Reiver

by David Pilling

  A roll of thunder echoed in the distance. Richie held up his hand, palm upwards, as the rain started to fall.

  “It is Hope's End for us,” he said firmly, “or no hope at all.”

  5.

  A single narrow track led around the fringes of the Moss. The track, long fallen into disuse, was overgrown and in places barely existed. The outlaws picked their way carefully along it, leading their ponies on foot, ever mindful of sudden bogs and sink pools.

  “Some of the pools are deep enough to swallow a man whole,” remarked Richie. “Two spears joined together cannot scrape the bottom. My father once lost a cow in here. It blundered into the mire and drowned.”

  This met with silence. His companions walked in single file, using their swords to hack through the thick overhanging bushes and shrubs that barred their path. They looked around at the dreary, menacing landscape with frightened eyes.

  Richie did his best to appear cheerful. It was all too easy to imagine evil spirits flitting silently through this wilderness. The Moss was a vast expanse of boggy, low-lying marshland, swept by cold winds. To the untrained eye it looked like a moor, wild and desolate, but safe enough. In reality it was a treacherous inland sea, where the ground underfoot might fall away at any moment or suck unwary travellers down into the depths.

  “The old lairds of Blacklaws must have been mad,” Cleave-Crown remarked sourly, “to make their home in this dungpit.”

  “Lairds!” sneered Davy. “They were common reivers, man, for all they gave themselves airs. The Moss suited them very well. No law officer in his right mind would follow them in here.”

  Richie smiled at their chat, which was far preferable to scared silence. His real concern was the onset of night. They had ridden to the Moss in all haste, the shadow of dusk hard on their heels. Now the skies were deepening from charcoal grey to black. Unless they found the tower before true night fell, the outlaws were condemned to a grim night squatting in the open, or at best under a damp hedgerow. They dared not move again until dawn. Without light, even those who knew the Moss well risked blundering to their deaths.

  Ruth leaned close to him. “Do you remember the way?” she asked under her breath, so the others couldn’t hear. “I never ventured in here as a child. My granny said the Black Moss was for ghosts and goblins and lackwit boys like yon Richie Reade. She said you would end up as a spirit yourself one day, haunting the waste.”

  He laughed, and she laid her head on his shoulder. “There was a burn,” he said, stroking her auburn hair. “I can picture it clearly. Beyond it lies a little wood, a dark and tangled place. Hope’s End is inside the wood. If we can only reach the burn, there’s a fair chance of sleeping with a roof over our heads tonight.”

  Ruth shivered. “With the ghosts,” she whispered. Richie felt her heart beating faster against him. He laughed again, a terribly forced sound, and held her tight.

  They found the burn – or rather, stumbled across it – shortly before the Moss was draped in total darkness. Richie almost cried out in relief at the sound of flowing water. This was the first true test of his leadership, and he had been desperately afraid of failure. Almost as afraid as he was of malicious spirits.

  “What now?” asked Davy as the outlaws let their tired hobblers drink from the burn. There was no moon, and Richie could barely see his companions.

  “The tower lies inside the wood,” he replied, “not far. Whether or not we can find it in the dark, though? It may be best to sleep under the trees tonight and look for Hope’s End tomorrow.”

  The others murmured agreement. A fine drizzle had started to fall, with a promise of heavier rain to come. “Better than getting soaked in the open,” said Cleave-Crown. “Why did we have to be born on this God-cursed Border? Why not sunny Spain or Portugal, or even the deserts of Africa?”

  Davy sniggered. “Bugger the deserts of Africa,” he said. “You were bred of the Border and you’ll die on the Border. Most likely with a sword in your guts or a bit of hemp round your neck. The same goes for all of us.”

  They crossed the freezing, ankle-deep waters of the burn and ventured a little way into the wood. Here the clustered trees were wretched, spindly and crooked, like so many old women frozen by dark magic. Leafless branches, like bundles of dry fingers with hooked talons, clawed at their faces and tore their clothing. Unseen creatures rustled among the bushes. A bird erupted from the undergrowth, black wings flapping. Cleave-Crown’s yell of fear made them all start and curse him for a twitchy great oaf with his brains in his backside.

