Nor had Sir Joseph made provisions for the event, since he had expected Meg to be married as soon as he could find a wealthy man with more than usual courage to want to call him father-in-law. Not surprisingly, such men were not so thick on the ground, and others who had presented themselves had got short shrift from Meg, whose determination regarding such matters was every bit as great as her father’s.
‘Then we have little choice, Ebbie,’ said Meg. ‘Do we? I don’t like this situation at all, but nor do I like the idea of packing my bits and pieces on to a pack-pony and trudging up to some remote croft up the glen. I know my father has several manors here and there, but we’ve never upped and moved around several times a year as the English do, have we? I think he found it safer to stay put, and we’ve got to do the same, for Sam’s sake as well as our own. Besides, I’ll be damned if I’ll allow those ruffians to drive us out. Not that we’re being given much of a choice,’ she added in an undertone. ‘Arrogant hooligans!’
Used to Meg’s deceptive toughness, Ebony found some comfort in having that decision made for her. In the past, Meg had been her rock, a sister in every sense and far more resilient than her slight frame and delicately freckled features would suggest. Her nut-brown daintiness and gemstone eyes might have lured men into her orbit, but her tongue was as sharp as her dirk, her hand like the flash of a trout, and no man except her brother had held her thoughts for longer than the passing of a butterfly. Capable Meg; shocked by her father’s sudden abandonment, but thinking that it was typical of the man to give them so little warning.
‘Be sure to claim his signet ring, Meggie, won’t you?’ Ebony said, sliding a hand through Sam’s hair. Standing between her knees, he clung to her, pensive, and suddenly very still.
‘I’ve taken it already,’ said Meg. ‘It’s in my pouch. Here you are. You must have it and keep it safe for Sam. We don’t want anyone else putting his seal on things.’
Ebony took it and placed it in the pouch at her girdle. ‘He’d have been hunting on a morning like this, Meg,’ she said.
‘He would, and we’d have had the hall full of roaring stone-drunk men all night long, too. We’re going to change things here, Ebbie. And the first thing I’m going to do is—Oh, dear!’
‘What is it?’
‘I’m forgetting. You’re the mistress here, not me. As the young laird’s guardian, it’s for you to decide any changes.’
‘We’ll make joint decisions, Meg. Any changes will be made together. Now, shall we go down and see what’s to be done? There’s a funeral to arrange, for one.’
The young Laird of Kells spoke softly from her breast. ‘I can hear your heart beating, Mama. Does that mean you’re alive?’
‘Yes, my wee lad. It does. Go and listen to Aunt Meg’s and see if she is, too.’
He did, and she was.
The newest turn of events, however, placed a strain on both women, not least because of its uncertainty, and it occurred to both of them at intervals throughout the day that the only constant theme was change itself. Plans could only be short term; orders for provisions and accommodation had to be multiplied; commands issued by Meg and Ebony had to bypass new ones issued by Sir Alex or Master Hugh; men told to do this were taken off to do something else, and when Sam was needed for his usual hour’s rest he was nowhere to be found, nor was Biddie. Livid with anger, Ebony went to find him.
There was a wide patch of ground at the far end of the rambling castle wall that the men used for jousting and sword-practice. It had been levelled and fenced off, and had probably seen more young squires learning to ride than six-year-olds. Ebony’s anger was not lessened by the absence of Biddie, by the presence of Joshua and two assistants, and by Sir Alex himself. In fact, she saw their involvement with her property as a personal affront to her authority and would have said so there and then but for the danger of distracting Sam’s attention. Naturally, she felt that the pony, one of Sir Joseph’s pure-bred Galloways, was too big for him.
Sam’s performance in the saddle, or lack of it, was all that she could have predicted, had she been consulted, his enthusiasm and pluck being an inadequate defence against slithering sideways into the turf as the pony’s gait quickened. Her natural reaction was to rush to him, but her attempt to dive under the fence was prevented by Sir Alex’s arm that came like a tree-trunk across her, hauling her back. She pushed against him, twisting furiously, but Sam was up on his feet and ready for the next undignified tussle before the restraint was lowered.
‘Let me go to him!’ she snarled.
‘No! Stay out of the way. Stirrups, lad!’ he yelled at Sam.
Ebony winced as the child lurched and bounced yet again, far more pained than he at the demands they were making of him, and for his limitations about which she knew more than these men. ‘That’s enough!’ she said. ‘He’s tired. He’s had enough now.’
‘Leave him. They know what they’re doing.’
‘They don’t!’
‘Look at him. Look at his face. He’s loving it.’
Sam was grinning from ear to ear, his back like a ramrod as he listened to Master Joshua’s instructions. ‘Hands together. Sit down properly!’
‘I am…am doing,’ he panted.
‘You’re not doing. Sit up straight. Don’t pull or he’ll stop.’
‘Yes…yes!’
‘And keep your mouth shut. Speak with your hands and heels.’
He stayed in the saddle, dizzy with success, adoring Joshua and completely oblivious to his mother’s anxiety. ‘I did it!’ he yelled, seeing her at last. ‘I can do it, can’t I, Master Joshua?’
‘Bit more practice and we’ll get there,’ said Josh. ‘But don’t think you’ve finished, young man. You have to groom him now. Come on. A good rider looks after his mount.’ Winking knowingly at Ebony, he led the pony and rider away towards the stables.
Ebony still had reservations. ‘He’s getting overtired,’ she said, rounding on Sir Alex. ‘And what makes you think it’s appropriate to be doing this when his grandfather has just died? Is this the way to teach a child respect?’
The practice ground was deserted, but the angle between the wall and the castle tower provided greater privacy and, without answering her directly, he trapped her arm against his body and drew her, none too gently, into the seclusion of the corner. The wall was at her back, her feet unbalanced, her hands holding him at a distance; her attack turned all at once to defence.
This was not what she had come here for. Once more, her child had been taken beyond her control, nor was his enjoyment at issue. With the best of intentions, she had given this man an inch and he believed he could take a yard, and he had better be stopped before he assumed control of her, too. She fought him with a fury that reflected her desperation at the trap from which escape seemed increasingly impossible.
Her hand almost reached the dagger, but not quite. She bit at his hand, but only succeeded in grazing his knuckle with her teeth. She tried to knee him but he was ready for that, sidestepping into the space between her legs. She saw red. Squealing with rage, and with a violent twist of her body, she bent like a tensioned bow to release herself
