His Border Bride. Blythe Gifford
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fingers. She raised her arm and Wee One took off, wings flapping, until she was just a speck overhead. There, she would wait, as she had been trained to do, until the humans sent her prey skywards.
Angus set the dog towards the bush, scaring the partridge into flight, where the bird expected to be away from danger, but the small dot in the sky dived for her prey, falling faster than a horse could gallop.
They stirred their horses and gave chase.
They were halfway down the valley by mid-afternoon. The bird had worked, tireless, through the day. She had several fine stoops, killing three fowl. Each time, Clare rewarded her with a taste of the flesh. Then, she whisked the prey into the sack for Angus to carry.
Food rewarded the falcon for a successful flight, but the bird was never allowed to eat without her master’s help. Otherwise, she would learn that she did not need the help of humans after all.
The last partridge escaped. Clare called her falcon with a shrieking whistle and smiled as Wee One swooped on to her fist, obedient.
This bird would return to her. Always.
At the thought, the list of duties left undone rushed back, sweeping away the freedom of the day.
She turned her horse around, motioning to Angus and Euphemia to follow her. The morning’s warmth had ebbed, and a chilly mist huddled in the valley and obscured the hills, reminding her of the dangers that lurked all around. The Inglis army might be far away, but the Inglis border was not.
That was her last thought before he rose out of the fog, a golden man on a black horse, like a spirit emerging from the mist.
A man without a banner.
A man without allegiance.
The hound barked, once, then growled, as if cowed.
The man’s eyes grabbed hers. Blue they were, shading as a sky does in summer from pale to deepest azure. And behind the blue, something hot, like the sun.
Like fire.
Any words she might have said stuck in her throat.
Next to her, Euphemia gasped, then giggled. ‘Where are you going, good sir?’
Clare glared at her. The girl was hopeless. They’d be lucky to get her married before she was with child.
‘Anywhere that will have me,’ he answered Euphemia, but his eyes touched Clare.
Her cheeks burned.
Beside her, young Angus drew his dagger, the only weapon he was allowed. ‘I will defend the ladies.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ The stranger’s smile, slow, insolent, was at odds with the intensity in his eyes. ‘That’s a handsome dirk and I’m sure you could wield it well against me, but I would ask that you not harm my horse.’
His tone was oddly gentle. Where was his own squire? ‘Who’s with you?’
‘No one.’
‘A dangerous practice.’ Did he lie? An army could hide behind him in this mist. Her fault. She had ridden out alone and unarmed and put them all at risk. ‘Don’t you know Edward’s army still rides?’
He frowned. ‘Do they?’
His accent confused her. It held the burr of the land closer to the sea, but there was something else about it, difficult to place. Yet over the hill, in the next valley, each family’s speech was different. He might be a Robson from the other side of the hill, scouting for one last raid before the spring, or loyal to one of the Teviotdale men who had thrown their lot in with Edward. ‘You’re not an Inglisman, are you?’
‘I have blood as Scots as yours.’
‘And how do you know how Scots my blood is?’
‘By the way you asked the question.’
Did her speech sound so provincial to Alain? She winced. She wanted to impress the visiting French knight, not embarrass him. ‘What’s your name, Scotsman?’
‘Gavin.’ He paused. ‘Gavin Fitzjohn.’
Some John’s bastard, then. Even a bastard bore his father’s arms, but this man carried no clue to his birth. No device on his shield, no surcoat. Just that unkempt armour that, without a squire’s care, had darkened with rust spots.
No arms, no squire. Not of birth noble enough for true knighthood, then.
‘Are you a renegade?’ On her wrist, Wee One bated, wings flapping wildly. Clare touched her fingers to the bird’s soft breast feathers, seeking to calm them both.
His slow smile never wavered. ‘Just a tired and hungry man who needs a friendly bed.’ His eyes travelled over her, as if he were wondering how friendly her bed might be.
‘Well, you’ll not find one with us.’
‘I didn’t ask. Yet.’
Did he think she’d offer to be his bedmate? She should not be talking to such a man at all. ‘Well, if you do, I’ll say you nae.’
‘I don’t ask before I know whether I’m speaking to a friend or an enemy.’
‘And I don’t answer before I know the same.’ Her voice had a wobble she had not intended.
‘Are you a woman with enemies?’
‘Three kings claim this land. We have more enemies than friends.’
‘Aye,’ he said, nodding, a frown carving lines in his face. He flexed his hand as if it itched to reach for his sword. ‘Who are yours?’
Her eyes clashed with his. She should have asked him first. Where was his loyalty? To the de Baliol pretender, recently dethroned? To David the Bruce, still held for ransom by the Inglis Edward? Perhaps he had lied about his blood and was Edward’s man himself.
Next to her, the young girl sighed. ‘This is Mistress Clare and I’m Euphemia and I have nae enemies.’
‘Euphemia!’ Was she batting her lashes? Yes, she was. ‘Do you want us to be killed?’
‘He wouldn’t do that. A knight is sworn to protect ladies, aren’t you?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him again, then turned to Clare. ‘Don’t treat him as an unfriend.’
‘If I do, it’s because I have a brain in my head.’
If she kicked the horse into a gallop, could she outrun the man? Not with Angus and Euphemia in tow and Wee One on her wrist.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘He looks like a dangerous ruffian, not a knight. He carries no markings and he’s wearing dirty armour with rust spots!’ The man, if he knew the maxims of chivalry, cared little for them.
Euphemia shrugged and turned to the man. ‘You’re not dangerous and dirty, are you?’
Something darkened his face before a smile waved it away. ‘Well, that may depend on how you mean the words, but I’d say Mistress Clare has a gift for judging character.’
He said it with no sense of outrage. No knight would allow his honour to be so challenged. Certainly Alain, epitome of French chivalry, would never let such a slight pass.
‘On whose lands do I ride, Mistress Euphemia?’ he asked.
‘Not Mistress. Just Euphemia,’ Clare said, refusing to elaborate. Disgrace enough that her father had shamed her dead mother by taking up with the widow Murine. Worse that he’d treated another man’s by-blow as his daughter. ‘And you’re on Carr lands.’
‘Held of who?’
‘Douglas,’ she answered. There, that declared their loyalties, but if she hadn’t told him, the girl would have.
She thought his shoulders relaxed, but she must have been mistaken. ‘It’s difficult not to be on Douglas lands