Susan Johnson (37 page)

“Hush now,” he murmured, tightening his embrace. “I’m here. Always …” He kissed the softness of her cheek. “We’ll be together … always. Don’t be frightened.”

“Tell me you’ll never leave me.” The fear in her eyes had a childlike innocence, the demons from her past never completely obliterated.

“I’ll never leave you,” he simply said.

She smiled then, a tentative, shaky smile, and whispered, “I’m sorry. I know … men hate … demanding women.”

“Don’t talk to me of other men,” he gruffly murmured, his jealousy of her first husband a palpable thing that lingered despite all logic. “I can’t bear to think of any man touching you.”

She glanced out the window quickly, as if to gauge what sudden gloom had overtaken her spirits. “Talk to me of other things, Johnnie,” she whispered. “I feel as though some sinister fiend is outside the door.”

“Tell me where the baby kicks you now, my darling Bitsy. And leave all the demons of hell to me. Show me now. Is it here? Or here?”

And he began to do what he did best, this man who knew precisely how to take a woman’s mind off anything at all but her pleasure. And Elizabeth’s demons were scattered into oblivion that morning in January.

• • •

Two days later the local Magistrate from Kelso rode to Goldiehouse and a footman came to Munro’s office to give Johnnie the message.

“I’ll just be a short time, darling,” Johnnie said to Elizabeth as they sat side by side leafing through drawings. “It probably has to do with Crawford’s nephew. At the Commissioner’s meeting last week there was controversy over the position of revenue collector. As soon as he’s gone, I’ll be back, and you and Munro can tell me what I missed.”

The three of them had spent the morning going over the interior details. With the shell of the new addition finished shortly before Christmas, the workmen had begun the long process of completing the interior.

“Maybe he has news from Edinburgh too,” Munro said. “Ask him if he knows how the Commons vote goes.”

“Is there any question?” Johnnie sardonically inquired, rising.

Munro sighed. “Hope springs eternal.”

“And that’s why you’re an architect instead of a politician,” Johnnie said with a blunt amiability. “England is going to bludgeon us into submission with the menace of commercial ruin and conquest. The question isn’t whether we can win against them, but whether we can save our Parliament.”

“Ever practical.”

“Just realistic,” Johnnie said, “with the current mood of Westminster. I wouldn’t be surprised if they send troops for us to quarter in our homes. Apparently, Nottingham and Rochester are fanning the flames of English anger with great success.”

“Will it come to war, do you think?” Elizabeth quietly asked, the past week’s news from London uncompromisingly against Scottish independence.

“Of course not,” Johnnie quickly said, determined to protect Elizabeth from the worst of his concerns. “It’s just so much campaign rhetoric. Now I’ll be back directly I can take care of Drummond’s business.”

And minutes later he greeted Jack Drummond, who was waiting in his study with a warm smile. “What can I do for you?” he said, waving the young judge he’d
appointed back into his chair. “It is Crawford still agitating for his nephew’s custom’s job?”

“I wish it were, my Lord,” the youthful barrister said, his expression grave. “I’m afraid I bring shocking news.”

“Out with it. With the state of the nation one expects bad news daily.”

“It’s about Lady Graden, my Lord.”

“Yes?” Johnnie had been about to seat himself behind his desk, but he remained standing, utterly still, his eyes trained on the man across from him.

“As sheriff of Ravensby, I received a summons from Rochester yesterday, my Lord.” Jack Drummond swallowed, wiped away the sweat that had suddenly beaded on his brow and softly said, “Lady Graden is ordered to appear before the Magistrate there to be examined and answer charges of witchcraft brought by the Grahams of Redesdale. They’re implicating her in the death of her first husband.”

“I’ll kill them,” Johnnie whispered.

The young barrister hesitated, not certain how to respond. “The date is set for Wednesday next,” he nervously went on. “Which doesn’t leave much time, my Lord, for a defense, but please accept my assistance if I can be of any help.” Jack Drummond owed his livelihood to the Laird of Ravensby, but loyalty alone didn’t explain his offer. Johnnie had taken a personal interest in his family, seeing that his two younger brothers had the means for university; Jack Drummond looked on Johnnie Carre with great affection. “I wouldn’t have served the summons had there been any way to avoid it, my Lord,” he murmured in apology. “But if you’d not been informed …”

“I understand, Jack.” The Laird of Ravensby’s voice seemed distant, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. “How much time do we have?” he asked then, his tone normal once again.

