Virginia Henley (2 page)

Patrick Hepburn, Lord Stewart, masked the relief he felt that this was the final day of a four-month tour of duty patrolling the Middle March of the Scottish Borders. He commanded fifty moss-troopers, all Hepburns, Stewarts, Douglases and Elliots who had pledged their loyalty to him and his father before him. If he let down his guard and allowed them to see he was eager to be home at Crichton, they would be off like a pack of hounds from hell, seeking their own beds and the lasses who warmed them.

Patrick dismounted and handed his horse’s reins to Jock Elliot, his captain. He held out his hand to the Warden of the English Middle March. “Well met, sir.” He grinned affably. “I like a man who is punctual.” He liked Robert Carey for other reasons. The tall redhead was the living image of a gallant Elizabethan: brave, intelligent and naïvely honest. His father, Lord Hunsdon, was a bastard of the late King Henry Tudor and Mary Boleyn, making Robert cousin to Queen Elizabeth.

“Your lordship, it is an honor to deal with you.” Though tall, Carey had to look up at Hepburn, who was six foot four in his stocking feet and far more in spurred leather boots.

Both men were unbelievably young to command such tough, hardened Borderers—proof they’d earned their men’s loyalty. Between the two of them, they’d managed to keep the Scottish and English Middle Marches fairly quiet for the past four months. Of course there had been clan raids, where beasts and goods had been lifted, but burning and murder had been kept to a minimum.

This meeting at the Border was for the purpose of exchanging prisoners. Jock Elliot gave Lord Stewart a list of the English they’d taken, along with their offenses, and Hepburn handed it to Carey. With a curt nod he turned his captives over to the warden. All had been stripped of anything of value, including their mounts, and those from wealthy families had also pledged ransom in exchange for their freedom. Prisoners held at the medieval nightmare known as Hermitage Castle were not just willing—they were eager—to offer gold for their release.

Robert Carey handed over his own list and watched ruefully as his grinning Scots prisoners eagerly crossed to their own side of the Border. “The wily buggers had little of value jingling in their pockets. I’m hard pressed to pay my men.”

Patrick grinned. “Ask your cousin for a raise.”

“Raise?” Robert snorted. “I was appointed warden for a year and I’ve not seen one crown of my five-hundred-pound fee. At the end of May, when I’ve served my twelve months, I intend to go to London to collect my due.”

“Royalty is notoriously tightfisted.” Patrick thought of King James’s parsimony. Scotland’s monarch had no standing army. He relied on his nobles to raise men and arms at their own expense to keep the country safe. “You must devise other sources of income.” The grin was wiped from his face as he examined the list. “This says Sim Armstrong raped a woman. If you’ve proof, why didn’t you mete out punishment?” His black brows drew together in outrage.

Robert, keeping his voice low, said, “His brother’s a Scots warden. A harsh sentence would likely mean retaliation with fire and sword.”

Patrick nodded and walked down the line of men Carey had just turned over to him. “Armstrong. The English warden has put your fate in my hands. Any complaints?”

Armstrong, nicknamed Bangtail, grinned. “None, m’lord.”

Hepburn turned to Jock Elliot. “Hang him.”

The Scot’s curses, protests, pleas and struggles were ignored as the moss-troopers seized him and carried out the order. By the time Hepburn returned to Carey, Armstrong’s legs had kicked for the last time and his corpse swung slowly in the breeze.

The English warden was grateful. “You’ll share a bottle with me, Patrick, before you depart?”

“It would be my pleasure, Robert.”

A short time later, as Sir Robert and his troopers departed, Hepburn swung up into his saddle and addressed the two dozen men who’d been released to him. “Think yourselves lucky you were caught by Carey. Most English wardens make no distinction between thieves and murderers and would’ve hanged you out of hand.” He watched them steal furtive glances at Armstrong’s corpse and was satisfied they’d learned a lesson today. He accepted that they had few scruples about stealing, but murder and rape would not be tolerated on his four-month patrol of the Borders.

He raised his head like a stag scenting the wind and grinned at his moss-troopers. “Home, lads!”

With a great shout they galloped off, driving before them the English horses they’d taken. They left their fellow Scots on foot without a moment’s compassion. If they were careless enough to get caught, they deserved to walk home.

