Blythe Gifford - His Border Bride

Edward’s knights grumbled their agreement. Hungry bellies made vicious warriors.

Gavin looked from the torch to the church. Stone walls were no protection. He knew that. He had lit fires large and small from Picardy to Artois. Heard the crackle of the roof catch fire, seen the timbers crash to the floor and ignite wooden altars, felt the heat sear his chest through his breastplate. Cinder burns pitted the gold lions and lilies on his surcoat.

But this was different and had been from the moment they crossed the border. He had breathed the familiar smell of the earth, felt the gentle slope of the hills rise below his stallion’s hooves, looked up at the perpetual grey mist of the sky. And knew.

No matter how long he had been away, where, or with whom, this was home.

‘What’s the matter, Fitzjohn?’ the King yelled. ‘Is your Scottish whore’s blood holding you back, boy?’

His mother was no whore. But the King had never forgiven Gavin’s father for his sin, even after death. ‘There’s no reason for this,’ he answered. ‘These folk fight us no more.’

‘Your father would have done it!’

His father had done worse.

But Gavin no longer could.

He dropped the torch and heard it sizzle as it hit the soggy ground. Then, he pulled off the red, gold and blue surcoat bearing his father’s arms and held it over the sputtering flame until it was ablaze.

‘My father might have done it. But I will not.’

He grabbed the reins and turned his horse away to ride into the darkness alone.

He was not the man his father had been.

Or so he prayed.

A few weeks later, in the Cheviot Hills

The falcon paced on her perch that morning, pecking at her jesses, on edge even after Clare slipped the hood over her head to cover her eyes. Strange. Typically, she feared nothing when she could see nothing.

‘What’s the matter, Wee One?’ Clare crooned, as she closed the door and motioned the falconer away. She pretended the birds were part of her duties as mistress of Carr’s Tower, but the falconer was rewarded, and well, to tend to their constant needs. She simply preferred to do it herself, particularly with this one. ‘Don’t you want to take a morning flight?’

She stroked the striped feathers of the bird’s breast, talking nonsense until Wee One recognised her voice and stilled her wings. Clare held out a titbit and the bird nipped it from her fingers.

‘Ye’re spoilin’ the bird, Mistress Clare,’ the old falconer said. His grey-tinged brows nearly met as he frowned. ‘She’ll nae hunt if she’s nae hungry.’

‘It’s no more than a crumb.’ A bribe was more the truth, something to fool herself into believing the bird cared about her instead of only the food she brought.

She checked to be sure the jesses on the falcon’s talons had not come loose. ‘I think it does her good to have a treat from time to time.’

Neil shook his head. ‘Ye won’t think so when ye lose her. If she ever discovers she can eat her fill without our help, she’ll nae return to your fist again.’

He had grumbled the same thing to her for years. But except for this small infraction, Clare had studied all the rules and followed every one when she trained Wee One.

She pulled on a thick leather glove and held out her left hand. The bird hopped on to her wrist and Clare swept out of the mews and into the barmkin where young Angus awaited her.

The page, on the edge of squirehood, had been left behind when her father took most of the men to war, so he viewed himself as protector of the ladies left in the tower.

‘Get my horse and the dog, Angus.’

He hesitated. ‘Ye shouldna go out alone, Mistress Clare.’

She knew that, but she had picked the boy because he would not refuse her. ‘Both the bird and I need exercise. And my father sent word. He’ll be home soon. The Inglis are halfway to Carlisle by now.’

In truth, the Inglis might be as close as Melrose, but she was tired of hiding, tired of winter, tired of being caged like the birds. Besides, the wild hills surrounding their border castle offered as much protection as an army. The ‘Great Waste', some called it. No one would come here unless he wanted to escape the civilised world.

Angus brought her hound and horse and held the falcon as she mounted. Then, sitting proudly on top of his pony, he rode beside her. As they left the shadow of the tower’s wall, she took her first deep breath and looked up at the blue, cloudless sky. They had not seen the like for months.

‘Clare! Wait!’

She turned to see Euphemia, daughter of the widow Murine, galloping after her. Clare stifled a sigh for the loss of her private moment with the falcon and freedom.

She held her horse to let the girl catch up. Far from looking ready to hunt, Euphemia, on the edge of womanhood, looked as if she were ready to fall into bed with the next man she stumbled across. Not because of her clothes—her dress was as temperate as Clare’s—but even at sixteen, the slant of her smile and the flutter of her eyelashes put men in mind of night pleasures.

Just as her mother’s did.

‘I had to come,’ the girl said, as she caught them. ‘We may not see another day so warm ‘til June.’ A flush touched her cheek and her dark hair tumbled across her shoulders.

Clare’s tight braid insured her hair would never fly loose, even after a day on horseback. ‘You may join me, but stay close. She’s not been out for days and I intend to be sure she has a good flight.’

She gazed at the sky, looking for potential prey. Instead, she heard the flapping wings of another falcon. Wee One, hooded, swivelled her head, as if searching for the sound.

‘What’s that?’ Euphemia asked.

Clare peered at the bird—male, she thought, from his smaller size. He flew back and forth across their path, fierce, dark, yellow-rimmed eyes glaring as if he wanted them to stop.

‘I don’t know.’ She frowned, suddenly afraid the strange bird might tempt Wee One to freedom. Thinking to escape him, she urged the horse into a gallop, not stopping until she was halfway up the ridge and the tercel was no longer in sight. Waiting for the others, she felt the south-west wind nudge her back.

Maybe summer would come early.

‘Look!’ Angus whispered as the hound pointed.

A few yards away, a fat partridge huddled under a bush. She would be easy to flush into flight, the perfect quarry for a falcon.

Clare glanced over her shoulder to be sure they had lost the tercel. Then she removed Wee One’s hood, struggling to hold on to the leather jesses as the wind nearly jerked them out of her fingers. She raised her arm and Wee One took off, wings flapping, until she was just a speck overhead. There, she would wait, as she had been trained to do, until the humans sent her prey skywards.

Angus set the dog towards the bush, scaring the partridge into flight, where the bird expected to be away from danger, but the small dot in the sky dived for her prey, falling faster than a horse could gallop.

They stirred their horses and gave chase.

They were halfway down the valley by mid-afternoon. The bird had worked, tireless, through the day. She had several fine stoops, killing three fowl. Each time, Clare rewarded her with a taste of the flesh. Then, she whisked the prey into the sack for Angus to carry.

Food rewarded the falcon for a successful flight, but the bird was never allowed to eat without her master’s help. Otherwise, she would learn that she did not need the help of humans after all.

The last partridge escaped. Clare called her falcon with a shrieking whistle and smiled as Wee One swooped on to her fist, obedient.

This bird would return to her. Always.

At the thought, the list of duties left undone rushed back, sweeping away the freedom of the day.