Return of the Border Warrior

by Blythe Gifford

  She sat up in bed, gripped with new fears. ‘Did your father know when he gave me his word? Did Rob when he took it on?’

  ‘Willie Storwick killed your father. They needed no more. That was enough.’

  ‘Then it will have to be enough for Johnnie, too.’ He had kissed her and he had killed for her, but this she would share with no man. For she would not admit to Bessie, nor to herself, that Johnnie’s promise meant something different, something more, than Geordie’s and Rob Brunson’s ever had.

  Chapter Twelve

  A fortnight later, John wore the vest to Truce Day.

  He and Cate had barely spoken since the day she finished it.

  She had asked for no more kisses.

  He had offered none.

  Her eyes had expected too much that day, expected him to be a man he was not.

  A Brunson. Someone who belonged here. Even someone who might stay.

  But he rode as a Brunson today. Rob had called near all the men to come so they could fight if needed, but it was more than a war party. Cate was not the only woman with them, for Bessie had insisted they needed salt and a new cooking pot. Truce Day was a market day as well. Still, they rode every mile between the tower and Kershopefoote on alert, ready for an ambush.

  ‘We should be meeting safely on Scots land,’ Rob grumbled. The truce site lay on the English side of the river that served as the border.

  ‘It was the only way they would consent to bring Scarred Willie.’ John repeated Carwell’s reassurances, but he had been in the Borders long enough to feel

  uneasy.

  Or perhaps it was the October damp that chilled him. Gold-and-brown leaves littered the ground, but green leaves clung to most of the branches, drifting like clouds, blocking a clear view across the river.

  The trees thinned where the river’s ford was easiest and they pulled to a stop at Black Rob’s grim nod. There, on the other side of the water, waited a group of mounted, armed men.

  He pulled Norse closer to Cate, Rob to Bessie, and the rest of the men circled them. Belde growled, the hair on the back of his neck rising.

  ‘I should not have let you come,’ he muttered, as if Cate’s coming had been his decision to make.

  He did not take his eyes from the enemy to look at her, but her knuckles were white as she gripped the reins. Barely a breath escaped her.

  The men on the opposite shore looked as ready for a fight as their own, but as he studied them, he realised the Storwicks must also have needed salt, for their horses surrounded a black-haired woman just as protectively as the Brunsons’ circled Bessie and Cate.

  John caught the eyes of the dark-haired woman for a moment and recognised uneasy apprehension. Then his eyes met those of the older man beside her, father, no doubt, and for just a moment, they were just two men, put upon by the foolish demands of their women.

  But the gaze of the man on her other side held no such empathy. Perhaps ten years older than John, his face carried a scar from cheekbone down to his throat.

  And something visceral shook John’s gut.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he whispered to Rob.

  ‘The woman?’

  John spared him a look. He’d never heard Rob comment on a woman before. ‘The man with the scar.’

  ‘Why, that’s the man we’re after, Johnnie boy. That’s Scarred Willie Storwick.’

  No wonder, then, that Cate sat silent.

  ‘He’ll not hurt you,’ John whispered. He’d make sure of it.

  She didn’t answer.

  When he turned to look, he could see that fear gripped her again. Eyes wide, hands stiff, she was so full of terror that she could not flee, even had she wanted.

  And now, curse him for not seeing it before, he knew why.

  It was Scarred Willie Storwick she feared. And now she had to face him in the flesh.

  He wanted to cover her hand, to reassure her with a touch, but this was not the place. And right now, he wasn’t even sure she would know his touch from that of the man she feared.

  Rob stood in his stirrups. ‘Back away and put down your weapons,’ he said, voice raised. ‘Then we’ll come across.’

  They could ford the river with weapons raised, but they would be at a disadvantage. On dry ground, the Storwicks could battle them back to flounder in the river.

  ‘Do you not trust us, then?’ The older Storwick spoke, but Scarred Willie had a smirk on his lips that clearly said they shouldn’t.

