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Synopsis
Captured in 1388 in the act of stealing back his own cattle, young Sir William Scott faces hanging, then gets one other choice--to marry immediately his captor's eldest daughter, the lady Margaret Murray, known by all as Muckle-Mouth Meggie. With the line between England and Scotland shifting daily, the Earl of Douglas wants to win back every inch of Scotland that the English have claimed; whereas the equally powerful English Percies (under Hotspur) want to win back the land between Northumberland and Edinburgh; and the Murray family is caught in the middle, shifting its alliances to try to survive. Uncertain whether she is English or Scottish and abruptly married to Sir William who is staunchly loyal to the cause of Scottish independence but who also has promised he'll never take up arms against her family, Meg Murray learns two things: first, Will's word is his bond; second, her favorite brother is spying on Douglas for Hotspur. As Sir Will faces the dilemma of honoring his word to the unscrupulous Murray without betraying Douglas, Meg must choose between betraying the husband with whom she is rapidly falling in love, or betraying her own family and best-loved brother.
Release date: March 1, 2008
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 433
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Border Wedding
Amanda Scott
PRAISE FOR AMANDA SCOTT’S SCOTTISH ADVENTURES
KING OF STORMS
“4 Stars! An exhilarating novel . . . with a lively love story . . . Scott brings the memorable characters from her previous novels together in an exciting adventure romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Passionate and breathtaking . . . Amanda Scott’s King of Storms keeps the tension moving as she continues her powerful saga of the Macleod sisters.”
—NovelTalk.com
“A terrific tale starring two interesting lead characters who fight, fuss, and fall in love . . . Rich in history and romance, fans will enjoy the search for the Templar treasure and the Stone of Scone.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An engaging tale with well-written characters, and a wonderful plot that will keep readers turning pages . . . Fans of historical romances will be delighted with King of Storms.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Enjoyable . . . moves at a fast pace . . . it was difficult to put the book down.”
—BookLoons.com
“Intrigue and danger . . . Readers will enjoy the adventures and sweet romance.”
—RomRevToday.com
“Enchanting . . . a thrilling adventure . . . a must read . . . King of Storms is a page turner. A sensual, action-packed romance sure to satisfy every heart. Combine this with a battle of wits, a test of strength, faith, and honor, and you have one great read.
—FreshFiction.com
KNIGHT’S TREASURE
“An enjoyable book for a quiet evening at home. If you are a fan of historical romance with a touch of suspense, you don’t want to miss this book.”
—LoveRomanceAndMore.com
“Filled with tension, deceptions, and newly awakened passions. Scott gets better and better.”
—NovelTalk.com
LADY’S CHOICE
“Lady’s Choice is terrific . . . with an exhilarating climax that sets up the next [book] in this high-quality series. Scott is at the top of her game with this deep historical tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Enjoyable . . . The premise of Scott’s adventure romance is strong.”
—Kathe Robin, Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A page-turner . . . Scott has done good research, and with realistic dialogue, her characters are a joy to read. Lady’s Choice is sure to delight medieval historical fans.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Plenty of suspense and action and a delightful developing love story . . . Another excellent story from Scott.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
PRINCE OF DANGER
“Excellently written, well researched, and entertaining . . . A fascinating story.”
—HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“Phenomenal.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“RITA Award–winning Scott has a flair for colorful, convincing characterization.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Exhilarating . . . fabulous . . . action-packed . . . Fans of fast-paced historical tales starring an intrepid heroine and a courageous champion will want to read Amanda Scott’s latest.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Exciting . . . so good.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Amanda Scott is a phenomenal writer . . . I am not sure if perfection can be improved upon, but that is exactly what she has done in her latest offering.”
—RomanceReaderAtHeart.com
LORD OF THE ISLES
“Ms. Scott’s diverse, marvelous, unforgettable characters in this intricate plot provide hours of pure pleasure.”
—Rendezvous
“Scott pits her strong characters against one another and fate. She delves into their motivations, bringing insight into them and the thrilling era in which they live.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Amanda Scott writes great tales [set] during this turbulent time in Scotland’s history.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Ms. Scott’s storytelling is amazing and she has created a captivating tale of intrigue. She had me riveted to my chair throughout the book . . . This is a definite keeper.”
—CoffeeTimeRomance.com
“Has all of the elements that I like in a book . . . It is a fast-paced and smooth read, and put a smile on my face more than once while I was reading.”
—RomanceReaderAtHeart.com
A HIGHLAND PRINCESS
“Fast-moving, exciting, and soaring to heights of excellence, this one is a winner.”
—Rendezvous
“Delightful historical starring two fabulously intelligent lead characters . . . Grips the audience from the onset and never [lets] go.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Perfect for readers who enjoy romances with a rich sense of history.”
—Booklist
“A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A marvelously rendered portrait of medieval Scotland, terrific characters, and a dynamic story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Great mix of romance, adventure, humor, courage, and passion—a very captivating read. One can almost hear the bagpipes playing . . . a MUST read.”
—TheBestReviews.com
“Powerful . . . so exciting! Wonderful! Loved it.”
—RomanticReviewsMag.com
“Irresistible! . . . Passion, danger, and even a murder mystery are intertwined to create constant intrigue.”
—BookLoons.com
“As usual, the author has created a very believable set of characters, a vivid setting, and a wonderful love story.”
—RomanceReadersConnection.com
Author’s Note
For those of you who appreciate some basic information straightaway, I include the following definitions and pronunciation guide:
Buccleuch = Buck LOO
Coldheugh = COLD hue
Earl = the highest rank in Scotland in 1388, other than King of Scots. England had princes and dukes. Scotland did not. The King’s sons were earls.
The term “Borderers” refers in general to people who lived (or live) in the areas on either side of the border between Scotland and England, which were two separate countries until their union in 1707. The “line” refers to the actual border between those two countries, which for centuries was in constant dispute and tended to shift frequently. In present-day Scotland, “the Borders” is a specific, delineated region in and of itself.
The “marches” refers to three jurisdictions on each side of the line: east march, middle march, and west march (see map). Each of these six marches had its own warden, and in Scotland a Chief Warden of the Marches ruled over all three Scottish marches, with their individual wardens subservient to him. If England had an equivalent chief warden, it was the Earl of Northumberland because of his vast power, but his position was Warden of the East March because such appointments worked differently in England, where the King actively resisted increasing power among his nobles.
Border Law: Grievances and other matters of law, whether they occurred on the English or Scottish side of the line, were resolved at wardens’ meetings that anyone could attend. The two sides would declare a truce long enough to settle their differences. Each warden would guarantee the resolutions involving his vassals and see that they abided by them (usually).
Despite such seeming civility, the region remained volatile for centuries. From the time of Edward I of England (end of the thirteenth century) through the sixteenth century, the English remained determined to annex (conquer) Scotland, and the Scots remained determined to retain their freedom.
