by Amanda Scott
Some twenty yards from the line of armed horsemen, with others closing in behind him, he drew his pony to a halt, murmuring, “Come and get me, lads. Power lies with the one who makes the other move first.”
He would have to resort next to his second famous gift, that eloquent tongue that supposedly could wheedle a duck from a tarn or an eagle from its aerie. He hoped the gift would live up to the legend. If it failed him, his captors would keep him locked up until the next Truce Day, and then he would have to face his own people with a bill of grievance hanging over him. There was a certain amount of irony in that situation, but he would nonetheless do everything he could to avoid it.
The horsemen at the water’s edge remained where they were—almost, he thought, as if they feared he might yet escape if even one of them should move.
He waited patiently and with dignity until the riders he heard approaching from behind him had stopped. Horses whuffled and snorted, and trappings clinked and rattled, but for a long, tense moment no one spoke. He knew their leader waited for him to move, and the knowledge amused him. It was a game, after all, and every man in the Borders knew its rules.
Remembering at least one incident when a captor had shot a captive in the back with an arrow from close range, he felt a tremor between his shoulder blades. He did not think the men who had captured Rabbie Redcloak would dare do such a thing, however. They would thereby succeed only in making Rabbie a martyr whose ghost would roam the Borders for years to come. No Englishman would want to effect such an outcome.
The silence stretched taut, and he sensed the men in front of him growing impatient. Their leader must have sensed the same, for he spoke at last.
“Rabbie Redcloak, I hereby order your arrest for leading forays against the Queen’s subjects; for driving off herds of cattle, horses, and sheep; for slaying innocent people and stealing their goods; and for kidnapping subjects of the queen and holding them illegally whilst demanding ransom for their release.”
“All that?” He turned without haste, searching the shadowy faces for the one who had spoken, as he added lightly, “Indeed, ’tis a litany of offenses, albeit a false one. Who, if I may mak’ so bold as to ask ye, has the honor to be my captor?”
“Sir Hugh Graham of Brackengill, deputy warden of the English west march, has that honor, you God-forsaken scoundrel. Seize him, lads! ’Ware arms!”
The next few moments might have proved ignominious had it not been for the captive’s great dignity. The men who surged toward him, clearly expecting him to resist, stopped and glanced uncertainly at one another when he calmly held out his hands, wrists together, waiting to be tied.
As they removed his sword, pistol, and dagger, one said, “Do we leave him on his horse, Sir Hugh?”
“Aye, I’m in a hurry to reach my bed, lads, so we’ll let him ride.”
Hearing amusement in his tone, the captive stiffened.
“Bind him facedown across his saddle,” Sir Hugh said. “Cover all but his devil’s face with that damned red cloak, so the world can see what we’ve captured.”
Stoically, their captive allowed them to obey that humiliating order, keeping his countenance and calm through sheer force of will. They passed ropes beneath the pony’s belly to tie his wrists to his ankles, stretching his body over the saddle. Only when the faithful beast shifted and shied in protest of unfamiliar hands beneath its belly did he speak, saying quietly, “Stand easy, lad.”
He felt the animal shudder, but it calmed, and he drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. When the leader called for them to ride, though, humiliation became of less concern than the pain caused by the ungainly position.
His padded jack protected his chest and stomach, and his leather breeches protected his nether parts, but the men who had tied him had stretched him tight and the bindings hurt. They had not bothered to remove his steel bonnet or to bind his stirrups, and the stirrup near his head began bouncing about when the rider leading the pony urged it to a trot. The metal stirrup rang torturously against the captive’s helmet and threatened his face if he looked forward or back. The one on the other side smacked his calves and thighs, reminding him of a day in his boyhood when his mother had taken a beech-tree switch to them for some long-forgotten sin. He hoped he did not face a long journey. In the mood Sir Hugh was in, he would not put it past the man to make him ride facedown all the way to Carlisle.
In fact, they had ridden for less than an hour when he saw castle walls loom ahead. Although his awkward position let him see less of the landscape than usual, he knew that they had reached Brackengill, Sir Hugh’s home. Remembering that Sir Hugh served as a deputy to Lord Scrope, warden of the English west march and keeper of the royal castle of Carlisle, he decided that Sir Hugh intended to house him overnight before delivering him to Scrope.