  ‘I would trust a man who gave me his word,’ Rob answered. ‘And I can see you have womenfolk with you. You wouldn’t want any harm to come to them.’

  John watched the chief on the other side of the river turn to look at the women beside him. Now he noticed an older woman next to the one he’d first seen, probably the wife and mother. Both of them lifted their chins, as if to dismiss the clan across the river.

  ‘You’re not threatening my women, I hope,’ Storwick said.

  Rob tensed, drawing the lance back as if he might hurl it across the river at the insult. A Border man might leave widows behind, but he’d never intentionally harm a woman. ‘Not if you are not threatening mine,’ Rob replied.

  On Rob’s other side, Bessie sat still and quiet as a carving of the Madonna, never releasing a ripple of fear.

  But Cate bit her shaking lip, her hands tight on the reins. The fear beneath her bravado, the fear that had stalked her dreams was now real, before her, in the light of day.

  ‘We’re here for a Truce Day,’ the Storwick answered. ‘We threaten no one.’

  ‘Well, then, why don’t you put your weapons down in the grass over there?’ Rob said, gesturing to the clearing safely to the right of the ford. ‘That way, no sloppy Storwick with a spear will nick one of ours.’

  The Storwicks’ head man could judge the distance as well as he. ‘I would certainly consider that if your men left your arms on that bank before you ride across. That way, you won’t be careless, either.’

  The suggestion wasn’t worth Rob’s breath to answer. So, on opposite shores, both families waited, silent.

  ‘We’ve got to lay down our weapons anyway, as soon as we reach town,’ John said.

  ‘We’re not leaving them on the Scots side of the border,’ Rob snapped.

  The sun moved silent overhead. The breeze fluttered. No one moved.

  John looked downstream. ‘Is there another crossing?’

  Rob shook his head. ‘They’d only follow us along the bank.’

  ‘It’s a smaller force than ours,’ John answered, trying to assess their chances.

  ‘That makes no difference when they are on land and our horses must flounder from the water to the bank. The warden should be here.’

  Your warden, he might as well have said. As if the fault were John’s.

  ‘Where’s your warden?’ Rob called out to the Storwicks. There was a ritual. English and Scottish Wardens arrived the night before Truce Day. The next morning, the English Warden’s men came to the Scots side to request a truce. The Scots would return the favour. The wardens would embrace to make the truce official. ‘Has he no knowledge of how things are done?’

  ‘I might ask the same about your man.’

  The king had picked Carwell. John had met him face to face. But was he the right choice?

  Then, hoofbeats.

  John turned to see Carwell’s green-and-gold banner flapping above a group of men riding fast from the west. Relieved, he released a sigh.

  The new warden pulled up beside John, who introduced him to Rob and explained what had happened.

  ‘We arranged this in haste,’ Carwell said. ‘The English man must have been delayed as I was.’

  Rob rolled his eyes.

  Carwell rode to the edge of the bank. ‘Men of Storwick! I am Thomas Carwell, newly appointed Warden of the March, as my father was before me. Praise be to King James.’

  A rousing silence met the mention of the king’s name, on both sides of the water.

  Carwell pulled o
ut his sword and handed it to one of his men. ‘Stay here,’ he told the captain. ‘And if they attack me, kill them all.’

  Alone, Carwell urged his horse into the river.

  ‘There goes an unarmed fool,’ Rob said.

  John smiled. ‘He’s still got his dagger.’

  Halfway to the English side, Carwell’s horse stopped and the man spoke again. ‘Your warden and I have declared this a Truce Day according to Border Laws. Now lay down your arms and let me and my men across. We will collect your weapons and disarm the Brunsons when they follow.’

  The Storwick leader hesitated. He shared a whisper with the man next to him—a son?—but not, John noticed, with Scarred Willie.

  ‘Be ready,’ Rob said. Each man put a hand on his weapon. ‘Carwell hasn’t enough men to take them all if they charge.’