Chapter 1
His hands and his feet they ha’ bound like a sheep . . . And they locked him down in a dungeon so deep . . .
Scotland, near the English border, July 1388
Awakening in dense blackness to find himself bound hand and foot, lying in acute discomfort on cold, hard dirt, twenty-four-year-old Sir Walter Scott of Rankilburn became aware of a disturbing sense that all was not well.
Then memory stirred and confirmed the fact.
Lammas Gibbie’s deep voice echoed through the blackness. “Tam, I’m thinking he be moving.”
“Be that you, Wat, or just a few rats fussin’ over summat or other?” the huge man called Jock’s Wee Tammy asked.
“I’m awake,” Wat said, although the raspy voice scarcely sounded like his own. His throat was parched and his head ached. “Someone must have clouted me, for my head’s pounding as if the devil were inside. It’s blinded me, too.”
“One o’ them villains clouted ye, right enough,” Gib said. “Ye’re no blind, though. We’ve nae light is all. Tam and me canna see nowt, neither.”
“How many of us are in here?”
“Just us three in this cell,” Tammy said. “They caught some o’ the others, too, though. We canna hear them, so likely, they’ve stowed them elsewhere.”
Wat gathered enough saliva to swallow before he said, “Sorry, lads. Seems I’ve well and truly landed us all in the suds this time.”
“Aye, well, what comes does come,” Tammy replied.
Wat grunted but saw nothing to gain by pointing out that what was likely to come was hanging for all of them.
“’Tis the Douglas’s fault as much as yours,” Gib muttered. “If he hadna ordered this unnatural state of idleness, we’d no be in such a fix, because Murray would more likely ha’ taken English kine instead o’ yours, but as it is . . .”
Silence fell. James, second Earl of Douglas, although only five years older than Wat himself, had already held his powerful title for four years, since the death of his father. William, the first earl, had been the most powerful man in Scotland—even more powerful than the King of Scots or anyone else in the royal family—and James’s popularity in the Borders had increased the Douglas power even more.
Not only did James Douglas control far more land than the royal Stewarts did but he could raise an army of twelve thousand in less than a sennight, whereas the Stewarts would be lucky to raise a thousand men in twice that time. Unlike kings of England, who could simply order their nobles to provide armies for them when needed, the King of Scots had to apply to his nobles for their support. The nobility was not required to provide it, and the Stewarts, considered upstarts, were unpopular.
Among his many other titles, Douglas was also Chief Warden of the Scottish Marches—the three regions directly abutting the border with England—and as such, he had demanded peace among the unruly Scottish Borderers so that he could better expend their energies in keeping the land-greedy English in England.
For nearly a century, English kings had fought to make Scotland just another region of England, and the present king, Richard Plantagenet, was one who believed it was his God-given right to reign over both countries as one.
Douglas, on the other hand, was equally determined to prevent such a conquest. Having learned that the English were preparing to invade the country yet again and knowing that when the time came, he would have to raise his army quickly, James had forbidden the Scottish Borderers to cross the line without his permission lest the English catch and imprison or hang them. To keep peace among the Scots themselves, he had forbidden them to raid each other’s herds as well.
For years, though, “reivers” on either side of the borderline had raided other men’s herds as a matter of course whenever their families ran out of meat. Although it was illegal and they were subject to dire penalties if caught in the act, the Borderers looked upon reiving as nothing less than economic necessity. They were as likely to raid their own neighbors’ herds as those across the line. And when need drove them, Borderers were unlikely to heed anyone else’s orders, even the Douglas’s.
Wat had often remarked on the futility of those orders, but he knew he could not blame the earl for their predicament now. The responsibility for that was his alone.
His hands and feet were numb. He tried shifting position and stifled a groan when jolts of pain shot through his limbs and set nerves in his fingers and toes afire.
“How long have we been here?” he groaned.
“A good while,” Tammy said.
“Ye snored,” Gib added.
“Snored?” Indignation momentarily replaced suffering. “I was unconscious!”
“Nonetheless, ye snored,” Gib insisted. “Likely, ye can blame them three pots of ale ye drank afore we left Raven’s Law.”
Wat remembered the ale. He should not have drunk so much of it. However, that was not the only error in his hastily conceived plan.
It had seemed so simple then. After spending the previous day at the horse races in Langholm, he and some friends had returned to Raven’s Law, his peel tower in Ettrick Forest, to learn that in his absence, raiders had lifted his entire herd of cattle. They’d also taken a pair of valuable sleuthhounds and seven horses.
“I was right about who stole my beasts,” he muttered.
“Aye, yon devil Murray had them right enough,” Tam agreed. “He still has them, come to that. Mayhap we were a bit hasty, ridin’ out straightaway to raid—”
“To recover what is mine,” Wat interjected.
“Aye, well, that’s as may be,” Tammy said doubtfully. “But yon Murray will no agree that ye had the right to take his beasts home along wi’ yours.”
“Sir Iagan Murray has more kine than any man needs to feed one threaping wife, a pair o’ dour sons, and three o’ the homeliest daughters in Scotland,” Gib said.
“Still, ye canna blame the man for trappin’ us as he did,” Tammy replied. “’Tis only natural he’d want tae keep his own beasts.”
“Nearly half of the beasts he’s got now are mine,” Wat said grimly. “And I don’t want him to keep them. As to my taking his, he can show no proof of that. He and his men rose up out of the heather before we’d touched one of them. Sakes, I should have realized it was too easy to follow those reivers. ’Tis clear enough now that he expected us to and that’s why they were waiting for us.”
“That was clever o’ them, that heather was,” Tammy said. “With all o’ them wearin’ white feathers in their caps as they were, and lyin’ flat, they looked as much like new blooms in the moonlight as the real heather did.”
“Murray kens fine that we’d ha’ taken his kine, though,” Gib said, ignoring the interruption. “Bless us, but anyone would.”
“Even if we had taken them, it was Murray’s fault for forcing me to come here to collect mine,” Wat said.
Tammy laughed. “I’d like t’ be in your pocket when ye explain that to your da’ and the Douglas.”
“It’s what either of them would have done,” Wat retorted.
“Mayhap they would,” Gib said. “But that willna stop them being angry.”
Wat knew Gibbie was right. James Douglas knew his power and did not let anyone forget it. Wat had known him since childhood, and facing him after creating such a predicament for himself was not something he would enjoy. Even so, the earl’s anger would be as nothing compared with his own father’s.
The Laird of Buccleuch was a staunch supporter of James Douglas and would not be pleased to learn that his own son had defied a Douglas order. Just thinking about Buccleuch’s likely reaction made Wat wince.
Then, remembering his present plight, he said with a sigh, “I doubt I’ll have to face either of them. You must know that Murray means to hang us in the morning.”
