Reiver

by David Pilling

  “Traitors!” Dacre howled. “Cowards! Vermin! Gallows-scum! Come back and do your duty! Would you abandon your Queen? Abandon God?”

  Even in the pit of anger, Dacre knew he only had himself to blame. It was a mistake to put his trust in families of thieves, shameless robbers on horseback, who cared for nothing save their own profit.

  He calmed himself. Scores of riders had fled into the woods, but enough remained to swing the battle. Their hard faces turned to Dacre, waiting on his reaction.

  “Put yourself at their head, my lord,” urged the young captain. “They only respect courage.”

  Dacre gulped down his fears. “Forward!” he shouted, brandishing his sword. “Victory or death! The red bull!”

  He kicked in his spurs and drove his hobbler into a gallop. The beast whinnied and pelted down the slope, faster than he had anticipated. Bounced up and down in the saddle, Dacre clung on for dear life.

  Behind him the reivers uttered a great yell and charged.

  *

  Richie stood up. “Now,” he said, “now’s our time.”

  The Bairns swiftly mounted. Moments before, led by the Crookback in person, the reivers had crashed down the slope into battle. Any semblance of order was lost in the confusion. Loyalists and rebels were all mixed up together, cutting and stabbing and hacking at each other in mindless fury. Loyalist troopers clubbed men down with their carbines, horsemen knocked each other from the saddle. “No mercy!” was the cry, and the wounded were knifed or strangled on the ground.

  Dacre and his reivers had galloped straight into the rear of their own infantry. Sheer momentum carried them through, barging and trampling their comrades, until they got within reach of the enemy. Forster’s riders met them blade to blade, Borderer against Borderer. Kinsman slew kinsman, old friends cut each other down. Their blood mingled on the churned turf as the fate of the March hung in the balance.

  Richie exchanged a last nod with Davy, who winked in return. Then he turned to Ruth. She had taken up position on his left, sword and pistol in hand.

  “Stay close,” he said.

  “You too, Richie lad,” she replied, with just a hint of a tremor. Her face was white as fresh linen. Richie wanted to order her to turn back, to find some safe place to hide until all was over.

  I may as well order the sun to rise in the west.

  He turned to his men, who were drawn up in skirmish order, every man bristling with weaponry.

  “Get into them!” shouted Richie. “A silver shilling to the man who fetches me the red bull!”

  He pricked in his spurs. Jack shot forward, and the Bairns burst out of hiding and poured onto the heath, roaring and cursing and bellowing obscene songs.

  There were just thirty of them, but Richie was a good enough horse-soldier to know how even a small body of cavalry could swing a battle. He had waited until the impetus of Dacre’s charge was spent, and his horsemen entangled with the rebel foot.

  The rebel flank was now completely exposed. None of Dacre’s captains expected an attack from the west. All their efforts were concentrated on breaking the loyalists to their front.

  Some twenty yards of clear ground lay between the edge of the woods and the bloody brawl on the heath. Richie’s men covered the gap in seconds. He aimed his dag and fired down at a startled rebel face.

  His bullet blew the face to pieces. Richie shoved his sword through the back of another man’s neck, twisted it free, cut down with the edge at a pikeman. The blade sliced through bonnet and leather coif, cleaved the skull like an apple. Growling in his throat, Richie spurred onward, deeper into the chaos.

  Jack almost slipped on puddles of fresh gore. A pistol banged and made Richie’s head ring like a bell. Swords clattered against his armour, a billhook sliced painfully down the length of his boot. He cried out as the vicious hooked blade cut through leather and the cloth of his trews. Drew blood.

  Davy rushed up and drove his lance through the billman’s spine. Teeth gritted against the pain, Richie gasped his thanks. Around him the Bairns surged forward. Crazed with battle-fever, they slaughtered rebel footmen almost at will, trampling and spearing them down.

  Their wild charge drove Dacre’s infantry, what was left of them, into headlong flight. His bloodied tenants threw down their weapons and streamed away from the heath in all directions, hotly pursued by loyalist horsemen. A few rallied here and there, formed into little groups and fought like cornered beasts until they were struck down. To make certain, Forster’s March men dismounted and slit the throats of the fallen. Then they got down to the real work of stripping the dead, tore or cut rings from fingers, rummaged through corpses for hidden coins and other valuables.

