Shake Loose the Border

by Robert Low

  ‘I didn’t shoot at ye.’ It was a whimper now and Sim did not want to touch his pistol. He wanted to sink down and curl up; Big Tam gave an exasperated snort, stepped forward and wrenched the weapon out, tearing the breeks.

  ‘My slice of pie is growing cauld,’ he growled.

  Both the other men were grunting and groaning, surfacing from the dark pit they’d been thrown in. They blinked back to the horror of their position. John Dubh took up the fallen knife and flicked it up into the rafters with a mocking sneer. It hung and trembled.

  ‘Get away from here,’ Batty said to the Armstrongs, then laid the pistol on the table feeling his back burning; something had torn when he had leaped to his feet.

  It was a mark of Sim’s obeisance that lived with him forever after, that he never even considered making a grab for the dagg on the table while Batty fumbled in his pouch and came up with a round shot which he threw at Sim, who winced as it struck him. Batty picked up the dagg and levelled it.

  ‘If I see you again, the brother of that will come at you a lot faster.’

  They went, limping and scuffling for the door, shouldering one another to get out. Patey Graham blew out his cheeks and put the cudgel back under the bar.

  ‘The tales they tell of you are true efter all,’ he said. ‘Save that naebody died, which I am give to understand is unusual.’

  He shouted for the women to fetch more drink, then turned back to Batty. ‘What if they come back?’

  Batty gave him a hard look. ‘There will be bodies. You keep pigs don’t you?’

  Big Tam poised with his mouth full of pork, then set the pie slice down and swallowed what he had with a huge draught of ale.

  * * *

  Patey’s wife, Joan, treated Batty’s back in the morning, when she came down and saw the blood-streaks through his shirt. She had him lay flat and face down on a trestle, stripped to the waist in the shiver of a new day and being stared at unblinkingly by a black cat. There was a long, hard time of feeling old wrappings tear free, being slathered and re-bound.

  ‘Christ in heaven,’ Joan said sternly. ‘Whit happened here?’

  ‘Whit does it appear to be?’ Batty countered, sullen with the nag of pain and everything that had happened the night before; he had spent the rest of it sleepless in front of the fire.

  Joan was a Nixon from the English West March, a woman who filled a dress and had once done it with curves until they blurred with age. She was not put out by anything men did, not even Batty and said so.

  ‘You look to have been lashed,’ she said, ‘which happens only to vagabonds or runaways from their lord’s lands. Which is it with you?’

  ‘Sport,’ Ewan answered tersely. ‘By the Laird of Blackscargil.’

  ‘Laird my erse,’ Joan Nixon spat back and then crossed herself. ‘God forgive the blasphemy and on this day, too – but that yin is nae laird, just a wee reiver who had taken ower the holding. I hear he has no nose, so the Graham wummin there is to be twice pitied.’

  ‘For all that,’ Batty countered, breathing out now that the worst was done, ‘he still looks down it at everyone else.’

  Patey laughed and poured them all lambswool, while Batty fished out more coin to keep Ewan and the others fed and comfortable while he went into Carlisle; they would not be permitted inside the town, Berwick writ or not, because they were Scots. The Master of Norham’s bounty was diminishing, but it would never ransom Will Elliot anyway and Batty was sure he’d be forgiven for spending it when Will was eventually spirited away. He was strangely sure that would happen, though he had little reason for it.

  There is more than one way to skin a cat, he thought and then caught the unblinking accusation of the black mog’s stare and felt uneasy at it.

  ‘A bad business, banning the Scotch from the toon,’ Patey muttered. ‘Some of those folk have produce for the market and in hard times like these, all of that is welcome.’

  Then he smacked his lips and raised his horn cup in toast to his wife.

  ‘To the maker of the lambswool,’ he declared and everyone joined in enthusiastically. Batty took a long, savouring moment to enjoy the roasted apples, beer, nutmeg, ginger and sugar soothe on his pain, though it was already fading enough for him to get up. The cat yawned, showing vicious fangs, fixed its face with some deft paws, then moved langorously away.