“He caught us wi’ the goods,” Tammy said. “’Tis his right to hang us.”
“It is, aye, but you’ll admit that it does seem devilish hypocritical,” Wat retorted. “We did nowt but try to put right the wrong he’d done to me, after all.”
“We didna catch him at it, though,” Tam reminded him.
In the ensuing silence, the darkness seemed to thicken and close heavily around them until Gib said abruptly, “D’ye believe in heaven, Wat?”
“Aye, and in hell,” Wat replied. “Don’t you?”
“I do.” Gib paused. “’Tis just that . . .”
“What, Gib?”
“Sithee, me Annie’s in heaven wi’ our wee bairn that the English killed alongside o’ her when they came three years ago. I dinna doubt that Annie’s waiting for me, ye ken, but ’tis likely I’ll no be joining her now, will I?”
“Why not?”
“Yon Murray’s no likely to ha’ a priest at hand to shrive us, is he?”
“He may have a chaplain as the Douglas does,” Wat said. “But if he doesn’t, you’ve led a good life, Gib, and I believe God counts that above all else.”
“Mayhap He does, Wat, but I’ve broken me share o’ His commandments.”
“So have we all,” Tammy muttered. “’Tis nae use to fret about it now.”
Wat’s imagination instantly presented him with a string of images from his past that God might find hard to forgive.
He had no idea how much time had slipped by when Tam said quietly, “Ye’re gey quiet, Master Wat. Be ye thinkin’ or sleepin’?”
“Thinking,” Wat retorted. “I doubt if anything fixes a man’s mind more sharply on his sins than knowing that in just a few hours he’s likely to hang.”
It was two hours past dawn when Sir Iagan Murray, Baron of Elishaw, a thickset man of medium height, graying hair and beard, and undistinguished apparel, entered his castle hall and stepped onto the dais at its north end. He sat in his armchair, placed informally as it was every morning at the end of the high table nearest the fire. His wife and three daughters had been standing at their places, waiting, for some time.
His men had eaten earlier and departed to their duties, so the family would enjoy some privacy. But they were hardly alone. Servants scurried about, some clearing trestle tables in the lower hall while others set platters of food on the dais table and poured ale into Sir Iagan’s mug and wine into the ladies’ goblets.
Eighteen-year-old Lady Margaret Murray stood beside her mother in a plain blue dress that did nothing to flatter her thin figure. An uncomfortably close-fitting white coif and veil primly concealed her long, thick hair and was already beginning to give her a headache. She was glad her father had arrived at last, for the women could not sit down, let alone begin eating, until he did.
Her two younger sisters fidgeted impatiently beside her.
Meg ignored them while gillies moved the ladies’ stools in closer behind them and Lady Murray took her seat. Then, hearing a sound of relief from eleven-year-old Rosalie as that damsel plopped down on her stool, Meg shot her a warning look.
Fifteen-year-old, rosy-cheeked Amalie quietly took her seat between them. She was much plumper than Meg or Rosalie, but all three looked more like their English-born mother than their Scottish father.
The two younger girls wore plain veils over long, dark plaits. Rosalie’s hair was several shades darker than Meg’s, and Amalie’s was raven’s-wing black. Both had hazel eyes and freckled complexions. Fate had spared Meg the freckles, and her eyes were stone gray with dark-rimmed irises.
The back-stools opposite remained empty, the board before them bare, signs that their brothers were not at home. Simon, the elder, served the Scottish Earl of Fife and Menteith, who was in effect the present ruler of Scotland. Their younger brother, Thomas, having fostered four years with nearby Percy cousins in England, taking his education and learning swordsmanship and other such skills with them, now served a Scottish knight somewhere near Edinburgh. Meg did not miss Simon, for whom she had little liking, but she did miss merry Tom. Neither young man had yet taken a wife.
In due time—which was to say when Sir Iagan had seen both of his sons well established—he would doubtless marry his three daughters to men of property. He had received no offers for them yet, but he frequently assured them that, his power and connections being what they were, he would eventually do so.
That some witless wag had once labeled them three of the homeliest females in Christendom had done naught to aid their prospects. But Meg knew that when it came to marriage, beauty was not everything. Sir Iagan was a man of wealth.
He was also a man of influence. As such, she knew he believed he had no need to dower his daughters heavily. She just hoped he would provide them with enough to entice more than one potential husband. The few men she did know believed that, at eighteen, she was already long in the tooth.
Lady Murray, having told the gillie who attended her what she’d like to eat, said to her husband with her soft English lilt, “I trust you slept well, my lord.”
“Indeed, my lady,” he replied with a polite nod. “I slept gey fine, though I confess I did not reach my bed until after midnight.”
Rosalie said with concern, “Could you not sleep before then, Father?”
“I had important duties to attend, lassie.”
Meg said, “Duties in the middle of the night, sir?”
Turning to his wife, he said, “Madam, your daughters display unwarranted curiosity about their father’s business. Surely, ye’ve explained to them that well-bred young women do not pry into the affairs of others.”
“I shall explain it to them again, sir, but I own, I am as curious as they are. The only duty that might keep you so late when we have no visitors would be reivers. However, I heard none of the din that usually accompanies a raid.”
He smirked, saying, “That, madam, is because my men and I were waiting for them. Having suspected the scoundrels meant to raid my herd, I’d buried two score men in the nearby heather. We captured their leader and six of his rabble. I’ll wager ye canna guess who that leader is.”
“Who, Father?” Amalie asked.
Sir Iagan frowned at her. “I was not speaking to you.”
“No, sir, but how else can we know? Is he in the dungeon?”
Pride in his victory overcame his annoyance, for his chest swelled as he said, “I have all seven of the thieving devils locked up. And, by heaven, I mean to introduce them to my hanging tree as soon as I’ve broken my fast.”
He may have thought the subject of the leader’s identity thus closed, but Meg knew their mother was as curious as she was and looked expectantly at her.
Deftly, Lady Murray used the point of her knife to spear a slice of meat from a platter and transfer it to her trencher. As she tore the meat apart delicately with two fingers, she said, “Do you mean to make me guess the leader’s name, sir?”
“Ye’d never do it, for it will astonish ye to learn that he is of gentle birth. I recognized him at once. So would ye have done, had ye seen him.”
She frowned. “I doubt I could know any man who steals cattle for a living.”
“Still, I must suppose ye’ve seen him, for he’s young Wat Scott, Buccleuch’s eldest son. Even if ye canna recall his face, ye’ll ken his family.”
“The Laird of Buccleuch? But he is a man of considerable wealth!”
“Aye, so we’ll see if his young Wattie dares to identify himself. Not that I care if he does or not. We caught them all red-handed, and I mean to hang every one of them. Fetch me more ale, lad,” he called to a passing gillie.
Lady Murray returned her attention to her food for some moments before she said musingly, “Does young Scott have a wife, sir?”