They rode through tall, wide-open gates into a torchlit courtyard, and before the gates had shut behind them, the captive noted that the number of men escorting him had decreased significantly.
“Bring him.”
Sir Hugh’s curt command resulted in the captive being quickly cut loose and pulled off the pony to stand precariously on weakened, pain-ridden legs between two of the armed men. They dragged him willy-nilly into a low-roofed, dark building that looked and smelled like a stable. It was cold. His host, he decided sardonically, would not be housing him with any degree of comfort.
His wrists were still bound, and his fingers and hands had grown numb. His entire body ached as if it had been racked.
Torches burst into flame and cast a flickering red-orange light over the scene. His senses had not misled him. They were inside a stable, and some half-dozen men stood around him, their shadowy faces reflecting the reddish glow. Involuntarily the captive thought of hellfire.
Ruthlessly banishing the comparison from his mind, he forced himself to stand erect and face his captor. Somewhat to his surprise, he regarded Sir Hugh almost eye-to-eye. That was no common occurrence, for with the exception of Hob the Mouse, he usually looked down upon his fellows.
Sir Hugh took off his own steel bonnet, revealing a thick mass of curly red hair. Hanging the bonnet on a stall post, he pushed one beefy hand through his curls and scratched his head. His neatly trimmed beard glimmered red in the torchlight. His eyes glinted like cold gray steel.
The captive inhaled deeply, then in a voice heavy with the Scottish Borderers’ accent, he said, “I’d be gey willing to mak’ a fair bargain over this wee misunderstanding betwixt us.”
“You are in no position to make any bargain,” Sir Hugh snapped. “Your race is run, Rabbie Redcloak.”
“’Tis true ye caught me fair, sir,” he said, “but I canna think what grievance ye mean to claim agin me.”
“Theft, for one, you scoundrel!”
“Ah, but I dinna carry any stolen goods, as ye must ken the noo.”
“You are a thieving murderer!”
“Yet there be no man, lass, or bairn wha’ can claim to ha’ suffered harm at my hands this nicht, sir.”
“Mayhap that is so tonight, but it is of no—”
“Moreover,” the captive interjected swiftly, “I might could just put a wee finger on certain articles that ha’ gone missing over the past month or twa gin ye give me cause to act in a generous manner toward ye, sir.”
“I do not doubt that,” Sir Hugh said grimly. “Has it not occurred to you yet to wonder just how it is that you find yourself in this predicament tonight?”
Since he had been wondering that very thing from the instant he realized that a considerable force of men had driven him into a trap and surrounded him, he said simply, “Aye, I canna deny ye’ve whetted me curiosity considerably on that point.”
“We knew you would strike at Haggbeck,” Sir Hugh said smugly.
The captive said nothing, knowing Sir Hugh wanted him to suspect betrayal by one of his own. Refusing to rise to the bait, he waited patiently for him to go on.
“I knew you’d not be able to resist retali
ating after we raided the Crosiers in Liddesdale. On that occasion my men purposely claimed to ride from Haggbeck.”
“I see. ’Twas a wee trap ye set, then.”
“Aye, and I’ve had plump watches out patrolling every night since,” Sir Hugh said. “Their sole mission was to capture you and put an end to the absurd notion that you are some sort of invincible Border legend.”
“Aye, sure, and it seems to have been a grand effort, indeed, sir, but to what purpose? Ye still ha’ no evidence to support a simple bill of grievance.”
“I have your presence here on the English side,” Sir Hugh snapped.
“There is that,” Rabbie admitted generously. “However, men on both sides o’ the line frequently cross over to drink in a tavern or attend a horse race. Moreover, and if I dinna mistake the matter, the place where ye captured me lies in Debatable Land. So even that evidence is like to result in a clearing o’ the bill.”
“There is no longer any Debatable Land,” Sir Hugh said, ignoring the rider. “Not on this side, at least. The Scotch Dike put an end to it years ago.”
