'My life is not about that,' I said, as I had so often before.
'You are a Tweedie.' Mother said. 'Your life is about that. It is your duty and your responsibility to keep the land safe and the bloodline intact.'
I sighed. Would this woman never accept things as they were? I thought it better to pacify her. 'I do understand what you mean, Mother,' I said as patiently as I could. 'And if I marry Robert, I will have both the land and the bloodline.'
'For how long?' Mother's voice was flat. 'Your chosen man can hardly hold a sword yet alone use one. As soon as the Armstrongs, or the Elliots, or even the Bold Buccleuch of the Scotts find out that a weakling holds the Lethan, they will rob you from Lethanhead to Tweed and leave this valley nothing but a smoking desert.'
I looked at her, wordless. The words were harsh yet true. Robert was no fighting man. And then I remembered my vision and I knew that all would be well.
Mother saw my hesitation and pressed what she thought was her advantage. 'Think on that, Jeannie, before you make your decision, and think of what happened to Robert earlier today.' She stood up. 'You may sleep now.'
I felt as if I was two years old as I crawled out of my Mother's chamber and into the cubby hole that I had for myself one level beneath the roof. Despite the busy day, it was very hard to sleep with so many images chasing each other through my mind. As I listened to the rain hammering against the leather shutters I had placed within the arrow-slit, I thought of poor Robert falling before the sword of the Yorling. Then I thought of Robert's bottom, strangely vulnerable on the bed, shining white except for that red streak where the Yorling's sword had landed. I knew that sight should have stirred me, yet it had not. I also thought of the Yorling with his flowing black hair and that supple skill with sword and mount. It was with that image that I fell asleep: that image and the sensation that he and I were connected in some way.
I woke with that same feeling and a faint smile that I did not wish. Robert was my chosen man. By thinking of the Yorling I was betraying my own choice and my own decision. Yet I could not chase the pictures away. And, if I faced the truth, I secretly had no desire to. I retained that smile until that other memory returned: Mother was going to hang that young reiver this morning.
I had never seen a hanging before although, God forgive us, they were common enough along the Border line. You may know that both sides of the Border, the Scots and the English, were divided into three Marches, or divisions. Each side had an East March, Middle March and West March and each March had its own Warden who was responsible for dispensing justice in the case of disputes, and for putting down reiving. On the Scottish side the valley of Liddesdale had its own Warden, the Captain of Liddesdale, purely because it was the most turbulent place in Europe, with the most predatory riding families, such as the Armstrongs, Elliots and Nixons plus all the broken men and outlaws who belonged to no family or clan. The Wardens had one sure cure for lawlessness: the rope.
Now it was our family's turn to act as Warden: Mother had elevated herself to jury, judge and executioner and that stubborn, tight-mouthed young lad was to be the object of her revenge. I was not looking forward to watching the spectacle and left the tower with a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach and dryness in my mouth.
I was not alone in that. Many of the women and some of the men seemed to share my trepidation as we gathered outside the barmekin walls. At the side of the Lethan water there was a small mound with a prominent tree we called the gallows oak where traditionally these things used to take place, and we collected in a circle around, waiting. I sought out Robert, of course.
'I am not looking forward to this,' I told him, reaching for his hand.
He edged slightly away. I had forgotten that men did not like to show public displays of affection. Robert certainly did not. 'It's only a hanging.' He said, as if he had witnessed scores in his time. I knew for a fact that this would be his first. 'A reiver.' He said the word as if it was a curse against God.
'It's a young boy,' I said, 'somebody will be mourning him. He will have a mother, a father,' I glanced at Robert with a hopeful smile, 'perhaps a sweetheart.' He did not respond.
The boy was silent as two sturdy men, Willie Rennie and James of the Ford, hustled him out. They had tied his hands in front of him and hobbled him so he could take only short steps. Despite his youth he kept his head up and his mouth closed. He did not look afraid.
