Border Storm

by Amanda Scott

  “But Scrope arrested Sir Quinton in violation of a truce, did he not?” Laurie asked, grateful for a change of subject.

  “Scrope denies it,” Sir William said. “He insists that outlaws captured a man in a raid on Bewcastle, that Musgraves in pursuit of those outlaws crossed the line quite legally to a house where they discovered Rabbie Redcloak. Scrope says Redcloak tried to raise the countryside against Francis Musgrave and his men, whereupon in self-defense they were forced to take Redcloak into custody. They all deny that Sir Quinton ever was a prisoner at Carlisle.”

  “But—”

  “None of that matters now, Laura. Queen Elizabeth believes that Buccleuch led the raid against Carlisle and freed a prisoner, and although Buccleuch does not bother to deny it, James continues to ignore demands that he send him to London to answer to the English authorities. All he agreed to do was to house Buccleuch at Blackness for a time and to appoint a new warden for the middle march. As you know, Buccleuch has been acting warden here these two years past.”

  “Aye,” Laurie said. Davy had told her as much, and Davy knew all about Buccleuch. According to Davy, Buccleuch was the most powerful of all the Border lords. Men on both sides of the line called him “God’s Curse” and had excellent reason, Davy said, to do so. “Buccleuch is still Keeper of Liddesdale and Hermitage, though,” Laurie said.

  “Aye, he is and doubtless will remain so unless Elizabeth gets her way and James sends him to face the English authorities,” Sir William said.

  “Do you think he will?”

  “Nay, and Scrope may have overstepped himself today. James did not like arresting Buccleuch and did so only because he feared that Elizabeth might change her mind about letting him succeed her if he thwarted her will too defiantly. I hold no great opinion of any Scott and especially Buccleuch,” he added grimly. “’Tis a hasty, hot-headed family, but today’s invasion of Liddesdale will infuriate James when he learns of it. I’d certainly not advise him to release Buccleuch, if he were to ask for my advice on the matter, but he won’t. Therefore I’ll not be surprised to see Buccleuch back at Hermitage very soon.”

  “Well, I think it is a pity that Elizabeth blames him for Carlisle when he did not even go there,” Laurie said. “Nearly everyone hereabouts knows that he was laid up with an injured leg at the time.”

  “You know nothing about such matters, nor should you,” her father said testily. “In any event, I did not draw your attention to my duties as warden in order to discuss them with you but to remind you that I have far more important matters on my mind than dealing with the trouble you manage to stir up. I dislike punishing you, Laura…”

  Laurie braced herself.

  “…but I fear that I must do so if I am ever to have peace in this house. I should send you out to cut a switch right now, but I won’t do that.”

  Relieved, she said quietly, “Thank you.”

  “Faith, lass, don’t thank me yet. I’m still likely to put you over my knee, but I won’t do so now, because in your present state, I’d only soil my hand and my clothing. Go up and tidy yourself. Indeed, bathe yourself and wash your hair. You may go without your dinner to do so. Then you may keep to your bedchamber until suppertime, when you may beg my leave to sup with the family. By then I shall have decided what to do with you.”

  Grateful, even if the reprieve proved no more than temporary, Laurie made a hasty curtsy and fled to her bedchamber.

  Four

  Lances and halberds in splinters were torn…

  Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn.

  THE DRIZZLE AND MIST had cleared, letting the sun’s rays touch the land again. Only carnage, smoking fields, and the charred remains of cottages remained.

  Sir Hugh Graham regarded the bleak sight with an expressionless face, grateful that Martin Loder had taken himself off to present the dead boar to Scrope. Loder was crude enough to gloat over the misfortunes of others while claiming he was only enjoying victory, and Hugh knew that his tolerance for gloating just then would be small.

  When his dun-colored gelding sidled nervously at the smell of blood and smoke, he muttered, “Gently, lad. We’ll be away soon.”

  The gelding was well trained and had seen battle before, and Hugh was a stern master, but he did not do anything more to curb its unrest. He didn’t like what he was seeing or smelling either. Naked women and children wandered among the dead, seeking their menfolk. Some of Scrope’s men clearly thought the women were spoils of victory, and the comeliest paid a heavy price for their beauty.

