Border Fire (3 page)

“I see. ’Twas a wee trap ye set, then.”

“Aye, and I’ve had plump watches out patrolling every night since,” Sir Hugh said. “Their sole mission was to capture you and put an end to the absurd notion that you are some sort of invincible Border legend.”

“Aye, sure, and it seems to have been a grand effort, indeed, sir, but to what purpose? Ye still ha’ no evidence to support a simple bill of grievance.”

“I have your presence here on the English side,” Sir Hugh snapped.

“There is that,” Rabbie admitted generously. “However, men on both sides o’ the line frequently cross over to drink in a tavern or attend a horse race. Moreover, and if I dinna mistake the matter, the place where ye captured me lies in Debatable Land. So even that evidence is like to result in a clearing o’ the bill.”

“There is no longer any Debatable Land,” Sir Hugh said, ignoring the rider. “Not on this side, at least. The Scotch Dike put an end to it years ago.”

“Aye, so our twa governments would ha’ us believe,” he replied. “Border folk still believe strongly in it, though, and so ye will see come Truce Day.”

“We need not concern ourselves with Truce Day,” Sir Hugh said.

“Ah, that’s fine, then—just a wee misunderstanding amongst friends.”

“There is no misunderstanding, either. Your days of thieving and creating chaos in the Borders have ended.”

“Aye, sure, if ye say so. We can mak’ any agreement ye like.”

“I say so because it is true. Moreover, if you are thinking that your thieving Bairns will discover where you are and raid this castle to release you, you can think again. None but my most trusted men know where you are now, nor will they. As we speak, a heavily armed party is riding on to Carlisle. If anyone managed to track us tonight, they will assume that you went with that party and will not dare to attack one so large and heavily armed. And, by tomorrow, they will think it too late to do anything for you.”

The prisoner remained silent, although there was much he would have liked to say. Sir Hugh was wrong to think the Borders’ magical lines of communication would not eventually reveal his whereabouts to his Bairns. Within days at most, they would learn exactly where he was and would plan their rescue accordingly. If he were not free within a sennight, he would be much surprised.

With grim formality, Sir Hugh said, “Lord Scrope is away, but as deputy warden, I act for him. In that capacity, I hereby sentence you, Rabbie Redcloak, to be housed for a week’s time in a dungeon here at Brackengill to contemplate your sins and make your peace with God Almighty. At the end of that time, I shall erect a gallows and hang you by the neck until you are dead. Take him below, lads.”

Despite the hellish glow of the torchlight, the prisoner felt an icy chill.

“And Fairly Fair your heart wou’d cheer,

As she stands in your sight.”

Bewcastle Waste, the English West March

T
HE LITTLE VALLEY LAY
winter bleak under a thinning layer of snow. Its only sign of life was a faint spiral of smoke wafting from a gray stone longhouse next to a half-frozen burn running through its center. Like other such houses, this one consisted of a stable and byre at one end and the family dwelling at the other. Carelessly, as if in defiance of the wintry chill, doors to both stable and byre stood open, as did the door to the house end. The only other structures on the farm were a dry-stone sheep pen and a ramshackle stone-walled barn. From the top of the low hill that formed the valley’s south side, bare stones and the gray slate roofs of the buildings looked like ash smudges on the sparkling snow.

A lone rider rode down the hill on a sleek gray gelding with a black mane and tail. The rider was small and slight of build, with long, straight, silver-blond hair blowing free, and she wore an enveloping gray cloak that nearly matched the color of her horse. She rode astride, using a cross-saddle, in the practical fashion that on all but the most formal occasions Border women had favored for the past hundred years. She rode fast enough for many to call her reckless, but unlike most women, she rode skillfully, as if she were part of her horse.

Ahead, at the farm, she saw chickens and geese, but no dog, no larger animals, no children—indeed, no people at all. The chickens and geese scattered noisily when she rode into the yard.

Dismounting, she patted the gelding affectionately and tied its reins to the railed gate of the sheep pen. Then, tucking her riding whip into her girdle next to the small dagger she carried there—where other women carried pomander balls or mirrors—she deftly plaited her long, fine hair into a more civilized knot at the nape of her neck. As she did so, a childish female voice wafted to her ears.

“Andrew, put down that pistol afore ye hurt someone!”

“I’ll
not
put it down, and ye canna make me. I’m goin’ to shoot me a damned Scots reiver!”

