The Border Lord and the Lady (39 page)

And while the two servants worked, Kier went down into the kitchens of his father’s house. He wrapped a small roasted chicken, some bread, and cheese in a napkin. When he had filled both the
flasks the two men would carry with watered wine, he hurried back upstairs into the hall. There he stopped a moment, looking about the room where many happy hours of his childhood and youth had been spent. He pictured his stepmother in her chair by the fire, a small embroidery frame and needle in her hands. He saw his younger siblings playing near her. By birth he was bastard-born, but he had been fortunate never to know anything but love from his family. Turning, he left the hall.

In the courtyard the animals were packed and waiting. Quin was already mounted. Kier Douglas vaulted into his saddle and, without a word, turned his horse’s head, directing it from the courtyard. Quin, by his side, led the packhorse. The landscape about them had a light dusting of snow from several days past. The full moon reflected off of it, making the track they followed quite clear. They rode for several hours, finally stopping to rest the horses and eat their scant provisions at dawn.

They sheltered by a cairn, sitting with their backs to the stones while their animals browsed, using their hooves to scrape away the thin covering of snow so they might get to the grasses below. Kier opened the napkin, tearing the chicken in half and handing half of it along with half of the bread to Quin. He sliced the cheese into two wedges, and handed one to his servant. They ate silently, sipping from their flasks now and again. All was silence about them, but then as the sun began to peep over the eastern horizon a few birds began twittering and calling. The two men stood up, brushing crumbs from their breeks and cloaks. Then, turning, they simultaneously relieved themselves before fetching the horses and watering them at the little stream that bordered the clearing where they had stopped to eat and rest.

They continued on their way, and then in early afternoon a small party of horsemen came towards them. The man leading them wore a length of gray-black-and-white plaid across his chest and shoulder. He hailed the two riders from Drumlanrig. “Would you be Sir William Douglas’s son?” the man asked them.

“Who would know?” Kier asked, watching the man and his companions carefully.

“I’m Frang Douglas from Glengorm, my lord. We’ve been watching for you, for our mistress said you would probably come today. You’re on Glengorm lands now, and I bid you welcome. We’re relieved to have had Sir William send you to us.”

“I am Kier Douglas, Frang, and no ‘my lord.’ Just Sir William’s by-blow. But my father was concerned for Glengorm, with both my cousins dead and the lady not yet delivered of her bairn. How far do we have to go?”

“An hour, my lord, no more. The lady has instructed that as you are to have charge of Glengorm you will be addressed as ‘my lord.’ For all she’s English she’s a good lass, and has pretty manners,” Frang noted.

Kier smiled a brief smile. “I will respect the lady, and see to her care,” he said.

“Of course you will, my lord,” Frang said. “You are Sir William’s get. You will know your duty to the family.”

Kier was rather amused by this pronouncement but said nothing more, and they rode onwards. The countryside about them was desolate. There wasn’t a dwelling in sight. “Where do your folk live?” he asked Frang.

“In the village below the hall,” came the reply.

“There is livestock?” Kier questioned the man further.

“Aye, my lord, but in the winter enclosures near the barns. When the snows come we bring them in for safety’s sake,” Frang explained.

Kier nodded. It was well thought-out. “Cattle? Sheep?” he inquired.

“Both, my lord, but more cattle,” Frang answered him.

Kier had no more questions for now. They rode on in silence until at last they came to Glengorm. The house stood dark on its little rise. It wasn’t particularly large, but it looked sturdy enough, and had several chimneys from which smoke curled lazily up into the cold
afternoon air. There was a stable near the house, and a lad ran out to take the horses as Kier and Quin dismounted.

A servant came up to him. “Welcome, my lord. I am Tam. I will take you to the hall. My lady has been expecting your arrival.”

“When you have brought me to her,” Kier said, “help my servant, Quin, with my belongings, and see they are taken to my chamber. I do have a chamber, don’t I?”