“Aye, so our twa governments would ha’ us believe,” he replied. “Border folk still believe strongly in it, though, and so ye will see come Truce Day.”
“We need not concern ourselves with Truce Day,” Sir Hugh said.
“Ah, that’s fine, then—just a wee misunderstanding amongst friends.”
“There is no misunderstanding, either. Your days of thieving and creating chaos in the Borders have ended.”
“Aye, sure, if ye say so. We can mak’ any agreement ye like.”
“I say so because it is true. Moreover, if you are thinking that your thieving Bairns will discover where you are and raid this castle to release you, you can think again. None but my most trusted men know where you are now, nor will they. As we speak, a heavily armed party is riding on to Carlisle. If anyone managed to track us tonight, they will assume that you went with that party and will not dare to attack one so large and heavily armed. And, by tomorrow, they will think it too late to do anything for you.”
The prisoner remained silent, although there was much he would have liked to say. Sir Hugh was wrong to think the Borders’ magical lines of communication would not eventually reveal his whereabouts to his Bairns. Within days at most, they would learn exactly where he was and would plan their rescue accordingly. If he were not free within a sennight, he would be much surprised.
With grim formality, Sir Hugh said, “Lord Scrope is away, but as deputy warden, I act for him. In that capacity, I hereby sentence you, Rabbie Redcloak, to be housed for a week’s time in a dungeon here at Brackengill to contemplate your sins and make your peace with God Almighty. At the end of that time, I shall erect a gallows and hang you by the neck until you are dead. Take him below, lads.”
Despite the hellish glow of the torchlight, the prisoner felt an icy chill.
Chapter 2
“And Fairly Fair your heart wou’d cheer,
As she stands in your sight.”
Bewcastle Waste, the English West March
THE LITTLE VALLEY LAY winter bleak under a thinning layer of snow. Its only sign of life was a faint spiral of smoke wafting from a gray stone longhouse next to a half-frozen burn running through its center. Like other such houses, this one consisted of a stable and byre at one end and the family dwelling at the other. Carelessly, as if in defiance of the wintry chill, doors to both stable and byre stood open, as did the door to the house end. The only other structures on the farm were a dry-stone sheep pen and a ramshackle stone-walled barn. From the top of the low hill that formed the valley’s south side, bare stones and the gray slate roofs of the buildings looked like ash smudges on the sparkling snow.
A lone rider rode down the hill on a sleek gray gelding with a black mane and tail. The rider was small and slight of build, with long, straight, silver-blond hair blowing free, and she wore an enveloping gray cloak that nearly matched the color of her horse. She rode astride, using a cross-saddle, in the practical fashion that on all but the most formal occasions Border women had favored for the past hundred years. She rode fast enough for many to call her reckless, but unlike most women, she rode skillfully, as if she were part of her horse.
Ahead, at the farm, she saw chickens and geese, but no dog, no larger animals, no children—indeed, no people at all. The chickens and geese scattered noisily when she rode into the yard.
Dismounting, she patted the gelding affectionately and tied its reins to the railed gate of the sheep pen. Then, tucking her riding whip into her girdle next to the small dagger she carried there—where other women carried pomander balls or mirrors—she deftly plaited her long, fine hair into a more civilized knot at the nape of her neck. As she did so, a childish female voice wafted to her ears.
“Andrew, put down that pistol afore ye hurt someone!”
“I’ll not put it down, and ye canna make me. I’m goin’ to shoot me a damned Scots reiver!”
Without haste, the rider untied one of her bundles from the saddle and walked toward the family end of the house while the argument continued inside.
“Och, ye heathenish bairn, our mam’s goin’ to wash your mouth with soap an ye say such wicked things. And what would the vicar say? What about that, eh?”
“Won’t say nothing an ye dinna tell him. B’ain’t none o’ his business who I shoot. I might shoot you, Nancy Tattle-mouth. Then what would ye do?”
Reaching the threshold, the rider swiftly surveyed the dimly lighted scene inside, then said sternly, “Andrew, put down that weapon at once, and come here to me. Nancy, pick wee John up off the floor before he crawls into the fire, and Peter, you go outside, please, and fetch the other bundle off my saddle.”
