The Border Hostage (5 page)

Heath arrived in Carlisle early, before the fair opened, since it was only a short five-mile ride from Rockcliffe. Carlisle was the largest city on the Borders and had always welcomed its Scots neighbors from north of the line at its weekly market and annual fair. Inns and alehouses lined the street across from the marketplace, where Scot and English Borderers rubbed shoulders, drank, gambled, and whored. Farmers from both countries offered their produce and livestock every week, but the annual Carlisle Fair had grown to cover an area ten times larger than the market.

Heath took a room at an inn called The Fighting Cocks, where he had often stayed before, and casually looked over the men in the common room, hoping to spot Mangey or one of his henchmen. When this proved unsuccessful, he made his way to the fairgrounds to look over every horse that was being offered for sale. Though Heath
was certain that none of the horses was either his or Douglas property, he was not discouraged. This was only the first morning of the weeklong fair.

When he spotted a cluster of gaily painted caravans, he decided to visit the Gypsies. They followed the fairs from London in the wintertime, up to the burgh of Stirling in the summer, following the royal court. Heath shook his head, sadly remembering it was only last summer that the Gypsies had entertained the king there, before James lost his life at the disastrous Battle of Flodden. Heath had no trouble recognizing his grandmother's red wagon. Old Meg had her fortune-telling shingle hung above her herbalist sign, and pentacles decorated her door.

Meg stared at the handsome man who was so tall he must bend his head to enter her caravan. “Blessed be,” she muttered, never taking her eyes from the Douglas plaid that lay across Heath's shoulder. “From whom did you learn you had the right to wear the Douglas plaid?” she asked evenly.

Heath's eyes narrowed. “Do I have the right?”

Old Meg shrugged. “Lily Rose's father was Archibald Douglas.”

Heath almost choked at her words, but could not allow himself to believe that the powerful Earl of Angus was his grandfather. Archibald had been dead for two months, so her tale could not be verified. He discounted most of her tales, for had she not told him that his mother, Lily Rose, had been handfast to Rob Kennedy, Lord of Galloway, when she gave birth to him? “That's a bit too much blue blood to be believed.” Meg's weather-beaten face resembled wrinkled brown parchment.
Is it possible that she was once beautiful?
Heath wondered. From the corner of his eye, he saw his grandmother's tortoise with the huge ruby embedded in its shell. He had always believed it was red glass, but now he looked at it through new eyes, and asked himself who was wealthy enough to have given her a jewel that big. It was neither round nor square, but roughly
heart shaped, and suddenly it reminded him of the most famous device in Scotland: the bleeding heart of Douglas.

“What brings you? A woman?” Meg asked.

Heath laughed, thinking of Raven Carleton, but he knew Gypsies were shrewd and always guessed the thing that had the most likely probability. It gave them a reputation for foretelling the future, but most Gypsies were charlatans, saying and doing whatever was expedient. Generations of living by their wits had sharpened their instincts. “Horses. Stolen horses,” Heath replied.

“And not horses that
you
stole, for once!” She cackled at her own humor, then sobered. “You are seeking men.”

Heath nodded reluctantly. “Borderers; one called Mangey, and four others.”

Meg's eyes got a far-off look, and she was silent for a minute. Then she said, “Men from Mangerton are sometimes nicknamed Mangey.”

Two attractive Gypsy girls draped themselves on either side of Meg's doorway. “Heath! Heath! We haven't seen you for over a year! Come, let us feed you,” one implored.

“You always had an insatiable appetite,” the other girl teased.

Meg shooed the three of them from her caravan. The females were lusting for Heath, but she knew they would get none of him today. At the moment, Heath's thoughts were consumed by an entirely different raven-haired beauty.

Raven Carleton took her seat in the carriage with her mother and Lark, without protest. Her brother, Heron, accompanied them on horseback, and Raven watched him with longing. She had asked if she too could have the freedom of riding to Carlisle, and had been given a flat refusal from her father, who was now aligned with his wife in curbing Raven's behavior. “I shall come on Friday,” Lance Carleton assured his wife, giving Raven a stern glance
from beneath bushy brows. In return, she gave him her most innocent look, relieved that he did not admonish her further. In truth, Raven adored her father. When he had been injured, Raven had been the one who mixed poppy and licorice root into his wine, to ease his agony. He was the bravest man she had ever known, for never once had he complained, not even when it became obvious that he would be left with the permanent handicap of lameness. For the three long months it had taken him to recover, Raven had sat and read to him or played endless games of chess to take his mind from his pain. “Be careful, Father,” Raven whispered as she kissed him goodbye.

