13. Phoebe

P HOEBE Hawick, Roxburghshire, Scotland, still 5th May 1613

I HADN ' T THOUGHT SIR DAVID would say anything, but in the end he told his tale the way most men told tales – in plain words, without sentiment. He was a private man, and so he did not share his private thoughts, nor tell us any details of the woman, Celia, who had waited with him and his brother in the presence chamber, and who I imagined – from the fact he had included her at all – must be the ‘fairest woman in the room' who'd so distracted him that evening from the banquet. He was too much of a gentleman. And yet, with only facts, he drew for us a picture of that night – the castle, and the queen, and infant prince – and it was not so difficult for me to go a step beyond the words that he had shared with us and see the younger man he must have been, and to imagine how he'd felt.

When he had finished speaking, all of us stayed quiet. There was no sound but the measured scraping of my father's pen across the paper on which he'd kept writing, all throughout the telling of the tale. I had settled on the bench beside him at the table, from which I could see the others in their tableau by the hearth – Sir David, thoughtful in his chair, his gaze still fixed upon the fire, and Logan, finished now with polishing his boots, but sitting restlessly and not relaxed. It fell to Hector, on his stool between them with his chin cupped in his hands, to break the silence.

Hector, frowning, asked, ‘How did ye get the prince to let ye go?'

I could not see Sir David's face in full from where I sat, but I could see the corner of his mouth twist upwards in the shadow of a hollow smile. ‘He never did.' His eyes stayed steady on the flames. ‘He never did let go.'

Which threw us into silence once again – Hector because he did not understand; the rest of us because we did.

I expected that my father, who'd lost sons himself and knew that pain, would offer words of comfort, but to my surprise he went on writing. It was Logan who rose first and poured a cup of wine and passed it to Sir David, and then stood and watched him drink it in the manner of a doctor watching someone take his medicine.

Sir David told him, ‘Thank you.'

Hector watched Sir David, too – less from concern than from his efforts to make sense of what he'd just been listening to. ‘I thought there would be more about the jousting, like.'

This time Sir David's smile, though small, was genuine. ‘Aye, well, if it's jousting you wish, I have stories aplenty.'

‘Mayhap he'll tell those tales to ye,' said Logan, ‘while we're seeing to the horses.'

I could see Sir David's features fall to blankness for a moment. ‘While we're…? Ah yes, I see.' His face cleared and he nodded. ‘Now?'

He didn't wait for Logan's answer. Finishing his drink, he put his boots on and stood stiffly.

For of course, wherever Logan went, Sir David had to go, being his prisoner and under his close guard. And Logan, as I'd learned during my time in Scotland, never went to bed without first seeing to the horses in the stables.

He might just this once have left Sir David here, when it was plain to see the man was walking every step with grief.

As Logan passed, his grey eyes glanced my way and I was not afraid to let him see my thoughts, making it feel in that brief moment as though we'd crossed blades. But then, that's how it almost always felt with him – if we weren't arguing, we were preparing for a fight.

I watched him leave with Hector and Sir David, and I realized that my hands were both clenched into fists. Relaxing them, I said, ‘He has no heart.'

My father looked up from his writing, ‘Who?'

‘Is it not obvious?' I motioned to the closed door. ‘Logan. Dragging poor Sir David to the stables when it's clear he is no threat to us. A kinder man would let him stay and drink his wine beside the fire.'

My father inked his pen and gave this thought. ‘The thing with wine, my dear, is one cup washes down your sorrows, but too many cups will flood your mind and float your demons up from their dark prisons to torment you.' He applied the pen to paper with the effortless precision of a man who'd done this for a living nearly all his life. ‘If you would throw a man awash in grief a rope to save him, Phoebe, give him work to occupy him. Any task will do, however small, if it be honest. No doubt Logan knows that well. And if you think he has no heart, you know him not at all.'