  When they reached a spot where the trees formed a canopy of sorts, Richie called a halt. The hobblers were tethered to the strongest trunks, and blankets laid over their backs to stop them taking chill in the night. After a brief supper of bread and cheese, washed down with cold water, the outlaws stretched out on the damp ground. Wrapped up in their woollen cloaks, with stones for pillows.

  Richie and Ruth lay close together. “Our chief has his woman to keep him warm,” they overheard Davy say. “Shall we do the same, cousin? Come on, big man. Give us a cuddle.”

  Cleave-Crown’s obscene response made Ruth shake with laughter. “There,” murmured Richie, “the outlaw life is not so bad.”

  Ruth burrowed her face into his neck. “It has compensations,” she whispered, still giggling.

  But not many, Richie thought sadly, as darkness enveloped them and rain slithered through the trees.

  He got little sleep, as his overtaxed mind dwelled on the same fears. How long could they hope to survive in the wild? Were these woods truly haunted? What was happening at home? Had Liddesdale sent men in search of him yet?

  Ruth slept soundlessly beside him. Eventually, warmed by her body heat, he fell into a fitful doze. Fractured dreams passed before him: once again he saw a torn-up Bible burning on a stone floor; the red bull bounding across black waters, steam rising from its crimson hide; maimed soldiers strewn across a misted battlefield, the dead slathered in blood, the wounded feebly crying out for their mothers.

  In the furthest recess of his mind Richie thought he heard the dim echo of men shouting: “Upon them! Upon them! A Dacre, a Dacre! A red bull...”

  He twisted on the hard ground, willing the noise to go away. The red bull was the sign of the Dacres, a famous West March family. A number of famous Wardens sprang of their blood. One, Thomas Dacre, had led the English Borderers at Flodden, and broken the Scottish lines with a final charge.

  Like every other Borderer, Richie knew of the Dacres. Yet they had nothing to do with him. He was a nobody, just one of the hundreds of outlaws – or broken men, as they were called – that infested the Border. Most ended on the gallows or were slaughtered in bloody feud.

  “Not me,” he cried. “I will live, and see my enemies hanged instead!”

  His cry woke the others. They roundly cursed him, even Ruth, but Richie wasn't listening.

  Above his head, perched on the spindly branch of a dead chestnut tree, were a pair of corbies or ravens. They cocked their heads and stared down at him with cold beady eyes.

  “Twa' corbies,” muttered Davy, “an ill omen.”

  He picked up a stone and threw it at the birds. They rose in a cloud of dirty black feathers, squawking indignantly, and flapped off into the wood. As they vanished among the trees, Davy chanted the grim old ballad of The Twa Corbies under his breath.

  As I was walking all alane,

  I heard twa corbies making a mane,

  The tane unto t’other did say,

  Where shall we go and dine today?

  In behind yon old fell dyke,

  I know there lies a new-slain knight,

  And nobody kens that he lies there,

  But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

  His hound is to the hunting gone,

  His hawk to fetch the wild fowl home,

  His lady’s taken another mate,

  So we may make our dinner sweet.

  Ye’ll sit on his white neck,

&n
bsp; And I’ll prick out his bonny blue eyes,

  Wi’ a lock of his golden hair,

  We’ll thatch our nest when it grows bare.

  Richie flung off his cloak. “Come,” he said, knuckling his eyes, “let's be off. We can break our fast when we find the tower.”

  In truth, he was keen to get away from this spot. His dreams had unsettled him, and the appearance of the corbies scraped at his already raw nerves. Carrion birds, which loved to peck at the flesh of dead men. He had often seen them feasting on the bodies of convicted men, executed and hung up inside iron cages on gibbets as a warning to other evildoers.

  Ruth sensed his dread. “Never mind it,” she said as they picked through the woods. “A couple of scruffy old birds, nothing more.”

  He smiled and took her hand. Her touch filled him with some much-needed courage.

  Soon they found a path. Much overgrown, but reasonably straight, wide enough for a cart and marked with ancient wheel tracks. Richie, who thought he knew all the trails in and out of the Black Moss, was surprised by the existence of this one.

