Border Fire (43 page)

Hob said, “I’ve an extra cloak and blankets on my saddle, master.”

“Keep it then, lass,” Quinton said. “It will keep your backside warm until we get home again.”

A note in his voice told her that he was angry with her, but she did not care. He was safe. If he decided to beat her for her part in the rescue, she would deal with that when the time came.

Hob the Mouse put a strong hand under Quinton’s elbow until they reached the bailey. Then he let go, but Janet was glad to see that he stayed near, ready to catch Quinton if he stumbled.

He didn’t. With each step her husband seemed to grow stronger. The cold air clearly stimulated him. She saw him look around alertly, watching for attack, but none came. The castle was theirs for the taking, and she knew that their men must be itching to take it, so that they could tell the world that they had conquered the great English stronghold with fewer than a hundred men.

“Collect our lads, Hob,” Quinton said as they approached the postern gate. “They’ll be growing impatient, and the temptation is great here to do mischief.”

“Aye,” Hob said. “I dinna suppose we could take just one or two wee—”

“Not so much as a scrap from Scrope’s dining table,” Quinton growled. “As it is, he will shriek his woes all the way to London. Get them now before anyone puts a foot wrong. Does Buccleuch know of this?” he added, turning to Janet.

“Aye, he does,” she said. “He planned it.”

“Don’t tell me that he knew you would be here tonight.”

“He did not say that I could not be,” she said carefully.

Quinton did not look away. His eyes narrowed, making him look fierce.

“He knew that I would see them off, but he did not know that I meant to come with them,” she admitted.

“Just as I thought. Well, you can tell him yourself, and maybe you can make
him
understand what demon possessed you to do such a thing.”

“Not now,” he said. “Use what time you’ve got before we get home to make up a good story. Not that any story will be good enough,” he added ominously.

Hob murmured, “We’d no ha’ found ye so quick, master, had the mistress stayed at home, for it was herself that learned where Scrope were keeping ye.”

A shiver shot up Janet’s spine. She knew that he had meant only to help, but by the way that Quinton stiffened, she could tell Hob had only made matters worse.

“We will talk later,” Quinton said as they passed through the gate. He waved to Ally the Bastard and the others. Todrigg had already gathered most of them, and in minutes the rest joined them with no sign of resistance from within the castle.

As they mounted, Quinton looked back with a sudden grin. “Makes me feel almost as if we ought to lock up after ourselves,” he said, chuckling.

The nearest men laughed and passed his comment on to the others, so that as they rode away, an increasing roar of laughter accompanied the wind’s howl and the clarion call of trumpets sounding their retreat.

Looking back, Janet saw beacons fire up in the town, and when the trumpet notes and laughter faded, she could hear bells ringing and drums beating to arms. Day was breaking, the sleet had stopped, and although it still drizzled, she worried that anyone giving chase might see them easily and catch them. A misty fog rose from the ground, however, and to her surprise, when they reached the north side of the Eden, fog seemed to have swallowed the town. Even the castle looked like nothing more daunting than a gloomy gray shadow at the top of the hill.

Able to see more clearly in semi-darkness than they had during the black night, even the assault force could move swiftly, and an hour’s ride saw them deep in the Debatable Land, nearing the River Esk. Janet began to think that their venture would end without incident.

Quinton rode beside her, wearing a heavy cloak that Hob the Mouse had given him and chewing bread and meat, with an occasional swig of ale from a flask that Janet had brought. He looked tired, but the triumph in his expression when he looked around at his Bairns and everyone who had supported them gave her hope that his anger with her would ease long before they reached Broadhaugh.

Ten minutes later, without warning, steel-bonneted riders bearing lances and swords galloped out of the misty gloom ahead.

“Ambush! Sound the charge,” Quinton shouted.

“Those are Hugh’s colors,” Janet protested as trumpet notes rang out.

“You fall to the rear, my lass,” Quinton retorted. “Now!”

Instead, she reached for the strap on her steel bonnet and ripped it free. Riding by balance alone, she tore off the helmet with one hand and reached for her topknot with the other. With a twist of her hand and a shake of her head, her silvery blond hair flowed free. Spurring her horse, she charged ahead of Quinton and his men before he could realize what she meant to do.

