by Amanda Scott
“Ye’ll no stay wi’ the ponies,” he said. “We’ll draw them well into the brush, and ye’ll keep low under cover a wee distance awa’. That road, if someone should stumble over them, they willna find ye as weel.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, but his words shot another shiver up Janet’s spine. Her courage had fled, and she was not certain that she would recover it. Moments later, she was alone in the dark. The mist had thickened, casting a veil across the moon. Its pale glow still shimmered through, barely illuminating objects on the ground, but she could not see as well as she had earlier.
Telling herself that she was safer in the dimmer light did not help, for she could no longer see Tip. She had lost sight of him almost immediately, and she could discern no stirring of shrubbery or other movement or sound that betrayed his whereabouts. He might as well have been a ghost that had vanished. If he were captured or had already been captured, she would not know until he failed to return.
Just the thought gave her new shivers. What would she do? She could not be certain that Quinton would return the way he had gone. He was as likely to make for the Kershopefoot crossing. Indeed, that was the very reason that her anxieties had stirred, because she feared that Hugh would capture him again and hang him before anyone even knew that Hugh had taken him.
Gritting her teeth, she told herself to stop being such a fool. Her instincts had told her to follow, and she had. She would be at hand when she was needed. She knew it—or so she assured herself.
Minutes dragged into longer minutes, till it seemed as if hours had passed. Common sense told her it had not been as long as that, that time simply had slowed to a crawl. She must not let impatience stir her to do anything foolish. Still, each minute dragged until twenty of them seemed like a year.
Listening, all she could hear was the nearby burn bubbling and sloshing over rocks and boulders as it tumbled downhill to join the Tyne at Kielbeck. What was happening there, she did not know, nor could she. If only, she thought, she could turn off her thinking, could just sleep with her eyes open, so that she would see any danger that came but would not imagine any that would not come.
Movement in nearby brush startled her. She nearly scrambled up to see what it was, then told herself firmly that it was naught but one of the horses moving. Logic told her, however, that the horses were too far away. She might hear a whicker if one were so forgetful of its training as to make that much noise, but she would not hear it if it simply moved a little. The noise came again.
Janet flattened herself to the ground, willing the bushes around her to cover her completely.
“They’ve been this way, rot their devilish hides, and not long ago, neither.”
Stifling a gasp at the sound of the man’s voice only paces away, she flattened more and tried to inch her way under the nearest bush.
At that very moment, a large foot came down upon her calf, and she failed to stifle a cry of pain.
“Well, well, well, what have we got here?”
Chapter 14
“The English rogues may hear, and drie
The weight o’ their braid swords to feel.”
THOUGH JANET WISHED SHE could disappear into the earth, she sat up and brushed off her hands, then nearly held one out for the man to help her up before she recalled her disguise. Remembering, she got slowly to her feet, fearing that if she got up too quickly he might knock her down again.
“Ye frighted me, sir,” she said, trying to make her voice sound low and common, and succeeding only in making it sound gruff.
“What the devil are ye doin’ here, lad? I might as easily have spit ye through as stepped on ye.”
“I thank ye for doing nowt o’ the sort,” she said. Though it was her nature to stand straight and look directly at people, she kept her eyes lowered and let her shoulders slump, knowing that it would make her look smaller and less threatening.
“What ha’ ye found there, Gibby?”
A second man approached, and the one called Gibby said, “Just a lad out on the prowl, Lem. Tell me, lad, ha’ ye seen any raiders the night?”
“Nay, sir,” Janet said. “I’m shamed to tell ye something spooked my pony when I were riding half asleep. Might ha’ been raiders, though I think ’twas naught but a night bird’s call.”
The newcomer came nearer, leading two ponies by their reins, and Janet watched him warily from the corner of one eye, sizing him up. She did not think Gibby would notice her interest in his companion. The light was not strong enough for him to perceive that she was not still looking at the ground.
The one called Lem looked taller and much thinner than Gibby, for Gibby’s shadowy figure seemed almost square. There was not enough light to see their faces clearly, but Lem sported a pointy beard and Gibby looked clean-shaven, albeit a trifle scruffy.
A rustle in nearby shrubbery made both men jump, but when no other sound rose above the bubbling of the burn, they returned their attention to Janet.
She wondered where Tip had gone and hoped that he would not make his presence known if he came back while the two were still with her. He was unarmed, just as she was, but for her dagger, and he would be of little help to her.
“Where d’ye hail from, lad?” It was the second man, Lem, who asked.
“Brackengill,” she said instantly. “What of ye? Be ye land sergeant’s men?”
“Aye, from Bewcastle,” Lem said. “Brackengill, eh? Who’s your master?”
