"You need me here." Toby's beardless chin jutted out. "He may try again."

"He does not even know I am here."

"He?" Catherine asked. "Pendennis?"

Baldwin looked startled by her perception but nodded. "Pendennis is unimportant. Susanna is the one I am concerned about."

"I saw him-"

"Enough, Toby."

"Saw what?" Catherine fixed Toby with a look that had made lesser men tremble. "Saw who?"

"I saw Sir Walter push Master Baldwin off the wall."

"You saw him at my side. You saw him touch my shoulder. You did not see him try to kill me."

"Dr. Grant thought he meant you harm, too," Toby grumbled, "and a good thing he did. The rebels could as easily have killed as treated you."

Nick shifted his implacable gaze to Catherine. "The rebels realized, soon after I landed in their midst, that their cause was hopeless. I was in no real danger from them. And now that you are here to protect me from Pendennis, Lady Glenelg, perhaps we can persuade Toby to go after Susanna. Her safety is what matters most."

"I will go after Susanna," she informed him. "I have a good idea where the rebels are bound and the safe conduct necessary to reach that place."

"The border?"

"Aye. Liddesdale, to be precise." No other place would serve, not now. Liddesdale was a no-man's land, the haunt of outlaws and masterless men.

Baldwin nodded. "I heard talk when I was with the rebels of ties to the Armstrongs. But, Lady Glenelg, what can you do when you get there?"

She patted the splinted arm as she rose to leave. "A good deal more than you."

Chapter 38.

The face of the man shouting curses at them from the ramparts of Naworth Castle was as twisted as his body. "Crookback Dacre," the countess of Northumberland muttered. "I thought he'd gone to London."

"It appears, madam," Marion said, "that he has returned. And from his refusal to grant us hospitality, I warrant he won himself a fat settlement from the Crown in his dispute with the duke of Norfolk."

Susanna watched and listened as the earls exchanged loud, heated words with their former ally. "A dangerous enemy," she murmured to Jennet. "We are only eight miles from Carlisle, an easy march for troops garrisoned there."

The earls had ridden as far into Northumberland as Hexham, then skirted the Pennines to reach Naworth, in the north part of c.u.mberland. All along the way, their numbers had continued to shrink. Even the countess's chamberers, Kelke and Lamplugh, had made off on foot when they got close to their homes. Sir John the priest had deserted, too.

Cecily's horse danced closer to Turmeric. Her vision continued to fail but she squinted toward Dacre, her face hard. "He was no help when Ranulf needed him. I am not surprised he refuses to help the earls."

Susanna stared at her. Dacre and Ranulf Carnaby? Something Walter had told her when they were still aboard the Green Rose came back to her. He'd had dealings with Dacre some years ago, he'd said. Dacre had provided intelligence to the queen but had not quibbled at betrayal.

If Ranulf Carnaby was the one he'd betrayed, and Cecily knew of it, did she also know of his connection to Walter? "I was told your husband was killed through the treachery of one of the queen's intelligence gatherers," Susanna blurted. "I thought it must have been my husband who betrayed him."

"Whether your husband was involved or not, Dacre was the one who sent Ranulf to his death." Susanna had to strain to hear as she added, "Guy told me so, and he would know."

If that was true, Susanna thought, then neither Cecily nor Guy had any reason to kill Eleanor Pendennis. If neither Guy nor Cecily blamed Walter for Ranulf's death, she no longer had any plausible suspects in the "accidents" that had plagued her since she arrived in Yorkshire. Did that mean they had been accidents, after all? Even the stray arrow? Even Margaret's death?

Did it mean Walter had been responsible for what happened to Eleanor?

Before Susanna could question Cecily further, the earl of Westmorland gave the signal to ride away from Naworth. Lady Northumberland slumped in her saddle, drawing the attention of all her waiting gentlewomen. She could not go on much longer without a place to rest and recover her strength. In truth, they were all in sad condition. Endless days in the saddle and endless nights of rough sleeping had taken a terrible toll.

