Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] Read Free

have to face either of them. You must know that Murray means to hang us in the morning.”
    “He caught us wi’ the goods,” Tammy said. “’Tis his right to hang us.”
    “It is, aye, but you’ll admit that it does seem devilish hypocritical,” Wat retorted. “We did nowt but try to put right the wrong he’d done to me, after all.”
    “We didna catch him at it, though,” Tam reminded him.
    In the ensuing silence, the darkness seemed to thicken and close heavily around them until Gib said abruptly, “D’ye believe in heaven, Wat?”
    “Aye, and in hell,” Wat replied. “Don’t you?”
    “I do.” Gib paused. “’Tis just that . . .”
    “What, Gib?”
    “Sithee, me Annie’s in heaven wi’ our wee bairn that the English killed alongside o’ her when they came three years ago. I dinna doubt that Annie’s waiting for me, ye ken, but ’tis likely I’ll no be joining her now, will I?”
    “Why not?”
    “Yon Murray’s no likely to ha’ a priest at hand to shrive us, is he?”
    “He may have a chaplain as the Douglas does,” Wat said. “But if he doesn’t, you’ve led a good life, Gib, and I believe God counts that above all else.”
    “Mayhap He does, Wat, but I’ve broken me share o’ His commandments.”
    “So have we all,” Tammy muttered. “’Tis nae use to fret about it now.”
    Wat’s imagination instantly presented him with a string of images from his past that God might find hard to forgive.
    He had no idea how much time had slipped by when Tam said quietly, “Ye’re gey quiet, Master Wat. Be ye thinkin’ or sleepin’?”
    “Thinking,” Wat retorted. “I doubt if anything fixes a man’s mind more sharply on his sins than knowing that in just a few hours he’s likely to hang.”
    It was two hours past dawn when Sir Iagan Murray, Baron of Elishaw, a thickset man of medium height, graying hair and beard, and undistinguished apparel, entered his castle hall and stepped onto the dais at its north end. He sat in his armchair, placed informally as it was every morning at the end of the high table nearest the fire. His wife and three daughters had been standing at their places, waiting, for some time.
    His men had eaten earlier and departed to their duties, so the family would enjoy some privacy. But they were hardly alone. Servants scurried about, some clearing trestle tables in the lower hall while others set platters of food on the dais table and poured ale into Sir Iagan’s mug and wine into the ladies’ goblets.
    Eighteen-year-old Lady Margaret Murray stood beside her mother in a plain blue dress that did nothing to flatter her thin figure. An uncomfortably close-fitting white coif and veil primly concealed her long, thick hair and was already beginning to give her a headache. She was glad her father had arrived at last, for the women could not sit down, let alone begin eating, until he did.
    Her two younger sisters fidgeted impatiently beside her.
    Meg ignored them while gillies moved the ladies’ stools in closer behind them and Lady Murray took her seat. Then, hearing a sound of relief from eleven-year-old Rosalie as that damsel plopped down on her stool, Meg shot her a warning look.
    Fifteen-year-old, rosy-cheeked Amalie quietly took her seat between them. She was much plumper than Meg or Rosalie, but all three looked more like their English-born mother than their Scottish father.
    The two younger girls wore plain veils over long, dark plaits. Rosalie’s hair was several shades darker than Meg’s, and Amalie’s was raven’s-wing black. Both had hazel eyes and freckled complexions. Fate had spared Meg the freckles, and her eyes were stone gray with dark-rimmed irises.
    The back-stools opposite remained empty, the board before them bare, signs that their brothers were not at home. Simon, the elder, served the Scottish Earl of Fife and Menteith, who was in effect the present ruler of Scotland. Their younger brother, Thomas, having fostered four years with nearby