The Border Hostage (42 page)

The four made no effort to fight back or even defend themselves; instead they cried and pleaded and begged for succor. By the sound of their voices, Heath Kennedy realized their captives were female, or very young males. When they herded them into the stable and lit a lantern, it
revealed a distraught Margaret Tudor, accompanied by one lady and two young grooms.

Margaret recognized Heath Kennedy. “Help me, help me, I pray you!” she cried desperately.

“Where is your son, and where is Archibald Douglas?” he demanded.

“Attacked! Attacked at Newark! Terrible fighting … bloodshed. It was Black Ram Douglas, my husband's own cousin!” she cried with disbelief.

“Get yer horses, we're ridin' tae Newark!” Gavin ordered.

Heath swung Margaret up in his arms and carried her to the castle; her terrified attendants followed meekly.

Upstairs, Raven, who had been close to falling asleep, was roused by the racket below in the bailey. With her heart in her throat, she jumped up from the settle and ran to the window. She could make out very little other than men swarming about and pale moonlight glinting off their drawn swords. The steward came running. “Summat's happenin',” he shouted. “Is it the king? Should I go down?”

Raven blinked at him. “No, no, I think you should remain in the castle. We'll know soon enough who it is.” She had the urge to go down herself because of her fierce desire to be at Heath's side whenever he faced danger, yet she had little fear for him. She had complete faith in his ability to vanquish any foe. She went to the top of the stairs and peered down into the darkness, then suddenly, as if she had conjured him, Heath appeared carrying a woman.

As he reached the top step he said, “It's the queen.” He strode past her and sat Margaret down on the settle that Raven had vacated. Margaret moaned, then began to retch.

Raven's eyes sought Heath's. “Is she hurt?”

“No. She fled from Newark; she's had a hard ride. Will you look after her?”

“Of course,” Raven assured him. “Where is the child?”

“Ram Douglas caught up with them at Newark. We are off to join him in case he needs aid, but I warrant little Jamie Stewart is safe by now. I'll be back, Raven.”

She watched him go, then turned her attention to the woman before her. Margaret was deathly pale, and her brassy yellow hair hung in shags about her face. Her purple velvet cape had fallen open to reveal her belly, swollen with child, and Raven's heart turned over with pity as the queen vomited again upon the floor. Her woman stood by wringing her hands, and the two young grooms were busy warming themselves at the fire.

Raven sat down beside Margaret and took her hand. “I am going to the kitchen to get you something for your nausea. Try to close your eyes and rest.” She looked at the two young men. “You! Come with me.” Her order was so direct, they obeyed her.

The cook and another servant were in the kitchen. “Give these boys a bucket of water and some cloths. They have vomit to clean up, and the poor lady may not be done yet.” Raven addressed the cook. “What do you have for nausea?” When he shook his head helplessly, she took matters into her own hands and searched the kitchen and pantry herself. When she found a bunch of mint, she closed her eyes and offered up a prayer of thanks.

The steward came into the kitchen. “What can I do?” he asked.

“I will need some dry biscuits and watered wine, if I can ever get the retching stopped.” She found a clean kitchen towel and dipped one end of it in warm water, then she returned to Margaret.

The groom who had cleaned up the mess on the floor got up from his knees and hurried out of the way when he saw Raven returning. She knelt before Margaret and gently wiped her face with the towel, but the mother-to-be was retching again. Quickly, Raven crushed half a dozen mint leaves with her fingers and held them beneath the
queen's nose. “Breathe deeply, inhale the pungent smell, and it will control your need to retch.” Raven slipped her hand into her pocket and drew out her hag stone, which she had forgotten about. She was now wise in the ways of healing lore and knew that performing any ritual occupied the mind enough to effect a physical change for the better.

“Hold this hag stone to your breast, center yourself, and breathe slowly and deeply. Draw from the stone's strength and mystic power and take it into your body.” Raven saw that Margaret had stopped heaving, and picked two fresh green mint leaves from their stalk. “Put these in your mouth, my lady. Mint has such a clean taste, a fresh taste, and has been used for centuries to settle the stomach.” She watched Margaret do as she suggested, and knew she was overcoming the nausea. Then Raven reinforced her cure with compliments to make sure her patient was done being sick.

