Tamed by the Barbarian

‘He did not seem surprised to hear that Father was dead and spoke of Master Husthwaite. I had no idea his uncle was dead. A courier should have been sent to one of our agents in Europe, then word would have reached us and Father would have come home.’

‘I did not know of the elder Master Husthwaite’s demise until now and as far as I know his nephew has had no proper legal training, but only acted as his clerk.’ Her voice was strained. ‘Anyway, it is pointless discussing this at the moment. We need to get word to Diccon.’

Jack nodded. ‘You know where he is?’

Her expression was sombre. ‘No. But most likely Kate or Owain will know how to get news to him. They all must be informed of Father’s death.’ She paused as tears clogged her throat and had to swallow before continuing. ‘If Diccon cannot be found, no doubt Owain will help us deal with Master Husthwaite if he should prove really troublesome.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

Cicely wiped her damp face with the back of her hand. ‘Tell me, did Father suffer? Were the devils responsible caught and punished?’

Jack kicked a smouldering brand that had fallen onto the hearth. ‘Death came swiftly for him, but not before he had wrung a promise from Mackillin to see me home safely. He killed one of them and so did Robbie, but another escaped.’

Her fingers curled into the palms of her hands. ‘I can’t understand how Father believed he could trust a Border reiver to do his bidding,’ she cried.

Jack looked uncomfortable. ‘He is not what you think. I saw how they recognised each other.’

She was amazed. ‘How could Father know such a man?’

Jack sought to scratch his itching arm beneath the splints. ‘They’ve both travelled. Mackillin owns his own ship. They must have met for the first time before Father promised our stepmother to stop his wanderings—after he inherited this manor from our great-uncle and chose to live here, rather than in Grandfather’s house, which was ramshackle.’

‘I remember. I was twelve summers when Great-uncle Hugo died and left no issue. Father decided to run the two manors as one,’ she murmured through lips that quivered.

Jack’s expression was sombre. ‘Five years ago. Matt and I were ten. Most likely Father and Mackillin met in Calais.’

Cicely sighed and picked up the pillowcase she had been embroidering before she had left the house earlier that day. ‘That’s where Diccon met Edward of York. Father was angry because he was so taken with him and spoke of allying himself to his cause.’ She put the linen down again, too upset to sit and sew.

Jack grimaced. ‘You couldn’t expect Father not to be. He’s supported Henry of Lancaster all his life, despite his being half-mad and a hopeless king. More priest than soldier, so Father said.’

Cicely nodded. ‘This is true and why I suppose Diccon has gone over to the side of York, despite his having been born and raised in Lancashire.’ Yet that was not her father’s only reason for withholding his permission for her and Diccon to wed…the fact that he was landless and had little in the way of money most probably had a lot to do with it, too.

Jack sighed. ‘I’m tired and in no mood to worry myself about the affairs of York and Lancaster right now. We have enough troubles of our own. Father would expect you to show all courtesy to Mackillin. Food and shelter is the least we can provide him with as he refuses to claim the reward Father offered him.’

Cicely’s eyes sharpened. ‘So that’s what brings him here—the promise of a reward.’

Jack frowned. ‘I should not have mentioned it. I told you he has no intention of claiming it.’

‘So he says,’ she said scornfully. ‘He deceives you. He must know Father is a wealthy man. Perhaps he intends to take more than he was offered.’

Jack flushed with anger. ‘You insult him. Mackillin could have cut my throat and stolen our extremely valuable property any time these last ten days. I know he kissed you, Cissie, but you mustn’t hold that against him. It was a mistake.’

Pink tinged her cheeks and she bent over one of the dogs, noticing it had bits of bramble in its rough coat. She gently removed the thorns and said in a low voice, ‘He thought I was a servant girl. That’s his excuse for behaving like a savage.’

‘He’s no savage. You must curb your tongue, Cissie, and be thankful that he sent Master Husthwaite packing.’ Jack sighed. ‘It seems so strange being home without Matt and Father here. It’ll never be the same ever.’ His expression was bleak.