  The Storwicks’ leader handed his sword to his lieutenant, then rode into the river until he faced Carwell. ‘We agree,’ he said, in a voice loud enough for both sides to hear.

  John gave his brother a triumphant smile.

  Carwell’s men waded their horses across the river and collected the Storwick weapons. Then, Rob led his men across and, one by one, they disarmed and handed over their swords and spears.

  Cate was the last. ‘I’ll not give it over,’ she said, clinging to her dagger, as Carwell waited. Her eyes never left Scarred Willie. ‘Not as long as he takes breath.’

  ‘Let her keep it,’ John said. ‘I’ll answer for her.’

  ‘I can’t begin with exceptions,’ Carwell answered.

  John knew that, but he fought it anyway. ‘It’s too small to use in battle.’

  ‘It’s large enough to take a life.’ He turned to Bessie with a slight smile, as if a woman would be more yielding. ‘Help me, won’t you?’

  Bessie frowned. ‘I’ll help you, but I’ll hold you responsible,’ she said, her brown eyes implacable.

  Carwell nodded. ‘You and every other Brunson on this bank.’

  Then Bessie leaned towards Cate. ‘Come on, hinny. Let him have it. Just a few hours more and this will all be over.’

  Bessie kept her hand on Cate’s arm and nodded to John, who pried open Cate’s cold fingers, forcing her to release the hilt.

  John handed it to Carwell, feeling as uncertain as Bessie sounded. ‘If anything happens, the Brunson you’ll need to answer to is this one.’ He had convinced Cate to trust the warden. Could he?

  They turned the horses towards the village.

  Next to him, Rob, deprived of his weapon, looked naked and nervous and John saw, never so clearly as in that moment, that his brother knew nothing but riding and reiving.

  What would such a man do if peace were thrust upon him?

  Yet John felt no peace as he assessed the small village, protected by neither tower nor wall. Perfect for a Truce Day gathering, for there was nothing that could be captured.

  But nothing that could be defended, either.

  Three booths proudly decorated the crowded centre street, but the people were silent as they rode in, as if waiting for proof of peaceful intentions.

  The mounted families filled the town square and they stood at another impasse, each waiting for the other side to dismount first.

  ‘It’s all wrong,’ Rob muttered beside him. ‘We always meet on Scots soil. The English Wardens come to us.’

  Then the young Storwick woman, without waiting for leave, turned her horse away from the protection of her family, trotted to the booth of the seller of pans, dismounted and started inspecting his wares.

  ‘Fool,’ Cate muttered next to him.

  Rob’s gaze followed the woman. Strange.

  Bessie cleared her throat. ‘We’ll be needing some salt, then.’

  She did not demand. She did not defy her family as the Storwick woman had done. But her quiet statement was not a request. It was a stubborn, obstinate statement of intent.

  Rob sighed. ‘Off with you, then,’ he said, motioning one of the men to go with her. ‘Keep your eyes open and stay in sight.’

  Bessie slid off her horse, looking to Cate to join her. Cate shook her head.

  ‘We’ll stay with her,’ John said.

  But the sight of women shopping relaxed them all. The rest of the men dismounted. A few idle words, even a laugh, drifted in the air. Cate dismounted, but kept a hand on Belde. The dog pressed against her, a bulwark.

  John let himself breathe.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said to Rob. ‘Watch Cate. I’m going to talk to Carwell.’

  His brother gave a grunt. ‘For all the good it will do you.’

  Waiting for him to fail, he knew. Expecting it. Wanting it?

  Well, he mustn’t and Carwell mustn’t, not only because he must not fail the king.

  He must not fail Cate.

  * * *

  The world stopped as soon as Cate saw him on the other side of the river. Two years since that dark and terrible night, but still, she knew him.

  John had seen her stare and seemed to understand it. Surprising, how much comfort that gave her. But then he’d betrayed her, siding with the rest of them, taking her weapons away.

  She had barely slept the night before, not because of nightmares. No, this time, excitement had kept her awake. Finally, she would face him again. But this time, she would be armed and ready.

