Border Fire

by Amanda Scott

  Sheila obeyed, so Janet picked up the chopins and followed Matty to the kitchen door.

  Holding the pot in one hand, the maid opened the door with the other. Three stone steps led up to the torchlit bailey, where Janet saw with relief that Yaro’s Wat had taken Small Neck Tailor’s place at the dungeon entrance. She knew that the men followed no particular schedule, and she had feared that Geordie might have decided to stand guard in place of the smaller, slighter Wat. Geordie had a head for spirits that was the envy of many a Graham, and his presence might well have spoiled her hastily conceived plan.

  The only other men in sight were a stable lad mucking out stalls and a guard by the postern gate, who would doubtless remain to admit Hugh and his men on their return. The main gates generally remained closed and barred after dark.

  Matty said firmly, “I’ll serve the three men on the wall first, mistress. Climbing them steps should keep me from freezing whilst I’m about it. I only hope I dinna drop the pot. My fingers be like icicles in this cold.”

  “I’ll hold the pot whilst you fill three chopins,” Janet said. “You tell them they can each have the one tote but no more. Sir Hugh must not find them drunk when he comes home.”

  Matty grimaced, but she made no objection when Janet took the pot from her and held it while she dipped each chopin to fill it.

  Janet said casually, “I’ll serve the three down here.”

  “But, mistress, ’tis enough that ye’re here. Ye should not be serving—”

  “Don’t argue. The sooner we do this and get back inside, the sooner you will be warm again. I am wearing a heavy cloak and I do not mind the cold, but you are not dressed warmly enough to linger. Now go.”

  Matty obeyed with barely concealed gratitude, and Janet went first to the man by the postern gate, dipping him up a full chopin of the potent brew and assuring him that it would warm him through. He accepted it gratefully.

  Filling another for the lad mucking out stalls, she took it into the stable, which now was aglow with torchlight. As she offered him the toddy, she said, “I do not think I know that large beast in the last stall.”

  “’Tis the reiver’s pony, mistress,” the lad said, leaning his rake against a wall and taking the chopin she held out. “I thank ye. ’Tis cold, the night.”

  “Aye,” she said, still eyeing the magnificent horse. “I warrant Sir Hugh will like having that one. I’d like it myself.”

  “That b’ ain’t no lady’s horse, Mistress Janet. Scottish Border ponies be but half-trained beasts at best. Sir Hugh said he’ll soon teach this one manners, though.”

  That settled the matter as far as Janet was concerned. Moreover, if the reiver rode away on his own pony, Hugh could not charge him with another horse theft.

  Offering the lad a refill, she made sure that she still had plenty for Yaro’s Wat, and strolled outside to the dungeon door. “I hope you don’t have to stand here all night, Wat,” she said. “It’s perishing cold out here.”

  Taking the mug she held out to him, he sipped, then looked at her curiously. “Strong stuff this be, mistress.”

  “Aye,” she said, grinning at him. “I thought you’d be glad of it.”

  “I am that. Warms me right through, it does.”

  “Good. Will you have to stand here all night?”

  “Only till two. Then Geordie said he’d take my place till dawn.”

  “Why do I not leave the pot, then?” Janet suggested. “The cider will not stay hot, but mayhap you will think of a way to warm some for him.”

  “An there be any left,” Wat said, chuckling, “we’ll find a way, I warrant.”

  Satisfied, Janet turned away to find Matty hurrying toward her. “Dinna leave that pot with him, Mistress Janet. Cook will be beside herself an she finds it missing, come morning. Both Sheila and me will be in for it then.”

  “Pour the rest into the loose pail from the well then,” Janet said. “Someone will be glad to finish off the cider, and we must not waste it.”

  “Aye,” Matty said doubtfully, but she knew better than to dispute Janet’s decision in front of Yaro’s Wat. Fetching the pail, she poured the cider into it, then set it down by the grinning Wat and walked with Janet back to the kitchen entrance. There, however, she said anxiously, “Mistress Janet, them lads ought not to be drinking their fill of that stuff. They’ll be ape drunk or worse within the hour.”

