‘Where are you going?’
‘Never you mind,’ she replied over her shoulder.
‘But we have a visitor.’
‘Nought to do with me,’ she replied.
‘Cecily!’
Her sister turned around. ‘I am going for a walk to get away from your nagging. Do not follow me, Rowenna, or I swear, I will knock you down.’
Recognising a temper she had encountered many a time, Rowenna knew better than to follow. ‘Don’t go too far,’ she shouted at her sister’s back. ‘The rain is coming in over the moors.’ But Cecily did not turn around, so Rowenna headed for the house, hoping the visitor was not one of her father’s creditors and that the ale was not too stale for a visiting laird.
When Rowenna reached the hall, she was confronted with a wiry, bent little man. His fine plaid suggested wealth if not youth, and he was surrounded by several companions – fighting men all. Rowenna’s heart sank.
‘Ah, here she is, the beauty of the Marches. Your charms were not exaggerated, my dear,’ he said, rushing forward as best he could on doddering legs, grabbing Rowenna’s hand and kissing it. He left a moist patch which she longed to wipe off, but courtesy prevented it.
‘Forgive me, Sir, but what is your business here?’
‘Why, I have come to pay court to you, fair Cecily. ‘Twas all arranged by your father. And, by God, you are a bonnie little thing. Is Rufus about? I would like to get the formalities of the marriage contract over with, as my ardour cannot be held in check forever.’ He winked. ‘I do so long for our wedding night, lass.’
‘But Sir, I am not…’
He put a bony finger to her lips to silence her. ‘Fear not, lass. Marriage is nothing to fash about. All women must succumb eventually, and I am sure you will be more than satisfied with my vast holdings.’
Morag stifled a snigger behind Rowenna. By all that was holy, her father had outdone himself this time.
Chapter Two
Sparks spiralled into the night sky like tiny insects lit from within, only to shrivel and curl to black in the wind ripping across the moors. Several cottages were ablaze, sending a wall of heat onto Jasper’s face, their roofs taking fire with the cackle of a witches’ coven. A rumble of thunder overhead reached into his heart and twisted it as he surveyed the bodies lying in the grass and mud. In the half-light, the blood on their clothes seemed almost black. It unsettled him and brought bile to his throat. Jasper had seen death many times, but this was a slaughter of innocents, and the reivers had not just attacked the men of Dungarnon defending their herd from pillage. They had killed women and children, too.
A line had been crossed, a challenge thrown down that he would have to face. Reiving was one thing - a way of life in the Marches. But this scorched earth slaughter was quite another, and it demanded retribution.
‘Tis a bad business, Laird,’ said his clansman, Randel. ‘To butcher the little ones, womenfolk too. ‘Tis not reiving, ‘tis war.’
‘If it’s war they want, they shall have it.’ Jasper spat to rid his mouth of the taste of death. ‘The cattle?’
‘Gone, all of them. They knew we had those beasts. Someone must have told them.’
‘Aye, but told who?’
‘Folk say it was hard to tell which clan came raiding,’ said Randel. ‘They were cloaked and masked. Could be Beatties,Gunns or any one of our enemies. Or it could be that Strachan bastard who now holds sway at Fellscarp. He never much liked giving up that land to you at Liddesdale.’
‘Aye. I would have said Peyton Strachan was a beat dog a year ago, but now, who knows what he’s capable of? He hangs onto Clan Strachan by his fingernails, so he needs to look the big man. Attacking me is his way to do that.’ The familiar bitterness choked Jasper’s throat as he asked the obvious question. ‘Was it the Bannermans, do you think?’
‘Likely not. That bastard, Seaton, keeps his distance since…well, since…’ He trailed off at Jasper’s withering look. ‘What I mean to say is that they keep well away from us, and Caolan Bannerman might have the balls for this, but he is too wily to start a war with a Glendenning.’
‘Don’t be too sure. He lurks on our border like a tick sucking at us.’
Jasper tried to banish the image of Brenna Curwen, now Bannerman, trembling in her wedding dress before the altar at Kransmuir. How he had burned to have her.His jaw worked as if his rage was forcing its way out. If it escaped, it would scorch everything in its path. Jasper reigned himself in and turned to his right-hand man.
‘The ground is soft. Whoever they are, those bastards will have left tracks. We will hunt them down, Randel. I want them alive. I need to know whose hand guided their swords before I guide mine into their gullets.’
‘Laird, I share your fervour for revenge, but to track at night is risky, and this storm is coming on. It will be pitch black soon and heavy going, with little hope of success should the rain wash away tracks. Why not take shelter and set off at first light? Thereis a whorehouse close by where they have eager women and a big hearth. We could warm our bones and our balls.’
‘Have you not seen enough fire for one night?’
‘Aye, ‘tis a tragedy, but it won’t improve by looking at it. Let us take our ease at the whorehouse.’
