people get in this life.'
'I will only marry for love,' Fiona responded.
'Neither your da nor Alix would ever force you into a marriage that did not please you,' Fenella assured her young companion. 'But you are just going to be eight in a few weeks, my bairn. There is more than enough time for marriage.'
The day was gray and the air about them still as they stood watching the laird, his uncle, and the fifty men with them ride over the hill and out of sight.
'Will they be gone long?' Fiona wondered.
'A few days, certainly no more,' Fenella said, and hoped it would be so. 'Your da will send to us if 'tis to be longer. Now, is it not time for you to go to Father Donald for your Latin lesson, Fiona Scott? Just because your mam isn't here does not mean you can shirk your duties. With Martinmas near, I am going to teach you how to salt meat today. Bacon does not appear magically upon the high board.' And Fenella led her charge from the tower top back down into the hall of Dunglais Keep.
Chapter Eleven
The clansmen followed the track they had followed several days previously, turning south this time where the raiding party had split in two. They moved along at a steady pace, stopping to rest their horses briefly and take a few moments of ease. They carried with them oatcakes, which they ate a-saddle when hungry. Each man's flask held his own personal preference for liquid refreshment. When the short autumn day began to wane they found shelter by an ancient cairn of stones. Gathering wood for a fire, they soon had one going. Others among them went on foot onto the moor and trapped several rabbits and two game birds, which were dispatched quickly to be brought back for supper. The creatures were swiftly skinned, the birds plucked. Then they were put on spits to be roasted over the open fire.
When the game was nicely cooked it was portioned out among the men to eat with their oatcakes. Afterwards a watch was set for the night, and those who could, slept. The skies had cleared near sunset. As he lay upon his back staring up at the night sky admiring the bright stars, Malcolm Scott considered that it had been a very long time since he had gone raiding. The borders were not always as quiet as they had been of recent years, but then the English had had-still had-problems with their monarchs. Everyone chose sides, and they had been so busy fighting amongst themselves that there had been no time to fight with the Scots.
He wasn't certain as he lay there that he didn't miss the excite-merit of the raiding that had gone back and forth during the previous years. It wasn't over yet, of course. It would never be over. He expected that once England settled down with this new king, of theirs, and the matter of poor mad Henry VI was concluded, the raiding would begin anew. He smiled in the darkness thinking of how he would take his sons with him and teach them how a border lord went raiding. He would show them there was a time for harshness and a time for mercy. That cattle, horses, and sheep, not women, were the best part of a raid, for they added to a man's wealth. But, of course, first he had to regain his wife from that stubborn fool of an Englishman who thought that Alix was his.
He awoke when his uncle shook his shoulder. It was still dark, but the darkness was lightening, and the distant horizon was beginning to hint at morning. Around him the men were gathering up the horses that had been grazing and resting during the night. After watering the horses at a nearby stream, the men were now preparing to ride.
'Mount up!' the laird called to them as he sprang into his saddle.
The borderers moved slowly off from their encampment. The air was distinctly colder this morning, but as the sun slowly began to rise, the dampness eased. With more light the horses picked up the pace as they rode south. In late morning, close to the noon hour, they had the good fortune to come upon a small three-wagon caravan of tinkers who were also traveling south to find a milder winter. The wagons stopped as the laird and his troupe came up upon them.
'Good morrow, my lords,' the obvious leader said, bowing nervously as he waited to learn the fate God had decided for him and his family. He was a swarthy man, but roughly dressed. From the wagons about him children peeped out curiously. There was no sign of women, only other men with faces that said nothing.
'Do you know of a place called Wulfborn Hall?' the laird asked pleasantly.
'Wulfborn Hall?' The tinker considered carefully, and then he saw the gleam of silver in the laird's fingers. 'You are quite near it, my lord,' he said quickly.
'
The tinker watched the coin with dark eyes as it fell back into the laird's big palm. He could tell it was full weight by its size and the faint sound it made as it hit the skin. 'Perhaps ten miles just south and slightly to the east, my lord,' he replied, deftly catching the coin as it was sent through the air in his direction. He bobbed his appreciation.
'My thanks,' Malcolm Scott said, and he signaled his men forward again.
The tinker watched them go, thinking that so large an armed group did not bode well for Wulfborn Hall. He beckoned his caravan onward.
'Do you think he told the truth?' Robert Ferguson asked his nephew.
'He had no reason to lie,' the laird said, and then he called to Beinn. 'Send two men ahead to ascertain the exact location of this place we seek.'
'You want to find the right place, Nephew. It would not do for us to attack someone innocent in this matter,' the Ferguson of Drumcairn remarked.
'Alix said there were no neighbors for miles around,' Malcolm Scott replied.
Two scouts broke off from the main party and rode ahead seeking out Wulfborn Hall. They were not long in finding it, for the tinker had not lied. One of them rode back to the laird while the other waited and watched. The house that stood on a small rise at one end of the village was constructed of stone. It had a slate roof, and its windows were long and narrow. It was a house that could be properly defended. The village was small and poor looking, but it did have a little church at the opposite end from the house. There were few signs of life on this autumn day, for the harvest was long in. Most of the cotters would be keeping to their hearths until spring came. There was a respectable flock of sheep grazing on a hillside in the weak sunshine, and maybe half a dozen cattle in the nearby meadow. The place was hardly worth pillaging, the clansman observing in the shadows thought to himself as his horse shifted beneath him. Sensing the arrival of his clansmen, the watcher turned as the laird rode up by his side.
Malcolm Scott gazed down on the scene. 'It seems a peaceful enough place,' he said. 'Is it not guarded?'
The clansman shook his head in the negative. 'Shepherd and his dog over in yon meadow, my lord, but other than a goodwife scurrying to the well in the village I've seen no sign of men-at-arms. 'Tis obvious this Englishman believes he is safe from attack.'
'Umm,' the laird grunted, and then he said, 'The house looks as if it is fortifiable. Stone walls as thick as any keep. And the door will be oak bound in iron, I'll wager. Not easy to hack through, but it can be done. No walls though about the place.' He thought silently for a long minute. How to proceed? Would the Englishman, faced with fifty armed Scots, turn Alix over to him and admit his defeat? Or would he persist in the fantasy that Alix belonged to him, thereby forcing the Laird of Dunglais to strong action? There was no way to know the answer to his questions, of course, until he himself proceeded one way or another.
' 'Tis never wise to show one's full intent,' the Ferguson of Drumcairn said to his nephew quietly.
Malcolm Scott nodded thoughtfully. Then he spoke. 'You and your clansmen remain here, Uncle. I shall take mine down the hill and up to the door of Wulfborn Hall to see what I can accomplish with this lordling.'
'He's not likely to give her up,' Robert Ferguson noted.
'Probably not, but before I destroy his village, drive off his livestock, and take his people to sell in the Jedburgh market, I should like to offer him the opportunity to be reasonable and save most of what he has from my ire,' the laird said.
' 'Tis fair,' his uncle agreed, 'and most generous of you, Colm, considering the scurvy fellow stole your wife.' He turned to his own clansmen. 'We'll be remaining here for the interim, lads,' the Ferguson of Drumcairn told them.