  The battle had now spilled into the woods, even the river, where men fought each other in the shallows of the Beck. Richie looked eagerly for the red bull banner. He wanted to hold the famous Dacre standard in his own hand. Keep it for a trophy. Then his fame would eclipse any other Border hero, even Johnny Armstrong.

  “Richie!”

  Distracted, he was too late to help Ruth. He turned to see her on the ground, clasping her belly. She gazed up at him, lips moving soundlessly. Blood ran between her fingers.

  Richie tumbled from the saddle and ran to her side. She swayed, would have keeled over, but he knelt and cradled her in his arms.

  “A bullet,” she whispered as he supported her head. “Didn’t even see it.”

  Through a gauze of tears, he looked down at the hole in her stomach. Shot in the gut at close range. The padded layers of her jack had offered no defence.

  Richie had seen men die from such wounds before. Even if taken to a surgeon at once, there was no saving her.

  These cold facts dashed through his mind. Richie willed them away. Refused to accept what was happening. He placed his hand over Ruth’s, sobbing at the wetness of her innards.

  She rested her head against his shoulder, one last time. “Do you mind,” she said, her voice a mere whisper, “the first time, in the grove at St Cuthberts?”

  Richie could only nod wordlessly. “The old gods were looking down on us,” she went on. “I would rather…rest with them, than…with Christ.”

  Her lips, white and drained of blood, flickered into a smile. “There. The truth is out…at last. I was ever…a…secret heretic. You would not…marry me now…Richie, lad.”

  She coughed blood, and spoke no more. “Go to your gods,” gasped Richie. “When the time comes, I will join you.”

  He held her then, careless of the battle raging around them. Some of the Bairns, who had seen Ruth shot down, dismounted to form a protective ring around their chief and his dying mate.

  Ruth was in unspeakable pain. Terrified, she shuddered and wept in his arms. Her life slowly ebbed through their clasped hands and trickled into the ground.

  “Lift me up,” she murmured into his ear. “I would…see them run.”

  Richie gently lifted Ruth to her feet. Blinded by tears, the world around him was a meaningless blur of colour and noise. He blinked them away, staggered slightly under Ruth’s weight. Her own strength was gone, and she couldn’t stand without his aid.

  “See!” Jock of Hawick’s coarse voice rose above the din. “The red bull is in flight!”

  Richie blinked away his tears. Below him, the heath swept down to the banks of the Gelt. The ground was carpeted with fallen men and horses. Many still jerked in their death-throes.

  The rebels were in full retreat. Dacre’s horsemen scattered, his infantry broken. No longer an army, but a horde of panicked fugitives. Richie saw men tear off badges and arm-bands, emblazoned with the red bull, and cast them away. Drunk on victory and bloodshed, loyalist soldiers chased the defeated men into the woods or slew them as they tried to flee across the water. Some were held down and drowned. Others had their throats slit. Their blood lent the dark rushing waters a crimson taint.

  Dacre himself had vanished. His banner still flew, carried by a sergeant on horseback. Pursued by a band of troopers,
this man urged his horse down to the narrowest point of the Gelt.

  At the very edge of the stony bank, the horse leaped. Beast and rider sailed across, the bull standard rippling over their heads, to land with barely a finger’s breadth to spare on the opposite shore.

  Richie bowed his head. The last of his dreams was made flesh. He had seen the red bull jump the river.

  21.

  Sir John Forster limped slowly over the field. The excitement of battle had passed, along with the crisis, leaving him utterly spent. He was used-up, consumed with fatigue, only held upright by pride and force of will.

  He was searching for the body of Leonard Dacre. Some of his troopers claimed to have seen the Crookback flee the field. Forster prayed not. Delivering the traitor’s head to the Queen would not only mark the end of the rebellion, but polish Forster’s own reputation at court until it shone like the sun. Once he basked in royal favour, nobody would ever dare challenge his authority as Warden again, or demand he resign the office.

  His nostrils flared at the pungent stench of slaughter. Scores of rebels had been killed, perhaps as many as four hundred. His soldiers were still counting the dead. Dacre and Hunsdon had lost perhaps half as many. Not a bad butcher’s bill, in the circumstances.