“Fall back, you Grahams,” she shouted to the men drawing rein before her. “We have no quarrel with you. We ride for Scotland!”

“It’s Mistress Janet!” The words flew from tongue to tongue in a veritable chorus. The heavily armed horsemen quickly turned their mounts aside to let her pass, and as they did, she heard their astonishment echoing from man to man.

Smiling at men she recognized, she rode on, feeling as if she held everyone around her in the palm of her hand. Her smile widened, and she nodded and waved at the others as she passed.

“Mistress Janet,” they shouted, waving back.

She was thoroughly enjoying herself, certain when she recognized loyal Graham kinsmen everywhere she looked that the danger had evaporated. As she turned to wave to men on her left, a lone horseman loomed out of the mist ahead, startling her and forcing her to rein in hard.

“Hugh!”

“Aye, it is Hugh, right enough,” he snarled. “I will escort Lord Scrope’s prisoner back to him now if you will stand aside.”

“I won’t,” she snapped. “Francis Musgrave arrested him in violation of the truce, and we have merely taken him back again. Let us pass, Hugh, or do you mean to run your own sister through with that sword?”

His horse stepped toward her, but he reined it in even before his men began to mutter in protest. Looking around at them, he shouted, “Rabbie Redcloak is our prisoner, lads. Do you mean to let a wench make you let him go?”

“Ye’ll no be touching Mistress Janet,” a disembodied voice shouted from the crowd, and others shouted, “Let them pass!”

“They can all pass but Redcloak,” Sir Hugh said grimly when silence fell again. “We’ll be taking him back to Carlisle.”

“Not without a fight, Hugh,” Janet said. “I’ll remind you that the man you call Rabbie Redcloak is my husband, Sir Quinton Scott. Francis Musgrave made a mistake, and he broke an honorable truce to do it. If you press this matter now, you will be as guilty as he is. Now, let us pass in peace.”

“Musgrave made no mistake, lass, and well do you know it,” Sir Hugh said.

She saw flinty determination in his eyes, but his tone was gentle, not challenging. She thought he sounded almost weary.

Behind her, Quinton said, “I’ll fight you if you like.”

“No!” Janet cried out without thinking. Looking back at him, she realized that she ought to have kept silent, for all she had gained was an angry look and nothing she could say would stop what was about to happen. She wanted to cry, but men from both sides were shouting for a fight.

Sir Hugh nodded and said grimly, “On horse or afoot?”

“Whatever you like.”

“We’ll fight afoot then,” he said with a slight smile.

Quinton dismounted, sword in hand, and threw his cloak to Hob the Mouse.

Flinging herself to the ground, Janet confronted her husband angrily. “You are too weak, Quinton. He’ll kill you!”

“He will not.”

“Then you’ll kill him.” She fought tears. “He is my brother.”

“He is my enemy, Jenny. You should have done as I told you and remained safely at Broadhaugh. Now, stand aside, lass.”

Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Hugh was as determined as Quinton. A big hand gripped her shoulder, and she looked up through her tears at Hob.

“Ye must stand awa’, mistress,” he said. “Ye’ll no want to get in their way.”

Choking back a sob, she let him lead her away. The men from both sides formed a large circle, making way for her to stand near the front.

Quinton and Hugh circled, watching each other intently. The light was gray, for although it was well past dawn, the day remained gloomy and wet. The muddy ground beneath their feet looked slippery. If either one survived, Janet thought, it would be a miracle.

“God have mercy on them,” she murmured.

“Aye, and on their immortal souls,” a man beside her muttered.

They circled for what seemed an age. Their eyes were narrowed, their mouths hard slits. Their chins jutted stubbornly. Neither intended to give quarter.

Janet knew how heavy Quinton’s sword was. She had hefted it herself, and she did not believe that at the moment he was much stronger than she was. He had eaten bread and meat as he rode, and he had drunk ale from her flask, but she knew that he could not be anywhere near his customary physical readiness. The weeks of imprisonment had taken a heavy toll, and Hugh was an able swordsman.

The men remained silent. No one cheered or shouted encouragement. They just waited. Quinton and Hugh kept circling, their booted feet making slurping sounds in the muck. Light drizzle continued, but both men had taken off their cloaks and helmets, and both looked soaked to the skin.