“Sir Hugh Graham,” she said, as if surprised that he would ask. “D’ye no ken the man?”
Gibby said, “I saw him once. He’s a big man, Sir Hugh is, wi’ a fearsome temper to match his size.”
“Aye,” Janet agreed. The two clearly were not Grahams then. She had thought they could not be, but with a clan so large, and with members living on both sides of the line, she did not know them all.
“Let’s ha’ a closer look at ye, lad,” Lem said, and before Janet realized his intent, he snatched the knitted cap from her head. “Christ’s foot,” he exclaimed when her long, silvery-blond hair spilled free, “he’s a wench!”
Grabbing for the cap, she cried, “Give that back!”
“Oh, aye, sure,” Lem said, laughing and twitching the cap up out of her reach. “What the devil is a wee lass like yourself doing out in the night like this?”
“I…I came to meet someone,” she said, hoping that he would leave her be if he believed that another man was coming. “He’s as large as Sir Hugh,” she added.
“Is he now? I warrant he’ll share his good fortune though, or will he not?”
“No!” She tried to run, but Gibby caught her arm.
His grip was tight, but he said, “We should let her go, Lem. The sergeant willna like it an we dawdle wi’ her.”
“He won’t mind if we take him the wee lass as a gift,” Lem said.
“How dare you!” Janet exclaimed. “I’ll have you know that I am—”
About to identify herself as sister to Sir Hugh Graham, she bit off the words. The likelihood of Hugh’s hearing about the incident was too great if she proclaimed their relationship, and that would do her no good. Moreover, it occurred to her that they might take her straight to him in hopes of a reward, and that was the last thing she wanted. Hugh would not hesitate to hold her for ransom if he thought it would embarrass Sir Quinton or Buccleuch. Indeed, he would relish the chance.
“Well, lass, who are ye then?” Lem’s tone was matter-of-fact, even kindly, but when she did not answer, he said, “I thought as much. If ye’ll no tell us your name, we must assume that ye dinna hail from Brackengill as ye claim but are one wi’ them thievin’ Scots. Who did ye ride with?”
“No one,” she said miserably. “I came here on my own and lost my horse just as I told you. No one else knows that I am here.”
Lem chuckled. “Ye followed your man, did ye? Ye ha’ more courage than sense, lassie. I think ye’ll make our sergeant a fine gift, but mayhap we should just test that to see if ye’ll be worth his spo
rt.”
Appalled at his obvious intent, she jerked away and tried to free herself from Gibby, but Lem caught her free wrist and yanked her toward him.
Gibby let go before she was stretched between the two of them. “Lem,” he said anxiously, “I dinna think—”
“Hush your gob, lad. A chance like this does not come to a man every day. She’s a wee winsome one in breeks, is she not? I’ve a mind to see her without them, though, and I’ll warrant ye won’t mind taking your turn when I’m done wi’ her.”
Janet tried to scream, but the sound caught in her throat, and before she could force it free, Lem had clapped a filthy hand over her mouth, stifling any second attempt. His other hand grabbed the front of her jerkin. She grabbed for her dagger.
“Mind her feet, Gib,” Lem warned when she struggled, “and get them breeks off her. Quick now!”
Quin and the others, having struck swiftly and without warning, had successfully taught the citizenry of Kielbeck a lesson in raiding. Hob the Mouse and Willie Bell swept the livestock from the green in a trice and were driving them swiftly toward the Larriston Fells. They had taken no sheep, but they had taken every horse and cow in the village, many of which they recognized as their own from earlier raids on Liddesdale and Upper Teviotdale.
Quin rode ahead of the livestock with half of his men. The other half followed to protect them against an attack from the rear. With such a small party, he had not left anyone to guard their route, trusting to his instincts and knowledge of the land to get them home safely.
As they approached forestland at the foot of the fells, he slowed and turned to Curst Eckie Crosier, who rode beside him. “Fall back and tell the others that you and I will ride ahead. They are to proceed carefully, listening for warning from us. If we encounter a patrol, I’ll fire a shot to draw its members after us, and you and I will lead them away. If our lads see anyone, tell Jed to sound his horn, and we’ll return at once.”
“Aye, I’ll tell them,” Curst Eckie said. Wheeling his pony, he rode off, returning minutes later. “They’ll listen and watch well, master,” he said.
“Then let’s ride.” Urging his horse to a faster pace, he led the way into the woods, knowing from experience that English patrols generally did not ride without light. They carried torches that threatened to set fire to any woodland through which they passed, and they rode without giving much thought to the noise their passing created. So long as he could hear night birds calling to each other from the trees, he knew that he and his men were safe from all but the more silent, generally well-hidden two-man patrols. Tonight, though, he thought he could count on the English to mount only plump watches. Against those, a small group like his would remain safe if they stayed alert.
