Reiver

by David Pilling

  Forster fought to control his temper. Whatever men thought of him, he wasn’t accustomed to being slandered to his face. Especially not by the likes of Archie Reade.

  “As you are so fond of reading me my duty,” he said coolly, “you should know one of my tasks is to keep track of reivers on the English side of the border. I know your past, Archie. Many’s the time I have winked at your forays. Ignored demands for your bill to be fouled. Perhaps I was too kind. Perhaps we should look again at your record – my clerks have it all in their ledgers – and total up the cost. A few months in Hexham gaol may teach you some discretion.”

  The other man’s jaw clenched. His wiry beard jutted like a spade. His fists clenched. Forster waited calmly for the blow. It would add another two weeks, maybe three, to Archie’s sentence.

  Instead Archie mastered his rage, slapped his bonnet on his head and stalked out of the room.

  “Tell your nephew to get out of the Middle March,” Forster called after him. “I’d not give a penny for his chances if he’s still in Crowhame two days from now. His best hope lies in a fast horse and a loaded pistol.”

  There was no reply. Moments later the gaol reverberated to the crash of a slamming door.

  Forster grinned as the echoes died away. God forgive his vanity, but he did love being Warden!

  4.

  “Here,” said Archie, handing Richie his dag, “you’ll need this.”

  Richie took it with a show of reluctance. In truth he had always secretly craved the weapon, ever since his uncle brought it back from a raid.

  He turned the dag over in his hands. It was one of the newer types of wheellock pistol with a long barrel and a heavy stock. A one-shot weapon, after firing it could be reversed and used as an effective club. When his uncle was in a generous mood, Richie had been allowed to practice with it. On a good day he could hit a helmet on a stick from horseback at a range of thirty yards.

  He ran his thumb along the sleek black polished wood of the stock. Alone among his kin, Richie was fascinated by firearms. He saw they were the future, and longed to become an expert in their use.

  Archie also handed up a horn of powder, the spanner, and a leather bag packed with shot.

  “You have fifty-three bullets,” the old man said. “Make them count.”

  Richie leaned down from the saddle to clasp hands with his uncle. It was a suitably grey and cheerless day. A chill of winter hung in the air and grey sweeps of rain came in off the high fells.

  His kinsfolk were gathered to bid farewell. The women piped their eyes, while the men looked on grimly. Richie suspected one or two of the latter envied him.

  With blood-feud and sentence of outlawry hanging over him, he was all set to ride away into exile. Probably forever. The mere thought filled him with fear and sadness. Richie had never been away from Crowhame for longer than a day or two. He had thought to spend the whole of his life in this bleak hilltop village, just like his ancestors.

  At least he wouldn’t be alone. Ruth and his two closest friends and kinsmen chose to go with him. One was John Reade, a burly man of smouldering temper and gigantic strength, called Cleave-Crown after his feat of splitting a Scotsman’s head with a single blow. The other, David Reade, was known as Davy the Lady after his preference for men. Davy was also a keen singer and balladeer, and had a taste for throat-slitting.

  “Get out of Redesdale and the Middle March as quick as you may,” said Archie. “Will you head east or west?”

  Richie hesitated. After talking it over with his uncle, he had decided to make for the garrisons at Bewcastle or Berwick and offer himself as a soldier. Bewcastle, in the West March, was the nearest. Berwick lay much further away, right up on the coast of the East March.

  “East,” he said after a moment. “The Armstrongs cannot touch me at Berwick. I’ll vanish there. Perhaps, after a few years of drill and marching up and down, I can desert and come home.”

  “Aye,” Archie replied with a tight smile, “perhaps.”

  They both knew it was a vain hope. The Named families of the Border never forgot a feud. Richie’s grandchildren, if he had any, might still be living in fear of the Armstrongs fifty years hence.

  “Come, Jack,” murmured Richie. A touch on his neck, and the tough little animal swung about and trotted down the spur of the hill.

  Richie’s companions followed. There were no goodbyes. Just silence, and the clop of hoofs on the springy turf.