'Poor little boy,' I wanted to step forward and comfort him. Mary's Bessie Tweedie was in tears: she had two sons of about the same age. I saw her looking imploringly toward Mother, whose face was set like flint. Others were watching in fascination as James of the Ford cut through the boys hobble and mounted him on a horse, facing ignominiously backward. 'What are they doing?' I sought Robert's hand. He did not respond.
When the boy was mounted, James of the Ford led him to the gallows tree as Willie Rennie casually tossed a rope over the lowest branch, which stretched out at right angles from the trunk. There was a murmur from the crowd with some people pressing forward for a better look and others holding back. Now that the time had come, only a few averted their eyes. One mother grabbed hold of her son and lectured him sternly as he jumped up and down, laughing. A gaggle of dogs barked around us, tails wagging and jaws slavering.
'I can't watch,' I said.
Robert looked at me. 'It's only a reiver' he said.
I have never liked him less than at that moment. 'It's a young boy!' I nearly shouted. 'Mother! You can't do this!'
People stared at me as I pushed through them, determined to reach my mother and put an end to this horror. 'You can't hang this boy,' I told her, until she nodded to Willie Rennie, who grabbed hold of me.
'You stay out of this, my bonnie lass.' His voice was like the growl of a hunting dog.
James of the Ford tied a noose in the rope and slipped it around the boy's throat so casually that I wondered if he knew he was preparing to end a young life. I tried to move to help, only for Willie Rennie to hold me tighter.
'Robert!' I shouted, hoping that he would come to help.
The boy held my gaze. He remained impassive, staring over the crowd as if they were not there. He looked at my mother without expression as she lifted her hand and smacked it down on the rump of the horse. It jerked forward so the boy slid off the back and hung there, legs kicking and face screwed up as the noose tightened around his throat.
'No!' I screamed as loudly as I could. 'No!'
I did not see from where the riders came. In common with the rest of the crowd, I was concentrating on the drama unfold before us, watching that poor boy kick and gyrate as he choked to death when the storm arrived. The first I knew about it was the shout 'A Yorling!'
I whirled around to see who had shouted that dread slogan. It was the Yorling himself with his long black hair flying beneath his steel bonnet and his yellow jack prominent as he galloped toward the gallows tree. The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses, and the Yorling's men followed in a wedge formation that split the crowd in half. I watched with a mixture of delight and astonishment as the Yorling flicked out his sword and sliced through the gallows rope. The boy fell heavily and rolled on the ground, gasping until one of the Yorling's followers jumped out of the saddle and cut the cord that bound the boy's wrists. Without any hesitation, as if he had expected no less, the boy vaulted onto the saddle of a spare horse and let out a hoarse yell of his own.
'Come to me, my dark lady of Cardrona!' The Yorling yelled and rode straight for me.
I had no time to react as the Yorling barged his horse against Willie Rennie, knocked him down to the ground and grabbed hold of me with his left hand. Before I knew what was happening I was face down over his horse and we were galloping past the gallows tree and down the valley.
It was all over in far less time than it took to tell. One moment I was watching the noose tighten around the neck of that poor boy and the next I was in a very undignified position over the back of a horse, a pr
isoner of the infamous Yorling.
Chapter Five
ETTRICK FOREST
SEPTEMBER 1585
Now, you may wonder what I thought and how I felt as I bounced down the valley with my face to the ground, my bottom sticking up and my legs kicking like an upended sheep on the heather hills. Well to tell the truth I had so many thoughts racing through my head that I would find it difficult to put them in any sort of order. Perhaps the first was surprise. I had never been in that situation before and it was not one that I had ever contemplated. The second was the sheer discomfort of it all. I mean, my whole weight was pressing against my tummy and the blood was rushing to my head. I was not a happy girl. The third was embarrassment. What sort of view did the Yorling have of me if he looked down? I had not chosen my clothes with any care that day so they were old and worn, hopefully not too threadbare in any too prominent place, and the Yorling would see a very prominent part of me right in front of his face.
There was no fear.
