Chapter One

Scottish Marches 1605

Rowenna threw open the door to her sister’s chamber in a fury. It crashed into the wall. God’s teeth! Why on earth was she still abed, with the sun well up, and work to be done?

‘Get up. You are needed,’ she shouted, but Cecily just groaned and rolled over.

Rowenna rushed to the bed and pulled back the covers.

‘What are you doing? Whatever is the matter?’ howled Cecily, yawning and curling up like a snail in its shell.

‘I need to find Father this instant,’ said Rowenna.

‘I don’t see him in here, do you?’ snapped Cecily, trying to tug back the covers. ‘Stop it, Rowenna. It’s cold.’

‘It’s cold because there is no wood for a fire and no one to order the servants to fetch it. Father needs to take them in hand.’

‘Well, he’s not done that for years, so why are you bothering me about it now? Go and tell him.’

‘He is nowhere to be found.’

A tug of war ensued for a few moments before Cecily gave up. ‘God, how I long for the warmth of spring and an end to your nagging, if I have not succumbed to pneumonia by then.’

‘We have more pressing matters than a fire and your comfort, Cecily.’

Rowenna’s sister heaved a great sigh and pushed a coil of lustrous blonde hair over her shoulder. How vexing that, even on a grey day in a squalid chamber and waking from sleep, Cecily still looked radiantly beautiful. She had stunning, light gold hair, not muddied with a tint of red like Rowenna’s.

‘What is it this time?’ spat Cecily. ‘Servants absconded, pigs broken out again, debtors come calling?’

‘It’s Bran. He sent a lad to say that he needs money in haste. It is for a delicate matter,’ said Rowenna.

‘There’s nothing delicate about Bran, so what is it for?’ said her sister, eyes narrowing.

‘It doesn’t matter, and I’ve no time to argue. Where did you hide the coins?’

‘Not telling,’ pouted Cecily.

Her eyes slid sideways to a shabby rug on the floor. Rowenna threw it back and started to lift up a loose floorboard, but Cecily leapt from the bed and stayed her hand.

‘Oh no, you don’t. I’ll not squander my coin on that ingrate unless you tell me what it’s for.’

Rowenna sat back on her haunches. ‘Very well. If you must press me for details, Bran has gotten into a pickle at a whorehouse called Rascals Inn and owes money to some rough men. It seems that he also owes money to the whores, whose services he has been enjoying for some time without paying.’

‘Oh, heavens,’ said Cecily, her mouth hanging open in horror.

Though she was Rowenna’s elder by two years, Cecily had somehow managed to remain painfully uncurious about matters of the flesh at two and twenty and was easily shocked. Trying to explain why men had needs was an exercise in futility, for Cecily clung to the impression that liaisons between a man and a woman involved lots of hand-holding, sighing and presents being given – to her. For all intents and purposes, she might have been a nun.

‘Aye, heavens indeed,’ said Rowenna.

‘How bad is it?’

‘A fight broke out, and Bran has been soundly beaten and sends word that if we do not make payment, they will slit his throat.’

‘Good riddance, I say,’ spat Cecily.

‘He is our brother, and no matter how much of a slovenly, lazy baggage he is, we cannot let him perish. So come on, hand it over.’

Cecily pouted. ‘But I was saving it for a new dress.’

Rowenna rolled her eyes. How could Cecily spend good money on something so frivolous when they had barely survived the winter, shivering before an empty hearth, with no meat on their bones or in their bellies, save what she could hunt, and rationing their meagre crops? She gave Cecily a look of withering contempt, which her sister returned.

‘If I am to find a husband, I must look my best, Rowenna. Did Father not say our fortunes depended on it?’

Still glaring, Rowenna pulled up the board and removed a cloth bag. It was comfortingly heavy in her hand, but when she tipped it out, a collection of pebbles rolled onto the floor.

‘Damn his eyes and shrivel his balls!’ howled Cecily. Despite her angelic appearance, she could curse like a fishwife when the fancy took her.

‘Did I not tell you to hide it in a different place this time?’ hissed Rowenna. ‘Bran can sniff out money like a hound, no matter where it is hidden.’

‘Well, Bran will just have to get his throat slit, and serve him right,’ huffed Cecily, climbing back into bed and hauling the covers over her head.

Rowenna rose to her feet, overcome with a feeling of helplessness. Once again, rescuing her family from their folly was to be her burden. She made her way downstairs and outside into the walled yard. It was hard not to despair as she squelched through the mud in search of her father. She looked back at the house through a bleak, cold drizzle.

Fallstairs had once been splendid, looming over woodland and moors beyond, but it had faded into decrepitude. Its twin chimneys were crumbling and belched smoke into the hall when they had enough firewood to feed the fires. The roof leaked and sent damp creeping down into the upper chambers. Its walled defences were incapable of withstanding a determined raid by reivers intent on pillage and mayhem. There would come a time when there was nothing else to steal, and then the whole place would probably fall down.