  The outlaws were well-supplied. They carried enough rations – bread, water, hard cheese – to keep them going for two days, long enough to reach Berwick. Richie was the only one with a gun, as well as the longbow strapped across his back, but they all carried swords and daggers.

  Cleave-Crown also had a bow, and Davy wore a bandolier over his jack packed with throwing knives. These had been forged for him by a skilled smith in Harbottle. Davy spent long hours practising with them on targets in the barn at Crowhame until he could split a wand at twenty paces.

  Of the four, only Cleave-Crown had travelled to Berwick before. He had gone there for a soldier, and come back quickly again with the bailiffs hard on his heels. Some trifling affair over a stolen loaf, he would say with a grin, and say no more. The big man liked to keep an air of mystery about him.

  “That was ten years gone,” he said airily as the little band of riders made their way over a rough track east of Crowhame, “they won’t remember me. Save perhaps for one clown whose jaw I cracked in a little tavern by the east gate. The Bull’s Head, if memory serves.”

  Davy and Ruth smiled politely at the tale. Richie ignored it. Early morning mist was rising over the hills, and before him stretched a huge expanse of gently rolling green countryside, smattered with carpets of yellow tussock grass. Beyond, scarcely visible at this time of day under piles of heavy cloud, lay a range of stark hillsides. The long river valley of Redesdale was now behind them.

  Ruth trotted up next to him. “Harbottle is not far,” she said quietly. “Shall we lie there tonight?”

  “No,” said Richie after some thought, “we must avoid towns. Forster will have put the word out. He would prefer us safely hanged. All of us.”

  He smiled fondly at Ruth. “It’s not too late,” he added. “You and the others can still turn back. You are only outlaws so long as you ride with me.”

  She tutted and gave his earlobe a gentle tweak. “Don’t talk daft. You wouldn’t last until nightfall on your own, Richie lad.”

  They rode on, gave Harbottle a wide berth and struck down into Coquetdale. The rain held off until noon, when it started to fall in dismal sheets as they trotted over a patch of moorland. Fortunately there was a little copse nearby. They sheltered under the trees, gnawing at their bread and cheese and gazing at the dank weather.

  While they ate, Davy sang a couple of verses in his lilting voice. “A new tune,” he explained with a wink at Richie, “it isn’t finished yet. I call it Richie O’the Bow.”

  “Together they ran, oh ever they blan,

  This was Richie the bowman and Geordie,

  Richie could ever win at him wi’the blade o’his sword,

  And struck him down wi’ the edge d’ye see.

  Thus Richie has felled fair Geordie Armstrong,

  The bravest man in the north country,

  Gramercy! – sayeth Richie,

  I ha’ felled two Armstrongs, now I can fell three!”

  As Davy said, the song was incomplete, so he whistled the melody of the next verse. His companions listened in quiet appreciation. Meanwhile rain swept across the moor outside and pattered on the leaves above.

  “For God’s sake, Davy,” Richie said good-naturedly when the song was over, “you’ll make me the most wanted man on the Border.”

  Secretly he was pleased. He had been raised on ballads of great Border heroes, men such as Johnnie Armstrong, Kinmont Willie and Hughie the Graham. It gave him pleasure to think that one day tales of his deeds would be sung in halls and alehouses on both sides of the Bo
rder.

  When the rain had eased, they mounted their hobblers and set off again, cutting north through Cocquetdale. They had few kin in these parts and less friends, and so kept a wary look-out for any signs of life. The times were lawless. Anyone might descend upon a small band of riders in the waste, murder them and steal their gear and horses. The weary law officers of the March, assuming they ever heard of the incident, would write it off as just another unfortunate incident.

  Other than scattered flocks of sheep, grazing on the high tops of the Cheviots, and the occasional puff of smoke rising from isolated farmsteads, all was quiet. As warm golden sunlight slanted across the bare ribs of steep-sided dales and valleys, it was almost possible to believe the land was at peace.

  With nothing to impede them, the outlaws made good time. “Wooler lies a few miles north,” said Cleave-Crown shortly after noon. “We’ll be into the East March long before dusk.”

  So far Ruth had said little. She rode at Richie’s side, her gaze fixed on the distance. He knew her sight was keen, her instinct for danger sharp as a blade. There were few better to have as a scout or on watch.