  As he suspected, it led straight to Hope's End. They had not followed the track for quarter of an hour before the tower came in sight.

  The outlaws stood and stared at it. “God and all the Saints,” breathed Cleave-Crown. Most unusually for him, he made the sign of the cross.

  Hope's End was no tower at all. Rather, it was a fortified bastle, slightly larger than the one at Crowhame. The reivers who once dwelled here meant to stay hidden, and took care to build a stronghold that could not be seen above the height of the surrounding trees.

  Like most bastles, it was rectangular, with thick walls and a steep roof covered with dense heather thatch. In place of dug foundations it rested on a plinth of roughly cut boulders, set on one of the few pieces of dry land to be found in the Moss. There were no windows on the ground floor. Those on the upper storey were tiny square holes in the thick masonry.

  This miniature fortress, wreathed in morning mist under heavy grey skies and surrounded by gnarled trees, was about as cheerless and unwelcoming a sight Richie could imagine. No wonder evil spirits were thought to dwell here. No wonder the living gave it a wide berth.

  His imagination conjured up images of dead faces peering out of the narrow windows. He could almost see the ghostly reivers, laughing and hailing each other as they unloaded the spoil of their latest foray.

  Davy broke the silence. “This is an evil place,” he said fearfully. “I have no wish to abide here.”

  “Others share your opinion,” Richie answered quickly, “which is why we could ask for no better hideout. Tut! Memories cannot hurt us. The place has strong walls and a good roof, and nobody will come looking for us. Nothing else matters.”

  The others looked unconvinced, but Richie kept up his show of bravado. He had learned enough of leadership from his uncle to know a chief cannot ever show fear. Even though his guts might be churning with terror, every instinct screaming at him to cut and run, he must always hold fast.

  He went to explore the bastle. Ruth followed. After some hesitation and muttered cursing, so did his friends.

  Richie paused to examine the doorway. It had a squared stone lintel, and the weight on the lintel was eased by an arch of wedge-shaped stones constructed above it. The jamb on the left had three deep tunnels bored into it, with sockets on the other side. These were for drawbars, heavy bits of timber placed in the sockets to prevent unwanted guests from entering.

  He looked up at the quench hole, a steeply sloping channel in the wall above his head. If an attacker tried to set light to the door and the drawbars, water was poured down the hole to douse the flames. Other things, such as hot oil or burning porridge, could also be dropped down it to discourage him.

  “There's another door for the chamber above,” said Ruth behind him, “just like ours at Crowhame. A ladder is needed to reach it.”

  Richie nodded distractedly. He ran his hand over the wall beside the jamb to his left. It was marked with deep grooves, where the reivers had sharpened their blades on the stone before rushing out to fight or foray.

  His hand touched a cross, carved from one of the thick square blocks of the wall. He explored further and discovered more carvings, skilfully rendered by the mason. Some were crosses, others the faces of devils and saints. The devils had horns and fangs and leered out from the stone with twisted expressions, while the tonsured saints were pictures of beatific calm.

  “Blasphemous thieves,” Richie whispered to himself, “how did they explain themselves to God, or did they not bother?”

  Richie had wondered where the stone came from to build this place. Now he knew. The reivers had plundered it from an old church, St Cuthberts, not a mile beyond the western fringe of the Moss. For obvious reasons, little remained of the church save the foundations.

  The interior was a single chamber with a barrel-vaulted roof. It was dark and cold, and smelled of damp. The light from the doorway fell on the far wall, still stained with old cow muck. When attacked, the kyne would have been herded in here for protection. Richie could imagine the warm animal bodies, packed almost too tight to move, lowing in dumb terror and splattering the place with their dung and piss.

  Richie grinned in the darkness. His fears dissolved. If Hope's End was haunted, it was by the spirits of dead beasts. He had no fear of them.

  Much relieved, he went back outside. The mist was rising, and for once it looked as though the bloody rain might hold off. Richie allowed himself a little cautious optimism.

  “Hope’s End has a new laird,” he declared, and drew his sword to greet the new day.

  6.

  Forster was at home, drowsing over a heap of papers and a cup of sack, when news reached him of fresh disaster.

