'First things first' he said. 'I have to find a tree and no doubt you will too. I will head right and I suggest you go left.' He moved away, stopping in the shade. 'Watch for the snakes.'
'Are there snakes here?' I asked.
'Not many,' Hugh replied quickly. 'The dragons killed them all.' His laugh was short and cheerful.
There was a small burn running through the forest, chuckling brown and friendly, with small pools and a number of miniature waterfalls. Hugh lay on his face beside one of the pools and slowly inserted his arms. A few moments later he flicked them out, holding a fat trout. He grinned over his shoulder to me.
'That's a good start, I think.'
'A very good start,' I agreed as he quickly put the fish out of its misery and slid his arms back into the water. 'Why don't you see if there are any brambles?'
I obeyed without question, which was highly unusual for me. There were a number of blackberry bushes on the outer fringes of the forest, with those on the southern side heavy with berries. I picked some docken leaves to carry them in, added a few very late and overripe raspberries for good measure and returned to the fishing pool to find the trout already gutted. Hugh was searching for dry wood.
'I'll start a cooking fire while you prepare the berries,' he said. 'It will only be a small fire in case the smoke alerts the Armstrongs.' He kept his back turned all the time, as if ashamed to show his face in the dappled light.
'Hugh,' I said at length. 'Face me.'
There was a long pause as he pretended to concentrate on his sticks.
'Hugh,' I said softly. 'You can't hide forever.' I felt the beating of my heart, as if I was in the company of some horned monster, or a Veitch, perhaps.
'As you wish, Jeannie,' he said, eventually, stood up and turned around.
He was filthy and highly scented, as would anybody be after a long incarceration in a dungeon, and his face was bristled with a beard I judged to be three weeks in the making. Auburn hair curled past his ears to the level of his neck, unwashed and rank with sweat, speckled with straw and dirt from the dungeon. Yet for all that there was nothing unattractive about him. Or there was nothing that I found unattractive. What other woman thought was completely irrelevant.
I held out my hand. 'Thank you for getting me out of that dungeon.'
He stepped closer, his eyes busy on my face. 'Thank you for getting me out of my chains.' He took my hand.
His grip was strong, yet gentle, with a hint of unleashed force.
'Who told you that you were ugly?' I asked.
'I have always known it,' he said.
I scanned his face. Nobody could ever call him classically handsome and he was certainly no Greek God. He had a broad forehead, filthy under his matted hair, and a pug nose above a mouth that the uncharitable could have said was a trifle too large. I preferred to think it was generous. High cheekbones only accentuated a pair of the steadiest grey eyes I had ever seen.
'Somebody must have told you,' I said quietly. 'In the Lethan Valley, all the boys boast of how handsome they are and how good they are at everything. Each one must be better than his neighbour at everything.'
'That is often the case,' Hugh said solemnly. 'If somebody were to catch a dragon, his neighbour would produce a box to put it in.'
'You do like your dragons, don't you?' I teased him.
'The constant companions of my youth,' he said.
I nodded. I did not have to ask why he had chosen dragons as his companions; all children need friends and I somehow knew that ugly Hugh's had been in limited supply.
'You were an outsider,' I guessed. 'If you were from Faladale I would know of you, so you…'
'I was not brought up in Faladale.' Hugh confirmed quickly. 'I was not wanted there. Or anywhere.' He looked away. 'I don't know why I said that.'
The pain in him was obvious. 'There will be many women who want you now,' I said, truthfully, 'and not for your lands, either. I take it you gained them by inheritance?' I did not know why I asked such questions. Nor did I know why he answered them so openly. Most men of the Lethan lied out of habit; this man was very different.
'My father and uncle died of some fever. I was next in line. I did not even know I was entitled.' Hugh lowered himself to all fours and blew life into the fire. Wisps of smoke rose. 'If we are lucky, then there will be a mist to conceal the smoke.' When he looked up there was worry behind the humour in his eyes.
I knew I would not find out any more. It was time to change the subject and lighten the mood. 'I rather like dragons,' I told him.
