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  On the near horizon above the ridge, he caught a glimpse of waiting horses and armour in the trees. The woman had seen them too. Spurring her horse, she dragged the sumpter pony in front of Aluino and burst into a frantic canter. Sheep scattered in all directions, with the Andalusian rearing and bucking indignantly under Heughan. He yanked the reins hard to calm his horse but the stallion stretched his head to full length and raced in pursuit up the incline with frothing eagerness. The woman was nearly cresting the hill. The safety of the Castle lay just beyond. She was shouting at the riders and waving to attract their attention. That they had seen her was in no dispute and as she slowed, a dozen men on sturdy horses surrounded her. One of them caught the bridle of her jennet and spoke brusquely to her.

  As Aluino finally slowed his maddened dash, Heughan pulled him up abruptly into a hoof-clattering halt. “Hell’s tits! What do you think you are doing?” He was angry now and heaved his mount around until he could bring him alongside the jennet. The big stallion ploughed and danced, and Heughan swore roundly at him. The men on horseback laughed at his discomfort. One of the other riders took the rope of the sumpter pony and led it a little way up into the trees. The stallion snickered and whinnied but didn’t try to follow.

  The unflinching men now surrounding them wore coarse linen shirts, protected by weighty arming jacks – thigh length and sleeveless, made of fustian and leather. Deceptively constructed from two or three layers of quilted cloth, inside they were interspersed with small pieces of protective iron plate. Various patches of ragged cloth were loosely stitched onto the front of the jerkins; Heughan noted a red wolf’s head, an upturned horseshoe, a crusader’s cross, and smiled contentedly to see that the men uniformly wore a blue kerchief bound round their upper left arm. Most sported bucket-topped riding boots. A few wore steel helmets of varying designs. One or two simply had wool split-brim statute caps. They bristled with weapons.

  Heughan rounded on the woman. “And what exactly did you think that feat was going to achieve? You’ll get no help here. These are my men,” he indicated, extending an arm to the rough group.

  She searched their faces carefully. Their amusement solidified and hardened as they looked back at her. She knew from their wickedly cold eyes that there was one thing they all had in common; they were bastard-hard fighting men, Border reivers.

  The one holding the bridle of her jennet snatched at her cloak. “What else have you got under there for me, pet?” he said, reaching for her.

  She smacked his hand away. “Touch me ever and you’re a dead man.”

  He raised a hand to strike her back but Heughan caught at his wrist. “Leave it, Hamish. You, woman, why don’t you shut up and stop causing me trouble?”

  She pushed her hood back from her face angrily. There was a murmur from a couple of the men who recognised her. She ignored them and addressed herself instead to a swarthy man at the back of the group, the only one dressed differently, wearing a steel breastplate and a flamboyant burgonet helmet. Under his armour he wore an embroidered leather doublet, black panelled trunk hose, a linen shirt and ruff. His riding boots were fine leather and a swept-hilt rapier hung from his sword belt.

  “Roddy, why did you send a boy to do a man’s work instead of coming yourself? I need to speak with you. Don Rodrigues do Córdoba, buenos tardes et ¿Qué demonios estás haciendo?”

  Rodrigues raised one eyebrow delicately, half bowed from his perch on the horse and replied, “Buenos tardes, señora. It was a little foolhardy to come on your own, was it not?” and then to Heughan addressed the question, “Is there a problem?”

  “Not any more, Roddy, now that you’re here,” the woman smoothly interrupted before Heughan could open his mouth to speak. “Our business is all but concluded. Though I could use some help rounding up my sheep, seeing how this country bumpkin you sent me has managed to scatter them.”

  “Your sheep?” Heughan said incredulously, finally finding his voice.

  “Mmm,” she murmured archly. “That was the original agreement, wasn’t it?”

