Northumberland, 1543
Margaret lay on the ground with her eyes closed. That was her first mistake. The glow of the sun shone through her lids and warmed her through her heavy woolen dress. The heat spread to her bones, almost reaching the darkest, coldest places of her soul but not quite.
She hadn’t been this far north for many years. Not since the men with the steel bonnets and yellow jerkins had come reiving. After that, there’d been nothing left to come home to.
Spring was taking its time, like a hedgehog deciding whether or not to come out of its burrow under a hawthorn tree. More than once, she’d had to share such a bed with the creatures of the hedge, not wanting to waste coin at an inn.
Here, alone in this quiet patch of heath in the Northumbrian hills, she at last could let her guard down. She’d passed the old Roman wall two days ago. By this evening, she would reach Hartfell, her family home situated about as close to the Scottish border as one could get without crossing over.
Her father had been awarded Hartfell for his service in the Four Years’ War. Perhaps he might have declined the honor had he known it would set them right in the middle of the Border Marches. The most ruthless and lawless place in the entire country.
Margaret had come home with a purpose, and nothing could keep her from carrying it out. This was her chance for revenge. She would avenge her family’s cruel death and, by so doing, remove the affliction that had haunted her for the past six years. Her curse.
A cloud drifted across the sun, blocking the warmth. Then the huff of heavy breathing.
It was no cloud that cut off the light but a person. A man, from the sound of it.
A cold wave swelled through her, and her eyes flew open. Not one but three men stood over her, staring down with slick grins and unkempt beards.
She leapt to her feet. Her crossbow was in her pack leaning against the moss-encrusted stones at the edge of the clearing. That was her second mistake, leaving her weapon out of reach. She had a dagger strapped to her side, but at close range, she could never defend herself against all three of them. And if they touched her? Her whole body shuddered. Since the day of the reiving six years ago, she had done all within her power to keep from touching another living being.
Margaret pulled the blade from her side and pointed it at the closest shaggy-bearded man. “Stay back.”
He retreated a step. “Easy there, lass. We don’t want a fight. We just come ta see what a pretty thing like you is doin’ wandering alone in the hills.” His rotting teeth pierced the tangle of dark beard as he grinned. “And ta see what you’ve got in yer bag.”
Margaret swung her dagger toward a man who was now spilling the contents of her pack onto the ground. She didn’t have much, but what she had was hers. “Away from my things,” she warned.
The man, his head a mass of hair that looked like it had once been golden but due to time or lack of washing was now a muddy brown, picked up the crossbow from the pile of her belongings. “Dainty little thing, in’it?” He nocked a bolt and pointed it at Margaret. “Still packs a sting though, I’m sure.”
She would never find peace for her family if all her efforts to avenge their deaths ended on this barren hillside. If only she hadn’t let her guard down. Being so close to home had lulled her into false safety.
Margaret hadn’t gotten a good look at the third man yet. She could hear him moving behind her. She turned her head and followed him out of the corner of her eye. He had yellow hair, like straw, and was younger than the other two.
None of them wore the steel helmets, so they weren’t reivers—or at least they weren’t on a raid. Or perhaps they were. She didn’t rightly know if all border reivers wore the metal bonnets or just the ones who came calling at her house all those years ago.
The muddy-haired one fished out her small coin purse and jangled it. “Here’s something.”
“Take it,” the darkly bearded man said.
Margaret needed that coin. ’Twas all she had to set herself up at Hartfell. If she made a move, they would be on her. Grabbing her arms. Restraining her. She didn’t even have her gloves on—mistake number three. She would feel it all. The anger. The filth. The darkness. She would rather die than be subjected to that.
An arrow came flying out of the sky, grazing the shoulder of the darkly bearded man.
Margaret spun around. A group of four men on horseback came thundering toward her. One had a bow drawn and aimed. A yearling hung limply across his horse’s hind quarters, and a pack of lean deerhounds loped behind them. A hunting party. How could such a lonely land be filled with so many people?
“What’s this?” the man riding in front asked as he reined in his mount. He positioned his horse between the dark beard and herself.
The dark beard’s eyes roamed the intruders. “Nothing a Robson need worry about. Mind yer own ways.” He swatted the horse’s rump, and the beast surged forward.
Its rider deftly maneuvered the animal back into position but with the addition of a lance pointed at the dark beard’s throat. “Leave her things, and be off.” He pressed the sharpened tip closer. “I won’t ask again.”
Margaret half wished they’d turn on each other and leave her out of it. If they fought it out amongst themselves, she could make her escape.
The dark man backed away with a shrug. “As you wish. But we won’t forget this.”
The man on the horse laughed. “As if we’d have reason to fear the Halls.”