  Lord Hunsdon approached him. Annoyingly, there was a spring to the younger man’s step, and he showed no signs of weariness. Behind Hunsdon walked a trooper holding the red bull standard.

  Forster’s heart turned over at the sight of it. The ancient symbol of the Dacres, guardians of the North, now a trophy of war.

  “Where did you find that painted rag, my lord?” Forster asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Hunsdon laughed, a ghoulish and inappropriate noise on such a charnel ground.

  “Dumped beside the riverbank,” he replied cheerily. “Dacre’s sergeant let it go and fled into the forest. I’ll ask the Queen if I can keep it.”

  He laughed again and slapped Forster on the shoulder. When he was in high spirits, Hunsdon’s resemblance to King Harry was almost uncanny. Big, bluff, boorish, and dangerous to be near.

  “Indeed,” Forster said politely. “What of the Crookback though? We have his flag. I should be happier to have his body.”

  Some of Hunsdon’s good humour dissipated. “No sign of him,” he sniffed, wiping specks of dried blood from his face. “Escaped, I fear. His brother has vanished as well. I’ve sent men out to hunt for them.”

  Forster sighed. The Dacres would most likely flee to Scotland and take shelter with their allies. Then cross the sea to France. Spend the rest of their days making a nuisance of themselves from afar.

  Still, he consoled himself, without money and soldiers they could do little harm. Ragged political exiles, wandering the courts of Europe, penniless and starving. Eventually – Forster hoped – the brothers were destined to die in penury and be shovelled into a couple of paupers’ graves. Forgotten.

  “We should move on to Carlisle,” said Hunsdon. “Scrope will need our assistance against the Scots.”

  Forster inwardly groaned at the thought of another hard ride, with another battle at the end of it. This was the price he paid for a lifetime of service. For the office he refused to give up.

  He was about to call for his horse when hoof beats sounded nearby. The Warden turned, hand clapped to his sword, and relaxed when he saw the band of shabby riders trotting towards him.

  “Richie Reade,” he said, “you were just a lad, the last time I saw you.”

  Forster looked critically at the young reiver. “You’re a lad still,” he added, “but you’ve taken some hard knocks.”

  Richie’s face was ghastly pale, streaked with dirt and blood and the runnels of dried tears. His eyes had a haunted, desperate look about them. Forster had witnessed the same bereaved expression on countless faces.

  His gaze was drawn to the body slung over a horse to Richie’s left. A slender young girl, her face hidden under a trailing mane of auburn hair. Stone dead. Little perception was needed to realise her connection to Richie.

  Forster was hardened to all the evils of the Border. Usually he wouldn’t give a damn for the fate of some reiver’s bitch. On this occasion he did experience a twinge of sorrow. Even guilt.

  “I’m sorry for the lass,” he said awkwardly. His mood changed when he saw the men at Richie’s back. Dirty, hard-faced reivers, some of notorious repute.

  Hunsdon had seem them too. “Clemmie the Clash,” he growled. “Hungry Jock of Hawick. Black Jack Ridley. Every one of you dogs should have been dangling in the wind long since.”

  Richie held up his hand. “I came to ask pardon for my men,” he said. “Today they risked their lives to defend the Queen’s grace. Whatever their past crimes, this must count for something.”

  His voice was calm and full of quiet dignity, strange in the mouth of one so young. Forster knew a broken man when he heard one – a truly broken man – and found it difficult not to sympathise.

  “I saw your lads charge out of the woods and take Dacre in flank,” he said grudgingly. “It was a brave thing.”

  And, he didn’t care to add, probably won the battle for us.

  “God’s teeth,” rasped Hunsdon, “you’re not thinking of sparing these bastards? Clemmie alone has at least eight murders on his account!”

  Forster thought quickly. In his time he had killed more men, or had them killed, than he could remember. They all died for a reason: crime, or gambling debts, or because they had opposed him in some way. Offhand he couldn’t think of any he killed for doing good service. It smacked of meanness.

  “Perhaps,” he said, speaking low to his colleague, “we could put them to good use. They’re scum, granted. But I’ll wager there are few better horsemen and fighters anywhere on the March.”