She agreed, thinking that the long winter evenings were even more depressing since her stepmother had died two years ago. She could only hope spring would come quickly, so they could at least spend more time outdoors. It was difficult filling the hours at this time of year because most of the tasks suited to the long dark evenings had been completed—the bottling, the pickling, the salting of meat and the making of candles—although there was always embroidery, darning, as well as salves and soap to make to keep her busy, but that left her mind free to wander and worry about Diccon. She sighed heavily, wishing desperately for her father to still be alive, but that was a wish that couldn’t come true. Instead she was going to have to be polite to Jack’s rescuer and that would not be easy.

As if he had read her thoughts, her brother said, ‘A hot meal and a warm bed is little recompense for all Mackillin has done for us. Right now some mulled ale would not go amiss.’

‘I suppose you’ll want me to give him the best guest bedchamber and prepare a tub for him as well,’ she muttered.

‘That will not be necessary,’ said a voice that caused her heart to leap into her throat and she wondered why the dogs had not barked a warning.

She took a deep breath, pausing to gain her composure before facing Mackillin. He was standing only a few feet away and not only looked unkempt, but stank of horse and dried sweat as well as something indefinably male. She was amazed that her body should have reacted to his the way it had done. He was so large and strong, but she would not be scared of him.

‘Of course, you must have the best bedchamber. You saved my brother’s life and brought him home to us.’ She tried to infuse warmth into her voice, but it sounded stiff.

He inclined his shaggy head. ‘I gave your father my word.’

‘And you honoured it.’

‘Even barbarians keep their word, occasionally.’ His eyes sent out a challenge to her, daring her to deny that she believed him incapable of behaving like a gentleman.

She held his gaze. ‘They have their price, though.’

Mackillin glanced at Jack. ‘I did not tell her,’ he said hastily.

‘Good.’ A muscle twitched in Mackillin’s jaw. ‘I assure you, mistress, you would not wish to pay my price if I were to demand it. Now I would ask only for pallets and blankets for my man, Robbie, and myself. Here in front of the fire will do us both fine.’

But before she could comment, Robbie spoke up. ‘Nay, Mackillin, you’re a Scottish lord now and should have the best bedchamber.’

Cicely stared at Mackillin in amazement. ‘Is this true? You’re a Scottish lord?’

He shrugged. ‘My title is new to me.’

‘That’ll explain it,’ she said drily.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Explain what?’

She shook her head, knowing she could only say that no sane person would look at him and believe him to be a lord. He could not be blamed for his garments being travel-stained, but they were definitely not made of the finest materials. Beneath his cloak he wore a common leather jerkin instead of the embroidered surcoat and velvet doublet befitting his rank. Her gaze moved downwards and she noted that, instead of silk or costly woollen hose, his legs were shockingly bare. Still, if he was a lord, her father would have expected her to treat him as one.

‘I’ll prepare the best bedchamber, Lord Mackillin.’

‘Despite my appearance?’ he said softly. ‘Forget it, lass. I will not put you to the bother of preparing a bedchamber for one night. You have enough to trouble you this day.’

She did not deny it and inclined her head. ‘If you will excuse me, then. I have yet to tell the servants of my—my father’s death.’

He nodded in response and turned to speak to Robbie and Jack.

She had to force herself not to run to the rear of the hall. One of the dogs trotted at her heels. Beneath the stairway that led to the first floor was a door that opened to a passageway. If she turned left, she would come to the staircase that led to the turret where her bedchamber was situated but, instead, went right and soon found herself passing the buttery, the stillroom, the storeroom and the laundry on her way to the kitchen.

She paused in the doorway, watching the cook taking his ease in front of the fire. The serving maid, Tabitha, was chopping herbs. Tom, a male servant, was conversing with her as he stirred a huge blackened pot that dangled on chains over the fire. Martha, a woman in her early middle years, was singing as she rolled out pastry. They had not heard her coming and started at the sound of her voice. ‘I have sad tidings.’

Cook slowly got to his feet. Tabitha dropped her knife and Tom and Martha paused and gazed at Cicely. ‘What is it, mistress?’ asked the cook.

‘The master is dead.’ Cicely’s voice trembled as she fought to not give way to her emotions.

Martha gasped.

‘We feared as much,’ said the cook with a doleful shake of the head. ‘He was a good master. He’ll be sadly missed.’