  This time, she would not flinch.

  Yet as she stared at him across the water, daring him to meet her eyes, his gaze had flowed over her with barely a ripple. He showed only the small bump of realisation that she was a woman and not the man he expected. Beyond that, she saw no recognition, no hint of guilt or shame, nothing to indicate he knew her at all.

  Then they ripped the dagger from her hand and she was Braw Cate no longer.

  Weapons held back the fear. Without them, she felt as helpless as she had that night. The night she should have kicked and screamed and bitten and scratched and done anything she could have to hold him off.

  The night she could do nothing but lie stiffly in mortal fear like the worst fazart while he took her and took every ounce of power she possessed.

  Now, she fought him in dreams.

  Perhaps it was better he did not know her. If he looked at her again, knowing, would she be as helpless as she had been the first time?

  If that were true, then everything she had done and been for the past two years had been for naught.

  So she took comfort in Belde, warm and strong beside her. And she looked anywhere but at Scarred Willie.

  Instead, she looked at John, exchanging words with Carwell. Her eyes rested on him, drawn as they would be by a green field or a starful sky. Drawn to a small momentary pleasure.

  Like a kiss between a man and a woman.

  She blinked at the thought and looked away. That was not a thought for today. Today, all she cared about was that justice would finally find Scarred Willie, even if not for his worst crime.

  * * *

  John followed Carwell into the ale-seller’s house where the men were dragging tables and stools to the edge of the room for the Truce Day trial.

  ‘Where’s the English Warden?’ John asked Carwell without preamble. ‘He should have been here at sunrise. And so should you.’

  A pinch of worry rumpled Carwell’s smooth smile, but he gave no explanation of his absence. ‘He should be here. Any minute.’

  John looked out at the peaceful street. The women bargained with the merchants while a few Storwicks kicked a ball back and forth on the green with some of the Brunson men. A contest more harmless than fighting with blades.

  For the moment.

  ‘Can you give me your word he will come?’ He barely recognised his plea. Now he was begging for promises that would enable him to keep the one he’d made to Cate.

  ‘I can’t even promise that the sun will rise of a morning,’ Carwell said, his voice disarmingly smooth. ‘But the English Warden promised me. What more could I do?’

  ‘I hope you do not have to answer that
question, for I tell you, if we do not succeed, the king will have us at the end of the rope, instead of Scarred Willie Storwick.’

  And somehow, that was less of a threat now than the chance that he would fail Cate.

  Carwell looked grim. ‘Border justice is only as strong as the allegiance men give it and they give it only if they think it will be administered fairly, so you’d better step away, John Brunson, because the longer we stand here running our tongues, the more the Storwicks will think we are plotting together and the less they will listen to anything I say.’

  John turned away, but paused at the door. ‘The English Warden. Is he trustworthy?’

  ‘As much as I am.’

  ‘How much is that, Thomas Carwell?’ he asked, not expecting an answer. ‘How much is that?’

  He had trusted Carwell because the king did. But he’d been on the Borders long enough to wonder whether anyone beyond his family could be trusted.

  Including Carwell and the king.

  * * *

  Cate did not join the others to look at the goods in the booths or cheer as the Brunsons kicked their ball down the green. John and Bessie took turns standing beside her. Each tried to tempt her away, but she would not savour a sweet oatcake or take a sip of ale. She just stood, Belde heavy against her leg, and watched Willie Storwick.

  She had forced herself, finally, to watch him. Forced herself to watch his every move, thinking that, as long as her eyes were on him, he would dare nothing.

  It was almost over. He was here. Hands bound, ready to stand trial. And she would watch him until he did.

  But without the English Warden, no trial began.

  * * *

  The day grew long. Sun and clouds traded possession of the sky. Storwicks and Brunsons traded control of the ball. The chatter of the morning faded with the waiting.

  Beside her, John, coiled with impatience, kept looking to the south.

  ‘I’m going back to talk to Carwell,’ he said when midday had passed, yet he paused, reluctant to leave her.