Border Fire(36)

That Sir Quinton still showed little interest in preparing ground for crops Janet attributed to continuing gloomy weather. Although the air had warmed enough to bring sleet or rain rather than snow, she knew that spring might not reveal the effects of its gentling hand on the landscape for several more weeks. He had mentioned having business to tend in Edinburgh, but he did not think it safe to leave her or Broadhaugh just yet. Still, she could tell that he was growing bored with lack of real action, and restless. The only thing he seemed to talk about with much interest was the forthcoming horse races at Langholm.

When word reached them of a raid carried out by the men of Eskdale against a hamlet in the English west march, she could almost feel his yearning. Wisely, she said nothing, but when Buccleuch and Margaret paid a visit nearly a month after the wedding, not an hour had passed before she spoke to Margaret of her concern.

"He's like a hen on a hot griddle," Janet said after a tour to show off the changes she had wrought. The two women had settled in a small sitting room near the room she had taken for her bedchamber, just above Sir Quinton's.

"I know what Quin can be like," Margaret said with a chuckle. "Let me see if I can help remedy the situation."

When they sat down to eat their supper that evening, Buccleuch said abruptly, "I've been thinking, Quin. I ought to have a deputy, and you ought to learn what duties I bear as march warden and as keeper of Hermitage and Liddesdale."

Looking interested, Sir Quinton said, "What would you want me to do?"

Buccleuch shrugged. "As to that, who can say? You could go along as my aide to the Truce Day if that want-wit Scrope ever makes up his mind where to hold the blessed thing. Perhaps I could also leave upper Teviotdale in your care whilst I'm fixed at Hermitage. The title of deputy will give you more power, and perhaps I can arrange for a small stipend from Jamie, as well. What say you?"

To Janet's surprise, Sir Quinton did not point out that Buccleuch had never before required the services of a deputy, or to enumerate duties that would make serving difficult-the sort of casual argument that she had learned was characteristic of him. He just nodded and said, "I am yours to command, Cousin, as always."

"Good, that's settled then." Buccleuch looked at his wife and grinned.

Margaret quickly asked Sir Quinton a question about one of his tenants, and Janet hoped that he had suspected nothing untoward in Buccleuch's sudden offer.

If Sir Quinton suspected her hand or Margaret's in his new position, he said nothing about it. Indeed, he seemed to take the new duties seriously, even to enjoy them, and she began to hope that his raiding days truly were over. She indulged this hope for no more than five days, however, before she discovered its futility.

On the evening of that fifth day, she and Sir Quinton were walking together in the bailey, chatting with lads who were tidying up at the end of the day, when the guard at the postern gate suddenly flung it wide to admit Hob the Mouse. The big man leapt from the saddle before his pony had come to a stop.   





 

"Master," he cried, "raiders from Kielbeck have raided Cotrigg village! They forced everyone outside, then fired the cots and killed Ally the Bastard's wife, his cousin Jock o' Tev, and Jock's three bairns!"

Shocked, Janet gasped, "They killed children? They cannot have done that!"

Sir Quinton's hand clamped onto her arm, silencing her. "Gather the lads," he ordered. "We'll meet at the usual place in an hour." As Hob ran back to his pony, Sir Quinton said grimly, "You go inside, lass, and stay inside. I'll leave lads to guard you, but take no chances. Don't even stand near a window until I return."

"But who can have done this? And where are you going? We've enjoyed weeks of peace, sir. Don't you see that if you retaliate it will all start again?"

"What I see is a disobedient wife," he retorted. "Get inside and upstairs now, where I know you will be safe from harm. I must go."

"But-"

The rest of the sentence stopped in her throat when he grabbed her arm and pushed her ahead of him into the castle. Inside, he released her, but when she turned angrily to face him, he snapped, "Get up those stairs, and don't argue with me. This is not a matter of countries or kinsmen, or one that lies just betwixt you and me. They have attacked my people and my land. You cannot expect me to let them get away with it. Now, not another word unless you want to make me really angry, and I promise you, you don't want that. Go on now." He pointed, and she went.





