Border Fire(56)

"What did Scrope say?"

"The villain chooses to pretend that Quin is no one but Rabbie Redcloak," Margaret said indignantly. "He wrote that Rabbie was such a notorious offender that he dared not release him without authority from Elizabeth herself."

"Godamercy!"

"Aye, Buccleuch is in a towering rage," Margaret said, gently grasping Janet's arm and urging her back inside. "He says it is as if they had captured him, for Quin is his deputy, and thus it is by way of being the same thing. He would like to raise all of Liddesdale and Teviotdale and bring Carlisle Castle down around Scrope's ears, but until his leg mends he can do little more than swear."   





 

"I hope he does not do it more injury, riding to Hermitage," Janet said.

"Well, whether he does or not, I could not stop him," Margaret replied. "He had clearly been fretting at Branxholme, feeling too far away from things. I would not have left him, but he commanded it, saying one of us would murder the other if I stayed." Grinning, she said, "Order us food, my dear, and I will tell you all I know. I do not mean to linger, but perhaps your people could see to providing mine with something warm to drink and a bite to eat."

"Forgive me, madam, I forget my duties," Janet exclaimed with embarrassment, looking around for a lackey.

Hob the Mouse, never far from her side, nodded reassuringly and turned away to deal with the matter.

"Your people serve you well, my dear," Margaret said cheerfully, "Hob will see to everything, and you and I can talk quietly upstairs by ourselves."

By the time they reached the master's hall, Janet had her emotions under control again. Gesturing for Margaret to take Quinton's comfortably padded Italian armchair, she said, "Surely, if Buccleuch has ridden to Hermitage, his leg must be mending more swiftly than anyone expected."

"He is roaring," Margaret said, "so I presume that he is as fit as he can be at the moment. Nonetheless, he required assistance to mount his horse, and it was clearly a painful ordeal for him. I doubt, from what Alys the herbwoman and others tell me, that he will be himself again for yet another month or longer."

"Godamercy," Janet said. "Then what can he do about this?"

"He has sent word to the English ambassador in Edinburgh and to King Jamie," Margaret said. "He is certain that Jamie will write to Elizabeth himself."

"London," Janet said, frowning. "They must send all the way to London."

"Aye, but Buccleuch says they will make all speed. We should know the queen's answer in a fortnight or mayhap even less time than that, he said."

"A fortnight." Janet sighed, adding, "That is very fast, I know, but it seems like a lifetime. And for Quinton, it may be just that."

"I know that you must miss him dreadfully, for 'tis clear that you love him," Margaret said. "I tell you, though, they will not dare to harm him."

Janet did not believe her, much as she wanted to, but she could hardly say so, and thus she made no objection when the older woman changed the subject. However, as the days passed, her worries increased until she could scarcely concentrate on anything. The weather continued to produce as much rain as sunshine, which did nothing to lift her spirits, and things now ran so smoothly at Broadhaugh that she did not have to give much thought to daily chores. At times she found herself wishing that she had more to do.

It was not that she missed Quinton particularly, or so she told herself at least once a day. She was merely fearful for his safety, as anyone would be who had a grain of compassion. And she was angry, too, of course, as anyone with a sense of justice must be. But for Margaret or anyone else to suggest that she had fallen in love with her husband was nonsense.

Even to suggest that she missed him was putting the matter too strongly. She was not lonely. How could anyone be lonely who was surrounded by loyal followers and who had grown up in the manner that she had? Even men known to number among Rabbie's Bairns frequently appeared at Broadhaugh to ask her for news, and they all promised to do whatever they could to help. No one should be lonely with support like theirs.

She had often longed for Hugh to go away just so that she could have solitude and the freedom to do as she pleased without facing censure or carping-or worse. And just as it had been with Hugh, with Quinton around, no one could ever wonder who was in charge. Even though the people at Broadhaugh showed her respect, and even though Quinton had given her free rein to run the household, she knew that oftentimes his people went to him to make sure that they should carry out her orders. He had never countermanded one, to be sure; but still, there it was.

