English, Elizabeth (26 page)

But
he hadn't acted. Once he knew the facts he should have found a way to put a
stop to it, or at least refused to take any part in something so very wrong.
But he hadn't. And he would carry that on his conscience for the rest of his
life. He could go back to London and take up his life again, but he would never
be the same; he'd always know that had been a part of an enterprise he could
only regard as shameful.

Once
he'd thought that he would make a ballad of this story, imagining how the Duke
of Lancaster's court would laugh at the odd doings of the northern rustics. But
now he knew he wouldn't be telling this tale to anyone—save for the priest who
would hear his confession. And if what he feared was to happen—well, then, no
matter if he purchased pardons from God and all the saints, he would never be
able to forgive himself.

The
outer bailey was almost deafening. Pigs squealed,
cattle lowed, merchants
cried their wares. It was rent and market day at Ravenspur, and Jemmy had spent
a long, hot morning sitting in the hall, greeting all his tenants and accepting
rents as the steward sat beside him, pen scratching furiously as he noted every
payment rendered.

By
midafternoon Jemmy was relieved to escape the heat and stench—both human and
animal—that pervaded the close-packed hall and answer his father's summons.

The
Laird was sitting in the solar. When Jemmy's mother was alive, this room had
been a merry place. It was always filled with women sewing, talking, laughing,
slipping Jemmy bits of candied ginger when he came to visit. Now it was a man's
room, with parchments, harnesses, and discarded weapons tumbled on the shelves
where bits of ribbon used to lie. Three hounds dozed by the fire where the
Laird sat with another man.

Master
Johnson, the headman of Dunforth, rose and bowed. "Good day," he said
to Jemmy. "And farewell. Laird, I'll see ye next market day."

As
he
passed by Jemmy, Johnson said, "Oh, in case ye wondered, Tavis is back wi'
his sheep again and right as ever. The boy's coming along. I was just telling
the Laird all about it."

"Were
you?" Jemmy said, looking to his father.

"Aye.
Someone had to," Johnson added beneath his breath, giving Jemmy a wry
smile as he left the room.

"It
was quite a tale," Kirallen said, reaching down to stroke one of the
hounds. "I should have given ye the chance to tell it for yourself."

"Well,
you know it now."

"Aye.
He had some other things to say, as well."

Jemmy
sat down cautiously. "Such as?"

"He
told me he had his doubts about ye coming back, but he was pleased to say how
wrong he'd been. He thought ye handled the business with Tavis as well as
anyone could have done." The Laird glanced up. "And I agreed."

A
sudden, not unpleasant heat rose to Jemmy's face. "Tricky situation,"
he said awkwardly.

"Aye."

"And
Maude deserves at least part of the credit. She was quite warm in Tavis's
defense."

"Aye,
Master Johnson mentioned that as well. Said what a kind lady she was, so
pleasant with the children. How surprised they all were, given what they'd
heard, to see the two of ye so taken with each other."

"Master
Johnson has a busy tongue."

"And
a keen eye. Ye said once that I saw ye and Maude as pieces on a game board. I
didn't like it—but I know the truth when I hear it spoken. So I'm giving ye the
next move, Jemmy. What is it ye want to do?"

Jemmy
looked out the window, where an approaching storm had wrapped the hills in
mist. He summoned the image of the
Osprey,
sails unfurled beneath a
blazingly blue sky, himself standing on her deck. Then he remembered the day on
the high moor, Maude resting her head against his shoulder, the scents of
sunlight and sweet heather caught among her curls. A muscle leaped in his clenched
jaw as he looked at last into his father's face.

"I
want to come home."

"For
good and aye?"

"Yes."

The
Laird leaned back in his seat and regarded Jemmy steadily. "And Malcolm?
What becomes of him?"

"Keep
him as your heir," Jemmy said. "That matters not to me."

"Perhaps
not now, but when ye have bairns of your own, ye might feel differently."

So
he still doesn't trust me, Jemmy thought, then realized that his father was not
questioning his loyalty, just giving him the chance to think this through.

"I
might," he conceded. "But if I give my word, I'll keep it."

"I
believe that," Kirallen said. "Though ye may find it harder than ye
think. And what of Alistair?"

"What
of him? He doesn't like me and he never will, but I think that I can handle
Alistair."

"Ye
have to work together. He has all the knights with him. Ian may have given them
too much leeway, but he ken—as I ken—that ye won't rule long without them. It's
a balance, ye ken. Sometimes ye have to give a little."

Never
in Jemmy's memory had his father talked to him like this. Like an equal. Like a
son.

"I'll
find the way," he promised.

Kirallen
smiled. "Aye. I think ye will."

Alyson
rode for hours, letting the mare wander as she
would through the hills.
The sky grew dark and a chill wind blew from the north, but Alyson was
oblivious to the approaching storm. She considered going back and telling Jemmy
everything. Could she trust him? She didn't know. She wanted to—but was that
only because of the way he made her feel? He wanted peace, and he must want it
very badly to have agreed to this marriage against the will of his clansmen. He
was a good man, but was he strong enough to protect her and Robin? Would he
even want to?

How
would he feel when he learned how completely he'd been deceived? He would—he
must
be angry. But would he turn his anger on her? He might. Even if he
didn't—even if he pitied her, which was possible, for he was a kind man—what
could he do? Darnley had set the trap, and once Jemmy learned of it, he'd have
no choice but to respond.

She
couldn't tell him. He'd have to fight Lord Darnley, that was unavoidable. And
the preparations for battle would be seen—and then Lord Darnley would know that
she'd told, and Robin would pay the price.