When the steward brought the biscuits and watered wine, Raven urged Margaret to try them. Then she turned to her waiting woman. “Help her to remove her cloak and boots, and I shall find a bedchamber where she may rest.”

Margaret grabbed Raven's hand to keep her at her side. “No, no, you must help me get to England!”

Raven stared at her in disbelief. “My lady, you need rest, you are unwell. You cannot travel further tonight.”

“I must, I must! You are English, are you not? You must help to get me across the Border where I will be safe!”

“It is out of the question. You must remain at Hawick until the men return from Newark.” She thought of Heath and trembled at what he might do if he returned to find Margaret gone, after he had trusted her to keep their captive safe.

“Have pity! Have pity!” The tears streamed down Margaret's face. “What I did was treason! The Scots will wreak a terrible revenge upon me!”

“They will not harm you, my lady; you are the sister of the powerful King of England,” Raven assured her.

Margaret jumped up and began to pace, invigorated by the wine. “They will lock me up in prison and throw away the key. I could not bear to live without freedom! And only think how many convenient accidents happen to those who are locked away!”

Her words wrung Raven's heart. She could not lie to her and tell her that her freedom would not be taken away. For all intents and purposes, the poor lady was a prisoner now.

Margaret drained the wine cup and threw out her hands in supplication. “It is the plotting of greedy, evil men which has brought me to this pass! My ambitious brother lusts to rule both countries, and my greedy husband has plotted to sell my son's birthright to Henry. What purpose will it serve if I languish for years in prison, and the baby I carry is denied its freedom?”

Raven's loyalties were almost torn in half. It was not too difficult to refuse to aid a treasonous queen, but it was almost impossible to turn her back upon a woman who was carrying a child.

Margaret took Raven by the shoulders. “I have lost wee Jamie, and I understand that it must be so, for he is the rightful King of Scotland, but for the sake of this child I now carry, can you not find it in your heart to help me?”

Raven's resolve wavered. How could she in all conscience refuse to help a woman in such a plight? She saw the fear in Margaret's eyes and marveled that though she must be exhausted, she was willing to ride further to save her child. “I will help you,” Raven said softly.

“I must get to Huntford on the English Border, where Lord Dacre's men await me.”

Raven recoiled when Margaret uttered the name Dacre. “I cannot take you to the Border, but I will lead you to the Border Forest.”

The steward was helpless to prevent them from leaving in the face of the women's determination. He shrugged his shoulders. Only weeks ago he had served the queen at her
wedding; surely he could not be expected to act as her jailer.

In the stables, one of Margaret's young grooms brought forward the white horse that she had ridden all the way from Edinburgh. Raven saw that it quivered and trembled. “This mare is spent,” she said, running her hand along its belly. “I think she is carrying a foal.” She spoke to the groom. “Take the queen up before you; she is in no condition to ride alone.”

Raven wrapped Heath's cloak closely about her and led the small cavalcade through the deserted bailey. As she turned her mount east in the direction of the Border Forest, riding slowly in deference to the mother-to-be, she began to shiver. It was not from cold, Raven realized, it was from fear.

S
im Armstrong, lying in the bracken beside his tethered pony, raised his head. He was aware of all that had happened that night at Cavers. He had seen the fleeing queen ride in with her pitiful number of attendants, and watched Kennedy ride off with the Douglas moss-troopers. It could only mean that the plot had been discovered and none save Margaret had escaped. His brother Mangey didn't know this, of course. Sim chuckled and fingered his rope. He had decided to wait for Mangey no matter how long it took, but now it looked like his plans would change. Perhaps for the better. Sooner or later, everything came to he who waited.

Sim did not mount the shaggy pony, but led him in a wide circle until he came to a clump of trees that gave him cover. Then he mounted and headed straight for the forest, only a few miles away. He rode swiftly, intending to reach the Border Forest long before Raven Carleton and the little band she was leading to safety. He did not slow until the forest trees closed about him; then he pricked his
ears, sniffed the air, and peered through the darkness with expectant eyes. It wasn't long before he scented the Armstrongs, and he imitated the cry of a nighthawk they had always used as a signal, to separate them.

