Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [211]
It was therefore with a great deal of unconcealed pleasure that Wat Scott of Buccleuch, riding north from Branxholm to the March, encountered Jamie Douglas of Drumlanrig, the Baron of Hawick himself, and the most active member now of all that great house, riding morosely ahead of him to take his place as Scottish Warden and Justiciar of the Middle Marches. Until two months ago, the appointment had been held by Buccleuch. He had given it up, with other public duties, when his son Will had died. Watching him ride beside her now, grimly jovial, chaffing Sir James, his wife saw that Buccleuch didn’t regret renouncing this at least; a Wardenship counting near-sovereign power.
Her suspicions seethed. Over sixty, with a life of violence behind him, Buccleuch had been a broken man after the affair at Liddel Castle. More recently, however, the light of purpose had entered his eye, and, nimble as an elderly rectangular goblin, he had vanished and reappeared at Branxholm until they had all gone off their food.
Wat Scott of Buccleuch knew very well that to lay an unprovoked hand on the Kerrs would mean serious trouble for his house. The murderer of his son had never been found; and the law had ruled that the Kerrs, believing however incorrectly that the Scotts had killed all their cattle, were not to be blamed for retaliation. A heavy fine from Cessford and Ferniehurst had closed the incident.
Janet Beaton, Lady of Buccleuch, whose sister had married the dead boy, didn’t think, in spite of her alarming forecast to Lymond, that Wat would provoke either Walter or John Kerr in person. In other respects she distrusted him to the uttermost, and her comely, uncompromising presence, planked sidesaddle on her mare between Buccleuch and Sir James Douglas and dividing a hard stare between both, at length drove Sir Wat into unwise speech. ‘We’re lamenting the price of auld stots. Will ye take your lang neb out o’ my shouther?’
‘I can hear ye. Ye’re not lamenting the price of auld fools, Wat Scott?’ said his wife instantly. ‘Ye could be at home this minute with your doublet off and your slippers on and a stoup of good wine in your fist. What for are ye interfering in Sir James Douglas’s business?’
‘Because I wrang-wisely thocht I’d chaipit the auld bag at hame!’ said Sir Walter furiously. ‘Ye’ll be the only female there, barring the hoors!’
Smiling, his wife nodded her handsome, positive head. ‘Dod, Wat! It’s every young lassie’s dream!’
‘Well, you’re nae young lassie!’ roared Sir Wat. ‘Thrice merrit and six times a mother! They’ll hae ye in and out o’ their tents like a row o’ fishermen gaffing a salmon, and ye needna look tae me for succour!’
‘Wat, Wat!’ said Lady Buccleuch with reproach. ‘You’re affronting Sir James. It’s a perjink, weel-conducted March meeting we’re off to attend, not a brothel.’
Sir James Douglas of Drumlanrig smiled, if a shade sourly. A slender, comely man, well and expensively dressed, he had been casting a shrewd eye, Janet knew, over the ranks of orderly Scotts and cousins following Sir Wat, each burnished as never Scott ever troubled to glitter before, and modestly armed with sword and knife. ‘It should,’ he remarked at length, ‘be an unusually orderly meeting. The new army at St Mary’s has been summoned, I believe, to keep guard.’
So much for Mr Francis Crawford’s beautiful surprise, thought Lady Buccleuch, and caught the eye of their servant Tosh, riding discreetly behind. But, ‘Oh, I ken, I ken,’ said Sir Wat airily. ‘Auld Wharton must fairly be past it, calling in yon giddy sprig o’ gentrice and his pack o’ priests. I trust they won’t have to bestir themselves overmuch, that’s all. I wouldna like my lord count to sweat up one o’ his sarks.’
‘Wat!’ said his wife Janet warningly.
‘Eh, my dear?’ said Sir Wat. ‘We’re nearly