  “Hush, Matty. This is my affair, and if Sir Hugh finds out, he will know exactly whom to blame for it. If you are wise, you will not mention to anyone that you had anything to do with it. The men will not betray you, I assure you. Indeed, they most likely will say nothing at all about the cider, so unless we suffer some horrid mischance, Sir Hugh need never learn what happened to it.”

  “Very well, mistress, I’ll warn that Sheila to keep her mouth shut. Got a tongue on her like a beggar’s clapper, she does, but I trow she’ll listen to me. Still and all, ye’re up to summat, and I dinna like to think what Sir Hugh will do when he finds out what ye’ve done.”

  “No one else will suffer for it, Matty,” Janet said. “If I must, I shall tell him I drank his stupid brandy myself.”

  “Ye’ll never!”

  “I shall if I must. I’ll bid you good night now,” she added before the woman could think of anything more to say on the subject. “I am not ready to go upstairs yet. I think I will take another turn round the bailey.”

  Matty sighed but said only, “Good night then, mistress. Dinna forget to bar the kitchen door when ye come in.”

  Waiting in the shadows just outside the door until she could be sure that Matty had gone to bed and the kitchen was empty, Janet went back to the fireplace and lifted the heavy poker from its hook. Holding it under her two cloaks, she counted slowly to three thousand, then went back outside. The stable was dark, and only the two torches flanking the main gate remained alight. By their ambient glow she could see Yaro’s Wat, his head tilted back as he finished off what was left in his chopin. She wondered if any remained in the pail at his feet.

  Waiting till she feared that her feet had begun to freeze, she walked out of the shadows at last, as certain as she could be that the men on the wall had taken cover from the cold. Even if they had not, she thought they would be watching more carefully for Hugh’s return than they would for activity inside the bailey. She would have been happier had Wat gone to sleep, but she trusted to her imagination and his brandy-weakened senses to get her inside the dungeon.

  She had walked close enough to be surprised that he did not greet her before she realized that, although he leaned upright against the wall, his eyes were shut. If he had not fallen asleep standing up, he was as near that state as made no difference.

  Quickly, she slipped past him and had put her hand on the latch before she remembered that, before, he had had to unlock the door for her. Gently she tried to lift the latch, but it did not move. Frustrated, she peered more closely at Wat. He did not move. For the benefit of anyone who might be watching, she nodded, hoping it would look as if they were talking. Then, keeping her back to the bailey and the opposite wall, she slipped a hand gently inside his coat and unhooked from his belt the ring with its two keys. Her hands shook, and she could barely breathe. She was certain that he would waken at any moment and demand that she give back his keys.

  Unlocking the door, she slipped inside and quickly pushed the door shut behind her. Blackness enveloped her, and she felt dizzy, knowing that the steep stairs fell away before her like a yawning chasm. Carefully gathering her skirts in the same gloved hand that gripped the poker she had taken from the kitchen, she placed the other, with Wat’s keys, against the wall to steady herself while she felt for the next step. Knowing she would ruin all if she fell, she made her way with maddening slowness, one step at a time, to the bottom. Not a sound came from the cell.

  “It’s just me,” she whispered.

  “I can see that,” he said.

  “You can see?”

  “Aye, after a f
ashion, but keep your voice down. When one spends one’s days and nights in pitch black, one’s eyes adjust to the slightest light, and you did open the door, after all. I cannot see much now, and I saw only a cloaked devil before you spoke. What are you doing here, lass? I told you not to come again.”

  “I’ve come to let you out.”

  “You must be the devil then.”

  “Don’t blaspheme,” she said sternly. “I’ve brought you food, and I know where your horse is. Nearly everyone in the castle is asleep, but there are guards above, and two of the lads sleep in the stable, so you must go carefully, and very quietly. I’ll help you sneak out through the postern gate. Then you must make for Liddel Water. I’ll tell you exactly how—”

  “Lass, no one knows better than I do how to find the Liddel, or which route is the best and safest to take me there, but what about you?”

