entered the stronghold and she heard the heavy door bang shut behind them. They were in the southwest tower, in a dimly lighted chamber.

The reiver said to the lackey, “He is above, you say?”

“Aye, sir, in his private apartments.”

“We’ll find him, thank you, lad. This way, mistress,” he added, taking Janet’s elbow and urging her toward a spiral stairway off the corner of the chamber. “Just keep going up till I bid you stop,” he said.

That the master’s private apartments were near the top of the castle did not surprise her. They would be where he could enjoy the luxury of windows without worrying about invaders gaining entrance through them. At the next level, she saw through an arched doorway into a great central hall that filled most of the castle’s central block. Doubtless it was the great hall and served the men-at-arms and servants for dining and sleeping. The laird would want private accommodations when his family visited, or for any entertaining that he might choose to do.

The southwest corner tower was clearly the finest of the four. She could tell from its warmth that the kitchens lay at its lowest level. The heat from their ovens would augment that of the fireplaces on the upper floors.

“There,” Redcloak said when they reached the next level.

Janet turned and passed through a stone archway into a well-appointed hall nearly as large as the one below, with a hooded fireplace in one corner, carpets, arras hangings on the walls, cushioned benches at the long table, and several chairs, one of which had arms. Lighted by late afternoon sunlight through a narrow arched window opposite the stairway, the hall appeared presently to be unoccupied.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Redcloak said as if it were his own home. “I’ll find him.”

Janet looked around. “Would there perhaps be…” She paused, wishing Hermitage had a hostess who would understand her predicament without words.

Redcloak grinned at her. “There is a closet just through that wee archway yonder. No one uses it but the laird and his chosen friends.”

Hoping she would not find Buccleuch there, she left Jemmy Whiskers in the master’s hall, went through the indicated archway, found the necessary, and quickly attended to her business. Returning to the hall, she found it still empty except for her cat. Picking him up, she sat gingerly on one of the cushioned benches, and as she was trying to decide if she wanted Redcloak and Buccleuch to join her or leave her in peace, she heard an unfamiliar masculine voice in the stairwell.

“So there you are! Who the devil is the wench you’ve brought with you?”

“Now, Wat—” She recognized Redcloak’s voice.

The other retorted angrily, “Mind your tongue if you don’t want to feel the flat of my sword across your back, you damned, impudent reprobate.”

“If you think you can, my lad—”

“Christ’s wounds, would you flout my authority? Scrofulous jackstraw! You deserve flogging. Why, at the very least, I should—”

“Mind your tongue,” Redcloak interjected calmly. “The lady awaits us in your hall, and I’ll warrant that she can hear everything we say.”

“Sponge-wit, when I think what you deserve for this—”

“Then do not think about it. You are too young to the of an apoplexy.”

A scowling, slender, dark-haired man who looked to be in his early thirties strode briskly through the archway, and the energy crackling from him brought Janet instantly to her feet.

Redcloak said blandly, “Laird, may I present Mistress Janet Graham.”

Still holding her cat, Janet curtsied low, knowing that she faced the Laird of Buccleuch.

“Graham? Graham!” he sputtered. “Christ’s blood, Quin, tell me she is not kin to that damned, hasty-witted moldwarp at Brackengill!”

“Sir Hugh Graham is my brother,” Janet said with dignity.

“You did not phrase that quite right, lass,” Redcloak chided. “You must learn to say that Sir Hugh Graham has the honor to be your brother.”

Buccleuch was staring at her in dismay. “Her brother! What madness is this, Quin? You’ve abducted a march warden’s sister!”

“A deputy march warden,” Redcloak said.

“Och, you fool! And him hot on your heels, no doubt.”

Redcloak shrugged. “I’ve seen no sign of pursuit, but I cannot deny that I half expected to find him here with you.”

“And what am I to tell him when he does come here? Have you thought of that, you pestiferous dolthead?”

“Aye, I have, and I decided that you can feign a great indignation—though you’ll doubtless find that difficult—and deny knowing anyone by the name of Rabbie Redcloak.”

“Aye, sure.” Buccleuch looked speculatively at Janet, and she realized that he was seriously considering the suggestion. “I do not suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “that you would support that declaration, would you, mistress?”

“I do not tell lies, sir,” she said flatly.

Redcloak’s eyebrows shot upward. “Never, lass?”

Feeling warmth flood her cheeks, Janet said to the master of Hermitage, “I will do naught a-purpose to bring disaster upon you or yours, sir. I cannot say that I have never told a falsehood, but neither can I pretend that I have ever lied to my brother when he has asked me a direct question. I do not believe I could do that.”

“I thank you for your honesty, mistress. Quin, by God, I should order you bound to the old oak and horsewhipped for this.”

A little to Janet’s surprise, the reiver abstained from making another light rejoinder. Into the silence that followed the grimly uttered threat, she said, “Why do you call him Quin, sir? Is his name not Rabbie, then?”

“He has many names, mistress,” Buccleuch said, casting another look of displeasure at the reiver.

“Including several that you bear,” the reiver said quietly.

“I’ll thank you to recall, however, that I am also your liege lord.”

“Aye, ’tis true, you are.” The reiver made a profound leg and extended his right hand. “Shall I pledge this hand again? I am sorry that I let them take me, but at the time I thought it the best thing to do. I continued to think that right up until Sir Hugh Graham informed me that he meant to hang me without the benefit of a trial.”

“The devil he did!” Buccleuch exclaimed. “I wondered why that dimwitted pudding Scrope failed to send word of your arrival at Carlisle.”

“The reason is that Sir Hugh cast me into his dungeon at Brackengill. At first, he said that he would let me rot there till Wednesday, but the lass informed me last night that this morning’s sunrise was to be my last.”

“Faith, but ’tis the Sabbath! Is that true, mistress?”

“To my shame, sir, it is,” Janet said. “My brother was angry with…with this man. I do not know what to call him,” she added in frustration.

“Do not trouble your head with trivialities,” Buccleuch recommended. “Call him ‘impudent knave’ and ‘varlet,’ as I do.”

“Mind your manners, Wat,” the reiver said. “If she believes you, Mistress Janet will think that she has risked her life to no good purpose. You will offend her sensibilities so—and mine, as well.”