Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] (8 page)

Nearly fourteen, Rosalie had lost her little-girl plumpness and the freckles she had hated as a child and was bidding fair to become a beauty. Roses bloomed on her soft, smooth cheeks, and her dark plaits gleamed in the candlelight. They were not as dark as Amalie’s but were nearly as glossy.

Looking up to meet Simon’s fond gaze, she smiled and said, “Why did you not invite the lady you brought here today to sup with us? I want to meet her.”

“You did meet her, last fall at Sweethope,” he said. “She is the lady Sibylla Cavers. She must rest now, though, and her clothes are a mess,” he said, recalling that he had tossed her riding clothes in the scullery sink. “You will see her soon.”

“I do remember her, and I’m sure I can find her something to wear,” Rosalie said eagerly. “I know Meg left some things, and so did Amalie.”

With an image of Amalie’s red kirtle on Sibylla, Simon said, “Lady Sibylla is taller than Amalie—taller than

Meg, too, I think. But see what you can find, lass.” He turned to his mother, who was looking thoughtful and had paid little heed to them. “Mayhap you can suggest something Sibylla might wear, madam.”

“I shall see what we have,” Lady Murray said. “You may come up with me after supper, Rosalie, and we will look. Then I mean to prepare a message for my cousin Cecil Percy. You were right, Simon, when you pointed out earlier how remiss I was in not requesting more details about his visit.”

“It cannot matter,” Simon said. “He is welcome whenever he comes.”

“He will
feel
welcome only if we are prepared for him, and to be prepared we must know the number in his party,” she said. “Had his messenger not left as soon as he’d got permission for Cecil to visit, I’d have sent my query with him.”

“Do not all of our kinsmen know they are welcome here?” Rosalie asked. “Why did our cousin have to apply for permission to come?”

Simon kept silent as Lady Murray explained in more detail than she evidently had before that although the present truce was to last ten years, even truces often failed to keep the peace. Therefore, when Scots traveled to England or the English to Scotland, courtesy or wisdom generally prompted them to seek safe conduct in the form of an invitation from someone, preferably a nobleman, in the host country.

“But one need not give a safe conduct whilst English reivers are stealing one’s cattle, as they have been, need one?” Rosalie asked, looking at Simon.

“One must first prove that the reivers
are
English,” he told her. “Fresh beef tempts men on both sides of the line when their families are hungry, and although I’ve looked for the men responsible for the raids in this area, so far I’ve found no evidence to prove they are English. In any event, we don’t suspect Cousin Cecil.”

“But if they are not English, who could they be?” “They could be men from either side of the line,” he said. “Our own father once stole Scottish beasts when an English army was marching on Scotland.”

“
Father
did that?” This time Rosalie looked at Lady Murray.

Austerely, her ladyship said, “Your father thought— quite justly, in my opinion—that if the English came through Elishaw, rather than see them seize all of our beasts to feed their army, other Scots should share the loss.”

“The problem now,” Simon explained, “is that these raids threaten the truce. Scots nearly always assume the reivers are English and the English that they are Scots. The victims then launch a raid on the other side of the line and hostilities can quickly escalate. Even small raids may eventually lead to all-out war.”

“But if someone steals a man’s kine, should he not try to get them back?”

“Aye, sure, but the more proper way to do so is to report the theft to one’s laird, who then reports it to the march warden. But without proof or admission, an injured party can do nothing to redress his grievance against Scottish reivers before Scottish wardens, let alone across the line.”

In the pause that fell, Lady Murray said thoughtfully, “I believe I shall recommend to Cecil Percy that he come one month from now. And,” she added with a near challenging look at Simon, “I shall insist that he bring his family, particularly his daughters, and spend a fortnight or longer with us.”

“Ask him to bring his sons, too, madam,” Rosalie said with a merry twinkle. “If Simon decides not to marry an Englishwoman, mayhap one of my Percy cousins will form a desire to marry me. I am old enough and fast growing older. Moreover, I think it would be most interesting to live in England.”

Lady Murray patted Rosalie’s arm as she said, “You are indeed old enough to marry, dearling, but I should dreadfully miss your companionship. And your poor father, as you well know, thought you still a trifle young for marriage.”

“I am nearly two years past the age of consent!” Simon said, “Enough, lassie. We’ll decide when it is right for you to wed.”

