Chapter One
Scottish Marches 1605
Rowenna threw open the door to her sister’s chamber in a fury. It crashed into the wall. God’s teeth! Why on earth was she still abed, with the sun well up, and work to be done?
‘Get up. You are needed,’ she shouted, but Cecily just groaned and rolled over.
Rowenna rushed to the bed and pulled back the covers.
‘What are you doing? Whatever is the matter?’ howled Cecily, yawning and curling up like a snail in its shell.
‘I need to find Father this instant,’ said Rowenna.
‘I don’t see him in here, do you?’ snapped Cecily, trying to tug back the covers. ‘Stop it, Rowenna. It’s cold.’
‘It’s cold because there is no wood for a fire and no one to order the servants to fetch it. Father needs to take them in hand.’
‘Well, he’s not done that for years, so why are you bothering me about it now? Go and tell him.’
‘He is nowhere to be found.’
A tug of war ensued for a few moments before Cecily gave up. ‘God, how I long for the warmth of spring and an end to your nagging, if I have not succumbed to pneumonia by then.’
‘We have more pressing matters than a fire and your comfort, Cecily.’
Rowenna’s sister heaved a great sigh and pushed a coil of lustrous blonde hair over her shoulder. How vexing that, even on a grey day in a squalid chamber and waking from sleep, Cecily still looked radiantly beautiful. She had stunning, light gold hair, not muddied with a tint of red like Rowenna’s.
‘What is it this time?’ spat Cecily. ‘Servants absconded, pigs broken out again, debtors come calling?’
‘It’s Bran. He sent a lad to say that he needs money in haste. It is for a delicate matter,’ said Rowenna.
‘There’s nothing delicate about Bran, so what is it for?’ said her sister, eyes narrowing.
‘It doesn’t matter, and I’ve no time to argue. Where did you hide the coins?’
‘Not telling,’ pouted Cecily.
Her eyes slid sideways to a shabby rug on the floor. Rowenna threw it back and started to lift up a loose floorboard, but Cecily leapt from the bed and stayed her hand.
‘Oh no, you don’t. I’ll not squander my coin on that ingrate unless you tell me what it’s for.’
Rowenna sat back on her haunches. ‘Very well. If you must press me for details, Bran has gotten into a pickle at a whorehouse called Rascals Inn and owes money to some rough men. It seems that he also owes money to the whores, whose services he has been enjoying for some time without paying.’
‘Oh, heavens,’ said Cecily, her mouth hanging open in horror.
Though she was Rowenna’s elder by two years, Cecily had somehow managed to remain painfully uncurious about matters of the flesh at two and twenty and was easily shocked. Trying to explain why men had needs was an exercise in futility, forCecily clung to the impression that liaisons between a man and a woman involved lots of hand-holding, sighing and presents being given – to her. For all intents and purposes, she might have been a nun.
‘Aye, heavens indeed,’ said Rowenna.
‘How bad is it?’
‘A fight broke out, and Bran has been soundly beaten and sends word that if we do not make payment, they will slit his throat.’
‘Good riddance, I say,’ spat Cecily.
‘He is our brother, and no matter how much of a slovenly, lazy baggage he is, we cannot let him perish. So come on, hand it over.’
Cecily pouted. ‘But I was saving it for a new dress.’
