Margaret woke early the next morning to the sound of Hamish whining at the door. She opened it, and he bounded out, coating his legs and underbelly in the night’s rainfall that still clung to the ferns and heather.
Hopefully, the beast had the wits to procure his own breakfast, as Margaret had little food to spare. Until she got to Redesdale to buy flour, suet, salt, and the like, her rations would be slim.
In the early light, the old building looked a bit more inviting. The front door had been situated to best catch the morning sunlight.
She walked out into the yard. Near the pele tower, cracked foundations of the timber house marked the ground. Scars left to remind her of all that had vanished. Like a candle snuffed out by a puff of wind. She walked the paths of phantom rooms and corridors.
This was where her parents had slept and where her father kept his books and ledgers. Here she helped her mother and Wilmot prepare the meals. Kneading bread, peeling onions while a great fire burned in the hearth. Here, by the window, her mother had sat and sewn in a corner chair with a soft, goose-down cushion. A doll for Anne. A mantle for her father. A lace kerchief for Margaret.
The second floor had been the children’s room. Here she’d slept, played, and tussled with her brothers, Arthur and Edward. Her sister, Anne, would never stoop to such frivolity. And here, the servants’ quarters. Two of them had also perished in the fire.
Beyond the house, the stables and byre had been consumed by the flames. Most of the defensive wall—the barmkin—still stood. But there were large gaps where stones had been foraged to build someone else’s barmkin wall.
The hollow of her home was now filled with twigs and moss. Yarrow and milkweed pushed through the cracks. Collapsed across it all lay the charred ridge beam, the final grave marker for the family she’d lost.
Margaret went back into her tower—it was all that remained. Even its great stone thickness had not been enough to save them. Soon now, she promised. Soon, her family would see justice done to the man responsible for murdering them. Revenge would likely cost her her life, but that was a price she was willing to pay.
She climbed up the tiny spiral staircase in the corner to the second floor. The outer stone walls were thinner up here, and unlike the ground floor, this level had several windows that let in light. Dust motes drifted lazily about in the otherwise empty room. Whatever goods had been left here had long since been stolen.
The top floor was naught but a small garret where they’d stored grains and other supplies.
In the garret, Margaret found several items that had survived the years. A wooden bucket—rope handle still intact. An axe—covered in rust, but underneath, she might find a usable blade. A straw mattress—far too molded and ruined to use, and all kinds of vermin living in it. She’d have to drag it outside and burn it. Best of all, she found a cook pot.
She took the bucket and headed out to the stream.
Hartfell sat on gentle rise, close enough to the water to be backed by a grove of trees but high enough to serve its purpose as lookout tower. She climbed the hill and gazed across the landscape.
To the north lay the lowlands where the hills met the Scottish border. Trees and woodland blossomed along the stream and riverbeds. Heather and moor blanketed everywhere else. To the south, the Cheviot Hills rose in a maze of sharp crags and mounds of heath.
Angus had called it dangerous country, and he was right. Aside from the border reivers, there were peat bogs, rockfalls, and even the occasional wolf. Not to mention men like the Halls. But it was beautiful in its bleakness. She’d forgotten how much she loved the open sky and rush of air across her cheeks.
Her years in London had been crowded in by the throngs of people and the shops, houses, inns, and taverns all bumping up against each other. Even the river was a never-ending rush of boats and ferries.
For a moment, Margaret considered lying back in the heather and letting the sun bleach out the memories of the past. Perhaps if she left herself in its rays long enough, her dark places would fade, lightening to a pale and colorless blank.
But that was what had gotten her into trouble yesterday. Lying down for a while, letting her guard down. She settled for closing her eyes where she stood and letting the breeze brush her hair away from her face.
Too soon Hamish appeared, running back and forth around her. He had a smear of red on one side of his mouth, so he must have found something to break his fast.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “We have work to do.”
Margaret filled her bucket in the stream and washed her face and hands in it. First thing to do, get rid of the moldering mattress from the garret. There would be no point in cleaning the lower floors and then dragging the wretched thing across them.
She climbed back to the top of the narrow stone stairs. The straw mattress was heavy with damp. Soon as she touched it, a flurry of mice and other creatures darted out from under it. Hamish chased them into the gaps in the stones, turning with a little gray thing hanging from his mouth. He gulped it down. Almost as good as having a cat.
“Come on, then,” she told the dog. “Help me with this.”