Why was there no fear?
I do not know. I have already mentioned that I felt a strange sort of attachment to this Yorling man. Now I was his prisoner as we galloped down my own Lethan Valley with his wild riders all around, whooping and yelling as they passed all the old familiar landmarks, which I was aware of but of course could not see in my head- down position.
I shouted out in protest, kicking my legs and trying to punch at the Yorling as he guided his horse with consummate skill.
'Keep quiet, My Lady!' He gave me a smack on the rump that made me gasp.
I called him a name that should have made him blush. Instead he laughed.
'That is no language for the Lady of the Lethan to use,' his voice was deep, musical and strangely familiar. I felt as if I had known this man for years, although I had only heard of him very recently. It was the strangest of feelings, but one which did not in the slightest prevent me from telling him exactly what I thought of him, his actions, his behaviour, his morals and even, may God forgive me, his parentage or lack thereof.
And to all of that he replied with laughter, or short comments such as 'is that so, My Lady?' or 'I have heard that before, My Lady foul mouth.' He did not attempt to slap me after that first time.
I could not upset that man in the slightest, which was unusual for me as even my mother had often told me that I was the most irritating girl in the world.
'Here will do.' The Yorling said.
We stopped and I was helped to the ground with more gentleness than I had expected. I stood there, stamping my feet, with my face flushed, sorting out my disarranged clothing and looking around at this outlaw band that had grabbed me in such an outrageous fashion.
I was very surprised how young they were. I doubted if any of them was over twenty-five years old and most would be younger. They formed a circle around me grinning or just staring as the Yorling himself slowly removed his helmet and shook his head so the long hair rippled around his shoulders.
I took a deep breath. He was tall, taller than any of his men, and slender, with a long face and quite a prominent nose. His eyes were not as hard as most men I knew; they had a strange, near magnetic quality. Was he handsome? Yes, I suppose that he was but it was something else that attracted me. I did not know what it was and I certainly could not explain it, but there was that something about this man that immediately made me trust him. I have mentioned that before, I know.
'So my Lady Lethan,' the Yorling gave a great sweeping bow, throwing out his right hand to the side and bending his knee. 'Here we are.'
'Indeed we are.' I did not do him the honour of a curtsey. I said that I trusted him. I did not say that I was inclined to be pleasant to him. 'So what happens now?'
He smiled, showing white teeth. 'Now, my foul-mouthed lady, I take you to my little home in the hills.'
'Oh?' I was very aware of all the eyes staring at me. Now, I quite enjoy being the centre of attraction so I straightened the mess that my hair was in – hanging upside down over the neck of a horse does terrible things to your coiffure, you know - and faced him. 'And what happens when we get to this little home in the hills?'
'That is for me to know and you to find out,' my charming black-haired thief told me. His eyes were the brightest, smokiest green that I have ever seen. They held my attention as I tried my best to unsettle him.
'You are the one they call the Yorling, I presume?' I tossed my hair; I may have mentioned that I have black hair, and long. Tossing it always worked with the young lads in the Lethan. It did not work with this man.
'I am that one,' the Yorling agreed. He stood three feet in front of me with a broad smile on his lips and his hands on his hips.
I edged slightly further away. I hoped that I might be able to find a space between two of his callants and run for the hills. I knew the Lethan Valley and its surroundings as well as anybody, man, woman, boy or girl and I was sure that once I got away from these reivers I could lose them in the tangle of hills that surrounded the Valley. Perhaps sensing my intention, the reivers tightened the circle around me.
'Why that name?' I asked, still trying to unsettle him. 'A yorling is a bird, a yellow headed finch that is no good to anybody. Are you a small bird?' I flapped my arms and made what I hoped were chirping noises.
The Yorling glanced down at the yellow jack. 'I am named after my jack,' he said, 'and after my father, who was also called the Yorling.'
'A whole family of birds,' I mocked. I took a casual step backward. 'Before your feathered father kicked you out of the nest did he give you another name as well as Yorling?'