They'd followed the old Roman roads thus far, but rain and snow had turned the stone surfaces slick and treacherous. Now they set out along a track that was narrow and muddy, led toward the border by the aptly named Black Ormiston. Their guide's full black beard and long hair surrounded as vile a countenance as Susanna had ever seen. He took them along narrow pa.s.sages customarily used by raiding expeditions, trails unsuitable for the army the earls were certain was in pursuit.

Without warning, the Picts' Wall rose up before Susanna's eyes. She'd heard of this towering structure that ran across the north of England, but she'd never supposed that she would see it close at hand. A spurt of energy had her looking for the herbs she'd been told had been planted along its length back when the Romans occupied England. She glimpsed no trace of them as she urged Turmeric between two broken columns. It was winter, after all, and when she saw what lay on the north side of the great wall, her spirits drooped further. Miles of hard and lonely upland stretched out before them, its only signs of life a flock of carrion crows and a merlin just striking at a meadow pipit.

Onward they went at a bone-jarring pace. They crossed no discernible border, but once they were west of the Cheviot Hills and north of the Liddel Water, Susanna knew they were in Scotland. The rough, hilly track became not so much high as steep and contained sections that dropped off suddenly, sending her heart into her throat. Soon bleak sward and rough gra.s.s gave way to worse-bare branches and a sharp ridge of treetops and a continual cold breeze that cut through the warmest clothing. Small valleys ran every which way but offered no relief from the barren melancholy of the region.

Susanna tried and failed to imagine the area in spring, when it might have some hope of a stark beauty. She began to regret she'd not heeded Jennet's plea to desert along with Kelke and Lamplugh, but she had not yet regained possession of the letters. Stubbornness, she thought grimly, was a failing as well as a virtue.

Finally, long after Susanna had begun to wonder if they were being taken out into a wilderness only to be abandoned, they came in sight of human habitation, a stone peel tower, three stories high, with a dwelling house attached. The whole was surrounded by a wall more than two feet thick and at least seven feet high. Compared to a proper castle, it was a poor place, and overwhelming in its smell of smoldering peet, but they spurred their mounts toward it, grateful to have found refuge at last.

"Who is laird here?" Lady Northumberland asked.

"Jock of the Side," came the reply.

"An Armstrong," she murmured. "That is good."

They were made welcome, but this was no earl's castle. Even the last inn they'd stayed in, which had boasted only six beds, seemed s.p.a.cious in comparison to the dwelling house of Jock of the Side. A simple cottage, it was too small to accommodate them all, even with their numbers so greatly reduced.

Jock of the Side was an even greater disappointment. "You must leave my land within twenty-four hours," he told the earls, although he a.s.sured them that the others in their retinue were welcome to his hospitality.

"You cannot leave me!" Lady Northumberland clung to her husband's arm. "I will go with you."

But even the earl could see that his wife was not strong enough to ride on. Neither tears nor recriminations swayed him.

The countess's women gave them what privacy they could for a final night of farewells. Then, in the predawn hour, both earls rode west across a desolate moss called Tarras, seeking the protection of Hector Armstrong, who owed Northumberland his life and would be inclined, so the earl hoped, to return the favor.

Standing in the crisp morning air, watching them ride away, Susanna shivered convulsively. "I do not trust Jock of the Side," she whispered to Jennet. "Or Black Ormiston."

Jennet answered with one of the expressive snorts that seemed to have become habitual of late. "Fear not, madam. The earl has kindly left Guy Carnaby to guard us."

Chapter 39.

Lady Appleton had been right not to trust Black Ormiston, Jennet thought as she watched him make off with all their horses. At the first report of an army advancing toward Jock of the Side's peel tower, he and his followers were abandoning the countess and her few remaining attendants. They took with them their household goods and cattle and, to prevent the destruction of the tower, had stuffed it full of smoldering peet. This, Jennet was told, would burn for days, preventing anyone from laying gunpowder charges to destroy the structure. When the Borderers returned, they'd have to repair the woodwork, but the stone frame would still be intact.

Better, Jennet thought, to have allowed those left behind to defend the place. It had been built to be held, its sole entrance through a double door at ground level. The upper floors used as living quarters could only be reached by a narrow, curving stair called a turnpike. Once inside, even womenfolk could hold out against a great many attackers, firing at them through arrow slits and shot holes and hurling things down from the roof.

