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"And that is?"
"Methinks this one may not be a threat so much as a warning."
Connor shrugged and motioned with his hand for the man to continue. The wench, he noticed absently, had abandoned her pretense of spreading the rushes and heather; she'd taken a seat not far away and was now listening openly, eager to snare a tidbit or two of gossip.
"All right, mon, what be me brother's warning, then?" Connor asked, checking his impatience.
"I am to tell ye specifically that he will slice off yer..." The man gulped, his gaze skipping to the wench then back to Connor. "Er, that is to say, he means to relieve ye of a certain part of yer anatomy if ye so much as lay a finger on the beautiful and fragile Lady Gabrielle Carelton."
Gilby and the serving wench laughed heartily, until even the huge dogs that stretched lazily in front of the hearth picked up their heads, ears perking as they looked around to see what the commotion was about.
Connor, who had lifted his mug and was in the process of downing the rest of the ale, felt the yeasty liquid clog in his laughter-tightened throat. He choked and sputtered. "Beautiful and fragile?" he asked when he was finally able to catch his breath. A warning glare at Gilby and the wench toned them down to snickers. "Colin said that?"
"Aye, he did," the man replied hesitantly. "I dinny see what's so funny aboot it, though."
"Nor will ye, unless me brother has suddenly become smart and crafty and accomplished his threat to steal the lass back."
"And we all ken that the chances of that happening," Gilby interceded, "are aboot as good as me being crowned King of England in that dour old puss's place. Ha!"
Connor slammed his empty mug down on the table and released the chuckle he'd been sup pressing. His attention returned to the messenger. "Do ye have instructions to take back a reply?"
He shrugged warily. "I have nae instruction not to."
"Ver good. Ride back to Gaelside and tell me brother..." Connor pursed his lips and scowled thoughtfully. "Aye, tell Colin that I said to use what little brains God gave him and cool his hot-blooded heels for once. The Lady Gabrielle was rightfully stolen, and no March Warden on either side of the Border can argue that point. 'Tis no fault of mine if me brother can't keep proper track of his belongings, don't ye ken? The lass is in my care now, and in my care she shall stay. Howe'er..." A shrewd grin tugged at one corner of Connor's mouth and his gray eyes gleamed as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation, "tell him that if he will not listen, and he's truly of a mind to rescue the"—ahem!—"beautiful and fragile lass, he's welcome to try." His gaze narrowed on the messenger. "Whate'er ye do, mon, dinny forget to tell him that last part."
"I'll not forget."
"Good." Connor gestured toward the door to the hall. "What are ye waiting for? Be off with ye. Ye've an important message to deliver."
The man nodded briskly and turned toward the door. He reached the arched stone doorway, then stopped. Looking back over his shoulder, the man paused for a beat before saying in an oddly timid tone, "M'lord, rumor has it that ye and but fifty men crept into Caerlaverock, whisked away two dozen of the Maxwell's beasties and half that again in prisoners, without e'en disturbing the laird's sleep. Rumor also has it that Johnny Maxwell wasn't aware of his losses until the next morning when he sat down to break his fast... but the table stayed empty. One of the prisoners taken was his cook." A spark of admiration flashed in the man's eyes. "'Tis quite the tale of daring... if it be true. Is it?"
"Tell me, do ye believe e'ery rumor ye hear?"
"W-well, nay," the man stammered. "Howe'er, I've been hearing a fine muckle of rumors aboot The Black Douglas of late. E'eryone at Gaelside is curious to ken how many of them be true and how many be so maun talk."
"I dinny see that it matters. True or not, people believe what they will." Connor forced his shrug to look negligent as his attention shifted. He waved to the wench, indicating she should fetch more ale. She stood and retrieved his and Gilby's mug, then quickly disappeared around a corner at the opposite side of the hall, heading down the dimly lit corridor that led to the kitchen.
There was no need to glance at the doorway to see if the messenger had left; the man's bootheels echoed on the stone steps leading down to the ground-floor entrance.
Connor glanced at Gilby and sighed. "Dinny ye think it a wee bit strange?"
"The message?" Gilby asked.
"Och! nay, that was expected. Colin is Colin; 'twould have been odd if he'd not made any threats. What I be talking aboot are these... these rumors going aboot."
"Ballads," Gilby corrected easily, "is what they are now. They were rumors only for a short time before someone paced them and put them to song."
"Rumors, ballads, whate'er they be, they're be a fine muckle strange."
Gilby shrugged. "'Tis the way o' things. Ye dinny need me to tell ye that Borderers are wont to write ballads and tell tales, the taller the better."
"'Tis not the rum—er, ballads themselves that bother me, Gilby, 'tis their subject matter. Ye should ken better than maun that there's naught extraordinary about me. Why this sudden attention? Why waste prose on me and my not so daring but really quite ordinary deeds?"
The Black Douglas's first in command thought about this for a moment. "Now that The Devil is wed and settled down to raising his bairns, they've naught left to sing about him but lullabies. Ye have to admit, Connor, ye did ride on Caerlaverock exactly as the mon said."
"But not with fifty men!"
"Aye," Gilby agreed, "with twenty. Which is e'en more daring than accomplishing the deed with a mere fifty."
