Captive of the Border Lord. Blythe GiffordЧитать онлайн книгу.
yawned before her, crowded with men already mounted on their horses. Her wooden chest, pitifully small, was already strapped on wooden runners to be dragged behind a horse.
No time. There was no time left.
Cate rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘It will be all right.’
She did not speak of the ale.
Lifting her eyes, Bessie looked toward the hills, hung with fog. It was raiding season. Anything could happen while she was away. A thousand terrors crowded her thoughts.
She lifted her chin and shut her mind against them. Rob and John were waiting. They must not doubt her. She must leave them with minds at rest.
Her first farewell was for Johnnie.
Never afraid to show affection, he wrapped her in a hug. ‘Stay safe. The King is not a bad man, but he is younger than he is wise.’
She nodded. ‘He won’t keep me there long, will he?’
Johnnie ruffled her hair, as he had done when they were children. ‘A woman as pretty as you? He’ll have a hard time letting you out of his sight.’ His lips smiled. His eyes did not.
She shook her head. ‘Then don’t worry yourself. I’ll be home by Yuletide.’
Then, his back shielding them from Rob’s eyes, Johnnie pressed a silver coin into her hand. ‘In case you need it for … something.’
Her eyes widened.
‘That’s the King’s face on it,’ he said.
She ran her thumb over the crowned profile. ‘He has a strong nose.’
‘And a stronger will.’
She slipped the coin into the pouch at her waist and turned to Rob.
Never at ease with sentiment, he raised his arms from his side, not knowing what next to do with them.
She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his chest, but only for a moment. And when she reached to touch his cheek, he jerked away.
Ah, that was Rob. Just like his father. Never able to be soft, not even with her.
‘Don’t worry.’ She squeezed his hand and blinked, refusing to let the tears fall.
Instead of meeting her eyes, Rob glowered at Carwell. ‘Bring her safely back or you’ll wish you had. If anything happens to her, I’ll find you. No matter where you are.’
‘It won’t.’ But when he answered, Carwell looked not at Rob, but turned his gaze as if the vow were made to her.
She shook her head, not wanting the man’s promise. Never again would she trust him to be responsible for anything that mattered. ‘I will mind myself.’
She knew who she was, what she was doing and why. And if she had to put up with the arrogant, untrustworthy Carwell in order to do it, then she would.
They mounted and rode out of the gate, turning east toward the sun. And she heard, drifting on the wind behind her, Rob and Johnnie, singing her on her way, the words of the song that defined the Brunsons.
Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars …
She had grown up knowing her place. Silent servant. Steady support. The calm, quiet, sturdy centre of the household. Now, she was leaving everything she knew and loved, but only so she could save it.
She glanced at Carwell out of the corner of her eye, surprised to see him watching her.
She looked away.
Aye, there might be one other reason she was going to court. Not for clothes or dancing, but so that when she returned, she could bring this man’s head on a platter.
The notes of the song grew faint and she turned to look at her home one last time.
Behind her, she saw nothing but fog.
Bessie had thought to draw him out as they travelled, but the day was cold and the wind raw and they rode too far and fast for idle talk. She had ridden the length and breadth of Brunson land, but when day’s end came, early, she was surrounded by unfamiliar hills.
‘This is the edge of Brunson land,’ he said, as they dismounted to make the night’s camp. ‘Robson lands start with that next ridge.’
She squinted in the gathering dusk. The next ridge looked no different than the one they had just left. ‘Is that part of the March also under your rule?’
‘Rule? The Warden rules nothing.’
‘Yet you insisted you were responsible for this side of the border.’
‘Responsible, yes, but the King barely rules here, as the Brunsons have made clear. I only try to keep louts like your brothers from killing each other.’ His smile was unexpected. ‘And me.’
How could he smile? Life and death were no game. ‘To those of us who live here, it is no laughing matter.’
‘I did not laugh,’ he answered. ‘I only thought to break your silence and make you smile.’
And against her will, a smile broke out. Rob could be a lout, it was true. ‘If you had to stand between those two loggerheads all your life, you’d be silent, too.’
At home, she seldom had a need to speak. It had left her awkward and graceless and unable to trade words with Carwell, let alone the King.
Her smile dissolved. ‘How long before we reach Stirling?’
‘Five days if the weather holds.’
She nodded, understanding. It was November. The weather would not hold.
Behind them, his men had fanned out and set to work, arranging the watch, building a fire, setting up camp. Each seemed to know his task. For the first time in her life, she did not.
She looked around for work to do and saw one of the men heating the griddle to fry oat cakes. ‘I’ll cook,’ she said, starting towards him.
Before she could move, Carwell’s gloved fingers circled her wrist. ‘I told your brothers I would take care of you.’
What a strange man. Had he never seen a woman bake bread? ‘Since I feed my brothers at home, I don’t think they would see a hot griddle as a violation of your oath.’
She tugged against his hand and he let her go, slowly.
‘Nevertheless, that is the way it will be.’
She opened her mouth, but before she could protest, he walked away to supervise the set up of the camp, leaving her with her hands propped on her hip and her mouth open, arguing with the wind.
Her hands, unfamiliar with idleness, dropped to her side, useless. The damp wind teased her with the smell of griddle bannocks frying.
Carwell might think to protect her, but surely his men would welcome her help? She looked over her shoulder. His back was turned, so she walked over to the fire and knelt down, welcoming its warmth on her face.
The man holding the griddle nodded at her without speaking.
‘Here,’ she said, reaching for the handle. ‘I’ll do that.’
Not waiting for permission, she grabbed the hot iron.
It seared her fingers and she dropped it into the flames, popping her fingers in her mouth.
Frowning, Carwell’s man dug into the hot coals with a gloved hand and rescued the meal. Muttering an apology, Bessie stood and stepped back.
How could she have been so daft? Turning away, she squeezed her eyes against tears of pain. She would never have made that mistake at her own hearth where she knew every stone in the floor. But here, even the land looked unfamiliar and unforgiving and she was far from home and at the mercy of a man she neither trusted nor understood.
‘Here.’