“This discourse is unseemly, Father,” the groom said. “Pray, proceed.”
“Nay, then, do not, Father,” Sibylla said. “I will have none of him.”
As she turned away, her erstwhile bridegroom said testily, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home,” she said. “You do not want me, and I do not want you.”
“By heaven, no one humiliates me like this!” he exclaimed.
Without word or pause, Sibylla picked up her skirts and left the kirk.
The words he shouted at her then rang in her ears for days afterward:
“I’ll never forgive you, you impudent snip! You will rue this day!”
Akermoor Castle, Lothian, April 1388
After each of her two aborted weddings, Sibylla had faced her furious father and endured his rebukes. She knew she deserved them, if only for disappointing him, and had felt profound relief that his reaction had not been more violent.
On both occasions, after he had roared at her, she had tried to explain her reasons. But Lord Galston’s having been too old for her and his successor too coldly arrogant had not impressed Sir Malcolm.
The third time, she recognized her error sooner. The ceremony was to take place at Akermoor, so she simply sent a message downstairs to the priest and did not show herself. Accordingly, she expected Sir Malcolm’s wrath to engulf her.
“What manner of complaint can ye have this time?” he demanded. “In sooth, ye said Thomas Colville suited ye fine.”
“I had seen him only at court with companies of people,” Sibylla replied. “Thomas seemed charming then and kind. But since he has been here at Akermoor, I have found not one thing about which we can talk.”
“Ye’ll talk enough after ye’re married!”
“He leers at the maidservants, sir, and cares only for his own wishes,” she said. Fearing that Sir Malcolm would see nothing amiss in that either, she added, “He also complained unceasingly that Hugh was not here to bear him company.”
“Any man prefers the company of other men,” her father retorted. “His wife is meant to look after his home and his bairns, no to demand his constant attention. Moreover, if ye meant to refuse him, ye should have said as much before now.”
“I did, sir. You did not listen. Apparently, that, too, is the nature of men.”
“I’ll stand nae more of your sauce!” he roared. “Your sister Alice will soon need a husband, and although I’d a mind to see ye wedded afore her, ye’ve had your chance, Sibylla—three of them! I’ll do nae more for ye. Ye’ll always have your home here, but ye’ll look after Alice till she weds and then ye’ll look after yourself and me. So look now at your future, ye foolish lass, and weep for it!”
But Sibylla did not weep.
Instead, as usual, she took matters into her own capable hands.
Chapter 1
Scottish Borders, 21 April 1391
The child’s scream shattered the morning stillness.
Whipping her head toward the sound, which had come from a short distance away near the river Tweed, nineteen-year-old Lady Sibylla Cavers reined in the dapple-gray gelding she rode. Pushing back the sable-lined hood of her long, dark-green wool cloak, she listened, frowning, her eyes narrowed. For the first time since leaving Sweethope Hill House that morning, she wished she had brought her groom, but as the land from Sweethope Hill to the river belonged to the estate, she had not.
She often rode alone, and having but recently recovered from an illness that had kept her in bed for a fortnight, she had wanted to savor her freedom.
The scream came again and seemed closer.
Spurring the gray, Sibylla rode toward the river until she saw through a break in the trees lining its bank a tiny, splashing figure a quarter mile to the west. Caught in the river’s powerful, sweeping spring flow, it moved steadily toward her.
Without hesitation, Sibylla wheeled her mount eastward and urged it to a gallop, hoping it could outrun the river to the next ford. With hood bobbing and long, thick, red-gold plaits flying, she listened for more screams to tell her the child was still alive and help her estimate how fast the river was carrying it along.
Her sense of urgency increasing with every hoofbeat, she leaned low along the gelding’s neck and urged it to go faster.
The ford was not far, if it still was a ford. She knew only what she had gleaned about the Tweed during the princess Isabel Stewart’s eight-month residence at Sweethope. But her experience with other rivers warned her that even trustworthy fords that had remained so for years could vanish in a heavy spate, and tended to do so just when one most urgently needed to cross to the other side.
At present, the Tweed was a thick, muddy brown color and moved swiftly, carrying branches, twigs, and larger items in its grip. Some distance to the east, she saw a long, half-submerged log that had snagged near the opposite shore just short of where the river bent southward. Branches with enough clinging dry leaves to look like spiky plumes shot off the log in all directions, making it easy to see. Other objects swept past it though, as the child would if she could not intercept it.