A Love Divided: A Scottish Historical Romance (The Reivers Book 1) Read online

  For as an English woman, Alexandra was out-of-bounds. Scots law forbade intermarriage without a licence—with the death penalty as a deterrent.

  Admittedly, many Marchmen ignored this edict, which was why names like Hall and Graham were prevalent on both sides of the border and why Michael had initially assumed that Alexandra was Scottish.

  Yes, his friendship with Alexandra might be in its early days and marriage a distant and unlikely option, but it would not be honourable to have liaisons with her that could lead nowhere. And as a deputy warden, it was Michael's duty to uphold the law, not break it. Was he not the one who spoke out the strongest against reivers and did his best to discourage it in his area?

  But, maybe for the first time in his life, upholding his principles made Michael feel like he was in the wrong, rather than his usual assuredness of being in the right. It made his chest ache and his head feel like it were pinched in a clamp.

  However he could see no way around it. She was English, and off-limits to him; any relationship between them was forbidden and would undermine his wardenship.

  It was because his mind was elsewhere, and not concentrating on his travels, that things then took a turn for the worse.

  Traversing some softer ground after he had rounded Watch Knowe and passed Langlee, Mist slipped and stumbled, and within a few paces he became noticeably lame. With a curse, Michael dismounted, hoping that it was merely a stone in the horse's hoof.

  Running a hand down the horse's foreleg to pick up his foot, Michael felt some heat and the beginning of a swelling just above the fetlock. With a sigh, he straightened and assessed the injury. "That looks to be a sore one, boy," he said, patting Mist's neck, worry gnawing at his insides. "But if you can make it to the town you can rest there."

  In this secluded glen, the Black Burn ran close to the track, its peaty waters undercutting the high banks and glistening darkly even on the brightest of days. But near to where Michael had stopped was a wider spot with a gravelly shelf, where he was able to lead Mist into the cool water, hoping to reduce the heat and swelling.

  While he ministered to the horse, Michael pulled some bread and cheese from his saddlebags, since it was now well past lunchtime. Sitting on the mossy edge of the stream with his simple repast, he tried not to let himself dwell on the poor omens of this trip. He could only hope things would get better when he got to Jedburgh and met with the queen.

  Chapter 13

  IT WAS NOT far to Mangerton Tower, the main seat of the Liddesdale Armstrongs.

  Hidden in the rough wood that overlooked the eastward side of the imposing tower, Alex and Hob squatted in the cover of some evergreen shrubs as their horses picked at blades of grass in the small clearing behind them.

  Below them, the tower sat in a shallow valley near to the Liddel Water. It was a solid rectangular structure, which would be impenetrable without a large force or a battery of canon. If Alex had needed into the tower, her cause would already have been hopeless. However, the arrogance of the Armstrongs was evident in the outer defences. Or rather, the lack of them.

  Rather than the high stone barmkin wall favoured by most Border lairds, the tower was surrounded by a mere wooden picket fence atop a shallow ditch. Admittedly the fence was near five foot high and the wooden staves were pointed at their tops, facing outward to make them harder to scale. But it wasn't the ten-foot wall they might've found, and the seed of an idea began to grow in Alex's brain.

  Inside the enclosure were cooking fires, a hay store, lean-to buildings—and the object of their search. Tethered along one side of the bailey were a score of horses, and amongst them a glossy black that Alex recognised instantly. Duke.

  With a grin of relief, Alex motioned Hob back to the clearing where they could talk more easily.

  Pulling a pack of bread and cheese from her saddlebag, she hunkered on the mossy ground under an ancient oak and passed Hob a share of the food. "If we wait until nightfall, and you help me over the fence, I believe I can get Duke out of there."

  His mouth full of food, Hob looked sideways at her, then nodded significantly at her sore arm.

  "Yes, even injured. Duke will get me out safely."

  Hob shrugged eloquently. He'd learned long ago not to argue with Alex when her mind was made up.

  Situated at the intersection of five different roads, the market in Jedburgh was a broad, cobbled expanse surrounded by tall buildings that crowded in as if to peer at the stallholders displaying their wares.