‘How did it happen?’ asked Martha, wiping her hands on her apron.

Cicely repeated what Jack had said, adding that they had guests for the night in the shape of a Scots lord and his man. ‘Perhaps you can use the remains of the mutton to add strength to the barley soup I was going to have for supper,’ she said, feeling distraught.

Cook nodded. ‘We could kill a couple of chickens, as well…and I’ll need to bake more bread.’

She agreed. ‘I will leave it to you to do what is needful.’ Running a hand over her hair, she added, ‘You’ll be using the fire in here, so I will use the hall fire to mull some ale. Tom, will you fetch a couple of pallets and blankets from the chest in the passage by the best bedchamber?’

‘Aye, Mistress Cicely.’ He hurried out.

Cicely fetched a jug of ale and a jar of honey from a shelf in the storeroom and, from a locked cupboard, removed cinnamon and ginger. Her grief was like a weight in her chest as she carried the items into the hall. There she saw her brother and Mackillin in conversation, standing where the baggage had been stowed in a corner.

At her approach, they moved away and sat on a bench, watching as she placed a griddle on the glowing logs, and on that an iron pot. Aware of Mackillin’s eyes on her, she prayed that Diccon would sense her need of him and come home. The disturbing presence of the Scots lord and Master Husthwaite’s arrogance made it imperative that she see him as soon as possible. Her concern was that he might have been caught up in fighting between the forces of Lancaster and York. Oh, why did he have to go and give his loyalty to the Duke of York’s heir? The trouble was that her stepbrother could be stubborn and, having little in material goods, was determined to make his own way in the world.

Tom appeared with the bedding and placed it near the fire to air. She whispered to him to see that their guests’ horses had enough hay and water before supper was served. After a wary glance at the two strangers, he hurried to the stables, taking a lantern with him.

Cicely did not leave the spices to infuse for long, certain that her brother and the men were so in need of a hot drink that they would not mind it not being too spicy. She fetched cups and ladled the steaming brew into them, whilst all the time she was worrying about how Matt, now heir to the estate, would cope with the terrible news of their father’s death.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed in the next few days,’ said Jack, watching her approach with their drinks. ‘There’s an eerie glow in the sky above the fells in the west.’

‘That’ll be the sunset,’ said Cicely, dismayed at the thought that if a blizzard set in they might be cut off and she would have to cater for two guests that she would rather be gone. Now was not a time for having to see to the needs of a guest, and a Scots lord at that! She needed to grieve and devote her hours to prayer for her father’s soul and Diccon’s safe return.

‘Is that cup for me?’ asked Mackillin, gazing down at her.

She nodded, steeling herself to meet his eyes with a coolness she was far from feeling. ‘Aye, Lord Mackillin. Is there aught else you need? I could show you to a small bedchamber. Perhaps you’d like to change the garments you’ve travelled in…and have water to wash your hands, face and feet.’

A devilish glint showed in his eyes, lighting facets of gold and green in the iris. ‘Just Mackillin. I appreciate the offer, but I’m warm in my dirt, lass. As for changing my clothes, what’s the use of that when I’ll be travelling in them on the morrow?’ He removed his gauntlets and reached for the pewter cup.

She made certain his fingers did not touch hers. ‘As you wish,’ she said abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

He inclined his head and she almost fled into the kitchen. He was a savage. She found the women servants plucking chickens and saw that dough was rising on a stone slab close to the fire. Realising that it would be some time before supper was ready, she left them to their tasks. Taking a lantern from a cupboard, she lit the candle inside and made for the door that opened on to a spiral staircase that led up to her turret room.

Built a hundred years ago during the times when the Scots had raided this far south of the border, the house had been fortified. Since then, improvements had been made to the property, but her dead stepmother had constantly said it should be pulled down and a cosier, more convenient one built in its place. Her father had laughingly suggested that his wife might prefer his father’s house and she had not complained again.

Cicely had been hurt at such criticism of the house she had always liked and had hoped that when she and Diccon wed, he would be willing to live here, so they could all be one big happy family. Now her dreams were all up in the air due to his prolonged absence, and with the changes her father’s death would necessarily bring. Her eyes filled with tears again and she brushed them away with her sleeve.

