Their look of disbelief was accompanied by muttered exchanges. “Christ almighty, Mangey's gone tae collect the money!”
“Don't panic. We'll kill 'im now. Same difference.”
Heath cursed himself for a careless fool. Never had his instincts let him down so badly before. The quartet stood between him and his clothes. He decided there would be no more attempts to drown him, so he stood up to his full height. The water cascaded down his limbs, leaving his dark skin glistening as he walked warily from the stream.
“So, Douglas, ye escaped a watery grave.”
“The name is Kennedy. I assume yours is Armstrong!”
They exchanged uncomfortable glances.
“Where is Mangey Armstrong?” Heath asked, seemingly oblivious of his naked, dripping-wet state.
One of the outlaws grimaced with glee. “He's selling some of your firkin' mares at Kelso horse fair. We'll save you for 'im.”
“Tae lowest hell wi' Mangey,” another Armstrong said. “That pleasure is mine, 'ere and now.” The shaggy-headed brute drew his lips back to expose rotting teeth. “What's more, I'm gonna kill him wi' his own knife!”
CHAPTER 6
Seemingly, Heath stood mesmerized as the outlaw drew the long knife from his belt, but in truth his rippling muscles were tensing in readiness for the onslaught.
The brute eyed Heath's cock and balls. “I think I'll do a wee bit o' trimmin' before I finish him off. Let's have some fun.”
Heath knew that all he had was a split second before three of them grabbed him and held him down. He rushed at them and rolled to the ground within reach of his discarded clothing. Not quick enough to escape a slash from the knife, but at least the cut was across his shoulder and not his groin.
As Heath grabbed his sword from beneath his pile of clothes, his lust for revenge returned with a rush. His first target was the lout who was in possession of his own knife. Heath blocked the brute's plunging arm with his own solid forearm, then thrust the sword into the Borderer's gut and withdrew it quickly. He raised the bloody sword over his head, swinging it in a deadly circle to keep the other three at bay. The trio had no weapons; Heath's knife, which lay beside the dying man, was out of their reach.
They backed off slightly from the naked, sword-wielding figure, but it was apparent they still believed that three could take him. Heath concluded they hadn't the brains of lice. He selected a target and lunged swiftly, taking his enemy in the throat. He swung about and grabbed another by his leather vest, holding the point of his sword beneath the man's chin. The third man took to his heels as if the Grim Reaper were after him.
“Who ordered you to murder Lord Ramsay Douglas?” Heath demanded.
“I dinna ken … Mangey knows.”
Heath shoved the point of his sword into the man's gullet, just deep enough to draw a trickle of blood. “You said he had gone for the money. Did he go to Bewcastle? Was it Dacre?”
“Dacre?” the reiver repeated slowly, as if such a possibility had never occurred to him until now. “Nay, he went north to Kelso. Mangey's our leader, he's the only one who knows. He does the negotiatin' an' handles the money.”
Heath ordered, “On your knees, with your arms behind you.” When the thickset marauder obliged, Heath took the leather thong from his tied-back hair and tightly bound the man's wrists. He stepped over to the two men on the ground and saw that they were dead. Only then did he take the time to put his clothes back on and pick up his favorite knife, with the pentagram etched into its blade. With his sword, he prodded the man to his feet, then took the reins of his roan, and they set off to where the raiders had made camp.
It was dark by the time they arrived, and the embers of the fire were barely smoldering. Heath took a rope from his saddle and securely tied his prisoner to an oak. Then he inspected and watered his mares. He concluded that they were thinner and had been neglected. Likely they hadn't seen an oat since they'd left Eskdale, but the grass had kept them from starving.
The reivers had been roasting a haunch of mutton from a ewe they had stolen, but the stink of the rancid fat almost turned Heath's stomach. He tossed it into the trees, built up the fire, and sat down to plan. He had been forced to kill two men in self-defense and was honest enough to regret that his prisoner also had not died in the fight. The ugly brute was little use to him, yet he could not bring himself to knife a man in cold blood. Heath wanted Mangey Armstrong. Badly. Perhaps all he need do was wait for him to return from Kelso, which was only about thirty miles from Mangerton. Heath decided to wait another day and if Mangey didn't show up by then, he would move on to Bewcastle.
