Chapter Four

It had been two weeks since Wymon Caruther’s visit and yet Cecily’s outrage showed no signs of abating as she paced furiously. ‘Hell will freeze over before I do it, Rowenna.’

‘Cecily, you must calm down.’

‘I will not countenance it. You can’t let Father marry me off to a repulsive man, old enough to be my grandfather.’

‘Well said, lass,’ offered Morag, who had been put to work replacing the old rushes in the hall with fresh ones.

Rowenna had seen snails move faster about their business. She gave the woman a glare and turned back to her sister. ‘Calm yourself while I think of a way to divert our father’s attention elsewhere. I must delay him.’

‘You had better, for I swear I will throw myself from the top of Fallstairs before I wed that old scrotum, Wymon Carruthers, no matter how rich he is.’

‘You will do no such thing, and no good will come of all your screeching.’

Cecily’s temperament had always leaned toward the dramatic. She was far too selfish to end her life for honour’s sake or to marry and thus save the family from ruin, but she was also as stubborn as a donkey. And since the awful Laird Carruthers had offered for her hand, she had taken to leaving Fallstairs and walking about the moors for hours. She had always loved to roam, but of late, it was too much. Cecily would come to grief. It was as if she no longer cared what happened to her.

Once the confusion had been cleared up, and Wymon had clapped eyes on his actual intended – the radiant Cecily - he had been determined to have her as a bride, and now it was as if Rowenna did not exist. Yet their father had not hastened the matter forward, no doubt trying to up his price for selling his eldest daughter into purgatory.

‘I would rather end a shrivelled old maid that let that lecher put a hand on me,’ whined Cecily. ‘The way he looks at me, Rowenna, like he wants to gobble me up.’ She shuddered delicately. ‘I will never do it.’

‘Twould be crying shame, her being so bonnie and all, and even I would baulk at such a creature as Laird Carruthers, though the riches would be nice,’ said Morag, who had always taken Cecily’s side in any argument.

They all fell into silent misery until it was broken by the crunch of an apple.

‘Maybe none of you bitches will be wedding Wymon,’ came a scornful voice from the doorway. Their older brother and long-time tormentor, Bran, leant against it, smirking.

‘Why not?’ said Rowenna, sensing a barb about to be hurled as Bran took another leisurely bite out of the apple.

‘Well, I know his ardour was strong, but Wymon might find it hard to fulfil his husbandly duties from his deathbed. The old fool has caught an ague and is wheezing his way to the grave. Father got word.’

‘Oh, thank the Lord. My prayers have been answered,’ gasped Cecily. Morag clapped her hands.

‘That is wicked of both of you!’ cried Rowenna.

Bran came over to warm himself by the fire, and Rowenna caught a whiff of ale and stale sweat from his clothes. He had broad shoulders and fine grey eyes, and he could have been handsome were he not a drunken, lazy sot with a greedy eye for coin and pleasures of the flesh. Already, he had the ale-soaked bloat of an older man.

‘Were you not too fond of your intended, Cecily?’ he teased. ‘Such a fine specimen and rich too. Father will have to cast about for another.’

‘No, he won’t. Maybe he’ll find a rich widow to take you, Bran, and solve all our strife - someone old but still possessing some teeth.’

‘And in need of a vigorous young man to please her in bed,’ added Rowenna.

‘Shut your mouths, both of you,’ snarled their brother.

‘If it vigour she wants, she’d best look elsewhere than our brother,’ cried Rowenna. ‘There’s more vigour in a corpse than in Bran.’ She ducked as Bran hurled his apple core at her head. He came at her, grabbed her around the waist, and began to squeeze the life out of her. Rowenna stamped on his foot, and he howled and let go. Bran might be big, but he was witless.

Cecily’s laughter at Bran hopping about the hall was cut short by the clatter of hooves in the yard below. They all rushed to the window and peered out. A group of riders thundered through the gates of Fallstairs. At their head was a blonde man with a fur slung over his shoulders. He scattered the ducks and geese as he pulled his horse to a halt and shouted, ‘Rufus MacCreadie! Come out of your rats’ nest. I have business with you.’

‘Why has Father let armed men inside the wall?’ said Rowenna.

‘Because that man would not stand to be refused,’ said Bran, swallowing hard.

‘Does Father know them?’ said Cecily, wide-eyed.

‘I should hope not.’ Rowenna shuddered at the man’s stern countenance. He was youngish, and his blonde hair was scraped off his face, adding to the severity of his expression. He was big across the shoulders, powerful, like a bull, and if he had not been so enraged, his face might have had some claim to beauty.