Hamish wagged his tail and jumped onto the mattress.
“Shoo.” She waved him off. “That’s not helping.”
Margaret heaved and tugged the smelly thing into the spiral staircase. Step by step, she wedged it down, leaving a trail of straw and litter along the way.
Hamish barked and barked, then nearly tipped her over as he squashed past her down the stairs and bounded out the door.
“Deserted again. Fitting.”
She’d almost reached the bottom when a voice carried up the stairs.
“Can I help you with that?”
Angus Robson. For mercy’s sake. Back for his dog already, it seemed. In case he was wondering, she hadn’t come to her senses, and she would be staying at Hartfell. Though she would miss the dog.
“No.” She heaved it down the final steps and turned to face him.
Him and his brother Gillis. And two other men she did not know. All of them standing in her house as though she’d asked them to tea. He’d given his word not to spread news of her return. Liar.
“What are you doing here?” Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and slipped her gloves on.
“I came to see if you survived the night.” He looked her up and down. “I’m impressed. Thought maybe you’d wash away with the rain.”
“On the contrary.”
Hamish’s tail could barely contain its joy at the ear rubbing coming from his master. “You remember my brother Gillis,” Angus said.
It had been barely twelve hours since she’d seen him. “Of course.” She smiled at Gillis. Lanky and lean. The face of a boy in the body of a man.
“Gillis, this is Lady Margaret.”
Gillis smiled and gave her a formal bow.
“But whatever you do,” Angus said, “don’t call her lady. She prefers Meg.”
Meg? As though they were cousins or friends or something. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to see if you’ve come to your senses.”
So predictable. And must he assume that because she’d turned him down, she must be the one out of her senses? She rested her hand on the hilt of her dagger. Her gesture did not go unnoticed. “I’m staying.”
“I suspected as much.” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “In which case, I brought you help.”
“I don’t need help.” Strangers wandering her house—what if one of them touched her? “I prefer to be alone.” She whispered through her teeth, “We had an agreement.”
He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “We agreed I wouldn’t tell the neighborhood that the daughter of Sir Godric Grey has returned. I kept my word. I’ve only brought two servants from my own household to get your place livable. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To live here? Alone?” He put a heavy emphasis on alone. “One day. That is all. And your tower will be ready for you.”
She peered over his shoulder at the men. Mayhap they would be useful. At the very least, they would have the tools she lacked to make repairs. And since they were here, they might as well work. “I cannot pay.”
“They are already compensated.”
“Can they mend my door?”
“I shall make it first of their tasks.”
A locked and barred door would be a huge relief. As such, Hartfell would be nigh impregnable. “Very well, then. I accept.”
“Good.” He grinned again. “Now come outside. I’ve got more to show you.”
She scowled at him. “It had better not be more people.”
“By Saint George, ’tis easier to force eggs back into a chicken than to help you.” He shook his head to punctuate his exasperation. “It is not more people.”
He motioned to his brother. “Gillis, lead the way.”
Margaret followed the two men out the door.
A cart stood behind two stout horses in the morning sunlight. Rising over its side were the legs of a chair, possibly a table, and several other furnishings.
“What is all this?” Margaret peered over the side.
“Just a few things.”
Gillis began unloading, first setting two chairs and a small table on the trampled grass. They were not fine by any means, plain and simply crafted, yet sturdy. Next came a bed frame. Again, small and plain but solid, crossed with ropes. A mattress, certainly not new but infinitely better than the one she’d dragged down from the garret. A pot. Two plates and two cups.
In only moments, she’d gone from living in squalor to relative comfort. It was too much. She did not want to owe him or anyone else any favors. She was here for one purpose and one purpose only: justice for her family. Once she completed her task, she’d likely end up in the gallows anyway.
“This is too much. I cannot accept.” He barely even knew her. What made him think he had the right to such generosity?
“Oh. I don’t think I fully explained. I’m not giving them to you. I’m just loaning them until you come to your senses.” He pointed at his brother. “Besides. It was Gillis’s idea.”
Gillis smiled at her.
“Is that true?” she asked him.
Gillis just shrugged his shoulders.
“Course it’s true,” Angus said. “He’s a soft-hearted lad. Can’t see a bird with a broken wing and not try to mend it. Our whole house is overrun with his convalescing creatures. Just the other day, I stepped out of bed and nearly punctured my foot on a hedgehog.”
