Shake Loose the Border

by Robert Low

  Batty blew out the lantern at once. He did not want to ride – it would get darker and he could smell rain. ‘Who else do you see coming here?’

  ‘No friends,’ she answered laconically and Batty slithered after her, down to the Esk and along the bank. Her mount was closer than Fiskie and she wanted him to get up behind, but he thought that was unkind to the beast.

  They rode in silence for a while until, finally, he had to ask why she came to hunker down and wait in the remains of a ghostly old church. She laughed, a trill that sent a course of warm feeling through him.

  ‘I wanted to warn you, to give you what Will concealed and we Eyptiani made sure he kept while we wrapped him in the rug. Harry Rae knew something of it, but that big pipe Will hid up his nethers was Will’s own business and no wee secret message.’

  ‘The war here is done with,’ Batty answered, not wanting to admit that the revelation of Will carrying secret messages back and forth was so strange, given what he had known – or thought he had known – about the moral man who hated the Borders and wanted only peace.

  ‘It is not,’ Meg answered shortly. ‘Wee Mary will grow into a crowned Catholic and there are those here who will want mair Lutheran than that. The English boy-king is assuredly against Catholics. The rides will go on, too, until there is no border at all.’

  The thought struck him. ‘Is that why the Armstrongs took him to Hollows all those years since?’

  Red Meg shook raindrops off her hood. ‘Naw, they knew nothing of it, though Will had to swallow one of his secret silver cylinders. Puked it up afterwards, right into the hands of Wicked Wat Scott. Naebody else found out what was in it and it did not harm Will.’

  He was harmed enough, Batty thought glowering so hard he eventually woke from it and wondered why he did not steam. And also where they were going.

  ‘North,’ she said. ‘Up to Mosstop. They dinna care for Armstrongs nor Nebless Clem, even though he is one of them.’

  She smiled sweetly. ‘Nor Grahams. Clem was born in Mosstop and his faither was rough handled by the young Dickon. To death. Clem has never forgotten it, though he will flat-out lie if asked whether he was raised in such a place as Mosstop.’

  The coal mine, Batty thought. Dirt smeared churls digging up black stones – Nebless Clem would want to put that stain well behind him.

  Just as the first of the dawn sparked out over the Solway, Batty felt them on his back. When he turned, he saw it was the same for Megs.

  ‘Eight or ten,’ she confirmed, head up as if sniffing, with her red tendrils snaking round her face.

  ‘Run,’ Batty answered.

  They managed a decent trod for an hour, heading for the faint eldritch lights of Mosstop but having to go sideways to take the sting out of the clim, looping round through the bracken and the morning birds.

  The sun came up like a flash of gold and soft rain lisped down to diffuse it into a molten morning; their shadows stretched out like faerie.

  Batty stopped to ease Fiskie’s wheezing and when he looked back, he could see the dark figures following on, closer every step.

  ‘Do we run or fight – I am sure that’s Nebless Clem.’

  ‘Run,’ Batty declared and saw her pout.

  ‘I thocht you wanted Clem at the end of your swordpoint,’ she said and he glowered at her until she laughed.

  ‘Him, aye. Not seven mair like him in villainy and bastardy.’

  They stumbled on and Fiskie came to a stop, head down and blowing hard. Megs turned her younger beast to face the men and hauled out a matchlock pistol; she began to blow on it, trying to bring the match back to life.

  Batty wanted to tell her to not be so daft, but something whirred between them like a fat fuggy toddler. Meg pointed her pistol, there was a pause and then a long flare of yellow light and a thunderous noise making the horses stir.

  Batty kicked Fiskie into life and they rode on. ‘Did ye hit any?’

  She turned with a look of feverish delight and an empty pistol. ‘I did not, but they will take time finding that out.’

  There was one – there is always one, Batty thought sourly – who rode harder on a better horse. The De’il looks after his own and neither he nor God was averse to watching a wee stushie and making bets on it, with souls as the prize.

  This one got close enough to stop and risk a shot from his own pistol, a brief pop and burning shine that coned out from his weapon. Batty heard it hit Fiskie in the arse, a slap of sound and a jolt; Fiskie staggered and whuffed and kept running. Good man ye are, Batty thought and headed him towards the glowing lights of Mosstop.