‘God’s teeth, who is that, Bran? He looks thunderous,’ said Cecily.

Brans said in a quiet voice, ‘That man is Jasper Glendenning, damn his eyes, and he always looks like that.’

‘Jasper Glendenning!’ Morag let out a squeal and ran from the hall, holding her skirts high.

‘Why is she so afraid? What is he to us?’ said Rowenna.

‘My undoing, that’s what he is,’ said Bran.

‘Bran, what did you do?’

He gave Rowenna a vacant look as if he was not really seeing her, then he frowned and said, ‘Nothing.’ He grabbed onto her arm. ‘You must both go above and stay there until they have gone. I’m off.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t argue. Go, now, up the back stairs.’

‘But you cannot leave us with that wolf at our door!’ cried Rowenna, but Bran was already rushing out, so she grabbed Cecily’s hand and dragged her upstairs.

The man shouted for their father again, his voice steely and impatient. ‘Come out and face me, you bloated whoreson, or else I will set fire to this midden you call home and roast you alive!’

‘Good God,’ gasped Cecily, peering out of the chamber window. ‘What a brute.’

Rowenna regarded Jasper Glendenning with a growing sense of dread. He had a pale pink scar running from his ear across his cheek and days-old stubble on his jaw, darker than his hair. It made his face seem wolfish. Another man, burly and black as pitch, came alongside him, and he was even more of a ruffian.

Her father’s voice floated up from below – cordial, deferential, but she could not quite catch his words. Jasper Glendenning dismounted and pounded into Fallstairs. Silence fell, and Rowenna strained her ears. The quiet was worse than the shouting.

What had Bran done now? Feuds in the Marches could turn murderous in a heartbeat, and with most of their servants having absconded and their fighting men left to wallow in drink and whoring, they were all but defenceless.

After some time, Morag came rushing up the stairs and breathlessly declared, ‘Your father says you must come below, both of you, and be gracious and welcoming to his guest.’

The sisters exchanged glances. ‘But Bran said to stay out of the way,’ said Cecily.

Morag shrugged. ‘Tis not my fault. Your father has some fell purpose. There is talk of a village burnt out and Bran being involved. And Jasper Glendenning says that Bran is in great debt to him, and there’s menaces if it is not paid,’ she hissed. ‘Hurry now. Don’t keep the man waiting, for he has a scowl fit to scorch the flesh off your bones.’

***

Jasper surveyed the damp hall and its owner with distaste. He should have been at Kransmuir enjoying a warm hearth and good food, but he was being driven mad by the incessant nagging of his mother, the witless antics of his sisters and the worm of despair wriggling deep into his heart since Isobel had been put in the ground. He had needed an occupation to turn his mind away from his troubles when a rumour reached his ears that Clan Gunn men might have been responsible for the raid on Dungarnon. Bran MacCreadie had been throwing about coin in a whorehouse of late when his clan were gutter rats without two pennies to rub together. And Bran MacCreadie kept company with the Gunns, so Jasper’s suspicions had been aroused.

Jasper sniffed the air. How the MacCreadies had fallen. There was no fire in the hearth, yet the weather was bitter. Remnants of last night’s meal had yet to be cleared from the table. A chicken carcass had been picked clean by Fallstairs’ hungry occupants, and now a flea-bitten cat was munching on what was left of its bones. The whole place smelled like meat about to turn rotten.

As to its owner, he was beneath Jasper’s contempt. It was said that Rufus MacCreadie had once been an impressive man with a pleasing countenance. But all Jasper could see was a shrivelled husk in stained clothes, bent with age, stinking of drink. The pitiful wretch before him was not worth bullying, and his son had made himself scarce, so Jasper’s blood was up, with nothing to vent his frustration on.

‘Tell your son that he cannot hide forever, and when I catch up with him, I will know the truth of it, one way or another.’ Jasper let his threat hang in the air.

‘I swear my Bran knows nothing,’ said Rufus, all innocence.

‘He keeps company with the Gunns, does he not?’ said Randel.

‘Aye, but he is innocent of any wrongdoing.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ said Jasper.

‘My Bran is a fine lad, but he does not have the wit for schemes and plotting. Now, please accept my hospitality. Fate has not been kind to you these past weeks, Laird Glendenning, and I feel for the loss of your wife.’

‘You had best steer clear of that subject if you value your head.’

‘Aye, of course, the pain is still raw. Forgive my insolence, but I heard that you were casting about for a new bride.’

‘You heard wrong,’ snarled Jasper.

Rufus beckoned to a fat servant and whispered in her ear. She rushed away, lowering her eyes when she caught Jasper’s glare.