  Rodrigues cut in quietly under Heughan’s tirade of oaths and curses. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  The woman hesitated momentarily before she swung a leg forward and reached under her thigh to the saddlebag. She undid the two metal buckles and pulled out the package wrapped in its oilskin and a bag of coin, which she proffered to Rodrigues. He took it from her curiously and nodded to the other riders. They broke ranks and, with whistles and calls, rode off to gather the sheep, which hadn’t wandered far and were grazing opportunistically. Only two remained, watchfully backing Heughan.

  Rodrigues put one gloved hand over his heart and bowed in a mock salute to her. “Igracias,” he said simply. “I am grateful you had the foresight to bring this to my attention. Did you open it? Do you know what it contains?”

  She made her denial with downcast eyes.

  “Probably for the best. Ignorance is the best watchman you could have.”

  Her laugh was brittle. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodies? Who watches the watchmen, my friend? I thought you were supposed to be doing that.”

  Then she was all brisk business again. “I’ll need my pony.” The request was polite but it was clear from her tone that she expected the answer to be in the affirmative. Heughan was wondering what had happened to the cowed woman he had dragged from Great Orton.

  “No,” he interrupted defiantly, “I’ve agreed to none of this.” His colour was high as he swung around to face Rodrigues and demanded, “What the hell’s going on, Roddy? You leave me to make arrangements and then change the deal?”

  “No,” said Rodrigues placatingly, “this was always the deal. It is you who have tried to amend our arrangement.”

  The other reivers were returning with the sheep. Rodrigues nudged his horse over to Heughan and spoke with quiet insistence. “Let it be, lad. Give the lady her goods. She has paid for them in full.”

  Heughan was suddenly stubborn. “No,” he refused flatly, “just half the silk and linens. Would you have one woman take everything from us so cheaply? How many dresses does she need, after all?”

  “A dangerous question, the answer to which must surely be ‘at least one more’,” parried Rodrigues with a roguish twinkle in his eyes. “I have never thought to ask. Should we dare enquire?” he inclined his head towards the woman, who sat aloof and resolute.

  Heughan shook his head and scowled in her general direction. “Tell the conniving bitch to take her ‘goods’ and clear off,” he snapped angrily. “She’s Middlemore’s doxy. He can deal with her.” Hearing his angry outburst, one or two of the other reivers nervously made the sign against the evil eye, looking cautiously in the direction of the silent woman. Rodrigues smiled indulgently at her and laughed at the men’s reaction, whistling one of them up to bring the pony and hand the leading rope to him. In response to the question the woman asked him with her eyes, he said simply, “I’ll see the pony and sheep safely delivered. You have my word.”

  “I had your word you would meet me in person, remember?” she said testily. “No substitutions, Roddy. I dislike surprises, especially unpleasant ones.”

  “Sometimes it is necessary,” he shrugged apologetically. “I can’t be everywhere at once. I would never send you someone I didn’t trust.”

  “It’s not a question of your trust.”

  The woman looked sharply at Heughan, keeping eye contact with him as she bent down to fiddle with her boots and stirrups. “You’ve forgotten my message already, haven’t you? Try harder to remember the next time.”

  “Message?” queried Rodrigues.

  Rising up, she held a clenched fist out to Heughan. “I would not have you starve on my behalf, reiver. This is for your trouble, a dish for your supper tonight perhaps?” she offered sweetly and, as he instinctively held open his hand, she dropped a pair of spurs into his palm. “Mind you don’t choke,” she spat at him. Her eyes raked him as she urged her horse to run.

&nbs
p; A dish of spurs: the reiver women’s customary call to arms to tell the men that the cupboard was bare and it was time to get busy thieving. Heughan wheeled Aluino round to take pursuit but the big horse shied and side-stepped with prancing indignation.

  “Bollocks!” yelled an annoyed Heughan. “What’s going on with this bloody ill-bred bog-trotter, Roddy?”

  As he fought to wrest his rebellious horse under control, Rodrigues turned his own mount to block the path.

  “Stop flapping about like a lobcock, lad,” he joked. Heughan turned to him in pitch-black humour, and Rodrigues laughed all the harder. He indicated the placid pony he was holding by its lead rein, winking, “You aren’t handling this well! It shouldn’t take the Master of the Horse to recognise when a filly’s in season.”

