Chapter 5

S aturday morning arrived with gloomy, overcast skies. Simon arose early, broke his fast, and plunged into his duties. First, he sent messengers to Sweethope Hill and to Sir Malcolm Cavers with the news that Sibylla was safe at Elishaw. He also sent one to Dour Hill, England, with Lady Murray's message to Cecil Percy.

As he crossed the pebbled bailey, he felt the sense of pride that usually struck him, after he had been away, when familiar Elishaw landmarks came into sight through the forest surrounding the castle. Concern for his rescued charges the day before had delayed the reaction.

Beyond Elishaw's southeast wall, two peaks known as Hartshorn Pike and Carlin Tooth rose as tall, silent sentinels. They were landmarks Simon had trusted since childhood to lead him home if he ever lost his way in the forest.

He had climbed them and explored them, learning the value of knowing his environs as he gazed on the vast panorama of Border landscape. From the Pike and the Tooth, one could see into England and know how near the enemy lay. Now, living again at Elishaw, truce or no truce, he kept watchmen posted on both peaks.

While he had served the Earl of Fife, England's nearness to Elishaw had meant little to him. He had spent most of his time then in Stirling or Edinburgh. Moreover, Sir Iagan had remained strictly neutral in Border affairs, aided by Lady Murray's resolve that he follow the same course his father had.

Her ladyship was English and kin to the great Northumberland Percys. So the Murrays possessed strong connections on both sides of the line. Despite such allies, though, Elishaw had suffered occupation more than once.

Simon did not mean to let that happen while he was master. But he was beginning to learn how difficult it was to remain neutral.

The Governor of the Realm had little patience with neutrality and had had his eye on the castle for some time. He had made it plain even before Sir Iagan's death that he expected Elishaw to declare for Scotland.

The Earl of Douglas, more powerful than the Governor but thought by many to be his ally, agreed with him.

Simon had been Fife's man absolutely until Fife had tried to seize Hermitage Castle, a Douglas stronghold. Acting on the Governor's behalf, Simon had found his sisters Meg and Amalie at Hermitage, guests of the princess Isabel Stewart, then married to the second earl.

That discovery had shaken Simon but not as much as the later discovery that Fife expected him to force his sister Amalie to marry a man she detested, and to dower her with a sizable piece of Elishaw land.

Simon's belief in honor and loyalty had kept him faithful even then. But Fife, failing to force Amalie to marry his henchman, then set his sights on Rosalie as the wife his man should have. Simon had flatly refused to permit the marriage.

He had scarcely seen Fife since then, or the Douglas. Either one of them—or both, if they chanced to be of one mind—would make a formidable enemy. And now, with one of the mighty English Percys soon to visit, he suspected that their leader, the Earl of Northumberland, would likewise want to know where he stood.

Therefore, he had little time left to decide what Elishaw's future position would be. The cold, miserable winter had given him a respite. But it had been warming for weeks.

Abruptly pushing these thoughts aside, he wondered how his reluctant guest was enjoying her confinement.

As he thought about her, it occurred to him that at her first near-wedding, to the aged Lord Galston, Sibylla had not been much older than his little sister was now. She had been barely a year older than that when he had expected her to marry him.

"My dearest, whatever are you doing, staring at the wall like that?"

Startled, Simon turned to find his mother with her thinly plucked eyebrows arched even higher than usual. "Forgive me, madam," he said. "I was woolgathering. But I have sent your messenger on his way to Dour Hill."

"I have something to say to you."

Stifling a sigh, he set himself to listen patiently to whatever it might be.

Sibylla had broken her fast in her bedchamber, sharing with Kit the fresh-baked rolls and beef that Tetsy brought them. Noting how carefully the child tried to imitate the way she broke her bread, Sibylla hid a smile.

Tetsy, straightening the bed, looked over her shoulder to say, "I'll take the lassie to the kitchen with me when I go, m'lady. And I'll keep her with me tonight. Will ye be wanting to get back into bed after I've made it?"

"Nay, I will not," Sibylla said. "And I want more suitable garments to wear than this robe."