  Hugh found himself thinking again of the girl in the tree. She had seemed little more than a child, but her pale face haunted him now. He knew that she would have delighted many of the men who believed rape was a victor’s right, and any second thoughts he’d had about keeping silent vanished. He stared woodenly out at the landscape, watching for the return of his men.

  A horseman rode up behind him to say, “Sir Hugh, me lord wants a word wi’ ye. Yonder, on the hilltop.”

  Suppressing a sigh, Hugh turned the gelding and gave it a touch of spur. At the top of the hill, he drew up before Thomas, Lord Scrope.

  “Your man said you wanted to speak with me, your lordship,” Hugh said evenly, without doffing his helmet.

  “Aye,” Scrope said. “Nearly everyone else has returned, Graham. Where have your lads got to?”

  “I sent them to watch the route from Hermitage,” Hugh said.

  Scrope sneered. “Buccleuch is safely caged in Edinburgh.”

  “Aye, but his men are not,” Hugh said, “and I sent my lads to make sure they would not interfere with your raid. When they’ve heard it’s over, they’ll return.”

  “You did not accompany them.” A clear note of disapproval underscored the statement.

  “I had no need to do so,” Hugh said. “My captain, Ned Rowan, has them in charge, and he’s an excellent man. They all know their business, so I stayed hereabouts instead. Some of your other commanders are a bit green.”

  “Aye, that’s true, but Loder told me you followed him, and he’s not green.”

  Hugh shrugged. “It seemed odd, seeing him riding off alone as he did. Plain curiosity sent me after him, naught else.”

  “I trust Loder,” Scrope said, giving him a direct look. “That this raid has gone smoothly is due in great part to his efforts. I trust you saw naught amiss.”

  “Nothing,” Hugh admitted. “Loder knew of some cottages deep in the forest and hoped to catch the occupants off guard. They had fled, however.”

  “He tells me you forbade him to fire the cots.”

  “I did,” Hugh said. “Had these lads seen smoke billowing from the forest, they’d have ridden in to see what pickings they could find. Tarras Wood is a maze of swampland, like the Moss hereabouts. We’d already lost men and horses to the mud,” Hugh added. “But that was in the midst of fighting. Since we’d have lost more in the wood, I believed there was naught to gain and much to lose.”

  “Aye, well, Loder does not disagree, though he did want to teach those folks a lesson.” Scrope frowned. “You should thank him for not saying otherwise, just as I should thank you for the boar meat he said you provided for my dinner. I’m surprised, though, that you found time for hunting.”

  Blandly, Hugh said, “Loder knew only one route through the forest. We dared not risk the boar attacking us.”

  Scrope regarded him silently for a long moment.

  Although Hugh was the deputy warden, he knew that because he was also a Graham with a kinsman who had access to the Queen, Scrope had more often counted him enemy than friend even before the Carlisle raid. The knowledge did not trouble him overmuch. He waited.

  “I am aware that you do not approve of this raid,” Scrope said at last.

  “I have not said that I do not approve.”

  “Nor have you said that you do.”

  Hugh shrugged. “Your quarrel is with Buccleuch and the men who raided Carlisle. Revenging yourself like this on women and bairns—�
��

  “Don’t babble to me of women and bairns! This is war, man, and I have a right to punish all Liddesdale for what they did at Carlisle. By rights, Buccleuch should have chased down the raiders and brought them to justice. It was his duty as march warden, and with him gone, it’s now the new warden’s duty. Thus, you might say that I’m just offering honorable and neighborlike assistance to a fellow march warden by coming here today. You Grahams—”

  “I know that you blame certain Grahams,” Hugh interjected. “You wrote as much to me after the raid. Moreover, you have already sent six Graham headsmen to London to see what the Privy Council will make of them.”

  “I hope they will hang them,” Scrope said. “The only reason I did not was that you objected so fiercely.”

  “Nonetheless, to blame all Grahams because you believe some of them had a hand in that raid merely shows that you do not know much about us,” Hugh said. “In any event, surely you do not blame the women or the children of Liddesdale. They are the ones who will starve first without food.”