She pouted, but then her gaze met his, twinkling again. “I expect you’ll want to be rid of me soon enough once you marry, sir. In any event, I have not met many gentlemen yet. You must tell me how I shall contrive to do so.”

“We will discuss that another time, but not tonight,” he said. “I have duties I must see to before I sleep, and the day has already been long.”

His mother announced that she had eaten all she wanted and told Rosalie that they could look for clothes that she could take to the lady Sibylla on the morrow.

Simon was tempted to suggest that they wait another day to provide Sibylla with clothing, but he knew he could not keep her in bed much longer.

He stood politely as his mother and sister left the dais. Then he went down the nearby service stairway to the kitchen to confer with his cook about poultices—and to direct a scullery maid to see that someone attended to

Sibylla’s riding dress and the red kirtle—before going out to see Jed Hay and discuss the puzzling increase of raids in the area. The two men talked long, sharing a jug of ale.

Thanks to Tetsy’s efforts, Sibylla’s bed was clean and she had washed her face and body as well as she could with damp cloths. She donned a clean robe, and had eaten her supper when the maid returned, lugging a fresh pail of hot water.

Sibylla eyed it askance. “What is that for?”

“Ye said ye’re loath to get into a clean bed wi’ your hair such a mess, m’lady. I would, too, so I thought mayhap we could wash it up here in yon basin.”

“I’ve much too much hair for that wee washstand basin,” Sibylla said, vexed that the girl had not realized how badly she wanted to feel clean again. “In troth, Tetsy, I want a bath. Is the kitchen empty yet?”

“It is, aye, m’lady, but ’tis no use. I did ask Cook about fetching a tub up here, but the laird did tell him nae one is to bathe tonight. He said it were too cold.”

Sibylla raised her eyebrows. “It will not be too cold in the kitchen.”

Tetsy shrugged. “Mayhap it will not, but we canna go down there.”

“You need not go with me,” Sibylla said. “But although I did the best I could earlier with a cloth and the warm water you brought me, my skin still feels as if it may crack, and my hair . . . Where do they keep the tub?”

Tetsy’s eyebrows shot upward. “Sakes, m’lady, it takes two men to carry it!”

Sibylla sighed, eyeing the pail of water with irritation. “Thank you for bringing that water, Tetsy. I know it was heavy, but I cannot bathe or rinse out my hair in that wee basin. There must be a scullery sink and hot water still on the hob.”

“In the kitchen? Aye, mistress, o’ course there be a sink, and a big kettle of water always sits on the hob. Even a banked fire does keep it warm all night. But did anyone find us a-stirring up that fire, they’d be telling half the castle about it.”

“Then here’s what I mean to do,” Sibylla said. She paused before adding, “I forgot you dare not go with me. I should say no more, so you can say honestly—”

“Nay, m’lady, I’d best go with ye. Ye canna do it alone.”

“Bless you!” Sibylla said, feeling guilty for relying on Tetsy’s kindness but nonetheless determined. “I swear I’ll not let you suffer for helping me,” she added.

Whether Tetsy believed her or not, she led the way down the service stairs with her pail. Sibylla followed, her robe tied tight, her bare feet protesting the cold stairs. She carried her poultice so they could claim to be refreshing it if necessary.

At the hall landing, Tetsy peeked in, nodded, and motioned her on.

“Is the kitchen the lowest level of the castle?” Sibylla whispered.

“Aye, save for the dungeons.”

Sibylla experienced a mental image of Simon casting her into a dungeon and leaving her there.
Let him try,
she thought, grinning.

The kitchen was as warm as she had expected and the bakehouse behind its fireplace wall even warmer. The bakehouse proved to be a small room with a big fireplace boasting cavelike openings in the rock wall at each end of the fire bed.

Taking swift inventory of the empty chamber, the kitchen, and the scullery at its far end, she said, “If you can find a large basin, Tetsy, we’ll start rinsing my hair in the bakehouse. I doubt the laird will visit the kitchen at such an hour, but someone may, so we dare not use that sink for long. Where is the baker’s boy?”

“I saw Jack in the hall, m’lady. If he comes down, I’ll tell ’im we dinna want folks talking about us being in here. He’ll say nowt.”

“Good, then set your pail on the baker’s table, and find that basin.” A thought occurred to her. “There
is
a drain in the scullery sink, is there not, so we can use it to empty the basin when we’re ready to sluice the last of the dirt from my hair?”