It was a soft rebuke, and yet it stung. I tried pretending that I didn't care, and looked instead at what my father had been writing. Only that was a mistake.

The angle of the papers meant I could read but a part of it, but that was all I needed to be sure. ‘Why are you taking notes of what Sir David said?'

All my life, my father had retreated into silence when he sensed a coming argument. He didn't answer now.

I said, ‘His words were meant for us, they weren't intended to be public. You can't do this.'

Very patiently, my father finished his last sentence and he set his pen aside. From his perforated pouncet-box he sprinkled sandy pounce across the page to dry the ink, and shook it clear. And then he raised his eyes to meet the accusation in my own. ‘I'm doing what I was sent here to do,' he said. ‘'Tis not your business. And we will not speak of it again.'

I'd been afraid of horses nearly all my life. It didn't help that Logan's horse seemed bred for waging war, and not for ambling round the countryside. It was too large – its hooves, its head, the whole of it. I almost didn't mind when Logan did his customary move as I approached and turned his back towards me. He was tall enough that his broad shoulders blocked most of the huge horse from my view, and since he stood between the horse and me, I gained a little confidence.

‘Good morrow,' I said, speaking past him to Sir David, standing not far off awaiting Hector, who appeared to still be in the stables. ‘I am sorry that we overslept.'

‘By half an hour.' Sir David smiled. ‘It is no great transgression.'

Logan said, ‘Your father was in need of rest.' He glanced around. ‘Where is he?'

‘Coming presently,' I said curtly.

‘Ye've had your breakfast?'

‘Yes.' The baillie must have sent more food, for we'd awakened to a plate of oaten cakes that tasted fresh, and ale to wash them down with. And Hector, who'd been left behind to give us our instructions, which he'd done all in a rush before escaping back to Logan and the more compelling duties of a Messenger.

As Logan nodded now and turned away, I noticed he was holding up a pail of water for the horse to drink. At least, it looked like water, till I sniffed the air, and, ‘Is that ale?' I asked in disbelief.

‘Aye.'

Sir David said, ‘He's put a magic powder in it.'

Logan's voice was dry. ‘Hardly magic. Only plain ale and a cordial powder, to prepare the horses for their travel. We've a full day's ride ahead, and they'll need to be ready to run at the sign of a rider behind us.'

My patience was not at its highest this morning. ‘There's no one behind us.'

He faced me with eyes that knew better. ‘We had the advantage of time when we came out of Leith, but we'll not keep it long. Afore he gets to Berwick on the main road he'll have figured out we didn't go that way, and doubled back again. That leaves him two more paths towards the border – this one, and the more well-travelled road through Glasgow. If he chooses this one, we'll be looking at his face the day. And if he takes the Glasgow road, he'll not go far on that afore he kens we didn't take it. I can't see—' He stopped, and set his jaw, correcting what he meant to say. ‘I cannot guess at his intent, but we must ride and hold the lead we have, if we hope to outwit him.'

I already felt half dizzy just from following his thoughts. ‘And pray, who is this mastermind who follows us?'

Sir David smiled, and answered me, ‘He speaks of Patrick Graeme, Laird of Inchbrakie. My cousin.'

I thought back to the letter that my father read aloud in Leith. ‘The one who promised he would meet your ship?'

‘The very same.'

That letter had seemed innocent enough. I turned again to Logan. ‘And this is the man you fear?'

‘I didn't say I feared him.'

‘If the Devil and his full army of witches were all chasing us, you could not be more cautious.'

Logan slid me the sidelong glance that meant I'd struck a nerve while at the same letting me know he found me ridiculous.

‘Caution,' he said, ‘is what keeps me alive.'

‘But so much of it for one man?'

‘He'll not be alone.'

I challenged that, thinking again of the letter, which mentioned no companions. ‘Why are you so sure?'

‘Because the last time someone took one of the Graemes' own and held them captive, Patrick Graeme of Inchbrakie took to horse with forty armed and mounted men and rode as if to war, and stopped for nothing till they took the lassie back, that's why.'