  She leaned the poker against the wall. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said patiently, “what do you risk by freeing me?”

  “You need not concern yourself with that,” she said impatiently as she felt with her fingers and the key for the keyhole in the iron-barred door.

  “You should not do this,” he said. “It would be enough if you could just get word to my Bairns. They are a canny lot and may well learn where I am in time to do something before your brother hangs me on Wednesday. But since he said that none but his most trusted men know I am here—”

  “Hugh is not going to wait until Wednesday,” she said. “He means to hang you at sunrise. They have already built the gallows.”

  “The guard very kindly told me that they were building them, but I took that to mean that your brother intended to be prepared for the day in case we had a storm. Surely, though, you are mistaken about his intent to hang me tomorrow. By my calculation, tomorrow is Sunday. Would he hang a man on the Sabbath?”

  Grimly, she retorted, “Do you want to wager your life that he will not?”

  He was silent. The only sound was the rattle of the keys as she continued to search for the keyhole.

  “What’s that sound?”

  “I’ve got Wat’s key ring. I’m just not sure which key is the right one.”

  “Good lass. Give it to me, though, before you drop it. It could take a week to find it amidst the muck on the floor.”

  Just the thought of what might lie beneath her feet—something she had not thought about before—was enough to make her hand him the keys. His fingers brushed hers, sending a wave of warmth through her. Then, after a rattle of metal against metal, she felt the door open toward her.

  He was free.

  She felt suddenly vulnerable. What if he really was as bad as they had said he was? What if he just strangled her and left her lying in the muck on the floor? Two strong hands found her shoulders, surprising a squeak of protest from her.

  “Be silent,” he muttered. “You’ll have the guard down on us.”

  “He’s drunk, I think,” she murmured back, aware only of the warm hands grasping her shoulders. “He was slumped against the wall when I approached, and he did not even look at me when I took his keys from his belt.”

  “Your brother should have more reliable guards.”

  “I gave them all cider laced with brandy,” she said. “We must not dawdle, though. Hugh took his supper at Bewcastle, but he may well return before midnight, and it must be getting on for ten now. As cold as it is, I am counting on icy tracks to slow him, but ice will slow you, as well, of course.”

  “What will he do to you?” he asked again.

  She shivered. “We must not think about that. Have you still got your cloak, or did they take it from you?”

  “I’ve got it,” he said. “It is all that’s kept me from freezing down here, for all that it must be warmer here than it is outside.”

  “I brought one of Hugh’s in case you needed it,” she said. “I’m wearing it over my own.”

  “You think of everything, lassie, but you still seem to lack that sense of self-preservation we discussed the last time we met. Now, tell me what your brother will do to you when he finds what you’ve done. And do not lie to me!”

  “Who will tell him that I did anything?” she countered. “No one saw me.”

  He was silent for a time. Then, musingly, he said, “If a man I had set to guard a captive fell into a drunken stupor and let him escape, I would hang him at cockcrow—sooner if I already had a gallows built and a noose prepared.”

  She had not thought of that. The image his words created made her feel sick.

  “Ah, well,” he said, “we won’t think about that now. Doubtless by morning you will think of a way to prevent it. You seem to have a fertile imagination.”

  “Aye,” she said doubtfully. Then, fearing that he would worry if she did not persuade him that she could handle Hugh, she said more firmly, “I will think of something. Hugh is not so difficult to manage if one but knows the way of it.”

  “He beats his servants, though.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “You told me. Remember?”

  She did not remember putting it like that, exactly, but she shrugged. “I have managed Hugh for twenty years, sir. I can manage him now.” Hearing her voice falter, she added hastily, “We should hurry.”

  “Aye, we should,” he agreed. “Let me lead the way, since doubtless I can see better than you can. You hold my hand and mind your skirts.”

