Bertrice Small - The Captive Heart

"The lass is right," Fenella said quietly, quite startled by the child's sharp perception as she too stared down at the body. The woman was too big-boned to be Dunglais's lady. "This isn't your wife, my lord."

"The Englishman is clever in attempting to make me believe it is. Yet he was careless in his choice of henchmen to carry out his nefarious plot," Malcolm Scott noted. "They did not bother to consider the differences between my wife and the victim they chose to masquerade as her. Poor woman. Can anyone identify her?"

"It may be Vika from over the hill," Beinn said thoughtfully. "She's a local whore, my lord." He looked the body over very carefully and then nodded. "Aye, that's just who it is, my lord. See that round pinkish brown mole there on the side of her ankle? Vika had just such a mole."

Another man-at-arms sidled forward and peered down. "Aye, 'tis Vika, poor lass. She were a good whore, and never stole from a man when he slept," he remarked.

"Fenella, find some respectable garments for the woman, and we'll bury her decently. Someone go and fetch the priest. Father Donald can say a word over her. Did she have any bairns?" the laird wanted to know.

"Two," Beinn answered him. "Lads both. Maybe three and five."

"Is their sire or sires known?" the laird asked.

"If Vika knew, she never said, my lord," Beinn told him.

"Find those lads," the laird instructed, "and bring them to the keep. In an odd sense their mam died for my wife. I'll see her lads aren't left to starve or be mistreated."

It had been a day now since Alix had been kidnapped, but with the discovery of the dead whore Malcolm Scott was once more delayed from leaving Dunglais to seek out his wife at Wulfborn, and bring her home. The Englishman had to be mad to concoct such a wicked scheme. And what in the name of all that was holy had convinced him he could get away with it? While Malcolm knew Alix was safe, he was still concerned for his lambkin and the bairn she carried. An almost-two-day ride across the hills and over the border could not have been easy. If anything had happened to either his wife or his son the Englishman would regret his folly with his last dying breath, which the Laird of Dunglais promised himself would be a long, painful time coming. And not a stone of his house or village would be left standing.

Malcolm Scott decided he needed more men to ride with him. He sent to his uncle at Drumcairn, requesting that he come with all haste, bringing his clansmen with him. Then, despite his impatience, he waited another day, for to meet up with his uncle in the roadless borders would be more difficult. Early the next day Robert Ferguson arrived at Dunglais with twenty of his clansmen.

"What has happened, Nephew?" he asked as he dismounted his horse.

"Come into the hall," the laird invited him, "and the rest of you. You'll eat and then we ride for England!" He led the way, his uncle hurrying to keep up with him. Once at the high board Malcolm Scott explained the situation to his uncle. "I don't know how he learned she was here, but he did. Now I must go and retrieve my wife. She is with child, Uncle. She carries my son."

"Or a daughter," Robert Ferguson said.

"Lad or lass, I care not," Malcolm Scott said. "I want my lambkin back, and my bairn safe. The Englishman's a fool to believe I won't come for her."

Robert Ferguson speared himself a slice of ham with his dirk and began to eat it. "How far?" he wanted to know.

"I only know the direction in which they went and the area where this Wulfborn Hall is supposed to be located. I sent scouts out yesterday to find exactly where this Englishman makes his home, but Alix always said it was very isolated, and she never met any neighboring families. But I also know it cannot be more than a day and a half's ride over the border from Dunglais."

The Ferguson of Drumcairn chewed his breakfast with thoughtful care. "What exactly do you intend doing when we reach this Wulfborn Hall, nephew?"

"I shall demand my wife be returned to me immediately!" the laird told him.

"And if this English lordling refuses?" was the question.

"I'll pull his house down around his ears until I have my wife back!" Malcolm Scott said.

"Hmmmm," Robert Ferguson said. "How is the house defended?"

"I don't know," the laird said irritably.

"How many men does he have?"

"I don't know," the laird said again. "But I do recall Alix saying there were not many tenants, for the land was poor and not particularly arable."

"Hmmmm," Robert Ferguson considered further, but he could think of no other questions to ask his nephew. "Well, then," he said, "I suppose the first thing is to find Wulfborn. Unless the house is well defended we should be able to take it without sustaining serious losses, laddie. Will you kill the Englishman?"

"Only if I have to," the laird said grimly.

Robert Ferguson removed the last hard-boiled egg from the bowl before him, and after peeling it, neatly popped it into his mouth. "Well, then," he said as he chewed it, "I suppose we must ride. We've still got several hours of daylight before us."

After giving his housekeeper explicit instructions, and promising his daughter to return with Alix, the Laird of Dunglais, in the company of his uncle of Drumcairn, left his hall. Going into the courtyard of his keep, he mounted the large stallion he favored. Next to him Robert Ferguson had climbed atop his own horse. Raising his hand, the laird signaled his men to move forward, and they rode forth from the keep in a double line. Fiona and Fenella watched them from one of the keep's two towers.

"He will bring Alix home, won't he?" the little girl asked the woman by her side.

"Aye, he'll bring her home, lass," Fenella assured the child.

"I've lost one mother," Fiona said. "I do not want to lose another. This one loves me while the other did not."

"Whoever told you such a thing?" Fenella wanted to know. It might be the truth, but it wasn't a truth a child should be aware of, she thought angrily.

"I hear things," Fiona said, noting that the housekeeper did not try to tell her it wasn't so. "People do not pay a great deal of attention to me when they are involved in their own purposes, Fenella. She who birthed me did not love me. I tell everyone she loved my father, but if she did not love me how could she love him?"