"Och, aye, and I'm a fool for no telling ye afore now! Her ladyship did say she'll be sending some things along as soon as she attends to some other matters."

"I'll be very grateful to her," Sibylla said, wondering how far down Lady Murray's list the clothing would be.

She did not wonder long, because shortly after Tetsy had taken the protesting Kit to the kitchens, the door opened with no more ceremony than a rap to reveal a grinning, dark-haired girl. She looked so much like Amalie that even had Sibylla not met the lady Rosalie before, she'd have known her at once.

As they exchanged greetings, Rosalie said, "I've brought you some clothes."

"Bless you, shut that door then and help me dress," Sibylla said eagerly. "If I have to wait until Tetsy finishes her other chores, I'll go mad."

"Will you, in troth?" Rosalie said, her dark hazel eyes sparkling.

"I am sometimes prone to exaggerate," Sibylla admitted. "But your odious brother has kept me shut up here with naught to wear since I arrived. I yearn for fresh air and a brisk walk."

"Simon said you had hurt yourself, and you have a dreadful lump on your head. Does it not still ache?"

"Aye, if I heed it. But I am stout enough to get up, and although he insists I should stay in bed, I have also been aching for sensible conversation. So tell me about yourself and about Elishaw. Sithee, I came here once before, but it was whilst you were at Scott's Hall awaiting the birth of Meg's wee daughter."

"I remember, aye," Rosalie said as she laid a gray silk kirtle and another the blue-green color of a forest pond on the bed.

"I like those colors," Sibylla said.

"My lady mother said they would suit you."

"Do you mind helping me dress?"

"Not if you want to talk," Rosalie said. "I almost never have anyone but my lady mother to talk to. Oh, servants, of course. But she does not approve of my talking much with them."

"Does she not? Faith, I learn more from servants than from anyone else," Sibylla said. "They always know what is going on."

Rosalie giggled. " 'Tis true, and I own, I do converse often with many of them. We ought not to gossip, of course."

"Pish tush," Sibylla said, doffing the borrowed robe and reaching for the lacy shift Rosalie held out. "Without gossip, Rosalie, the world would be a tedious place, especially for women. So, tell me about Elishaw and its people. Tetsy has told me a little, and your mother, too. But I think she does not like my being here."

"I doubt she dislikes you," Rosalie said, handing her the blue-green kirtle. "She is just determined that Simon shall marry an Englishwoman."

"Mercy, does she fear that I want him?"

"She does not like surprises, and you are beautiful. You've a lovely figure!"

"Well, I've no intention of marrying your brother," Sibylla said. "I'd not have him if he wanted me, which I promise you, he does not."

"I doubt he's given it a thought," Rosalie said. "But your being here is a distraction, especially now. Sithee, Mother is hoping that when her English cousin comes to visit soon, he will bring his daughters. For my part," she added with a mischievous smile, "I hope he brings his sons."

After that, conversation marched as informatively as Sibylla had hoped. She encouraged Rosalie to bear her company for the rest of the morning. And when Rosalie went downstairs for the midday meal, Sibylla went with her.

Having listened to his mother's comments on his management of everything from his guest to matters he had learned to leave to his steward, Simon entered the hall, hoping she would not begin again. Much as he respected her years of experience in seeing to things his father had overlooked, his patience was wearing thin.

Thus, when he saw Sibylla standing beside Rosalie at the dais table, her blatant defiance of his orders stirred no more than well-concealed amusement.

The blue-green gown she wore suited her coloring. Her hair was simply plaited and looked more natural than it had the last time he'd seen it, albeit not as shiny as he knew it could be.

As he was wondering how it had been possible to make it look so much better with only a pair of combs and some water, his mother's entrance diverted him. Had he been fool enough to think Sibylla was there at her invitation, Lady Murray's expression would have banished the thought. Since he had thought no such thing, it merely increased his amusement.

Sibylla made her curtsy to Lady Murray as Rosalie, likewise curtsying, said cheerfully, "As you see, madam, I have invited Sibylla to dine with us. I knew you would be pleased to see that she has nearly recovered from her swim in the Tweed."