  The offerings were many and varied—one wide-girthed merchant spread bolts of fine linen and deep-dyed wool on a two-wheeled barrow; another hook-nosed old man sold trinkets and buttons from a cloth-covered table; nearby, a farmer's wife sat wearily behind wicker baskets overflowing with vegetables; and a one-eyed man in a leather jerkin offered a brace of pigeon to anyone who would give him a silver sixpence.

  Someone, somewhere, was selling hot meat pies, for the smell of the savoury gravy wafting across the marketplace made Michael's stomach rumble as he pushed past crowds of chattering townsfolk and made his way to the nearby hostelry that was his destination.

  Situated a little way down the high street, the Spread Eagle had originally been one of the town's defensive towers, and its thick stone walls and the narrow windows on the lower floors attested to that. At the back of the large building, between it and a townhouse owned by Lord Home, there was stabling, and it was there that Michael entrusted Mist to the care of a wiry stable-boy. With the inducement of an extra penny a day, the lad agreed to stand the leg in cold water thrice a day, which Michael hoped would reduce the swelling and hurry the healing.

  As the major inn of the town, the Spread Eagle was where the queen and the most important of her entourage would reside, and staying there would make his job easier. But Michael was relieved to hear that her party hadn't yet reached the town, although they'd sent word to prepare meat, drink and lodgings for the nobles and gentlemen who'd been summoned to attend Her Grace.

  The harassed-looking innkeep, with his once-white apron and floury hands made a show of reluctance at the thought of finding space for another guest, until the clink of silver shillings managed to secure Michael a small room up in the garret—one that was no doubt meant for a servant, but Michael was just glad to be in the same lodgings as the queen.

  His next stop was a livery stable, not far away and next to the horse market, where he would rent a riding horse to use while Mist was lame. The proprietor—a burly man with a red face and thin hair plastered over his balding pate—led Michael over to the rank of horses he had available for hire. But, rather cannily perhaps, the route the man took went past a fine-looking bay that caught Michael's eye. "What about that one?" he asked, pointing at the gelding.

  "Ah, 'e be not for hire, that 'un. Too good for that. I thought to mebbe keep 'im for mysel'." He sucked air through his teeth and looked Michael up and down. "But I could p'raps make an exception for a fine gent like yoursel'," the liveryman said, rubbing his meaty hands together. "Twenty guineas, and cheap at half the price."

  Michael scratched his chin, knowing he was being baited like a fish on a line but sizing up the horse's strong back and clean limbs and liking what he saw. "Can I try him?"

  With a glint in his eye, the ostler went to collect a saddle, and twenty minutes later, he'd made a sale, even if it had been negotiated down somewhat from the full price he'd hoped for.

  Sitting astride the bay, Michael was reminded of how it had felt to ride Alexandra's stallion. Spirit, he decided to call the horse. There was a power there, just waiting to be tapped. Spirit's canter felt like he was riding on air, his trot like it could carry him forever. A horse that was worthy of Alexandra's training methods.

  The thought hit Michael like a sledgehammer.

  Had he not resolved never to meet with the Englishwoman again? So why was he thinking about training Spirit with her? A sigh escaped him as he rode the short distance back up the high street to the inn. His mind may have made the most
sensible decision, but if he was to judge by the ache in his chest, it was obvious that his heart hadn't yet caught up with that arrangement.

  Maybe a hearty meal and some tankards of ale were in order, to dull his feelings sufficiently that he would sleep without dreaming of raven-haired horsewomen with lustrous eyes and mischievous smiles.

  For once, the weather was on their side. Alex gave a silent prayer of thanks for the clouds overhead, which obscured the moon, hiding their movements in the deep shadow of the palisade. At a corner far from the tower doorway, and even further from the entrance gate, Hob helped Alex onto his shoulders, from where she could grasp a rope he'd already thrown up and looped over the top of a fence paling.

