“Ah, sir, I passed through Leith recently. Word had just come that the king visited the court of the Duke of Vendôme in disguise. Despite her great dower, ’tis said he found the lady deformed and crippled. He left the duke’s household quickly without making an offer for the lass. He has, it is said, fallen in love with Princess Madeleine, King François’s daughter. It is reported she is a bonnie lass. The king offered for her, and the betrothal has been made. The marriage will be celebrated in January at the great Cathedral of Our Lady in Paris. We’ll have a new French queen when the king brings her home,” the peddler said, pleased to have been able to deliver this news to Brae Aisir.
But he had also gained some excellent gossip to pass on to the Netherdale Kerrs. It would gain him a night’s lodging and a few meals in their hall on the morrow when he had traveled through the Aisir nam Breug. While he had told his tale standing before the high board, he had not, of course, been invited to be seated there. He was, after all, only a humble peddler. He had sat below the board with a trestle full of men-at-arms. It was there he had learned that the heiress to Brae Aisir’s bridegroom was a cousin of King Jamie himself and had been sent by the king to wed Mad Maggie Kerr.
The contracts, he was told, had been signed weeks ago, but the couple had not yet bedded because Lord Stewart had yet to fulfill the famous challenge issued by the bride that was known throughout the Borders. The challenge was to take place on December fifth. The peddler wished he had an excuse to remain at Brae Aisir so he might relate firsthand what transpired. Looking at Fingal Stewart, however, he already knew. The man stood at least eight inches taller than the lass. He was muscled and in prime condition. If he couldn’t outrun, outride, and outfight Mad Maggie Kerr, he didn’t deserve to bed her.
The next day, however, dawned cold and rainy. The old laird invited the peddler to remain until the weather cleared. He accepted. He was in no hurry for he was on his way home to Carlisle where he would spend the winter months with his wife making another bairn. The peddler had plans. One day he intended to open a shop in the town, and it would be his sons he sent out to spend the spring, summer, and autumn months on the road while he remained behind in his shop. Word that he was in the keep had spread to the village. The women came to purchase ribbons, threads, needles, pins, and the fine lace trim he was known to carry. It turned into a profitable day, and when the peddler departed the following morning, he was in an excellent mood. The day might be cold, and the north wind had begun blowing, but he had a plump purse, and his wife was waiting for him at the end of his journey.
It took him the daylight hours to ride through the pass, leading his pack horses behind him. But as a weak sun was setting, he came in sight of Netherdale Hall where he was warmly welcomed by Lord Edmund. “Let me eat first, my lord, and then I shall bring you all the news I have gathered along my way,” the peddler said. “I have some that will be of particular interest to you.”
“Eat,” Lord Edmund Kerr said, curious, but hardly anxious. The peddler was an unimportant fellow, but amusing, and the quality of his merchandise was excellent. “News of King James, I expect,” he said.
“Aye, and of the Kerrs of Brae Aisir,” the peddler replied as he dug a spoon into the wooden trencher of hot rabbit stew.
Lord Edmund raised an eyebrow but remained silent. To appear eager would make him look foolish. He would wait for the fellow to eat his meal. An imperceptible nod of his head brought a servant to fill his goblet. He sipped it slowly, thoughtfully, as he waited to learn the latest news. Had his cousin Dugald died? He doubted it. The old man for all his frailty was going to outlive them all.
Edmund Kerr had lived a half century. He had buried two wives. The first had given him six sons and three daughters. The second had borne three sons before she died in childbed with a sickly daughter. He was a handsome man with nut-brown hair just now being sprinkled with flecks of silver. He had the hazel eyes so many of the Kerrs on both sides of the border had. He stood six feet in height and was stocky with his age. And while he had a very satisfactory mistress, he wanted another wife.
Dugald Kerr would have to wed his granddaughter sooner than later. And who better to husband the wench than Edmund Kerr? He might even get a son or two on her, for a woman without children was prone to mischief. He had fathered several bastards. His mistress, Aldis, had given him a fine little daughter just a few months back. With nine legitimate sons to his credit, a new female child was more than welcome.
As for Maggie Kerr, his niece, he had seen her several times. She was a beauty, and his cock tightened in his breeks just thinking about her. A strong lass, she would make a fine wife for a man entering his old age—a young wife just like the king’s, he thought. But more important was that she was the heiress to Brae Aisir. That he was her uncle and that the Church might object meant nothing to him. She was only his half sister’s child. He would have the lass no matter. When he wed her, the Aisir nam Breug would belong to him. He would use this new power to his own advantage.
The peddler finished his meal and, rising, went to stand before Lord Kerr’s high board. He recounted all the gossip about King James while all in Netherdale Hall listened. Then clearing his throat, he delivered the newest tidbit in his arsenal. “The heiress to Brae Aisir has a husband,” he said.