  They had not gone another mile when she suddenly came to life, her arm pointed straight ahead.

  “Riders,” she said. “They go armed. I caught a flash of sunlight on steel.”

  Richie shaded his eyes and tried to follow the line of her finger. “I see nothing,” he murmured, “only the bare hills and a few dirty sheep.”

  She made an impatient noise. “Then you’re blind as well as daft. I tell you there are horsemen up ahead. I cannot tell how many. Yet.”

  “Maybe farmers,” Davy said nervously, “out checking on their flocks.”

  Richie was aware of the others looking at him. Waiting on his decision. With a shock he realised they expected him to lead. Davy and Cleave-Crown were both older – the latter was well into his twenties – but Richie was the headsman’s nephew. His uncle had no children, and when he died Richie would have become headman in his place.

  His outlawry was irrelevant. Richie was in charge. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to think what best to do.

  “We go on,” he said. “There’s nowhere to hide in these hills, and I’m not for turning back. If need be, our hobblers will carry us out of trouble.”

  To his relief this met with no argument. The outlaws rode forward at a slow trot, saving the breath of their mounts.

  Richie took his dag from the holster and loaded it. He poured a charge of powder into the muzzle, followed by a small lead bullet, tamped down with the ramrod attached to the underside of the barrel. After that he took the spanner, inserted it into the wheel mechanism and gave the wheel a quarter-turn. Then he primed the pan and pulled back the spring-loaded arm – called the dog-head – which held the lump of pyrite needed to strike sparks and ignite the powder in the pan.

  He held the gun upright next to his right ear. When or if the time came, he would level it straight ahead and squeeze the trigger, preferably at a range inside twenty yards. Richie was confident he could shoot a man dead from such a distance.

  His fingers trembled slightly. He willed them to stop. I have killed a man with my bow, he reminded himself. I can easily do the same with a pistol.

  Soon enough the riders hove into view. First the glint of sun on their lance-heads. Then the low rumble of hoofs, and a horseman appeared in plain sight midway over a spur of high ground.

  He cantered straight down towards the outlaws. Behind him nine more men emerged, riding in single file. Each wore a steel morion and breastplate and carried lance, sword and a pair of pistols. The second man in the troop carried a pennon, fluttering in the breeze.

  Richie, who recognised the device on the pennon, reined in. “Hunsdon's men,” he said quietly.

  Hunsdon, alias Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon, was Warden of the East March and Captain of Berwick. Richie had never set eyes on the man, but knew him by repute: a hard character, his short temper aggravated by gallstones, who reckoned the only good reiver was a dead one. The overstuffed gallows between Cocklaw and Norham were dire testament to his philosophy.

  For one dreadful moment Richie thought the leader of the troop might be Hunsdon himself. Then the soldiers clattered to a halt at a careful distance. Their officer spurred a few paces closer.

  “Greetings,” he called out, raising his gauntleted right hand. “A fine day for a ride in the country. I am Captain Jonas of the Berwick garrison.”

  Richie lowered his pistol and took Jonas in. A burly, powerful-looking man with slanting shoulders, his face broad and ruddy inside the steel frame of his helmet. He sported a black beard, and judging from the streaks of grey in his whiskers was an older man, doubtless a hard-bitten veteran. His troopers had the same tough, experienced look about them.

  “Well met, captain,” Richie said carefully. “I am...”

  “Save your breath,” Jonas interrupted, “I know you, Richie O'the Bow. Did I not see you win the prize at Carlisle fair last summer? And I mind well that ape behind you. How goes it, John Reade? A rope awaits you still at Berwick.”

  Cleave-Crown said nothing, but folded his brawny arms and spat out the corner of his mouth.

  Richie did his best to sound calm. “You have no business with us, captain,” he said mildly, “nor do we have any leisure for idle chat. With your permission, we'll be on our way.”

  Jonas grinned, displaying white teeth inside his hedge of a beard. “Sorry, lad. You and your friends won't take another step inside the East March.”

  “Why not?” Ruth demanded indignantly. Alarmed, Richie laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.