Beyond the walls stretched fields swamped with weeds and gorse, which would have yielded a fair crop if put to work. Yet her father and brother had no inclination for toil or for ordering their affairs and preferred to gamble, whore and drink their way into oblivion. It was only by sheer luck that they had survived this long, clinging on in the lawless no man’s land between England and Scotland.

Rowenna plodded on and then stopped dead in her tracks. Damn! Morgan MacCreadie, an ally of her father’s, was leaning by the well, scraping dirt from his fingernails with a knife. His horse was tethered nearby, its ears flattened against the drizzle.

Morgan was swarthy, muscular and heir to swathes of farmland a few miles to the north. He smiled at her approach, making Rowenna squirm inside. She had long been the subject of his open admiration but had no time for it today.

‘Have you seen my father?’ said Rowenna.

Morgan grunted and pointed his knife in the direction of the stable. He was a man of few words. ‘I came to see Rufus on a matter of business, but he is not receiving visitors just now.’

Rowenna left him staring after her and entered the stables. Beyond the shuffling of the horses and pigs came a rattling snore. Rowenna rounded a stall and encountered her father, Rufus, sprawled in the hay beside Morag. She was a fleshy, drab of a woman who served as a housekeeper and cook, but only when it suited her and when she was not insensible from stealing Rufus’ whisky. An empty bottle lay beside them. Morag’s bodice gaped to reveal a slab of white bosom and rolls of underarm fat. Her ample thigh was draped over Rufus with an air of possession.

Morgan came up beside Rowenna, making her jump. ‘Drunk as a lord. He will be out for the day,’ he said.

Rowenna muttered a curse under her breath. ‘How could my father be so carried away by lust for this creature that he succumbed to it in this filthy place?’

‘Tis a puzzle indeed, for I venture Morag has long since lost her bloom,’ offered Morgan.

‘Did she ever have any?’

Morgan shrugged. ‘She is not blessed that way, as you are, with your lovely hair and eyes and all.’ He stared at her and then coloured at his clumsy compliment, coughing away embarrassment when she did not respond. ‘Well, you’ll get no sense out of him this day, lass.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

Rowenna stomped out of the stables, rushed to the well and filled a bucket. She returned and stood over the two lovers. Morgan put out a hand. ‘Best not, Rowenna. Your father will wake in a fair temper.’

‘Damn his temper and his lazy hide,’ she said. Then she flung the icy water over the two snoring lovers.

Morag screeched like a banshee, arms and legs flailing, and her father leapt to his feet. ‘By all that is holy. Are we under attack?’ he sputtered, staggering sideways.

‘We may as well be, for all the use you are.’

‘Oh, it’s you, child.’

‘I am no child, and it is the middle of the day, and you are drunk, not to mention in a state of ungodliness with this one here,’ she said, indicating a glaring Morag, who proceeded to stuff her bosom out of sight and stand unsteadily. ‘Begone,’ snapped Rowenna, and the woman stomped off, muttering ‘cursed little witch’ under her breath.

Rufus met Rowenna’s glare. ‘A man has urges, daughter, so why must you peck at me so, you and your sister both, peck, peck, peck with your stabbing little beaks. Your poor sainted mother…’

‘Has been gone these two years and driven into an early grave by your transgressions,’ spat Rowenna.

‘She was a good deal kinder than her progeny.’

‘More fool her. Father, you must gather your senses, for Bran is in trouble and needs money to get out of it.’

‘Ah, a little trouble never hurt a lusty young man. Let him have his head, and he will come right.’ Rufus waved her away, leant on the stall and retched like a cat bringing up a fur ball. ‘Now leave me to suffer in peace, Rowenna.’

‘But, Father, you must attend to this matter.’

‘I said, leave me be. I will hear no more of your complaints fit to split my head open. Peck, peck, peck.’ He sank back into the hay with a deep sigh, closing his eyes.

The pound of anger in Rowenna’s breast was amplified by the silence that followed, suddenly broken by Morgan. ‘I have some coin if you need it.’

Oh, God. She could not, or else he might want something in return. ‘I cannot take it, Morgan. ‘Tis not fair.’

‘Please. Let me help, Rowenna.’ He took her hand in his.

Sensing Morgan might be on the brink of declaring something mortifying to them both, Rowenna cut him off. ‘Thank you, Morgan. I will not forget this kindness, but I cannot accept your coin. Now, I must saddle a horse and go and find a whorehouse called Rascals Inn.’

‘A respectable lass going to a whorehouse! You cannot.’