Lady Murray said coolly, "You must not make light of such an act, my dearling. Lady Sibylla risked her life, flinging herself in after that child as she did."

Sibylla had been eyeing Simon, trying to judge if her presence displeased him. When she could not tell, she felt a twinge of disappointment. But Lady Murray's comment drew her attention. Hostess or not . . .

As the correction leapt to her tongue, Rosalie laughed again and said, "My lady mother jests with us, Sibylla. Faith, madam, I know you too well not to be sure you applaud Sibylla's courage as much as you would that of any lady so quick to act in such a case. Rescuing that child was exactly what you'd have done yourself had you been there. Come now, own that I am right."

To Sibylla's amazement, Lady Murray's cheeks turned pink as she murmured, "You are kind to say so, my dearling."

Sibylla glanced at Simon.

His gaze collided with hers as he said, "I would not call that a kindness, madam. You are too wise to cast yourself into a rain-swollen river. Nor should you attempt such a foolish thing, Rosalie. Certainly not until you learn to swim. I trust, Lady Sibylla," he added, "that you will not encourage her to emulate your actions."

"I have no concern that she might, my lord," Sibylla said. "Rosalie seems as sensible as her mother and is surely able enough to learn to swim if someone would exert himself to teach her . . . as my dear late brother, Hugh, taught me."

Still watching her as he moved to sit in the two-elbow chair at the end of the table, Simon said dryly, "I see that you are more your usual self today."

She smiled and took the stool Rosalie patted, so they faced Lady Murray with the lower hall behind them and Simon at the end on Rosalie's right. Sibylla was glad they did not sit with the women all at Simon's left, facing the hall. But she thought he might have preferred more formality just then.

Conversation was desultory, with Simon polite but distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. His attitude gave Sibylla the urge to prick him with a pin to see how he would react. She had begun to realize that however angrily he had shouted at her in the kirk that drizzly long-ago day, he was no longer a man who so readily revealed his emotions.

Lady Murray, too, remained distant and rather stately, but at least she took part civilly in the conversation. Simon spoke only when someone addressed him.

Rosalie provided a stark contrast throughout with her cheerful, even merry attitude. When she demanded in an abrupt but teasing way to know if Simon had removed himself from them in spirit if not in body, his expression softened.

"I'm still here, lassie."

"Aye, well, if I were to behave so, I warrant you'd have something to say."

"Rosalie, that will do," Lady Murray said. "It is not your place to take your brother to task. Nor should you show him such disrespect."

"I noted no disrespect, madam," Simon said gently. "She is right to remind me that I would reproach her for such behavior. Moreover, she will heed my rebukes more readily if I do not set her such a poor example."

Silence greeting these words, he added, "Do you want to swim, lassie?"

She grinned. "I expect I could learn if you were to teach me—"

"Mercy, dearling, do not suggest such a thing," Lady Murray said. "Had one of your brothers or your father taught you when you were a bairn, such a skill might have benefited you. But now that you are turning into a young lady, Simon's teaching you to swim might stir unpleasant talk."

Sibylla glanced at Simon and raised an eyebrow.

"No," he said firmly. "You are not to teach her, either. My mother is right. That, too, would stir talk, and once begun, who can say where it might lead?"

"What you mean is that anyone teaching me would cause gossip," Rosalie said. "But Sibylla says that without gossip, this world would be—"

With a speaking look, Sibylla had silenced her.

"Do finish telling us what she said," Simon prompted gently.

With an apologetic look at Sibylla, Rosalie said, "Just that without gossip, the world would be a tedious place, sir."

"Especially for women," Sibylla murmured provocatively.

"I will thank you not to put such notions in her head," he retorted.

"Will you?"

His lips tightened again, and conscious of Lady Murray's similar expression, Sibylla decided she had better exert herself to soothe her hostess.

Accordingly, she smiled at her and said, "The sauce for this beef is excellent, madam. I have learned many things about herbs and spices at home and with Isabel, but I cannot tell what your people add to this to make it so delicious."