Tam grinned. “Aye, my lord, you have a chamber. There are several for sleeping above the hall. This way, please.” He led Kier to the entrance of the hall. “The lady awaits, my lord. I’ll return and help your man.”

“Thank you,” Kier replied. Then he stood a moment, staring into the room. It was not a large hall. His father had a spacious hall. But though it was small, there was a warmth about the chamber, with its big hearth. At one end of the room the high board was situated, and behind it a tapestry hung. The trestles and their benches were set along one wall out of the way, for they would be needed only at mealtimes. There was an old oak sideboard that was black with age against another wall.

Kier stepped across the threshold into the hall. A woman sat quietly in a tapestried chair by the fire, sewing on some small garment. There were several large hounds dozing by the fire. Two small white terriers spotted him, however, and came yapping forward to greet him. Smiling, he bent to pat them, then continued on across the chamber to where Cicely sat, the dogs bouncing along beside him. “Madam,” he said, standing before her.

He was here. The man who would take Glengorm. Cicely looked up.

“I am Kier Douglas, Sir William’s son, my lady,” he said. “I have, as you are aware, been sent to keep you and Glengorm safe.”

“You are welcome to Glengorm, Kier Douglas. I am called Cicely,” she responded in a quiet voice. “I am your cousin’s widow.” She motioned him to a chair. “Will you sit, my lord? I am sure there are questions
you would have answered.” Cicely turned her head. “Artair, some wine for my lord.”

“Your servants are well trained,” he noted.

“Aye, they are most dutiful,” Cicely said.

“For the moment I have no questions, but when I do I hope you will be able to answer them for me.” He took the small goblet of wine he was offered, smiled at her, and then sipped at the beverage, for he was thirsty.

“How long have you been riding today?” she asked politely.

“We began when the full moon was at its zenith,” he replied. “Perhaps we have ridden for ten or twelve hours.”

“Have you eaten?” She seemed concerned.

“At dawn, but not since,” he told her.

“I knew you would come today,” Cicely said. “I told Mab to make a plentiful meal, for you would be hungry.”

“Mab?”

“Glengorm’s cook. Ian used to say she has been here as long as Glengorm has been here. She is old, but quite lively,” Cicely told him. “She’ll want to meet you, my lord. And she is the one who will be able to answer all your questions. I have been here but two years. Mab is Glengorm’s heart, and knows everything that is happening here, but you will see.” She gave him a small smile.

He returned the smile. “Aye, I shall want to meet her,” he agreed.

“I have had a chamber prepared for you. It was my husband’s room,” Cicely told him. “It has its own hearth, and there is a small chamber adjacent to it for your servant, if you have one or want one.”

“Thank you, madam,” he responded. “I have a body servant who has been with me since I was five years old. I am now thirty-two.”

“You are older than my husband was,” Cicely said to him. “Ian was twenty-nine on his last natal day. Oh!” She had pricked her finger and, putting it to her mouth, sucked the soreness from it. “I should not attempt to sew when I am speaking,” she said wryly.

“You are sewing for your expected infant?” he asked, knowing from the size of the garments that it was exactly what she was doing. But he was trying to keep the conversation, stilted as it was, going with her. If she was to be his wife eventually, he needed to know her better. And then he wondered if she knew of the plans his father had made for her.

“Aye,” she answered, holding up a tiny gown for his inspection. “In the beginning it matters not if it is a lad or lass—the clothing is still the same.” Cicely folded the little garment back into her lap and said candidly, “I am trying not to weep, for I fear to harm my child, but it is difficult, my lord.” Her voice trembled.

Kier Douglas was not an easy man, but his heart softened as he looked into Cicely’s blue-green eyes. “Perhaps you should weep, madam. Penning up your sorrow may harm the child more than giving in to it. Why not ask your Mab? Her age will have certainly given her the wisdom to know such things.”

