The Black Knave (20 page)

The boy obviously knew he was to despise the man, and yet the Black Knave’s adventures had inspired awe as well as fear in him. No, he did not know anyone who had actually seen the fellow. But Jamie knew he was behind every shadow at night, lurking in the woods to take honest boys like himself. And, he added, in a confidential whisper, the Knave had actually murdered people in their beds. His father had told him that while warning him not to wander out alone.

Bethia suspected that the older man had concocted that story to keep Jamie by his side, and working.

They had gone into the village. She studied each building. There was a kirk, a smithy, a butcher’s shop, alehouse and weaver. Nothing more.

She eyed the alehouse enviously. She did not care about the spirits, but she knew there would be talk there. She saw several horses tethered and decided they must be English soldiers, since few peasants could afford such luxuries. She’d often wished she were a man. There was no sadder lot than a woman who could do little while her husband, brother, son went to war. Women could inherit only in rare instances, and they were bartered like cattle.

That thought reminded her of her own marriage, and her spirits plunged.

She spent the afternoon purchasing wool for new clothes. She’d already located a servant who could sew the garments, the same one who had fitted her own dresses.

The blacksmith was outside the weaver’s shop. He gave her a broad smile and lifted her purchases up in front of the saddle. “I hear you are making converts.”

“Not Neil,” she said wryly. “Nor most of his tacksmen.”

“They are worried about their future. They lease the land from the marquis, then parcel it to tenants. They are afraid he might evict them and turn the hills over to sheep.”

“Do you think he would do so?”

“Nay,” the blacksmith said.

“Why?”

“Because he does care about Braemoor in his own way.”

She looked at him dubiously, but said nothing. She accepted his help in mounting. Jamie looked disappointed, but he was far too small to offer a boost. “Thank you,” she told Alister, wishing she could exact more information from him. But she’d already learned it was futile.

Instead, she urged her horse into a canter until they reached a split in the road. She stopped and turned to her young escort. “I need some herbs,” she said. “I understand Mary Ferguson lives nearby.” She’d heard the name whispered in hallways.

His small face went crimson, and she knew that even this stable boy knew that Mary was her husband’s mistress.

“I believe we should be gettin’ back, milady,” he said.

“Mary Ferguson,” she said.

He looked stricken, but she would not relent.

“The marquis will beat me,” he said, obviously very much believing it.

But the one thing she had come to believe was that her husband, the Marquis of Braemoor, might be capable of many things, but no’ the beating of a child doing her bidding. Had he not given her freedom? Though, she thought, probably not if he knew where she was heading. Yet she was driven to meet this woman and talk to her. Bethia had seen her only fleetingly when Alister, apparently at her husband’s directions, had demanded that Mary Ferguson attend him, rather than his wife. The woman’s face had been pleasant enough, but Bethia had noted she did little to enhance her appearance. That had seemed strange to her at the time, that her husband would be so attached to a woman with no appreciable beauty. She felt fair in so judging since she was no beauty herself.

She wanted to meet the woman.

Bethia gave Jamie an encouraging grin. “I willna tell anyone.”

“But
she
will. She be a witch.”

“Now who told you that?”

“My fa says so. He says she has bewitched the marquis.”

“There is no such thing as witches.”

“But my fa—”

“Your fa is mistaken,” she said sternly. “Now will you lead the way or must I try to find it on my own?”

She felt guilt at his miserable face. “Just tell me how to get there,” she said gently. “You can go home.”

He sat straighter in his saddle. “I willna leave ye. Ye are my responsibility.” His lips trembled for a moment, then he said bravely, “I will take ye.”

She should have felt triumph but, to be truthful, she felt a bit of a bully. She would make up for it with the new set of clothes. She had not told him yet that the bolt of cloth was partly for him.

He led the way off the road and through a stand of trees toward a stream, then followed it upstream a short distance before leaving it and ending up in front of a simple hut. It was plain, but roses climbed its side and the adjacent land was neatly planted.

The door opened and a young woman stepped out, her body stiffening as she identified the riders. But she did not avert her gaze, nor did her eyes indicate anything but curiosity as Bethia slipped from the horse.