“Ten days, sir.”

“That should be enough time.”

“You must go up to Edinburgh immediately, my Lord, to gather the legal defense, or might I suggest Holt
in London; he’s gained acquittal in several witchcraft cases.”

“Legal defense? Oh, yes. Of course.” And Johnnie turned away, his back to his guest while he stared out the window at his frost-covered parkland. The room was quiet for a lengthy interval, the Laird of Ravensby motionless, Jack Drummond uneasy. Then Johnnie Carre strolled away from the window, walked over to a cabinet, took a key from his waistcoat pocket, and opened the lacquerwork doors. He pulled open two large drawers, withdrew several large leather pouches, and, bringing the bags over to his desk, set them softly before Jack Drummond.

“If you’d be kind enough to deliver these to the presiding judge at the Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh and ask him to see to a fortnight’s delay in answering the summons, I’d be grateful. I’ll send along a guard with you. If it’s Comyn, he’ll do the job without the
gift
,” Johnnie softly added. “He owes me a dozen favors.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Jack Drummond said, rising, his patron’s tone one of dismissal. “Could I be of any legal help, sir?”

“I don’t think it will come to that, Jack,” Johnnie said with a grim smile, “once I speak to the Grahams.”

Late that night, after Elizabeth fell asleep, he left for the weapons room, where his lieutenants waited. And he detailed his plans to march on the Grahams.

“I want a thousand men to meet me at Carter Bar two nights hence,” Johnnie began, standing under the English pennant taken at Bannockburn by one of his ancestors. “Travel there in small groups; we’ll rendezvous in the evening. We’ll need ladders and grappling hooks.” His voice was without expression, his directions given matter-of-factly, not as if they were prelude to a bloody battle. “There’s to be no discussion of this with anyone. I don’t want word of our raid to reach the Grahams, nor do I wish my wife to know. We’ll attack in overwhelming
numbers; I want the Graham brothers killed. Are there any questions?”

“Do you know they’re in Redesdale Forest?”

“I’ll know by the morning of the attack.”

“Might they be inside their castle?”

“They might. If we have to go in after them, we’ll need all the extra men.”

They discussed the logistics of surreptitiously moving a thousand men across thirty miles without causing comment, of the best way to transport the scaling ladders, heavy crowbars, and axes they required for the assault. They’d need food for themselves and their mounts, weapons and ammunition. Everyone added his suggestions to the plans for the raid.

“We’ll send scouts out tomorrow,” Johnnie said, “to determine the strength of their defenses. But we’re going in,” he ruthlessly said, “regardless. I won’t have Elizabeth brought to trial.”

“They’re cowards, Johnnie, to strike at a woman.”

“And we’re out to teach them their manners,” the Laird of Ravensby softly said.

He told Elizabeth he had to spend a few days in Jedburgh handling estate matters for his cousin, and when he took his leave of her, he held her at arms’ length for a quiet moment, fixing her image in his mind.

She wore a loose flowing gown of deep crimson, her heavy, pale hair coiled at her neck, an embroidered shawl pinned across her shoulders against the January chill.

“This is the first time you’ve left me since our marriage. I’m going to miss you dreadfully.…” Her eyes lifted to his were shiny with tears. “Why can’t I come with you?”

“You know you shouldn’t ride, darling … with the baby. Something could happen.”

“Why couldn’t I follow in the carriage? I’d have the driver go ever so slow.…”

Johnnie took her hands in his. “The roads are so
badly frozen into ruts, you’d be shaken apart regardless of how slowly you traveled. And I’ll be back in two days. Three at the very most. I’ll send you a letter every day.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized with a small sigh, “for being so clinging.” She smiled up at him. “It’s the baby, I think, making me so emotional … but I find myself so fearful of late. You’ll be careful?”

“It’s not that far,” he evasively answered. “There’s no danger in Jedburgh.” He gently squeezed her fingers. “Now give me a kiss, then go back inside; you’ll catch a chill standing out here.”