At Rockcliffe, Raven Carleton was about to depart for Blackpool Gate to visit her grandmother, Dame Doris Heron. Her brother was accompanying her as far as Staple-ton, approximately a dozen miles from Rockcliffe, to help her deliver two hunting birds that she had trained for a friend of her father. But Heron refused to escort her the short distance from Stapleton to their grandmother's, fearing he would be coerced into visiting “the old crone.”
Since Raven didn't know how long her visit would be, she also decided to take her two falcons whose training wasn't yet complete. Sultan and Sheba were a pair of valuable peregrines who needed daily attention. She had recently acquired two new merlins, both as yet untrained, but decided this pair could be left at Rockcliffe in the care of the young falconer.
Raven's mother had a private word with her daughter before she departed. “I know you will be spending time with Christopher Dacre and will most likely be invited to Bewcastle. You are a clever girl, Raven; make the most of this opportunity.” Kate Heron's tone lightened as she said, “Don't you dare come home until you catch a husband.” Though Raven and her mother laughed, both knew she was serious.
Doris Heron was aware that her favorite granddaughter was coming, for that morning a raven had flown to the rowan tree in her garden. It had not come for the bright red berries, for ravens were meat-eaters; therefore she knew it was an omen.
Dame Doris came out of her large stone house to greet her granddaughter. “Raven, my lovely, I knew you were coming.”
“Grandmother, I've come for a good long visit. I brought Sultan and Sheba so I can continue their training.” Raven dismounted from Sully and lifted two small wooden carrying crates from the pack animal that also carried her luggage.
“Bring them into the stillroom and set them on the perch.”
The women entered through the arched doorway, then Raven removed the falcons from their crates and fastened their jesses to the old perch. “I'll leave their hoods on until they settle.”
A large hare sped from the stillroom as soon as he sensed the raptors, and Raven laughed at her grandmother's familiar. “Magick, you must weigh over two stone; my raptors cannot carry you off!”
“Nay, but he knows they would peck out his eye for a delicacy.” Dame Heron followed her hare from the still-room and lifted Raven's bags from the packhorse. Then she called to a lad who was throwing pebbles into the pond and bade him take Sully and the other pony to the stable. “Come and we'll sip some heather mead and have a natter.”
“I'll carry my luggage, Grandmother.”
“Cheeky young jade, d'ye imagine I'm past it? I can carry you and yer bags if I have a mind to!”
“I know you can do anything,” Raven acknowledged.
“And so can you—you've the power, my lovely, if you will only learn to use it!” Doris set down the bags in the vaulted living room, then poured her homemade mead into pewter goblets, and Raven sipped it with appreciation, tasting the honey and the smoky-flavored heather. She didn't know it also contained a small amount of rue, which loosened the tongue.
“Tell me, Raven, has your fancy settled on anyone yet?”
“Perhaps it has.”
“He's a Borderer, I hope. I want a real man for you, Raven.”
“I'd rather be flayed alive,” Raven said, laughing. “I'd be dead of disgust in a week!”
“Better someone wild and
fascinating like a mountain ram than someone tame and uninteresting like a craven lapdog.” Doris gave her a speculative glance. “Have you found yourself a hag stone yet? The one I gave you as a child won't do; you must find your own to give you great positive power.”
Raven hesitated for a moment, then admitted, “Yes, I did find a hag stone.” She pulled the stone with the natural hole through it from her pocket and held it out on the palm of her hand. When she had found it, she had hidden it because it seemed silly, but here with her grandmother, there seemed nothing frivolous about it.
“You are old enough to know that the hole in the hag stone is a symbol of your female genitals.”
“Is that why it has no power for a man?”
