His Border Bride

Chapter Three

The next morning, Neil accosted her, brows creased, complaining that she’d sent a stranger to meddle in his mews.

Clare sighed and went to face Fitzjohn, wary of the next trick he might try in order to extend his stay. As she opened the door to the mews, a shaft of light cleaved the dimness and found his bare back. He turned from his raking and she swallowed. His chest, broad, seemed strong enough to need no armour.

‘Mistress Clare,’ he said, shielding his eyes as he looked towards her, standing in the open doorway. ‘I hope you will find that I scrubbed the falcons’ mute to your satisfaction.’

She forced her eyes to meet his. ‘The falconer has some complaints.’

‘He’s a good man. But wedded to old ways.’

He spoke as if he knew falconry.

All the birds were leashed, so she left the door open to allow the light in. The gravel crunched beneath her feet as she inspected his work. Of course, there had been little for him to do but rake the droppings from the stones. The falconer was scrupulous about daily cleaning.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Mistress Clare?’

Closer now, she could see sweat dampening his hair and the hose clinging to his legs. She peered at the falcons’ blocks, surprised to see he had even scrubbed away the whitish mute smears from the side of Wee One’s perch. ‘You’ve taken great care.’

He shrugged. ‘You’ve more blocks than birds.’

It was a pitiful mews, by most standards, she knew. Most of the birds there now belonged to the visitors, only temporary residents. ‘We had more, once. But birds and war are both costly. War has won.’

She pulled on her glove and held out her wrist. Wee One hopped on the fist, fluttering her feathers in delight. Clare rubbed her throat feathers gently, noting her crop was almost empty. She might be hungry enough to fly again tomorrow.

‘That’s the bird you were flying in the hills,’ he said.

‘I’ve had this one since she was just a brancher. She’s my favourite of all I’ve flown. Of course, I’ve never had one of the really fine birds from the cliffs near the sea.’

‘The best I’ve flown were northern birds, captured in the Low Countries.’

She assessed him anew. She had heard of such birds, but she’d never seen them and couldn’t have afforded them if a falcon dealer had brought them. If he had hawked with birds like that, he must be of better birth than she’d believed. ‘Those would be worthy of kings.’

He shrugged. ‘Origin means little. I’ve seen gyrfalcons refuse to fly and sparrowhawks take on rabbits three times their size. Did you train her yourself?’

She nodded. ‘I’m all she knows. She’ll not leave me.’

‘You cannot keep her on a creance and practise the art. Each flight is a risk. Each return a choice.’

She clutched the leather jesses tight between her gloved fingers. ‘This one will always come back.’

Behind her, she heard the flapping of wings. As she turned, a bird swooped down, talons nearly tangling in her hair. Then, he soared towards the ceiling directly above Wee One’s perch, performing an ecstasy of swoops and turns.

‘Stop him!’ Impossible. Accustomed to the entire sky, the bird hurtled dangerously close to the wall. A crash would mean a broken wing.

‘I think,’ Fitzjohn said, with awe in his voice she had never heard, ‘that he’s doing it for her.’

Wee One’s head followed his flight. Clare peered up through the dim light. It was hard to be sure, but the stripes under his wings and the ermine look of the feathers under his throat reminded her of the tercel she had seen two days ago.

She cupped her palm against Wee One’s breast, reassured that the bird had not tried to fly. ‘Please. I want him gone.’

Fitzjohn waved his arms and yelled at the bird.

As he widened his flight, the strange bird seemed to realise he was trapped. He flew towards the light from the window high in the wall, but the slats, designed to keep the birds inside, were too small for him to escape.

‘Open the door wider,’ Fitzjohn said.

She did, then stepped away to give the bird a clear path to freedom. The tercel made a final swoop and roll, then, close enough to the door to see his escape, flew through it and disappeared.

She released a breath, still shaking. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I was afraid he would hurt himself. He must have been wild and mad.’

‘He knew exactly what he was doing.’

Surprised, she turned to him, expecting a cynical expression. ‘What?’

‘Trying to get her attention.’

‘Why?’

‘For the usual reasons a male wants a female to notice him. He wants to mate.’

Heat touched her cheeks and she looked away. ‘I doubt that.’ His bare chest was within reach of her fingers. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss—

‘Where do you think falcons come from?’

Perhaps he didn’t know falcons as well as he implied. ‘The falcon dealer has brought most of these, but I caught Wee One near Hen Hole just east of here.’

His laugh cascaded over her. ‘Before that, I mean.’

