Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] Read online

  Chapter 1

  Scottish Borders, 21 April 1391

  The child’s scream shattered the morning stillness.

  Whipping her head toward the sound, which had come from a short distance away near the river Tweed, nineteen-year-old Lady Sibylla Cavers reined in the dapple-gray gelding she rode. Pushing back the sable-lined hood of her long, dark-green wool cloak, she listened, frowning, her eyes narrowed. For the first time since leaving Sweethope Hill House that morning, she wished she had brought her groom, but as the land from Sweethope Hill to the river belonged to the estate, she had not.

  She often rode alone, and having but recently recovered from an illness that had kept her in bed for a fortnight, she had wanted to savor her freedom.

  The scream came again and seemed closer.

  Spurring the gray, Sibylla rode toward the river until she saw through a break in the trees lining its bank a tiny, splashing figure a quarter mile to the west. Caught in the river’s powerful, sweeping spring flow, it moved steadily toward her.

  Without hesitation, Sibylla wheeled her mount eastward and urged it to a gallop, hoping it could outrun the river to the next ford. With hood bobbing and long, thick, red-gold plaits flying, she listened for more screams to tell her the child was still alive and help her estimate how fast the river was carrying it along.

  Her sense of urgency increasing with every hoofbeat, she leaned low along the gelding’s neck and urged it to go faster.

  The ford was not far, if it still was a ford. She knew only what she had gleaned about the Tweed during the princess Isabel Stewart’s eight-month residence at Sweethope. But her experience with other rivers warned her that even trustworthy fords that had remained so for years could vanish in a heavy spate, and tended to do so just when one most urgently needed to cross to the other side.

  At present, the Tweed was a thick, muddy brown color and moved swiftly, carrying branches, twigs, and larger items in its grip. Some distance to the east, she saw a long, half-submerged log that had snagged near the opposite shore just short of where the river bent southward. Branches with enough clinging dry leaves to look like spiky plumes shot off the log in all directions, making it easy to see. Other objects swept past it though, as the child would if she could not intercept it.

  The ford lay just ahead now with sunlight gleaming on water-filled ruts of the worn track approaching it. Although the river was higher than usual, hoofprints in the mud indicated that, not long before, horses had crossed there.

  Reining the gray to a trot and turning in fear that she would see nothing but churning water, she observed with profound relief that the child still splashed, albeit with less energy than before. Its strength was rapidly waning.

  At best, she would have only one chance to save it. Reaching the ford, she urged the gray into the water. The horse was reluctant, but she was an experienced horsewoman.

  She knew it was strong and reliable. Forcing it into the swift flow, wishing again that she had brought her groom, she discovered only when the gray was in nearly to its withers that the water was deeper than she had expected.

  Nevertheless, the horse obeyed, leaning into the river’s flow to steady itself.

  Keeping firm control of it, she fixed her eyes on the child, urging the gelding forward until the child was splashing directly toward them.

  When the little one was near enough, Sibylla resisted trying to grab one of the thin, flailing arms with her gloved hand. She grabbed clothing instead, praying the cloth would not tear as the water fought to rip the terrified child from her grip. The river thrust hard against the horse, eddying angrily around the already skittish beast.

  The child proved shockingly heavy and awkward to hold. Just as she thought she had a firm grip, the gelding shifted a foreleg eastward.

  The combination of the child’s waterlogged weight and the river’s mighty flow pulled the little one under the horse’s neck and forced Sibylla to lean sharply to retain her grip. Before she knew what was happening, she was in the icy water.

  Long practice compelled her to hold on to the reins. The startled horse, already struggling to return to firm ground, jerked its head up, nearly yanking the reins free. Sibylla’s skirts and heavy cloak threatened to sink her, and the combined forces of the river and the child’s weight dragged her eastward with a strength impossible to resist. Worse, the child had caught hold of her arm and, shrieking in its terror, tried to climb right up her.