But the Scots did not see matters that way. They were de'els, as the Northumbrian folk would say. Savages. Jennet watched them flee, her lip curled in distaste. Barefoot, most of them, even in this cold, although a few had odd-looking shoes made from the hides of red deer. They wore them pulled up to the ankles with the rough fur side out. Barbarians.

The women were dressed in coa.r.s.e wool garments that hung loose from their shoulders and cloaks in two or three colors of checkerwork on top, and the men . . . well! Jock of the Side was distinguished from his followers only by his short yellow jacket. Under mantles, the rest wore saffron-colored pleated linen smocks that ended at their knees and left their legs bare.

"We could follow the Armstrongs and hide in the mosses," Master Carnaby suggested.

"We would not know where to go without a guide," Lady Appleton objected, "and I am loath to move the countess."

Lady Northumberland had been prostrate with grief and worry ever since her husband's departure. When he left her behind, it had been as if all the life went out of her.

"What, then?" Carnaby demanded. "Wait for the Scots army to come? This place is not safe. This country is not. I'll not breathe easy until we've reached the coast and found a st.u.r.dy ship to take us to the Continent."

Lady Appleton did not argue further. When she went back inside the smoke-filled hovel where the countess lay, Jennet followed. It was a pitiful place, unfit to house a gentlewoman, let alone someone n.o.bly born. The "bedchamber" was no more than a recess in the wall.

Worse, in such surroundings, Jennet's skills were useless. She could not hide herself to listen to other people's conversations. There was nowhere to hide. And she was no longer overlooked as a mere servant. With so few followers left, even Lady Northumberland knew her name.

"That the Armstrongs fear whatever troops are advancing toward us does not mean they are our enemies," Lady Appleton said to the countess. "These borderers are all outlaws. They feud with their neighbors as well as their government."

"The Scots regent will hunt us down like animals," Lady Northumberland predicted. With her listlessness had come a fatalism most unlike her normal outlook. "Since Queen Mary's abdication, he has ruled Scotland in the name of young James VI."

James was Mary's baby son, Jennet recalled. Some said he would one day be named Queen Elizabeth's heir, as well.

"The regent, Queen Mary's b.a.s.t.a.r.d half-brother, wants his sister dead," Lady Northumberland continued. "He wants the heretic queen to execute her."

"Whatever troops come," Lady Appleton said in a soothing voice, "we will reason with them. Come, madam, it is not like you to despair. You must exert your famous charm and win new champions among the Scots."

Eyes shining with moisture, Cecily Carnaby abruptly left the house. Jennet was torn between following her and staying to discover what Lady Appleton had in mind. Speaking in a low voice, the latter continued to encourage the countess to reclaim her leadership of their little band.

Jennet compromised by watching Mistress Carnaby from the doorway. She and her former brother-in-law spoke together. Plotting? Jennet wondered. She was about to move closer to them when a new note in the countess's voice caused Jennet to turn and stare.

"I must persevere," she declared. "For my children." One hand rested protectively over her womb, making Jennet suspect she believed herself to be with child once more. It was a powerful reason to keep fighting, to stay free.

At that moment, they heard the first thundering of distant hooves.

Lady Appleton touched the countess's sleeve. "Your greatest danger lies in the letters you carry upon your person. Burn them before they can be seized."

Jennet sucked in a startled breath. After all Lady Appleton had risked, remaining with the rebels in the hope of getting hold of those letters, how could she suggest destroying them? Or was this but a trick to regain possession of the d.a.m.ning doc.u.ments?

"They will help us win support abroad," Marion objected.

"Only if they do not fall into the wrong hands first." Jennet heard the tremor in Lady Appleton's voice. Whatever her intent, it cost her to deceive a woman she admired.

The hoofbeats came closer.

With a quiet dignity in no way diminished by the fact that her velvet cap was askew, Lady Northumberland levered herself up from her pallet. After fumbling beneath her bodice for the letters, she held them crushed in one hand to totter from the bedchamber alcove to the hovel's only chair, which had been drawn up close to the smoky fire.

Lady Appleton knelt beside her. "They are too dangerous to keep, my lady."