  Help me to remember, Lord, that nothing will happen this day that you and I the gither cannae work out…

  He had barely finished when he felt Fiskie stumble, then come to a stop. It gave him time to get his feet out of the stirrups and the big axe-handled dagg out of the saddle holster – then the beast fell sideways and Batty rolled free of it.

  He lay, confused and blinded by dirt and dawn sun. Someone gripped his wrist and pulled hard on it; her voice said: ‘nae time for a doze, Batty.’

  He rolled over and got to his knees in time to see Fiskie wheezing hard and lying down. Behind him rode a figure, holding his pistol muzzle up to the sky and wearing a triumphant smile.

  ‘You are Batty Kohlhase from the Germanies and I claim my prize.’

  A bliddy Deutcher, Batty thought, getting to his feet. A reiter, too, yin o’ those wee clever riders who wear black and trot aboot in a caracole, a circle round the enemy where they discharge pistols. Naw swords or lances here. Gunfire. The modern way of it…

  At Pinkie Cleugh, the mounted Spanish company under Dom Pedro de Gamboa successfully harassed Scottish pike columns with this and Batty would have bet his last bawbee on this being one of the arrogant moudiewarts who had done it.

  ‘Up and run, my man…’

  Meg’s voice was urgent and Batty felt a leap of sheer terror when he saw the reiter start to level his pistol, grinning. He wasn’t even going to trot a half-circle.

  Batty found the axe-head a hand length away and rolled to it, leaving the big German cursing and trying to aim. Aiming is no what you Deutcher jackals do, though is it? What you do is fire into a mass of men where ye cannae miss…

  He levelled the dagg and fired. It sparked, fumed out smoke and blasted his eyes with a light as bright as the sun. The reiter jerked as if someone had kicked him; for a moment there was a look of utter bewilderment on his face and he took long enough to look down at the hole in his fancy breastplate. Then he fell off the horse with a noise like a tumble of tin kettles.

  More men were behind him, one with a latchbow. He saw a strange face and heard the familiar voice; ‘I want Batty alive. Alive d’ye hear?’

  He got up as the latchbow wavered in his direction and for want of anything better he hurled the empty dagg. Once before that had served him well, but it was not meant for throwing and Batty did not even know if he hit the man. But the pistol was gone…

  He shoved Megs ahead of him and staggered up the street behind her, into shadowy figures who were yelling outrage. Batty dragged out his sword feeling the hot stabs in his knees and the drag of the money bag inside his jack – and the beginnings of despair.

  They met people as they staggered in a hard run, but they all scattered before the onslaught of a snarling man and a wild woman with hands full of blades; those who foolishly closed in behind were all but run down by the plunging horsemen – a beast skidded out on the rutted mud and slithered half-way down the street, spilling the rider to roll over and over.

  There were shouts and screams – Batty ploughed desperately on towards some strange conical knolls; if they could get in among them, it would break up the charge and slow the horses.

  Men now stared at them, eyes wide with astonishment in black faces. There was a tall structure with a wagon under it, but four horses were attached to the wrong end, facing the wrong way. It was a big affair of timber and metal, the sides all sla
nting outwards. It dangled with chains and men paused in heaving rain-sodden coal from straw creels into it to stare.

  A voice called for Jackie to get up and let loose the brake. ‘Awa’ wi’ ye,’ it added and then scattered away from Batty and Megs.

  He recalled it, heard the handsome Fairbairn mention it as they stood in the solar of Hermitage, warmed by a coal fire.

  The waggonway.

  ‘There,’ he bawled to Megs, her wet skirts wrapping her; she stumbled and almost fell – the drum of hooves grew deafening and Batty whirled.

  The horseman was yelling out that he got them, waving his sword with a mad grin from a face framed with straggled hair under a burgonet. Batty slashed back and forth, advancing on him – or rather the horse. He did not want a plunging horse near enough to cause him damage – but he had to get close enough to make the beast rear up and veer sideways with a sharp squeal.

  The rider went off, hit the ground with a sickening thud and rolled almost to Batty’s feet, where he stared up, his eyes swivelling. Batty booted him hard in the cods and turned to Megs stood at the waggon, undecided and almost dancing with panic.