“None that I ken. Have ye interest in his ancestry, as well, madam?”
She persisted. “You also said that he is Buccleuch’s eldest son, and so he must therefore be his heir.”
“Aye, and what of it? Ye’ll no tell me I shouldna hang the thieving rascal!”
“I hope you know well enough by now that I would not put myself forward so improperly. It does occur to me, though, that when Providence offers up a single young man who will inherit vast properties, one should not rashly destroy the gift.”
“And how, prithee, is the man’s trying to make off with my herd an act of Providence?” Sir Iagan demanded. “If ye’re suggesting that I demand ransom—”
“Nay, for as you must have realized yourself—with Buccleuch being one of Douglas’s fiercest allies and Douglas organizing raids into England to judge their readiness for another invasion of Scotland—’twould take much too long to negotiate a ransom. It would also be too dangerous. Whatever you do, you must do quickly.”
He nodded, but Meg wondered if he had thought the matter through as swiftly and thoroughly as her mother had.
Lady Murray said matter-of-factly, “We have three daughters, sir. I need not remind you of your duty to find them all suitable husbands. And whilst you may easily find a husband for one, finding three will not be easy. Therefore, to hang such an excellent prospect . . .” She paused, meeting his gaze.
He glowered, saying in a near growl, “Ye believe that scoundrel would make one o’ them a suitable husband? Are ye daft, woman?”
“Nay, only practical. With two sons, as well, establishing all our offspring will require loosening your purse strings to a sad degree, I fear. But with an opportunity such as this, with care and your customary astuteness . . .”
“I’ve wealth enough,” he muttered when she paused. But Meg saw that her mother’s words had jolted him. Wealth or none, no man complained more often of penury than Sir Iagan Murray did.
“There is also the fact that England may soon reestablish control of this area as they have before,” Lady Murray went on. “You have taken care over the years to create powerful ties on both sides of the line, and your English ties, along with an air of compliance, did enable us to escape harm when they came here three years ago. But we can be sure that Douglas took note of your lack of involvement then, and—”
“Sakes, madam, I could scarcely take sides without offending one or another o’ those connections ye speak of.”
“I understand that,” she said. “But Douglas has proven himself as great a warrior for Scotland as my cousin Sir Harry Percy is for England. And Douglas is more powerful in Scotland than even the royal family is. So if he prevails in the coming conflict, our Simon’s service with the Earl of Fife, albeit an excellent connection for Simon, will do less to protect us here in the Borders than would a connection to Douglas himself. And I’m thinking, sir, that this incident may allow you to establish just such a connection, for not only is Buccleuch close to Douglas, but his wife is a Douglas, and therefore young Sir Walter is blood kin to the earl.”
“Your cousin Harry is not called Hotspur for nowt, madam,” Sir Iagan said testily. “His forces and those of the English king will prevail in the coming conflict, Douglas or no Douglas. Indeed, it surprises me that you should encourage kinship with yet another of the men you so often call ‘my heathenish Scots.’”
“Young Scott may be a heathen, but he is no coward,” Lady Murray said. “He has won his knighthood, I believe, and is properly Sir Walter Scott. If he is the young man I do recall, he is rather handsome, although too dark for my taste. He also has a stubborn, implacable look about him. Still, I warrant he would make a suitable enough husband for a sensible young woman like our Meg.”
Startled, Meg barely managed to remain silent, but she dared not speak lest her irritated father order her from the table. She certainly could not say that she had been thinking Sir Walter Scott sounded just like Sir Iagan and her brother Simon—temperamental, stubborn, and domineering.
But then, she mused, most men were temperamental and domineering. She had not met many yet, though, so she could still hope to meet one who was not.
“What do you think of your mother’s daft notion?” Sir Iagan asked her.
“I don’t think I’d like to marry a thief, sir.”
“There, you see, madam,” Sir Iagan snapped.
“Meg is a dutiful daughter,” Lady Murray said without so much as a glance at Meg. “She will do as you bid her.”
“Ye’re talking as if the lad would agree to the notion,” he said. “More likely, he’d refuse it outright.”
“Pressed to choose between a marriage and a coffin, I believe any sensible young man will choose marriage,” Lady Murray said. “However, I should like to see him before you either make him the offer or hang him.”
“I suppose next you will say you want your daughters to see this villain, too,” he retorted. His expression said he believed nothing of the sort, but it altered ludicrously when the wife of his bosom said that she did indeed want her daughters to see the reiver.
“It will be a valuable experience for them,” she said.
Meg had been as certain as her father was that her mother would decline having any such notion. Beginning to breathe normally again, she had reached for her goblet, but her ladyship’s reply diverted her attention just enough to make her knock it over, spewing ale across the table and drawing a curse from Sir Iagan.
As gillies leaped to clean up the mess, he said, “You’d have me admit such a scoundrel to my daughters’ presence? Faugh, I won’t permit it.”
“He may be a scoundrel, but he is nonetheless nobly born,” Lady Murray reminded him. “I shall excuse Rosalie, but there can be naught amiss in showing Meg and Amalie what happens even to powerful men who break the law.”
“Aye . . . well . . .”
“Moreover, if you should change your mind after considering my suggestion, there is surely no harm in letting them see the man one of them is to marry.”
Gruffly, he said, “I’ll permit it only because seeing him in his present state, if it accomplishes nowt else, should put this foolish notion of marrying him to one of them right out of your head.”
“Mayhap it will,” she replied equably.
With a brusque gesture to a hovering gillie, he snapped, “Have them fetch the reivers’ leader here to me. Tell them to bring him just as he is.”
Meg watched the gillie hurry from the hall, wishing with half her mind that she could snatch him back. With the other half, she wished she could fly beside him, unseen, and have a look at the prisoner before they haled him in before her.
Well aware that such powers were beyond the ken of ordinary mortals and that God could read her thoughts, she surreptitiously crossed herself.
When the cell door creaked open, even the faint light from the stairwell caused a glare that made Wat wince. Believing the guards had come for them, to hang them all straightaway, he was not surprised when the two who entered each grabbed an arm and hauled him upright.
“You’ll have to untie my feet, lads,” he said, stifling a groan. “Even so, I doubt I can walk, for I’ve scarcely any feeling left in them.”
The larger of the two said, “We weep for ye, reiver, but we dinna care an ye walk or no. Ye’ll come with us any road.”
“What of my men?”
“They’re to bide here a wee while longer.”
They had clearly meant to drag him. But after cursing at how heavy he was and noting irritably that the winding stone stairway was too narrow to accommodate all three of them abreast, they finally untied his feet.
“I dare ye to run,” the one who had spoken before said with a grim chuckle. “’Twould please me tae clout ye again.”
Wat did not reply. The circulation returning to his feet made him clench his teeth against the pain, to prevent any sound his captors might interpret as proof that he suffered. If they meant to hang him, so be it. He would not whimper.