  Sibylla let go of the reins and, submerging, used her left hand to release the clasp at the neck of her cloak as she tried desperately to keep the child’s head above her, out of the water, and find footing beneath her. The water filled her boots and thrust one off. She kicked the other one away.

  Although her feet had briefly touched bottom as she kicked toward the surface and the cloak’s weight vanished as the river swept it away, she could find only water under her now. Whatever had remained of the ford was behind them.

  Pulse pounding, trying not to swallow the cold, muddy water churning around them, Sibylla fought to breathe and to keep them both afloat. But the river, determined to keep them, swept them inexorably toward the sea.

  Simon Murray, Laird of Elishaw, returning from Kelso with his usual, modest tail of six armed men, had forded the Tweed sometime earlier on his way south to Elishaw. Having also heard the screaming child, he had turned back at once.

  By the time he and his men reached the riverbank, the screams were well east of them, but Simon easily spotted the frantically splashing child. Beyond, in the distance, he discerned through the shrubbery a lone rider in a dark-green cloak racing along the opposite bank. Whoever it was, with the river as high as it was, and the current as strong, that rider would need help.

  As Simon turned east, one of his men shouted, “M’lord, look yonder! There be another lad in the water!”

  Glancing back to see more splashes, Simon shouted, “You men do what you must to rescue him. I’m going after the other one. Hodge Law, you’re with me!” he added, singling out the largest and strongest of his men.

  Giving spur to his mount with mental thanks to God that he was riding a sure-footed horse of good speed, Simon followed the narrow, rutted track along the riverbank. Watching through trees and shrubbery as well as he could in passing, he tried to keep one eye on the child and the other on the green-cloaked rider.

  As he rode, he wondered how two bairns had ended up in the river. If they’d been playing on its banks, they wanted skelping—if they lived long enough. If not . . .

  Half of his mind continued to toy with possibilities as it was wont to do when faced with any problem. But as he drew nearer, he saw that the other rider was female and realized that, before, the shrubbery had hidden her flying plaits.

  Forgetting all else, he focused his mind on how he could aid her.

  When she forced her mount into the river at the ford where he and his men had crossed, he noted how nervous the beast was and how deftly she controlled it.

  As that thought crossed his mind, she leaned to grab the child racing toward her, and although he saw with approval that she grabbed the front of its garments rather than trying to catch a madly waving arm, he doubted that any female would be strong enough to hold on to it in such a current. She would have to let go.

  He spurred his horse again, his vivid imagination warning him what would happen split seconds before she fell in.

  She bobbed up straightaway, still gripping the child. But the current had both of them and was flowing fast enough to make him fear he could not catch up in time, let alone get ahead of them as he must if he were to help them.

  The woods lining the river were thicker where its course bent southward, but he knew it would bend east again half a mile later. He could shorten the distance by cutting across the field. Then, if the two could avoid drowning before he got to them, and if his horse could avoid putting a foot in a rabbit hole or worse . . .

  Sibylla held on to the child by sheer willpower. She resisted figh
ting the current, tried to relax, and put her energy into kicking and keeping her head and the child’s above water as she let the river carry them.

  She hoped she could keep her wits together long enough to think what to do, but the icy water made it hard to breathe, let alone to think. Although the child seemed lighter with the water bearing them both, she knew they did not have long to survive unless they could reach one of the river’s banks.

  Adventurous by nature, Sibylla had grown up at Aker-moor Castle, which boasted its own loch a short way to the west and the Ale Water to the east. Having likewise enjoyed the blessing of an older brother determined to teach her how to survive the commonest perils of Border life, and to look after herself, she was an excellent swimmer and had acquired the ability to remain calm in a crisis.

  She knew she could not successfully fight the child and the strong current, so to divert the child she commanded it to help them stay afloat.

  “Kick hard!” she shouted, managing to shift her grip to the back of its clothing near its neck. By floating the child on its back, keeping her right arm straight, and bending her wrist sharply, she could keep its head up while she paddled with her left hand. Her body shifted almost onto its side, but she found it easier to kick hard in that position with the child kicking its legs above hers.