  ‘Up,’ he declared. ‘On to the thing. Get on it.’

  ‘The horses are on the wrong side…’

  Batty hefted her up then shoved her up on to the high thick wooden sides of the waggon, the iron wheels flanged on to the wooden rails. She growled curses at him for putting his good hand on her arse, but it was more because he still had the sword in it.

  ‘Here…’ a voice declared indignantly and Batty grabbed the owner by his filthy collar and hauled him off his seat to thump on to the ground below. Then he kicked the brake loose, just as the rest of the riders came galloping up.

  It was loaded and slid away with agonising slowness, while Batty thumped it as if it was a recalcitrant horse and demanded it speed up. Megs perched on the coal and hurled curses at the riders. One latchbow bolt, Batty thought in a sudden panic… he moved to drag her down over the coal and behind the sides.

  Clem saw the huge wagon rolling away, saw the figures and knew his prey was on it. He cursed them from Hell and back again – but he spurred after, even as he saw it was desperate. His own horse was a good one and all but blown; the ones behind were worse.

  Batty watched the rider closing, saw the strange face – he had a new mask, just the nose itself and not anything round it. Did nothing for him. Batty wished he had a pistol left; all he could do was bounce in an agony as the man closed and the waggon rolled faster and faster.

  ‘The horses…’ Megs called out and Batty saw the tethered beasts, four of them being dragged reluctantly along. Used to pull the empty waggon back up to Mosstop, he realised and it was going too fast for them. They stumbled and squealed and if one went down, the drag would slow the waggon.

  He leaned down and slashed it free – just as Nebless Clem closed and, with a desperate growl, hurled himself from the saddle.

  He missed the edge of the waggon, caught the trailing end of the slashed tether and hung there, twisting side to side and with the toes of his big boots scuffing the sleepers as the waggon picked up speed.

  Too slowly; Batty cut free the rest of the horses before he realised the weight of Clem dragging behind it was almost as bad and he cursed, started to lean over with the sword poised to stab…

  The blast sent him careering backwards, dazed and blinded by smoke, that part of his mind not shrieking and gibbering registering the sole word – pistol.

  The monstrance itself sailed over his head into the dark and then, as if in some fevered horror dream, he saw Clem haul himself over the edge of the waggon, his backsword clenched between his teeth like a pirate boarding a galleon.

  Meg’s scream shattered Batty from his fog; Clem, in the act of lurching across the heaped coal to skewer Batty, suddenly recoiled with a sharp cry, flinging up his hand to ward off the black lump. Megs gave a ‘la!’ as if she had scored a point in some debate – and heaved another lump.

  The waggon lurched and rattled and Batty realised it was going too fast, laden with coal and three body-weights it should not have and no horses to keep it within the bounds. We will melt, he thought remembering the smart academicals who had predicted it. The uterus of a woman. that weaker sex, will fly out…

  ‘Get to the brake,’ he roared at Megs as Clem crawled over the coal, gave a savage growl and sprang like a tiger, just as Batty managed to get to his knees, which was enough to bring up his sword in time to block the vicious cut; the blades rang like bells.

  Batty realised that the waggon was now rocking hard, had hit a long, flowing stretch and had picked up speed. Clem’s coat was slathered with black, his face plastered with a paste of rain and coaldust – yet he came on, slipping and sliding on the shifting surface as Batty did. They fought in a farce of wild strikes and cuts, off-balance and without finesse. I am betting sure you had a better idea of how this would be, Batty thought savagely. A wee finesse of salle and then a triumphant foot on my corpse for all to see.

  But not on this teetering horror filled with coal.

  Clem slashed, fell sideways just as the cart rocked the same way; he spilled on to coal, his sword went spinning away into the dawn and Batty, with an exultant shout, brought his own up.

  He would have finished him and knew it. Finished him there and then and not caring if the man was unarmed or not – but the waggon lurched sickeningly and Megs screamed. She didn’t have the strength to work the brake and Batty dropped his sword to the coals and sprang to the brake instead leaning on it, feeling her heat and panting breath. They both worked it, there was the smell of charring wood, but the waggon did not seem to slow much – then something dragged Batty away from it and Clem swiped at him with a lump of coal.