Chapter 13


"‘Go saddle for me the brown,' says Janet,

‘Go saddle for me the black … '"

FURIOUS AND FRIGHTENED, JANET went to the master's hall. An hour later she still sat staring into the fire there, listening to it crackle while her fear warred with her anger. She remembered her threat to young Andrew-long ago now-to skelp him if he dared wave a weapon again before he reached adulthood, and wished she could make the same threat to Quinton and make him believe her as Andrew had.

Just the thought of confronting her large husband and threatening to raise a hand to him brought a reluctant smile. The threat would be as useless with him as it would be with Hugh. She did not think that Quinton would knock her against the nearest wall or drag her by her hair to her bedchamber and lock her in-both of which remedies Hugh had employed in the past. But neither would Sir Quinton Scott, Laird of Broadhaugh, stand for being ordered about or scolded by his wife.

The fire crackled again, and sparks shot into the air. As she watched, her agile imagination began presenting her with pictures of the Bairns riding into England to avenge the murder of Jock o' Tev, whoever he was-or Ally the Bastard, for that matter. Had she been at Brackengill, she would have known everyone involved. Thinking about home, she understood Sir Quinton's fury.

He would be leading them now, his cloak flying behind him as he rode. The memory of his heavy frown and his anger when he had walked away made her sad, because she did not want to fight with him. They were bound together for life, and to face a future filled with such strife was unthinkable. Somehow they had to reach a reckoning that they both could live with. First, however, both of them had to survive the night ahead.

More pictures filled her mind. To reach Kielbeck, Sir Quinton and his men would most likely cross the Liddel south of Hermitage and the Border somewhere in the Larriston Fells, where she knew that armed guards made their rounds in plump patrols of as many as forty riders. Several of the men-and Sir Quinton himself-had assured her that he knew the Cheviot Hills and the fells between them and Bewcastle Waste better than any other man alive. Still, she knew that he had nearly met his end on those fells before, and she could not believe that he and the others could ever again slip through that heavily guarded area with impunity. What if this turned out to be yet another of Hugh's traps to catch Rabbie Redcloak?

Getting up, she paced back and forth, her full skirts swaying in her agitation. Her thoughts tumbled like the turbulent waters of the Teviot through her mind. One moment she felt as if she were drowning in fear that Sir Quinton would be taken, the next she seethed at his refusal to discuss his decisions or intentions with her.

Jemmy Whiskers, curled by the fire, opened his eyes and laid back his ears in disapproval of her unpredictable movements.

"He should talk to me about what he means to do," Janet informed the little cat. "He should allow me to have at least a part in his decisions if for no other reason than my knowledge of the English. I was one of them for two decades, was I not? I have heard Hugh and his men talk about tactics and strategies. I know how they think, so I could help if only that stubborn dolthead would let me."   





 

A more important reason, she told herself, was that a man should treat his wife like a part of himself. He should look not only to his henchmen for help but to her, as well. Women often saw things in a different but nonetheless useful light.

"I hate being left out of important matters," she informed the cat, which now, except for the occasional flick of an ear, studiously ignored her striding agitation. "All my life men have told me that what they do is none of my affair, that it does not concern me," Janet went on, "and that is just plain foolishness. Men are fools. One has only to see how they manage events like this one to see that. They think with their swords and their cocks and naught else." Biting her lip, she looked sharply about to see if anyone else could have overheard her. Except for Jemmy Whiskers and herself, the room was empty. Feeling guilty nonetheless, she muttered, "I should not have said that about cocks, Jemmy."

The cat blinked, then shut its eyes and did not open them again.

Janet sighed and walked to the window near the chimney. It was drafty there, and the fire's warmth did not reach her. Lifting her skirts, she climbed onto the bench and looked out, recalling only after she had pushed the shutter wide that Sir Quinton had warned her to stay away from the windows.

The prospect might have delighted her on another, less tension-filled occasion, for moonlight gleamed on the Teviot as it wound its way past the foot of the crag, turning the river into a glittering dark ribbon. Pale, silvery light cast shadows where trees dotted the landscape beyond it and revealed gently rolling undulations. She was looking the wrong way, though, and she felt frustrated. From the ramparts beyond Sir Quinton's bedchamber, she could look toward Hermitage and England, but even from there, mere looking would avail her naught.