“I’ll sleep on it,” Lord Edmund said. Then he left his hall, going to his privy chamber where Rafe, his eldest son and heir, awaited him, for Aldis had sent for him.
“Don’t do it,” Rafe advised his father. “This Scot is not to be trusted, Da. He will attempt to force Maggie to the altar if her husband is not found among the prisoners to be ransomed and does not return. She’ll kill him before it’s all over. And what of her bairns? With that man at Brae Aisir, they will be in danger. Dugald Kerr and his granddaughter are strong enough together to manage their portion of the Aisir nam Breug. They, we, need no interference from another.”
“If we are canny, Rafe, we can have it all,” his father said slowly, his brown eyes gleaming with greed. “The Scots are beaten for now, for many years to come. Their king is dead. Their ruler is a puling female infant sucking at the breast of her French mam.
“Our own king is certainly coming to the end of his life, and his heir’s a sickly boy, and two lasses, one whose legitimacy has always been doubtful. And the Protestants are fighting with Holy Mother Church for control of those heirs.
“Think on it, Rafe! We have an opportunity to control all of the Aisir nam Breug! And no one will care in the least what a seemingly unimportant northern lord is doing, for they will all be too busy on both sides of the border trying to control these child monarchs. As long as the traffic flows smoothly through the traverse and none are inconvenienced, no one will know or worry about what is happening to the Aisir nam Breug or who is controlling it.”
“Wait at least until spring before you institute this plan, Da,” Rafe said. “There is no traffic now in the pass, and we are certain to hear some word of Lord Stewart by the spring. To swoop down on Brae Aisir now is a mistake, and ye will live to regret it. I don’t trust Ewan Hay. He wants more than he says he does. Wait, I beg ye.”
“If we wait until the spring, Mad Maggie and her grandfather will have reasserted their authority, and we will have no chance of taking it all for ourselves,” Edmund Kerr responded. “Now is the perfect time. My kinsman is old and undoubtedly grieving for Fingal Stewart, for he loved him like a son. His granddaughter is heavy with child, concerned for her husband’s safety, and in no position to resist. And then there are her sons. We could take both lads from her and bring them here should she attempt to mount a resistance against us,” Edmund Kerr said. “Let Ewan Hay have Mad Maggie if he could indeed master her.” The Lord of Netherdale wanted nothing but the Aisir nam Breug, the power and the riches having all of it would bring him.
“This is a mistake,” Rafe Kerr said. “What if Fingal Stewart hasn’t been killed? Possibly he’s been wounded, captured. What will happen when he makes his way back to Brae Aisir and finds Ewan Hay in his keep, and trying to mount his wife?” the son asked his father. “He’ll not thank us, Da.”
“Any ransom demand must come to Brae Aisir. If one does, it will be intercepted, and Mad Maggie will never know. It will allow us to learn where Fingal Stewart is. We’ll find him and have him killed,” Edmund Kerr said.
“Jesu, Da! Will ye have that man’s death on your conscience then?”
“I will do what I must to control all of the Aisir nam Breug, and not just a scant eight miles of it, Rafe,” Edmund Kerr told his eldest son. “And if ye attempt to stop me, I will slit yer throat myself. Ye have six legitimate brothers, and I am not without heirs.”
“Sons who have been taught unquestioning loyalty to me as yer heir,” Rafe countered in a hard voice. He had no doubt his father was capable of killing him.
Edmund Kerr laughed harshly. “I could slaughter ye before their eyes, and not one of them would lift a finger to save ye, and do ye know why? Greed, Rafe. Greed! My second born would become my heir, and the others would live in hope of his displeasing me and moving them a notch farther up.”
“I never said I would betray ye, Da,” his eldest son said. “And do ye know why? Loyalty. Loyalty to the father who gave me life and has treated me well. But I do not have to agree with yer actions, and I do not. Send Ewan Hay to Brae Aisir in yer name, as yer surrogate, and ye will come to regret it. He’ll betray ye in the end, though he uses ye now to gain what he wants. He’s a treacherous Scot, and he thinks ye a duplicitous Englishman. Neither of ye can trust the other, and that is a poor foundation on which to build this arrangement,” Rafe concluded.