As they rode north over the rolling moors and past swift streams, they knew spring had arrived. Patrick scanned the familiar hills dotted with sheep, and his dark eyes reflected the deep and abiding love he had for the Borders. Riding through Liddesdale and Teviotdale and up into Midlothian he mourned the loss of the vast tracts of land that had once belonged to his father.
Regret the loss, but never let it make you bitter, Patrick. Bitterness blackens the soul.
His father’s words came back to him as if he had uttered them yesterday instead of ten years ago. That’s when Francis Hepburn Stewart, the infamous Earl of Bothwell, had offered to go into voluntary exile, forfeiting titles, lands, castles and manor houses in return for a pardon from the Crown and on condition that his only son and heir retain Crichton Castle and its holdings.

Patrick had been forced to leave boyhood behind that day. “I hate King James!” he had sworn, as the vengeance of a man full grown rose up in him.

“Nay, lad, my own reckless acts brought about this pass. As you well know, James V was grandsire to both of us. When I flaunted my power, Jamie believed I was plotting to replace him on the throne. He feared my power so he stripped it from me. Never forget that the king is
omnipotent.
He can
take
whatever he wants. But always remember you are blood relatives, and that same all-powerful hand can also
give
if you are shrewd enough to cultivate his friendship and his trust. And remember too there is one thing he can never touch.”

Patrick knew he wasn’t speaking of Crichton, owned by generations of Hepburns. The castle wasn’t the only thing he’d inherited from his father. Psychic ability, visions and uncanny supernatural powers that sometimes allowed him to foretell the future had been passed down through the Royal Stewart blood-line. It was an amazing gift. It was a formidable curse.

On the spot Patrick promised that someday, someway, he would gain enough power over King James to make him
give
far more than he had ever
taken.
Each day thereafter for a full year he’d sworn it, vowed it, pledged it like an oath, until it became a part of him. Now, a decade later, on this last day of April, he knew he was a match for any man breathing. Lord Patrick Stewart threw back his head and laughed. Poor Jamie didn’t stand a chance!

In London, the two young couples watching the play through an upstairs window at the Bull and Bear applauded as the actors took their final bow. Lady Catherine and Lady Arbella stepped back from the window, removed their masks and helped themselves to the refreshments their escorts had ordered.

Cat flashed a smile at Henry Somerset after she bit daintily into a sweetmeat. “I’m particularly fond of almonds, Hal.”

“Then try some of this almond-flavored wine.” He poured them each a glass and closed the distance between them until they were standing only inches apart.

Cat studied her escort’s handsome face with its closely clipped golden beard and shapely lips. “No wine, Hal, it steals the senses. Bella and I must get back to Whitehall before dark.”

He captured her hand and murmured, “Don’t go back tonight. Stay with me, Catherine. I’ll get us a private room.”

Cat looked pointedly at his hand with its polished nails and heavy gold ring on the little finger, then deliberately pulled her hand from his. “I am both shocked and offended that you dare ask such a thing. I am not a serving wench; I am a lady,” she said with cool disdain. “I came to see the play, not for dalliance.”

In the opposite corner, Arbella was indulging in a passionate kiss with auburn-haired William Seymour. “I’m dying to stay, Will, but I know Cat will never agree. She wears her virginity like a badge of honor. I’ll come alone next time,” she whispered.

Shortly thereafter, the ladies made their way to the river to catch a water barge that would carry them back to Whitehall. The frustrated gentlemen made their way to the nearest brothel.

As twilight descended on the fine spring day, Lady Catherine and Lady Arbella climbed the Old Palace Water Stairs and with trepidation hurried along the path that led to Whitehall Palace. Escaping from Court earlier in the day had been great fun, but returning undetected now seemed fraught with risk. When they gained the long hallway that led to the ladies’ quarters, both girls heaved a sigh of relief. It proved to be a mistake.

“
Mistress
Arbella!
Mistress
Catherine!” The elderly dragon in charge of the young maidens of the Queen’s Court purposely addressed them without the courtesy of their titles. “You have been absent the entire day. Where have you been?”

“We didn’t leave Whitehall, Lady Throckmorton!” Arbella said defensively.

