The dozen men followed Archie, several of them chuckling at the feisty little man as they entered the chamber. It was hardly an impressive room, but they knew from a servant of the king’s mistress that the man awaiting them was the king’s own kin. They stood in respectful silence waiting for whatever instructions this lordling would give.
Lord Stewart looked up. It was time to face his future. He took a deep breath and, rising from his chair by the small hearth, greeted the men-at-arms. “Good morrow, lads. Warm yerselves by the fire. We are almost ready to depart. Do ye know where we are going?” Lord Stewart asked the men.
The soldiers murmured in the negative.
“Choose a leader from among ye,” he told them. “I need one of ye in charge of the others. Be ready with yer choice when I return.” Then he left the hall to find Archie, who was just finishing packing up their possessions on the second floor of the house.
“They’re a rough-looking bunch,” Archie said as Lord Stewart entered his bedchamber. “I wonder if they’re to be trusted.”
Fingal Stewart shrugged. “We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?” he replied. Seeing his traveling garments laid out for him, he quickly stripped off the clothing he had worn to Linlithgow along with his leather boots. “I slept in a stable last night,” he said ruefully, sniffing the velvet doublet.
“It can be aired out,” Archie responded pragmatically. “I’ll pack it with some clove to overcome the scent of the king’s barn. Ye’ll not be wearing it until yer wedding day.” He carefully folded the garment and placed it with a few nails of the spice with the other clothing already in his master’s small trunk. Before closing the lid, Archie reverently laid his master’s plaid on top. Its background was green with narrow bands of red and blue, and slightly wider bands of dark blue. It was the ancient family tartan.
Fingal Stewart pulled on a pair of sturdy dark brown woolen breeks over his heavy knitted stockings, yanked his boots back onto his big feet, and pushed his sgian dubh into the top of the right one. The weapon had a piece of green agate sunk into its top, and its scabbard had Lord Stewart’s crest set in silver. He tucked his natural-colored linen shirt into the pants, fastened a leather belt about his waist, drew on a soft brown leather jerkin with buttons carved from stag horn, and picked up his dark woolen cloak. He looked to Archie. “Are we ready?” he asked his serving man.
Archie nodded. “The fires are all out in the house except in the hall.”
The two men left Lord Stewart’s chamber and descended back down into the hall where the men-at-arms now stood about the fire getting the last bit of warmth they could before their long ride. Archie went immediately to the hearth and began extinguishing the low flames and coals with sand from a bucket set near the fireplace.
“Have ye chosen a captain from among yerselves?” Lord Stewart asked them.
A man stepped from among them. He was almost as tall as Fingal Stewart. His features were rough-hewn, his hair a red-brown, his eyes, which engaged the taller man’s fearlessly, blue. He had a big nose that had obviously been broken once or twice. “I am Iver Leslie,” he said. “The lads have chosen me.” He gave a small but polite bow.
Lord Stewart nodded and offered his hand to Iver, who took it in a firm grasp and shook it. “You’ll ride next to me,” Fingal Stewart said. Then he brought Archie, who had completed putting out the fire, forward and introduced him. “This is Archie, my servant. Sometimes he will speak for me, so listen when he does, and obey him. He’s a wee bit of a fellow, but be warned he’s handy with both his fists and a knife.”
Archie nodded towards the men-at-arms, who nodded back. “There’s a bit of whiskey left in the keg at the end of the hall,” he said. “Drink it, or put it in yer flasks, while I get our horses, lads.” He grinned as they made a beeline for the keg; all but Iver remained by Lord Stewart’s side. Archie’s wise eyes spoke their approval of Iver.
“I’ll bring the beasts around to the front, my lord,” he said. Then he hurried from the hall.
“Go and get some whiskey for yerself,” Fingal Stewart said quietly.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Iver quickly went down the hall, and seeing him, his men made way for him. He filled his flask and came back to stand by Lord Stewart’s side. “May I ask where we are going, my lord? We were not told.”
“We are traveling into the Borders to a place called Brae Aisir,” Fingal Stewart said.
“I’m being sent to wed the old laird’s granddaughter, his only heir. The laird is Dugald Kerr, and with his English kin on the other side of the Cheviots, they control a passage through the hills called the Aisir nam Breug that for centuries has been used only for peaceful travel. King James wants to keep it that way. The laird’s neighbors have of late been showing signs of impatience, for the lass will not choose a husband, and if Dugald Kerr should die too soon, there is no male heir to look after this valuable asset.”
Iver nodded. “Aye, a lass canna guard such a treasure without a husband.”
“Yer not from the Borders,” Lord Stewart said.
“Nay, I come from a village near Aberdeen,” Iver informed his new master.
“Good! Then ye’ll have no loyalties but to me, and to the king,” Fingal Stewart remarked. “Are any among yer lot borderers?”
“Nay, I know them all, my lord. They all come from Edinburgh or Perth or somewhere in between. None are from the Borders,” Iver replied.
Lord Stewart nodded. “Tell them where we are going, and why. We are not invaders but the king’s representatives. I expect good behavior. Any man who can’t behave will face punishment at my own hand. I’m a fair man, and expect the truth from every mouth. I’ll not punish a man for the truth, but if I catch him in a lie, ’twill go hard on him. Do ye understand, Iver?”
“I do, my lord, and I’ll see the lads understand too. Might I ask if the laird is expecting us?”
“He is not, but the king believes he will welcome us nonetheless.”
“The king would know,” Iver replied pragmatically.
Archie returned. “I’ve got the horses, my lord.”
