Whence Came a Prince (20 page)

Duncan brought him a mottled-faced ewe. “Yer first o’ the simmer, Jamie. Gie her a go.”

Aware of Duncan’s observing him, Jamie gamely slipped his left thumb into the sheep’s mouth and swung her toward him, lowered her to the ground, then pressed his knee against her back. “Lie still, lass. I’ll not hurt you.” He gripped the shears firmly lest they spring out of his hand and slowly worked his way round her fleece—chest, shoulder, head, neck, side, belly, flank, backbone. “Well done,” he praised her, straightening for a moment. Then he bent to start down the other side, taking care not to pull on her ear too tightly when he sheared her neck.

“Ye’ll do,” Duncan said lightly, but Jamie heard the pride in his voice.

He finished quickly, then shook out the fleece, held together only by the natural interweaving of the fibers. After clipping off the dung tags and picking out the worst of the grass and debris, Jamie turned in the sides, rolled up the fleece, then pulled and twisted the neck wool to form a rope, tying the whole of it together. The other lads had finished two in the time he’d taken to do one, but his fleece was just as neatly bundled.

Rab eyed his work. “Mebbe ye’d care tae make the rounds wi’ us, Mr. McKie. We could use anither guid hand at shearin’ time.”

Jamie laughed, knowing it was naught but jest, yet glad for the compliment. “You ken I’m not fast enough.”

Rab shrugged. “Ye’re the fastest
gentrice
I’ve e’er seen wi’ a pair o’ shears.”

“Aye,” the other lads chimed in as Duncan gave him a broad wink.

Smiling to himself, Jamie had begun sweeping clean his corner of the work area before tackling a second sheep when a woman’s voice carried across the steading. “Jamieee!”

He looked up, putting his broom aside, as Rose and Leana advanced toward him, clearly on some mission with Ian. Their cotton gowns swayed as they walked across the gravel-strewn grass, both women smiling at him from beneath their broad straw hats.

“Mistress McKie.” Rab grinned at his old friend, then bowed his head. “And Miss McBride, guid tae see ye hame at Auchengray.” The other herds, their hands full of fleece, could neither bow nor tip their caps but offered their greetings as politely as they could.

“We’ve brought Ian to watch his father shear,” Rose explained, holding the boy up. She nodded at Leana’s linen-covered basket. “And meat pies so you won’t refuse us.”

Jamie was none too pleased at the thought of the two women gauging his skills. “You’ll watch me once, and then you’ll go. The pies can stay.”

Rose propped Ian on top of a dry stane dyke worn smooth from years of rain, then folded her arms round him with a happy sigh, waiting for the performance to commence. Leana stood next to them, her hand resting on Rose’s shoulder, her smile enigmatic.

“I’m hardly an old hand at this,” Jamie grumbled, motioning to Duncan to bring him another ewe. When the lads all stood back to watch, he jutted his chin out at them. “There’s naught to see but a grown man wrestling a frightened sheep.”

“That sounds most entertaining,” Rose teased him, and the others laughed, vexing Jamie even more.

“If I nick this ewe, you’ll have yourselves to blame.” When Duncan released the animal and stepped back, Jamie exhaled slowly, then smoothed his hand over the sheep’s thick fleece, hoping to calm them both. “Steady now.” As with the first one, he brought her carefully to the ground, straddled her middle, then started in with his shears, ignoring all but the task before him.

When Duncan spoke, though, he heard him clearly. “Ye’re a guid shepherd, Jamie. Yer sheep ken yer voice.”

Jamie felt his shoulders relax and the shears move more surely through the fleece. He had no need to impress anyone. Only the work mattered and the careful tending of his flock.

“Not mony lairds will try their hand at shearin’,” Davie said by way of encouragement. “Though King David was a herd, was he not?”

“He was.” Jamie shifted his position, halfway done. “But he didn’t have to raise Scottish blackface.” The men laughed in agreement. Blackface were a hardy breed but curious and not easily intimidated. Jamie looked up long enough to catch Rab’s eye. “I’ll be glad to have your help come Lammas. Yours and Davie’s.”

Both young men nodded. “Mr. Hastings has arranged it,” Rab assured him. “We’ll be blithe tae see ye hame wi’ yer lambs.”

“How mony will ye be takin’?” Davie asked, eying the lambs that dotted the hills.

“Twenty score. We’ll be tallying them again this week, just to be certain.” Jamie stood, releasing the newly shorn sheep. The ewe bleated, shook herself, then found her way to a grassy spot that hadn’t been grazed since last week’s rain. Jamie took a small bow. “There you are, Ian, my good lad. A shorn sheep.”