  Big Tam wiped off the white froth that gave the drink its name and offered Batty the peace of the day. It was only once he was outside, feeling the lack of his jack and his weapons and the biting cold and the fire striping his back that Batty heard the bells for St Stephen.

  * * *

  The rat watched him with a black, bright eye. It had already stolen his bread and Will was sure it had been in the bowl of gruel, front claws and snout. He did not mind, for he had no appetite. His feet ached, as they had done since the moment the Armstrong Laird of Hollows had rammed the point of a two-handed sword through both insteps, laughing as he did it. Six years since, he remembered and not a day passes that they do not ache.

  His left hip ached in echo, because he put too much on it trying to climb stairs and the damp in this place did nothing to help the old wear on it. He scraped a notch on the wall of the dark place, squinting hard to see it since the only light came from a slit high up and there wasn’t much of it. There was a breath of cold wind, bringing smells of cooking and the sound of laughter, so Will supposed it was either Christ’s Mass or the day before it, but he could not be sure. Neither was he sure of how long he had been here since the day Batty had arrived and been huckled off.

  Batty. He did not know whether to weep for gladness at the sight of someone he knew or sadness for it being Batty Coalhouse. Nebless Clem striped his back, he’d heard from the dark shapes who brought daily bread and gruel – sometimes with bacon in it, so he knew they were not going to starve him to death, that they wanted him in some sort of order.

  He’d been astonished at seeing Batty, facered by it too, if he was honest, since it brought everything starkly back from the time he had been the upright Land Sergeant of Hermitage looking to woo Mintie Henderson of Powrieburn to the shattered remains of Will Elliot, brought low by Mintie’s dark revenge on another, delivered by her weapon, Batty Coalhouse.

  God hated him, was the truth of it, Will thought. I believed I had found sanctuary, escaped that band of terror and death that ribboned along the Borders – Christ’s blood, it had taken most of his years to work out that life was not murder and raid and rapine anywhere else. Sixty miles away on either side and you could live in peace. Almost. He remembered telling Batty that like some evangelist minister, but aware that it was no revelation to him – besides, Batty inhabited a land of war wherever he went. His footprints were bloody…

  Mayhap he’s right, Will thought, for when he’d tried living in the backwater of Fife, war had sought him out and dragged him back – and here was Batty, once again. He felt a twinge through his ruined feet, as if the bones moved on their own, had their own memory of what Batty’s rescue meant.

  For a long time after he had been dragged onto a boat and sailed across to the other side of the Firth, he’d thought he would die, for sure. When the furrin paid-sojers, the ones Batty would have known well, had packed him like lumber all the way down to Berwick, he thought he would die. Even after that, dragged to some dank tower perched on the English East March, he’d thought he would die. When all the stars of our plans and ideals which we drape like a cloak on our own lived lives, have burned out, death is a monstrous, silent void. The only matter left is to silently accept this as our true identity.

  Then the noseless man of Blackscargil told Will he was bound for Carlisle, not Hell so that he was whirled back into confusion. In the end, for no reason he could explain to himself, he knew Batty was in it somewhere and Will waited in the pain and the dark for the sinking that is death and the rising of what was coming.

  * * *

  Batty went through the town gate with no trouble and he’d probably h
ave been able to do it without Grey of Wilton’s wee script and dangling seals; the guards were swaddled against the cold and the soft flurries of new snow, the cullis was fully up and the big twin gates flung wide.

  It was St Stephen’s Day, a market, so Batty went with the flow of people carrying bundles, pushing loaded two-wheeled carts or trying to keep out of the way of the limping poor. These last were the threadbare patched, some hirpling on crutches, some of them pinch-cold children and all headed for the kirks, where the alms had been unboxed and would be handed out.

  It was the Feast of Stephen and the cookshop stalls were savoury and huckstering, but Batty ignored them, making for the castle gate, taking a deep breath for this was trickier, even if he knew the guard here.

  It was Dauney Nixon, who knew Batty well enough to warn him off.

  ‘Nae Scotch allowed. You shouldnae even have got this far – are ye weaponed?’