She came to her bedchamber and was grateful for the warmth and light from the charcoal brazier that had been placed there earlier in the day. Darkness had fallen and she could hear a rising wind so, hastily, she crossed the room and closed the shutters.

She yawned and sank on to the bed. Her shoulders drooped as her heart ached with sorrow. She longed to lie down and escape into sleep. Mackillin! Was he being truthful when he’d said he wished for no reward? And what had he meant when he said that she would not wish to pay his price if he were to seek it? She remembered the feel of his lips on hers and the hardness of his chest against her breasts. Could he possibly have hinted that bedding her was the reward he would have demanded? The blood rushed to her cheeks and she got up hastily and went over to the chest at the foot of her bed.

She lifted the heavy lid and pushed it back, holding the lantern so she could peer inside. When her stepmother had died, Cicely, aided by her maid, had made mourning clothes to attend her funeral and had worn them almost constantly for months afterwards. Even though there would be no such service for her father here in Yorkshire, Cicely wanted to do everything possible to honour his memory and that meant dressing in a way that was fitting.

She put down the lantern and pulled out a black surcoat and unadorned black gown, knowing that a requiem mass must also be arranged. There was water in the pitcher on the washstand and she poured some into a bowl and washed her hands and face, drying them on a heavy cotton cloth that her father had brought from one of the great fairs in Europe. She removed her muddy shoes and the lamb’s-wool bags, as well as her outer garments. Then, over a cream woollen kirtle, she put on the black gown made from the finest wool that her father’s tenants’ flocks produced. On top of these, she fastened a silk-lined, padded surcoat, trimmed with sable, the fur having been shipped from the Baltic and bought in Bruges.

Again, she rummaged to the bottom of the chest and this time took out a sweet-smelling cedarwood box from its depths. She removed a girdle that was made of links formed in a pattern of silver leaves and fastened it about her hips before lifting a fine silver chain and crucifix from the box and fastening the chain about her neck. She found black ribands in a cloth bag, wove them through strands of her hair and braided them into two plaits. Lastly she slipped on heelless leather slippers before sitting on her bed and wondering what to do next.

Her emotions were in confusion and she felt too close to weeping to face the men downstairs just yet; especially the Scottish lord, whose eyes expressed much that his lips did not say. Lord or not, she still believed him a barbarian at heart. The manner in which he had swept her into his arms and kissed her had been truly shocking. She lay down on the bed, thinking of those moments. Her eyelids drooped and she told herself it was unseemly and sinful to still dwell on his kiss. Instead she should be praying for her father’s soul and considering what they should do when Matt returned. Her thoughts began to drift and, within minutes, she was asleep.

Chapter Two

‘Where’s my sister?’ Jack, who had been dozing in front of the fire, blinked up at Martha who was setting the table.

‘I don’t know, Master Jack, but it’s a good four hours since Mistress Cicely came to the kitchen. Supper is ready to be served and we’ve had no word from her.’

‘Perhaps she’s in her bedchamber,’ suggested Mackillin.

Martha stared curiously at the Scottish lord and her plump face told him exactly what she made of him. ‘I’ll send Tabitha to look,’ she said.

So the maid went upstairs to her mistress’s bedchamber and found her slumbering. Uncertain what to do, and knowing Cicely had passed many a sleepless night, worrying about her father and brother, Tabitha was reluctant to disturb her mistress and went downstairs to tell of her discovery.

‘Dressed for mourning she is, and lying on top of her bed fast asleep. No doubt she’s exhausted, Master Jack. She’s been fretting for weeks, worrying herself about you and the master, as well as your stepbrother.’

The youth glanced at Mackillin. ‘Should I wake her?’

Mackillin wondered if she was truly asleep or whether she was pretending in order to escape his presence. Either way, it might be best if he were not to see her again before leaving in the morning. ‘Let your mistress rest, lass. Sleep is good for her at such a sad time. Make sure she is warm—I think we’re in for a cold night.’

‘And after you have done that, Tabby, fetch in the supper,’ ordered Jack.

‘And a bowl of water and a drying cloth,’ added Mackillin with a smile. ‘I’d like to wash my hands before I eat.’

