Captive of the Border Lord

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He stepped away. ‘But before any of that, you must give me a favour.’

A favour. She looked down. How was she to give him a favour? She was in a borrowed dress, without even a handkerchief of her own. And she would not honour the man by allowing him to carry the Brunson blue and brown.

‘Don your armour,’ she said. ‘By the time you are ready, I will have it for you.’

All she needed was a moment alone and a pair of scissors.

Chapter Six

In less than half an hour, Carwell saw her return and hand him a strip of linen—rough, white, and plain. He took it without comment, knowing it must have come from the sark shielding her skin.

‘It is all I have,’ she said. ‘I hope it does not embarrass you.’

Any other woman, forced to cut a favour from her undergarment, would have been abashed. And though he had seen her curse herself for stumbling in the dance, this simple thing, this-all-she-had, she offered without shame.

Or hesitation.

Then, she was a Brunson.

And when he pressed it to his lips, they burned with the thought that this piece of cloth had pressed against her skin.

‘Nothing else would suit me as well.’ He tied the ragged strip to his lance. ‘It is well made, serviceable and cut from something none of us can do without.’

She smiled. ‘May it bring you success.’

‘And my reward?’ Suddenly he wanted it, that feeling of her lips yielding to his.

Her smile faded. ‘You gave my brothers your word.’

‘Your innocence is safe,’ he answered, more smoothly than he had expected. ‘Do not doubt it.’

Her life and her good repute were in his care. And the second now looked more challenging than the first.

What every woman has and every man wants.

Carwell’s words followed her as she climbed Ladies Rock, her borrowed dress dragging on the grass. There was something about a woman like that. Like the mare in heat, sending off signals. A glance, a lifted brow, an easiness of laugh.

Aye, she thought, as she looked at the dozen or more women gathered there, hoping to see Mary’s familiar face. It was easy to see what these women had that men wanted. She imagined that more than one of them had graced the King’s bed already.

Or visited Johnnie’s.

And she felt they must look at her and know how ignorant she was of such things. Innocent, Carwell had called her.

Even he could tell.

There were girls, many of them, who sampled men until they found one to their liking. She had not. She was the head man’s daughter. Men walked carefully around her. And when one did not, Rob set him straight.

Rob. Johnnie. Thinking of her brothers, she was swept with longing. She was far from home, wearing a borrowed dress. At home, she was a Brunson. The name alone ensured respect.

Here, she no longer knew who she was.

Below her, she recognised the Carwell green and gold on a group of men at the end of the field. On the Border, men fought in a jack-of-plaites jerkin, tall boots and a bonnet. You would see the eyes of the man who faced you.

Here, covered, these men had no faces, no hair, no eyes. They were only metal bodies, armoured from head to toe. This Thomas, mounted on a chestnut destrier and recognisable only by his colours, was a man entirely different from the one who had ridden by her side.

A tall, slope-shouldered woman joined her, recognition in her eyes. ‘The dress flatters you, Elizabeth Brunson.’

She turned back from looking at Thomas to face a woman who must be Long Mary. ‘I thank you for the loan of it.’

The woman cradled her stomach with both hands. ‘The King will buy me another.’

Before Bessie could ponder that comment, Wee Mary came up beside them. ‘Who is that one?’

Bessie followed her gaze. Thomas had taken off his helmet and handed it to a waiting squire. Bareheaded, his brown hair fluttered straight as a banner in the stiff breeze.

She struggled to subdue a breath. ‘In the green and gold, you mean?’

‘I don’t know who he is,’ said Long Mary. ‘But I would like to.’

Bessie hugged her secret knowledge, reluctant for a moment to share. ‘That’s Thomas Carwell, Warden of the Scottish March.’

‘You know him well?’

She knew him not at all. But what was she to say? ‘He carries my favour.’

A true statement, but without the significance they would give it. Then the vision of him, naked in the stream, heated her cheeks.

Wee Mary smiled, knowingly, and looked at Carwell again.

‘That white scrap of linen?’

Her face burned. ‘It is well made and serviceable.’ Like Bessie Brunson. Used when needed, ignored when not, disposed of when its time was through. Not something to bring delight, nor something beautiful to cherish.

‘And a little soiled around the edges.’ Long Mary tittered.

Bessie turned back to the field, ignoring the laugh. Let them think what they liked.

Wee Mary patted her arm. ‘Perhaps she’s trying to capture her unicorn.’

The words were not French, but they might as well have been. They meant something to the Marys she did not understand.

‘The King carries my favour,’ Long Mary added, with a smile.

As if he knew they had spoken of him, Carwell broke away from his men and rode to the base of the Ladies Rock. Even mounted, he was nearly twelve feet below her. Too far away for her to read his eyes.

He dipped his lance to her. On either side of her, the Marys stepped back, according her a new measure of respect.

She swallowed, uncertain. What was she to do now? He might intend to honour her, yet he only exposed her ignorance of court protocol.

‘You have honoured me with your favour today,’ he said. ‘I will honour you with my victory.’