Shake Loose the Border

by Robert Low

  ‘Your part in it,’ the elder Stozzi said, easing his leg with a wince, ‘is no more than one of mercy for the Lord Sandilands who wants his Steward back. Besides – this Will is an old friend, so you will help I am sure.’

  Batty stared, seeing it like the flush from a drain. Will Elliot had been crippled by the Armstrong Laird of Hollows because of what Batty had done to others of that Name. Crippled more when his cage was swept from the torn roof of the tower – it was a marvel he had survived at all.

  He had once been Land-Sergeant at Hermitage for the Keeper of Liddesdale and it had been a wonder to Batty to hear of him as a Steward in some lord’s musty hall in Fife, but he had been glad that Will had made a life.

  Now it had been swept away from him again and that was not right. He saw a face in his mind, then – young, pale, pretty and earnest. Mintie Henderson of Powrieburn had been the instigator of it all, but it was no more her fault than God’s own. If things had turned out differently, Batty thought, she might have been smiling her young, pale, pretty face up at the sun of Will’s smile and basking in the glow of it.

  He looked at the bag and the writ, then swept both inside his battered jack with a swift gesture of his one hand.

  You can only play the cards you are dealt, he thought, in life as in Primero. The others watched him go and Ewan Fraser raised his head to listen to the tuneless singing as he passed. He did not know the song, but he knew mourn when he heard it.

  ‘Departe, departe, departe—

  Allace! I most departe

  From hir that hes my hart,

  With hairt full soir’

  Chapter Two

  November 1548 – Berwick-upon-Tweed

  Grey of Wilton sat in the Tolbooth solar contemplating his supper with a jaundiced eye. Gruel was all he could eat and he hoped – prayed – that would not always be so, for he longed for a chunk of meat slathered in good gravy. He could not even drink brandywine, for it would taste of the slough from the roof of his mouth and sting like the worst liniment.

  He was in the solar because it had windows whose thick, small panes allowed more light during the day for reading without having to unfasten a shutter and have an icy blast off the sea adding to his woes.

  His mouth ached, a dull bone-deep throb and his ragged lip did not seem part of his body at all, seemed to be a loose, flapping affair that made him sound like an idiot. The pair opposite him offered no soothe on it. One was the bluff, broad-faced figure of Harry Rae in his Herald’s cote, the other was a taller, grimmer apparition in a jack of rust and stain, breeches to match and knee boots that had seen better days. He had a face like an old sin garnished with a Turk’s beard and had only the one arm – Grey of Wilton knew both of them, but Batty Coalhouse by reputation only.

  ‘Pursuivant Rae,’ Grey said and Batty heard the slurring; Grey of Wilton had got himself into the heat of the battle at Pinkie Cleugh last year and ran his face on a Scots pike. Went through his bottom lip, smacked out a tooth and stabbed into the roof of his mouth, Batty had heard. A year had not worked well on it, he saw, as Grey dabbed spots of blood from his lips.

  ‘I am aware I should offer you all assistance,’ Grey went on, ‘but I fear the practical prevents me. There are sick and wounded lying up wynds and on floors all over the town, with little or no succour.’

  ‘I have a residence,’ Henry Rae answered and Grey looked sourly at him.

  ‘No doubt. If it hasnae been broken into and taken over.’

  ‘I do not think so and if I am wrong, the occupants will not be in residence long.’

  Grey nodded, dabbed blood off his lips then made an ugly, wet churring sound and spat something out into his kerchief; Batty watched, fascinated.

  ‘Slough,’ Grey mumbled and looked bitterly up at the Berwick Pursuivant. ‘It would be a personal obligement if you would find room for some of the sick and wounded and take them off the streets.’

  Batty could sympathise. He had seen the trail of tears all the way down from Edinburgh – broken carts, dead bodies turned off the road into the ditches so as not to impede the way. They were all the poor, not soldiery of any kind for those lads were going over the moor tops, keeping off the road and banding together for safety – and, if they had decided to desert, to plunder those who had no choice in their fleeing. Batty knew the Border riders would also be out, snapping up the weak and sick for what profit they could take back to their mean homes on the moss. The war was done with but the grim on both sides was still shaking loose the Border.