The children froze at the sound of her voice. Even the baby crawling toward the open fireplace paused and looked over its shoulder.
“Mistress Janet!” Three voices spoke as one.
“Aye, and I am shocked to hear you quarreling so. Do as I bid you, Andrew, unless you want to feel my riding whip across your backside.”
In the middle of the room, the defiant little boy was still pointing a wheel-lock pistol at his sister, who was not much older than he was. Lowering the weapon, he looked warily at the whip Janet Graham had tucked into her girdle.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
“Aye, I did.”
“Then come here.”
“Will ye beat me?”
“You deserve it,” Janet said, holding out her hand for the pistol.
Meeting her gaze, the boy said, “Me da said females didn’t ought to touch guns. ‘Damned dangerous to let ’em,’ he said, ’cause they’re skeered of ’em.”
“Do I look scared, Andrew?”
“Mistress Janet’s not skeered o’ nothing,” the little girl declared, putting her fists on her skinny hips and jutting her chin toward her brother.
“Thank you, Nancy,” Janet said without looking away from the pistol, “but I am speaking to Andrew now. Pick up wee John and wipe the soot off his hands.”
“Aye, mistress.” The little girl scooped up the baby with practiced ease and bore him to the washstand.
Janet’s palm remained outstretched, waiting.
Slowly, his reluctance plain, the boy handed her the long-barreled pistol.
Examining it with competent ease, she said, “Luckily for you, Andrew, the mechanism is not wound, but I doubt you knew that when you pointed it at Nancy.”
His thin lips twisted, but whether his annoyance stemmed from his knowledge or the lack of it Janet did not know, nor did she care.
Putting the pistol on top of the only cupboard and setting her bundle on the nearby table, she turned back to Andrew and said, “Come here to me now, and mind your manners. Where’s your mam?”
After a pause during which the boy took a single short step toward her but offered no reply, his sister said, “Our mam’s gone up the dale to fetch the sheep.”
“Why did not you and P
eter do that for her, Andrew? You are both quite old enough to tend sheep.”
Again it was his sister who replied, saying, “Our mam said there was reivers about ’twixt here and Brackengill, mistress. Even though Sir Hugh caught some of ’em in the night, she said it wasna safe today for the lads to fetch the sheep.”
“Ye need not tell Mistress Janet what Sir Hugh’s about doing,” Andrew said scornfully. “He’s her ain brother, is he no? Likely she’ll know what he’s about.”
“Mind your manners like she said,” his sister said loftily, “or I’m telling our mam ye was rude and that Mistress Janet took our da’s pistol from ye.”
“Tattle-mouth.”
“That will do,” Janet said. She was grateful to know where Hugh had gone during the night. His consistent refusal to explain his actions irritated her, and that irritation stirred as she spoke. Her tone brought a flush to Andrew’s cheeks.
“Where d’ye want this, Mistress Janet?” Peter stood in the doorway, holding the bundle he had fetched for her. He was both younger and smaller than Andrew.
Smiling, she thanked the little boy and said, “Put it on the table, laddie, but first shut that door. You are wasting the fire, you lot, by letting all the heat out.”
When Peter had shut the door, she added, “You and Nancy can open both bundles and put the things away. I’ve brought you bread and some scones from our bakehouse, and a gingerbread man for each of you, although I’m thinking that I may have to take Andrew’s man back and feed it to Jemmy Whiskers, since Andrew’s got a demon in him today.”
“Ye’ll no feed my man to your cat!”
Nancy and Peter rushed to open both bundles, and with delight in her voice the little girl exclaimed, “Ye’ve brought us blaeberry jam!”
“I have,” Janet said, “and some other things for your mam and for the new bairn when it arrives. If you slice the bread thin, you can make a jammy piece for each of you and save your gingerbread men for your dinner. Whilst you are doing that, Nancy, Peter can watch wee John. Andrew is going to come outside with me for a talk.” Putting a hand on the oldest boy’s shoulder, she urged him to the door.