‘Forgive my mistake. But a man needs to produce heirs - fine, sturdy lads to carry on the name, eh?’ said Rufus, risking a violent end.

‘In that respect, I hope to do better than you did, MacCreadie,’ Jasper replied. He paced about the hall for a while, letting the silence swell to intimidate the old man. ‘Right. Let us be clear on this matter. I do not need your hospitality nor do I wish to converse with you about my want of a wife. I want only your son and the coin he owes me. As he is gone, perhaps I should extract payment from you in blood or coin.’

Jasper took a step forward and stood over Rufus.

‘Jasper, hold,’ cried Randel.

Two lasses walked into the hall. One was blonde, graceful and blessed with a flawless, delicate beauty - only slightly marred by the terrible pout on her face. She hurried to her father’s side, leaving the other lass standing before him.

The light streaming in from one of the small windows struck the lass’s red-blonde hair, and Jasper’s heart lurched. Just for an instant, it was Brenna standing there, but a more dishevelled version in a tatty dress with a smear of what looked like soot on her cheek.

So shaken was Jasper by the resemblance that his words failed him, and he could only stand like a fool, trying to recover his wits.

‘My daughters, Cecily and Rowenna,’ said Rufus, gesturing at the two lasses. ‘They are as eager as I to make you welcome at Fallstairs, aren’t you, my dears?’

Jasper glanced at the blonde, Cecily. She looked down at her shoes, and his gaze was drawn back to the other one as if by some dark design. She was bolder than her sister and gave him a warm smile, bobbing a little curtsey. Then the slattern of a servant bustled in with a jug of ale and some cups and offered them.

‘No. Rowenna will serve.’ Rufus snapped his fingers, and the bolder lass with the red-gold hair rushed to pour the ale.

Randel took his cup greedily, gulped on it and grimaced.

‘If that is not to your liking, there is a little whisky,’ said the lass, Rowenna, smiling.

‘Tis fine. I thank you,’ managed Randel.

Jasper was offered a cup and drank from it. By God, it was rancid - stale old stuff - but somehow, he could not bear to disappoint the lass with the hair like honey mixed with fire and a smile sweet enough to melt the hardest heart.

Rowenna was smaller than her sister - she would come up to his chin if he stood close to her - but she was tall enough so that he would not have to bend much to kiss her luscious mouth. He could not account for that thought entering his head.

She boasted a softly rounded figure, bountiful breasts and thick wavy hair, which he longed to run his fingers through. Curse her. She was like Brenna, yet not like her at all. There was no cowering softness about the lass. Rowenna MacCreadie’s eyes were a soft brown, not amber, and when she looked at him again, Jasper saw strength in her - a determined chin, the way she unflinchingly met his gaze. She was Marches bred and hard-hearted, no doubt. She was also the spawn of Rufus MacCreadie, who was a conniving, snivelling cur of a man. The fruit of his loins would be no better.

Jasper gulped down his ale and held out his cup. ‘Another,’ he commanded, taking a closer look at the lass. Freckles spattered across her nose gave her an innocent vulnerability. It sent his loins and heart into turmoil. Her hands trembled as she served him so she was not as hard as she pretended to be. Or maybe the ghost of his infatuation with Brenna still stalked his soul and made him see softness where there was none.

Jasper took a deep breath. ‘How did you manage to produce such bonnie daughters in this ugly old place, MacCreadie?’ he said, staring at Cecily, trying to find a fault in her, anything not to look at other one.

‘Ah, my wife was a great beauty, and God knows how I managed to catch her. But the Lord has seen fit to take her from me these two years since, and I rely on my daughters to see to my comfort. A man needs a woman at his hearth, does he not?’

Jasper gave him a sharp look, and his daughters did too. Ah, the plot was clear now, and he would not fall for it. Rufus could serve his daughters on a platter, but he would not be so easily led.

‘Of course, they will soon be wed, as it should be, so young, ripe, and fertile, and I will be left alone.’ Rufus put his hand around Cecily’s shoulders, showing her off.

‘You have suitors in mind?’ said Jasper as casually as he could. Cecily MacCreadie glared at her father.

‘Many come calling. Aye. We get no peace from them. But I cannot give my eldest away too easily, for Cecily is my treasure, my finest jewel.’

Jasper wanted to say, ‘And your youngest? What is she – a piece of coal? What price for her?’ But he held his tongue. He had to fight the madness encroaching on his loins and good sense.

