The men remained silent. No one cheered or shouted encouragement. They just waited. Quinton and Hugh kept circling, their booted feet making slurping sounds in the muck. Light drizzle continued, but both men had taken off their cloaks and helmets, and both looked soaked to the skin.
Quinton made a gesture with his sword, and Hugh's weapon flashed to meet it. Quinton parried and Hugh went on the attack at once. Their swords seemed to take fire, but after only a minute or two, Janet realized that Quinton was making no attempt to attack. She had seen him fight before and had watched him practice often enough to know that he was well off his usual pace. He parried every stroke deftly, conserving what strength he had, but Hugh pressed him hard.
She knew that her brother had insisted they fight on foot because it would tire Quinton more quickly than fighting on horseback. The decision was a sensible one for Hugh, who doubtless knew himself outmatched in skill and could hope to beat Quinton only if the weeks in prison had sufficiently worn him down.
Quinton slipped, and she cried out, clapping a hand to her mouth to stop the sound. But others shouted, too, on both sides, and the tense silence vanished in uproar. The audience was caught up in the fight. When Hugh nearly slipped under Quinton's guard, his men cheered, but the other side echoed those cheers when Quinton parried and neatly twitched Hugh's sword out of his hand.
The sword fell into the muck.
Janet could breathe again, thinking Hugh would have to submit, but fear gripped her anew when Quinton lowered his sword and Hugh leapt to snatch his up.
"Wipe it off," Quinton said curtly, and one of the men threw Hugh a cloth.
In moments their fighting was fiercer than ever.
Sweat and raindrops streamed down both men's faces, ignored but for occasional swipes with a free if sodden sleeve. The ground beneath them grew more treacherous by the moment. Their feet dug ruts and pushed up ridges as they leapt and sidestepped in the familiar dance of swordplay.
The fight seemed to have lasted hours, but Janet knew that only minutes had passed. She remembered Quinton's once telling her that even the strongest swordsman could last only ten minutes before mind-numbing exhaustion set in.
As the thought flitted through her mind, she saw that the tempo had changed. Quinton was pressing now. Instead of nimbly sidestepping and moving in circles, he pressed forward, forcing Hugh toward the circle's perimeter. The men backed away, but Quinton moved quickly, his sword flashing in, out, up, and down with such speed that it seemed to have three blades attached to its hilt instead of just one.
A treacherous root caught Hugh's heel and sent him crashing. As he landed, Quinton's sword point touched his throat and he froze where he lay.
Janet tried to scream but no sound came. The roars of the men stopped, too, and in the ensuing silence, she heard only the whispering pit-a-pat of raindrops.
Chapter 24
"If ye like na my visit in merry England
In fair Scotland come visit me!"
EXCEPT FOR HIS HEAVING chest, Quinton stood utterly still, his sword point indenting Hugh's throat. Hugh lay with his chin pointing upward, his eyes wide, his chest pumping hard, waiting for the coup de grace.
Janet could not breathe. No one spoke. The only sounds that mingled with the hushing patter of the rain were an occasional whicker or stamp from one of the ponies and the stertorous breathing of the erstwhile combatants.
Then Quinton stepped back, raising his sword.
A general sigh went up, but still no one spoke.
His breath still coming in harsh gasps, Quinton said with detectable amusement, "Do you mean to lie there till the Second Coming?"
"Finish the job, damn you," Hugh growled.
"A fine fellow you must think me if you believe I can spit my wife's only brother without a second thought. Get up now, man, before I change my mind. If you want another fight, come challenge me at Broadhaugh. I'm too tired to accommodate you today." With that, he extended a hand to Hugh.
After a moment's pause, Hugh took it. When Quinton tried to heave him up, though, both men faltered, and in the end Hugh had to exert what remained of his own strength before he could rise.
Janet wanted to run up and hug them both, then bang their two stubborn heads together. Since she could do neither, she stayed where she was. Steam rose from both men. They were creating their own clouds of fog.
No one seemed to know what to say next.
Finally, it was Hob the Mouse who said practically, "We'd best be getting home, master. The mistress is soaked through to her skin."
Indignantly, Janet turned to him, but before she could speak, Quinton said, "Aye," and then, "Lads, get yourselves mounted. We'll ha' moonlight again."