Fenella pressed her lips together. How could she admit to the truth of what little Fiona was saying? She would not hurt this child, though it would appear Fiona Scott was wise beyond her years. "Let the past lie, my bairn," she told the girl. "Your father loves your stepmother, and your stepmother loves you both. It is far more than most people get in this life."

"I will only marry for love," Fiona responded.

"Neither your da nor Alix would ever force you into a marriage that did not please you," Fenella assured her young companion. "But you are just going to be eight in a few weeks, my bairn. There is more than enough time for marriage."

The day was gray and the air about them still as they stood watching the laird, his uncle, and the fifty men with them ride over the hill and out of sight.

"Will they be gone long?" Fiona wondered.

"A few days, certainly no more," Fenella said, and hoped it would be so. "Your da will send to us if 'tis to be longer. Now, is it not time for you to go to Father Donald for your Latin lesson, Fiona Scott? Just because your mam isn't here does not mean you can shirk your duties. With Martinmas near, I am going to teach you how to salt meat today. Bacon does not appear magically upon the high board." And Fenella led her charge from the tower top back down into the hall of Dunglais Keep.

The clansmen followed the track they had followed several days previously, turning south this time where the raiding party had split in two. They moved along at a steady pace, stopping to rest their horses briefly and take a few moments of ease. They carried with them oatcakes, which they ate a-saddle when hungry. Each man's flask held his own personal preference for liquid refreshment. When the short autumn day began to wane they found shelter by an ancient cairn of stones. Gathering wood for a fire, they soon had one going. Others among them went on foot onto the moor and trapped several rabbits and two game birds, which were dispatched quickly to be brought back for supper. The creatures were swiftly skinned, the birds plucked. Then they were put on spits to be roasted over the open fire.

When the game was nicely cooked it was portioned out among the men to eat with their oatcakes. Afterwards a watch was set for the night, and those who could, slept. The skies had cleared near sunset. As he lay upon his back staring up at the night sky admiring the bright stars, Malcolm Scott considered that it had been a very long time since he had gone raiding. The borders were not always as quiet as they had been of recent years, but then the English had had-still had-problems with their monarchs. Everyone chose sides, and they had been so busy fighting amongst themselves that there had been no time to fight with the Scots.

He wasn't certain as he lay there that he didn't miss the excite-merit of the raiding that had gone back and forth during the previous years. It wasn't over yet, of course. It would never be over. He expected that once England settled down with this new king, of theirs, and the matter of poor mad Henry VI was concluded, the raiding would begin anew. He smiled in the darkness thinking of how he would take his sons with him and teach them how a border lord went raiding. He would show them there was a time for harshness and a time for mercy. That cattle, horses, and sheep, not women, were the best part of a raid, for they added to a man's wealth. But, of course, first he had to regain his wife from that stubborn fool of an Englishman who thought that Alix was his.

He awoke when his uncle shook his shoulder. It was still dark, but the darkness was lightening, and the distant horizon was beginning to hint at morning. Around him the men were gathering up the horses that had been grazing and resting during the night. After watering the horses at a nearby stream, the men were now preparing to ride.

"Mount up!" the laird called to them as he sprang into his saddle.

The borderers moved slowly off from their encampment. The air was distinctly colder this morning, but as the sun slowly began to rise, the dampness eased. With more light the horses picked up the pace as they rode south. In late morning, close to the noon hour, they had the good fortune to come upon a small three-wagon caravan of tinkers who were also traveling south to find a milder winter. The wagons stopped as the laird and his troupe came up upon them.

"Good morrow, my lords," the obvious leader said, bowing nervously as he waited to learn the fate God had decided for him and his family. He was a swarthy man, but roughly dressed. From the wagons about him children peeped out curiously. There was no sign of women, only other men with faces that said nothing.

"Do you know of a place called Wulfborn Hall?" the laird asked pleasantly.

"Wulfborn Hall?" The tinker considered carefully, and then he saw the gleam of silver in the laird's fingers. "You are quite near it, my lord," he said quickly.

"How near?" the laird asked casually, tossing the silver piece into the air.

The tinker watched the coin with dark eyes as it fell back into the laird's big palm. He could tell it was full weight by its size and the faint sound it made as it hit the skin. "Perhaps ten miles just south and slightly to the east, my lord," he replied, deftly catching the coin as it was sent through the air in his direction. He bobbed his appreciation.

"My thanks," Malcolm Scott said, and he signaled his men forward again.

The tinker watched them go, thinking that so large an armed group did not bode well for Wulfborn Hall. He beckoned his caravan onward.

"Do you think he told the truth?" Robert Ferguson asked his nephew.

"He had no reason to lie," the laird said, and then he called to Beinn. "Send two men ahead to ascertain the exact location of this place we seek."

"You want to find the right place, Nephew. It would not do for us to attack someone innocent in this matter," the Ferguson of Drumcairn remarked.

"Alix said there were no neighbors for miles around," Malcolm Scott replied.

Two scouts broke off from the main party and rode ahead seeking out Wulfborn Hall. They were not long in finding it, for the tinker had not lied. One of them rode back to the laird while the other waited and watched. The house that stood on a small rise at one end of the village was constructed of stone. It had a slate roof, and its windows were long and narrow. It was a house that could be properly defended. The village was small and poor looking, but it did have a little church at the opposite end from the house. There were few signs of life on this autumn day, for the harvest was long in. Most of the cotters would be keeping to their hearths until spring came. There was a respectable flock of sheep grazing on a hillside in the weak sunshine, and maybe half a dozen cattle in the nearby meadow. The place was hardly worth pillaging, the clansman observing in the shadows thought to himself as his horse shifted beneath him. Sensing the arrival of his clansmen, the watcher turned as the laird rode up by his side.