Finest jewel, Cecily might be, but the longer Jasper looked her over, the colder and more haughty she seemed. The sisters were like fire and ice. They were so different. He wondered if Rufus’ praise hurt Rowenna, but Jasper could not bear to look at her to find out. Damn the lass. He would not have noticed her save for her red-blonde hair. Now, his anger had grown tenfold. It hammered in his breast and was seasoned by lust. He had to get away.

‘I will give you a boon this day and take my leave, for I’ve no desire to linger here,’ said Jasper. ‘But heed this warning. Fetch your son to me, or my wrath will fall on your head. If the debt is not paid to my satisfaction, I will return and exact vengeance for your son’s treachery. I will take everything you have and throw you off this land.’

Jasper slammed his ale cup down on the table, making the lasses jump. ‘I will return soon in search of Bran, and he will answer to me.’ He walked out as quickly as he could but noticed that Rowenna bobbed a quick curtsey and gave him a smile - both fearful and appeasing. Curse her to hell for being bonnie.

As Jasper rode from Fallstairs, Randel began to prod at him.

‘She was a fine-looking lass, that golden one, Jasper,’ he cried. I cannot believe she is of Rufus MacCreadie’s blood.’

‘Aye ‘tis a mystery how such loveliness could grow in such squalor.’

‘Ah, but the prettiest flowers grow in dung, do they not?’ came Randel’s coarse reply. ‘And the other lass was comely, too? Either one would do me or both at once. Hah! The old rat is full of surprises, eh? ‘Tis a wonder they are not wed already.’

‘They have nothing to offer beyond looks,’ said Jasper.

‘What matter? Any man would fight to get inside that Cecily, dowry or not.’

‘I’ll thank you not to talk of my future wife in that way, Randel,’ said Jasper, laughing off his teasing, trying to deflect.

Randel laughed back. ‘So, ‘tis done then. Rufus’ cunning plan has worked on you. Everyone will think you are a lucky man indeed. They will be green with envy.’

‘He has the cunning of a sheep. I saw his plan, and I am not falling for it. You make him an offer for Cecily’s hand if you are so besotted.’

‘She’ll not have me, and I’ve no coin to spare for a wife. ‘Tis a fool I’d be to compete with you, my friend, for I know I’d lose. Even with that scar, lasses fall over themselves to bed you.’

Aye, they did. But did they desire him or need his coin? If he took Cecily MacCreadie as his wife, she would be nothing more than a trophy - another callous arrangement to provide him with a son. And Cecily would not want him any more than Isobel had. So, the thought of sharing his bed with Cecily left him cold.

Now, the other one, she would make a man lose his senses with her ripe body and fiery brown eyes. He would never have noticed Rowenna had that remarkable hair not tugged at his memories. Was she pure or had she given herself away to some rough-fingered farm lad, in a barn or out on the moors under the stars? It would be a waste if she had, for Rowenna MacCreadie was ripe, and she should be taken slowly with skilled hands and a gentle mouth. How delicious it would be to make her cry his name in ecstasy.

One of his men came thundering along the path towards him, mercifully snapping him out of his lustful thoughts.

‘There’s news, Laird. We found the cattle stolen from Dungarnon,’ he cried, pulling his horse to a halt.

‘Then let us go and get them back,’ said Jasper.

‘There’s nought to get back. We found them in some thick woodland, each one slaughtered. Arrows to the head, throats slit, carcasses burned. ‘Twas an ugly sight.’

‘Dead?’ said Randel, and the man nodded, his face grave. ‘What fell business is this? It cannot be true. Here in the Marches, we reive for gain, not to slaughter, not to waste good livestock.’

Jasper’s heart thrummed with anger. ‘Whoever did this meant to wound me, and deeply. I sense a vengeful hand behind this evil. Well, two can play at vengeance.’

‘Should we go back to Fallstairs and dangle Rufus MacCreadie from the rooftops to see what truths fall from his pockets?’

‘No. Rufus MacCreadie and his runt of a son are but puppets. Some other enemy pulls their strings,’ said Jasper. ‘I need to find out who moves against me, and once I do, I will have Bran MacCreadie’s head if he has conspired against me, bonnie sisters or not.’

As he rode from Fallstairs, seething with anger, Jasper’s thoughts rushed to the past again and his ruinous infatuation with a woman who did not want him. Brenna Curwen had run from her wedding day to be with his rival and erstwhile friend, Seaton Bannerman. And Seaton had broken his betrothal to Isobel Marlowe to have Brenna.

