His voice tailed off. Richie turned quickly to Adam. “What about it, Shaws?” he asked. “This is not your feud. You can stay here if you like. I won't drag any man to his death in a quarrel that is not his own.”
The youth's face, a haven for greasy spots, coloured with indignation. “I'll come!” he squeaked, his voice cracking. “Come Hell or Armstrongs, I ride wi' my gang!”
Encouraged, Richie sent Davy and Cleave-Crown out of the Black Moss to gather tidings of the raid. Late the next afternoon they were back, breathless and excited, the flanks of their hobblers slick with sweat.
“They've crossed the Border,” yelped Davy, “down 'twixt Russells Cairn and Cocklaw, and riding east. A hundred lances, if not more. We came away before they could spot us.”
Richie left off sharpening his dagger. He summoned up a mental picture of the Middle and East March. “Eslington,” he said, “if they ride straight east, Eslington is the first township on their path.”
“Old Collingwood has his house nearby,” said Ruth. “He is at feud with the Kerrs of Cessford after raiding Teviotdale last year. Perhaps they mean to strike at him.”
Richie thought this likely. Sir Cuthbert Collingwood, a knight of the Middle March, was as keen a thief as any reiver. With the north of England in such turmoil, the Kerrs had a prime opportunity to stick a lance in Collingwood's liver. Doubtless they had whistled up their old cronies the Armstrongs to lend a hand.
“We'll get to Eslington before them,” said Richie, “warn Collingwood and raise the militia. Nebless Will and his gangers will find a brace of loaded calivers waiting for them.”
The outlaws galloped for Eslington at a furious pace. Collingwood's house, and the township, lay some miles to the north-east. It would be touch and go, but Richie hoped they might reach the place before the reivers engulfed it.
Soon they came within sight of the house; a fine half-timbered mansion of sorts with a slate roof, set amid fair grounds and an orchard. The southern gable end of the house was protected by a barnekin wall, seven feet high, with lodges and stables inside. Smoke twisted lazily into the sky from red-brick chimneys. The Collingwoods were not short of silver, either inherited or stolen.
Richie's eye quickly took in the landscape. The house lay at the heart of a gently sloping valley. To the north, on the summit of the hillside, was an older stone building, now roofless and in ruins. The patchwork of inbye fields surrounding the manor house were filled with kyne. Several hundred head, if not thousands: a rich haul for Nebless Will and his folk.
If he strained his ears, Richie thought he could hear the low thunder of horses at the gallop. They were coming.
He led his band down to the house, slowing to a trot as they neared the entrance. Richie spied a musket barrel thrust from an upper-storey window, and raised his hands to show he came in peace.
The musket cracked anyway. A puff of smoke rose from the window. He ducked, but at long range the ball sailed hopelessly wide.
“Keep your distance, rogue!” a man's voice shouted from within. The musket withdrew, doubtless for reloading.
“I come to warn Sir Cuthbert!” Richie shouted at the top of his voice. “A hundred Scottish riders are even now bearing down on his house. Kerrs and Armstrongs.”
For a moment no sound came from the house. Then three more muskets appeared from the top windows, and the heavy oaken door on the ground floor swung open.
A tall, wispy figure emerged, armed for war in gleaming steel back and breast and morion, rapier in hand, pistol at his thigh. Richie recognised Sir Cuthbert, though he had only seen the man once or twice at distance.
“Who are you?” demanded the knight in his high-pitched drawn. “What interest do you have in our safety?”
Richie ventured his hobbler a few paces closer. “Richie Reade of Crowhame,” he answered, “though Crowhame exists no more.”
Sir Cuthbert’s pale blue eyes widened. “I've heard of you. An outlaw, vagrant and broken man. Richie Crow-bait, the Wardens call you.”
Richie almost laughed. Yet another nickname. He seemed to have a gift for inspiring them.
“My lord,” he said, “never mind who I am. There are five score Scots reivers, maybe more, about to ride over that hillside in quest of your heart's blood. You must send for the militia at Eslington. Is your house defensible?”
Sir Cuthbert looked down his long nose at Richie. “I must do nothing,” he replied haughtily, “certainly not at your behest. Gentlemen do not heed the words of common thieves, much less follow their advice.”