The woman curtsied. “My lady?”

“I need some herbs for the kitchen,” Bethia said.

The woman smiled and Bethia realized she was quite pretty. It was the smile that did it. A tentative shy smile.

“And I wanted to thank you for caring for my … the marquis,” she added, her gaze searching for something in the woman’s face. Bethia still did not know what had driven her here, why she had become obsessed with this woman. She told herself it was only to learn more about her husband. Knowledge was a weapon. Did he just… use Mary Ferguson? Did he love her?

“Come in,” the young woman said. ” ‘Tis very … simple, but I have tea. You can tell me what you need.”

Mary Ferguson spoke very well, far better than many of the other Forbes tenants. And she had a calm, quiet grace about her. Still, she did not seem at all the type of woman who would attract, and hold, a man of the marquis’s reputation. Bethia did not know what she had expected, but certainly no one like this woman.

Jamie stayed with the horses, his face twisted with concern.

“I willna be long,” Bethia said, then followed the woman inside.

Mary Ferguson looked as awkward as Bethia felt, and she wondered why she had come here. “Marchioness, would you like to sit down?”

“Thank you,” Bethia said as if she were being invited to sit in the parlor of her best friend rather than the small cottage of her husband’s mistress. She selected a chair at the table and sat.

She looked around. The sides of the cottage were lined with shelves, each filled with small bottles of powder, or leaves or petals. The smell of herbs mixed with that of peat from the fireplace, producing an oddly attractive aroma. Though it was quite dark inside, Bethia saw that it was clean and well-maintained.

She watched as the woman stooped and hung a kettle on an iron hook above the fire.

Then she came to stand next to Bethia. “What is it you would like?” she asked in a soft, almost musical voice.

“Fennel,” Bethia said, her gaze moving along the shelves. She recognized some of the herbs, but not all. “Scented geranium, savory and marjoram. And some rose petals,” she added.

Mary Ferguson nodded and efficiently took several small bottles from her cache and carefully placed them on the table.

“Please sit with me,” Bethia said, knowing that her title precluded the woman sitting in her own house without permission.

Mary nodded and looked at her steadily, but without the curiosity Bethia knew she herself must be displaying.

“You live here alone?”

“Aye, except for Catherine.”

“Catherine?” Bethia looked around, expecting some small face to appear out of the shadows.

“My cat,” Mary explained. “She does not care for strangers. She has found a hiding place.”

“I wish I could do that,” Bethia said wistfully.

“You miss your home?”

“Aye, and my family.”

Mary asked no questions, but her gray eyes seemed to encourage confidences. How very strange it was to sit in a room with your husband’s mistress. Of course, she cared nothing about him, less than nothing. She was grateful that this woman took care of his needs so she was not required to do so.

Why, then, did she feel a ripple of jealousy?

Had she expected to find him here?

And yet there was no sign of him. No horse. No clothes.

Mary Ferguson apparently saw her look around. “He is not here,” she said quietly.

Bethia flushed, then rose. “I am sorry. I should not have come here, but—”

“You are lonely.”

Something in Mary Ferguson’s voice stopped her. Understanding. Empathy. Again, Bethia wondered about the woman’s appeal to her husband, an appeal strong enough that he had eschewed his wife’s bed even under orders from Cumberland. It was a loyalty she’d rarely seen between man and woman, even when married. And totally unexpected in a man everyone considered a libertine, fool and dandy.

Bethia made a move toward the door. “I should go. I am sorry to intrude.”

“Do not be. I welcome the company. I get few visitors.”

Except for the marquis.

“How much are the herbs?”

The woman shrugged gracefully. “Two pence.”

“I will have it sent over.”

“There is no hurry.”

Bethia found herself liking the woman, liking the easy, comfortable way she had, despite the awkward circumstances. “I must go.”

“You have not had your tea.”

Bethia hesitated, then smiled. “Jamie will believe you have cooked me.”

Mary suddenly looked wistful. “Aye, the witch.”

There was a flash of movement behind her, then something furry rubbed against Bethia’s ankle.

“Catherine,” Mary said, shock evident in her voice. “She never does that.”