  She let him take her hand before she remembered the poker. “I brought a weapon in case you need it,” she said. “It’s here somewhere.” Feeling along the wall, she found the poker and handed it to him.

  “I’d prefer to have a sword, but this will do,” he said with a touch of laughter in his voice. “I can see that you make an able assistant. Come quickly now.”

  Following him up the stairs was easier than she had thought it would be. As they neared the top she could even make out the steps. He opened the door without hesitation, although he did so slowly, peering out before he opened it all the way.

  “The postern gate is there at the end of the stable,” she murmured. “Your pony is tied in the last stall.”

  He did not reply. Glancing around the bailey, he stepped outside, still holding her hand. But once outside the door, he released her and gave her a gentle push toward the stable.

  Hurrying ahead of him, Janet listened anxiously for a cry of alarm from the ramparts or elsewhere, but none came. If any guard still watched the postern, he was as stuporous as Wat.

  Hearing no sound behind her, she looked back when she reached the stable entrance to see that he was farther back than she had thought. He closed the distance with a few quick strides, however, moving with eerie silence, and she led the way into the stable. When they were halfway along the row of stalls, she was surprised to hear him give a low-pitched whistle. Hearing no response, she turned to say curiously, “Is he not yours, then?”

  “Aye, he is. I did not want him to greet me, however, and we must pray that none of the others proves too friendly. My bold fellow’s a canny one, he is.”

  Something caught at Janet’s hem, startling her. She tried to pull her skirt free, but whatever it was that had caught it tugged back. Then she heard a low-pitched, warbling “meow.”

  The reiver muttered, “What the devil?”

  “It’s Jemmy Whiskers,” she said, scooping up the little cat and cuddling it. Jemmy began to purr loudly.

  “He’s a damned nuisance. Set him down.”

  “I can’t. He’ll wail if I ignore him, and someone will hear him. I won’t let him give you away, though. I’ll just hold him.”

  He made a sound like a growl but did not argue, and soon she heard the familiar sounds of leather and harness.

  “Are you saddling him?” She had not expected him to take the time to do so.

  “Aye, the saddle’s right here on the stall rail, and ’tis a fine one. I dinna want to leave it. Did ye say you’ve brought two cloaks with you?”
r />   “Aye, but I do not think either would serve well as a saddle blanket.”

  He chuckled, and a moment later, he stepped back. Only then did she realize that the torches flanking the gate had gone out. Only starlight lit the bailey now.

  “Come,” he murmured.

  “Won’t they hear his shoes on the bailey cobblestones?”

  “Bless you, lass, most Scottish ponies wear no shoes unless reivers shoe them backwards to lead their followers astray. My lad moves as silently as the wee cat, and he’s near as deft in his movements, too,” he added proudly.

  Still carrying Jemmy Whiskers, grateful for the warmth of his small body, Janet followed as the reiver led the pony out of the stable, staying close to its wall and then to the curtain wall as they moved toward the postern gate. As they neared it, a snore startled them both. The guard lay curled across the gateway.

  “Damnation,” the reiver muttered. “I’ll have to use the poker after all.”

  The lad was young, Janet knew, and would have to face Hugh. As she tried to decide whether it would be better for him to face his master with a broken head or a whole one, the reiver murmured against her ear, “Does it open outward or in?”

  “Out,” she said.

  “As it should,” he said. “’Tis more secure against intruders that way, a gate is. Not a sound now, lass. Not so much as a whisper.”

  She could barely see what he was doing, but he leaned away from her, and a moment later the gate swung open. To her amazement, the pony stepped daintily over the recumbent body, and the guard did not stir.

  “Lift your skirts as you step over him,” the reiver said, breathing the words just loudly enough for her to hear.

  “I needn’t do so,” she whispered. “If you will just push the gate shut, the latch and bar will fall back into place. It cannot be opened from outside.”

  “Pushing it shut will make too much noise,” he said. “You’ll have to draw it toward you and shut it gently, and you cannot do that from where you are.”