He gave his tufted beard a pull. “However. I did hear something of a raid. I have seven good serving-men inside the house, all furnished with dags and calivers. And my two sons. My wife has gone to Eslington with the maids, for their safety.”
Richie rolled his eyes. Ten men, including Sir Cuthbert. Along with the outlaws, that made fifteen to repel at least a hundred reivers.
“Go fetch the militia, Richie Crow-bait,” the tall knight ordered, airily waving his rapier. “I shall look to the keeping of my house and beasts.”
He turned smartly and vanished inside, slamming the door shut behind him. From inside could be heard shouts, feet drumming on stairs.
“Well,” said Richie with a shrug, “we've tried to warn yon beanpole. Whether he listens or no is down to him.”
The outlaws took the road to Eslington, a narrow trail leading over the crest of the valley. On the way they passed the ruined house, a tumbledown two-storey building with walls as thick as any bastle.
They had scarcely passed the house before Richie glimpsed the flash of sunlight on pikeheads, and over them a thin cloud of dust.
“Soldiers,” exclaimed Ruth, whose eyes were better than his. Seconds later Richie saw them; a troop of militia on foot pounding down the road, led by a heavy figure with a jutting black beard.
“Oh, Christ,” said Cleave-Crown, “it's that bastard Jonas.”
Richie groaned. It was indeed Captain Jonas, the bullish officer who had refused to let them enter the East March. The big man was sweating heavily, his face puce inside its steel shell. He stopped dead at the sight of the outlaws, his men stumbling to a halt behind him.
“Richie Crow-bait!” he shouted. “God help us, do my eyes deceive me? Lads – shoot down that broken man!”
The militia quickly spread out either side of him and levelled their calivers at Richie, who hastened to explain.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said, “I came here to warn you of the Scots. Liddesdale has broken loose. Their riders are about to descend on Collingwood’s house.”
Ruth caught his arm. “They’re here,” she said, her voice unnaturally calm.
He swung about, and saw the lances silhouetted against the far ridge. The tiny black figures of horsemen racing down to the edge of Collingwood’s pastures.
“There!” cried Richie, pointing at the riders, “you see? The Armstrongs have come!”
Jonas bustled forward. They watched, transfixed, as the scene played out below. A score or so of blue bonnets charged into the fields, where they set about rounding up as many kyne as possible. More lances appeared on the ridge. Richie counted a score, then thirty, then fifty. About half plunged down the spur of the valley and made straight for Collingwood’s house.
Collingwood himself burst into view, riding out from the barnekin gate on a satin black hobbler, sword and pistol in hand. Behind him rode his sons, tall and wispy like their father, and a knot of armed servants.
“What is the fool about?” exclaimed Jonas. “He is outnumbered – turn back, man, get into the house and bar the doors!”
Richie doubted the knight of Eslington would have obeyed, even if he heard. Surprised by Collingwood’s headlong charge, the reivers gave back, scattering and firing their pistols. From this distance, the sound of gunfire was like the popping of corks. Little puffs of smoke rose into the air.
One of Collingwood’s servants was hit, and toppled from his saddle to roll in the dust
. The rest pressed home their charge. A brutal swirling melee broke out, Collingwood and his sons to the fore rapiers flashing as they swapped cuts with the nearest reivers. A couple of blue bonnets fell, a horse screamed.
“We can’t just sit here,” growled Cleave-Crown, “for shame.”
Richie looked to the ridge. More reivers were flooding down the hill, at least thirty, riding in line abreast like regular cavalry. Collingwood’s men were still tangled up in the melee, unaware of the fresh lances bearing down on them.
The fool is done for, thought Richie. Why should he lead his kin, the last of the family, to die for the sake of some foolish knight?
“Forward!” shouted Jonas. The burly captain set off down the track at a lumbering run, followed by his militiamen. They, too, seemed eager to embrace death.
Cleave-Crown urged his pony forward a few paces. “No,” said Richie, “we stay.”
His cousin glared at him. Richie held his stare. He knew Cleave-Crown’s fighting rages, how quickly the red mist descended. It wasn’t happening here.