  Jonas stabbed a finger at the sky. “Orders from on high, my beauty. Sir John Forster sent a message to Lord Hunsdon. Keep a look-out for Richie Reade, that rough fellow, who can shoot a man's eye out from five hundred paces and chops down Armstrongs like ripe barley.”

  Some of his troopers laughed. Richie quailed at their scarred visages. Next to these hard men, he was just a stripling. Any one of them looked capable of snapping his neck with their bare hands.

  Jonas' grin faded. “We mean you no harm, Reade,” he went on, all business now. “For myself, I salute any man with the courage to stand up to the bloody Armstrongs, sword in hand. But orders are orders. Turn about. The East March is barred to you.”

  Richie smiled grimly. Old Forster's purpose was now clear to him. Having been outlawed in the Middle March, Richie was denied access to the East. Probably the West as well. His only choice was to go north and cross into Scotland. To go south was unthinkable. He had never been any further south than Hexham, and the land beyond Newcastle might as well have been another planet.

  Once he was in Scotland, his enemies could scoop him up with ease. Thus Richie's fate was neatly sealed, and the Warden left with one less problem.

  In the corner of his eye he spotted Davy, toying with one of the slender throwing knives in his bandolier.

  “Put it away, you fool,” Richie hissed. “If we draw blade these men will carve us up like pies.”

  Davy shrugged and let his hand fall. “You're a lad of sense, Reade,” remarked Jonas, whose fingers gripped the hilt of his rapier, “I wish you well.”

  Richie turned Jack about. “Don't,” he growled at Ruth. Her face had coloured, and he could sense the barrage of obscenities rising to her mouth.

  The outlaws rode away in silence. When he judged it safe, Richie glanced over his shoulder and saw the soldiers drawn up in line abreast. They made no effort to follow, but Jonas was watching. Given the slightest excuse, Richie knew he would order his troopers to cut down the little band of fugitives.

  “We should have fought,” growled Cleave-Crown. “I could have felled two or three of those clowns, easy.”

  Richie gave him a black look. “One, maybe,” he said sharply, “and then his mates would have filled you with bullets. Enough of your vain boasts, cousin. They give me a headache.”

  Cleave-Crown swallowed the rebuke without compla
int. He wouldn't have taken it from anyone else, but Richie was his chief. Richie hoped the big man's ingrained sense of loyalty would endure. If it came to a fight between them, he couldn't hope to win.

  “Where do we go now, then?” asked Davy after they had splashed through a shallow burn. Above their heads dark clouds massed, and the shadows of dusk already billowed across the rugged landscape to the west.

  Richie had an answer ready. “Old Forster wants to push us into Scotland,” he said, “yet I am no sheep, to be driven this way and that. We cannot go home, so we must find refuge.”

  He turned in the saddle to look at the others. “Hope's End,” he added. “None will think to look for us there.”

  All three paled. “No wonder,” Cleave-Crown said hoarsely, “not even crows will perch on those walls. The place is full of ghosts.”

  “Evil memories,” muttered Davy, crossing himself.

  Richie forced a laugh at their discomfort. “So? Ghosts and evil memories cannot harm us,” he cried, “we would be safe there, at least for a time. Or would you prefer to lie out in the heather overnight and take a soaking? Hope's End lies not four miles from here. Half an hour's ride, say.”

  The others still looked doubtful. Richie understood their fear, even shared it. Hope's End, once known as Blacklaws, was a ruined pele tower on the fringes of a wilderness called the Black Moss. It had lain uninhabited since old King Harry's day, when the last laird threw himself from the top of the battlements. Why he did so was a mystery. There were vague tales of some feud over a woman, or his grief over the loss of his son in a skirmish with the Milburns.

  Nobody in their right mind sought out the ruins of his home. Children were encouraged to give it a wide berth and raised on stories of the laird's evil spirit, roaming the Moss in search of living bodies to devour.

  Richie feared evil spirits as much as anyone. At the same time he couldn't think of another refuge within easy reach. As a boy he had defied the stories and explored the Moss many times. He knew all the secret trails through the bogs and marshes.