The Border Vixen (4 page)

“If the old man dies,” one laird said, “what will happen to the traverse? It can’t be left in the hands of a flighty lass.”

“We all know the girl must be wed,” another laird said, “but who is brave enough to force the lass?”

“David Kerr knows enough to hold the Aisir nam Breug,” a voice spoke up.

“He’s a priest. Do we want the church controlling the passage?” another said.

“Dugald Kerr looked sound of both body and mind to me,” a man remarked.

“Aye!” several voices agreed.

“Perhaps we hae best leave things as they are right now,” an Elliot clansman said.

“The lass is ripe for marriage, and if some of the younger lads were to court her, mayhap she would forget her foolishness and choose one of them.”

There were murmurs of assent from the majority of the men in the small inn. They drank a toast to their decision, then scattered in different directions. But Ewan Hay sat brooding over his tankard. He had considered kidnapping the vixen while she was out riding, forcing her to his will, and impregnating her. She would have to wed him then or suffer the shame of bearing a bastard. She would be ruined for any other man and have no choice but to accept him. But such an action was apt to cause a feud between the Hays and the Kerrs. His elder brother had warned him against such an action. He would more than likely end up being killed himself, he said to Lord Hay in an attempt to reassure him that he would not act in a precipitous manner.

“I’ll kill ye myself, Ewan, if ye shame the Kerr lass,” Lord Hay warned. “Find another way if ye really want her. I’m not averse to the Hays controlling the Aisir nam Breug. It’s made the Kerrs wealthy. I should enjoy a bit of that wealth.”

“I could go to the king,” Ewan Hay said to his brother. “I could tell him how old Kerr is coming to his end. Of how a man is needed to watch over such a valuable resource, and the laird has but a frail granddaughter for an heir.”

Lord Hay considered his younger brother’s reasoning. “Aye,” he said slowly. “ ’Tis just possible ye might gain an advantage if ye went to the king. The rest of them are trying to figure out how to get around old Dugald Kerr. This might be the way, and the first man to the post is likely to gain the prize. Aye! Go to the king, Ewan.”

So Ewan Hay took his horse, and a dozen men-at-arms, and rode to Linlithgow where the king, James V, was now in residence.

James Stewart was twenty-four. He was a tall big-boned man with short hair, and icy cold eyes. His features were sharply drawn and fine with a narrow long nose much like an eagle’s beak. Still, he was considered an attractive fellow by the women of the court and already had several mistresses, for he had charm. His charm, however, did not run deep. He was known to be ruthless when he wanted his way. James V was not a man who excited loyalty. The earls and the lairds did not like the king, for he was a hard and greedy man. His common folk loved him. At the moment, the king was contemplating taking a queen, considering candidates from Italy, France, and even Denmark, from where his paternal grandmother had come.

Lord Hay had warned his brother to tread lightly, but Ewan Hay was eager to take his revenge upon Mad Maggie Kerr. He could think of nothing but her fury and frustration when the king ordered her to marry him. And so, having managed to gain a few moments of the king’s time, Ewan Hay went to court, dressed in his finest tunic.

“Who is he?” the king asked his page as Ewan approached him confidently.

“The brother of Lord Hay, a border lord. He’s unimportant, my liege.”

“Then why am I speaking with him?” the king wanted to know.

“He said the matter is of great importance to Scotland,” the page murmured.

Ewan Hay had reached the chair where the king sat. He smiled toothily and then bowed low. “My liege, I appreciate your seeing me,” he began. His eye, however, shifted briefly to the beautiful woman who leaned against the king’s chair. She had fine big breasts and full, lush lips. He forced his gaze away from her.

“What is so important to Scotland that you would ride from the border to Linlithgow to speak with me, Ewan Hay?” the king asked. He had seen the man’s gaze shift to his mistress, Janet Munro.

“The future of the Aisir nam Breug is in terrible danger, my liege,” Ewan began.

“What is the Aisir nam Breug, and why should I care if it is in danger?” James Stewart wanted to know.