  Hunsdon gave a scornful laugh. “You mean to take them for soldiers? On your own head, my friend. They’ll have their fingers in the pay-chest before you can blink. I won’t have any of them at Berwick. The moment Clemmie or Jock sets foot inside the East March, I’ll stretch their filthy necks.”

  Forster nodded. This was reasonable. “Lord Scrope might take a few,” he remarked, “if we can split them up, scatter them among our garrisons, so much the better.”

  He turned back to Richie. “Request ranted,” said the Warden, “on condition your men agree to serve in the garrisons at Berwick and Carlisle, or any other place I see fit to send them.”

  There was some muttering and shuffling among the Bairns. “Won’t go for no damned soldier,” Jock muttered sulkily. “All that marching about and saluting. Like a lot of bloody puppets on strings.”

  “Aye,” spat Black Jack Ridley, “Forster can kiss my arse.”

  Richie turned on them. “Hold your tongues!” he thundered. “You will serve or swing. Choose! I have already done more than you deserve.”

  The steel in his voice cowed the Bairns into silence. Men two or even three times Richie’s age, hard-bitten ruffians with an ocean of blood on their hands, could not meet his eye.

  Forster was impressed. The young reiver clearly had a gift for command. Even experienced officers might struggle to keep a tight rein on the likes of Clemmie the Clash and Hungry Jock.

  His colleague shared Forster’s opinion. “That lad could make a decent captain,” remarked Hunsdon. “Better to have him guarding the March then setting fire to it, eh?”

  “You misunderstand me, sirs,” said Richie, “I ask pardon for my men. Not myself.”

  For once, Forster was taken by surprise. “What the hell d’you mean?” he demanded fiercely. He wondered if Richie meant some trick, and was relieved by the files of troopers and March riders who had swiftly gathered around them. If it came to a fight, they could easily overwhelm Richie’s little band.

  “All I ask,” Richie said in a tone of dangerous patience, “is to be allowed to go free, so I might bury my woman in peace. Nothing more.”

  “A likely tale,” sneered Hunsdon, “and afterwards you’ll be up to your old tricks. Murd
ering, thieving, lifting kyne. We’re not fools or infants, lad. I was hanging reivers while you were still in your cot.”

  Forster laid a hand on his arm. “Let be,” the old Warden said quietly, “what harm can one man do?”

  Hunsdon brushed him off. “A great deal, in my experience. However, if you wish to let this carrion off the hook, that is your affair. The Reades are Middle March folk, and hence none of my concern. Thank God. I’ll see you at Carlisle, Sir John.”

  He turned about and stumped off. Forster, who found his colleague impossible to deal with at times, was grateful to see him go.

  “Well, Richie,” he said, “you and I are not friends, and have no cause to be. Still, I owe you something. Your uncle came to me and asked for protection against the Armstrongs. I denied him, and Crowhame was destroyed. Today you helped me put down a dangerous rebellion.”

  Forster knuckled his brow. He wasn’t used to such public displays of humility, but wanted to be seen to pay his debts.

  “Off you go, then,” he said, “out of my sight. I’ll give you three days to bury the lass. After that, my hounds will be on your trail.”

  Richie gave a curt nod and turned about. The ranks of the soldiers parted to let him through, and he rode away at a canter, leading the horse over which the dead girl was slung.

  Forster watched him go with mixed feelings.

  Out of my sight, thought the Warden, but not out of mind. I’ll be seeing you again, Richie O’the Bow.”

  22.

  Richie buried Ruth in the ancient grove next to St Cuthberts church, below the pagan idol. In death, as in life, the old gods would watch over her.

  Hacking through the frosted ground had taken him hours of painful toil. Richie endured it, just as he endured the unbearable sight of Ruth’s corpse. The warm body he had held so often was now cold and dead. A mere sack of flesh and bones and water, bereft of the spark of life.

  At last the thing was done. Richie gently picked up her body and lowered it into the five feet of earth he had dug out for her last resting place. He closed her eyelids, kissed her fondly one last time, and folded her hands over her breast. Because she was a reiver and the child of reivers, he laid her sword, dagger and pistol next to her.