  It was a slorach of bad cess, as Ewan Fraser had said on the way down and no-one disagreed with him, especially the remaining Lovat Frasers – John Dubh, Malcolm, Red Colin and Big Tam – who were still slathered in grief from having had to bury Huw, stabbed through the belly. He had won his glory at the cost of a life, Ewan said at the grave; to Batty it sounded too much like chiding, as if it had been a misplaced cloak.

  ‘I will do what is possible,’ Henry Rae replied and Grey had to be satisfied with that, for he turned his gaze on Batty.

  ‘You are part of the Herald’s entourage?’

  ‘I have business of my own,’ Batty replied, ‘involving ransoming a hostage.’

  ‘Will Elliot,’ Henry Rae offered helpfully. ‘Steward for Lord Sandilands at Norham Castle.’

  ‘Ta’en off the beach at St Monan,’ Batty added and watched Grey’s face darken; should not have summoned up that grave-shroud fight, he thought, then was surprised at Grey’s reply.

  ‘Is this the same Elliot you killed a wheen of Armstrongs to rescue? Or the one you chased down on Tinnis Hill and fought?’

  ‘The former,’ Batty answered warily. ‘The ither had a double-T in his name and possession of a soul he should not have had.’

  He had no idea how common was the knowledge of Queen Mary’s kidnap and recovery, still in her cot, from the hands of Hutchie Elliott but it was clear Grey of Wilton knew something of it.

  ‘Last I heard there were a number of Scotch held by Thomas Bui, a mercenary who has taken over the Dun Heifer for what’s left of his Company. I would try there – though I would be circumspect Master Coalhouse. He is called Malatesta and your usual diplomacy will not serve you well – besides, if there is trouble anywhere in this toon, I will turn out the garrison and imprison you in the lowest wet I can find, there to lick the stones for relief of thirst until you are hemped.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ said Batty mild and smiling, ‘If so, I will at least get to see old friends – is Red Rowan Charlton still in charge there?’

  ‘He went to Pinkie Cleugh,’ Grey of Wilton replied blankly. ‘Died there of an arrow in the throat.’

  Batty was shocked, the more so at the sorrow he felt for he had never considered Red Rowan Charlton as more than an acquaintance to be cultivated so that a stay in Berwick’s prison was made more comfortable. Poor Red Rowan, who thought of himself as much finer than a Berwick gaoler and finally discovered the harsh truth of derring-do and war. Perhaps Grey saw some of that in Batty’s face, for his pain-lined face seemed to soften a little as he shoved Batty’s safe passage writs back at him.

  ‘It would be a poor idea to cause ruction here,’ he said and though it was gruff Batty could hear it was well meant. ‘I ken what you did afore for the Wardens – I am now Warden of the East March myself – and there are those whose kin were on the rough end of your attention in the toon. That puts you in a poor light – and besides, you are a Scotchman, fresh come from the north and with a wheen of louts in saffron dress from further north again.

  ‘Behave yourself,’ he added, squinting at the gruel. Then he sighed and pushed the bowl to one side, looking back at Henry Rae.

  ‘I widnae linger long in Berwick, Pursuivant. Since the Seymours have made such a poor fist of the war here, I am thinking London will be a fever of elbows looking for preferment. I hourly expect to hear of the Lord Protector’s removal.’

  Rae answered with a curt nod and took up his seal-dangled passes and conducts. Outs
ide in the chill, wet air he sucked in a breath or two and Batty watched him scowl. He was short and slight and his paunch had swelled since Batty had last seen him. He still looked like a pox doctor’s clerk wearing fine clothes stolen from his too-large da – all except the Herald’s cote, bright with armorials.

  ‘He is a pustule that one,’ Rae muttered bleakly, ‘and it is matter for great regret that the man who piked him never shoved it hard enough down his throat.’

  Coming from an English, Batty thought, that is harsh and he wondered why Grey of Wilton was so disliked – then dismissed it. Plots circled one another like turds in a privy drain and Batty knew Grey bore the weight of being Captain of Berwick, Warden of the East March and more, besides his mouth wound. The Seymours were tumbling and all that had been firm was now morass. He said so and Henry Rae shrugged.