He should have strangled the two of them with his bare hands, but because he had loved Brenna, or as near as he would ever come to love, Jasper had let her go, Seaton too. He could not harm the man he hated most in the world without tearing Brenna’s heart out, and that, he could not do. So he had hauled his pride out of the dirt and sought a wedding of convenience, and who better to stand beside him but Isobel Marlowe, who still quivered with resentment at Seaton’s abandonment. Two spurned and wretched creatures had come together in a cold, hard bargain.

It had been folly to be such a fool over a woman, and he would not be a fool again just because a lass with bonnie hair and a passing resemblance to Brenna had crossed his path.

***

As soon as Jasper Glendenning had taken his leave, Cecily rounded on her father.

‘What are you doing, throwing me at that brute?

‘You know full well what I am doing. Jasper Glendenning needs a wife since his last one recently passed. He was struck by you, and he has a bairn to care for.’

‘It is indecent to seek another union when his wife is barely cold in her grave,’ said Rowenna

‘There was no love between them, only land and advantage. It was the ideal arrangement until she let him down,’ said Rufus.

‘How?’

‘By dying in childbirth, of course. By birthing a useless girl when Glendenning has long craved a son and heir.’

In the stunned silence that followed, Rowenna felt a stab of contempt for her father so great, she wanted to run him through. She had always suspected he loved Bran more than his daughters, and now he had said it aloud with no shame whatsoever. She and Cecily were nothing but pawns. How easily women were dismissed - as livestock, labouring like the oxen who worked the fields, slaves to cook and clean until they were broken, whores to lie beneath a man until his desire was spent, having no chance to fulfil their own passions. They were not expected to have any.

‘That Jasper Glendenning has a terrible reputation,’ squeaked Morag.

‘Quiet woman, and know your place,’ snarled Rufus. ‘Glendenning is rich and holds sway in the West March, and there is a debt to be settled. Since Wymon ails, Cecily, you can take Glendenning instead. You will encourage him at my command. And we cannot waste time, for the other lairds will be throwing their daughters at his head.’

‘I will do no such thing,’ said Cecily.

‘You will do as your father commands!’ roared Rufus. ‘Our land and Bran’s life might depend on it, and mark me, I will banish you from Fallstairs if you refuse, send you into servitude with another family. How would you like that?’

Their father walked away, leaving a horrified silence.

‘Father means to sell me to an animal, Rowenna,’ wailed Cecily.

Dread pulsed in Rowenna’s chest. ‘Perhaps our situation is worse than we thought, but it might be wise to consider it.’

‘No. Never.’

‘At least Jasper Glendenning is young and rich. He is a much better prospect than Wymon Carruthers, and you will escape Fallstairs.’

‘But he is so coarse. Did you not see that scar? And there is no kindness in him. And the way he looked at me, with such contempt, anger almost.’

‘I thought him rather sad. Maybe he mourns his wife more than people think.’

‘Aye, and he dotes on the child, or so I hear,’ said Morag. ‘Cannot do enough for it, apparently. Utterly besotted. More than he ever will be over a woman, that’s for sure. A hard-hearted bastard is Jasper Glendenning, but he loves that child, and so he seeks a mother for it and a bed warmer for himself.’

‘And I’ll not squeeze out another of his brats and end up like his wife, dead in childbed, all for the sake of a man I cannot love and who cares nought for me,’ cried Cecily.

‘You have met the man but once, Cecily. And he is not altogether unattractive,’ said Rowenna.

The two women stared at her as if she had said something profane.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ cried Cecily.

‘No. I would rather you had a man of your choosing. But father will make you wed someone, for our survival depends on it.’

‘Make me, will he? No one makes me do anything. If you favour Jasper Glendenning so much, you wed him.’

‘He’ll not want me. You are the great beauty of the county and the first-born daughter. You must wed before I do.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Cecily, storming from the room.

Morag sighed. ‘If Jasper Glendenning has a fancy for your sister, he’ll have her in his bed as soon as may be, whether she wants it or not.’

‘Then what are we to do, Morag?’ snapped Rowenna. ‘We must go after Cecily and reason with her.

‘Do not fash, lass,’ said Morag. ‘Cecily will go roaming and get over her anger. She will see straight by day’s end.’

***

Rowenna spent the rest of the day worrying about their situation, but there seemed no way out of it. She was so distracted that she did not notice that Cecily had not returned until dusk crept in.

By midnight, they had sent men out searching with torches and shouting her name in case she had fallen into a bog or twisted an ankle. They had also set the dogs to following her trail.

Dawn saw Morgan ride out with a group of men to continue the search, and Rowenna went with them. She called her sister’s name until she was hoarse and desperate, but Cecily had vanished without a trace, and Rowenna could not shake the thought that brutish Jasper Glendenning might have something to do with it.