There was relief in his smile. 'Have you seen many?'
'Oh the Lethan is full of them,' I said. 'We can hardly move for the things.'
'I will have to visit sometime,' Hugh told me solemnly.
'A handsome man like you would always be welcome,' I said quietly.
'If he was like me, then he would not be handsome,' Hugh's smile was obviously forced.
I held those remarkably clear eyes. 'Whoever told you that you were ugly was lying,' I said softly.
Hugh said nothing. He took a flat stone from the burn and placed it on the fire with both trout on top. 'This will be ready shortly.'
I did not leave the subject. 'Send the liars to me,' I said, 'and I will tell them myself.'
His eyes met mine. 'I rather think you would, at that,' he said.
'If I was not spoken for,' I said softly, 'I would say more.' I could not add to that; I did not understand the feelings that were building up within me.
Hugh found another water-smoothed stone in the burn, placed a trout on top and handed it over. 'Not very elegant,' he said, 'fingers only.'
I tasted it. 'It is perfect,' I told him.
'It is burned,' Hugh said.
'It is not,' I denied. And it was not. A few moments later I licked the last of the fish from my fingers. Hugh was watching me though a fringe of auburn hair. When I met his gaze he looked away.
'Best get some sleep,' he said. 'We have to get out of Tarras tonight and the Armstrongs will be looking for us.'
I had not realised how tired I was until I lay down beside a tree and woke up some hours later. I stretched, wondered why I ached in every muscle in my body and decided to stop stretching. Instead I pushed myself to my feet and looked around. The light was beginning to fade into that deliciously sombre golden autumn glow, enhanced by the dead leaves that were falling from the trees. Everything was peaceful, with the scent of damp earth and faded flowers, a slight wind wafting through waving branches and the gentle gurgle of the burn.
I was hungry, so finished the last of the blackberries and found a sliver of meat on Hugh's trout. I also realised that I was extremely dirty. Well, there was a simple solution to that; wash in the burn. That raised one problem: where was Hugh?
He was nowhere near the camp, and the horses were unattended. They had not wandered far during the day and grazed happily at the side of the burn. I decided that he had either gone to seek more food or was scouting our route for the night. So much had happened the last few days that my head was in turmoil. I needed some time to think and somehow I knew that we did not have much time. Eventually the Armstrongs would tighten the noose, quite literally too. First things first, I had to get washed and get the muck out of my hair.
With Hugh absent, I needed to find a secluded spot on the burn. I would not go downstream into the open land of the moss where the Armstrongs could well be out on patrol or reiving business, so instead I pushed deeper into the woodland.
I smiled at the sound of splashing ahead: a waterfall would be the perfect place to wash. The closer I moved the pricklier and dirty I felt until I was frantic to strip my clothes off and plunge into fresh, cool water. I passed a twisted silver birch whose branches stretched right across the burn, and stopped. Somebody else had thought of bathing first: I had found Hugh and the sight made me widen my eyes.
I stepped back behind the cover of the birch, knowing that I should not watch but having no intention of wa
lking away or letting Hugh know that I was there. Instead I settled myself comfortably as a late-evening shaft of sunlight dappled a wondrous little glade where the thin white thread of the waterfall tinkled happily down and Hugh bathed, unaware of my presence.
In his unclad condition he seemed taller than I had though: a shade over six foot, and broader in the shoulder and chest than I had thought. I watched as he stood waist deep beside the surge of the waterfall that thundered between two moss-furred rocks to descend twenty feet into a rock-lined pool, feathered with ferns and bright with that evening sun. He turned away from me with the water foaming around him, and the muscles of his back glistening wet. Raising his arms high, he stepped right under the fall. The water cascaded over him as he looked upward, scrubbing his hands through his hair and over his face, trying to remove the filth of the dungeon.
