The Border Vixen by Bertrice Small

Linlithgow along with his leather boots. “I slept in a stable last night,” he said ruefully, sniffing the velvet doublet.
    “It can be aired out,” Archie responded pragmatically. “I’ll pack it with some clove to overcome the scent of the king’s barn. Ye’ll not be wearing it until yer wedding day.” He carefully folded the garment and placed it with a few nails of the spice with the other clothing already in his master’s small trunk. Before closing the lid, Archie reverently laid his master’s plaid on top. Its background was green with narrow bands of red and blue, and slightly wider bands of dark blue. It was the ancient family tartan.
    Fingal Stewart pulled on a pair of sturdy dark brown woolen breeks over his heavy knitted stockings, yanked his boots back onto his big feet, and pushed his sgian dubh into the top of the right one. The weapon had a piece of green agate sunk into its top, and its scabbard had Lord Stewart’s crest set in silver. He tucked his natural-colored linen shirt into the pants, fastened a leather belt about his waist, drew on a soft brown leather jerkin with buttons carved from stag horn, and picked up his dark woolen cloak. He looked to Archie. “Are we ready?” he asked his serving man.
    Archie nodded. “The fires are all out in the house except in the hall.”
    The two men left Lord Stewart’s chamber and descended back down into the hall where the men-at-arms now stood about the fire getting the last bit of warmth they could before their long ride. Archie went immediately to the hearth and began extinguishing the low flames and coals with sand from a bucket set near the fireplace.
    “Have ye chosen a captain from among yerselves?” Lord Stewart asked them.
    A man stepped from among them. He was almost as tall as Fingal Stewart. His features were rough-hewn, his hair a red-brown, his eyes, which engaged the taller man’s fearlessly, blue. He had a big nose that had obviously been broken once or twice. “I am Iver Leslie,” he said. “The lads have chosen me.” He gave a small but polite bow.
    Lord Stewart nodded and offered his hand to Iver, who took it in a firm grasp and shook it. “You’ll ride next to me,” Fingal Stewart said. Then he brought Archie, who had completed putting out the fire, forward and introduced him. “This is Archie, my servant. Sometimes he will speak for me, so listen when he does, and obey him. He’s a wee bit of a fellow, but be warned he’s handy with both his fists and a knife.”
    Archie nodded towards the men-at-arms, who nodded back. “There’s a bit of whiskey left in the keg at the end of the hall,” he said. “Drink it, or put it in yer flasks, while I get our horses, lads.” He grinned as they made a beeline for the keg; all but Iver remained by Lord Stewart’s side. Archie’s wise eyes spoke their approval of Iver.
    “I’ll bring the beasts around to the front, my lord,” he said. Then he hurried from the hall.
    “Go and get some whiskey for yerself,” Fingal Stewart said quietly.
    “Thank you, my lord.”
    Iver quickly went down the hall, and seeing him, his men made way for him. He filled his flask and came back to stand by Lord Stewart’s side. “May I ask where we are going, my lord? We were not told.”
    “We are traveling into the Borders to a place called Brae Aisir,” Fingal Stewart said.
    “I’m being sent to wed the old laird’s granddaughter, his only heir. The laird is Dugald Kerr, and with his English kin on the other side of the Cheviots, they control a passage through the hills called the Aisir nam Breug that for centuries has been used only for peaceful travel. King James wants to keep it that way. The laird’s neighbors have of late been showing signs of impatience, for the lass will not choose a husband, and if Dugald Kerr should die too soon, there is no male heir to look after this valuable asset.”
    Iver nodded. “Aye, a lass canna guard such a treasure without a husband.”
    “Yer