  A flush-faced young soldier, spattered with dirt from a hard ride over rough country, was ushered into his hall by two servants.

  “Sir,” the youth panted, “I beg to inform you a hundred reivers crossed the border this morning near Cocklaw. They attacked Bolton and Abberwick and moved east to raid the country outside Alnwick.”

  Forster’s eyes snapped open. “What…what?” he mumbled, struggling to marshal his thoughts. “They’ve got as far as Alnwick? Why haven’t Percy’s men ridden out to deal with them?”

  Alnwick was a chief stronghold of the Percies, the all-powerful Earls of Northumberland. Forster knew the current earl, Thomas or Simple Tom (so-called after his lack of wit) kept a strong garrison at the castle. Part of their duty was to help guard the frontier against Scottish raids.

  The soldier shook his head. “I couldn’t say, sir. I was posted at Eslington and rode south as soon as the Scots had passed by.”

  Forster shoved back his chair. “Tweddle!” he shouted. “Tweddle, damn your eyes, get out here!”

  His secretary emerged from a side-chamber and stood blinking owlishly in the gloom of the hall.

  “Sir,” he said in his hushed voice.

  “Go fetch my squires,” snapped Forster, “and my son. I’m riding north. To Alnwick.”

  Tweddle looked mildly surprised, the closest he ever got to agitation. “Dear me,” he said, “that’s near forty miles away.”

  “And?” Forster demanded.

  The rumbled little clerk rubbed the side of his nose with a quill. “Well,” he sniffed, “you’re not getting any younger…”

  “Young!” Forster roared. “You mean I’m past it! Rot your scabby hide, I’ll show you I can still ride thirty miles at the gallop and kill thieves at the end of it! Do as I say!”

  Tweddle shrugged and ambled away. A short while later two attendants came tumbling into the room. They carried Forster’s gear – morion, back and breast, sword-belt and pistols. He stood impatiently, cursing their sluggishness, as they buckled on his armour.

  “Nicholas,” he barked when the tall, soldierly figure of his bastard son strode in, “I’m riding north with all haste. A parcel of Scots broke loose over the border this morning. Th
ey’re ravaging the country near Alnwick. I’ll take fifty men. You come too. Captain Musgrave can take charge here while we’re gone.”

  Forster liked to keep things in the family. He had appointed Nicholas, one of several bastards, his deputy Warden. The young man was just twenty, brave and confident and totally lacking in scruples. He was also rarely sober after noon.

  “Are you sure, father?” he asked. “The odds sound none too good.”

  “I’ll pick up more men on the way,” Forster replied impatiently, dragging on a boot. “Away and muster the men – move!”

  Once he was armed Forster clanked outside to the stable yard. His grooms had his horse ready, a tough chestnut grey hobbler. Outside bugles could be heard echoing through Hexham, summoning the garrison to arms.

  His wife Jane, her hands soiled from the garden, came out to kiss him farewell. A long-suffering woman, she tolerated his mistresses, and had often seen him ride off to war.

  “Yes, yes,” he grunted, brushing her off, “don’t fuss, woman. I’ll be back by sunrise.”

  He winced as a groom boosted him into the saddle. God help me, he thought, my bones will ache for a month after this.

  Attended by his squire, the Warden trotted down the cobbled street. He ignored the hails of the townsfolk. Beyond the town his men were already forming into companies on the heath, overseen by Nicholas. Forster’s soldiers were used to sudden alarms, and could arm and mount as swiftly as any reiver.

  They gave Forster a ragged cheer. “Northwards, lads,” he shouted when their voices had died down. “Percy’s men cannot handle a few Scottish thieves, and so we must ride to save their blushes.”

  They set off at a fast canter, Forster and his son in the lead, his troopers in column behind. The Warden sent his swiftest riders ahead to raise the country and look for the Scots.

  Forster’s mind turned over the possibilities. His many contacts in Scotland usually kept him well-informed, but had sent him no warning of this raid. Who could have planned it? The Kerrs of Cessford were one good possibility. Despite being Wardens themselves on the Scottish side, they were always looking to cause trouble.