'Not one that I will tell you,' my enigmatic captor said. 'We have ten minutes here and then we are off. Is there anything you wish to do?' He asked the question with such innocence that I was not sure what he meant.
'No,' I said, 'except return home.'
'As you wish,' the Yorling said. 'You may wish to avert your eyes while I and my men use this time.'
'Oh!' I belatedly understood as he fiddled with the drawstring of his trousers. 'Oh you dirty devil!'
I turned away to avoid the sight, only to see all the young men performing a similar act, luckily all facing away from me. I must have blushed crimson. I certainly felt extremely foolish to be surrounded by a circle of men all answering a call of nature. Naturally I became equally affected.
'I will have to join you,' I said at last.
'Feel free,' the Yorling did not hide his smile. 'Don't let me stop you.'
Now my face felt as hot as any winter fire. 'I need privacy,' I said.
His smile grew broader. 'I will take you somewhere private,' he said, 'as soon as you ask me politely.'
I am sure that I stamped my foot with annoyance. 'You are nothing but a yellow devil!'
'I know,' he said, chuckling. 'Now: will you ask nicely? Or will my lads and I all stand and watch?'
I heard the ripple of laughter from his followers and knew there was no help for it. Swallowing my pride I said, 'please may I have a few moment's privacy, Mr Yorling?'
'Why?' He assumed a face of utter innocence.
'You know very well why,' I did not like playing his little game.
'I will come with you,' he decided.
'You had better not!' I was becoming flustered now as my need became desperate and the circle of young men were smiling, nudging each other and making suggestions that were a little too rude for me to hear.
'Don't be too hard on her.' I was surprised to hear one of the Yorling's followers coming to my help and looked around to see the young boy who should by rights have been hanged.
'And who are you to object?' the Yorling asked.
'She tried to save my life,' the youngster said. 'You must not treat her so.'
'Oh?' The Yorling seemed amused. 'I think I have the right with my own captive.'
'I have an idea,' the boy said. Before I could move he had taken the reins from a spare horse and had looped them around my arm in a slip-knot. He pulled them tight and handed the
loose end to the Yorling. 'Now she can shelter behind a tree and you will still hold her safe.'
I did not thank him for his kindness. Instead I slunk through the laughing circle of men and found a convenient sheltered spot. I tugged at the reins around my arm to find that the Yorling held them tight. 'If you look…' I began, and stopped. He already had his back turned.
We rode on a few moments later. They sat me on a spare horse with my feet securely tied beneath and a rider on each side. Although I could not escape, my tongue was free and I made the most of it. I lambasted the Yorling and all his companions for as long as my breath held out.
'I don't know what you want,' I said, more than a few times. 'I do know that you won't get it. My father will lead all the men in the Lethan after you. He will be organising a hot trod right at this minute, if he is not already on his way.' A hot trod, in case you are unaware, is an immediate pursuit of reivers. A cold trod is a more measured chase that takes place a day or more later. 'My father will hunt you down and hang you like a dog.'
'Is that what will happen?' the Yorling sounded amused.
'That is exactly what will happen,' I told him. 'And my man Robert will be with him.'
'Oh?' the Yorling spoke over his shoulder, still smiling, still amused. 'Who is your man Robert?'
'He is big,' I said, 'Robert Ferguson of Whitecleuch…'
The Yorling's laugh stopped me. 'I unhorsed him already,' he said. 'He is no man for you, My Lady of Lethan.' He turned away, kicked in his heels and increased the pace. I had no option except to come along. We forded the River Tweed in a spectacular shower of water and headed west and south into the Ettrick Forest, a tangle of bare-headed hills where patches of mist haunted the slopes and small woods of scrubby Scots Pine trees braved the never-ending winds, where deer floated away before us and burns seared the hill-flanks and formed barriers to free passage. I did not know this country, and soon stilled my tongue as I tried to follow the route so I could come back if I managed to escape.
The Tweedie Passion Page 4
