Blythe Gifford - Captive of the Border Lord

‘They call me Wee Mary,’ she said, with a smile that showed a gap between her front teeth.

‘I’m … Elizabeth Brunson.’ So Carwell had introduced her. So she would be.

The woman’s eyes widened. So did her smile. ‘You’re Johnnie’s sister?’

‘Aye. You knew him?’ A woman who knew Johnnie. It felt like coming home.

Mary laughed, deep in her throat. A laugh that said it all. ‘Aye. We all miss Johnnie,’ she said, with smile that spoke of experience. ‘Especially Long Mary and me!’

Although she knew her brother had lived at court, Bessie had never pictured his life here. She had certainly not pictured him with women.

Given the woman’s smile, Bessie decided not to mention that Johnnie was a happy new husband. ‘Long Mary?’

‘She’s the tall one. Stowte Mary and I both serve the King’s mother.’

‘And what does Long Mary do?’

‘As she pleases.’ Her expression teetered between envy and resentment. ‘For now.’

Bessie understood these words no more clearly than the French ones. ‘This is all so … different.’

Wee Mary took in Bessie with one sweeping glance. ‘Has the King seen you yet?’

Bessie looked down at her dress and then at Mary’s. She was wearing something stiff and black with gilded trim and a square neckline that exposed more than Bessie was used to.

This was worse than she had feared. She shook her head.

Mary raised her brows. ‘You are très jolie. Il va vous voir avec plaisir .’

Before she could ask what that meant, there was a knock on the door behind them. A servant entered, carrying Bessie’s chest, put it down and disappeared.

‘You’ve not much time,’ Mary said. ‘What are you going to wear?’

Bessie sighed, lifted the lid, pulled out her best dress and held it up. Next to Mary’s, it looked shapeless and faded. And she heard the echo of what she had told her brother months ago. She had no proper clothes for court.

Mary pursed her lips and raised her brows. ‘I see.’ She turned to another chest and rummaged among the contents. Finally, she pulled out something deep black, shapely, and with a blue inset in the front of the skirt. ‘This is Long Mary’s. She’s more your size.’

She reached out to stroke the fabric, the colours so vibrant they belonged on a bird. ‘I can’t just take someone’s dress.’

Wee Mary shoved it at her. ‘It no longer fits her. Now hurry.’

At the end of the tournament field, Carwell checked his armour, and made sure his men’s green-and-gold colours were firmly attached.

The King, impatient, had not waited to build seating for the spectators, so most would simply stand at the edge of the field in the valley below the castle. The women, perched atop the Ladies Rock overlooking the grounds, would have a better view. He looked, vainly, for Elizabeth.

‘Ah, there you are.’

Carwell turned and bowed in one movement. ‘Your Grace.’

In the chaos surrounding preparations for the tournament, there had been no time for formal presentation to the King. It had been months, more than a year, since he had seen James. All their agreements had been via messages and messengers.

Now, face to face, he could newly assess the man himself. Young. Red-haired, with a long, prominent nose. And carrying a brilliant green-and-gold bird on his wrist.

The King wasted no words. ‘You’ve news?’

‘Yes, Your Grace. News of several kinds.’

The King’s eyes flashed. Suddenly, he was less the excited sixteen-year-old and more the monarch. ‘Imminent danger?’

Carwell shook his head.

Relief touched the King’s eyes. ‘Then we will enjoy the tournament first. News will wait.’

‘A handsome papingo, Your Grace.’

James looked at the bird and smiled. ‘A gift.’ He turned his gaze out over his immediate kingdom. The King took a deep breath as he surveyed it. ‘And who is that lovely lark?’

Carwell followed the King’s glance to see Elizabeth, walking along the edge of the field.

And forced himself to breathe.

Her gown, stark black, set off her fair skin and made her firelight hair even more vibrant.

‘Elizabeth Brunson, Your Grace.’

‘Brunson?’ The word was sharp-edged.

‘Aye, Your Grace.’ His voice sounded appropriately detached. He congratulated himself. ‘John’s sister.’

‘Ah, of course. I can see it now. The similarity in the build….’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Johnnie’s sister, eh?’ Several things seemed to flash behind the King’s eyes, ending with a sigh. ‘Bring her to me.’

‘Now, Your Grace?’

The King frowned. ‘Of course, now.’

Carwell gave a brief bow and muttered something that should have been Of course, Your Grace , but wasn’t.

Her eyes lit up as he approached. She must feel truly isolated now, he thought. She had never looked so happy to see him.

He concentrated on keeping his eyes on hers so he would not look down at her bodice, where he could see the edge of breasts he had been trying to forget since he had carried her from the stream.

He cleared his throat. ‘You look lovely.’

She looked down. ‘I look like a pigeon in a pig pen.’

‘The King doesn’t think so.’

She lifted her head and he saw a flash of fear in her eyes. She looked around his shoulder.

‘That’s the King, yes. With the bird.’

She raised her brows. ‘I’ve never seen a falcon like that.’

‘It’s not a falcon.’ He reached out to take her elbow, his touch staking some kind of claim. ‘He wants to meet you.’

She pursed her lips, then nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To explain?’

Yet when she lifted her head, he found himself staring at the curve of her neck and her delicate throat.

And thinking of the hangman’s noose.

‘Not today. Today, only curtsy and smile and say as little as possible.’

Lifted chin, stubborn lips and fear, still, in her eyes. ‘I speak no French.’

Now, his smile could reassure. ‘Neither does the King.’

Her lips relaxed and released a breath. ‘Will he ask for our oath?’

He shook his head. The King needed no reminders of the Brunsons’ bad behaviour today. Not until Carwell had had a chance to assess the situation. ‘He is in a good mood and ready to enjoy the jousting. Be sure he remains so. Come.’

She matched her strides to his as they walked across the damp field. ‘What do I call him?’

‘Address him as “Your Grace”.’ He tightened his grip on her arm. ‘And say nothing bad about the bird.’

The sun had broken through the clouds and the day had warmed, as if on the King’s command, as they approached James, standing before his tent, surrounded by attendants.

‘Your Grace,’ Carwell said, his hand still on Bessie’s arm. ‘Elizabeth Brunson.’

She bent her knees, but not her stubborn neck. Even a Brunson woman bowed to no man.

The King’s eyes roved across her curves and Carwell fought the tension in his jaw. Well, what man wouldn’t like to look on her? He did. Too much.

Smiling, the King stroked the bird’s bright-green feathers. ‘Welcome to Stirling Castle and to my tournament.’

‘Thank you, your Grace.’

‘And this,’ the King said, lifting the wrist with the bird, ‘is Pierre. Greet the lady, Pierre.’

Pierre squawked and fluttered his wings. Elizabeth leaned away and pressed against Carwell. He found his arm around her waist.

Quickly, she recovered herself, but kept her lips firmly shut.

The King frowned. ‘Is he not impressive?’

She glanced at Carwell for permission. ‘I’ve never seen such a creature before.’

The King’s eyes narrowed and he handed the bird to an attendant. ‘Johnnie is not with you.’