  “Some say that a woman—a Graham woman—led that raid,” Scrope said grimly. “I am not foolish enough to believe such puffery. Still, I suppose it is possible that a woman or even a child could have learned exactly where we were holding the reiver and then told Buccleuch where to find him.”

  Having no wish to pursue that subject, Hugh said, “You seem determined to blame the Grahams, my lord, even English Grahams. I might remind you that if they seem sometimes short of the loyalty you seek, it is because Grahams tend to think of themselves as having souls above nationality.”

  “Grahams have no souls, only an eye to the main chance,” Scrope retorted. “They obey no master unless it suits them—just like the men of Liddesdale! If I do not know which side the ones involved in the raid hail from, it is no fault of mine. Likewise, it lends no credit to you.”

  “My men and I are the only ones who took up arms for England that night.”

  “Nevertheless, you, of all men, should know who amongst your own did what,” Scrope said. “As I said when I wrote, you should thank heaven that I do not hold you personally accountable for the doings of every Graham.”

  Goaded, Hugh said, “I would remind you, sir—with respect—that not one man at Carlisle lifted a finger to defend it.”

  He resisted—albeit with considerable effort—the impulse to add that according to men on the scene Scrope had barricaded himself in the hall and refused to emerge until the raiders had gone.

  Scrope snapped, “And I’ll remind you that Buccleuch attacked my stronghold in the dead of night with five hundred heavily armed horsemen.”

  “It was not—”

  Ignoring him, Scrope continued without pause, “They undermined the postern gate, broke into the chamber where Rabbie Redcloak was kept, carried him away, and left my watchmen for dead. They also hurt a servant of mine and killed one of Redcloak’s keepers. Moreover, I do not believe that none of my men lifted a finger, but even if that is so, it is because the raiders escaped before anyone else had seen them and before any resistance could be made.”

  Seeing nothing to gain by telling him, yet again, that the force Hugh and his men had met that night had numbered less than a hundred men, Hugh said only, “Do you not mount a considerable watch at Carlisle, my lord?”

  “Aye, certainly,” Scrope retorted testily. “You know perfectly well, however, that a vicious storm struck that night. Since Buccleuch’s attack came two hours before dawn, my guards were either asleep or had taken cover to defend themselves from the violent weather.”

  “I see,” Hugh said. Giving way to his impulse, he added, “I wonder what became of Buccleuch and the five hundred. We saw less than a hundred men, as I’ve told you numerous times. If Buccleuch was leading them, I did not see him.”

  “Likely he hid amongst his men.”

  Hugh tried but failed to suppress a laugh. “That is the first time I’ve heard anyone accuse Buccleuch of cowardice,” he said with gentle emphasis.

  Scrope colored to the roots of his hair, certainly aware that many had accused him of that weakness—and not only with regard to the raid on Carlisle. His voice grew harsh. “Who knows why you did not see him? Likely he was with the rest of his men, elsewhere, and you met with only a group of Rabbie’s Bairns.”

  “Aye, perhaps,” Hugh said. He had better sense than to tell Scrope he had good reason to know that he had faced the entire rescue party.

  If Scrope wanted to believe that Hugh’s party had detected the presence of eighty men that night but had failed to detect four hundred and twenty others, so be it. At least his lordship was willing to acknowledge that Hugh and his men had attempted to prevent the return of the rescuers and their prize to Scotland.

  “’Tis a pity you were unable to recapture Rabbie Redcloak,” Scrope said on a scornful note.

  “Aye, it is,” Hugh agreed. “The river was in full spate, though, due to the storm. It was well nigh a miracle that the Scots did not all drown in the crossing. In any event, I never saw any man whom I could identify as Rabbie Redcloak,” he added truthfully.

  “Still, you should have followed them,” Scrope said, refraining as he had all along from asking Hugh if he had seen anyone whom he could have identified as Sir Quinton Scott.