Cicely started awake and for several moments lay in the darkness, wondering what had disturbed her sleep. She had been dreaming that she was being chased along a castle’s battlements, pursued by a large hound and a black-cloaked dark figure. Her heart pounded. Then she heard a shutter banging and the howling of the wind and, although reluctant to get out of bed because she was so snug, knew she had to silence that shutter.

As she sat up, the crucifix slid along its chain and she clasped it. It had been her mother’s and she only wore it on special occasions, never in bed. Memories of yesterday came flooding in and a sob broke from her. She would never again see her father’s smiling face or hear his deep voice speaking her name. For a moment her grief was such that she could not move, but the shutter banged again and a freezing draught blew across the room. She felt a dampness on her cheek. Pushing down the covers, she climbed out of bed.

No glow came from the charcoal brazier and the candle in her lantern had burnt down. How long had she been asleep? Was it late evening or the middle of the night? Her stomach rumbled. She had missed supper. Why hadn’t someone roused her? She remembered Mackillin and groaned. He would surely be thinking the worst of her. Then she asked herself why she should care about what he thought of her. In the morning he would be gone.

The shutter crashed against the stone wall outside once more and icy air gushed into the room. She shivered, remembering her father’s promise to bring her a sheet of the finest Flemish glass for her window opening. Her eyes were now accustomed to the darkness, but she wished she had a light and fumbled for a fresh candle and her tinder box in the small cupboard next to the bed.

Another gust of wind fluttered the long sleeves and hem of her gown and she pulled a face, realising it was unlikely she’d get a decent spark in such a strong draught. She placed both items on the chest and crossed to the window. She reached through the aperture and was almost blinded by a flurry of snowflakes. She gasped and frantically groped for the shutter. A sigh of relief escaped her as her fingers touched wood, but she had a struggle pulling the shutter towards her. At last she managed to do so and fastened the hook securely before stepping back. The clothing chest caught her behind her knees and she fell on to it.

Wiping her damp face with her sleeve, she looked around and could just about make out the outline of the door to the stairway. Her stomach rumbled again. Why hadn’t she been roused? Perhaps Mackillin had got Jack drunk on her father’s wine and cut his throat and was even now plundering the household. Fear clutched her heart. Yet surely she was allowing her imagination to run away with her. Jack trusted him. Even so, she would not rest until she saw for herself that all was well.

She groped for the candle and tinder box, but it was just as hopeless trying to get a spark in the dark. Hopefully, she would find her way downstairs without a light. If she failed, then she would return to her bedchamber. She would not think about Jack lying there with his throat cut—or demons and apparitions, which some said were the souls of the dead come back to haunt the living. She thought of her father and prayed that God would accept him into Heaven. Clutching her crucifix, she felt her way along the wall to the door.

Once outside, there was a lessening of the darkness and she noticed a faint light penetrating the lancet aperture on the stairway. She put her eye to it and saw that snow blanketed the landscape and was still falling in large, fat flakes. Her heart sank, realising she was not going to get rid of the barbaric lord after all. Using extreme caution, she continued down the steps, brushing the wall with her hand.

Once through the door at the bottom, she paused to get her bearings as there were no windows in the passageway. She could still hear the roaring of the gale, albeit the sound was fainter here. Her heart beat heavily as she moved forward through a darkness that seemed to press in on her like a living force. She strained her eyes and ears, alert to any danger. Her hand touched wood. A closed door. She passed it and came to another closed door. She walked on with more confidence, convinced that the kitchen door was straight ahead. She heard the squeak of a latch and started back as the door opened and the light from a lantern temporarily blinded her.

An expletive was swiftly smothered as someone reached out and seized her by the wrist. ‘God’s blood, lass! What are you doing creeping around in the dark? I could have hurt you,’ said Mackillin, lowering the lantern.

She caught a glimpse of his wild hair, unshaven rugged profile and words failed her. Light-headed with hunger and emotional strain, she swayed against him. He smothered another expletive and, placing an arm around her, half-carried her into the kitchen. She stirred in his arms and tried to push him away, but it was like trying to make a dint in a shield with a feather. ‘Let me go,’ she cried.