“I’ll have ye oversee him and his actions,” Edmund Kerr said, nodding. “Ye’ll protect the Kerr family’s interests.” Reaching out, he cuffed his son’s head. “I know yer loyal, Rafe, and I trust ye. I’ve raised ye to be strong, and ye are. It cannot be helped that the old bull and the young bull lock horns now and again. On the morrow tell Ewan Hay that if his brother will give him the men and arms he needs to hold Brae Aisir for me, I will agree to his plan. I don’t wish to speak with the fellow again.”
“I’ll take care of it, Da.” His father had asked him to protect the Kerr family’s interests—and he would, Rafe thought. He would protect it for Mad Maggie, his cousin, and for her lads, in the event—God forbid it!—that Fingal Stewart had been among those killed at the battle now known as Solway Moss. Managing eight miles of the Aisir nam Breug was more than enough for him.
The next day he sent Ewan Hay on his way. The Scot carried with him a parchment upon which Rafe Kerr himself had written the following words:
On this sixteenth day of December, in the year of our Lord 1542,
Ewan Hay has been appointed by Edmund Kerr, Lord of Netherdale, to oversee the interests of the Kerr family at Brae Aisir.
And Rafe Kerr signed his father’s name to the brief document, then pressed his father’s signet into the hot wax he poured onto the parchment. If Fingal Stewart returned, Rafe would explain his father’s concern for his elderly kinsman, Maggie, and her family. He would explain that his father thought a Scotsman preferable, and more acceptable to the folk at Brae Aisir. Lord Stewart was no fool, and he would know what Edmund Kerr was really about, but hopefully as long as old Dugald, Maggie, and the children were healthy and safe, he would pretend to be grateful for the Lord of Netherdale’s concern. No harm would be done in the matter. He intended to send his own messenger to the warden of the West March in Carlisle and learn if Lord Stewart was among the prisoners taken up for ransom. Possibly he could facilitate his release if he was. There was more than one way around his father’s foolishness and greed.
He saw Ewan Hay off and was glad to see him go. Did Ewan Hay think the Kerrs of Netherdale so stupid that they didn’t realize he wanted control of the Brae Aisir Kerrs’ portion of the Aisir nam Breug for himself? Rafe shook his head. If it had been up to him, he would have refused Ewan Hay’s suggestion and sent him off yesterday. But it wasn’t his place. At least not yet. His father, he suspected, would live for many more years. Rafe wondered if Edmund would gain any real wisdom by the time he was Dugald Kerr’s age. He somehow doubted it.
Chapter 12
“Bobby! Bobby! ’Tis my lad, Bobby!” The old woman ran alongside the litter on which the unconscious man lay.
“Nah, nah, Old Mother,” the man-at-arms said. “ ’Tis one of the Scots we picked up from the battlefield. He doesn’t look like he’s worth much, but if no one ransoms him, and he lives, he’ll be off to the galleys. We’ll get some value from him.” And the soldier laughed heartily.
“ ’Tis my son, Bobby,” the old woman insisted. “He went off to fight the Scots. ’Tis he. Please let me have him, sir. He’s all I have. My man is dead, and who will take care of me if ye take my Bobby from me?”
The soldier, who had some small authority among his ranks, called, “Halt!” to the men carrying the litter. “Yer sure that this is yer lad, Old Mother? Look closely at him. We found him among the Scots dead, wounded and dying.”
“ ’Tis my son, Bobby!” the old woman said again.
The soldier’s captain came up to see why the line of prisoners had come to a halt. He listened to the old woman’s pleading, and then looked at the man lying on the litter. How the hell did one differentiate between an English borderer and a Scots borderer? He was a Midlands man, and to him these northerners all looked relatively the same. The unconscious man had nothing on him, no plaid, badge, or ring, that would tell the captain the truth of the matter. Whoever he was, he was obviously of no importance. He had an open gash on his head that was still oozing slightly. If he lived, he was likely to bring little to the king’s coffers in ransom, and even less being sold into the galleys. It would actually cost more to keep the man alive until his situation was resolved.
“Yer certain this man is your son?” he asked the old woman sharply.
“ ’Tis my Bobby!” she insisted once again.