The women clapped, and so did Ian. “Well done, master shepherd,” Rose called out, obviously pleased with him. She looked ripe as a peach, round-cheeked and sweet. Leana’s face was not so round, but he could not deny she looked bonny as well with her fair hair loosely gathered at the nape of her neck.

Duncan returned and poked his shepherd’s crook in Jamie’s side. “As our Laird himself said, ‘How much then is a man better than a sheep?’ ”

“Much better.” Rose lifted Ian from his stony seat.

“Far better,” Leana agreed, extending her basket along with a diffident smile. “And you’ll not have to nibble on grass for your dinner, Jamie. Neda has sent her best pies.”

Jamie’s chest tightened.
Is that why you’ve come, lass? To see me fed?
He nodded at the stone dyke, then pressed his forearm to his damp brow, avoiding her gaze. “Kindly leave them there.”
Please, Leana.
He did not know what he wanted her to do or say. He only knew that seeing her again affected him in ways he could not fathom.

“Until this evening, Jamie,” Leana murmured, moving away from him.

When he looked up, he saw that both sisters had turned toward home, swinging Ian between them, making the boy deliriously happy. Jamie turned away, vowing to think of something other than the McBride sisters. “Come, lads. Shearing awaits.” He gestured to the herds. “Three score, and then dinner.”

Spurred on by the promise of Neda’s good food, the men worked steadily, some moving sheep, others shearing them and stacking the fleeces in neat rows as they went. The sun had hardly moved from its perch high above the horizon when they stopped to enjoy their well-earned dinner in a cool spot against the side of the barn.

While they ate, Duncan dug out a worn piece of paper and a stub of coal from his pocket. “I’ve been tallyin’ yer spotted lambs as we go, Jamie. The count seems a bit low.”

Jamie swallowed his last bite of pigeon pie with difficulty. “How low?”

Duncan grimaced. “ ’Til we’ve gathered up a’ the sheep, I canna be certain, but I’ve counted less than ten score. O’ yers, that is. Yer uncle’s lambs
wi’oot
the spots number nigh to fifteen score sae far.”

Jamie brushed the crumbs from his hands harder than necessary. “We’ll see how the count looks in the morn. For now, we’ve sheep to shear and no time to waste worrying.”

But he
was
worried. All afternoon in the sheepfolds and that evening at supper and later with Rose and over breakfast with Duncan, Jamie reviewed the various flocks in his mind. Two score in this pasture. Thirty on that hill. Another score in the glen. Though sheep were rotated from one pasture to the next, it had only been a week since he’d marked them. And while full-grown sheep were known to clamber over dykes looking for greener pastures, lambs usually stayed with the flock.

Tuesday’s numbers were even more alarming. Duncan showed Jamie his scribbled notes. “Eleven score o’ yer lambs, Jamie. Three
hunder
and fifty o’ yer uncle’s. And twa dogs are missin’ as weel.”

By the end of the count on Wednesday, the verdict was clear: One
hundred lambs—five score—were gone, all of them spotted. All of them Jamie’s.

There was no explanation but the obvious one: His lambs had been stolen.

Rab Murray frowned as he ran his hands through his hair, shaking out bits of wool. “Sheep stealing is an
ill-kindit
business, Mr. McKie. I dinna ken wha would do sic a thing. ’Tis a sad day at Auchengray, tae be sure, when
reivers
come tae call.”

Jamie paced back and forth, absently jabbing a rag between his fingers to get rid of the wool grease. “But why
my
lambs and not my uncle’s?”

“Yers were the closest tae the road.” Duncan poked the tally into his pocket. “And if ye’re stealin’ a man’s sheep, ye’d want them a’ marked alike.”

“Folk will think ’tis the blackguard’s own flock,” Davie added, plainly disgusted. “A Sassenach, I’ll warrant ye, up from Carlisle or there aboot.” Grunts of agreement were exchanged. The English had a well-deserved reputation for crossing the border and running off with sheep, cattle, and, not so long ago, brides.

“They come at daybreak or at the gloamin’,” Rab said, “whan the herds are off the hills and the roads are lanelie. It doesna take but twa men wi’ dogs tae gather five score and spirit them
awa.
”

“Och!” Jamie threw his rag to the ground. “Can nothing be done?”

“Ye’ll want tae report it, o’ course.” Rab glanced at the others. “We can see wird gets tae the other farms. Might spare anither shepherd yer sorrow.” He spread out his hands. “I wish I could do mair for ye, Mr. McKie.”