I had never seen a man take such care to be clean before. The boys I knew were perfunctory at best when they washed. It was quite fascinating to see Hugh in this situation, with his auburn hair sleeked to his head and his upper body a-shimmer beneath the foaming water: it was a sight I knew I would always remember. He stepped back from the waterfall and crouched with his hands busy underneath the water. I felt my mouth open as I realised which parts of him he was washing and stifled a giggle. I had not thought, but of course men had to wash those places as well. Or some men anyway.
Without looking around, Hugh walked to the edge of the burn and onto the bank. He was all man and that is all that I will say about my first view of him totally unclothed. I felt my heartbeat increase as he strode to the clothes he had piled at the side of the water. He turned his back, giving me a glorious view of the rippling muscles of his back and slender, muscular buttocks that held my attention for an unconscionable length of time. All Borderers are bred to the saddle and that gives us fine legs and firm bottoms, yet this was the first time in my life that I was affected by the sight. I felt the pace of my heart increase as the breath caught in my throat.
At first I was unsure what he was doing, until I saw him take his clothes one by one to the water and scrub them between his hands before squeezing them dry. I was not sure why I found that interesting but I did. Finally, when he had his washed clothes in a neat pile at his side, Hugh slid the knife from its sheath, splashed his face and began to shave. Have you ever watched a man shave? His face goes through a thousand contortions as he searches for every last elusive hair and patch of stubble. Hugh thought he was ugly; I only thought he looked comical as he shaved and I felt strangely proprietorial as I watched, almost as if I owned part of him, as if this strange, naked, not-handsome man was … was what? As if this man was mine?
I knew he was not. Robert was mine; I had known that since first I had my vision when I was around five years old. That was immutable, inviolable; whatever strange emotions I felt for Hugh, he could never be mine.
Nor could the Yorling be mine, despite the feeling of closeness and trust that I had immediately felt for that gallant young man. My emotions for that black-haired young gallant had been different again, although I could not find the words to describe them.
'You can come out now,' Hugh spoke loudly. 'Jeannie; you can come out from behind that birch tree.' He stood naked and unashamed beside the burn, looking in my direction.
Oh dear God in heaven! He knew I was watching!
I came out, feeling very silly and very small.
'You will want to wash now,' this amazing man said. 'Be careful as you approach the waterfall; there are some slippery stones underfoot.'
I am sure my mouth gaped open as I stood there, saying nothing. Hugh lifted his still damp clothes, draped them over his arm and walked slowly toward our camp. Despite my embarrassment, I watched every movement of his body. He spoke over his shoulder. 'I will get us something to eat before we set off.'
I did not know what to say. If anything I felt embarrassed, even ashamed at having watched him, yet I would not have missed those few moments for the world. Even now as I look back, after years of marriage, I remember how I felt watching Hugh Veitch at that waterfall.
I washed without enthusiasm, aware that Hugh was in the vicinity, part hoping that he would sneak up to watch me yet desperately hoping he did not. I knew, somehow, that he would not; he was a true gentleman, damn him. As I have written elsewhere, being born at midnight on Midsummer's eve could be a blessing or a curse. Those feelings, those insights of knowledge, could be very uncomfortable.
We did not talk much as we prepared to leave that forest. I avoided Hugh's eyes through shame and he was silent; I thought he was angry. Perhaps he was. He may also have been amused. I still am not sure.
'You look even better when you are washed and shiny,' Hugh said at length as he readied the horses.
'Thank you,' I touched my hair. 'Even with my long black hair?'
'It suits you,' he said.
'Does that mean it suits my black heart?' I fished for his true thoughts, or perhaps for a compliment.
'I mean it suits you,' he said. 'There were two parties of Armstrongs in the Moss during the day.'
'They did not see us,' I hoped to break the stiffness and return to something of the easy familiarity of the night before.
'They did not,' he closed that conversation and that hope.
As I climbed on to Kailzie all my aches and pains returned. I looked across to Hugh, about to make some jocular remark. His face was set, without humour. I wished that things were otherwise, yet I knew that it was better this way. The strange feelings that I had developing within me could not be realised. Hugh was a passing stranger; no more.
We rode into the arms of the night and I was very unhappy.