‘The lass – it was a girl?'

‘Aye. But they'll do the same for him.' He nodded at Sir David, who did not dispute the charge.

My father chose that moment to arrive, and when he bid a friendly greeting to Sir David, I could not contain my frown. And while I tried to keep my feelings to myself, I must have done it poorly, for when Logan came to help me mount his horse, he looked the way men did when they were weighing whether it was wise to speak.

The others were close by, but not so close that they could overhear us. Hector held the bridle of my father's horse to help him mount. Sir David was already in the saddle of the elegant black mare, ready to ride.

Logan put both hands on my waist and lifted me up to the pillion as though I were a fragile thing that needed gentle handling. Glancing up, he met my eyes. ‘I'm well accustomed to receiving your disdain,' he said, ‘but'tis unlike ye to extend it to your father. What could he do to so deserve your coldness?'

He surprised me. Not his question – I was used to Logan being bold. But in his eyes was something different, something new, as though I'd glimpsed a door standing half open where I'd always thought it locked. And then I realized it must be a trick, for Logan would not make himself so vulnerable.

I told him what my father had told me. ‘'Tis not your business.' And whatever I had seen – or thought I'd seen – was gone. The door slammed shut. I found, to my dismay, that I regretted speaking so abruptly, and I tried to make amends. ‘But since you ask, I'm angry – no, I'm disappointed – at what he is doing to Sir David.'

Logan's eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Oh, aye? And what is he doing?'

‘Writing an account of everything Sir David says.'

‘But that's his job.' Standing beneath me, he still made me feel the smaller person. ‘Why did ye think they sent a scrivener along with me?'

I hadn't thought that through. But even so, ‘It isn't kind.'

‘Kind is not a piece of what we do. Ye're angry at me, too, for how I keep Sir David fettered.' It was not a question.

I looked down at him with what I hoped was calmness, but I wasn't sure I managed it. The horse was moving under me, and that most likely filled my eyes with fear. ‘It is unnecessary, surely. He's a gentleman.'

‘And gentlemen are always to be trusted, are they?'

I was not entirely na?ve. I knew all men could break their word, but I was in a battle now with Logan. I had claimed my ground, and so I held it. ‘Yes.'

‘Like Valentine.'

‘I… yes.' I might have said that with more strength if I had not been picturing my father's face, crestfallen, as the coach with Valentine and all his wealthy friends rolled past us in the Close that morning. Still, it was the first time Valentine had failed to keep a promise, and he'd tried to make amends. I said again, more strongly, ‘Yes.'

Logan attended to my stirrup. ‘My experience with gentlemen,' he said, ‘has taught me differently. And I've a scar just here' – he tapped a spot below his left shoulder, above his heart – ‘to mind me of the last time that I took the fetters off a man upon his word alone. I'll have to bide a while longer with your anger.'

I couldn't tell if he was joking, in this mood. I didn't think he was. There was a tightness to his jaw, and when he looked at me again his gaze was level.

‘But your father should be spared it. He does think the world of ye, and ye should show him understanding. Ye can't fault a man for doing what the king has ordered.' For the briefest instant I believed I saw it once again – that tiny opening to something… unexpected.

Logan turned away, and taking up a handful of his horse's mane he vaulted to the saddle, settling in his place before me, so again I faced his solid back. An end to our discussion. Almost.

‘Anyway,' he said, ‘you asked to come.'

I could not argue that.

Just once, I would have liked to win the last word, but I realized Logan was not ever going to let me have that satisfaction. Had he been of higher birth, he might have made his living in the law or stood for parliament. Nobody would survive him in debate.

I knew he was right about my father – I was judging him too harshly – but to have that pointed out to me by Logan, of all people, didn't help my mood. Nor did the fact that, when he'd said my father thought the world of me, I'd found myself, for that one small, unlikely moment, wondering what Logan thought of me.