  It was difficult, with only one arm working, and Alex was grateful for the stout canvas of her breeches and the protection offered by her leather breastplate, having elected for the manoeuvrability of the lighter garment rather than the more cumbersome, if more defensive, metal armour.

  Of course, Hob had tried to persuade her to let him go and liberate Duke, since all his limbs were working properly. But she'd persuaded him that it would only work this way, as she was the better rider of the pair, and it needed her special bond with Duke to make the plan possible.

  He'd grudgingly agreed but insisted that she spent the bulk of the day catching up on lost sleep while he kept guard, longbow constantly by his side and arrow nocked at the ready.

  So here they were, hours later, the two of them assailing the fortified tower of the most notorious clan in the whole of the Scottish borders, relying on luck, darkness and a willing stallion to make good their escape.

  Perhaps not the most foolproof plan she had ever hatched…

  A teeth-clenching minute later, Alex dropped silently onto the beaten earth inside the palisade. Standing immobile for a few seconds, she held her breath, listening for the shout that would indicate she'd been spotted.

  But all remained quiet; she seemed to have made her entrance unseen. Slowly exhaling, she started her careful progress towards the tethered horses.

  Five minutes, she'd agreed with Hob, and she was glad she hadn't been more optimistic. Because creeping across the bailey, in the shelter of whatever buildings she could find took longer than she might've thought, and she'd only just reached the horses when part two of their plan swung into action.

  Taking a leaf from the Armstrong's own book, two flaming arrows sailed over the wooden fence in quick succession, carefully aimed by Hob at the pile of hay stored at the other side of the enclosure. The dried grass quickly caught light, and a cry of alarm sounded from somewhere nearby. While Alex crept up to Duke and quickly worked on his tie lines, footsteps hammered across the bailey and shouts of command echoed through the night as the occupants of the tower hastened to attend to the fire.

  Quickly knotting one of Duke's ropes into a rough head-collar, with two reins for guidance, Alex turned the stallion to face into the courtyard and scrambled on board.

  It felt good to be back up there, and the solid width of him was as reassuring as the fact that he seemed unperturbed by the nearby fire—unlike the other horses, which had started to shift nervously, eyes staring and nostrils snorting.

  Alex sat quietly for a minute until she judged that Hob should've made it back to the wood, and until it seemed that all the Armstrongs who were going to attend the fire had already done so, making her less likely to meet a hurrying foe.

  Now! she thought, and urged Duke into a run, aiming him at the part of the palisade she'd earmarked earlier, gripping with her thighs and gathering him together, concentrating his energy into his hindquarters, ready for the huge leap ahead of them.

  For that was her plan. Rather than trying to burst through the gate, risking the swords and spears of her adversaries, Duke was to tackle the wooden palisade; a jump that was formidable but, she hoped, within his capabilities.

  Heart in her mouth, she leaned forward and concentrated on keeping her balance as his strong muscles bunched underneath her and then sprung over the wooden obstacle.

  For a moment it felt like they were flying, and she would've laughed with glee—if it wasn't for the formidable drop they faced on the far side.

  Shifting her weight so she now leaned back, but still perpendicular to the ground, Alex held tightly onto her makeshift reins with her one good hand, hoping that Duke would see well enough in this moonless night to spot the landing and make a clean getaway.

  For if he stumbled, she would surely slip from his glossy back, and then she would be at the mercy of the Armstrongs. And those ruffians would no doubt be enraged by this audacious theft—as they would see it—and disinclined to mercy.

  She couldn't risk that.

  Clamping her legs around Duke's sides, Alex sent up a wordless prayer as his hooves touched the grass at the far side of the castle compound.

  Chapter 14

  WE MADE IT! Alex thought exultantly as Duke bounded towards the safety of the wood. The plan worked! All that remained was the third part of her scheme—to meet up with Hob and race home before the Armstrongs came after them.

  Slowing Duke as they entered the wood, she scanned the dark shapes of the trees, looking for the tell-tale presence of Hob or the horses. But something was wrong.