  Desperation kept her going, and for a wonder, the water had pushed her skirts nearly to her hips, enough for the fabric to resist wrapping itself around her legs.

  Sibylla was tiring fast though, and knew she could not go on indefinitely. They had to find something that would float and to which they could cling.

  She could barely see where she was going, but she knew they were rapidly approaching the river bend. Without intent but because of the way she held the child and because she faced the south bank of the river, she had drawn close enough to it to be wary of nearby boulders poking their heads out of the water.

  Much as she wanted to feel firm ground beneath her again, it occurred to her that letting the river smash them into a boulder might kill them both.

  Telling herself sternly that such a collision was more likely to injure them than kill them, and that injury would be better than drowning, she tried to judge how safely she could ease them closer. Only then did she remember the half-submerged log.

  Debris in the water consisted mostly of branches, twigs, and other useless stuff, none of it large enough to provide support for them both.

  If she could grab the log, they could at least gain a respite. They might even manage to drag themselves out of the water if the log lay near enough to the shore.

  She had no doubt she could manage that feat for herself. But her grip on the child made everything else gruelingly awkward. Other than reminding the little one to kick, and muttering occasional brief encouragement as she fought to swim and to breathe, Sibylla had barely spoken.

  The child, too, was exhausting what energy it had left in kicking, and she knew she dared not waste her own lest she need it later.

  As a result, she did not even know yet which sex the child was.

  It was wearing thin breeks rather than a skirt, but its fragile bone structure seemed feminine, as did its willingness to obey her. Despite the attempt to climb up her when she fell in, a single stern command to kick hard and look for something they could grab to keep them afloat had been enough.

  Such simple trust in her made Sibylla determined not to give up. She had no illusions though. She had to get closer to shore for them to have any chance at all.

  When a break in the trees showed Simon he was a little ahead of the victims, he shouted at Hodge Law to stay near the river, to be at hand if they managed to make it to shore before the current swept them around the bend. Then he turned his horse to cross the open field, hoping to get farther ahead of them beyond the bend.

  He had ridden just a short way, however, when a shrill whistle made him look back to see Hodge waving frantically. As Simon wheeled his horse, he saw the big man thrust himself off his own mount and vanish into the shrubbery.

  Simon put his horse to its fastest pace, wrenched it to a halt near Hodge’s beast, and flung himself from the saddle. Following Hodge’s huge footprints through the shrubbery to the riverbank, he saw the big shaggy-haired Borderer trying to step onto a half-submerged log with a multitude of dead branches thrusting from it.

  Seeing the sodden, bedraggled woman clinging to a branch and the child clinging to the woman, Simon said, “Take care or you’ll end in the river with them!”

  “I’ll no be going aboard it, m’lord,” Hodge said. “The blessed log be so unstable I’m afeard me weight will dislodge it from what’s keeping it here.”

  “Will it take my weight?” Simon asked as he drew near enough to see for himself that the log rocked like a ship at sea.

  “I’m thinking I could hold it steady enough for ye,” Hodge said. “Like as not, though, ye’ll get a dousing.”

  “I won’t fall in,” Simon said, noting that the woman had not spoken or even tried to push away the heavy strands of muddy hair that obscured most of her face.

  She was shivering, clearly exhausted and using the last dregs of her energy to hang on. The child, too, looked spent. But although its arms were around the woman’s neck, it seemed to have sense enough left not to choke her.

  He moved up by Hodge, who held on to a stout branch. The log looked like part of a good-sized tree, but it lay too far from shore for him to step onto it. He’d have to leap, and the damnable thing was bound to be slippery.

  But if anyone could hold it steady, Hodge could. “Mistress, heed me,” Simon said as he shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a nearby shrub. “I am going to jump on that log whilst my man holds it steady. When I do, I’ll take the lad from you first. Can you hang on a while longer?”

  “I shall have to, shall I not?” she murmured, still barely moving.

