at night, to take him hot possets and sleeping-draughts, or to show him the gentler intellectual skills. That, he said, was what the women were for.
There had been many times when she had longed to escape from Galloway, from Sir Joseph’s crudeness, his swearing and unacceptable bad manners, his rough friends who overstayed their welcome. She had asked to be allowed to go, many times, and had been refused permission. Where would she go to? Sir Joseph had bellowed at her. Who indeed? Lady Jean Nevillestowe, her mother, had disappeared in the same year as Sir Joseph’s wife, though her destination had been harder to place. Two years ago, Scottish reivers had broken into her beautiful home in Carlisle, terrorised her servants, stolen everything they could carry and abducted her, too. After which there had been conflicting accounts of Lady Jean’s willingness or unwillingness to be abducted, though only the most ungenerous critic could blame her, an extremely attractive and wealthy widow. The fact that no ransom had been demanded for her release suggested that whoever was holding her had no intention of selling her back.
Ebony had worried constantly, but Sir Joseph would not allow her to take Sam to Carlisle, and she dared not go without him. Since 1317 she had had no word of her mother or her whereabouts, and the guilt of not being able to communicate weighed as much as death itself.
Pushing herself away from the cool draughts of night air, she closed the shutters at last, drawing her mind back to more immediate dangers. She had made constant enquiries about who these raiders could be, where they had come from, who had seen them arrive, but the wounded men knew nothing of any consequence apart from agreeing that they certainly knew what they were doing. More non-committal replies came from the household servants who seemed too relieved to venture any curses upon them. Her main concerns, however, were for Meg in a lonely vigil with only her maid and chaplain to aid her. Had she herself not been involved in this foolish talk of escapes, she would have been free to offer her comfort.
As she undressed, thoughts of the day’s happenings jostled through her mind, reminding her of the shameful things she had hoped to suppress. She slipped her small dagger under her pillow and, so that she would be able to locate it accurately, she sent her hand several times to seek it in the dark, just in case.
Being deserted by both Biddie and Sam at the same time took some getting used to, and for a long time she lay exhausted but too concerned to sleep as she listened to Biddie’s gentle snores, to the hoots of an owl and its mate. There were still nights when she longed for Robbie’s arms, yet there was self-reproach too that her yearning ought to have endured longer, been more loyal, more specific. Lately, she had begun to question whether their loving had contained all the ingredients of a lasting passion, and why, if she craved his loving warmth, was she unable to recall the details of his body or remember how she felt at the moment of his release.
At first, he had been before her whether waking or sleeping, always gently adoring. More recently, her need for a man’s arms and kisses was so strong that she could scarcely tell whether it was Robbie who called to her or whether it was her own body crying out to be reminded of what it was missing, some of which she had never experienced. No man had held her since her loss, except for today, nor had she wanted one to except in the deepest seclusion of the night when the vibrations came silently to overpower her with a craving that left her trembling, ashamed and weeping.
Her first half-sleep was broken and confused by a blur of remorseless questions without answers, most of them concerning a large and commanding figure that stalked into each jumbled scene, restraining her, taking her offer with a staggering self-assurance. It would mean no more to him than some light relief on his journey, a trophy to flaunt after a successful raid. But vague notions of what this threatened intimacy would mean to her were, in the darkness of her longings, not as clear-cut as she had made them sound at the time of her bargaining, and then there was little more than a token sign of those sacred memories of Robbie as they became alarmingly confused with indecent curiosity.
Barely inside the boundaries of sleep, a warmth spread comfortingly across her back. Was it Sam? Or Biddie? Or Robbie? His knees tucked beneath hers, curving her into his lap and cradling her into a deeper sleep. Later, she turned and felt her head being lifted gently to rest in the crook of his shoulder, pulled closer to his body, enfolded by his warm arms with her naked breasts against his chest, her hair lifted away, her forehead brushed by his lips. As it had so often done, her leg moved over to rest on top of his, and she heard her breathing change to the ragged gasps of craving that invariably left her desolate, alone, and whimpering in her sleep. This time, however, his comfort stayed with her until a peace came to replace the dream without waking her.
Chapter Three
As far as Brother Walter was concerned, it was never too late to pray for a lost soul. His droning continued until a discreet cough from Mistress Meg Moffat brought his lengthy litany to an end and he rose from his knees at the side of Sir Joseph’s peaceful body, closing his book.
Meg gave him a moment to collect himself. ‘I’d better allow the men in to remove Sir Joseph to the winter hall,’ she said. ‘They’ve been waiting for some time, and we must start the day, brother.’
‘Yes, of course, mistress. Let them come.’
The initial shock of Sir Joseph’s death just after midnight had left Meg bewildered with conflicting thoughts of relief, guilt at her relief, and some trepidation about having the castle overrun by raiders at this most inconvenient time. Grief was no doubt somewhere on her list, but so far she had not come across it, and Janet’s sobbing was too soon for Meg’s liking. ‘Do stop it, Janet,’ she said. ‘I know you’re overwrought, but Sir Joseph would not have recovered, you know. Brother Walter warned us of that. He’s at peace now, and so are we.’
Dame Janet sniffed, blinking at the stark truth. She was well padded, white-haired, and wearing a white wimple like a clothes-line in a high wind and a woebegone expression that reflected a deep sensitivity rather than a general misery. Much of her shyness stemmed from being a middle-aged, physically unattractive spinster in a household of males, the head of whom had delighted in making her the butt of his jests.
Meg would have nothing to do with forced emotions. She flung her long mane of chestnut hair behind her and signalled to the men to come in, the steward, the reeve, the chamberlain, and Sir Joseph’s elderly valet, all of them strong enough to bear a corner each of the makeshift stretcher.
‘My condolences, Mistress Meg,’ the tall stately chamberlain said. ‘We’ll tak care o’thengs, dinna ye fash yersel. Leave him tae us.’
‘Yes, Master Morner, I will, thank you. I don’t know what will happen now. Those men are supposed to be leaving today. Did they get whatever it was they came for?’
‘Weel, they’re combing through the cellars already. I had to gi’ ’em the keys. Yesterday they went through the stables like watter through a spoot. He’d not be best pleased if he knew, wouldn’t Sir Joseph.’
‘Then it’s just as well he doesn’t, Master Morner. Still, what are they after? Lady Ebony tells me they’re looking for information.’
‘There’s enough stuff in the cellars to keep ’em happy for a year or so, but they’ll need more pack-ponies than we’ve got to carry it all away wi’ ’em. I expect they’ll ask us aboot the trading Sir Joseph does.’
‘Is that what they’ve come for, d’ye think?’
‘I wouldna be surprised, mistress.’ He took a corner of the stretcher and, with a mighty heave, hauled the large body off the table, manoeuvring him away with grunted directions through the door.
Balefully, Dame Janet watched him go. ‘Shall I go and tell Lady