  ‘I am innocent as a nun’s kerchief – besides, you’re a Scot,’ Batty countered and Dauney rubbed his nose with the back of one half-mittened hand, looking confused. It was true he lived with his kin on the Scottish side of the border when not in the garrison, which was a dangerous matter he did not care to have aired.

  ‘I am not when standing here,’ he declared.

  ‘Neither am I,’ Batty said and Dauney had to admit that was true. Neither Scot nor English, he had heard, but some money-sojer from across the sea. Well, there were a lot of them in the castle.

  ‘Wharton will no’ mind another,’ Batty said, smiling, when Dauney spat this out.

  ‘Wharton disnae ken whether he is on his erse or his chin,’ Dauney replied. ‘Carlisle looks to be the only fortress the Scots dinna have. Yet.’

  Batty shook his head in commiseration, though he had none for the wily Warden Thomas Wharton, whose schemes had come to nothing and left a charred slather of burned holdings and lolling bodies. The war was over, all but the sealing of wee pieces of paper on it and Fat Henry was deid as old mutton.

  Still, myself and Wharton had history, Batty remembered, particularly the Warden’s younger son, also called Thomas, who had been left trembling with fear and cold after an incident near Hollows. All his men had died and one a gentleman, no less, whose brains had ruined young Wharton’s doublet; the youth had never been the same since and Batty did not want Wharton hearing of how the man who was instrumental in that was in his castle. He fumbled out what he hoped was enough coin to prevent it.

  Dauney made the coins vanish and let him in, closing the gate swiftly on Batty’s back as if nothing had happened at all. Smiling, Batty, headed off into the inner ward, looking for the man he knew well and whom he hoped was still to the fore.

  Wynking Gib was a man as big as Batty, with cheeks like a winter squirrel, stubbled so that they looked as if they could rasp rust off a blade. He was a Graham entrusted with the inner ward prisoners, those not important enough to warrant proper cells but not yet about to be set free.

  He was stumping along in big boots and a jack – a front-fastener, too, Batty noted with yet another pang at the one he’d lost – but a split-brim bonnet instead of a burgonet. The helmet, fastened at his waist, clattered against the keys that marked his status as gaoler; it was regulation to have the helmet and Gib could easily clap it on if he saw importance coming at him. Batty thought the rust-coloured bonnet was ill-shaped because it was forever being crushed by the helmet – it made it look like an old ginger cat had found its way to sit on his head.

  He said nothing of this as he made his way through the ward, busy with chaffering troops with nothing much to do but idle and spit; there were lean-to shacks along the cold, wet wall that looked like kennels, but the hounds in them were all prisoners.

  Gib was astounded to see Batty and, from his quick look left and right, unsure of what to do with such a notorious appearing like a Devil in a morality play.

  ‘Ho, Gib and well met,’ Batty said and Gib gave in to the pretence, though he drew Batty to one side and spoke low and quiet, mainly about what he was doing here and did Batty know what would happen if an importance discovered it?

  ‘Losh, Gib,’ Batty replied. ‘I am under writ to discover the whereabouts of one Will Elliot, soon to be delivered here. I am also instructed to ransom him if possible.’

  Gib gnawed a finger and the facial tic that gave him his name flicked one side of his face.

  ‘I am expecting such a person,’ he admitted, ‘instructed by the Warden and Governor himself to exchange him for another. I do not believe there will be ransom.’

  Wharton himself, Batty noted and wondered idly and aloud, what Tom Wharton wanted with the likes of a wee crippled Elliot. Gib puffed out his cheeks, which was an alarming sight and coupled with the sudden spasm of tic made Batty think the man’s head was about to explode like a petard.

  He looked right and left again and Batty wished he would not, for it was as clear a sign of conspiracy as waving a large flag.

  ‘The Warden wants Will Elliot as surety for the appearance of Rynion Elliot, known as Buggerback at the next Truce Meet. Said Will Elliot was recommended by Rynion himself.’

  Batty knew Rynion Elliot of the Shaws and that he was called Buggerback because he would swive a knothole with moss around it. The fact that he had promised to appear at a Truce Day Meet was astounding enough, considering the crimes he’d be accused of, but he had contrived to get Will as hostage for his appearance which was cunning. Batty knew there was little love lost between Rynion and Will, former Land Sergeant of Hermitage.

