“Farewell, my lass,” he said gently. “When you see Cleave-Crown in the next life, belt him round the ear and call him a bastard.”
He climbed out and shovelled the loose earth back on top of her. When the last sod of earth was flattened down, Richie cast aside his shovel and sat on the ground beside the freshly-dug grave.
“The old priest of Crowhame will rage in Heaven,” he remarked with a smile, laying a hand on the soil he had only just heaped over the grave. “Let the old bugger rave and whine. Payback for all those whippings he gave us as children.”
His voice choked over the last words. Now, finally, was a time for weeping. After months of bottled-up grief and sorrow, Richie bowed his head and let the tears flow.
After a time he fell quiet, lost in misery. The sweat of labour had cooled on his skin. Darkness gathered overhead. Distant thunder rolled among the high tops. Soon rain started to fall, pattering through the leafless branches of the willow trees around the grove.
Richie let the rain soak through his jerkin. Nearby lay his cloak and padded jack. He ignored them, barely felt the moisture on his skin. The cold and wet winter were as nothing to the coldness inside him.
His hobbler, Jack, was tethered to one of the willow trees. The beast’s sudden high-pitched whinny startled Richie out of his mood.
“Quiet, fool,” he growled, “it’s only a drop of rain. You’re a Border pony, for God’s sake.”
“Doesn’t mean he has to enjoy the rain, cousin,” said Davy.
Richie twisted round and saw three horsemen on the ridge above the grove. Davy, his lover Stephen, and Adam of Shaws. All three were wrapped up in heavy woollen cloaks against the rain.
Richie stood up to face them. He saw they were armed with lance, sword and pistol. Save for his dagger, Richie had no weapon. His own sword and pistol were among the gear strapped to his hobbler’s back. Even armed to the teeth, he would stand little chance against these three.
“Did Forster send you after me?” he asked. Only two days had passed since he left the battlefield beside the Beck. Forster had granted him three days’ grace to bury Ruth and get out of the Middle March, but it would be like the old Warden to break his word.
Would Richie’s own kin murder him? Not just kin, but friends and comrades, whom he had once led and shared so many adventures with. On the Border, any kind of treachery was possible. There was no limit here to human evil.
“He did not,” replied Davy, “and you can stop playing with your dagger. If we wanted you dead, you’d already be cooling on the ground.”
His sudden laugh broke the tension. The others grinned, and Davy dismounted to slide on his backside down the earthen bank.
He and Richie embraced. “Well met,” cried Davy, thumping the other man on the back. “Just two days have passed since I last beheld your ugly face. Two days too long, eh?”
They disengaged, and Davy looked past his cousin at the grave. His face grew sombre.
“God rest her,” he said, taking off his bonnet, “one less Reade in the world. Our ranks grow thin. We thought you would bury her here. Poor lass.”
Richie turned away. “Why did you come looking for me?” he asked quickly.
“Forster gave us permission to find you and say farewell,” replied Davy. “The old swine’s in a rare good humour, thanks to his victory over the Crookback.”
“The Scots are beaten, too,” said Adam. “After the battle we rode in haste to Carlisle, only to find a Scottish army hovering on the border, just three miles from the town. They took one look at us and rode off home.”
“Westmoreland?” asked Richie.
“Aye,” said his cousin, “Westmoreland, with the Kerrs of Cessord and Ferniehurst, Scott of Buccleuch and all manner of rogues at his back. Perhaps as many as fifteen hundred.”
Richie chewed his lip. “Fifteen hundred lances. If Dacre had waited on them at Naworth, Hunsdon and Forster would have been swept away.”
“And us with them,” Davy said cheerfully, “so give thanks for the rash folly of Crookback Leonard Dacre. God made him a fool, and thus spared our lives.”
Davy paled when he realised his mistake. Richie chose to ignore it, gathered up his belongings and walked slowly towards his pony.
“There was another reason Forster sent us,” Davy called after him. Richie smiled. He hadn’t expected anything less.
He untethered Jack, soothing the agitated beast with hushed whispers, then turned and waited for Davy’s explanation.
“Forster says you can still have your pardon,” said the other man, “if you come back with us to Carlisle. He wants you for an officer.”