Gillis’s shoulders shook as though he were laughing, but he made no sound other than a soft cough. He lifted the last item out of the cart—a basket—and set it on the table.
“He even found a wolf with a broken leg. Brought her home and healed her.”
“A wolf?” Margaret looked over at Gillis. “And she didn’t bite you?”
Gillis shook his head.
“The wretched thing loved him,” Angus said. “Till her leg healed and she ran off, carrying our best egg layer clamped between her jaws.”
Gillis’s eyes filled with mirth. They were a bright and clear blue, set off well by his youthful rosy cheeks.
One of the men called for Gillis from inside. He hurried off.
Angus watched him with a smile. He seemed fond of his brother. For a brief moment, Margaret was tempted to remove her gloves and touch Angus’s skin, just for that rare glimpse of something happy. But it wasn’t worth the risk or the pain.
“Gillis is a mute,” Angus announced quietly but without apology. “He has never spoken.”
Margaret glanced back to the house, where Gillis was helping one of the men haul the mucky mattress out into the yard for burning.
“I thought you should know. Some folks are insulted by it. I hope he does not offend you.”
“On the contrary,” Margaret said. “I believe the best quality a man can have is silence.” Gillis might be the only man she’d ever met whom she could tolerate an acquaintance with.
Angus chuckled. “At least you are not bitter.” He lifted the lid to the basket. “Some goods for your larder. I had Cook pack it up.”
Margaret fingered through the items. Flour. Barley. A small earthenware pot filled with barm to leaven her bread. Honey. A cheese wrapped in cloth. Dried currants. Salted mutton, and more. In all her time since she’d fled from here, not a single person had offered her so much. Years in the streets and hovels of London, and not even a farthing to her name. Not until she’d made her way to St. Helen’s at Bishopsgate had she found a bed and steady food. Even then, not a single nun had treated her like this. It was more than she could ever deserve.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. He must have reasons. Motives beyond what she could see. Again she considered removing her glove and making contact. At least then she could get to the bottom of his curious behavior.
He gestured toward the tower and the crumbling barmkin wall. “’Tis not right to leave a lady in such country with naught but the clothes on her back. Crossbow or no. Yet, you insist on living here. It seems only fitting we provide what we can.”
In her experience, few men—or women—cared about what was right. There must be more he wasn’t telling her.
She looked down at her worn shoes and the frayed hem of her kirtle. She should not accept such gifts, but she desperately needed them. She closed the lid of the basket.
“I cannot repay you. I cannot . . . I will not owe you any favors.”
He watched her with a scowl in his brow. “I did not ask for any.”
“Then what is it you want from me?”
Angus lifted the lid and took a round of bread. He broke it and offered her some. “Walk with me.”
“No.”
He motioned to the chairs recently unloaded from the wagon. “Will you at least sit?”
She pulled the chair farther from him and sat.
“Remember the wolf Gillis saved?”
Margaret nodded.
“Well, that’s not the whole of the story.”
She swallowed a piece of bread and waited for him to continue.
“That wolf had been attacked and injured by her own kind, then left for dead. We could have killed her and taken the hide for the bounty. But Gillis would not have it. He carried her home, braced her leg, and gave her place by the fire. The beast healed and seemed as gentle as any family dog. Then one day, she raided the chickens and left. A week later, she returned for another chicken. Two days later, another. We scared her off, but she returned again, avoiding the chickens this time, killing instead a young lamb. Then another. And another.”
Why was he telling her this? Was he worried a wolf might come to Hartfell? They were so rare now, it seemed nearly impossible. Did he think that after his charity, she would turn on him?
“So, we did what had to be done. When Gillis was away, I put an arrow into the wolf. To this day, he does not know the truth.”
“So you lied to him.”
He leaned forward in the wooden chair, his gray eyes set on hers. “Out of all that I have told you, that is what you take from it?”
What else was there? An injured animal. Not uncommon. A wolf killing from the herd. ’Twas why they put a bounty on them. It was noble of Gillis to try to tame the animal, but what lies in the heart cannot be turned. Evil would always be evil, and good, well, it was not so easily found. And a man who hid the truth was a liar.
Margaret stood. “You did not answer my question. What is it that you want from me?”
“Nothing.” Angus shook his head. “No. That is not true. I want . . . I would hope that we could be friends.”
“I do not have friends,” Margaret said. She picked up the bucket. “I must get to work now. There is much to be done.”