  ‘No matter who Lord Protects the young king,’ Henry Rae replied levelly, ‘Master Ralph Sadler will still be on the Privy Council and I will be his intelligencer, among other tasks – you are welcome to the hospitality of my house, Master Coalhouse. If it still stands.’

  Rae’s sergeant, a Hume like the rest of his escort, cursed and growled and chivvied the carts under his command until they started a long, dark rumble down the Bridge Gate. Ewan walked this one, since riding meant he had to hitch his long mail coat up to his waist and the underserk with it. In order to preserve decency and some heat, he wore dark hose, which was shaming to a Scotch from the north.

  It started to rain, fine as sifted flour and what few lights there were flickered wanly; Batty could hear the murmur and drone of those huddled damply in the wynds.

  There were guards on the bridge, thankful that these carts weren’t about to rumble out and across it. Out on the length of bridge were lights, bobbing to and fro and the guards told them there was a curfew in force because so much heavy ordinance and traffic had crossed already that the rickety bridge teetered on the edge of falling; men were out trying to shore it up in the dark.

  Rae’s house was a tall affair on the street itself, but that was the front entrance; the one for carts and deliveries was up a wynd on one side and through some double doors. It did not look right, as Rae said, dashing drips off his nose.

  ‘No lights. Gate is shut. No porter. Davie Hume – take a couple of your lads and see if you can open those gates.’

  ‘They must have heard us,’ Davie Hume observed sourly. And, if so, Batty thought, they should either be out with lanterns welcoming the master or waiting to see who tries to get in the gate. He levered himself off Fiskie and patted the loyal beast while the Frasers, after a pause, did the same, handing all the reins to Big Tam, who had the muscle to hold them all firmly.

  Davie Hume looked at the dismounted Humes, hitched his shoulders a little, then made his way to the gate and pushed it; it swung a little way and he turned.

  ‘The bar is off. It’s open.’

  A wine-smelling voice spoke softly in Batty’s ear.

  ‘Two gets ye yin he is shot the minute he steps through.’

  Batty would not give Ewan Fraser the odds for that, but indicated that he should get his kin prepared.

  ‘Knives and guns,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Yon pigsticker you swing is little use in such a wee place.’

  ‘Bugger off – this is our place.’

  The voice was loud and shrill in the dark beyond the gate. Henry Rae raised himself in the stirrups and Batty could almost see the comb of him hackle up.

  ‘This is the house of the Berwick Pursuivant, who is here. Vacate it immediately or be hemped.’

  The reply was in an accent thick as clotted cream – Northumberland, Batty knew – and probably included references to the Berwick Pursuivant’s birth and offered a destination for him to travel to. Davie Hume blew on the match of his long-barrelled pistol, kicked in the heavy double gates and rushed in, yelling: ‘A Hume, to me.’

  With triumphant cries the Frasers surged after and Batty sighed, looked up at the shadowed figure of Henry Rae, face blood-dyed with torchlight.

  ‘Bigod, Herald, what part of not causing a stushie did you miss from Grey of Wilton?’

  There were snarls and shouts and the clash of angry metal as Batty ducked through the gate; he did not want to particularly, but thought it only fair that he at least follow the mad Frasers. The courtyard was filled with dancing shadows and Batty could not tell one from the other, so he moved to the house and shoved open the door, stepping into a dim wood-floored hall and a curve of stair running up. It stank of sickness and sweat and fear. There were other doors leading off to both sides and they sprang open to spew out running men.

  The figures materialised into two darker shapes and Batty reeled away from them – the closest of the fighters stumbled, almost falling over his own feet, so Batty pointed the dagg at him and squeezed. The wheel ratcheted round, spilling big sparks; there was enough time for the man to see it and shriek before the machine went off with a deafening roar, a great gout of blinding flame and a choking plume of smoke. Batty had time to see the shape become a man, wet-mouthed with fear, his eyes widely amazed, as if he had stepped through a portal into the land of Faerie.

  The ball took him in the chest and he went backwards as if hauled by an invisible hand – Batty flicked the heavy dagg up and felt the burn of the barrel, then lunged forward at a second figure, swinging the axe-head handle at him.