Without haste, the rider untied one of her bundles from the saddle and walked toward the family end of the house while the argument continued inside.

“Och, ye heathenish bairn, our mam’s goin’ to wash your mouth with soap an ye say such wicked things. And what would the vicar say? What about that, eh?”

“Won’t say nothing an ye dinna tell him. B’ain’t none o’ his business who I shoot. I might shoot you, Nancy Tattle-mouth. Then what would ye do?”

Reaching the threshold, the rider swiftly surveyed the dimly lighted scene inside, then said sternly, “Andrew, put down that weapon at once, and come here to me. Nancy, pick wee John up off the floor before he crawls into the fire, and Peter, you go outside, please, and fetch the other bundle off my saddle.”

The children froze at the sound of her voice. Even the baby crawling toward the open fireplace paused and looked over its shoulder.

“Mistress Janet!” Three voices spoke as one.

“Aye, and I am shocked to hear you quarreling so. Do as I bid you, Andrew, unless you want to feel my riding whip across your backside.”

In the middle of the room, the defiant little boy was still pointing a wheel-lock pistol at his sister, who was not much older than he was. Lowering the weapon, he looked warily at the whip Janet Graham had tucked into her girdle.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

“Aye, I did.”

“Then come here.”

“Will ye beat me?”

“You deserve it,” Janet said, holding out her hand for the pistol.

Meeting her gaze, the boy said, “Me da said females didn’t ought to touch guns. ‘Damned dangerous to let ’em,’ he said, ’cause they’re skeered of ’em.”

“Do I look scared, Andrew?”

“Mistress Janet’s not skeered o’ nothing,” the little girl declared, putting her fists on her skinny hips and jutting her chin toward her brother.

“Thank you, Nancy,” Janet said without looking away from the pistol, “but I am speaking to Andrew now. Pick up wee John and wipe the soot off his hands.”

“Aye, mistress.” The little girl scooped up the baby with practiced ease and bore him to the washstand.

Janet’s palm remained outstretched, waiting.

Slowly, his reluctance plain, the boy handed her the long-barreled pistol.

Examining it with competent ease, she said, “Luckily for you, Andrew, the mechanism is not wound, but I doubt you knew that when you pointed it at Nancy.”

His thin lips twisted, but whether his annoyance stemmed from his knowledge or the lack of it Janet did not know, nor did she care.

Putting the pistol on top of the only cupboard and setting her bundle on the nearby table, she turned back to Andrew and said, “Come here to me now, and mind your manners. Where’s your mam?”

After a pause during which the boy took a single short step toward her but offered no reply, his sister said, “Our mam’s gone up the dale to fetch the sheep.”

“Why did not you and Peter do that for her, Andrew? You are both quite old enough to tend sheep.”

Again it was his sister who replied, saying, “Our mam said there was reivers about ’twixt here and Brackengill, mistress. Even though Sir Hugh caught some of ’em in the night, she said it wasna safe today for the lads to fetch the sheep.”

“Ye need not tell Mistress Janet what Sir Hugh’s about doing,” Andrew said scornfully. “He’s her ain brother, is he no? Likely she’ll know what he’s about.”

“Mind your manners like she said,” his sister said loftily, “or I’m telling our mam ye was rude and that Mistress Janet took our da’s pistol from ye.”

“Tattle-mouth.”

“That will do,” Janet said. She was grateful to know where Hugh had gone during the night. His consistent refusal to explain his actions irritated her, and that irritation stirred as she spoke. Her tone brought a flush to Andrew’s cheeks.

“Where d’ye want this, Mistress Janet?” Peter stood in the doorway, holding the bundle he had fetched for her. He was both younger and smaller than Andrew.

Smiling, she thanked the little boy and said, “Put it on the table, laddie, but first shut that door. You are wasting the fire, you lot, by letting all the heat out.”

When Peter had shut the door, she added, “You and Nancy can open both bundles and put the things away. I’ve brought you bread and some scones from our bakehouse, and a gingerbread man for each of you, although I’m thinking that I may have to take Andrew’s man back and feed it to Jemmy Whiskers, since Andrew’s got a demon in him today.”

“Ye’ll no feed my man to your cat!”

Nancy and Peter rushed to open both bundles, and with delight in her voice the little girl exclaimed, “Ye’ve brought us blaeberry jam!”