Once again he beat the other man down through sheer force of will. Cleave-Crown looked away, his jaw clenched, skin prickled with angry blood.
Collingwood was outnumbered now, surrounded on all sides by a crowd of blue bonnets. His tall figure could be seen above the throng, laying about him frantically with his rapier. A few more seconds, and he and his little knot of followers would be overwhelmed.
“Covering fire!” Jonas’ hoarse yell sounded from below. “Ready-present your pieces-aim-shoot!”
His militia, well-drilled, had spread out in a line within good range of the mob of horsemen. Their calivers fired as one. A reiver’s horse spun round and collapsed, blood spurting from its hide. Three more blue bonnets went down into the dust, another wheeled away, clinging side-saddle to his mount, his right arm dripping crimson.
The fighters dispersed under the hail of shot. Collingwood had a chance to escape. To Richie’s relief he took it, turning his pony and riding back to the house. Another of his servants had gone down, skewered by a lance. The survivors retreated in the wake of their lord. Meanwhile the militia frantically reloaded for another volley.
Nothing could stop the kyne being taken. The reivers had already herded over two hundred head together and drove them towards the hillside. Other bands were at work gathering more. Sir Cuthbert Collingwood, it seemed, was fated to end the day a much poorer man.
At least he will be a live one, thought Richie. Thanks to Captain Jonas, the assault on the house had been beaten off. A second attempt was unlikely. Richie knew reivers. They didn’t take unnecessary risks.
Unless, that is, they were at feud. Richie’s heart sank into his boots when yet more lances crowded the top of the ridge. They spread all along the line of the hill, scores of them. Hundreds.
He turned on Davy. “A hundred lances, you said,” Richie hissed through clenched teeth. “Where were you when the priest taught us how to count? Lifting sheep?”
Davy had the grace to look embarrassed. “We were in a hurry,” he mumbled, scratching his ear.
Now only the thin line of militia stood between the reivers and Collingwood’s house. Richie saw one of the men on the ridge – perhaps Nebless Will himself – snatch off his bonnet and wave it as the signal to charge. With a cheer, the horsemen flooded down the broad sweep of the hill, a swiftly moving forest of lances.
“Those poor buggers down there will be slaughtered!” shouted Cleave-Crown. “We have to do something!”
“To hell with it,” said Richie, drawing his sword, “let’s have at them.”
He turned to Ruth. “No chance of you staying behind, I suppose?” he asked without much hope.
She grinned back at him. “None.”
Together the outlaws sped down to join the militia, who had fallen back to the fringe of the orchard. There was a fence here, and they balanced their calivers on the posts. Captain Jonas stood to one side.
“Wait!” he cried, sword aloft as he watched the tide of horsemen thunder towards them. “Hold your fire…wait….”
Richie’s mouth went dry. The reivers came at the gallop across the flat, so close their shoulders almost touched. Their beating hooves put him in mind of waves, crashing off the coast near Carlisle.
He willed himself to hold firm, not to turn his hobbler and flee for the hills. Very soon the whole bloody lot would come washing over them, smash the pathetic line of militia to pieces, hurl the bodies aside, trample and impale and destroy everything in their path.
The reivers crouched forward in their saddles. Their lances dipped. They were less than forty yards away now. Thirty…Twenty…
Richie drew out his dag, for all the good it would do. He turned the wheel with shaking fingers, cursed as he almost dropped the spanner. Cleave-Crown had dismounted and stood just behind the militia, axe in hand. He wore a grimly set expression Richie knew of old. Blood would be spilled.
Davy was feverishly loading his own pistol. Ruth waited quietly beside her mate, lance ready. Adam, the youngest of them, gazed slack-mouth at the approaching horror, eyes bulging.
Fifteen yards. “Fire!” screamed Jonas.
The calivers loosed off a volley. Smoke and flame and the reek of powder filled the air. Richie punched the air as he watched the first line of horsemen dissolve into confusion, horses and riders flung to earth, their comrades veering aside to avoid trampling the fallen.
Let Nebless Will be among them, he prayed fiercely, let his skull be crushed by a flailing hoof!
