fog had become a soaking rain and she leaned against the kitchen door, weary, before making a final dash across the courtyard to the tower. The Tait sisters and the servant girl would help her clean up tomorrow, but she had yet to accommodate all of Carwell’s men. Six could sleep in the hall. The other five would have to share the large room on the top storey, but where would the warden sleep?
Rob was sleeping with the men so Johnnie and Cate could have the master’s room. That left only one bed.
Hers.
Pushing away from the door, she eyed the sack of oats where the Tait girl had dozed. It would make a good enough mattress, she supposed.
Rob’s voice and the familiar strains of the Brunson Ballad pulled her back. When he spoke, her brother was brief and gruff, but when he sang, his voice soared.
Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars,
Strong as the wind that sweeps Carter’s
Bar.
Sure-footed and stubborn, ne ’er danton
nor dun
That’s what they say of the band Brunson
Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man
Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man.
Inside the hall, the laughter had quieted. The rest were drifting off to bed. She leaned over to whisper in Carwell’s ear, ‘I’ve a place for you to sleep, if you’ll follow me.’
She spied a trace of weariness in his eyes as he rose and scolded herself, silently, regretting her tart tongue. He was two days’ ride from home and a guest in her house. She must give him no reason to complain of Brunson hospitality.
Opening the door to her room, she shivered. Thinking first of the guests, she had neglected to see to the fire. ‘It is a simple room,’ she said, kneeling to rekindle the flames. He was no doubt accustomed to tapestries and candles and pluckers of lutes. Well, Brunsons prided themselves on their prowess, not their possessions. ‘But I hope it will be satisfactory.’
‘This is your room,’ he said, still standing at the door.
‘Yes.’ She stood, dusting off her hands.
‘I won’t force you to give up your bed.’
‘Well, you’ll not be sharing it with me.’ Her eyes clashed with his.
‘I was not insulting you with that suggestion. Don’t insult me by suggesting I was.’
The words were sharp. Sharper than any she’d ever heard him say. So, it seemed the man did have a temper. And she had just the tongue to provoke it.
She looked down at the floor. That would have to serve as an apology. ‘Take the bed. You are a guest in my house.’
‘An uninvited one. I’ll join my men in the hall.’ He stepped into the corridor and smiled at her, as if to gloss over his previous words. ‘Rest well.’
She pulled down the bedsheets, surprised to see her hand shaking.
And outside the door, she heard what might have been a smothered curse.
When Bessie roused the newlyweds from bed the next morning to join Carwell’s meeting, their drowsy smiles hurt her heart. She hoped they had passed a wonderful night.
The rest of the day promised to be unpleasant.
They gathered with Rob and Carwell in the private area behind the public reception hall. In the centre of the room, a glowing brazier generated feeble protection against the cold.
Carwell looked as if he had slept no better than she.
‘King James,’ he began, ‘was forced to break off the siege against the Earl of Angus.’ Until only months ago, the earl, stepfather to the King, had also been the regent. Now he was the King’s worst enemy. ‘The King blames this defeat on the fact that the Brunson men he called for never arrived.’
She exchanged a quick glance with her brother John. The Brunson men had been doing more important things.
‘In addition,’ Carwell continued, ‘it has come to the ears of the King that Scarred Willie Storwick has disappeared. And may be dead.’
Johnnie and Cate exchanged uneasy glances. Bessie frowned, but bit her tongue. No doubt the King knew because Carwell himself had sent word.
‘No loss to either side of the border,’ Rob said, finally, ‘even if he was English. Would have been hanged long before if you had brought him to justice as you should.’
She expected an argument, or at least an explanation, but Carwell remained silent, his gaze steady. Heavy-lidded eyes gave him a calm look, but they also hid his expression. ‘The King, I am sure, would understand if someone, a Brunson, perhaps, had killed the man in self-defence.’
John shrugged.
Rob shook his head. ‘An attack is the best defense.’
Shush, Rob. But she held her tongue. His words were true enough, but not what the King, or Carwell, wanted to hear.
The warden did not hesitate. ‘Did you attack him?’
She held her breath. Her brother had near said as much.
‘I did not. Though if I had, I’d not be sorry.’
Carwell swung his gaze from Rob and let it rest on John. ‘Did you?’
Cate reached for her husband’s hand.
‘Storwick did not die by my sword,’ John said.
The warden nodded, as if he had known no explanation would be forthcoming. ‘So,’ Carwell continued, ‘can you explain how God, in his infinite wisdom, managed to kill the man?’
He paused, perhaps still hoping someone would. John kept his eyes on Carwell’s, not glancing at Rob or Bessie. Or Cate.
No one spoke.
Finally, John shrugged. ‘Who can fathom how God works his wonders?’
Bessie let out a breath, slowly. An accusation that could not be proven could always be denied. Carwell knew that as well as any of them. Better.
‘His death is a mystery,’ Rob said, ‘but the English dogs will come across the border soon enough to seek retribution. And we’ll need every Brunson man here when that happens.’
Bessie had no trouble deciphering Carwell’s fleeting look this time.
Anger.
‘Justice and punishment on this side of the border are my responsibility,’ Carwell said. ‘Not theirs.’
‘I wish you had remembered