His feet refused to cooperate with his brain, however. His ankles felt as weak as new-sprouted saplings, and he could not feel his toes. Pain from his feet and ankles radiated into his legs, and his knees felt no steadier than his ankles.
Although one guard pulled and the other pushed, it still took the combined efforts of both, and his own, to get him up the winding stone stairway and outside to the cobbled bailey. Wat turned his face to the sun, enjoying its warmth but keeping his eyes shut to let them accustom themselves to the harsh glare.
“Dinna dawdle, man,”. . .
KING OF STORMS
“4 Stars! An exhilarating novel . . . with a lively love story . . . Scott brings the memorable characters from her previous novels together in an exciting adventure romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Passionate and breathtaking . . . Amanda Scott’s King of Storms keeps the tension moving as she continues her powerful saga of the Macleod sisters.”
—NovelTalk.com
“A terrific tale starring two interesting lead characters who fight, fuss, and fall in love . . . Rich in history and romance, fans will enjoy the search for the Templar treasure and the Stone of Scone.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An engaging tale with well-written characters, and a wonderful plot that will keep readers turning pages . . . Fans of historical romances will be delighted with King of Storms.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Enjoyable . . . moves at a fast pace . . . it was difficult to put the book down.”
—BookLoons.com
“Intrigue and danger . . . Readers will enjoy the adventures and sweet romance.”
—RomRevToday.com
“Enchanting . . . a thrilling adventure . . . a must read . . . King of Storms is a page turner. A sensual, action-packed romance sure to satisfy every heart. Combine this with a battle of wits, a test of strength, faith, and honor, and you have one great read.
—FreshFiction.com
KNIGHT’S TREASURE
“An enjoyable book for a quiet evening at home. If you are a fan of historical romance with a touch of suspense, you don’t want to miss this book.”
—LoveRomanceAndMore.com
“Filled with tension, deceptions, and newly awakened passions. Scott gets better and better.”
—NovelTalk.com
LADY’S CHOICE
“Lady’s Choice is terrific . . . with an exhilarating climax that sets up the next [book] in this high-quality series. Scott is at the top of her game with this deep historical tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Enjoyable . . . The premise of Scott’s adventure romance is strong.”
—Kathe Robin, Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A page-turner . . . Scott has done good research, and with realistic dialogue, her characters are a joy to read. Lady’s Choice is sure to delight medieval historical fans.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Plenty of suspense and action and a delightful developing love story . . . Another excellent story from Scott.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
PRINCE OF DANGER
“Excellently written, well researched, and entertaining . . . A fascinating story.”
—HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“Phenomenal.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“RITA Award–winning Scott has a flair for colorful, convincing characterization.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Exhilarating . . . fabulous . . . action-packed . . . Fans of fast-paced historical tales starring an intrepid heroine and a courageous champion will want to read Amanda Scott’s latest.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Exciting . . . so good.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Amanda Scott is a phenomenal writer . . . I am not sure if perfection can be improved upon, but that is exactly what she has done in her latest offering.”
—RomanceReaderAtHeart.com
LORD OF THE ISLES
“Ms. Scott’s diverse, marvelous, unforgettable characters in this intricate plot provide hours of pure pleasure.”
—Rendezvous
“Scott pits her strong characters against one another and fate. She delves into their motivations, bringing insight into them and the thrilling era in which they live.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Amanda Scott writes great tales [set] during this turbulent time in Scotland’s history.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Ms. Scott’s storytelling is amazing and she has created a captivating tale of intrigue. She had me riveted to my chair throughout the book . . . This is a definite keeper.”
—CoffeeTimeRomance.com
“Has all of the elements that I like in a book . . . It is a fast-paced and smooth read, and put a smile on my face more than once while I was reading.”
—RomanceReaderAtHeart.com
A HIGHLAND PRINCESS
“Fast-moving, exciting, and soaring to heights of excellence, this one is a winner.”
—Rendezvous
“Delightful historical starring two fabulously intelligent lead characters . . . Grips the audience from the onset and never [lets] go.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Perfect for readers who enjoy romances with a rich sense of history.”
—Booklist
“A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A marvelously rendered portrait of medieval Scotland, terrific characters, and a dynamic story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Great mix of romance, adventure, humor, courage, and passion—a very captivating read. One can almost hear the bagpipes playing . . . a MUST read.”
—TheBestReviews.com
“Powerful . . . so exciting! Wonderful! Loved it.”
—RomanticReviewsMag.com
“Irresistible! . . . Passion, danger, and even a murder mystery are intertwined to create constant intrigue.”
—BookLoons.com
“As usual, the author has created a very believable set of characters, a vivid setting, and a wonderful love story.”
—RomanceReadersConnection.com
Author’s Note
For those of you who appreciate some basic information straightaway, I include the following definitions and pronunciation guide:
Buccleuch = Buck LOO
Coldheugh = COLD hue
Earl = the highest rank in Scotland in 1388, other than King of Scots. England had princes and dukes. Scotland did not. The King’s sons were earls.
The term “Borderers” refers in general to people who lived (or live) in the areas on either side of the border between Scotland and England, which were two separate countries until their union in 1707. The “line” refers to the actual border between those two countries, which for centuries was in constant dispute and tended to shift frequently. In present-day Scotland, “the Borders” is a specific, delineated region in and of itself.
The “marches” refers to three jurisdictions on each side of the line: east march, middle march, and west march (see map). Each of these six marches had its own warden, and in Scotland a Chief Warden of the Marches ruled over all three Scottish marches, with their individual wardens subservient to him. If England had an equivalent chief warden, it was the Earl of Northumberland because of his vast power, but his position was Warden of the East March because such appointments worked differently in England, where the King actively resisted increasing power among his nobles.
Border Law: Grievances and other matters of law, whether they occurred on the English or Scottish side of the line, were resolved at wardens’ meetings that anyone could attend. The two sides would declare a truce long enough to settle their differences. Each warden would guarantee the resolutions involving his vassals and see that they abided by them (usually).
Despite such seeming civility, the region remained volatile for centuries. From the time of Edward I of England (end of the thirteenth century) through the sixteenth century, the English remained determined to annex (conquer) Scotland, and the Scots remained determined to retain their freedom.
Chapter 1
His hands and his feet they ha’ bound like a sheep . . . And they locked him down in a dungeon so deep . . .
Scotland, near the English border, July 1388
Awakening in dense blackness to find himself bound hand and foot, lying in acute discomfort on cold, hard dirt, twenty-four-year-old Sir Walter Scott of Rankilburn became aware of a disturbing sense that all was not well.
Then memory stirred and confirmed the fact.
Lammas Gibbie’s deep voice echoed through the blackness. “Tam, I’m thinking he be moving.”