  ‘Bastard…’ Clem yelled. ‘I will finish you this day…’

  Batty took a wild blow designed for his face, but which grazed his forehead instead. It was sickening enough, drove sense from him and pain in. There was a second slash which blew the breath out of him; he realised Clem had a knife out and had cut the top buckle fastening of his jack.

  There was a sudden flurry of movement and the pressure on Batty was released; he rolled over and sat dazedly up, in time to see Megs and Clem locked like stags, heaving and straining. He was raining foulness on her, about being a gyppo trull and what he would do when Batty was no longer a danger…

  She screamed and it looked as if she was going into faint and could manage little else. Batty struggled up, searched frantically for his sword and scrambled to fetch it; there was a sudden sharp cry and a distinct crack which made him turn, half-afraid of what he would see.

  To his surprise, he saw Clem locked in a wrestling hold any Cumberland man would be proud of, his face twisted with anguish and his arm clearly broken. Megs glanced at Batty’s open-mouthed surprise.

  ‘A bothersome man or twa’,’ she said bitter with stored resentment and did not need to say more.

  She let Clem drop to the coals and he slithered down, where he struggled weakly with a useless arm and a blinding pain. Batty was not about to let him lurk in some dark coal hole, waiting to do bad – but she took him by the arm and pointed.

  ‘Journey’s end,’ she said and Batty whirled; the waggon was rocking and rolling, far too fast, down to a cleared area of cobbles and coal-heaps – the coal store near Hermitage. At the end of the relentless trackway stood a bulwark of earth and sleepers and iron, surrounded by waiting packhorses and more straw creels.

  Clem had recovered and was not for giving up; Batty dragged the half-conscious Megs to her feet.

  ‘Jump,’ he said.

  She hesitated; then Clem sealed it by growling through his pain and grabbed for her sodden black hem. She was already hurling herself over the edge.

  Batty went the other way, in a blur of sky and grass. The landing slammed him into mud and coaldust and he tasted it, tasted blood, too, where he had nicked his tongue. He rolled over a few times and bounced almost to his knees; h
e had lost Megs and looked for her.

  There was a crash, a great rending sound of tearing metal and splintering wood. Shouts. Batty saw Megs lying a few yards away and moved to her, cradled her head, was blasted with panic – until she moaned and fluttered her eyes.

  Someone moved behind him and he started – but it wasn’t Nebless Clem and he continued attending to her until she came round enough to be got upright. They staggered on down to the cobbles; there was a milling crowd and a great scatter of coal and timbers. No-one seemed concerned, but they were all excited – some were fighting with each other and Batty looked at it, bemused.

  ‘Your jack,’ Megs said wearily and he saw it had burst open where Clem had sliced it – and shot a bag of silver out like a gift; Batty’s heart lurched into his throat. His fee, in a bag the size of a new baby’s head, spilled like frost among a sliding heap of two tonnes of coal, shattered timbers, burst sleepers, broken waggon wheels…

  And a sword. No-one cared much for it, save that it was in the way, to be shoved casually aside by folk hunting the glitter of silver among the black gold of Mosstop. Batty lurched to it and picked it up. His sword, still fine through the coal smears.

  ‘That won’t serve you,’ said a too-familiar voice. Batty turned to see Clem easing his broken arm into his belt, snugging it up. His coat was ripped and more black than the green it had been before; his false nose was torn off, leaving a parody of a skull, stained with black mud. He reached his good arm to his waist and Batty wondered if he had got his sword back – but what he saw was the swift, vicious uncoiling of the whip from round Clem’s waist.

  ‘I should’ve never listened to that Graham wummin,’ Clem growled, his voice a thick mucous of hate and coal dust. ‘I should have kept on with this until you were flayed.’

  ‘Good advice for the Egyptiani, too,’ Batty managed, hefting the sword. ‘You’d have found the seven wummin you handled cruelly were Grahams and Forsters. Maybe even a Selby.’

  Clem had heard that since and it was not inclined to improve his mood. Batty waved the sword, trying to stop Clem spotting Megs hobbling away to safety.