She flushed. ‘Well, from eggs, of course.’ Could the tercel mean to mate with Wee One? ‘But a mews is not a nursery.’ She had never seen an egg laid in the mews. Was that even possible?

‘They mate for life, you know.’ His words were husky.

‘Unless one of them dies.’ And when her mother had died, her father had not hesitated to take another.

She turned away and tied Wee One safely back on her perch.

‘If the mews is cleaned to your satisfaction, I await your pleasure,’ he said, his voice caressing her back. ‘I offer again to put my sword in your service.’

‘My father will be home soon,’ she said, abruptly, not looking at him. Like the wild tercel, Fitzjohn had flown into her mews by accident, and now seemed trapped and out of place. Did he long for freedom? Or did he need a safe haven? ‘He’ll be the one to decide your fate.’ She felt she owed him that, though she did not know why.

‘Thank you, Mistress Clare.’

She started out of the mews, then turned. ‘I’ve an extra blanket, Fitzjohn. It will be yours tonight.’

He bowed, with a courtier’s grace. ‘I’m truly grateful, my lady.’

And for the first time since she’d met him, she truly felt like a lady.

The tercel returned a few days later.

She saw him in the weathering yard, where the birds had been taken outside for exercise, hoods off, but still tethered. This time, the male bird swooped down and joined Wee One on her perch. They bowed to each other, heads bobbing up and down like overactive courtiers.

She laughed and Fitzjohn, crossing the bailey, joined in.

‘They look so funny,’ she said.

‘They are courting.’

‘What?’

‘Now she’ll try to fly. Watch.’

Wee One rose, swooping with the strange bird in a sky dance, tugging against her leash as if wanting to escape.

Clare rushed over, clapping to scare the male away. Wee One tried to follow.

Clare pulled on the leather leash, drawing her falcon back until the bird was again within reach of her hand. This one, she must not lose.

She had already lost too much that she cared for.

‘Mistress Clare!’ The call came from the barmkin wall.

She looked up at the man. ‘What is it?’

‘Your father approaches.’

Home. Safe. Relief left her limp.

The roar of his voice reached her before she saw him. ‘We’ve run the Inglis back across the border. Now where are my girls?’

Euphemia had already run to him, oblivious of the cold that had followed their few blessed days of spring.

And when Clare saw who was with her father, she ran, too.

Alain was home.

She slowed her steps before he saw her, remembering she must walk as a lady instead of running like a child or, worse, an over-eager lover. A lady worthy of her knight’s devotion must set an example.

But she could not slow her heart. How brave he looked, the French comte on his horse! Straight, dark, strong. The epitome of knighthood.

And she felt a moment’s gratitude that she had managed to stretch and shape the banker after Fitzjohn’s abuse. Alain would barely notice the damage.

Her father swirled Euphemia as if she were ten instead of sixteen summers, their breath making clouds in the air. Then, he turned his eye to Clare.

‘Da.’ Her word was a breath of joy. He enfolded her in his arms and she snuggled against him like a child, safe, for the moment, back in his arms.

Then, she leaned away to look at him. New lines weighed the corners of his eyes. ‘Ye broke nae rules, did ye?’ She asked in the Scots way, as she did every time he returned. It was her prayer of thanks.

‘None I’ll tell ye about,’ he answered, as he always did.

She shook her head. She refused to think of the dangers of war when he was away, telling herself the rules of chivalry would protect him. Even when he was safely beside her again, she could barely admit to herself he risked death every time he faced the enemy. ‘I’m glad you’re home.’

‘Ye may not be so glad when I start pestering ye again. I’ve a new reason to want ye married, daughter.’ He said it in his best Border burr, knowing it would irk her.

‘I know the old ones well enough.’ He wanted grandsons, that she knew. Well, the time had come to make plans with Alain.

‘Ah, Demoiselle Clare.’

She turned to him, beaming, and extended her hand, as she had learned to do. He took her fingers and brushed his lips near them, his moustache tickling her knuckles.

‘I wish I had known you would return today,’ she said. ‘I would have prepared a meal in your honour and worn my finest gown.’

He dropped her hand and she smoothed the wool of her shirt. It was cheap, local cloth, woven of wool not fine enough to send to the Low Countries.

‘Ridicule! You are a lovely flower in this wasteland, as always.’

‘Prepare what food we have.’ Her father’s voice boomed. ‘I’ve a hunger a whole deer couldn’t fill.’ He had his arm around Euphemia again, as if she were a real daughter. ‘Where’s Murine?’

‘Here!’