“You’ve done a fine job shearing, which is more than enough.” Jamie extended his hand to each man, noting the sympathy in their eyes. “ ’Til Lammas, then.” The lads were paid and sent on to Troston Hill Farm, where Alan Newall was expecting them.

Duncan stood beside him, watching them climb over the braes. “After dinner we’ll move yer lambs closer tae the mains. Awa from the pastures by the road and weel up onto the hills.” He threw his arm round Jamie’s shoulders. “Fifteen score is still a fine flock.”

Jamie’s head slumped forward. “ ’Tis my fault.” They were his lambs, his responsibility. How could he have been so careless? “I fear I’ve been … distracted of late. Too much on my mind.”

“Too mony lasses, ye mean.” Duncan released his hold on him with a slight shake. “ ’Tis hard havin’ yer old
luve
and yer new wife under the same roof.”

The last thing he wanted to discuss was Leana. Not when he couldn’t sort out his feelings enough to name them. Turning on his heel, he started toward the house. “We’d best tell my uncle. You ken he’ll not be pleased.”

Duncan caught up with him, matching his lanky stride to Jamie’s. “ ’Tis not yer fault. Dinna let the man tell ye
itherwise.
”

They found Lachlan in the spence reading Bunyan’s
Holy War.
He put aside his book and waved them toward the chairs. “You’ve finished with the shearing, then?”

“We have.” Jamie was too agitated to sit and grasped the high back of a chair instead. “We also did a count of my lambs. Five score are missing, Uncle. Stolen.”

Lachlan reached for his dram of whisky. “Are you certain of this? ’Tis a serious charge.”

“Thar’s nae
dout
, sir.” Duncan shifted his stance. “Five score and twa o’ the dogs.”

Lachlan said nothing for a moment, his mouth hidden behind the small glass as he emptied its contents. “I’ve been to Arbigland this week for a meeting of the society. Considering what’s happened here, you might jalouse one of the topics of conversation.”

Duncan’s shoulders slumped. “Reivers.”

“Aye, just that.” Like other improvement-minded landowners in the parish, Lachlan had joined the Society for the Encouragement of Agriculture, which met at William Craik’s vast estate on the Solway. “There’s been talk of men with sheepdogs roaming the countryside in the gloaming, gathering a small flock here, a few strays there. How many of my own lambs are gone?”

“A’ o’ yer lambs are accounted for,” Duncan told him. “Only Jamie’s were taken.”

Lachlan looked genuinely distressed at the news. “Then ’tis only right you claim some of mine, Jamie. Fifty lambs, to even our flocks.”

“Nae, ’twould not be fair,” Jamie said quickly. Too quickly. His uncle seldom made so generous an offer. “This is not your doing. ‘The L
ORD
gave, and the L
ORD
hath taken away.’ ”

“ ‘Blessed be the name of the L
ORD
,’ aye?” Lachlan nodded. “Wise is the man who kens such a truth.”

Jamie stepped back from the chair, only now noticing his greasy clothes reeking of sheep. Since little else could be done, he would wash the filth off his body and the stench of deceit from his nostrils. Whoever had managed this dark deed would not come through the parish again. His lambs were already butchered and the tender meat sold to English cooks.

Discouraged, Jamie started for the door. “I shall see you at dinner, Uncle. Though I’ll not have much appetite.”

“Pity.” Lachlan reached for his decanter of whisky. “Neda has prepared one of your favorite dishes. Roast lamb.”

L
eana knelt at the foot of the kitchen garden, her knees sinking into the ground wet with morning dew. After a week at Auchengray she still was not sleeping well. The moment the first light of day illuminated the edges of her curtains, Leana sat up on her heather mattress, any hope of sleep vanished. Whether the babe inside was the reason or the approach of Midsummer Eve lengthening the days, she could not say. Perhaps ’twas the emptiness of her box bed. And the nearness of Jamie.

“Nae,” she cried softly, plunging her garden spade into the earth. She would
not
think of Jamie.

Better to think of the potatoes she’d diligently planted in March. Leana dug out one after another, brushed off the dirt, and dropped them into the wicker basket beside her. Some of them were enormous, twice the size of her fist, others badly misshapen. By the time Neda boiled and mashed them for potato scones, it hardly mattered.

A wispy mist clung to the earth, muting the sounds from the steading and curling Leana’s hair round her face. From the bramble bushes came the sweet, flowing song of a shy garden warbler, a plain bird that spent the summer at Auchengray before disappearing on September’s first chilly morning. A tiny brown wood mouse scurried across the upturned soil, bound for some sleeping spot for the day. Their quiet company soothed her as she worked, reminding her of the One who made them all.