A few moments passed while Richie digested this. “An officer,” he said eventually, “a captain of horse, no doubt, with a body of stout troopers under my command. Decent pay, comfortable billets at Carlisle or Bewcastle. Hexham, even. Maybe I could help guard the gaol, and escort convicted reivers to the gallows.”
Davy spread his hands. “You’re flippant, cousin. But it could be worse. Better snug quarters in some garrison fortress than freezing to death in the Black Moss. Always hunted, always hungry. Every lawful man’s hand turned against us.”
“Show me a lawful man on the Border,” said Richie, “and I’ll show you a liar. Tell Forster he can wipe his arse with my pardon. I want none of his forgiveness.”
He almost laughed at the tragic expression on Davy’s face. Stephen and Adam also looked stricken. They had obviously hoped he would see sense.
Richie put his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself into the saddle. He was still heavy with grief, but the well of tears had run dry. No reiver could afford to weep for long. After a while grief spilled over into self-pity, which was not a survival trait.
“Think before you act,” pleaded Davy, “where will you go on your own? What can you do?”
“I’ll go where I please,” answered Richie, “and do as I will. I’m a reiver. All I ask for is an open road.”
“Your road that leads only to the gallows,” Davy said grimly.
“Perhaps. Or to far horizons.”
With a final wave, Richie swung Jack about and put him to the gallop.
Horse and rider surged away from the grove. Before them stretched open winter-bound countryside, sparkling like white crystal under the blanket of snow. Beyond that, the stark beauty and glorious isolation of Border hills.
It is enough, thought Richie, enough for the reiver.
END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Border historians will notice that I have played fast and loose with history: for instance, the raid on Sir Cuthert Collingwood’s house at Eslington took place in 1587, not 1569. The pugnacious ‘Captain Jonas’ is based on the real-life Captain Bellas, who really did put up a stubborn defence of a ruined building against overwhelming numbers of Scottish reivers. All of Bellas’ men were killed in the final attack, and Bellas himself carried away to Liddesdale for ransom. Happily, the records show he was back in England and drawing pay a few months later.
The assassination attempt on Sir John Forster is also my invention, though the Percies and their allies would have been more than happy to see him dead. Forster, shameless old rogue and gangster chief that he was – a sort of 16th century Tony Soprano – was also the mainstay of the English defence of the March. Without his prompt action, the rebellions of Percy, Westmoreland and Crookback Dacre would most likely have succeeded. The consequences of such a victory are hard to imagine. Perhaps England would have reverted to a Catholic state, just a few decades after the Reformation.
The Border Reivers are a fascinating subject, and hopefully I have done them some justice in the short tale. For roughly a century, between the rise of the Tudors and the advent of the Stuarts, the reiver families dominated the ‘buffer zone’ that existed between the kingdoms of England and Scotland. The reivers created their own mythology, best captured by Sir Walter Scott in his compilation of Border ballads. A few of these, such as Twa Corbies and Johnny Armstrong,
are quoted in my story.
The ballads provide a glimpse into a grim alien world, one where blood-feud, war and the most hideous crimes were played out against some of the most starkly beautiful countryside on earth. For those keen to know more of the reivers and their era, I can do no better than recommend The Steel Bonnets by George MacDonald Fraser, the definitive account of this often overlooked period of British history. Fraser’s novel, The Candlemass Road, is another must-read, and demonstrates the author’s skill at capturing period dialogue.
‘Reiver’ is set in the latter half of the 16th century, just as the heyday of the Border Reivers was starting to fade. The Rebellion of the Northern Earls, followed by the short-lived rebellion of Leonard Dacre, marked the beginning of the last serious burst of military activity on the Border. At the end of the century, when James VI of Scotland succeeded Elizabeth I to the English throne, the old frontier disappeared.
The reiver families, who had profited from the constant state of warfare and distrust between the two kingdoms, were tamed by the government, often via the most brutal methods. Many were executed without trial – a method known as Jeddart Justice – or transported to Ireland. However, they were far from wiped out, and many of the famous surnames still exist and flourish on the Border to this day.
For Richie Reade, all this lies in the future. Whether or not his road leads him to the gallows, or to a far horizon, remains to be seen….
Reiver Page 19