“Be that you, Wat, or just a few rats fussin’ over summat or other?” the huge man called Jock’s Wee Tammy asked.
“I’m awake,” Wat said, although the raspy voice scarcely sounded like his own. His throat was parched and his head ached. “Someone must have clouted me, for my head’s pounding as if the devil were inside. It’s blinded me, too.”
“One o’ them villains clouted ye, right enough,” Gib said. “Ye’re no blind, though. We’ve nae light is all. Tam and me canna see nowt, neither.”
“How many of us are in here?”
“Just us three in this cell,” Tammy said. “They caught some o’ the others, too, though. We canna hear them, so likely, they’ve stowed them elsewhere.”
Wat gathered enough saliva to swallow before he said, “Sorry, lads. Seems I’ve well and truly landed us all in the suds this time.”
“Aye, well, what comes does come,” Tammy replied.
Wat grunted but saw nothing to gain by pointing out that what was likely to come was hanging for all of them.
“’Tis the Douglas’s fault as much as yours,” Gib muttered. “If he hadna ordered this unnatural state of idleness, we’d no be in such a fix, because Murray would more likely ha’ taken English kine instead o’ yours, but as it is . . .”
Silence fell. James, second Earl of Douglas, although only five years older than Wat himself, had already held his powerful title for four years, since the death of his father. William, the first earl, had been the most powerful man in Scotland—even more powerful than the King of Scots or anyone else in the royal family—and James’s popularity in the Borders had increased the Douglas power even more.
Not only did James Douglas control far more land than the royal Stewarts did but he could raise an army of twelve thousand in less than a sennight, whereas the Stewarts would be lucky to raise a thousand men in twice that time. Unlike kings of England, who could simply order their nobles to provide armies for them when needed, the King of Scots had to apply to his nobles for their support. The nobility was not required to provide it, and the Stewarts, considered upstarts, were unpopular.
Among his many other titles, Douglas was also Chief Warden of the Scottish Marches—the three regions directly abutting the border with England—and as such, he had demanded peace among the unruly Scottish Borderers so that he could better expend their energies in keeping the land-greedy English in England.
For nearly a century, English kings had fought to make Scotland just another region of England, and the present king, Richard Plantagenet, was one who believed it was his God-given right to reign over both countries as one.
Douglas, on the other hand, was equally determined to prevent such a conquest. Having learned that the English were preparing to invade the country yet again and knowing that when the time came, he would have to raise his army quickly, James had forbidden the Scottish Borderers to cross the line without his permission lest the English catch and imprison or hang them. To keep peace among the Scots themselves, he had forbidden them to raid each other’s herds as well.
For years, though, “reivers” on either side of the borderline had raided other men’s herds as a matter of course whenever their families ran out of meat. Although it was illegal and they were subject to dire penalties if caught in the act, the Borderers looked upon reiving as nothing less than economic necessity. They were as likely to raid their own neighbors’ herds as those across the line. And when need drove them, Borderers were unlikely to heed anyone else’s orders, even the Douglas’s.
Wat had often remarked on the futility of those orders, but he knew he could not blame the earl for their predicament now. The responsibility for that was his alone.
His hands and feet were numb. He tried shifting position and stifled a groan when jolts of pain shot through his limbs and set nerves in his fingers and toes afire.
“How long have we been here?” he groaned.
“A good while,” Tammy said.
“Ye snored,” Gib added.
“Snored?” Indignation momentarily replaced suffering. “I was unconscious!”
“Nonetheless, ye snored,” Gib insisted. “Likely, ye can blame them three pots of ale ye drank afore we left Raven’s Law.”
Wat remembered the ale. He should not have drunk so much of it. However, that was not the only error in his hastily conceived plan.
It had seemed so simple then. After spending the previous day at the horse races in Langholm, he and some friends had returned to Raven’s Law, his peel tower in Ettrick Forest, to learn that in his absence, raiders had lifted his entire herd of cattle. They’d also taken a pair of valuable sleuthhounds and seven horses.
“I was right about who stole my beasts,” he muttered.
“Aye, yon devil Murray had them right enough,” Tam agreed. “He still has them, come to that. Mayhap we were a bit hasty, ridin’ out straightaway to raid—”
“To recover what is mine,” Wat interjected.
“Aye, well, that’s as may be,” Tammy said doubtfully. “But yon Murray will no agree that ye had the right to take his beasts home along wi’ yours.”
“Sir Iagan Murray has more kine than any man needs to feed one threaping wife, a pair o’ dour sons, and three o’ the homeliest daughters in Scotland,” Gib said.
“Still, ye canna blame the man for trappin’ us as he did,” Tammy replied. “’Tis only natural he’d want tae keep his own beasts.”
“Nearly half of the beasts he’s got now are mine,” Wat said grimly. “And I don’t want him to keep them. As to my taking his, he can show no proof of that. He and his men rose up out of the heather before we’d touched one of them. Sakes, I should have realized it was too easy to follow those reivers. ’Tis clear enough now that he expected us to and that’s why they were waiting for us.”
“That was clever o’ them, that heather was,” Tammy said. “With all o’ them wearin’ white feathers in their caps as they were, and lyin’ flat, they looked as much like new blooms in the moonlight as the real heather did.”
“Murray kens fine that we’d ha’ taken his kine, though,” Gib said, ignoring the interruption. “Bless us, but anyone would.”
“Even if we had taken them, it was Murray’s fault for forcing me to come here to collect mine,” Wat said.
Tammy laughed. “I’d like t’ be in your pocket when ye explain that to your da’ and the Douglas.”
“It’s what either of them would have done,” Wat retorted.
“Mayhap they would,” Gib said. “But that willna stop them being angry.”
Wat knew Gibbie was right. James Douglas knew his power and did not let anyone forget it. Wat had known him since childhood, and facing him after creating such a predicament for himself was not something he would enjoy. Even so, the earl’s anger would be as nothing compared with his own father’s.
The Laird of Buccleuch was a staunch supporter of James Douglas and would not be pleased to learn that his own son had defied a Douglas order. Just thinking about Buccleuch’s likely reaction made Wat wince.
Then, remembering his present plight, he said with a sigh, “I doubt I’ll have to face either of them. You must know that Murray means to hang us in the morning.”
“He caught us wi’ the goods,” Tammy said. “’Tis his right to hang us.”
“It is, aye, but you’ll admit that it does seem devilish hypocritical,” Wat retorted. “We did nowt but try to put right the wrong he’d done to me, after all.”
“We didna catch him at it, though,” Tam reminded him.
In the ensuing silence, the darkness seemed to thicken and close heavily around them until Gib said abruptly, “D’ye believe in heaven, Wat?”
“Aye, and in hell,” Wat replied. “Don’t you?”
“I do.” Gib paused. “’Tis just that . . .”
“What, Gib?”