He had to ride a full four miles into the forest, close to the English Border, before he spotted Mangey, and lo and behold he was riding beside Dacre's spoiled, arrogant son, Christopher. So once more, Sim Armstrong adapted his plan to fit the situation. Sim fondled his rope and thought of Raven Carleton, then licked his lips as he wondered just how much money young Dacre had on him tonight. He hoped it was enough to make it worth his trouble. Sim gave the nighthawk signal and watched Mangey rein in his mount, to look about him.

Then with equal amounts of daring and cunning, Sim Armstrong showed himself for a split second. It was such a fleeting glimpse, only a brother would have recognized him.

“Firk, it's Sim!” Mangey plunged after him through the trees, and a disconcerted Dacre tried to follow him, but at a much slower pace, which put a great deal of distance between the riders. Sim circled back and allowed Chris Dacre to see him from behind. Dacre, thinking he was Mangey, swallowed the bait and spurred after him. Sim chuckled; it was like leading a bairn around a mulberry bush.

Raven courageously rode slightly ahead of Margaret and her party, watching and listening for any sign of riders. She was ready to turn tail and run at the first indication of mounted men. She knew she was approaching the Border Forest, for it lay before her like a black serpent on the horizon. As she rode cautiously forward, nothing moved; all was still and deceptively quiet. When she reached the first line of trees, she slowed her horse to a walk as her eyes adjusted to the velvet darkness, and allowed the others to catch up with her. As she urged her horse through the trees, searching for a path, she could
hear her own heartbeat drumming in her ears. After long minutes of seeking, Raven at last came into a small clearing. She saw the beaten track and drew rein. “If you follow this path, it will lead you through the forest toward England.”

“You cannot abandon us now!” Margaret cried. “We are supposed to be met, but clearly they haven't arrived yet!”

“Then you must wait for them here. I can go no further!”

Their voices covered the sound of the approaching animal, and Raven saw the mounted man emerge from the trees beside her before she heard him. A cry of fear erupted from her throat. The horses behind her blocked her from wheeling about; only the path that led deeper into the forest lay open. Then suddenly she sagged with relief as she recognized the ill-favored Borderer. “Sim Armstrong, thank God it is you, I feared it was—”

Before Raven could utter the name she dreaded, another man rode up behind Armstrong, and though it was too dim to positively identify him, she feared she had conjured Christopher Dacre. For a moment nothing seemed real; she knew this could not be happening, it must be a nightmare. She dug her heels into her horse's flanks, and it plunged forward along the forest path.

Christopher Dacre's pupils widened when his eyes fell upon the female who had betrayed him. He had no idea that he had been deliberately guided to the bait, no notion that the Armstrong he had followed was not Mangey. Lustful revenge for Raven Carleton consumed him, blocking out all other thought or emotion. He spurred his mount brutally and went plunging after her. Ever since she had run off with his prisoner, he had fantasized about the revenge he would take, and suddenly fate had delivered her up to him. Now he would make sure that Kennedy never got her. He would take the greatest pleasure in ravishing her, then he would indulge in the ultimate revenge and kill her.

“Wait here,” Armstrong ordered Margaret and her attendants, then he urged his pony down the path that Dacre had taken. Sim Armstrong relished the euphoric feeling of control that rushed through him; he had never been in a position of control in his life before, and it was a heady sensation, akin to playing God. Raven Carleton was the coveted prize desired by two men, and he was the one to decide which man he would bestow the prize upon. Heath Kennedy had given Sim his freedom, and now he would repay him. He fondled the rope, then looped it firmly in his fingers.

Armstrong rode up close behind Dacre, then moved alongside his horse and delivered a powerful blow to the rider. Christopher, thrown off balance, ducked his head quickly at the unexpected attack, and in that moment Sim Armstrong had the rope around his neck before Dacre knew what was happening. The Borderer bared blackened teeth in a smile of satisfaction as he began to twist the rope. Dacre became unseated from his horse as he struggled to breathe, and the horse continued down the path. Armstrong galloped after it, tightening his grip on the rope so that Dacre was dragged along behind. As he reached for the horse's reins and it began to slow, Sim heard the telltale crack that told him Dacre's precious neck had snapped.