If Lady Murray did not melt at such praise, she did condescend to discuss several recipes with Sibylla. As their conversation progressed, she put Sibylla in mind of Lady Averil Anderson, the princess Isabel's chief companion. Both were sensible, competent women who refused to suffer foolishness or flattery. But neither did they dismiss compliments sincerely offered.

As they were all about to leave the table, Lady Murray said to Simon, "How does the lad fare, sir? Need I concern myself with his mending?"

"He has caught a cold," Simon said. "He told me he felt sick before he went into the river, but he's worse now and still very weak. The lassie is well, though. I've put her in the kitchen to aid the cook."

He excused himself then, and the ladies adjourned to Lady Murray's solar.

At a loss for what to talk about that would not renew her ladyship's hostility, Sibylla recalled Amalie's saying that her mother admired Isabel. Seizing the first chance to mention Sweethope, she described some of her service there.

Rosalie aided her efforts, asking impertinently at one point if Sibylla would not rather find a husband. That gave Sibylla the opportunity to say truthfully that she believed she was unsuited to marry.

"Surely, that is for your father to decide," Lady Murray said.

"I'm sorry to admit, madam, that he has thrice tried to provide me with a husband. He is persuaded now, as I am, that I must remain unwed. He says I am not sufficiently biddable. In troth, though, none of them pleased me."

"Faith," Rosalie exclaimed. "You sent away three suitors! I wish I might have just one! Who were they?"

"Hush, my love," Lady Murray said, relieving Sibylla of the need either to prevaricate or to admit that Simon had been one. "A polite person does not inquire into the intimate details of another person's life."

"Well, I shan't do anything so bird-witted. I want to marry!"

"In time, you shall," Lady Murray said.

Later, after stopping to look in on the sleeping Dand and put a few drops of marjoram oil on his pillow, Sibylla explored the castle. She talked to the people she met and visited the kitchen, where she asked the cook if he had some dried catmint to steep as a drink for Dand to ease his breathing.

Assured that he would see to the lad, she looked for Kit and found the little girl content—by daylight—to aid the cook and the cook's helpers. The kitchen area was busy though, as was the bakehouse, providing no hope of exploring the alcove. Sibylla decided she would have to find another way to learn what lay beyond it.

Tetsy's reaction to her comment about a door had persuaded her that something of that sort existed, but Tetsy had said no more. Sibylla chatted with others but took pains to avoid stirring annoyance or curiosity. As a result, although she learned a few interesting things, not one had to do with the alcove.

Reminded as she dressed for supper that Tetsy would keep Kit that night, leaving Sibylla alone after everyone else retired, Sibylla considered the alcove with fresh enthusiasm. Except for the taciturn Jack—who might well watch the dicing again—no one would be in the kitchen after the servants had finished cleaning it.

The day had been warm for the latter part of April, and the lump on her forehead, although more colorful, had diminished in size. As she tidied her hair, she wondered if it was worth asking Simon again if he would let her bathe.

Deciding she would do better to ignore him, she considered how she might satisfy her curiosity instead.

As Sibylla joined Lady Murray and Rosalie in the hall a short time later, her ladyship surprised her, saying, "I've arranged for us to take supper in my solar."

Aware that she was disappointed not to sup with Simon, Sibylla decided she was taking too much pleasure in their verbal jousting. To continue might irritate his mother and lead others to wonder if a match were in the offing.

Neither she nor Simon wanted to initiate such rumors. Supper might have taxed her ingenuity for conversation had she not learned of Lady Murray's pride in her kinsmen. That subject served well until Rosalie asked her ladyship to tell them more about Cecil Percy's sons.

It would have been obvious then to a lesser intelligence than Sibylla's that Lady Murray did not want Rosalie to marry anyone yet. She changed the subject and soon announced that it was time to retire.

On the way to her bedchamber, Sibylla met Kit coming downstairs.

"Where have you been, lassie?"

"Talking wi' Dand, but he fell asleep. So I went to see were ye back yet."

"Where is Tetsy?"

"In the kitchen. She said I could visit Dand."

"You should go back to her and see if you can help," Sibylla said.