“Perhaps she smells Black Jack on me.”

Alarm suddenly flashed through the woman’s eyes, and they seemed to narrow. “Black Jack?”

“A puppy. The stableman was going to drown him.”

“Then he and Catherine have something in common,” Mary said, but her body was rigid. “Why did you name him Black Jack?”

But Bethia could not say. Mary Ferguson was her husband’s mistress, no matter how warm she appeared to be. The marquis must not learn that she was looking for the Black Knave. He must not know she had any interest in him.

“He is small and black,” she finally said.

Mary went to the kettle and poured a portion into a plain white cup, then into a second cup. She looked expectantly at Bethia, who took several sips, then stood.

“Please stay awhile.”

Bethia was lured by the pleasant warmth in the woman’s voice. She felt more at home in this humble room than she ever had at Braemoor. She was suddenly very envious of a woman who apparently was free to love whom she wished, who had a freedom that Bethia could never have.

“I cannot today,” she said, “but I thank you.” She hesitated. “I saw a path go upward. Does anyone live further up in the woods?”

The warmth in the woman’s eyes faded. “No,” she said. “I just walk up there.”

The room seemed to chill, and Bethia wrapped her cloak tighter around her. “I thank you for the tea.”

The woman merely nodded.

Bethia escaped, wondering why her comment about the woods above seemed to upset Mary Ferguson when the unexpected visit of her lover’s wife did not.

Rory tried to turn the walk into a game as rain started to fall. ‘Twas cold and uncomfortable, but he hoped it would keep Cumberland’s soldiers around a fire. They had passed through ruined fields, by burned crofts, always keeping away from the roads. Timothy would run ahead, drop back occasionally, and leave markings to point the safe way. Two of the older children would run ahead trying to find them.

Timothy was indeed a good scout. They reached the coast not long after dark. They still had two miles to go, though, before reaching the point chosen by the French captain. Rory could only hope that Ogilvy was also able to avoid any English patrols.

The children took turns riding the horse as they moved toward the sea, finally arriving there after several hours. Rory carried a small girl, as did one of the women. They walked across the great dunes to the beach, then continued toward the rendezvous site.

He prayed that Ogilvy had also reached the site with the other refugees. They didn’t have much time now.

The rain had stopped and a piece of the moon occasionally emerged from behind clouds. It provided just enough light that he could see shadows and keep the children together.

He heard a whistle of a bird.
Ogilvy
. They had practiced several calls as they’d rode from the lodge to the cave. The young nobleman suddenly appeared as if out of nowhere. He was on foot.

“An English patrol,” he said, his voice buffered by the sound of the ocean. “Right behind me.”

Rory turned toward the women. “Take the children into the dunes,” he said. Ogilvy grabbed several of the children, and Rory took his horse up over the dunes. The children huddled down while Rory placed his hands over the horse’s mouth to quiet him. Minutes later, he heard the sound of hooves thudding along the sand, the sound of jangling spurs. They were coming from the direction in which Rory and his small band were headed.

Rory held his breath as the troop continued down the beach, thanking God once more for a dark night. He only hoped that the French captain was as skilled a navigator as Elizabeth claimed.

After the last sound of horses faded, he tried to get his small party moving again. Their terror was palpable. He ruffled the wet hair of one of the boys. “Brave boy,” he said approvingly, then turned to a girl who whimpered ever so quietly. “Soon you will have blankets and hot food,” he promised. “It will not take long now.”

Ogilvy was reassuring another child. He looked toward Rory. “The others are hidden in the dunes near the rendezvous spot,” he said. “I came down to meet you, then heard the patrol.”

Ogilvy, Rory thought, had been worth saving after all. “My thanks,” he said.

“No, mine,” Ogilvy said quietly.

Ogilvy led the way this time, Rory taking up the rear. An hour passed, then they reached a great cliff that jutted into the North Sea. They were to wait on the southern side.

Ogilvy disappeared, then reappeared, this time with the others he’d collected. No one said anything, although the men took the children in their arms, sharing the plaids with them for warmth. An hour went by, then another. No one said anything, although a woman sang a soft lullaby to the children.