Cicely pressed her lips together and nodded silently. “Mayhap you are right, my lord. I feel such responsibility for this child in my belly. He is the heir to Glengorm. I must bring him forth safely. I must see that he grows to manhood so that he may wed and sire another generation.” Her lovely face was one of complete concern.

“I see you know your duty, madam, but I am here now to take the burden of Glengorm from your shoulders,” Kier Douglas said. “You need fear no longer.”

“Thank you,” Cicely said softly. A tear slipped down her face, and she suddenly felt fragile. But she wasn’t some weakling! She had always been strong. Ian had loved her fierce spirit. What was the matter with her?

Kier Douglas didn’t know why he did it, but he reached out to touch her clasped hands reassuringly. When he did she looked up at him with startled eyes and burst into tears. He was astounded. He didn’t know what to do. “Madam,” he said helplessly. Should he take her in his arms and comfort her? But before he could make the decision what to do another woman hurried into the hall.

She gathered Cicely into her embrace, stroking her hair and crooning to her. “There, there, my dearie, my child. Weep now, for it is past time.” And as the young woman cried in the comfort of her arms the older woman looked at at Kier Douglas and said, “I am Orva, Lady Cicely’s tiring woman, though once I was her nurse.”

“I am Sir William’s son Kier Douglas, sent to watch over Glengorm,” the man said. He arose from his chair. “I will leave you now to comfort your mistress.”

“Why did you make her cry?” Orva asked him suspiciously.

Kier almost smiled, thinking Quin was as protective of him as this woman was of her charge. “I didn’t. I was just kind, and it was time she gave vent to her grief,” he said. Then he turned and walked from the hall to find Quin.

S
eeing aflight of stairs, Kier followed them up to a landing, where he found himself in a hallway. “Quin, where are you?” he called out.

“In here, my lord.” His man returned, sticking his head out of a doorway halfway down the hall. “These quarters are not as big as those at your father’s house, but they’re snug and clean. And there’s a wee chamber next door for me.”

Kier stepped into the room and looked about. One lead-paned window. A hearth, now burning, a chair angled towards the warmth to one side of it. A large curtained bed, a table on the left side of it with a taperstick set upon it, a chest at its foot. His own trunk had been placed against the wall, and next to it was a slightly larger table with a pitcher, a ewer, and a towel. “ ’Twill do nicely,” he said, going to the basin and pouring some water into it. “I’ll want the dust of our travels off me by the time I sit down to the meal,” he said to Quin.

“I saw the lady, my lord. She’s a pretty lass, but so sad-looking,” Quin noted.

“She’s still in shock over her husband’s death, I suspect, and just beginning to accept the truth of it. She’ll mourn for a time,” Kier told his man. “She has a strong sense of duty to my late cousin—and to Glengorm, which is to the good.”

Quin nodded. “Aye, a woman with a stalwart character towards
her family is one who can be trusted, my lord. She’s going to make you a good wife.”

“For the love of God, man, keep such thoughts to yourself!” his master admonished him. “Ian Douglas is barely cold in his grave. I understand my father’s thinking, and I agree with it, but now is not the time to put forth a marriage proposal. Besides, my father will have to convince the king to permit it.”

“Och, he’ll do it,” Quin said with a grin. “Your da has a clever tongue. Why, he could get the rooster to invite the fox into the hen-house, he could.”

The manservant was correct in his assessment of his master’s father. Sir William Douglas was a persuasive man. Not certain how his son would approach the matter of the widow of Glengorm, he had ridden from his border home to Perth. The weather was beginning to turn now, and he couldn’t be certain that he would be able to return home before the winter hit with a vengence. But it was important that the king know everything that had transpired at Glengorm. That he approve Sir William’s decision to send Kier Douglas to Glengorm to defend the land and keep the widow safe. But most important, he needed the king to accept that Glengorm was Douglas land, and to be disposed of by the Douglases, and no one else.