A foolish notion. He disliked me just as much as I did him. Of course he did. And more than that, it did not matter. Why the question crossed my mind, I didn't know. I pushed it firmly to the side, and gathered up the folds of Logan's mother's woollen plaid, and brought them up around my face to shield me from the morning sun.

I hadn't learned to wear the garment properly. I could not tuck it into place the way the Scottish women could, but wore it like a mantel, loosely wrapped. It did the necessary service – kept me warm, and blocked the wind and rain, and kept the sun from burning me, but I knew I fooled no one. I looked nothing like a Scotswoman.

Most people would have said that I looked nothing like an Englishwoman, either, for I had my mother's colouring. Her father came from Portugal – part of the entourage of an ambassador who travelled to the court of Queen Elizabeth. He never did return to Lisbon. Having met my grandmother in London, he abandoned his position and his Catholic religion and became a writing master, who in time employed my father, which was how my parents met.

I had no memory of my grandfather – both of my mother's parents died before my birth – but his blood ran strongly through my family, for my mother and my brothers, too, had shared the dark eyes and dark hair that marked us out as different from our neighbours in the Close at St Bartholomew's.

That bloodline only ran in me, now. Everybody else was gone.

I didn't often feel the prick of tears when thinking of such things. I'd lost my mother and my brothers twenty years ago, and weeping would not bring them back. If I felt more emotional this morning, it must be because I was so far from home, away from all that felt familiar, fighting hard to keep my balance on this horse I feared, behind a man who wished me elsewhere.

Which was probably the only thing we had in common. I, too, wished that I were someplace else.

You asked to come .

But only to assist my father, who today appeared to be in perfect health, engaged in cheerful talk with Hector while they rode behind us on the rough, uneven track that here took the place of a road. Sir David kept much closer to us, but his head was down and he was busy with his own thoughts, and I'd not disturb them.

I sat straighter on the pillion, blinked back the unshed tears, and told myself that, while I might be lonely, I was not alone. Someone was thinking of me, and I had the proof.

When I dressed every day, I tucked Valentine's handkerchief into my bodice, just under the curve of the neckline, where no one could see. I drew it out now. Held it up to my face. Closed my eyes as I breathed the scent.

Sir David's voice said, ‘That is a fine handkerchief.'

I lowered it to find him smiling at me, riding close beside us on the trampled grass that edged the track. His black mare was not as tall as Logan's horse, but still I kept my focus on Sir David as I thanked him. ‘I do prize it greatly.'

‘Yes, I can imagine that you would, since from its monogram I see it was a gift from Viscount Fairfax. He's a dashing fellow, I have met him, but I'll warn you that his wife may not take kindly to the competition.'

‘Oh, but it is not from—' I began, before I saw that he was teasing, and knew very well I didn't know the viscount. But I liked to see him in good spirits, so I took the opening he offered me and played along. ‘I thank you for the warning, for I'd not want any trouble.'

‘No indeed.' He made a masterful attempt at looking serious. ‘But love does often bring it, all the same. What say you, Messenger?'

Logan half turned in the saddle to look back at me. His gaze dropped briefly to the handkerchief I held, then moved on to Sir David. ‘What say I to what?'

Sir David said, ‘We speak of matters of the heart. The lady says she wishes for no trouble in them. I say love brings trouble. What is your opinion?'

Logan shrugged and turned again to face the hills before us. ‘I have no opinion.'

He truly was a Leither – stubborn, proud, and… and… I searched in vain for that third word, then giving up, I told Sir David, ‘This is a rare privilege for us both, sir, to be present at the first and perhaps only moment Andrew Logan offers no opinion.'

Sir David's grin flashed pleasantly through his red beard. ‘'Tis rare, then, is it?'

‘Very. I expect it was because you asked his thoughts on love, and not on fighting or some other rough pursuit that is more suited to his interest.'