Janet stepped toward him.
"Jenny, you get mounted, too," he commanded. "Do you need assistance?"
"I want to speak to Hugh."
"Suit yourself, lass, but we'll wait only a moment. You are not the only one who is wet through, you know."
As if she had complained! As if he really would dare leave without her!
She glowered at him but said nothing, fearing that he would order her to mount her horse at once and knowing that Hugh would support him if he gave such an order. Keeping these thoughts to herself, she nodded and hurried to Hugh.
"Are you hurt?" she demanded. "You hit the ground hard."
"Don't remind me," he said, looking rueful.
His attitude amazed her. "Hugh, you must be hurt. Is it your head?"
One of his men, overhearing, stifled a chuckle and turned hastily away.
Janet glanced at him, then turned back to her brother. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded, you know. It was just … falling backward like that … you know."
"I do know, lass. It was a good fight, a fair fight. He's better with a sword than I am, even worn to the bone as he must be."
"Aye, he can fight in his sleep, I think."
"Is that what he does in bed then?" Again the odd note of rueful amusement touched his voice.
"Hugh!"
"Sorry, lass. Mayhap my brain was addled by that fall."
"I do not understand you, either of you. Only moments ago, you wanted to murder each other, and now-"
"Not murder him," Hugh protested, "only take him back to prison."
"Unfairly back to prison."
"Aye, perhaps. It is a moot point now unless Jamie will give him back to Elizabeth voluntarily."
"You know that he will not, nor will she ask him to."
"Mayhap she will not, but she'll set up a screech over this, you know. She could yet demand your husband's head on a platter, or Buccleuch's. Anyone who cannot detect his fine hand in this business does not know the man."
Janet bit her lower lip to stop the words of agreement in her throat. How easy it was nearly to betray someone. Not that Hugh was wrong, for she knew that he was quite right. Elizabeth, even King James, would look for someone to blame, and they would not settle for the Bairns. They would seek a leader, and any suggestion that a woman had instigated the whole thing they would reject out of hand.
Even without anyone to point a finger at Buccleuch, James and Elizabeth would assume that the powerful Border lord had led the rescuers, and no amount of denial would protect him if they decided to charge him with the raid. He had known that when he agreed to plan it, and he would accept the responsibility because he would know that he could have stopped them. Much as Janet might have liked to think that she could have rescued Quinton by herself, she knew she would not have tried. Without Buccleuch's reluctant agreement, she would have accepted defeat.
Hugh picked up his sword and turned to take his wet cloak and helmet from the henchman who held them.
"Hugh." His name leapt from her lips without thought.
He looked, over his shoulder. "Aye, lass?"
"I am glad that you were not hurt."
He turned to face her, opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again and moved nearer, his long cloak hanging heavily from his arm. Raindrops glistened in his beard. His expression softened. "I'm glad, too," he said. Then, in a rush, putting a hand on her shoulder, he added, "Jannie, I've missed you. We've all missed you."
Hearing him call her by a name she had not heard since childhood brought tears to her eyes. She had not realized until that moment how much she had missed her own people, even this domineering brother of hers. It was unlikely that she would ever return to Brackengill to live, but she knew now that she did not want to go through life thinking of the people there as enemies.
"I … I have missed you, too, Hugh, and everyone at Brackengill. H-how are Matty and Sheila, and the others? And how does Jock's Meggie fare, and her bairns?" She did not want to tell him that she had spoken twice with Andrew, but she relaxed when he smiled.
"Meggie is at Brackengill, and young Andrew and Peter are helping there in the stable. They like the horses and seem to deal well with them."
"And Nancy?"
"Helps her mam. I missed the music, lass," he added. "Everyone grew so dour, you wouldn't know the place. At first, I just took Meggie and them off the farm because I wanted to keep Ned Rowan there and Meggie refused to marry with him. I was going to send her away, order her off to live with her kinfolk, but I knew that ragged lot of Grahams would set up a fearsome howl."
True enough, she thought, but how it must have angered him when Meggie refused to submit to his decree that she marry Ned Rowan. She said, "But why did you keep her at Brackengill?"