Edmund Kerr grew pale and then flushed with anger. “Say on, peddler,” he commanded the man in a hard, tight voice.
“One of the lass’s rejected suitors went to the king, complaining. ’Tis thought he believed King Jamie would order his marriage to Mad Maggie to protect the Aisir nam Breug. Instead, the king sent his cousin, Lord Fingal Stewart, instructing him to wed the lass, and take charge of the pass himself. Though he has not bedded her yet, the contracts making them man and wife were signed weeks ago,” the peddler concluded.
“How do ye know he hasn’t bedded her?” Lord Edmund asked.
“The old laird has insisted Lord Stewart meet the conditions his granddaughter has set out. He must face her challenge to outrun, outride, and outfight her,” the peddler explained to his host. “He’ll win too, I expect. He’s a big man with long legs.”
Lord Edmund cursed softly beneath his breath. Why couldn’t his life be simple? Now he would have to kill Lord Stewart, and widow the heiress. She could have no love for this stranger sent by her king. The death of an unwanted husband wouldn’t matter to her at all. But it was hardly an auspicious way to begin a courting. “When will this challenge take place?” he asked the peddler. “Do ye know?”
“Oh, aye, my lord, I do. ’Twill be in three days time on the fifth of the month,” answered the peddler. “I only wish I could be there to see it, but the weather is closing in, and I want to get home to Carlisle,” the peddler said. “My wife and bairns are waiting.”
Lord Edmund smiled and nodded with apparent understanding of the peddler’s desires. “Of course,” he murmured. “Travel with St. Christopher’s blessing come the morrow. The news you brought has been most interesting and entertaining.” Then the master of Netherdale Hall departed for his privy chamber.
His eldest son, who had been in the hall, heard the peddler’s tale too. He knew his sire had planned on attempting to convince old Dugald Kerr to give him his heiress as his third wife. Unlike his father, however, Rafe Kerr was more of a realist. He doubted that the old laird would have so easily complied with his English relation’s demand, and there was no love lost between the two family patriarchs. He almost laughed aloud at the thought of his father attempting to tame Maggie, his cousin.
Rafe had met up with her out on the moors several times and knew her for a hard woman. But Lord Edmund Kerr wasn’t used to hard women. He liked meek, compliant wives, although one could hardly call his mistress, Aldis, meek. She was a hot-tempered bitch who usually managed to get her way with his father. And the old man positively doted on the wee bairn Aldis had birthed recently. She had done it, of course, so she might dig her claws deeper into Edmund Kerr, and while he might not realize it, she had succeeded. But while he didn’t like Aldis, she kept his father occupied and away from trouble. But recognizing his father’s ire, Rafe followed him into his privy chamber.
The older man whirled about. “What the hell do you want?” he snarled.
“What are you going to do?” Rafe asked. He was a younger, slender version of his sire. “If James Stewart is interested enough in the Aisir nam Breug to have sent blood kin to wed my cousin, then that’s an end to it.”
“Accidents happen,” Edmund Kerr said ominously.
“Don’t be a fool,” Rafe said. “As long as the Scots kings knew little or nothing of the passage, you had the chance to take it all for us. That opportunity is gone now.”
“James Stewart is interested in only one thing,” Edmund Kerr said. “What he can gain from the Aisir nam Breug. I’m sure I can make the same arrangement with him that he has made with his cousin.”
“You will cost us everything with your greed,” Rafe said bluntly to his father.
Edmund Kerr went to strike his eldest a blow, but Rafe blocked him, his own thick fingers tightening about his father’s wrist. His elder grew bright red in the face, his eyes almost popping from his head. Then he said, “Give over, my son, and hear me out.”
Rafe loosened his grip, releasing his sire’s hand. “Nay, you hear me out, Da. But a third of the passage is in England. There is no argument or doubt about it. Yet our kinsmen in Scotland have shared the largesse of this traverse equally with us for centuries. If you succeeded in taking it all for yourself, you would be at the mercy of King Henry, who could force the use of the Aisir nam Breug for ulterior purposes. Then the Scots would retaliate, for the Kerrs’ neighbors would certainly complain to their king. And then our most comfortable living would be gone, Da. It isn’t worth it. My cousin has been wed by royal command. There’s an end to it.”
“But not bedded yet, which means there is no new heir in her belly,” Edmund Kerr said. “If her husband were to die before he planted his seed, then she would need a new husband. There is nothing wrong with my taking her for my own wife if she is widowed. And I would have our son manage their part of the road when he was old enough. Nothing wrong with a father guiding his son, Rafe, is there? I guided and taught you.”