  “Have faith,” he said more gently. “I won’t let the river have you. Hold fast now, Hodge. Don’t let the damnable thing get away when I jump.”

  “I’ve got it, sir.”

  The woman looked up as Simon set himself to leap, her eyes widening.

  They were an odd grayish brown, matching the muddy water. Her plaits and the loose strands that concealed so much of her face—soaked through as they were and doubtless painted with mud—were a similar color. Her lips were blue.

  Despite her bedraggled appearance, she seemed familiar. He wondered if she resided on one of the estates near Elishaw.

  Shifting his mind to getting safely on the log, he put one hand on a sturdy branch, picked a flattish spot as the best place to land, and leapt.

  The log was indeed slippery, but he kept his balance by grabbing a strong-looking upright branch. Holding it with his left hand, he bent toward the child, saying, “Reach a hand up to me, lad. I’ll pull you out.”

  The child shook its head fervently, clinging tighter to the woman.

  “Come now, don’t be foolish!” Simon said curtly. “Give me your hand.”

  “Obey him,” the woman said quietly. “He will not harm you or let you fall.”

  “Them others t-tried to hurt us,” the child said, teeth chattering. “S-sithee, they said they was j-just drowning puppies. But them puppies was us!”

  “His lordship only wants to help us get out,” the woman said as calmly as before. “I’m gey cold, and I know you are, too. We must get warm.”

  “Come, lad,” Simon said, forcing the same calm firmness into his own voice.

  “Me name’s Kit,” the little one said. “And I’m no a lad.”

  Stifling his shock that anyone would throw such a wee lassock into a river to drown, Simon said in a gentler tone, “Come now, reach up to me, lassie. I want to have you out of there so I can help the kind woman who rescued you. You do not want her to freeze hard like a block of ice, do you?”

  Biting a colorless lower lip, Kit obeyed him, and as he grasped her little arm, he warned himself to be careful. As stick-thin as she was,
he feared her arm might snap in a too-tight grip.

  Balancing himself and trusting Hodge to keep the log as still as possible, he braced a knee against the upright branch and squatted. Then he used both hands to lift the child. Despite her sodden state, she seemed feather light.

  “There now,” he said as he held her close. “Not so bad to be out, is it?”

  She was silent, staring over his shoulder at the large, shaggy man behind him.

  “That’s Hodge Law,” he said. “He only looks like a bear, lassie. He’ll be gey gentle with you. I’m going to turn now and hand you across to him.”

  “I’ve me cloak ready for her, m’lord,” Hodge said, reaching to take the child as Simon leaned out as far as he could and handed her across to him.

  Turning back to the woman, Simon saw that she had begun to ease her way to the end of the log. “Be careful, mistress,” he warned. “That current is deadly.”

  “You need not tell me that, sir,” she said in a harsh, croaking voice. “I’ve been its captive now for what seems like hours.”

  “Not as long as that,” he replied. “I saw you fall, and I’d wager you were in no more than five minutes, mayhap ten by now.”

  She gave him a sour look, and the sense of familiarity increased. He had been wrong about her being from a tenant family, though. Her manner of speech revealed considerably higher birth. In any event, he wanted her out of the water.

  Hodge was trying to shift wee Kit under his cloak without letting go of the log, and Simon realized with growing concern that they had no idea how long the child had been in the water before they had heard her scream.

  The log tipped precariously, making the woman gasp. Simon said, “I’m getting off, Hodge. I’ll hold the log whilst you wrap that bairn up. As thin as she is, it will amaze me if she does not sicken from this ordeal.”

  “Aye, sir,” Hodge said, firming his grip on the branch he held until Simon was ashore and then relinquishing it to give his full attention to warming the child.

  That they had not seen the second child go by gave Simon hope that his lads had plucked it from the water, too. It occurred to him that although Kit had said “us,” revealing knowledge that the villains had thrown someone in besides herself, she seemed unconcerned about the fate of her companion.