The three men slunk away, the pack of hounds enforcing the retreat with teeth bared. Margaret turned her dagger to the man on his horse, who was now stowing his lance in a sheath hanging from his saddle. He slid off his mount and landed close enough that she could have pierced his heart with the tip of her knife.
“That’s quite a little weapon you’ve got there. Where’d you find it?”
“Where I got it is none of your concern.” He should be riding off on his way by now. Not conversing with her.
“A misericorde, if I’m not mistaken. May I see it?” He reached a hand out, and Margaret leapt back.
Did he take her for a fool? She’d not give up her weapon so easily.
The man studied her for a moment. “Misericorde. It means mercy giver. ’Tis used to quickly end the suffering of a person who is mortally wounded.” His dark eyes studied her face. “Whose suffering are you looking to end?”
Mine. But not in the way he likely imagined. And certainly not with her dagger. She would end the lives of the men who had come to Hartfell that dark and rainy night. With their deaths, she would bring peace to her family. Only then would her suffering end.
“’Tis only for protection,” Margaret answered, the long blade still pointed directly at the horseman’s heart. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”
“So I see.” The man turned to his men. “Robert. Hugh. Take the kill on to Carrigdean. Gillis,” he said to a younger boy, who looked no more than sixteen or seventeen, “you stay with me.”
The men—Robert and Hugh—gave him a nod and transferred the yearling to one of their own mounts. They dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and rode off at a quick pace with the pack of hounds close behind, save for one dog that came and sat next to him.
Her odds were getting better. Now there were only two, the youth named Gillis and the horseman who somehow felt the need to keep talking to her.
Her meager belongings were strewn across the mead. He bent and picked up her crossbow from where one of the bearded men had dropped it. “Not sure I ought to hand this over armed and ready to fire. You seem a little heated.” He unnocked the string and removed the bolt before giving it to her.
Margaret grabbed her weapon from him. Of course she was heated; three men had just tried to rob her, and now this oaf insisted on probing deeper into her private affairs. Thus far, at least, he’d made no move of aggression. She sheathed her misericorde and scooped up her bag, shoving her things back into it—starting with her pouch of coin. Which, if it weren’t for the horseman, she probably would not still have.
“I thank you, sir, for the return of my possessions.” She stowed all but her crossbow. She would take no chances. Just because he appeared neighborly was no reason to trust him. Especially not here in the Border Marches, where neighbor fought against neighbor as easily as they breathed air.
The only way to discover his intentions with certainty would be to touch him. Skin to skin. Under no circumstances was she that desperate. Not yet.
She pulled her black kid gloves on. The simple act of covering her hands set her more at ease than any of her weapons.
He smiled. “You are most welcome. Angus Robson at your service.” He gave her a formal bow that she did not return. “And my brother, Gillis.” The young lad on the horse nodded. Angus waited a few moments, then said, “And you are?”
“On my way.” Margaret reset the bolt in her crossbow and drew back the string, keeping it ready to fire. “Good morrow to you.” She walked off down the hill toward the River Rede, which she would follow to Hartfell.
“Wait,” Angus Robson called. In a moment, he was walking beside her, dragging his horse by the reins. “You will not tell me your name?”
Why could he not simply ride away as his companions had done?
“At least tell me where you are headed?”
Margaret had hoped to reach her home well before nightfall. Already, she’d lost valuable time—first, because of her own folly, lying in the sun. Then the bearded bandits. And now this man who was stickier than a fly. “Home.” That was all she’d give him. Perhaps now he’d fly away.
“And where is that, exactly?”
For a moment, she considered shooting her crossbow at him. But no.
“You see,” he couldn’t stop talking. He was like a leaky roof that just kept dripping and dripping without end. “’Tis not oft we meet a young lass dressed in fine cloth, armed with delicate yet deadly weapons out wandering the hills alone. I am intrigued.”
She should never have worn her mother’s gown. It was one of the few things that had survived the fire. Nothing more than a deep-blue wool, but the weave was fine. Too fine for a commoner. Plus, the trim of indigo velvet set her off as the daughter of a knight, despite the fact that she had not lived like one since leaving Hartfell.
Angus Robson sighed out loud. “At least allow me to give you a ride to your home.” He flung the reins over his horse’s head and held out his hand. “’Tis not wise to wander these hills alone.”
Margaret stared at his hand, then up at his face. At first she’d thought his eyes were blue, but no; they were a clear gray. Quite a contrast to his hair, which was the color of freshly turned earth. Handsome enough, for a man.
Margaret shook her head. “No.” She set off again, walking at a brisk pace, hoping to leave him behind.
“Bit headstrong, aren’t you?” He hurried again to catch up. “Well, I can’t just leave you here. Not alone. What if the Hall brothers come back? Or worse.”