  More to the point – a Truce Day Meet? There had not been one for years because of the war and Batty said so. Gib shrugged and winked, but whether that was his tic or a sly indication of knowing defeated Batty. A thought struck.

  ‘Who is to be exchanged?’

  Gib, more relaxed now that he had spoken with Batty and all seemed to be perjink, smiled, winked and indicated for Batty to follow him. He led him to one of the lean-to shacks and Batty peered in.

  At first he saw nothing, smelled a stable odour of staled straw and spilled gruel. Then the straw rustled and a head popped out, stalks wisping to spiked hair and beard. The head was followed by a familiar figure, swathed in a cloak which hid the haired body and stunted legs and a multitude of other sins.

  ‘Master Coalhouse,’ said a quiet, refined voice from the misshapen dwarf who pushed out of his straw home. ‘Or whatever you are calling yourself these days. Well met.’

  ‘Ape,’ Batty said, smiling broadly for he knew now what Nebless Clem was up to. He hauled out his flask and handed it over to the Ape, the haired dwarf who was part of the Egyptiani entourage of the Randy King. On days when the daring visited the Egyptiani at a Fair, the Ape wore clawed mittens and taloned boots as the Beast, who was ‘tamed’ by Beauty, red-headed Megs massaging the Ape’s prodigious member until the inevitable. It was lucrative draw and even women came to pay and watch, round-eyed and wet mouthed; one or two even clutched themselves when they thought no-one was looking.

  ‘Are any others of your race held here?’

  The Ape finished swallowing, stoppered the flask and handed it back; Batty saw Gib’s eyes follow it and that he licked his lips.

  ‘They are not, Master Coalhouse. All tucked up safe and sound in their winter encampment. I was unlucky. I lingered ower a wummin and an argument and was snatched up.’

  About to be even more misfortunate, Batty thought, when Nebless Clem unfurls his whip and asks you where the secret winter camp of the Egyptiani lay. He plans a cauld revenge for the loss of his smeller.

  He was distracted by a sudden flurry of laughter and movement, looking up to see some gaudy figures trailing through the throng, a swaggering of puffed sleeves and paned hose. Stradioti – Batty lowered his face lest he be recognised, but he saw them head for the short tunnel that held the wall-postern gate at the end of it. Gib saw him look and spat.

  ‘Bliddy furrin sojers,’ he growled bleakly. ‘Afore they came naebody got in or oot o’ that
save by my allowance – noo they have a key and come and go as they please.’

  ‘It leads to the water meadow and the Eden,’ the Ape replied tartly, which let Batty know he had been considering it. ‘Ye cannae get out unless you swim or have a boat.’

  ‘They have a boat,’ Gib replied. ‘Row it across to a howf marked with a bush on a pole. It has drink and hoors and they row back when sober the next day. The key lets them avoid confrontation wi’ guards and sich.’

  He scowled at the Ape. ‘I see you considering it.’

  ‘I could join them in the boat,’ the Ape replied scathingly. ‘Mayhap they will think me a large rat and leave me be.’

  Batty said nothing, simply handed his flask to Gib and then produced two coins which he rubbed together between thumb and forefinger. Gib choked in mid-swallow and then stared at the coins, the Ape and, finally, shook his head.

  ‘Naw, Batty. Ye can scarce walk out of here with a prisoner as if you had the right of it. Especially one who looks like that.’

  Batty took the flask and handed the coins over. Then he explained what would happen, while the Ape listened, head cocked to one side. Afterwards, the guards on the Ricardgate watched him walk in his rolling way, back to the tavern, trailing a song over his shoulder.

  ‘Janet has kilted her green kirtle

  A little aboon her knee,

  And she has broded her yellow hair

  A little aboon her bree,

  And she is to her father’s ha,

  As fast as she can hie.’

  Chapter Seven

  Later, on the Eden

  They rode out over the bridge, now empty and with a cold brazier where the guards had once been; too cauld for those to stay here, Batty thought, up to their bollocks in iced winds.

  They rode half-blind through the snow flurries, along the black slide of the Eden, squinting for any signs.