"She'll be coming to ye anon. I'll just wait wi' ye." Sibylla agreed but bade goodnight to both assistants an hour later, assuring them that she would sleep well. As soon as they had gone, she got up, lit a fresh candle to replace the stub Tetsy had left burning in the dish, and put her clothes back on.

Carrying her useful clover poultice lest anyone ask why she was up, she went quietly down the service stairs to the kitchen.

Through her conversations that day she had learned that maidservants who lived in the castle slept in tiny chambers under the ramparts. Most of the men slept in the great hall or on pallets outside in the bailey.

As she passed the hall landing, she heard voices and a bark of laughter that told her the men were playing some game or other. Sending up a prayer that the baker's lad was with them or otherwise engaged, she hurried on her way and soon saw that she had judged her timing well. The kitchen and bakehouse were empty.

The baker's fire burned almost as fiercely as it had after Jack had fueled it the night before, assuring her that wherever he had gone, he would not return for a while. Accordingly, she dipped a pewter mug into the kettle on the hob and took it into the smaller chamber. In the storage alcove, she hiked up her skirts, turned so she would not block the firelight, and squatted. Spilling water from the mug to the floor, she watched it flow under the wall.

Her earlier explorations had revealed that the alcove wall was part of an eight-foot-thick exterior wall. Years before she had learned that some Border castles had siege tunnels and had even seen two of them. Holding her candle to the stones, she soon found the straight lines that might indicate the entrance to a passageway.

Turning next to the hooks set into the wall with an apparently random hand—holding towels, oven rakes, utensils, rags for removing hot pans from the oven, and other baker's paraphernalia—she tested each one to see if it would move.

One did seem loose, but try as she might, she could not make it serve her purpose. Shifting her candle, she noticed an odd, shadowy crack in the masonry beside the hook just below it. Pushing it hard to that side, she felt a click. With slight pressure, the rock wall opened away from her into pitch-black space.

Having seen a basket of tallow candles in the kitchen, she hurried to get some, hoping that four would be enough.

Fearing she might lock herself out if she shut the door all the way from the other side, she took a sack of walnuts from its hook, stepped through the opening, and edged the door shut as far as it would go without latching. Then she wedged the sack against its base so it could not swing open of its own weight.

Hoping Jack would not notice the wider crack and that she could come back the same way without disturbing him, she turned and followed the narrow tunnel.

The floor was uneven and the silken shoes Rosalie had given her with the kirtle were thin. Also, the ceiling was low, stirring her dislike of confinement. But if she was right about the tunnel's purpose, she had found an exit from the castle that would take her outside its walls with no one else the wiser.

A short time later, she sensed a change in the atmosphere and the air smelled fresher. Soon afterward, she emerged into thick shrubbery.

She was in the forest, well outside the castle clearing. The night air was still, and she heard water flowing nearby. Peering through leaves and past branches, she saw moonlight glinting on calm water. With more moon-beams piercing the dense canopy of trees overhead, she blew out her candle and decided to leave her extra ones at the opening.

Easing her way to avoid scratches, she emerged from the worst of the thicket and turned to see torches burning on the distant ramparts behind her. Judging that she had come a quarter mile from the wall, she took care to leave no path through grass or shrubbery as she moved farther away from the opening.

She knew enough to take note of a pair of boulders in direct line with the narrow body of water. Beyond it, a single tall tree completed the line.

Certain she could find the opening again, she continued into the clearing.

Minutes later, she stood by a long, oval pond doubtless fed by the burn she heard chuckling nearby. The pond was mirror still, reflecting the bright full moon in silvery patches wherever its beams touched the surface.

Trees and shrubbery remained dense around the clearing. Despite the flickers of distant torchlight, she was sure no one at the castle could see her. Likewise, no one would look for her at that hour or in such a place.

Smiling mischievously, she pulled off her shoes and dipped a bare toe into the water. It felt warm, but she knew that was because the air was colder.

Nevertheless, grinning in anticipation of ridding herself of the last vestiges of the muddy Tweed, she stripped off her clothes.