A sound from without warned of the imminent arrival of a troop of mounted men. Momentarily distracted, Jennet glanced away from the countess. She saw dozens of armed figures riding hard toward Jock of the Side's holding-a raiding party, not an army.

She turned to tell the countess, but the words died on her lips when she saw the tableau before the hearth. Three women stared at the flames as the letters were consumed.

Jennet blinked. Who had thrown them into the fire? Lady Northumberland? Or Lady Appleton? There was no opportunity to ask. The riders were reining in right in front of the door.

She stepped outside just in time to see a familiar figure in boy's breeches throw herself from the saddle of an equally familiar horse and race toward the burning peel tower. "Lady Glenelg!" Jennet shouted. "Stop! We are here and unharmed."

Jennet was given her own mount for the trek along a narrow, hilly track through a forest and into the bleak and melancholy Cheviot Hills. After a seeming endless journey filled with inconsequential chatter-Lady Glenelg expounding upon the fact that in Scotland the condition of the roads was too poor to allow wheeled traffic and that Scots horses were only shod on their forefeet, as if Jennet cared!-they emerged on the road to Jedburgh and were taken to the relative luxury and security of Ferniehurst Castle.

"The Border is in a tickle state," Lady Glenelg said as soon as she and Lady Appleton and Jennet were alone in the chamber Sir Thomas Kerr had a.s.signed to her. "The Kerrs of Ferniehurst supported Queen Mary when few others would, just before her flight to England, and are in sympathy with the earls, but for all that, Sir Thomas rescued the countess because he owed my Gilbert a favor."

"Do you trust Sir Thomas?" Lady Appleton asked.

Lady Glenelg chuckled. "Kerr read the letter I brought him from Gilbert, which he sent to me along with a safe conduct guaranteed by the Scots regent, then paid my husband exaggerated compliments and made me blush with a few well chosen remarks about my sterling qualities."

Kerr was a very handsome fellow indeed, Jennet thought. And he'd mustered his men to ride into Liddesdale. But trust him? It seemed not.

"The Armstrongs of the Side are notorious Border outlaws," Lady Glenelg continued, "but the Kerrs are not much better."

"At least the accommodations are an improvement." Jennet examined a tray containing cheese, oatcakes, and bread, a pitcher of weak barley water, and another of ale. She poured out three cups of the latter and distributed them.

Lady Appleton, she thought, looked almost as worn out as Lady Northumberland. In contrast, Lady Glenelg was bursting with good health. She had an air of contentment about her that made Jennet think, in spite of the very different ways the two n.o.blewomen showed it, that Lady Glenelg might be in the same interesting condition as the countess.

"Lady Northumberland is convinced Sir Thomas acted out of some chivalrous instinct when he heard of her plight." Lady Appleton sipped and grimaced. As Jennet had already discovered, Scots ale was brewed stronger than the English variety.

"Let her have her illusions, poor lady. She will have few enough when she hears that her husband has been turned over to the same regent of Scotland who guaranteed my safe pa.s.sage from Carlisle. He coerced Hector Armstrong into betraying Northumberland."

"And Westmorland?" Lady Appleton asked.

"Still free."

For a moment there was silence.

"I have more news," Lady Glenelg said. "I believe I have uncovered the ident.i.ty of Eleanor's killer."

Blue eyes bright with interest, Lady Appleton lifted a brow. "Indeed? Tell us more."

Jennet moved closer, anxious not to miss a word of this exchange.

"Sir Roger Cholmeley." Lady Glenelg launched into an account of her trip into c.u.mberland, her capture of Lucius Dartnall-a personable but thick-witted fellow, to hear Lady Glenelg tell it-and her visit to Lady Pendennis's bitter and unforgiving mother. "Sir Roger is very wealthy, a source of funding for the rebels, and he takes personally any insult to the family honor. Would he not be doubly angry if he thought Eleanor had set out to deceive him with letters from abroad?"

"How could he send orders to Augsburg? He never leaves Westmorland."

"But he had contact with Topcliffe," Lady Glenelg reminded them. "Easy enough to hire someone there to send it on. Or order some other relation, one who stood to inherit if Eleanor was dead, to do it."