Page 27 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Sawfield Manor was grand, nestled beside a river cutting through a little valley. Stone pillars held aloft carved lions on either side of its wide gates. Lord Sawfield must be a wealthy man for his family had as comfortable a place as any could find in the no man’s land of the Scottish-English border.

Peyton did not ride to the main door of the house, where he would be turned away as a ruffian. Instead, he rode around the back. A young lass was hanging up linens in a buffeting wind. They would be frozen stiff by morning, judging by the whiteness of the sky.

‘A frost is coming,’ he said, dismounting and flashing his most winning smile.

She froze and backed away as he approached.

‘This is well met. I was hoping to get my horse a drink and rest my aching bones for a bit before going on my way. Can a bonnie lass like you help me, perchance?’

When he took a step closer, the lass gave a squeal and ran into the house. Moments later, a large, ruddy-cheeked woman emerged and waddled up to him carrying a broom as if she could simply sweep him away. He tried hard not to be distracted by the large brown mole on her chin, sprouting several hairs.

‘What do you want? Be gone, scoundrel. We’ve no love of strangers around here,’ she snapped.

Peyton bowed low. ‘Forgive me for intruding. I am no stranger. I boast a connection to your Lady Elene Sawfield. My name is Peyton Strachan, and I am here to plead an audience with her.’

The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘There’s many things wrong with what you said. Elene Sawfield was no lady, and no friend of hers is a friend of this family. May she rot in hell.’ She finished with much venom, aiming a gob of spit at his feet.

‘Has she passed?’ said Peyton.

‘No, more’s the pity, but you will if you hang about here, no matter that you are a pretty one.’

Peyton looked around the place. It was deserted save for the two women, and now that he had a closer look, the place seemed in some disrepair. Weeds grew from the manor’s gutters, and the yard was a jumble of broken carts and farm implements.

He smiled at the woman. ‘I wish you no harm, I swear. And unless you mean to beat me to death with that broom, I would wager you are a little unprotected.’

‘The men have gone to market and will be back soon.’ she said with a frown.

Peyton hadn’t come all this way for nothing. He looked her in the eye. ‘What is your name?’

‘Alice, and what’s it to you?’

‘Well, Alice, I have to tell you that I lied. I am no friend of Elene Sawfield, Strachan, as was. In fact, we are the bitterest of enemies. I am here to lay eyes on her, much like you do the Devil, just to make sure he exists, and if you help me, I will pay you.’

‘Oh, you are wasting your time. That bitch is long gone, months back. You’ll not find her here. Upped and left after the Master died.’

His heart sank. ‘Then I will take my leave. Thank you, Mistress. I hope your man returns soon to protect you, for these are troubled times.’ Peyton hurried away, but she grabbed his arm.

‘I have no man. I am not wed.’ The woman had a predatory glint in her eye. ‘You look like you have travelled a long way. If it pleases you, why not come inside and warm yourself before the hearth and take some broth? We could even find a bed for you for the night if you have a mind, a fine-looking man like yourself.’

The mole moved sideways as she gave him a big grin.

***

Sometime later, Peyton realised that Alice had a lot to get off her chest, which she continually thrust at him as she fussed over him. She diverted his questions and insisted he eat and drink first. The woman was clearly lonely and thirsty for some male attention.

A tankard of ale was placed beside him with a steaming bowl of broth. ‘Where do you bide? A strapping man like you could be useful around the place,’ said Alice, eyeing his shoulders.

‘I am from the West March. Where is your master? Is he at home?’

‘That scoundrel is most likely in a whorehouse or a tavern, gambling away the family fortune,’ she huffed. ‘The late Lord Sawfield changed his will and left it all to his son, not his bitch of a wife. Not that the son is much better.’

Peyton took a spoonful of broth and smiled at Alice. The food and warmth were welcome, but he had to hurry her along. ‘So what can you tell me about Lady Elene?’