“Sithee, me Annie’s in heaven wi’ our wee bairn that the English killed alongside o’ her when they came three years ago. I dinna doubt that Annie’s waiting for me, ye ken, but ’tis likely I’ll no be joining her now, will I?”
“Why not?”
“Yon Murray’s no likely to ha’ a priest at hand to shrive us, is he?”
“He may have a chaplain as the Douglas does,” Wat said. “But if he doesn’t, you’ve led a good life, Gib, and I believe God counts that above all else.”
“Mayhap He does, Wat, but I’ve broken me share o’ His commandments.”
“So have we all,” Tammy muttered. “’Tis nae use to fret about it now.”
Wat’s imagination instantly presented him with a string of images from his past that God might find hard to forgive.
He had no idea how much time had slipped by when Tam said quietly, “Ye’re gey quiet, Master Wat. Be ye thinkin’ or sleepin’?”
“Thinking,” Wat retorted. “I doubt if anything fixes a man’s mind more sharply on his sins than knowing that in just a few hours he’s likely to hang.”
It was two hours past dawn when Sir Iagan Murray, Baron of Elishaw, a thickset man of medium height, graying hair and beard, and undistinguished apparel, entered his castle hall and stepped onto the dais at its north end. He sat in his armchair, placed informally as it was every morning at the end of the high table nearest the fire. His wife and three daughters had been standing at their places, waiting, for some time.
His men had eaten earlier and departed to their duties, so the family would enjoy some privacy. But they were hardly alone. Servants scurried about, some clearing trestle tables in the lower hall while others set platters of food on the dais table and poured ale into Sir Iagan’s mug and wine into the ladies’ goblets.
Eighteen-year-old Lady Margaret Murray stood beside her mother in a plain blue dress that did nothing to flatter her thin figure. An uncomfortably close-fitting white coif and veil primly concealed her long, thick hair and was already beginning to give her a headache. She was glad her father had arrived at last, for the women could not sit down, let alone begin eating, until he did.
Her two younger sisters fidgeted impatiently beside her.
Meg ignored them while gillies moved the ladies’ stools in closer behind them and Lady Murray took her seat. Then, hearing a sound of relief from eleven-year-old Rosalie as that damsel plopped down on her stool, Meg shot her a warning look.
Fifteen-year-old, rosy-cheeked Amalie quietly took her seat between them. She was much plumper than Meg or Rosalie, but all three looked more like their English-born mother than their Scottish father.
The two younger girls wore plain veils over long, dark plaits. Rosalie’s hair was several shades darker than Meg’s, and Amalie’s was raven’s-wing black. Both had hazel eyes and freckled complexions. Fate had spared Meg the freckles, and her eyes were stone gray with dark-rimmed irises.
The back-stools opposite remained empty, the board before them bare, signs that their brothers were not at home. Simon, the elder, served the Scottish Earl of Fife and Menteith, who was in effect the present ruler of Scotland. Their younger brother, Thomas, having fostered four years with nearby Percy cousins in England, taking his education and learning swordsmanship and other such skills with them, now served a Scottish knight somewhere near Edinburgh. Meg did not miss Simon, for whom she had little liking, but she did miss merry Tom. Neither young man had yet taken a wife.
In due time—which was to say when Sir Iagan had seen both of his sons well established—he would doubtless marry his three daughters to men of property. He had received no offers for them yet, but he frequently assured them that, his power and connections being what they were, he would eventually do so.
That some witless wag had once labeled them three of the homeliest females in Christendom had done naught to aid their prospects. But Meg knew that when it came to marriage, beauty was not everything. Sir Iagan was a man of wealth.
He was also a man of influence. As such, she knew he believed he had no need to dower his daughters heavily. She just hoped he would provide them with enough to entice more than one potential husband. The few men she did know believed that, at eighteen, she was already long in the tooth.
Lady Murray, having told the gillie who attended her what she’d like to eat, said to her husband with her soft English lilt, “I trust you slept well, my lord.”
“Indeed, my lady,” he replied with a polite nod. “I slept gey fine, though I confess I did not reach my bed until after midnight.”
Rosalie said with concern, “Could you not sleep before then, Father?”
“I had important duties to attend, lassie.”
Meg said, “Duties in the middle of the night, sir?”
Turning to his wife, he said, “Madam, your daughters display unwarranted curiosity about their father’s business. Surely, ye’ve explained to them that well-bred young women do not pry into the affairs of others.”
“I shall explain it to them again, sir, but I own, I am as curious as they are. The only duty that might keep you so late when we have no visitors would be reivers. However, I heard none of the din that usually accompanies a raid.”
He smirked, saying, “That, madam, is because my men and I were waiting for them. Having suspected the scoundrels meant to raid my herd, I’d buried two score men in the nearby heather. We captured their leader and six of his rabble. I’ll wager ye canna guess who that leader is.”
“Who, Father?” Amalie asked.
Sir Iagan frowned at her. “I was not speaking to you.”
“No, sir, but how else can we know? Is he in the dungeon?”
Pride in his victory overcame his annoyance, for his chest swelled as he said, “I have all seven of the thieving devils locked up. And, by heaven, I mean to introduce them to my hanging tree as soon as I’ve broken my fast.”
He may have thought the subject of the leader’s identity thus closed, but Meg knew their mother was as curious as she was and looked expectantly at her.
Deftly, Lady Murray used the point of her knife to spear a slice of meat from a platter and transfer it to her trencher. As she tore the meat apart delicately with two fingers, she said, “Do you mean to make me guess the leader’s name, sir?”
“Ye’d never do it, for it will astonish ye to learn that he is of gentle birth. I recognized him at once. So would ye have done, had ye seen him.”
She frowned. “I doubt I could know any man who steals cattle for a living.”
“Still, I must suppose ye’ve seen him, for he’s young Wat Scott, Buccleuch’s eldest son. Even if ye canna recall his face, ye’ll ken his family.”
“The Laird of Buccleuch? But he is a man of considerable wealth!”
“Aye, so we’ll see if his young Wattie dares to identify himself. Not that I care if he does or not. We caught them all red-handed, and I mean to hang every one of them. Fetch me more ale, lad,” he called to a passing gillie.
Lady Murray returned her attention to her food for some moments before she said musingly, “Does young Scott have a wife, sir?”
“None that I ken. Have ye interest in his ancestry, as well, madam?”
She persisted. “You also said that he is Buccleuch’s eldest son, and so he must therefore be his heir.”
“Aye, and what of it? Ye’ll no tell me I shouldna hang the thieving rascal!”
“I hope you know well enough by now that I would not put myself forward so improperly. It does occur to me, though, that when Providence offers up a single young man who will inherit vast properties, one should not rashly destroy the gift.”