“Why, my lord, it is a passage between Scotland and England that has for centuries been used as a safe traverse between England and Scotland. It is controlled on our side of the border by the Kerrs of Brae Aisir and on the other side by their English cousins, the Kerrs of Netherdale. These two families have kept it free of warring parties so commerce and honest folk may travel between the two countries in safety. The Kerrs have become rich over the years from this passage,” Ewan said.

“Indeed?” the king replied, now interested. How was it he had not known of this?

But then his border lords were very difficult and independent men. He had only just gotten firm control of them in the past few years. But, curious now, he said, “What is the problem, then, Ewan Hay?”

“The laird of Brae Aisir is in his dotage, my liege. His only heir is his granddaughter, Margaret. The lass is of marriageable age, but the old man will nae part with her. If Dugald Kerr dies, what will happen to the Aisir nam Breug with no strong man to oversee it? The girl can be given a dower for a husband, but she canna control such a valuable asset to Scotland, my liege. And what if she takes an English husband? They are a close family, Brae Aisir and Netherdale,” Ewan lied, for he didn’t really know.

“Are they?” the king said. What was it about this young man? From the moment he had opened his mouth, James Stewart hadn’t liked him. “Would ye wed the lass?” he asked, curious as to the answer he would receive.

“Nay, my liege. She refused my suit, and I would nae hae a wife who did not want me,” Ewan said. But he would have her, he thought, if only to crush her spirit.

“But ye want her inheritance,” the king remarked.

“Aye . . . nay, my liege! ’Tis my brother and all the local lairds who fear for the fate of the Aisir nam Breug. They sent me to bring this situation to your attention.” He lied again, hoping it was not obvious.

“And now ye have,” the king said with a small smile. “Go home, Ewan Hay. I must think on the information ye have brought to me, but rest assured that I will see the status of the Aisir nam Breug solved so that the laird of Brae Aisir may go to his God knowing that both it and his granddaughter are in safe hands.”

Ewan opened his mouth to speak further, but the king waved a dismissive hand at him, and the king’s page was immediately at Ewan’s elbow escorting him from the royal presence before he might say another word. It had not gone at all as he had intended, but the king had not refused his subtle request. He would go home and tell his brother that the Aisir nam Breug was near to being in their hands.

James Stewart watched him go. “A dishonest fellow, I have not a doubt,” he said.

Janet Munro slid into his lap. “I didn’t like him, Jamie,” she said. “There is more to it than he is admitting or telling.” She nuzzled his ear.

He slid a casual hand into her bodice, cupping one of her gloriously large breasts. “What would ye do, Jan?” he asked her as he caressed the soft flesh absently.

“Ye need to send someone ye can trust into the border to learn more about it before ye decide. Ye canna take that man’s word for anything, I am thinking,” she said.

He nodded. “Aye, but whom shall I send?”

Janet Munro thought for a long moment. Then she said, “What about yer cousin, Lord Fingal Stewart?”

“Do I know him?” the king asked. He didn’t think he knew a Fingal Stewart.

“Nay, ye do not. Like ye, he descends from King Robert the Third through his elder son, David, whose bairn was born after that prince was killed and was protected by his mother’s Drummond kin. He was one of the first who swore loyalty to James the First when he returned from his exile. James the First gave his nephew a house in Edinburgh. The family are called the Stewarts of Torra because their house is near the castle beneath the castle rock. They have always been loyal without question, to James the Second and Third, and then to yer father, James the Fourth.”

“How do ye know all of this?” the king asked his mistress.

She laughed. “Fingal’s grandmam was a Munro. We’re cousins. He’s a good man, my lord. Honest and loyal to the bone. Tell him what ye want of him, and he will do it without question.” She gave him a quick kiss on his lips.

The king withdrew his hand from Janet Munro’s bodice and gently tipped her from his lap. “Send to yer cousin,” he said. “I am interested to meet this relation I never knew I had. If this Aisir nam Breug is all Ewan Hay claims it is, we cannot have it fall into the wrong hands.”
And it will provide me with a new source of income
, he thought to himself. A king could never have too much coin in his treasury.