Dear Lord, Arbella is such a wretched liar, she will get herself banished from Court.
Catherine sank into a graceful curtsy. “Please do not blame Arbella, my lady; it is entirely my fault. She was helping me learn my lines for the masque we are soon to perform for Her Majesty. I have no talent for playacting.” She swept dark lashes to her cheeks, conveying humility. “We are fortunate to have someone who cares so much about our welfare. I humbly apologize for causing you worry, my lady.”

“You are wearing cloaks and masks and appear to be returning from somewhere,” the dragon persisted.

Catherine raised her lashes. “We are returning from the chapel. The acoustics in the gallery are perfect for delivering lines, in spite of the bone-chilling cold.”

Lady Throckmorton pressed her lips together. “You’ll be late to the Privy Chamber for dinner. Can you not hear the summoning trumpets? If your thoughtlessness makes me tardy, I shall have a word with your mother.”

As the dragon flew off, Arbella took Catherine’s hand. “Thank you for drawing her attention from me to yourself.”

“It was nothing. I have my mother to protect me, and I don’t want you to be sent from Court. I’d have no partner in crime!”

In Scotland, by the time Lord Stewart neared Crichton, the only moss-troopers who still accompanied him were Hepburns. For the last few miles Patrick had felt a growing unease. His calloused hand rubbed the prickle at the back of his neck.

Jock Elliot noticed the gesture. “Danger, my lord?”

“Nay, but there’s something amiss. We’ll secure these horses in the upper pasture by Fala Water, then I’ll handle the trouble.”

They herded the horses past the castle’s orchards to the fields beyond. A cry went up and the Hepburns who inhabited and served Crichton hastily gathered in the Great Hall to welcome home their laird. When the horses were pastured, the saddle-weary men rode into the sprawling stables and turned their mounts over to young grooms. Then, grim-faced, Patrick strode beneath the stone arch carved with Hepburn roses. His spurs struck sparks on the flagstones as he entered the Great Hall.

His cousin David, who captained Crichton’s garrison, stepped forward with a broad grin on his face. “Welcome—”

“Oh, I saw the
welcome
you had waiting for me in the upper pasture.” He surveyed the young faces brimming with self-satisfaction and watched their smirks flee as he crashed his powerful fist on the oak table. “Splendor of God! You haven’t the brains to pour piss from your boots! How long have the Earl of Winton’s cattle been grazing on Crichton pasture?”

David’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “What makes ye think they’re Winton’s?”

“Christ, I don’t
think,
I
know
! His beasts are unique. They are prize longhorns, bred special. Now, instead of taking my pleasure in Edinburgh tomorrow, I have the distinct honor of returning that herd up to Seton and lying through my teeth to the Earl of Winton.” He paused. “You may accompany me, David.”

All at Crichton knew Patrick’s hot temper flashed like lightning, followed by a deafening roll of thunder, then cooled and dissipated as quickly as it arrived. The men remained wary for a time, treading softly; not so the women. The younger females worshipped him; the older ones adored him. He was never harsh with the fair sex; rather, he was protective, generous and appreciative of all they did for him. In return they made sure his kitchens were spotless, his meals bountiful and served on time, his bed linen immaculate and his shirts sewn with loving hands. His moss-troopers’ wives flirted openly with him, while their daughters practiced their cajolery. All the Hepburn and Stewart women, whether nubile or ancient, vied with one another for his attention and approval.

Patrick loved them dearly and was wise enough to treat them all like sisters, particularly when they behaved provocatively. After the evening meal, as he sat with his long legs stretched to the fire, his favorite deerhounds sprawled at his feet, a young second cousin snatched a jug of ale from a servant and hurried to his side to refill his tankard. As her glance slid across his wide, muscular shoulders, she licked her lips and tossed back her red hair. “Patrick, I saw the fine horses you brought today. I’m old enough for a mount of my own. Would you be generous enough to give me one for my birthday?”

“You are a saucy wench, Jenny Hepburn, and the answer would be
no
even if it was your birthday. I intend to sell the English horses back to the English.” When he saw her lips pout prettily, his big hand ruffled her hair. “Tell your father I said you could have a sure-footed pony. He can cut one from the herd that wintered on Fala Moor.”