Blythe Gifford - His Border Bride

A man on a horse.

Fear stopping her breath, she stared into the darkness. It was late in the season for a raid, but the Robsons never cared much for the calendar.

No. Not horses coming. Someone leaving.

She strained her eyes and saw the dark outline of a man, cloaked. He rode a small, black horse with blanketed feet, stepping as quietly as if the mount could see the loose stones and avoid them.

She recognised the man. His height, his shape, the way he sat.

Fitzjohn.

He had sworn on his knight’s honour not to harm them, yet he crept away in darkness. To rendezvous with the Inglis? She turned away from the window. She must tell her father, raise the men, stop him.

The tread of a second horse drew her back. Another man.

Finally, a third.

Silent, she watched the darkness swallow them as they rode towards the hills. A smile tickled her lips.

Perhaps Fitzjohn was a Scottis man after all.

The baron flopped over in bed, snoring like the devil.

Murine sat up. ‘Wake up, ye piece of horseflesh. I hear something.’

He snorted. Murine sighed. He could be a lout, but she loved him, for all the good it would ever do her.

She shook him. ‘Ralph! Wake up and listen.’

He snorted awake then, and closed his mouth to let his ears work.

‘It’s a horse.’ She didn’t wait for him, but left her bed and went to the window of her small cottage. ‘No. Three of them. Someone is leaving.’

He didn’t bother to get up. ‘Come back to bed, Murine. It’s the boy.’

She turned. ‘The boy? Fitzjohn? How can ye be sure?’

He turned on his side and patted the mattress for her to come back. ‘Because I sent him. Thought he would take the bait. Three horses, ye say?’ He nodded, smiling. ‘He’s done well already.’

She put her hands on her hips, bigger now than those years ago, when he had first taken her to his bed. ‘Ye’re a thieving rascal. Did ye send him after the Robson’s cattle?’

He grinned, eyes still closed. ‘Well, if I did, I wouldn’t tell ye, would I? Now come back to this bed and keep me warm, woman.’

She laughed. And did.

Over the next week, Clare’s father smiled like a man with a secret.

She refused to ask where Fitzjohn and the others had gone, for fear it would sound as though she cared. Alain commented they were well rid of the man, but her father said nothing.

Proof he knew more than he said.

Well, better, she thought, not to be distracted by Fitzjohn when Alain should be first in her thoughts. They needed time together, she thought, time alone. Perhaps hawking.

‘Splendid!’ he said, when she suggested it. ‘You can fly my merlin.’

‘I would rather take Wee One,’ she said.

‘Why do you persist in hunting with that bird?’ he asked. ‘She has even scratched you.’

She hid her hand in her skirt.

Alain, already on his way to the mews, did not wait for her answer.

She sighed and followed.

Conferring with the falconer, Alain selected birds for the rest of his party. Neil, pleased to be restored to his rightful place, rode with them. The cadger carried the hooded birds, bouncing on the wooden frame hung from his shoulders. Two dogs and three of the comte’s knights joined them.

With a silent apology to Wee One, she held her tongue and mounted to ride. She and Alain had rarely been hawking together. She had forgotten that an outing with him shared little with her wild escapes.

This hunt seemed to be as much about the conversation as the chase. Alain and his men discussed the history of each bird with the falconer, then debated which should fly first, second and last. Alain’s bird looked large enough to bring down a heron, yet he never attempted it. For all the discussion, his birds seemed to be ornaments, chosen for looks instead of for heart.

The sun climbed higher. The sacks remained empty.

Finally, one of the hawks ran a rabbit to ground. Alain’s falcon gave good chase, but failed to catch a pigeon. The merlin, smaller even than Wee One, tail-chased two larks without success before snapping up a large insect.

‘I don’t know why she’s so sluggish today,’ Alain said. ‘Perhaps she is not accustomed to you.’

Clare held her tongue. Any serious falconer knew that a merlin was only good for one season. Keeping the bird over the winter was a waste of food. But she did not want to criticise Alain in front of the others, and there was no way to exchange a word without being overheard. The two of them had no more time alone than if they were riding in a royal procession.

She finally blurted out a question as he helped her dismount at the end of the day. ‘When do you return to France?’

She wanted to say ‘when do we return?', but that seemed presumptuous.

‘Lord Douglas plans a pilgrimage in grateful thanks for his victory. I shall travel with him.’

‘To the Holy Land?’ Her hands grew cold. He had mentioned nothing of this before. Such a trip would take at least a year.

‘Not so far. Amiens.’

The French cathedral housed the head of St John the Baptist. It would be natural for Alain to travel with the group back to France. ‘When?’

He shrugged. ‘Arrangements must be made. By summer. Sooner, I pray. I can’t wait to leave this cold, damp place.’

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