“There is a drain, aye,” Tetsy said. “But ye’ll want yon sink clean when ye use it later, so I’ll empty our basin outside. Yon scullery door opens to a path betwixt the walls with a drain that carries water straight to the cesspits.”

“Go then and take this poultice with you,” Sibylla directed. “Set it in a bowl of water from the hob. It can steep there whilst we work in here.”

Tetsy hurried to obey, clearly nervous, and Sibylla fidgeted, too, listening for any approaching footsteps. The maid soon returned with a large basin.

“Set it on the table,” Sibylla said. “We’ll use the water from the pail first, so I can begin working the dirt out whilst you refill the pail. Find towels to wrap my hair in afterward, too. I’ve brought combs, so we can dry it by this fire.”

After Tetsy had poured water over Sibylla’s head and gone to get more, Sibylla worked with the mass of loose hair in water that half filled the basin. That water was soon filthy, and she could do little with the back of her head.

Hearing Tetsy’s returning footsteps at last, she said, “Pour more water over the back of my head, will you? Then you can empty this basin.”

“Sakes, mistress, we’ll be sloshing water all over the baker’s table!”

“We’ll scrub the dirt off, and the table will dry by morning,” Sibylla said, squeezing her eyes shut as water ran into them. “He’ll never know.”

Tetsy said no more but continued pouring slowly while Sibylla worked the hair at the back. When the pail was empty, Sibylla gathered the wet mass of hair into her hands, squeezing as much of the dirty water out as she could.

“Now, take the basin and empty it,” she directed. “Then bring it back and fetch clean water from the hob to rinse me again.” She wished she could help but was well aware that while Tetsy could plausibly explain being in the kitchen,
she
could not. And if Simon caught them both, Tetsy might suffer for helping her.

Their process was not ideal, she thought, holding the mass of dripping hair as Tetsy hurried off with the basinful of dirty water and the empty pail. It was the best they could manage, though, and it gave her great satisfaction to be doing something for herself in defiance of her stern rescuer’s obstructive nature.

Tetsy had been right about the sloshing. Water streamed off the table to the flagstone floor and into a shallow, curved alcove at the near end of the table. Dubiously eyeing the water’s depth, she hoped the floor could also dry by morning.

A large flour bin and a wooden tub that doubtless held lard or goose grease were all that stood on the alcove floor, but smaller supplies occupied two shallow shelves. Baker’s utensils hung from iron wall hooks, as did baskets of fruit and nuts.

Most of the spilled water had pooled at the innermost part of the alcove curve, where the flagstone floor met the wall. Water there was nearly an inch deep, so they would have to sop it up with a towel.

As the thought crossed her mind, she saw in the dim glow cast there by the fire that the water was rapidly disappearing. With relief, she decided that a crack between the flagstones was eliminating that problem for them.

Tetsy returned with more water and a second basin, saying, “Two will serve us better than one. If ye’ll hold your hair over one, I’ll pour this water for ye.”

She did so, and had paused to let Sibylla work her hair so the clean water would remove the remaining dirt, when a voice in the kitchen startled them both.

Straightening to grab the pail from Tetsy, Sibylla whispered, “See who that is. Say you were steeping my poultice and stepped in here to warm yourself.”

Tetsy nodded, but as she went into the kitchen, Sibylla heard the voice again clearly—Simon’s voice. Backing against the wall, dripping and feeling just as a child in mischief might, she wondered what she could say to him if he caught her and how on earth she could protect Tetsy from the consequences.

Simon touched Kit’s shoulder and pointed to the pallet in the chimney corner. “See, lassie,” he said. “Cook fixed you a good place to sleep till we can return you to your family. He’s left you a quilt, too, so you’ll be comfortable.”

“Aye, laird, but I’d rather stay with Dand. He seems none so well yet.”

“Then we must let him rest as much as he can,” Simon said. He had not liked the look of the lad, who had swallowed more of the filthy river water than was good for anyone. Hodge said the boy had thrown up most of what he’d taken in, but he had exhausted himself swimming after Kit.

After a long but unproductive discussion of raiders with Jed, Simon had gone to check on the lad and found Kit curled up beside him in the bed. He’d have left her there had Dand not looked up at him with pleading eyes.