A dozen mounted men silently waited for him on the drive, fully armed, ostensibly his guard to Jedburgh.

“Hold me,” Elizabeth whispered, blind appeal in her liquid eyes.

And he pulled her into his arms, her body small against his large frame, the silk tapestry of her shawl, the fine wool of her gown, soft under his gloved hands, her downcast spirits making him heartsick. “You’re my life,” he murmured, the scent of her perfume, heady in his nostrils, reminding him of rose petals, her soft skin, their nights in each other’s arms.

“Take me with you then,” she implored, clinging to him, the green of her eyes shadowed with distress.

“I can’t.”

She recognized the undiluted finality in his voice and, searching his face, asked for reassurance, “Just two days?”

He nodded.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he softly said, adjusting his schedule.

“I won’t be able to sleep without you.”

“Nor I,” he murmured, this man who had never shared his heart before.

“You won’t get hurt now?” Her voice quivered.

He shook his head, then, bending, kissed her tear-stained cheeks. “I’ll count the hours,” he whispered, hugging her close for a moment before he released her. “Take care of our child,” he said very low, and then he walked away.

He waved to her from the saddle as he nudged his
horse into a trot. And later he stopped at the end of the long drive to take one last look at the small figure of his wife still standing where he’d left her. She was dwarfed by the enormous mass of Goldiehouse.

“God willing I’ll be back,” he murmured, raising his hand in salute to his wife, his unborn child, to the centuries-old home of the Carres.

The troop of Carres assembled at Carter Bar that evening, and he wrote to Elizabeth as he’d promised. Already in the saddle, with hours of hard riding ahead and an uncertain outcome facing him, he scribbled with a pencil on a scrap of paper.

After sending a messenger back with his note to Elizabeth, Johnnie and the Carres rode through the night to reach Redesdale Forest. Reaching the Graham castle two hours before dawn, the men were deployed around the fortress, the scaling ladders set against the rough stone directly below the watch making the rounds atop the walls; the sentinels were unaware of the massed men below them in the dark. A company of horsemen had been left to guard the road between the castle and their route home to assure their retreat after the battle. All was hushed and still in the pre-dawn mist when Johnnie Carre set his booted foot on the first rung of a ladder. And at his hand signal a thousand men began to move.

The Laird of Ravensby led the ascent, the dark shadows of his men spreading up the walls like a soundless
coursing tide, swords muffled, dirks in hand, the Lady of Ravensby’s life at stake.

The guards were silenced first, their throats noiselessly slit, and all was at peace inside the fortified castle of the Grahams deep in Redesdale Forest. The dogs in the courtyard below moved restlessly for a few moments, the scent of blood striking their noses, but they were tossed some freshly butchered beef brought along to quiet them and they fell to their meal.

When the Carre clansmen set the iron bar to the main door, the alarm was sounded and the drums began beating inside the castle, calling the Grahams to arms. Johnnie led the way through the shattered door, followed by his men, singly at first, until the portal could be breached for wider passage. They fought their way up the main staircase to the first floor, hacking and slashing, their superiority in numbers of no advantage in the contained space, the defenders familiar with each passageway and corridor and hiding place. But Johnnie fought like a man who had had something stolen from him, as if he wanted to slice through every head in his way, and he kept coming and coming, not satisfied until he had the Graham brothers under his sword. Like so many Border castles, the Grahams’ home had been built for defense, and the Carres had to break down a dozen doors before they reached the inner wards where they expected to find the Grahams making their stand. Instead, only the women and children were huddled together, terror-stricken, in the huge hall.

The Graham brothers and their main force had bolted through the hidden passage to their escape routes into the bogs and marshes north of the castle. The Quene Moss, accessible only to them, had been their noted place of refuge for centuries. The morass was so deep that, legend had it, two spears tied together wouldn’t reach the bottom. In this retreat the Grahams feared no force or power of England or Scotland.

Leaving guards surrounding the Graham women and children, Johnnie walked over the fallen bodies in the first-floor corridors, followed by Kinmont, the men retracing their bloody ascent through the hallways and great rooms of the castle, all guarded now by Carres—to
the small doors in the north wall of the castle where his men had lain in ambush should the Grahams flee into their marshes.