  “When you didn’t make the meeting place, I had to improvise,” snapped Heughan. “I was doing just fine until you countermanded my orders and made me look like a slack-wit!”

  “Nope,” replied Rodrigues. “You did that all by yourself,” and cuffed Heughan lightly on the back of the head. “Enough. What’s this about a message?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Roddy,” snarled Heughan. “I never paid no mind to a woman’s prattle. And I didn’t expect to have to trade with that witch. She’s a bigger bloody thief than you!”

  His men laughed, breaking the tension.

  “Away, lads,” Heughan called. “Hamish, Willie, you’re friendly with the boys in the garrison? You’d best keep Roddy’s promise and get the sheep delivered. Oh aye, and the pony too. Go on home. I’ll see you all in a day or so. Stay out of town ’til then. I’ve a feeling there could be trouble brewing.”

  His lads took his words seriously and nodded their agreement. He waited until they were out of earshot before rounding on Rodrigues.

  “Who’s the package for?” Heughan demanded. “And why all the fuss?”

  Rodrigues grinned approval at him. “Now you’re starting to ask sensible questions. Come on,” he encouraged, jingling the bag of coins. “Forget about the spurs, I’ll stand you supper. I’ve been paid. Where’s the harm? Middlemore will grow fat on mutton, we can all eat and Melisande will have a pretty new dress when next we see her.”

  And then I might get some answers to my questions, Heughan thought, pocketing the spurs.

  Chapter 3: Ordered Splendour

  Carlisle Castle

  Melisande had barely returned to the Castle and was still stabling her jennet when new riders came clattering past her from the Scotch Gate to the north end of the city. She surmised that Lord Middlemore would still be entrenched with the documents and papers from the herald who had come through the English Gate at the south earlier the same day. Intersecting messengers were growing more common, a sign of the times and the busy traffic in the Debatable Lands of the border. The forthcoming Truce Day meant that there was special urgency.

  With a small pang of guilt, she thought that her first priority ought to be an efficacious remedy for Jon, especially since it was she who had slipped him the purge that was the cause of his present discomfort. It hadn’t been kind but she had needed an urgent excuse to get away by herself and keep that appointment with Rodrigues.

  Melisande hesitated. The Five of Wands. Conflicting demands. She should just leave well alone and not involve herself with Rodrigues. However, the messengers would take some rest and food before they presented their documents to Ross Middlemore. That meant there was time for her to satisfy her curiosity.

  She slipped her way over to the bigger Barrack Stables at the far side of the Outer Ward. If anyone stopped her, she would make the excuse that she was checking the horses. Hereabouts, everyone trusted their welfare and that of their animals to her, relied on her herbs and her ability. It was power, of a sort, but it brought no security; that came from Ross and others, at a price. It was all too easy for some malcontent farmer with a dead cow to point a finger and shout ‘witch’. Across the border in Scotland, too many old, lonely, sad women had been burnt at the stake for no other reason than they looked peculiar and had no one to defend them. Or there was some ill-bred reiver with his own prejudices, who couldn’t keep a civil tongue in his head, she thought angrily.

  It didn’t help matters that, in the Borders, they were also under the shadow of a Scottish king who had all the ambition of intellect coupled with an arrogant belief in his own supremacy. He even authored books on the nature of demons. Who would dare argue with James Stewart, the self-proclaimed expert, when he wore the crown?

  Who apart from her? She remembered him as a different man, in younger times, at the Scottish court, when they had shared a certain similarity in tastes. They must have seemed precocious in their youthful naïvety, convinced that they had the power to shape their own destinies. James’s belief that he was ordained by God had hardened into arrogant intolerance. Melisande’s hope that she could be a scholar had been destroyed by the Calvinist book burnings. Both of them had been betrayed by circumstance; bartered according to the traditions of enmity and sent their separate ways. James’s friends had all been banished or exiled. He had been held captive for political gain. In some ways, he had been a captive ever since; first of all by his jealous, plotting uncles, then by his powerful but nervous cousin. He was king in name but pawn in play.