  The man managed a desperate parry with a backsword and fell back, trying for room to drag out a dagger, but Batty was having none of that and pressed home. The man’s face was red and sheened, he had a goosegog pimple on one side of his nose and his eyes were bright with shock and terror.

  They rolled up into his head when Batty brought the axe-head down on his collar bone, the snap audible. It did not cut through the heavy padding of a jack though it sliced the material to ruin.

  But the bone-break was enough and the man collapsed, moaning; Batty kicked him in the head until he stopped.

  There was a sudden, eerie stillness, a silence broken only by distant whimpers from the dark edges of the room, then a shape loomed up and reared back when he saw Batty with the axe.

  ‘Good God,’ Henry Rae said, looking round. ‘Ye have slain two of them.’

  ‘Aye, well seen,’ Batty replied, feeling the breath rasp in him now; he wanted to sit down but dare not. ‘Thank me efter.’

  ‘The ones in the yard gave up without more than a yell or two,’ Henry Rae replied bitterly. ‘They are no more than sick and wounded.’

  ‘Then these must be the sound ones,’ Batty answered flatly and turned as Ewan came in, holding a sputtering torch high and peering round.

  ‘A brace of them,’ he said admiringly and Henry Rae scowled.

  ‘I did not mean for killing to be in this.’

  ‘Mayhap you should have thought of that before you let Davie Hume and the Frasers here aff the leash,’ Batty said and watched Henry Rae stump off, bawling at people to sort out the mess. Then he bent to the man he had felled with the axe and saw that he was alive but in pain enough to turn his face the colour of spoiled cream.

  ‘Half done is all good,’ he said and Ewan Fraser turned the torch this way and that, letting Batty see the trembling huddle of women and bairns whimpering in corners of the once-fine residence, whose hangings had been stripped for blankets and whose furniture had been broken for firewood. He felt more sorrowed about shooting one of them dead now and said so.

  To his surprise, Ewan Fraser sighed. ‘An rud nach gabh leasachadh, ’s fheudar cur suas leis,’ he said, then said it again in English – what cannot be helped, must be put up with.

  * * *

  What cannot be helped, must be put up with – Batty found echoes of that everywhere he went in the Herald’s battered house. People were shoehorned into the outbuildings to allow room for the Humes and Frasers, the horses and the carts but at least they were all warmer and drier than out in the street.

  Most of the folk they found inside were not soldiers, jus
t ragged remnants of old lives, fled from burned-out homes and, to give him his due, Henry Rae did not turn them out, though he had the right and reason enough.

  ‘That was a rosewood chair afore I left,’ he mourned, pointing to the splintered wreck which was now feeding the fire in his cleared-out solar. ‘I had books, too, but they have burned them also – bliddy wee Philistines.’

  Like me they cannae read, Batty thought, so it was no great loss to them and the heat a great benefit. But he said nothing, for he could see the Herald had blood in his eye over it. Never mind his curtains and bed-hangings, the loss of his books seemed to set him frothing; Batty had seen this before and still could not understand it, as if books should be elevated above all. He could not read, but was wise enough to see that his views might change if he had the ability.

  The one saving grace was that the cellar had been barred to looters by the servants who had not run off – the Herald’s Steward, Will’s Patey Hume, had fastened himself in it with three other servitors, preventing access to the food and, above all, the wine. They were, however, drunk as lords when released, which made Batty chuckle. Like Primero, you can only play the hand you are dealt he told the puffing Rae, who subsided gradually when it became clear they hadn’t drunk everything.

  The Herald raised a silver ewer and poured red wine into a blue glass, all of it recovered from the contrite staff, happy to return it as payment for a dry billet and some bread and hard cheese from the Herald’s store. Henry Rae was happy, too, and drank to prove it.

  ‘It is the wine that leads me on, the wild wine that sets the wisest man to sing at the top of his lungs, laugh like a fool – it drives the man to dancing… it even tempts him to blurt out stories better never told.’

  ‘Never trust vows made in wine,’ Batty echoed and raised his blue glass in salute. The Herald laughed.

  ‘Shorter than Homer and lacking poetry – but that auld Greek would recognise the strength of it.’