Rowenna took hold of a saddle. ‘This family is far from respectable, as we have both just witnessed, and who else is there to do it?’

‘Me.’ Morgan squeezed her hand, and Rowenna forced herself not to recoil from this touch. ‘Do not fash. I will go and fetch Bran home from Rascals Inn and pay what is needed.’

‘Bran does not deserve your kindness.’

‘I’m not doing it for Bran.’

Again, Rowenna squirmed. ‘But Morgan. You do not know where it is.’

‘Erm, aye, lass, I do.’ He reddened and left in great haste.

Rowenna sighed with relief. She had once considered encouraging Morgan. As his wife, she would have protection and a prosperous farm to run. She would be provided for and adored. And looked at coldly, Morgan had a kind of sturdy appeal. Yet he had no interesting conversation beyond hunting, fighting and farming, rarely laughed, and the thought of being pressed under his bull-like bulk with those meaty hands roaming her flesh brought only distaste. No. Morgan was just another trap to fall into.

Morag sauntered back in. ‘There’s a man come,’ she said. ‘Says he is to see the master as soon as may be. I left him cooling his heels in the hall.’

‘What man?’

‘Says his name is Wymon Carruthers and that he is a laird, is all he said. Old as dirt he is and ugly with it.’ Morag smirked, which was never a good sign.

‘Alright. I will be along shortly.’

What on earth could a laird have to do with her father? He had fallen so far from grace that such exalted company was now above him. In a fair temper, Rowenna kicked her father’s foot, sending a string of curse words from his mouth. He groaned. ‘Let me alone, banshee.’

‘Father, you must rouse yourself. You cannot idle your life away in drink, and we have a visitor.’

‘I care not. I have no joy in my life any more. What have I to live for, tell me that?’

The urge to slap the self-pity out of him came out as cruelty. ‘Mother is gone. She is dead, and she is not coming back. Pull yourself together, for all our sakes.’

He opened one rheumy eye. ‘Mark me, I will marry you off, you and your sister, and then I will have peace.’

‘And who will take us without a dowry?’ spat Rowenna. ‘And let us not forget that you are in debt to some ruthless men. What are you going to do when they call in those debts? Selling us in marriage won’t keep them at bay nor raise enough.’

‘Your sister is as bonnie as the sun, and you’ve a fair countenance when you are not scowling. Men like soft lasses to warm their beds, and you’ll fetch a pretty penny from the right buyer.’ He raised a bony finger at her. ‘Somewhere out there is a man hard enough to bring you to heel once and for all, Rowenna.’

‘If any man tries to command me, he will get an arrow to the heart,’ she snapped.

Rufus rolled onto his side, groaning. ‘Someone must take care of my two bonnie lasses when I am gone.’

‘Which will be soon if you carry on pickling yourself in whisky.’

But her father had sunk into a drunken stupor once more, and Rowenna’s words were lost on the horses and pigs. She stomped out of the stables to see Cecily hurrying out of the house, head sunk into her fur-collared cloak to keep out the cold. Her lovely face was twisted with anger.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Never you mind,’ she replied over her shoulder.

‘But we have a visitor.’

‘Nought to do with me,’ she replied.

‘Cecily!’

Her sister turned around. ‘I am going for a walk to get away from your nagging. Do not follow me, Rowenna, or I swear, I will knock you down.’

Recognising a temper she had encountered many a time, Rowenna knew better than to follow. ‘Don’t go too far,’ she shouted at her sister’s back. ‘The rain is coming in over the moors.’ But Cecily did not turn around, so Rowenna headed for the house, hoping the visitor was not one of her father’s creditors and that the ale was not too stale for a visiting laird.

When Rowenna reached the hall, she was confronted with a wiry, bent little man. His fine plaid suggested wealth if not youth, and he was surrounded by several companions – fighting men all. Rowenna’s heart sank.

‘Ah, here she is, the beauty of the Marches. Your charms were not exaggerated, my dear,’ he said, rushing forward as best he could on doddering legs, grabbing Rowenna’s hand and kissing it. He left a moist patch which she longed to wipe off, but courtesy prevented it.

‘Forgive me, Sir, but what is your business here?’

‘Why, I have come to pay court to you, fair Cecily. ‘Twas all arranged by your father. And, by God, you are a bonnie little thing. Is Rufus about? I would like to get the formalities of the marriage contract over with, as my ardour cannot be held in check forever.’ He winked. ‘I do so long for our wedding night, lass.’

‘But Sir, I am not…’

He put a bony finger to her lips to silence her. ‘Fear not, lass. Marriage is nothing to fash about. All women must succumb eventually, and I am sure you will be more than satisfied with my vast holdings.’

Morag stifled a snigger behind Rowenna. By all that was holy, her father had outdone himself this time.