  Melisande also longed for greater freedom but knew in her heart that she already had more than most. Ross’s dependency worked in her favour, allowing her to come and go with a degree of flexibility denied to most others. Her compassion had bought her the confidences of other women, her discretion had bought her the trust of men; her continued silence bought its own rewards.

  Everything bought and paid for, one way or another, she thought bitterly; I’m just a whore, like so many others.

  Mentally, she slapped herself. There was no time for self-pity. The whores she knew were made of sterner stuff. She pulled the sheaf of papers from the first saddlebag and scanned them quickly. If Rodrigues wouldn’t confide in her, she would find answers for herself. She found a letter from Scotland with number codes, slipped in amongst the letters for the French diplomat, the Duke of Rohan, in England. She opened the small fold of paper.

  His Grace, the Duke of Rohan, she suspected was an imposter, a clever diplomat posing as a fake French envoy and acting as Cecil’s go-between. The ruse enabled sensitive messages from Scotland to be sent to England without hindrance. The treason was real enough to earn them all an excruciating death if the queen chose to take notice of them. Perhaps that was the reason the last courier had been attacked. If so, Melisande’s interception was fraught with danger.

  She read quickly, frowning to understand the deliberate vagueness of diplomatic language. The letter was shrouded with as much secrecy as an illicit love affair. In one sense it was just that; the love of one doomed man watching the slow death of the woman he adored, reaching for someone to give him hope beyond the canker of grief.

  Cecil’s macabre Scottish suitor, as were all others mentioned in the brief letter, was identified only by a number. Not for the first time she wondered how far Rodrigues stretched his web of intrigue and the true identities of those he employed as espiers. He claimed it was in the interests of good trade. She suspected he traded in much more than contraband. Curiosity was a dangerous path to start down, full of shadowy men with sharp daggers and no consciences, where only gold and his intervention kept misfortune at bay.

  The iron tongues of the Cathedral bells clacked warningly for those who felt the need for prayer. Melisande ignored them, checked that she had put everything away where it belonged, before she hurried away from the stables to the private areas reserved for the Lord Warden.

  The herb garden which nestled in a corner of the inner ward was one of Melisande’s most treasured places in the whole Castle. Here, sheltered and warmed by rosy walls, raised beds of herbs provided essential supplies for everyday needs. Melisande alone had planted and tended every single shrub, root and flower and loved them all fiercely because of it. Her
garden was her domain and she ruled absolutely, arranging order to her liking. She paused at the sleeping beds of comfrey, soapwort, valerian, lavender and St John’s Wort – healer’s herbs. Melisande checked that the cover of sheep’s wool she had spread over them was keeping the earth warm and protecting the plants from frost. There was a large area given over to culinary herbs; bushes of purplish sage, bloody sorrel, good king henry, fat hen and parsley. Even at this time of year, rosemary flourished in abundance. She brushed her hand gently against it in a happy caress. Set apart from the rest was the poison garden, with its deadly harvest of wolfsbane, pennyroyal and foxglove – secret herbs which could both kill and cure. Melisande also harvested, dried and preserved secrets, storing them carefully.

  In a small lean-to propped against the outer wall, Melisande practised her craft. She mixed up potions, lotions, poultices and remedies for those who needed her healing. And when she was certain she was alone, always alone, she would remove her treasure from its hiding place and experiment.

  Melisande, always meticulous in her preparations, carefully washed her hands. The tisane which she had been brewing in a small crucible was poured into a beaker, sweetened with some honey added to the minty pennyroyal that formed its base. There was too much for one dose, so she decanted most into a small pottery jar marked with the sign of the melusine. The twin-tailed siren was a warning that the concoction inside had the power to kill, so Melisande stoppered the jar carefully. The beaker still being warm to touch, Melisande wrapped it in a cloth before she carried it carefully over to the Castle Keep, where her most important patient waited for her. Jon would just have to sit and look at his miserable knees a while longer.