Doris chuckled. “A male needs a phallic-shaped stone, called a god stone.” She saw Raven blush and smiled knowingly. “Hold your hag stone to your breast, close your eyes, breathe deeply, and center yourself.” She watched with approval as Raven obeyed her. “Now blend with the stone. Feel its heartbeat. Feel its strength and attune yourself with its special life force. It has the power to heal. Never forget to give thanks for its energy and power.”
“I really do feel it,” Raven said with wonder.
“Over the years, I have taught you all I know of herbs, because you were so adept at learning. Now I shall teach you how to combine herbs' properties with the power of the Craft, to make you invincible as a healer.”
“You mean witchcraft?” Raven asked solemnly.
“I never use that word; it is simply the Craft. A Solitary who practices the Craft has such an empathy with nature that she becomes at one with it. You must have a reverence for the sun, the moon, the wind, the rain, the earth, and the sea. Fire, rock, earth, water, thunder—all have energy and power within them that can be harnessed. I believe you have an old soul, Raven. Your soul talks to you; you must learn to listen.”
Raven wondered why her family, and her mother in particular, thought Dame Doris babbled nonsense. To Raven, the things her grandmother said made perfect sense.
Doris drained her goblet of mead. “Sufficient for today. Tomorrow, if you like, we can do a ritual.”
Raven lifted her goblet in a salute. “I would like that above all things, Grandmother.”
When they awoke, early the next morning, it was raining, and Raven, wearing only her shift, followed her grandmother outside. Both were barefoot and they sank their feet into the loose earth of the herb garden, and lifted their arms and faces so that the soft rain could cleanse their spirits and their bodies. The fragrance of mint, mingling with the scent of thyme and rosemary, was heavy in the damp air, and Raven drank in the perfume until her senses swam. She had done these things with her grandmother since she was a little girl, and she found nothing strange in the ritual. She had been taught to revere every plant, insect, and animal, and knew this was the reason she had such an affinity with birds.
In the afternoon when the rain ceased and the sun came out, Raven flew Sultan and Sheba at the edge of Kershope Forest. The falcons explored the vastness of the strange new territory, flying so high they were almost invisible. Raven envied them their ability to fly. She was passionate about her freedom and longed to wheel about the sky. It was a physical impossibility, yet not a spiritual one if she allowed her soul to fly free. Raven was relieved when her beautiful raptors returned, for it was a testament to her training that they were not lured to fly away. She returned them to the stillroom but did not hood them.
Raven took Sully into the stable and had a visit with her uncle Johnnie Heron, her mother's brother, who had a farm adjoining her mother's land and tended her stable. He was a born and bred Borderer to his bones, teasing the life out of Raven, making her laugh until her sides ached.
That night it was a new moon, and Dame Doris decided the time was ripe to initiate Raven into the Craft. She laid out a diaphanous robe of pale lavender with silver threads for her granddaughter. She placed homemade incense into a pewter bowl, then she gathered together the consecrated tools needed to perform a magic ritual. Finally she opened the window as a portal for the spirits of the other world.
Raven donned the robe, aware that her naked limbs were quite visible through the transparent material. She knew that colors had their own power within them. Red was for war and revenge, blue was for fertility and creativity, and silver-lavender was for visions and magic divination. She watched her grandmother roll up the rug to reveal a large circle chalked upon the flagstone floor. Within the circle was a pentagram, or five-pointed star. Raven placed her hand into her grandmother's, took a deep breath, and together they stepped inside the magic circle.
First, Dame Doris lit four golden-yellow candles, but left one purple and two green candles unlit. There also was power in numbers, seven being the most mystical. Then she set the lit taper to the pewter bowl's incense, which was made from pine resin and catnip flowers, sprinkled with milfoil, or yarrow as it was commonly known. She positioned Raven so that the moon was visible through the open window and instructed, “Repeat after me:
When I see the new moon
It becomes me to lift mine eye,
It becomes me to bend my knee,
It becomes me to bow my head,
Giving praise, thou moon of guidance.”
Raven intoned the words her grandmother gave her, then waited for further instructions.