Quinton made a gesture with his sword, and Hugh’s weapon flashed to meet it. Quinton parried and Hugh went on the attack at once. Their swords seemed to take fire, but after only a minute or two, Janet realized that Quinton was making no attempt to attack. She had seen him fight before and had watched him practice often enough to know that he was well off his usual pace. He parried every stroke deftly, conserving what strength he had, but Hugh pressed him hard.

She knew that her brother had insisted they fight on foot because it would tire Quinton more quickly than fighting on horseback. The decision was a sensible one for Hugh, who doubtless knew himself outmatched in skill and could hope to beat Quinton only if the weeks in prison had sufficiently worn him down.

Quinton slipped, and she cried out, clapping a hand to her mouth to stop the sound. But others shouted, too, on both sides, and the tense silence vanished in uproar. The audience was caught up in the fight. When Hugh nearly slipped under Quinton’s guard, his men cheered, but the other side echoed those cheers when Quinton parried and neatly twitched Hugh’s sword out of his hand.

The sword fell into the muck.

Janet could breathe again, thinking Hugh would have to submit, but fear gripped her anew when Quinton lowered his sword and Hugh leapt to snatch his up.

“Wipe it off,” Quinton said curtly, and one of the men threw Hugh a cloth.

In moments their fighting was fiercer than ever.

Sweat and raindrops streamed down both men’s faces, ignored but for occasional swipes with a free if sodden sleeve. The ground beneath them grew more treacherous by the moment. Their feet dug ruts and pushed up ridges as they leapt and sidestepped in the familiar dance of swordplay.

The fight seemed to have lasted hours, but Janet knew that only minutes had passed. She remembered Quinton’s once telling her that even the strongest swordsman could last only ten minutes before mind-numbing exhaustion set in.

As the thought flitted through her mind, she saw that the tempo had changed. Quinton was pressing now. Instead of nimbly sidestepping and moving in circles, he pressed forward, forcing Hugh toward the circle’s perimeter. The men backed away, but Quinton moved quickly, his sword flashing in, out, up, and down with such speed that it seemed to have three blades attached to its hilt instead of just one.

A treacherous root caught Hugh’s heel and sent him crashing. As he landed, Quinton’s sword point touched his throat and he froze where he lay.

Janet tried to scream but no sound came. The roars of the men stopped, too, and in the ensuing silence, she heard only the whispering pit-a-pat of raindrops.

“If ye like na my visit in merry England

In fair Scotland come visit me!”

E
XCEPT FOR HIS HEAVING
chest, Quinton stood utterly still, his sword point indenting Hugh’s throat. Hugh lay with his chin pointing upward, his eyes wide, his chest pumping hard, waiting for the coup de grace.

Janet could not breathe. No one spoke. The only sounds that mingled with the hushing patter of the rain were an occasional whicker or stamp from one of the ponies and the stertorous breathing of the erstwhile combatants.

Then Quinton stepped back, raising his sword.

A general sigh went up, but still no one spoke.

His breath still coming in harsh gasps, Quinton said with detectable amusement, “Do you mean to lie there till the Second Coming?”

“Finish the job, damn you,” Hugh growled.

“A fine fellow you must think me if you believe I can spit my wife’s only brother without a second thought. Get up now, man, before I change my mind. If you want another fight, come challenge me at Broadhaugh. I’m too tired to accommodate you today.” With that, he extended a hand to Hugh.

After a moment’s pause, Hugh took it. When Quinton tried to heave him up, though, both men faltered, and in the end Hugh had to exert what remained of his own strength before he could rise.

Janet wanted to run up and hug them both, then bang their two stubborn heads together. Since she could do neither, she stayed where she was. Steam rose from both men. They were creating their own clouds of fog.

No one seemed to know what to say next.

Finally, it was Hob the Mouse who said practically, “We’d best be getting home, master. The mistress is soaked through to her skin.”

Indignantly, Janet turned to him, but before she could speak, Quinton said, “Aye,” and then, “Lads, get yourselves mounted. We’ll ha’ moonlight again.”

Janet stepped toward him.

“Jenny, you get mounted, too,” he commanded. “Do you need assistance?”

“I want to speak to Hugh.”