“I have,” Janet said, “and some other things for your mam and for the new bairn when it arrives. If you slice the bread thin, you can make a jammy piece for each of you and save your gingerbread men for your dinner. Whilst you are doing that, Nancy, Peter can watch wee John. Andrew is going to come outside with me for a talk.” Putting a hand on the oldest boy’s shoulder, she urged him to the door.

He did not resist. Outside he said, “Ye wouldna really give me gingerbread man to your cat, would ye, Mistress Janet?”

“That depends on you. Will you wave a pistol about like that again?”

“Me da did it,” Andrew muttered stubbornly.

Janet kept her opinion of Andrew’s father, Jock Graham, to herself. “He was a full-grown man,” she said. “You are not.”

“Well, I willna do it again an it vexes ye,” he said. “Can I have me gingerbread man now?”

“If you eat it now, you will not have any at dinner.”

“But ye will not give it to the cat.”

“No,” she said, “but if I ever see you waving a weapon around like that again, my laddie, I’ll skelp you good myself.”

“Aye, I believe ye would.”

“I would, and you cannot kill any Scotsmen till you’re grown, either.”

“Them damned Scots reivers killed me da, did they not?”

“Aye, but your da was raiding at the time,” Janet reminded him.

“Our lot ha’ become like slaves t’ the damned Scots,” the little boy declared, clearly repeating words he had heard from his father’s lips. “If we ride agin ’em after they’ve stolen from us, ’tis no more than they deserve, the filthy heathen.”

“Aye, perhaps, but the Scots think the same of us, you see. Your father was in Liddesdale when he was killed, and Liddesdale lies in Scotland.”

“I ken that,” the boy muttered scornfully. “He were with Sir Hugh, getting back on them what stole our kine.”

Janet sighed. “They always, all of them, say they are getting back, lad. Still and all, someone must have organized the first raid, you know.”

“The bluidy Scots, that’s who. Well, we’ve got one of them now, and that’s a reet good thing, I’m thinking.”

“Who’s got one?”

“Sir Hugh, that’s who. He’s captured Rabbie Redcloak, and I wish I’d been with him when he done it. That’s why I were waving yon pistol about. I dinna ken how to shoot it, but I mean to learn, and when next Sir Hugh goes—”

“Hugh caught Rabbie Redcloak?”

“Aye,
and
he’s goin’ to hang the filthy bastard, too.”

Knowing that word of any major event in the Borders flew through the air as if by magic, Janet did not waste her breath asking the boy how he knew about the capture, nor did she question the accuracy of his information. She did feel obliged, however, to point out one obvious error in his report.

“He cannot hang him, Andrew. That is against the law. He must first claim a grievance against him at the next Truce Day with the Scots. Until then, he must give him into Warden Lord Scrope’s keeping at Carlisle Castle.”

“He’s going to hang him,” Andrew said flatly. “He said so, himself.”

Janet had a tender spot in her heart for the four fatherless children. Serious, capable Nancy reminded her of the child she had wanted to be. Peter’s merry smile and uncomplicated manners stirred a nearly envious affection, and wee John with his gurgles and secret sounds made her yearn for a child of her own. But she liked naughty Andrew best. Of them all he was the one most like the real Janet, the Janet who remained after her polite, submissive facade had fallen away. Andrew longed as much as she did to control the unmanageable world that enfolded them. Against all odds the fatherless boy strove to protect his family, firing up like a banty cock when adults or—worse—other children laughed at his determination.

Janet knew how he felt and did her best to avoid treating him like a child. Thus, in response to his insistence that Sir Hugh would hang the infamous reiver, she tempered her words, saying only that she would see about that.

In truth, his certainty discomfited her, for she knew her brother well, and she could not deny that he was wholly capable of making and carrying out such a threat. The only thing that might stop him was Queen Elizabeth’s oft-repeated demand for peace in the Borders. Elizabeth would not thank any deputy march warden for stirring up more unrest, and Hugh must know that hanging the most notorious reiver on either side of the line would likely result in mayhem.

Leaving the children to stow away their treats, Janet went outside, took a shepherd’s crook from the byre to use as a walking stick, and followed the twisting burn up into the nearby hills, keeping watch for their mother. Snow crunched underfoot, and she slipped more than once, but she was as competent afoot as she was on a horse. Half an hour later, she saw Jock’s Meggie, as the children’s mother was known, following a straggling herd of sheep down the little valley. Meggie’s swollen belly preceded her, and her gait looked awkward and ungainly.