Her father’s lover ran out of the tower and into his arms. Clare turned away, refusing to witness their embrace. This woman had moved into his bed after Clare’s mother had died. Not lady enough to be a wife, she had been his companion ever since.

Murine had tried to mother his daughter, too, but when Clare was fostered in France, she had seen women who looked like her memory of her own mother, women who wore silk gowns and spoke with sweet scented breath. Murine would never be one of those. Gradually, she stopped trying.

Now, they stayed out of each other’s way.

Clare moved closer to Alain and turned him towards the tower to shield him from their display. The comte knew the code. And held to it.

Unlike the stranger.

‘Ah, demoiselle, what a breath of fresh air you are amidst the stench of Scotland.’

He offered her his arm and she saw dried blood on his sleeve. ‘You’re wounded!’ Fear shook her again.

‘It is but a scratch. But your touch makes it feel comme neuf.’

‘Let me see.’ She pushed up the sleeve, gently, and ran her fingers over the skin of his arm. An unwelcome memory of Fitzjohn’s bare chest made her hand tremble.

Alain was right. The wound did not look serious. ‘Come. I’ll clean and bandage it for you.’

She revelled in the words. They sounded like something a wife might say.

He gently put her hand aside, holding her fingers no longer than propriety dictated. ‘You are kind.’

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Murine pull her father towards the tower. ‘Food first,’ she said, laughing, removing his hand from her breast.

Clare knew what would happen next. After the midday meal, she would not see them for hours.

Embarrassed, she turned back to Alain. ‘I’m glad you are safe. Tell me of your battles.’

‘Battles? Ah, I wish we had seen battles! Edward is a monster, but Douglas is a coward.’

‘A coward?’ No Scot would call Lord Douglas a coward. Not if he wanted to live.

‘Instead of forcing a fight, Douglas kept us always away from the English. Then, by God’s mercy, Edward’s ships were destroyed.’ He crossed himself with muttered thanks to the Blessed Virgin. ‘He had no supplies. He had to retreat. But still Lord Douglas would not fight, only chased him, like a dog after the deer, instead of confronting him on an open field of battle. We could have delivered the coup de grâce.’

She murmured a supportive sound. Douglas would take the field with the bravest, but when a Scot waged war, he thought only of the end, not of the proper way to reach it. ‘So they are gone now, the Inglis?’

He nodded. ‘And left the land laid waste, just as they did in France. Burning, looting, even during the holy day of Candlemas. And it was not just the rabble. The worst was the King’s bastard nephew. He burned the monastery church in Haddington to the ground, full of innocents who had sought sanctuary.’

Stunned, she crossed herself. ‘I did not think the Inglis so devoid of honour.’ Murder. Sacrilege. No knight would commit such acts.

Alain offered his arm as they walked towards the keep. ‘Alas, it is so. I was told the man who held the torch was the son of John of Eltham, who did the very same twenty years ago. And the Edward who rules today was so angry when he heard of it that he killed him. His own brother.’ He shook his head. ‘Such murderous blood, the English. This Edward must kill for pleasure alone if he would murder a man and then encourage his son to commit the same sacrilege.’

She glanced across the yard to find Fitzjohn’s eyes on them. We don’t see much chivalry in war, he had said. As if he had seen such acts.

As if he could have committed them.

She stepped closer to Alain. Her men were home and safe. Fitzjohn could answer to her father now.

After he had eaten his fill, her father spent the afternoon in Murine’s cottage. Clare closed her eyes to what the two of them did there.

Late in the day, he emerged to sit with her by the fire in the Hall, his third cup of brogat cradled in his palms, asking of all that had happened while he was gone.

He said little of the campaign. Edward had retreated, yes, but he had burned everything in his path. In the end, it seemed, both sides had lost.

‘I saw a strange face on the barmkin,’ he said, finally. ‘Who is he?’

‘A knight separated from his fellows.’ Did she sound unconcerned? ‘I gave him a meal and a roof and work to do. He wants to stay on, but I told him you would have to decide.’

Her father’s eyes narrowed. ‘We lost James in a skirmish last month. I could use a new man.’

‘He’s said little of himself. I’m not sure of the nobility of his line.’

‘That’s nae something to bother a Scot.’

She wondered why she was holding her breath. ‘And he hasn’t the comte’s sense of chivalry.’

Her father’s lips twisted into something between a scowl and a laugh. ‘Few do. I’ll judge him meself, daughter. What’s his name?’

‘Fitzjohn.’ She said the name as if unsure of it.