Where my hand held onto Logan's belt, I felt the muscles of his back flex as he sighed, but he continued to ignore us.

In an offhand tone, Sir David said, ‘You should not count a quiet man incapable of understanding love. Oft times his feelings run the deepest.'

I had never thought of Logan as particularly quiet. I imagined that Sir David spoke more of himself than anyone. I wondered what had happened to the woman, Celia, who kept him company at Stirling Castle. He'd told us very little of her, but his voice had softened at her name. I could not ask him, that would be a great intrusion, so instead I tried to settle more decidedly upon the pillion. ‘Tell me about the lass,' I said. ‘The one your cousin rode to save.'

Another sigh from Logan, who asked, ‘Will we then be talking all the way to the border?'

I told him, ‘Very likely. It does help the time to pass.'

‘From where I sit,' he said, ‘it does the opposite.'

Sir David chose my side. ‘She was his brother's lass. His brother George, who's ages with myself, and is now Bishop of Dunblane. In those days, George was a young minister in charge of his first parish, where he first met his fair Marion.'

I asked, ‘And fell in love?'

‘With all the heat and heart of youth. And as I told you, it brought trouble.'

‘Why?'

‘She was an heiress, and wherever there is property, a woman's hand becomes a thing of value to be bartered. And George – a simple minister – had little he could offer. He was a younger son, you see. We younger sons have little that can recommend us to the world when we set forth in it. The eldest will inherit the estate, so all the rest of us must find our own path, be it to the army or to court or to the law or to the church, or by some wilder way. My cousin George's path was most respectable, but—'

‘Not enough for Marion?'

He shook his head. ‘Marion would not have cared if he had been a pauper. No, it was her mother who disapproved. When Marion's father died, her mother remarried, and Marion's new in-laws wished to keep her dowry in the family, so they sent her to their own great house and kept her there, away from George.'

‘How cruel,' I said.

‘Yes, separating those who love each other is most cruel.' Sir David fell to silence for a moment, but he roused himself, continuing, ‘But fortunately Marion's brother liked George, and was keen to see her freed. So her brother joined my cousin Patrick, and they raised their band of forty men, and armed us well, and off we rode to that great house, where we demanded Marion.'

‘We?' I felt my eyes grow wider. ‘You rode with them? You were there?'

‘I was more reckless in those days. They were my cousins. George was hopelessly in love, and I am hopelessly romantic. Aye, I rode with Patrick and his men. But George did not. It would not have been fitting for a minister to take part in a raid.'

‘But he and Marion were reunited?'

‘Oh, aye. Patrick always gets his way. He always wins. We freed the lass. She rode with us as bravely as a clansman, too.' He smiled a little at the memory.

‘And did she wed your cousin George?'

‘Most happily. They're married still, and I keep losing track of all their children. They must now have five or six, at least.'

I said, ‘Then that's a tale with a happy ending.'

Sir David nodded. ‘Yes, it is.'

Logan, who'd listened in silence to all of this, half turned his head to look back at Sir David. ‘Each tale has two sides to the telling. Ye say ye demanded the lass be brought out to ye. I heard it said that your cousin and his men broke into the house and made off with her, and with a good many valuable things that belonged to the family. I heard an older lady of the house was injured,' he said. ‘There was violence done.'

Even though I could see only the side view of Logan's hard gaze, I was very familiar with how it felt to be receiving the full, cold, grey force of it.

‘Am I wrong?' he asked Sir David.

‘No.' Sir David, to his credit, met that gaze honestly. ‘No, you're not wrong.'

‘Then ye ken why I'm keeping ahead of your cousin the now,' Logan said. As the rough and narrow track carried us deeper between hills rising so steeply to each side of us that someone could be even now approaching and we'd not have known, he looked back briefly. ‘Happy endings are of little comfort,' Logan told me, very sure, ‘to characters who die afore the tale is done.'