He trotted over to Jonas. “Captain,” Richie said urgently, “you’ve no time for another volley. Collingwood has locked and barred his gate. Your best hope is to get up to the ruined house and make a stand there.”
Jonas glared; then the fire in his eyes died down. Unlike the haughty Collingwood, he wasn’t too proud to take a broken man’s advice.
“You may be right, at that,” he muttered. “All right, lads, up the hill – smartly, now, before the buggers regroup!”
His men shouldered their calivers and ran for the hill. Richie and the outlaws formed a rearguard, looking over their shoulders for pursuit. The reivers, who had lost maybe half a dozen to the close-range volley, kept their distance. Gunfire sounded from the house. Collingwood was under siege.
Jonas’ soldiers were about halfway up the hill when a bugle screeched and the reivers charged again. A score of riders tore up in pursuit, bearded faces snarling behind levelled lances. Richie and Davy fired upon them while the militia broke into a run, clawing their way up the last and steepest part of the incline.
Richie went hell for leather up the slope, followed by blood-curdling whoops and curses. Before him the footmen crowded through the gaping doorway of the ruined house, while his followers dismounted and grabbed pistols, bows and bags of bullets.
When he reached the top, Richie slid from the saddle while Jack was still at a canter. He landed heavily, almost rolled an ankle, was steadied by Adam. Cleave-Crown seized his bow and a sheaf of arrows from the gear strapped to the pony’s back.
“In!” screamed the big man. “They’re almost upon us!”
Hooves sounded like the roll of war-drums in Richie’s ears as he staggered through the archway. Shouts echoed all around him, the voice of Jonas above all.
“Let them have it, boys! Guard the doorway! Any Scot pokes his nose through, chop it off!”
Three militiamen clustered in front of the entrance, swords ready. The door had long since rotted away, or been stolen, and they would have to guard it with their bodies. Davy joined them, broadsword and parrying dagger gleaming in his hands.
Richie took his bow and arrows from Cleave-Crown and quickly took stock. The house was a one-storey affair, with a single large chamber on the ground and a timber staircase, still in good repair, leading to the top. The windows of the ground floor were tiny, just wide enough to loose an arrow through. There was only one doorway. Above the old timbers bounced and creaked alarmingly as
soldiers ran to their posts. From outside could be heard the shouts of reivers and the crackle of pistol fire.
A thunderous volley from upstairs ripped through the house and shook the ancient rafters. The reivers howled, a horse shrieked in agony, Jonas bawled at his men to reload.
“Stay here,” Richie barked at Cleave-Crown. “Help guard the doorway.”
Ruth leaned against the wall, calmly loading Richie’s dag. She gave him a nod as he raced past, taking the steps two at a time.
The roofless upper chamber was wreathed in gun smoke. Jonas stood in the middle of the floor, swollen and sweating, looking fit to burst a blood vessel while ten of his soldiers knelt in pairs by the windows. These were slightly larger than those below, wide enough for two men to shoot through at once. The militia frantically bit off fresh cartridges, rammed wadding down the long barrels of their calivers.
“Well, bugger me,” cried Jonas when he saw Richie with his bow, “is it Robin Hood or Adam Bell come to save us? Nay, it’s Richie O’the Bow, hero of ballad and song!”
Richie ignored him and strode towards the nearest window. He peered through the gap to see a crowd of blue bonnets outside, milling around the house. They seemed uncertain whether to rush the place or fall back. Two of their number lay dead on the grass. Another twitched in his death-throes.
One of the reivers, a small man with a shock of red hair, crouched next to his dying comrade. Tears glistened on his face as he stood up and tore out his rapier.
“Fie, lads” Richie heard him shout, “they’ve killed my brother! Will ye run from these English bastards?”
Steel flashed in the hands of the men nearest him. They drew their blades and dismounted, shouting revenge.
“Now we’re for it,” muttered the soldier to Richie’s left. With an almighty yell, the reivers charged.
While he watched them dismount, Richie had strung his bow and reached for an arrow. The rest he stuck into his belt. The old feeling of nerveless calm settled on him as he drew the string back to his ear and took aim at the onrushing horde of blue bonnets.
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