Her father sat bolt upright, nearly dropping his cup. ‘What did you say?’

‘Fitzjohn.’ She wondered at his response. ‘Gavin, I think.’

Her father rose from his chair, towering over her. ‘What have ye done, girl?’

Why had she ignored her misgivings about this man? Her mother would never have made that mistake. ‘Tell me. What have I done besides get a clean mews and a dirty banker?’

‘Ye’ve brought the murdering fire-raiser who torched half of Lothian into our hall.’ His bluster flagged, replaced by the same haunted look she’d seen in Fitzjohn’s eyes. ‘We called it Burnt Candlemas. And he carried the torch.’

She cursed herself with words a lady should not know. If they woke with the roof in flames over their heads it would be her fault. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t know.’

He reached for his sword and started to buckle it on. ‘I’ll deal with him.’

‘Wait.’ She rose and touched his shoulder, moving him gently back in the chair. ‘I was the one who let him in. I’ll go.’ Did she hope somehow he would deny what she’d suspected all along? ‘Let me be sure he is the same man.’

‘Not alone, daughter.’

‘I won’t be alone.’ She patted the sheath holding her dagger. Since that day in the hills, it had never left her side, another reluctant concession to this lawless land. ‘Not as long as I have this.’

‘Ah, daughter. I wish ye were as determined to give me grandsons as ye are to do things your own way.’

She shook her head. Not her way, but the right way, something her father neither appreciated nor understood. ‘Give me just a little time. Then, come and do with him what you will.’

She swung out of the hall and up the stairs, skirt swishing between her legs, uncertain whether anger, fear, or shame drove her. She found him on the tower’s wall walk, staring towards the snow-covered mountains, stark against the sunset-yellow sky.

‘Fitzjohn!’ she called, her dagger at the ready.

He turned, slowly, his face shadowed by the light of the fading sun. ‘That’s what I’m called. Why the blade?’

‘You’re also called a fire-raiser.’

Pain and anger mixed in his gaze. Did she even see a pleading look there? No mind. This man had shown no mercy. Neither would she.

‘I’m called many things.’ The words came slowly, as if by speaking he had been forced to crack a stone.

‘That’s no answer.’

‘What kind of answer would you like, Mistress Clare?’

‘One that’s true.’

‘Ah, then you’re bound to be disappointed in life. People will say what they will, true or false.’

Always, he turned aside a question instead of answering it. ‘They say you burned a church full of innocent people.’

He turned his head, quick and sharp as a falcon spotting its prey. ‘Is that the tale now?’ The words carved deep lines around his lips, yet unhurried they came as if he truly did not care what was said of him.

‘Is it true?’

‘What do you think?’

His shadowed eyes had witnessed acts no man should know and no knight should commit. But had he done them, too?

She didn’t believe it. Or didn’t want to.

She dropped her weapon and shook her head.

‘I thank you, then, for that.’ His voice held an echo of soft gratitude. ‘May I stay, then?’

‘My Da is coming. The decision will be his.’

‘I understand.’

She struggled to join her father’s words and the comte’s story. ‘Does that mean your father was the son of a king?’

He nodded.

‘And brother to another?’

His sideways smile showed no pride, yet she felt her knees begin to dip, as if to make her curtsy before him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Royal blood in his veins, even though Inglis, yet she had suggested he was no better than a peasant. He must think her a barbarian.

‘Would you have let me in if I had?’

‘No, but you lied. You told me you were Scots.’

‘My mother was a MacGuffin. She gave me as much Scots blood as English. So tell me where that puts the Border in my body.’ He grabbed her hand, the one holding the dagger, and stroked the blade across his waist. ‘Here? Is the Scots half below the belt and the English above? Or is the heart Scottish and the baws English?’

She tugged against him, but his stronger hold was the invisible one. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Or maybe it’s this way.’ Fingers locked around her wrist, he made her wave the dagger from the top of his head down the centre of his nose, then along his torso until she feared he might slash his chest open. ‘Right? Left? Which side shall we throw across the hills into Northumberland? And which side would you deem worthy to keep?’

He twisted her wrist and the blade fell away. His move bent her elbow, pulling her so close that the rise and fall of his chest brushed hers.

Dark fire, hot and dangerous, coiled inside her, rising from a place she’d long forgotten, if she ever knew. She swallowed. ‘Do you mean to burn us in our beds, Fitzjohn?’

At first, he let the wind answer. Then he retrieved his smile and relaxed his grip. ‘Would you like to be burning in your bed, Mistress Clare?’