“And how, prithee, is the man’s trying to make off with my herd an act of Providence?” Sir Iagan demanded. “If ye’re suggesting that I demand ransom—”
“Nay, for as you must have realized yourself—with Buccleuch being one of Douglas’s fiercest allies and Douglas organizing raids into England to judge their readiness for another invasion of Scotland—’twould take much too long to negotiate a ransom. It would also be too dangerous. Whatever you do, you must do quickly.”
He nodded, but Meg wondered if he had thought the matter through as swiftly and thoroughly as her mother had.
Lady Murray said matter-of-factly, “We have three daughters, sir. I need not remind you of your duty to find them all suitable husbands. And whilst you may easily find a husband for one, finding three will not be easy. Therefore, to hang such an excellent prospect . . .” She paused, meeting his gaze.
He glowered, saying in a near growl, “Ye believe that scoundrel would make one o’ them a suitable husband? Are ye daft, woman?”
“Nay, only practical. With two sons, as well, establishing all our offspring will require loosening your purse strings to a sad degree, I fear. But with an opportunity such as this, with care and your customary astuteness . . .”
“I’ve wealth enough,” he muttered when she paused. But Meg saw that her mother’s words had jolted him. Wealth or none, no man complained more often of penury than Sir Iagan Murray did.
“There is also the fact that England may soon reestablish control of this area as they have before,” Lady Murray went on. “You have taken care over the years to create powerful ties on both sides of the line, and your English ties, along with an air of compliance, did enable us to escape harm when they came here three years ago. But we can be sure that Douglas took note of your lack of involvement then, and—”
“Sakes, madam, I could scarcely take sides without offending one or another o’ those connections ye speak of.”
“I understand that,” she said. “But Douglas has proven himself as great a warrior for Scotland as my cousin Sir Harry Percy is for England. And Douglas is more powerful in Scotland than even the royal family is. So if he prevails in the coming conflict, our Simon’s service with the Earl of Fife, albeit an excellent connection for Simon, will do less to protect us here in the Borders than would a connection to Douglas himself. And I’m thinking, sir, that this incident may allow you to establish just such a connection, for not only is Buccleuch close to Douglas, but his wife is a Douglas, and therefore young Sir Walter is blood kin to the earl.”
“Your cousin Harry is not called Hotspur for nowt, madam,” Sir Iagan said testily. “His forces and those of the English king will prevail in the coming conflict, Douglas or no Douglas. Indeed, it surprises me that you should encourage kinship with yet another of the men you so often call ‘my heathenish Scots.’”
“Young Scott may be a heathen, but he is no coward,” Lady Murray said. “He has won his knighthood, I believe, and is properly Sir Walter Scott. If he is the young man I do recall, he is rather handsome, although too dark for my taste. He also has a stubborn, implacable look about him. Still, I warrant he would make a suitable enough husband for a sensible young woman like our Meg.”
Startled, Meg barely managed to remain silent, but she dared not speak lest her irritated father order her from the table. She certainly could not say that she had been thinking Sir Walter Scott sounded just like Sir Iagan and her brother Simon—temperamental, stubborn, and domineering.
But then, she mused, most men were temperamental and domineering. She had not met many yet, though, so she could still hope to meet one who was not.
“What do you think of your mother’s daft notion?” Sir Iagan asked her.
“I don’t think I’d like to marry a thief, sir.”
“There, you see, madam,” Sir Iagan snapped.
“Meg is a dutiful daughter,” Lady Murray said without so much as a glance at Meg. “She will do as you bid her.”
“Ye’re talking as if the lad would agree to the notion,” he said. “More likely, he’d refuse it outright.”
“Pressed to choose between a marriage and a coffin, I believe any sensible young man will choose marriage,” Lady Murray said. “However, I should like to see him before you either make him the offer or hang him.”
“I suppose next you will say you want your daughters to see this villain, too,” he retorted. His expression said he believed nothing of the sort, but it altered ludicrously when the wife of his bosom said that she did indeed want her daughters to see the reiver.
“It will be a valuable experience for them,” she said.
Meg had been as certain as her father was that her mother would decline having any such notion. Beginning to breathe normally again, she had reached for her goblet, but her ladyship’s reply diverted her attention just enough to make her knock it over, spewing ale across the table and drawing a curse from Sir Iagan.
As gillies leaped to clean up the mess, he said, “You’d have me admit such a scoundrel to my daughters’ presence? Faugh, I won’t permit it.”
“He may be a scoundrel, but he is nonetheless nobly born,” Lady Murray reminded him. “I shall excuse Rosalie, but there can be naught amiss in showing Meg and Amalie what happens even to powerful men who break the law.”
“Aye . . . well . . .”
“Moreover, if you should change your mind after considering my suggestion, there is surely no harm in letting them see the man one of them is to marry.”
Gruffly, he said, “I’ll permit it only because seeing him in his present state, if it accomplishes nowt else, should put this foolish notion of marrying him to one of them right out of your head.”
“Mayhap it will,” she replied equably.
With a brusque gesture to a hovering gillie, he snapped, “Have them fetch the reivers’ leader here to me. Tell them to bring him just as he is.”
Meg watched the gillie hurry from the hall, wishing with half her mind that she could snatch him back. With the other half, she wished she could fly beside him, unseen, and have a look at the prisoner before they haled him in before her.
Well aware that such powers were beyond the ken of ordinary mortals and that God could read her thoughts, she surreptitiously crossed herself.
When the cell door creaked open, even the faint light from the stairwell caused a glare that made Wat wince. Believing the guards had come for them, to hang them all straightaway, he was not surprised when the two who entered each grabbed an arm and hauled him upright.
“You’ll have to untie my feet, lads,” he said, stifling a groan. “Even so, I doubt I can walk, for I’ve scarcely any feeling left in them.”
The larger of the two said, “We weep for ye, reiver, but we dinna care an ye walk or no. Ye’ll come with us any road.”
“What of my men?”
“They’re to bide here a wee while longer.”
They had clearly meant to drag him. But after cursing at how heavy he was and noting irritably that the winding stone stairway was too narrow to accommodate all three of them abreast, they finally untied his feet.
“I dare ye to run,” the one who had spoken before said with a grim chuckle. “’Twould please me tae clout ye again.”
Wat did not reply. The circulation returning to his feet made him clench his teeth against the pain, to prevent any sound his captors might interpret as proof that he suffered. If they meant to hang him, so be it. He would not whimper.
His feet refused to cooperate with his brain, however. His ankles felt as weak as new-sprouted saplings, and he could not feel his toes. Pain from his feet and ankles radiated into his legs, and his knees felt no steadier than his ankles.
Although one guard pulled and the other pushed, it still took the combined efforts of both, and his own, to get him up the winding stone stairway and outside to the cobbled bailey. Wat turned his face to the sun, enjoying its warmth but keeping his eyes shut to let them accustom themselves to the harsh glare.
“Dinna dawdle, man,”. . .
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