From the moment the carriage left Rockcliffe, Kate Heron began to catalogue all the behavior that she considered unacceptable while they were guests of the Dacres. With difficulty, Raven curbed her tongue, knowing the five-mile journey would not take long. She felt relief as the carriage approached Carlisle's northern gate. They would soon be arriving at the great, square, red castle where she had spent her childhood, when Sir Lancelot had been its constable.

Raven was torn from the moment she stepped down from the carriage. Lady Dacre was there to greet them, but Heron rode his mount toward the stables, the hunting dog he had brought Chris Dacre at his heels. Raven looked longingly after her brother, then obediently followed her mother and Lark inside.

“Kate, you have such beautiful daughters; how I envy you.” Rosalind Dacre was small, dark, and still pretty, despite her middle years. She had a gentle, passive nature, unsuited to ruling a headstrong son who was the image of his dominant father.

“When Christopher takes a wife, you will gain a daughter,” Kate said pointedly, guiding the conversation in the direction she desired. “Lark and Heron have their father's fair coloring, but Raven is dark like me, and like you, Rosalind.”

She is dark, yes, but she is not like me, thank heaven. She has a mind of her own and is not afraid to voice her opinions. No man will ever run roughshod over Raven Carleton, I warrant.
“I shall have the steward show you to your chambers. It will give you a chance to rest and freshen up before the other guests arrive. Lord Dacre and Christopher are riding in from Bewcastle. They should be here soon.”

Kate's clan of Herons lived near Bewcastle, the English Border stronghold, which lay about sixteen miles to the northeast, but she did not wish to remind Lady Dacre of her humble Border origins.

It was like coming home to Raven. Carlisle Castle had no romantic pinnacles or crenellated battlements, but she had a great fondness for the fortress. She was familiar with every winding passageway, especially those leading to the attics or the dungeons, where she had often played as a child. She needed no steward to show her the way, but she dutifully followed the man who carried up the luggage to the bedchamber assigned to her and Lark. Raven quickly unpacked for her sister as well as herself. “Come on, Lark, let's go to the stables.”

“But we're supposed to rest.”

“Rest? We've only traveled five miles! Are you feeling all right, Lark?”

“Oh yes, but I did want to change into a prettier dress before …” Lark did not finish her sentence, but asked, “You won't drag me up into the mews, will you?”

“Of course not. You stay here while I visit the birds.”

The mews at Carlisle Castle was large of necessity for the number of hawks it had to house. Raven spoke to the falconer, obtaining his permission to view the rows of birds. As they walked past the hooded raptors, some screeched and spread their wings in alarm, but when Raven murmured soothing words, they calmed and folded their wings. She stopped before a small merlin, whose plumage was luminous. “Such a beauty,” she crooned, using one fingertip to stroke its wing, and watched as the
little female ruffled with pleasure. “This is your bird,” she told the falconer.

“Her name is Morgana. How did you know she was mine?”

“She moved her head from side to side as she listened, then preened when she recognized your voice.” Raven moved across to look at four falcons separate from the others. “Oh, two of these falcons have their eyes stitched closed!” She was unable to keep the disapproval from her voice. “I think that cruel, unnatural, and completely unnecessary. Hoods suffice, until they are tamed, then even the hoods can be taken away, if the mews is kept in semi-darkness.”

“These two new falcons belong to Lord Dacre, lady. I have my orders,” the falconer said quietly.

“Here you are, Raven!” Christopher Dacre walked down the row of perches. “Heron said I would find you in the mews, but I didn't believe him.” Lord Dacre's heir was tall and blond, with the aquiline nose of his Anglo-French ancestors.

“Hello, Christopher. I have a great interest in hunting birds. I spent many happy hours up here when I was a child.” Raven did not tell him that she bred hawks; he would find out soon enough if their relationship developed further.

“That's strange—hawking is a man's sport.”