  The clearing where they'd waited earlier was eerily empty, and the hairs on the back of her neck started to prickle. Duke tensed underneath her too, sensing that something was amiss, and she debated whether to make a run for it.

  But she didn't think quickly enough.

  The shadows around the clearing suddenly took form. Not the ancient trees that'd surrounded them in the daytime, but a band of riders who stepped forward at some silent signal from their leader, hemming her in and leaving no avenue for escape.

  "Halt!" the lead rider cried. "Who be you and what is your business here?" Sitting atop a sturdy grey garron, he was a short but powerful-looking man with an arrogant expression and a carefully-trimmed beard, carrying a round shield emblazoned with the lion rampant of Scotland.

  Behind the stranger she spotted Hob, bound and gagged aboard his horse, and attached by a long rope to a thickset guard in black armour. Hob's eyes were wide and his pale skin whiter than ever, but his shoulders remained defiant.

  Alex took some courage from her friend, and jutted her jaw. "Alexandra Graham of Kersdale, retrieving my horse," she pointed down at Duke, "who was stolen by the Armstrongs of Mangerton last night. And who be you to accost a lady so?"

  "James, Earl of Bothwell and Chief Warden of the Queen's Marches, here by Her Grace's orders to deal with troublemakers." He looked theatrically around him. "I see no sign of a burning turf. Why do you carry out an illegal trod?"

  "'Tis not illegal," Alex protested. "They stole my horse. I saw them take him last night, but was unable to give chase at the time."

  "So you say. But this should've been taken to your warden, not into your own hands."

  She narrowed her eyes. "And if we'd waited for the warden, I wouldn't be sitting here, atop my own horse, twenty-four hours later."

  "No matter. We'll determine the rightness of this later." Bothwell motioned three men forwards. "Tie her up and take her and the lad to Hermitage while the rest of us attend to these Armstrongs." Wheeling his horse around, he added, almost to himself, "The lass may have done us a service, causing a distraction with the fire."

  Alex had heard of Hermitage Castle—everyone in this part of the Borders had heard of the notorious keep. But she'd never been this close and would never have chosen to be.

  As they trotted along the entrance track, the tall stone walls of the castle loomed ahead of them through the darkness like a menacing giant. Alex tried not to be intimidated, but this supreme example of a defensive structure was daunting and impressive in a somewhat grim way.

  Surrounded by bleak and open moorland, its location alone was oppressive. With a long approach to its site high in the valley of the Hermitage Water, defenders behind their narrow arrow-slits would have ample
opportunity to pick off any attackers before they got close. And then when you did get close, thick sandstone walls soared overhead, their grey solidness and imposing squareness giving the message that this dark edifice was built purely for defence—against the English, most likely, Alex thought with the ghost of a wry smile—rather than for the comfort of its inhabitants.

  Once within hailing distance, a loud voice emanating from beside a glowing brazier on the castle ramparts challenged them to identify themselves and their business.

  The guard leading Alex hollered back, "Prisoners from the earl," and they were allowed to continue unchallenged.

  Traversing the narrow track alongside the long west wall, Alex's skin crawled at the thought of what might come next. Hermitage's prison tower was infamous as the spot where a previous laird, Sir William Douglas, had left a rival to starve to death. It was said to be a grim pit, devoid of light, air and sanitation, and Alex gritted her teeth, steeling herself to face this ordeal.

  Rounding the large south-west tower, they approached the central part of the castle. Its entrance seemed tiny, flanked as it was on three sides by four stories of forbidding stone. With every step they took, Alex felt smaller and more insignificant, which she was sure was one of the main purposes of the ominous structure.

  And then they were inside, passing under not one but two portcullises into a central cobbled courtyard where they dismounted.

  Here, at last, there was a slight improvement to their situation. "Take the lady to the first-floor prison," the guard said, throwing Alex's rope to one of his subordinates.

  So not the foul dungeon, then. Alex stood her ground, squaring her jaw at the tall soldier. "And my brother too."

  He squinted down his nose at her, then jerked his chin at the other man. "Aye. Leave more room down below for the Armstrongs, when the earl returns."