“Now pour the milk into the hollow stone and make an oblation to Hecate, the goddess of the dark side of the moon.”
Carefully, Raven poured the ewe's milk into the elliptical stone of red agate and watched in wonder as it seemed to turn pink. “Do not repress your subconscious, Raven. The moon rules the subconscious instincts, feelings, dreams, and intuition. It represents the unknown, mystic, hidden aspects of nature, and will shed light on the unforeseen and give you insight to your secret enemies. Open, Raven, like a night-blooming convolvulus.”
Raven closed her eyes and breathed deeply, evenly, attempting to open her mind and her spirit to the natural forces of the universe. She opened her eyes quickly when she felt something touch her head, but saw that it was her grandmother's staff. Then Raven felt a rush of energy enter at her crown and flow down her body, until the soles of her feet tingled. Her robe fluttered about her naked limbs, and the curtains at the open window blew about as if taken by a gust of wind. Then, suddenly, all was still.
“The green candles represent love and marriage, the purple is your heart's desire. Light first the green, contemplating upon whom you want for your husband, then light the purple and envision your heart's desire.”
Raven took the taper from the burning incense and lit the first green candle. In her mind's eye, she conjured a picture of Christopher Dacre, tall and fair, then set the taper to the second green candle. A picture of the Borderer who had called himself Kennedy came unbidden into her head. His dark visage and long black hair were in stark contrast to the other man. Raven quickly denied him. “No!” But as if he would not be denied, the flame of the first green candle sputtered and died, while that of the second green candle elongated and flamed high. She quickly relit the candle that had been snuffed out and concentrated upon the vision of Christopher Dacre. When her focus was firmly fixed upon him, she lit the purple candle.
Raven had a vision of a falcon like Sultan. The raptor swooped about her in a great circle, then flew up close to the rafters. She caught her breath as she saw a black raven flee from the hunter, but knew the falcon would catch its prey. The great hawk, however, did not kill the smaller bird, but forced it to fly in unison. Raven stood spellbound, watching them until they flew off together, through the window, into the night.
Dame Doris set down her staff and took up a small dagger. She kissed its double-edged blade and presented its haft to Raven. “Once you have drawn your own blood with this dagger, it will belong to you and no other. Always cut your healing herbs with this knife,” she instructed. “May it serve you well.”
Raven hesitated for only a moment, then took poss
ession of the black-handled dagger, made a shallow cut in her fingertip, and let the crimson drops of blood run down its blade. It is done, for better or for worse, Raven thought. She had been inducted into the Craft. She wet her fingers with her tongue and snuffed out the seven candle flames. Then she took salt, a final offering to the goddess, and poured it upon the incense to stop it from smoldering. She remembered to thank the deity, and together the two females stepped from the magic circle.
“Did you experience a vision, my lovely?”
“I had two visions,” Raven said with awe.
“When you lit the green candles, you saw the man you would love and marry,” Dame Doris said knowingly.
“I did. I saw Christopher Dacre, heir to Lord Thomas Dacre, Head Border Warden, whom King Henry appointed.”
“Dacre.” Doris Heron repeated the name without approval or disapproval. “The young man plays a leading role in your future.”
Raven dimpled. “I know. He will come shortly to visit me. And if—no, I mean when—he invites me to Bewcastle, I shall go!”
“Good. You need more experience with men; you have been far too sheltered. You have the capacity for great power, Raven, but always remember that a woman's greatest power lies within her sexuality. Never be afraid to explore it, to utilize it. At the moment, you have an innocent sexuality that attracts and tantalizes the male. But as you gain sexual experience, you will be able to attain ascendancy over any mere male.” Doris watched her granddaughter's face closely. “What happened when you lit the purple candle?”
“I had a second vision. You know that my heart's desire is training hunting birds. … I saw a falcon and a raven flying together. The raven was obviously me. Though my mother strongly disapproves of my training hawks, I now know I am doing the right thing by following my heart!”
The Border Hostage Page 7