Margaret stopped. “Sir, I’ve been alone now for many years. I assure you I can take care of myself. I prefer the solitude. Let me thank you again for your assistance and beg you take my leave.”
She took up her walking again. This day could not have gone any worse. A quiet return. Slip in. Find the men who ruined her. Slip out. But this Angus Robson would not go away.
He was clearly the leader of his little band of men. A nobleman, by the sable edging his hunting jerkin. Or the son of one. She recalled the Robson name as a family living across the border in Scotland. An earl, if memory served. He must belong to them. All the more reason to keep herself away.
She need not turn around to know he still followed her. His hound loped circles around them both with a long-legged gait. The tack on his horse jangled and creaked. And his companion’s horse kept rumbling puffs of air out his mouth. How had they managed to stalk a deer with such a din?
Her pace quickened. Still, he followed.
She halted and turned. He had mounted his horse, trailing twenty paces behind her, his brother by his side.
“Sir, I must insist that we part ways.”
He smiled. “Indeed, we have. ’Tis only that your way and our way appear to be the same.”
She could run, but he was on horseback, and she could never outpace him. She considered stopping altogether. Perhaps she could wait them out. But she really wanted to reach Hartfell before nightfall. If the hills were dangerous during the day, dark would be much worse. For that was the time when the reivers came out, scouring the land for more cattle to steal. More sheep to lift. More families to destroy.
So let him follow. If he kept on her heels as she neared Hartfell, she would turn aside and lead him elsewhere. With any luck, he’d tire of his game and turn toward his home.
When she reached the river, the men were still behind her. She picked her way along the bank for a ways, but the going was slower with the trees and bracken growing along the water’s edge.
Then the Rede divided, and a small branch twisted off to the west. Margaret turned with it. Angus and Gillis Robson crossed the stream and continued north. At last, she was rid of them.
“Good day to you,” Angus called as they disappeared around the bend. “I hope we meet again.”
Margaret did not share that same hope. The two brothers disappeared behind a low rise. Had they not shown up when they did, she would have been deprived of all her possessions and quite possibly more. Perhaps those Robson boys were not the worst of men, but still, she was glad they no longer followed her.
She had let her guard down out on the moors, as if being close to home could transport her back to the time before she knew so much about danger and loss. It must not happen again.
She paused and breathed in, filling her lungs with the brisk air. So much better than the London air infested with waste and rot in every corner of the city. Her years there had hardened her. If anything of her heart had remained after the day of the reiving, London had quickly turned it to stone.
After a mile or so, a tall square tower made of gray stone rose into view. Hartfell.
She hitched up her skirts and ran. She’d forgotten how lovely this place was. Trees grew here, in the shelter of the valley, nourished by the river. And wild roses. The heather, still in its first leaf, spread a carpet of green across the hillsides. In a few more weeks, it would bloom, coloring the whole valley in purple.
But shadows lingered here as well. The pack of men, a dozen strong, with bonnets of steel and vests of yellow. Long spears. Burning torches. And the sting of vile on her skin.
She shook her head to dislodge the images, keeping them as far on the periphery as possible. She had spent a week at St. Paul’s in London, praying for strength to do what must be done. If she let those memories in, they would eat away at her soul.
The heavy oak door of Hartfell seemed well enough intact, though it stood ajar.
It had been a rainy night when the reivers had come. The timber house next to the tower had smoked and smoked as it succumbed to the flames.
She gave the door a push and stepped inside, then quickly covered her nose with her arm. Mold. Animal scatterings. And damp, very damp. With a quick heave, she opened the door wide to let the air in. Light filtered through the one narrow window. One of the panes was broken, and the rest were mottled by years of grime.
The whole structure was really nothing more than a watchtower. A three-story pele tower with walls as thick as she was tall. The reiver’s fire hadn’t penetrated the thick stone, so other than a little rotting, most of the floors and ceiling were still intact.
All in all, it was better than she’d hoped. She could live here quite comfortably once she tidied it up. She’d keep no livestock so the border reivers would have no reason to come back. They’d already taken everything.
Even so, the door and lock would be the first thing needing repair. But for now, a fire. And pray to heaven the chimney wasn’t blocked.
She gathered a good store of wood from the grove surrounding the tower, stacking it carefully beside the hearth. After she got a flame going, she turned to search for a broom to sweep the floor.
A pair of doleful brown eyes stared at her.
Margaret screamed, then covered her mouth.
It was that huge dog of Angus Robson. The dog’s ears perked up, and its head tilted to the side. It must have followed her home.
“Off,” she said, waving to the door. “Be off before you drag your lackwit master here behind you.”
“I fear it’s too late for that.”