Yet
what was the alternative? That she say nothing and stand by, watching them die
and knowing it was all her fault.

Despair
washed over her and she turned the horse's head into the wind, clapping her
heels to its side, galloping over the hills until she reached a high, steep
crag. There she dismounted, tying the reins to a bush and beginning the long
climb, at last arriving breathless at the top.

She
looked down at the river far below, churning white foam over sharp rocks, and
shuddered, taking a step back. This was a sin, but it would be a worse sin to go
on lying, betraying innocent people to their death.

Robin
would be fine without her now. He was happy with Sir Robert, and she knew the
knight would honor his promise. Robin would be all right. And when she looked
at the situation honestly, there was no way she could ever return to her old
life. Even if she managed to survive until the Kirallens were dead, she doubted
Darnley would let her go back to the kitchens. She knew too much. And where
else could she go? Not to the McLarans, that was certain, not after she had
helped plan the slaughter of their friends and kin.

She
couldn't go back to Ravenspur. She couldn't go home, for she had no home now.
There was nowhere left for her to go, nothing left for her to do. The water
rushed by in an endless wave, and slowly, hardly aware of what she did, Alyson
moved closer to the edge.

***

Jemmy
galloped his horse over the downs, hoping he'd
reach home before the
rain began. The approaching storm didn't look like anything to trifle with. He
sighed impatiently, thinking that this was a fool's errand if ever he'd seen
one. A soaking would be a perfect end to it.

He
had waited for Maude to come back again, but his impatience had gotten the best
of him in the end. But now he realized how ridiculous it was to think he could
find her. She was probably back at Ravenspur already.

So
here he was, racing the storm, which bent the long grass to the ground as it
approached. Through the keening of the wind he heard another sound, one that
made him pull up and sit, listening hard. Yes, there it was, a horse's
frightened whinny. He turned toward the sound and found the mare tethered to a
bush. It was Maude's horse all right, there was no mistaking the blaze on its
nose or the white splash on the withers. But where was Maude?

It
was then he saw her standing far above him on the crag, silhouetted against the
dark clouds. His first feeling was irritation—silly lass, didn't she know the
footing up there wasn't safe? And particularly not in a storm. He made the long
climb quickly, for the wind was howling now and the rain only moments away.

When
he reached the top he didn't stop to speak but pulled her backward from the
edge.

"Sweet
Christ, lady, are you mad?"

"Let
go of me!" she cried, struggling in his grasp.

"I
won't. Not until you tell me what you were doing up there. You could have
fallen—"

She
put her hands against his chest and pushed with all her strength. He stumbled
backward and she wrenched herself from his grasp. The rain began then, falling
in a blinding rush as he lunged forward and grasped her about the knees. She
hit the ground hard and lay gasping as he made his way up the slope, now a
river of mud, until he lay beside her, breathing hard.

"Come
on." He grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet, keeping his balance
with difficulty. "You're coming with me."

Alyson
was too weary to think anymore so she followed him to the place where she had
left her horse. The animal was gone, though, no doubt frightened by the storm.
Jemmy took her up before him in the saddle and started back.

Where
can I go now? What can I do? The words went round and round in Alyson's mind
until they lost all meaning. She leaned against Jemmy's shoulder and closed her
eyes. He is very strong, she thought drowsily. If only I could trust him how
different it would be. But I can't.

Why
couldn't she? She didn't remember now, she couldn't think, it was all too much.
She should have jumped—she'd meant to—but it seemed her mother's voice halted
her on the edge, though when she looked around she was alone. But then she
remembered Clare saying that suicide was a terrible sin and despised herself
for her own cowardice. If Clare had been able to go on after all that she had
suffered, how could she herself do less?

What
should I do next? she wondered wearily. Where can I go now? She wished she
could go on riding with Jemmy forever, close in the circle of his arms.

But
at length they reached the stables. They were deserted, save for the horses
munching quietly in the long row of stalls. They dismounted and Alyson stood,
her head bent, not moving, as Jemmy unsaddled his stallion and flung a blanket
over its steaming back. What was the point of going inside? she wondered dully.
What was the point of anything now?

"Maude,"
he said abruptly. "Are you so unhappy here? We can get an annulment. I'll
go to your father and explain—"

"No!"
she cried. "Please, my lord, not that!" She put her hands on his
shoulders, looking pleadingly into his face. "I'll do anything you ask but
please, I beg you, don't say anything of this to my father."

"There's
no shame in an annulment. It will be as though this marriage never
happened—it's not too late to set it right."

"No,"
she shook her head. "Please."

"What
were you doing up there on the crag?" he asked sharply. "It looked
like you were about to—"

"No,
I wasn't, truly. Please, my lord, please believe me. It's just that I
needed—wanted to be alone for a time and I didn't notice the storm—"

"Don't
lie to me. Not now. I thought you were getting accustomed to us, but if I was
wrong, you have to tell me now. Your father won't blame you—I'll tell him that
you did your best, it's all my fault—"

She
began to shake with cold and the fear of what might happen if he went to
Darnley and asked for an annulment. "No!" she whispered. "No
annulment. Please."

He
put his hands on her shoulders and shook her lightly. "Then what is it you
want? How can I help you if you won't tell me? Talk to me, Maude! Make me
understand."

She
shook her head blindly, trying to force her mind to work. She couldn't tell him
the truth. Not now, not like this. But she could think of nothing else to say.

"Is
it me?" he asked roughly. "Is that it?"

"No!"
she cried. "You've been so kind—"

And
then all at once she was in his arms, her face pressed against the sodden wool
of his gambeson.