Janet Munro curtsied, her claret red velvet skirts spreading out around her as she did. “Aye, my lord, I will do yer bidding,” she said. And then she left him.

Chapter 2

I
n the company of six of the king’s men-at-arms Janet rode to Edinburgh, going to the stone house with the slate roof that sat off the street known as the Royal Mile, below the walls of Edinburgh Castle. She had sent a messenger ahead, and Fingal Stewart was waiting for her. His serving man ushered her into a small book-filled chamber.

“I bring you greetings from yer cousin, the king,” Janet said, kissing his cheek.

“I wasn’t aware my
cousin
, the king, was even mindful of my existence,” Fingal Stewart said wryly. “And what, pray, my pretty, does he want of me? Sit down, Jan.”

“Today a border clansman came to him with an interesting tale,” Janet Munro began, seating herself as she spread her skirts about her. Then she went on to tell Fingal Stewart of Ewan Hay’s visit. When she had finished she said, “Neither Jamie nor I liked the fellow. He isn’t telling the whole story. It’s obvious the fool hopes the king will gift him with this old laird’s holding because this pass is said to be valuable.”

“And the heiress,” Fingal Stewart murmured. Land and a woman, he considered, were always the makings of a volatile situation. There would be wealth to be gained by whoever got the lass.

“Nay! He said he didn’t want the girl. He claimed she had refused his suit,” Janet Munro replied. “I think he lies. He wants the lass.”

“But his true interest lies in this Aisir nam Breug,” Fingal Stewart said slowly. “He would get the king to disinherit the lass who turned him away for his own benefit. A prince of a fellow indeed. But what has this to do with me?”

Janet shook her head. “I’m not sure, Fingal, but I believe the king would have you go into the border to reconnoiter the situation and bring him back the truth of the matter.”

“Why me?” Fingal Stewart was curious. Although he was Lord Stewart of Torra, he was but distantly related to the king. They had shared a thrice-great-grandfather, and the royal Stewarts had rewarded their small loyalty when James I came to the throne with their name, a title, and this undistinguished house. They were not wealthy, nor influential, and had no place among the court or the powerful. Fingal Stewart hired his sword out when he needed funds. His father had done the same.

The rest of the time he lived quietly, gambling with a few friends now and again and enjoying the favors of one of the town’s pretty whores for a night or two. His funds did not extend much beyond that. He had been decently educated, but he had no pretensions, for there were plenty of others bearing the name Stewart who kept him from thinking he was someone special. He wasn’t, and he didn’t want to be.

“The king wants someone not associated with him, but he also wants someone he can trust, Fingal,” Janet Munro told her cousin. “Ye are nae just his kin. Yer mine too.”

He thought a moment, and then grinned. “Aye, I am related to ye both. Maire Drummond gave David Stewart, Duke of Rothsay, heir to King Robert the Third, a son. She was enceinte with the bairn when Rothsay was murdered by Albany, so James the First followed his father after his exile in England.”

“The Drummonds protected the bairn whose mam died birthing him,” Janet said.

“And Albany was so busy with his plotting to supplant his nephew, he forgot all about the child who grew up, married an heiress, and sired two sons and two daughters before dying in his bed at the age of fifty-four,” Fingal said.

“Which of the sons do you descend from?” Janet asked, curious.

“The elder, who was christened Robert after his father. He had a son, David, who wed Jane Munro, and sired James, who sired me at the advanced age of fifty-six.”

“God’s mercy,” Janet exclaimed. “I did not know that! How old was yer mam?”

“Sixteen,” Fingal Stewart said. “She was the granddaughter of an old friend. Her entire family was wiped out in a winter plague. She had nothing, so she sent to my father, begging his help. There was nothing for it but to marry her, for she had virtually naught to bring any man for a dower. Even the church did not want her. I was conceived on their wedding night. My father wanted to be sure that my mother was safe if he died because, while he was hardly a wealthy man, he did have this house and a small store of coin with the goldsmith. He believed if they shared a child, none would dispute her rights. And she loved him, strange to say. She died when I was ten.”