Raven did not wish to contradict him, so she chose her words carefully. “Ladies, especially at court, are taking an interest. It is becoming fashionable, I have heard.”

Christopher ran a negligent hand through his fair hair as his gray-green eyes moved over her with speculation. Court ladies were notoriously promiscuous, and he wondered if she had heard that too. “Would you like to try hawking?”

“I would love it!” Raven took him up on the offer immediately, showing great enthusiasm.

Young Dacre hid a satisfied smile. Raven Carleton was
obviously trying to please him. “Ready my falcon,” Christopher ordered the falconer, deciding to show off his prowess with the peregrine.

“Allow me to offer the lady my merlin.” The falconer handed Christopher Dacre a leather gauntlet.

“You honor me, sir!” Raven smiled with delight as she pulled on a smaller gauntlet and offered her arm to the small huntress. After only a slight hesitation, the merlin moved from its perch and dug its talons into her leather-covered wrist. She held the jesses securely, then removed the hood. Raven stared into the unblinking yellow eyes for a full minute. “She accepts me,” Raven said with satisfaction.

They descended to the stables below with the falconer at their heels carrying Dacre's peregrine falcon.

“Christopher and I are going hawking. I will need your horse,” Raven advised her brother.

When Heron looked doubtful, Christopher laughed and assured him, “She'll be all right with me. We are just going into yonder woods for an hour.” By way of an inducement, he offered, “Why don't you try my new stallion I picked up at Bewcastle?”

“The black?” Heron asked eagerly. “Thanks, he's magnificent.” As Heron handed his sister up into the saddle, he murmured a low warning. “Don't outshine him, Raven.”

As the couple trotted their horses toward the woods, their hawks perched on their saddlebows, Christopher inquired, “Do you often ride astride?”

She gave him a provocative glance. “If I answer yes, you will think me a hoyden; if I answer no, you will think me a liar.”

“How do you ride at home?”

“Very well. I have a Border pony.”

Christopher looked amused at the way she had turned the question. “Would you not like a horse?”

“Of course I would. One just like your new stallion,” Raven replied with daring.

“Surely a gelding would be preferable for a lady?” He watched her face to see if she knew what they did to a stallion to turn it into a gelding.

Raven knew exactly what he was doing. “What's the difference?” she asked with wide-eyed innocence.

Chris Dacre had the decency to clear his throat. “They are better behaved, I think.”

Unlike some gentlemen
, Raven thought, trying not to laugh. “My grandmother lives near Bewcastle. The forests thereabouts are vast, and wildly beautiful.”

“Yes, wildly beautiful,” Dacre repeated, his hot glance licking over her like a candle flame.

“Would this clearing be a good place to fly our birds?” Raven asked, deferring to him as she knew gentlemen expected.

“Yes.” Dacre slid from his saddle. “Let me help you.”

The moment he lifted her down, Raven reached for the merlin to prevent his hands from lingering at her waist.

“Let me show you how to thread the jesses between your fingers.”

“Thank you,” she said faintly, amazed at his male arrogance.

Dacre took his peregrine falcon onto his wrist and directed, “Now watch me.” He removed its hood and cast the bird high. He had not waited for the falcon's eyes to adjust to the sudden light, but Raven forbore to criticize him. They watched it soar and circle about the clearing. “Cast the merlin,” he directed.

“Not until your falcon views its prey and starts its dive. I don't want it to kill Morgana.”

“We have hawks aplenty,” Dacre assured her. When he saw her scathing glance, he said, “Perhaps you are too tenderhearted for this sport.”

Raven saw the peregrine dive, and immediately cast the merlin. The small brown female had already spotted a mole, and swooped across the clearing, snaring it in her talons, then flew back to present her prize to Raven.
“Good girl, Morgana,” Raven praised, and gave the mole back to the huntress.

“No! No! Raven, you must never feed a raptor. They won't hunt unless they are hungry!”

She gave him a sideways glance. “A female prefers a reward to being starved.”

Dacre laughed. “Birds are different from ladies.” His falcon returned with a young peacock from the castle grounds. “Oh Lord, my mother will have a fit.”

“Really? You don't have peacocks aplenty?”

“Touché! Will you forgive me for my callous remark, or will you hold it against me?” he teased.