‘Well, she used to visit old Lord Sawfield with her brother Robert. My, he was as handsome a fellow as ever there was, quite the popular one with the servant girls. The sister was all charm, giggling at my master’s every word and laying her hand on his arm, but it was clear as day she was feathering her own nest. And that charm didn’t go deep, I can tell you. The master offered for her many times, but she kept rebuffing his suit while she kept him on the hook.’

‘And?’

‘One day, she shows up, filthy as the road, gasping that she had been wronged and throwing herself on his mercy. Her brother had gotten into a fight he could not win, and the family was ruined. Lord Sawfield, silly old fool, was infatuated and fell for her damsel in distress story. So he married her.’ Alice snapped her fingers. ‘Just like that.’

‘And then what?’

‘She was mean to him, that’s what.’ She leaned in, giving Peyton an eyeful of mounds of pale cleavage. ‘I think she refused to share his bed,’ she hissed.

‘Was the marriage not consummated?' said Peyton, feeling like the worst gossiping servant girl.

‘Oh, I think it was, for Lady Sawfield bore a miserable look on her face the day after the wedding, like she had a bad smell under her nose or something. She had to bind him to her, so I suppose she suffered it, just the once.’ Alice grimaced. ‘My Lord was as old as dirt and well past his prime, so it would not have been a pleasant duty to fulfil. Anyway, she never got with child. Some said she was barren. Some said she withheld her favours. And old Lord Sawfield, how he longed for an heir as he was facing his maker. But she would never give him one. And now the poor old soul has gone to God.’

‘How did he die?’ said Peyton slowly.

‘The bloody flux. Went on for days, it did. He had a filthy and torturous end, and she was so cold, refusing to sit with him for fear it was a plague of some kind.’

The hairs stood up on the back of Peyton’s neck.

‘That bitch wouldn’t even hold his hand when he said his final confession, though he begged for her to come to him,’ continued Alice, her voice thickening. ‘She was a cold-hearted she-devil, that one. She deserves a bad end.’ The woman sniffed and scraped the back of her hand across her face.

‘Do you know what became of her, Alice?’

‘She disappeared. Some say they saw her riding south. She always said she wanted to go to London and be at court. I suppose she went there. There was a rumour she had a lover, some grim-looking fellow.’ Alice shrugged. ‘But who knows, with that one? The bitch stole all the valuables she could lay her hands on, and that was that. And none of us missed her, for she had a cruel tongue and was generous with her slaps and pinches if we were slow to do her bidding.’ Alice held out her arm, which was marred by a shiny pink scar. ‘She put a hot poker on me once,’ she sniffed. ‘Truth is, I was always a little scared of her after that.’

That sounded like Elene. She had crawled under a rock, gathered her strength, and then squirmed her way back to wealth and power. Her hand was behind all the violence and strife. He should have known she would return.

Peyton cursed Caolan Bannerman for not squashing her like the cockroach she was. He never should have let her flee south and find sanctuary in marriage to Lord Sawfield. When he had outlived his usefulness, Elene had turned to Sir Henry Harclaw, the Warden of the Marches. Had she nursed her grievances and poured them into his ear? Had she burrowed in, like a tick, swelling with hatred, until she had the power to unleash hell on her enemies?

Elene had always been able to turn a man blind with desire, make him a slave to her bidding, and now the Warden was her latest conquest. Had Sir Henry earned his power and influence on his own merits, or had Elene pushed him to the top of the dung heap that was the English court?

She held him, Glendenning, and Bannerman responsible for her downfall, so they were targeted for the worst of the Warden’s cruelties. Peyton knew Elene and how she plotted, spied, and dug for information. What was she doing to bring down the Strachans? Was she watching his every move through one of her spies?

He had to get home. If Glendenning had fallen to Carstairs’ thugs, then Fellscarp would be next, and every one of his clansmen would be exposed to Elene’s wrath. ‘I must go,’ he said, getting to his feet.

‘So soon. But we have just got acquainted. Stay the night here and press on home tomorrow,’ Alice cried, grabbing his arm.

‘I cannot, lass. I have a wife waiting at home.’

Alice smiled. ‘Well, I don’t mind if you don’t.’