Captive of the Border Lord. Blythe Gifford

more your size.’

      She reached out to stroke the fabric, the colours so vibrant they belonged on a bird. ‘I can’t just take someone’s dress.’

      Wee Mary shoved it at her. ‘It no longer fits her. Now hurry.’

      At the end of the tournament field, Carwell checked his armour, and made sure his men’s green-and-gold colours were firmly attached.

      The King, impatient, had not waited to build seating for the spectators, so most would simply stand at the edge of the field in the valley below the castle. The women, perched atop the Ladies Rock overlooking the grounds, would have a better view. He looked, vainly, for Elizabeth.

      ‘Ah, there you are.’

      Carwell turned and bowed in one movement. ‘Your Grace.’

      In the chaos surrounding preparations for the tournament, there had been no time for formal presentation to the King. It had been months, more than a year, since he had seen James. All their agreements had been via messages and messengers.

      Now, face to face, he could newly assess the man himself. Young. Red-haired, with a long, prominent nose. And carrying a brilliant green-and-gold bird on his wrist.

      The King wasted no words. ‘You’ve news?’

      ‘Yes, Your Grace. News of several kinds.’

      The King’s eyes flashed. Suddenly, he was less the excited sixteen-year-old and more the monarch. ‘Imminent danger?’

      Carwell shook his head.

      Relief touched the King’s eyes. ‘Then we will enjoy the tournament first. News will wait.’

      ‘A handsome papingo, Your Grace.’

      James looked at the bird and smiled. ‘A gift.’ He turned his gaze out over his immediate kingdom. The King took a deep breath as he surveyed it. ‘And who is that lovely lark?’

      Carwell followed the King’s glance to see Elizabeth, walking along the edge of the field.

      And forced himself to breathe.

      Her gown, stark black, set off her fair skin and made her firelight hair even more vibrant.

      ‘Elizabeth Brunson, Your Grace.’

      ‘Brunson?’ The word was sharp-edged.

      ‘Aye, Your Grace.’ His voice sounded appropriately detached. He congratulated himself. ‘John’s sister.’

      ‘Ah, of course. I can see it now. The similarity in the build….’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Johnnie’s sister, eh?’ Several things seemed to flash behind the King’s eyes, ending with a sigh. ‘Bring her to me.’

      ‘Now, Your Grace?’

      The King frowned. ‘Of course, now.’

      Carwell gave a brief bow and muttered something that should have been Of course, Your Grace, but wasn’t.

      Her eyes lit up as he approached. She must feel truly isolated now, he thought. She had never looked so happy to see him.

      He concentrated on keeping his eyes on hers so he would not look down at her bodice, where he could see the edge of breasts he had been trying to forget since he had carried her from the stream.

      He cleared his throat. ‘You look lovely.’

      She looked down. ‘I look like a pigeon in a pig pen.’

      ‘The King doesn’t think so.’

      She lifted her head and he saw a flash of fear in her eyes. She looked around his shoulder.

      ‘That’s the King, yes. With the bird.’

      She raised her brows. ‘I’ve never seen a falcon like that.’

      ‘It’s not a falcon.’ He reached out to take her elbow, his touch staking some kind of claim. ‘He wants to meet you.’

      She pursed her lips, then nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To explain?’

      Yet when she lifted her head, he found himself staring at the curve of her neck and her delicate throat.

      And thinking of the hangman’s noose.

      ‘Not today. Today, only curtsy and smile and say as little as possible.’

      Lifted chin, stubborn lips and fear, still, in her eyes. ‘I speak no French.’

      Now, his smile could reassure. ‘Neither does the King.’

      Her lips relaxed and released a breath. ‘Will he ask for our oath?’

      He shook his head. The King needed no reminders of the Brunsons’ bad behaviour today. Not until Carwell had had a chance to assess the situation. ‘He is in a good mood and ready to enjoy the jousting. Be sure he remains so. Come.’

      She matched her strides to his as they walked across the damp field. ‘What do I call him?’

      ‘Address him as “Your Grace”.’ He tightened his grip on her arm. ‘And say nothing bad about the bird.’

      The sun had broken through the clouds and the day had warmed, as if on the King’s command, as they approached James, standing before his tent, surrounded by attendants.

      ‘Your Grace,’ Carwell said, his hand still on Bessie’s arm. ‘Elizabeth Brunson.’

      She bent her knees, but not her stubborn neck. Even a Brunson woman bowed to no man.

      The King’s eyes roved across her curves and Carwell fought the tension in his jaw. Well, what man wouldn’t like to look on her? He did. Too much.

      Smiling, the King stroked the bird’s bright-green feathers. ‘Welcome to Stirling Castle and to my tournament.’

      ‘Thank you, your Grace.’

      ‘And this,’ the King said, lifting the wrist with the bird, ‘is Pierre. Greet the lady, Pierre.’

      Pierre squawked and fluttered his wings. Elizabeth leaned away and pressed against Carwell. He found his arm around her waist.

      Quickly, she recovered herself, but kept her lips firmly shut.

      The King frowned. ‘Is he not impressive?’

      She glanced at Carwell for permission. ‘I’ve never seen such a creature before.’

      The King’s eyes narrowed and he handed the bird to an attendant. ‘Johnnie is not with you.’

      She glanced at Carwell and swallowed. ‘No, he’s—’

      ‘It’s a day for celebration, Your Grace. Even the sun emerges to honour your glory.’

      James frowned, but two squires hovered, holding armour. The red-and-gold surcoat with the royal arms was waiting, flapping in the wind. The King looked up at the uncertain sky. ‘We begin within the hour.’ He looked back at Elizabeth. ‘Who carries your favour, milady?’

      Her eyes flickered, uncertain. ‘My favour, Your Grace?’

      ‘In the lists. Your kerchief. Your scarf. The token of your affection.’ The King’s smile was too smug, his eyes too eager.

      Carwell stepped forwards. ‘I do.’

      Beside him, Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Fortunately, she kept her mouth closed.

      Carwell took the King’s frown for her.

      ‘Don your armour, Carwell. You, and your men.’ And he turned his back and stepped into the tent.

      Carewell bowed and backed away, dragging Bessie beside him.

      She pulled her arm away. ‘You carry no favour of mine.’

      ‘But the King was about to ask for it. He can collect all the favours he wants.