She felt the lack of his presence more than she had felt Hugh's, though, for Quinton had seemed larger than life from that very first meeting. Even as a prisoner in a dungeon he had made his presence more strongly felt than any other man had. She always knew when he was within the walls of Broadhaugh, too. The place fairly crackled with his presence and felt lifeless by comparison with him gone.

She had slept in his bed every night that she had spent at home since they had taken him, but who would not do the same if they had the right? His bed was more comfortable than hers was. When she recalled waking with lustful intent from a dream in which Quinton's arms were wrapped around her to find herself alone in his bed, a tear trickled down her cheek. She brushed it away. She did not miss him and could not imagine why she felt like weeping. In any event, he would be home soon, or the good Lord would be hearing some straight talk during her daily prayers.   





 

Since she knew from a tale that one of Hugh's tutors had told her that the gods only helped them who helped themselves, she decided to do her part without bothering to consult anyone else. Accordingly, she sent a message to Lord Scrope, formally requesting permission to visit her husband.

Scrope's reply came swiftly, informing her that to the best of his knowledge her husband was not residing at Carlisle. In any event, the message went on, Sir Hugh Graham has informed us that he objects strenuously to his sister's penchant for fraternizing with felons.

It was not a reassuring missive, but she could not complain to anyone, since she was fairly certain that Buccleuch would not approve of her having written to Scrope without first applying to him for permission to do so. Although Hob the Mouse knew where her messenger had gone, she told no one else what she had done, but when ten more days had passed without word from Buccleuch, she could stand it no longer. Sending for Hob, she said, "Order out an escort for me. I mean to ride for Hermitage within the hour. Get word to Rabbie's Bairns, too, to hold themselves ready in the event that I shall require their help."

"Mistress, ye carina-"

"Do not tell me what I cannot do," she snapped. "Arrange for that escort and arm them well. Then send word out to the others. If Buccleuch refuses to do anything more to help Quinton, I must ride to Carlisle myself and confront Lord Scrope, and I will need the Bairns as well as our own men to protect me."

"But, mistress-"

"Not another word, Hob. You would not dare to argue with me if the master were here."

"But if he were here … " His words trailed to silence in the face of her increasing anger. Abruptly, he nodded and went out.

Calling to Ardith, Janet told her to pack clothes to take to Hermitage. "Tell Tip that I want the clothing that he provided for me before, which I returned to him, and a suit of clothes for the master in case Buccleuch should succeed in getting him released. You will have to come with me," she added. "There will be the devil to pay over my doing this, but at least if I have another female with me and ride there properly on a sidesaddle, Buccleuch cannot simply order me to ride home again."

He could, of course, and she knew it. She could think of little else during the maddeningly slow ride south to Hermitage, but she told herself over and over that she would not let him send her home. By the time her little company passed through the gates, she had nearly convinced herself that he would not.

Quin thought the prison accommodations at Carlisle vastly superior to those at Brackengill if only because, thanks to a small barred window set high in one wall, his cell enjoyed regular daylight. Its furnishing left much to be desired, for there was no bed or even a bench to sit on. However, there was also no muck on the floor, merely a pile of rags, their origin impossible to guess, to ease its hardness.

Unlike Sir Hugh Graham, Scrope did not starve him, but the single meal he got each day consisted only of bread and water, and occasionally some soup. He had suffered a few bruises at the hands of Francis Musgrave's men before his arrival at Carlisle, but he had recovered from them and had suffered none since, although his guards delighted in entertaining him with speculation about whether Scrope would hang him, drown him in a pit, or simply send him to the queen as a gift. He knew that he had lost weight, and the lack of food made him weak, but he would not give in to that. He worked daily to maintain what strength he had.

Worst of all was the boredom. The window was too high to look out unless he pulled himself up, which he forced himself to do daily for the exercise. He could not hold himself there for long, however, and he took good care whenever a guard entered to present the image of a rapidly weakening prisoner. The window faced east, and knowing that he was looking homeward gave him a sense of peace.