  The question would have been a perfectly logical one to ask. Sir Quinton had once served as Buccleuch’s deputy at a wardens’ meeting, opposite Hugh, who had acted for Scrope. However, political necessity dictated that Scrope continue to believe that his prisoner was a notorious reiver. To admit that that prisoner was cousin to the powerful Buccleuch and deputy warden of the Scottish middle march, mistakenly arrested under truce, would considerably damage Scrope’s position with the Queen.

  Testily, Scrope said, “You had every right as my deputy to declare a hot trod, go after them, and demand help from anyone you met on the Scottish side.”

  “Pursuing the Scots across that flooded river was too dangerous,” Hugh said. “I could not be certain that my men, who were more heavily armored than the reivers, could make it across as safely.”

  Scrope’s grimace made his feelings plain, but Hugh did not need to see the expression to know how much the man disliked and distrusted him. Nevertheless, he knew that Scrope would not dismiss him. He lacked just cause, and without it, he would not attempt to do so. Not only did Hugh’s uncle still have the Queen’s ear in London, but finding another man who would take the position would be difficult.

  Elizabeth feared putting too much power in her wardens’ hands. Therefore, she gave them far too little power to do the job she demanded of them. She had also, with few exceptions, refused to name as warden any man born and bred in the Borders. The results were that few good men would accept the duty and those who did almost never understood the area or its people.

  Scrope considered himself an exception to the standard, because his father had served as warden before him. But Scrope was a gambler who enjoyed little respect among his peers, let alone among those he served. Hugh knew that Thomas Scrope had gained little insight from Scrope senior, because Thomas had grown up in Nottinghamshire and married there. He still spent more time there and in London than he did in Carlisle. No matter what he thought, he was an outsider.

  Scrope’s chief land sergeant, Martin Loder, was also an outsider. Although Loder had married locally and well—twice, in fact—Borderers still regarded him as an interloper. Although Loder wanted to be Scrope’s deputy, Elizabeth and even Scrope recognized that a warden needed a deputy who enjoyed the respect he lacked. Thus, although there could be little doubt that at least a few Grahams had taken part in the raid on Carlisle, Scrope would require more cause than that and his personal dislike to dismiss Hugh.

  “Be these your lads coming now?” Scrope demanded.

  “Aye, that’s Rowan leading them,” Hugh said.

  “Then all the stragglers are here,” Scrope said. “I’ve sent Loder and two other land sergeants on ahead with their men, so we�
��d best get this lot moving, too.”

  “Aye,” Hugh agreed. “We cannot count on the men at Hermitage to dally there much longer.”

  Scrope shrugged. “I doubt they’ll move without Buccleuch to lead them.”

  “You’d be wiser not to depend on that,” Hugh warned. “You’ve killed a number of their kinsmen today and burned out untold numbers of others. My men forced Buccleuch’s to keep their heads down till now, but with my lads away, they won’t wait long to follow. Indeed, if we don’t get moving, we’re like to find ourselves in the midst of pitched battle, and our lads are tired. They lack the strength of purpose that the Liddesdale lot will have.”

  Scrope apparently saw wisdom in his words, for he signaled his lieutenants to gather their men. In minutes, the army of two thousand was riding for England.

  Although war banners waved and the men seemed cheerful, Hugh thought their pace more that of retreat than victory. They took their tone from Scrope, who kept looking back, clearly fearing that the Scots could still mount an attack.

  Hugh had counted on the Scots’ fiery reputation to get Scrope moving toward home. But he knew, too, that the Liddesdale men were canny enough not to challenge so large an army. What they were more likely to do—and what he feared most—was attack some area in England as unsuspecting as Liddesdale had been. And they would leave just as much devastation in their path.

  Buccleuch might be in ward, but everyone knew that James of Scotland had been reluctant to put him there, and if James was looking for an excuse to release him, Scrope’s massive raid had provided it. In the time that it had taken Scrope to raise an army of two thousand, Buccleuch could raise three thousand.

  Sir Hugh held no brief for Buccleuch. On the contrary, he had a score of his own to settle with the man, because it was Buccleuch who had arranged his sister Janet’s marriage to Sir Quinton Scott of Broadhaugh.