Chapter Nine
TARRAS MOSS
SEPTEMBER 1585
A betraying moon cast pale light over a scene of haunting desolation, with rough heather moorland between long patches of sucking bog and the occasional stunted tree. A hunting owl called, reminding me of my own Lethan Valley and I felt suddenly homesick for the sweet grass and friendliness of home.
Mother would be worried silly for me and Father would have called up the men of the Lethan to scour the Border for the Yorling. He would not know that I had been abducted by Wild Will and then escaped, to wander the wastes of Tarras with this man who was not ugly at all.
'Wait!' The man who was not ugly put a quiet hand on the nose of my horse.
I waited without question.
'Dismount.'
I dismounted, wincing at the pain that stretching some tender parts of me caused. Hugh pulled his horse to lie prone and I followed. Having a horse obey you was a thing all Borderers could do. There was no praise in horsemanship; you either managed your horse or you died. There was no other choice in the long hills and sweet green valleys of the Borderland.
We lay in silence, saying nothing. I smelled the acrid scent of a man's sweat, heard the low murmur of conversation and then the jingle of bit and bridle. Fifty yards away a man rode past, followed by another, and another. They rode soft and slowly with the nine-foot lances of the Border held ready in their right hands and the moon glinting from the steel helmets. I held my breath, closed one hand over the muzzle of Kailzie and watched.
The riders passed, one by one, each man looking about him, each face hawk-wary, hard and set. Backswords swung low from their saddles, some carried a dag, the heavy pistol whose shot would tear a fist-sized hole in a man. And then they were gone, near silent in the night. I made to rise but Hugh's hand gestured for me to stay. His eyes were urgent.
I settled back down, aware of the insistent hammering of my heart and the sudden dryness of my mouth. We waited as a cloud skiffed across the moon, bringing temporary intense darkness. There was the soft scuff of hooves, the aroma of horse and a lone rider passed us, just as moonshine returned. I looked up. It was Wild Will himself, with that livid white scar down the side of his face and his eyes like gimlets, boring into the night.
My horse shifted, the sound seeming to carry for
miles in the hush, and then Wild Will passed on with the hooves of his horse strangely muffled and his aura of evil shivering my bones. I took a deep breath, gasped for air and felt Hugh's hand reassuringly on my arm.
'Are you all right?' His voice was soft.
I nodded, unable to speak.
'Give them a few more minutes,' Hugh said.
I nodded again. I doubt I would have been able to move at that moment. I looked sideways at Hugh. He was peering into the dark, concentrating hard. I waited, listening to the sough of the wind through the heather. That owl was silent now.
'Right,' Hugh touched my arm.
We rode on, slowly, looking around us, wary, alert for every sound, every movement. We both knew that the Armstrongs were hunting for us and Wild Will would hang Hugh without a qualm. I quailed to think what he would do to me. Always imaginative, my mind filled with images, each one more horrific than the last until I realised that I was scaring myself to numb futility.
'Wait…' Hugh's voice broke my thoughts. 'I've taken us the wrong road.'
I nodded. Not many men would have admitted their fault so openly. Robert would have tried to put the blame on me, or the dark, or the weather. I chased that thought away: I should not compare Robert with Hugh; they were two different people, each with good points and bad.
'Turn around; slowly now,' Hugh said.
I tried to obey, only to find that Kailzie's hooves were sinking in something softer than mud.
'We're in a bog,' I said.
'Wait,' Hugh slid from his horse and came toward me. 'Dismount.' I did so, fighting my fear as I felt the suck of peat-bog under my feet. 'Take three steps back, slowly.'
I did so, and sighed as the ground was immediately firmer. I felt the spring of heather under me.
'Stay there,' Hugh spoke quietly so his words did not carry through the hush of the night. I watched his shadowy shape move back into the bog where Kailzie was neighing in fear as she felt the ground sucking her in. Blowing into the nostrils of my horse and fondling her ears, Hugh calmed her down before leading her one slow step at a time out of the bogland.
The Tweedie Passion Page 7