He slowed to let his eyes adjust to the deeper darkness of the forest, and soon he could pick his path easily by the pale glow of mist-veiled moonlight where it filtered through the canopy. His pony’s hooves made but slight noise on the soft forest floor, and although he could hear Curst Eckie’s pony behind him, he doubted that the noise carried more than a dozen feet, if that far.
The burn flowing through the forest on its way to join the Tyne made a hushing sound like the rustling of a lady’s silk skirts. As they made their way toward the heights, he kept his ears attuned to the forest sounds, particularly for any alteration in them. He knew that when they reached the heights, the route would grow more perilous, for recent rains had made boggy areas more treacherous than usual. At the same time, though, those rains were responsible for the soft footing beneath them, so he could not complain.
So certain was he that no one lurked nearby that the figure that sprang out of the shrubbery just ahead startled him into a hastily choked cry as he snatched his sword from its scabbard.
“Nay, master, hold!” The muttered words carried easily to his sharp ears, and possibly to Curst Eckie’s, although they would not have carried farther.
“Tip! What the devil are you doing out here? You frightened the liver out of me. What’s amiss?”
“The mistress,” Tip said. “English louts ha’ captured her, and they dinna sound like gentlemen.”
“Where? Never tell me you’ve come afoot all the way from Broadhaugh!”
“Nay, master. They be yonder, on the heights.”
“How did you escape?”
“I left her and the ponies for a few wee moments to look for watchers. She were well away from the ponies, though, and well concealed,” he added hastily. “I thought she’d be gey safe, master, truly! But when I crept back, I heard voices. There be but two of them wi’ her, I think, but they mean her nae good.”
“I won’t ask what the devil you meant by bringing her here. There is no time for that now, but tell me this. Did you follow our tracks?”
“Aye, sir, as near as I could.”
“Then I know where to go. I’ll take Curst Eckie, for he’ll be more use in a fight than you would be. You wait for the others here and ride with one of them. You and I will talk later.”
“Aye,” Tip said miserably. “I dinna doubt it.”
Signing to Eckie to follow, Quin urged his pony to greater speed, no longer caring if there were patrols about.
When Janet tried to grab her dagger, Lem stopped her and tossed it aside. She fought like a netted wildcat then, kicking and scratching whatever part of either man she could reach, and she had the satisfaction of feeling her foot connect hard with a soft part of Gibby’s anatomy just as she sank her teeth into someone’s hand. Her sole reward was a double bellow of pain that told her the hand belonged to Lem. In moments, though, her breeks were down around her calves and the jerkin she wore had been ripped open and shoved halfway down her arms, pinning them back as tightly as any ropes could have done.
No sooner had she bitten Lem than he slapped her hard across her face. The next thing she knew she was on her back with her legs tangled in the breeks, her arms twisted painfully beneath her, and nasty-tasting cloth jammed into her mouth, threatening to choke her.
Lem’s big hands clutched her breasts, his long, skinny fingers squeezing and pinching till she groaned with pain, gaining little protection from the shirt she wore.
Gibby muttered, “Make haste, Lem! What if someone comes?”
“Shut yer gob! I thought I told ye to get them breeks off her.”
“She kicked me in the bollocks!”
“She won’t do it again. Yank them off!” He put his face inches from Janet’s, adding, “If ye kick, lass, I’ll use my fist to knock your teeth down your throat.”
His breath stank, and she turned her face away, still working her tongue to push the horrible gag from her mouth. He pawed at her shirt lacing, then grabbed a handful of the material and tried to rip it off her, but the coarse cloth did not yield. Finally, putting a leg across her body to pin her to the ground, he used both hands and ripped the shirt down the middle, baring her breasts to the cold air. At the same time, Gibby yanked hard on her breeks, jerking them to her ankles.
“Get off her now,” a stern voice said grimly, “and I’ll grant you each one more minute of life before I send you to the devil.”
Janet felt Lem stiffen atop her and heard Gibby gasp. She did not instantly recognize the disembodied voice in the darkness. Only as the two men scrambled away from her did she hear its echo in her mind and know that it was Quinton. Relief surged through her, and she grabbed the torn bits of shirt and clutched them together, concealing her breasts as she struggled to sit.
“Godamercy, ’tis Rabbie Redcloak,” Gibby gasped. “We’re sped!”
Lem snarled, “Shut yer gob, ye blazing fool. D’ye want him to shoot us down like dogs?”
“I have considerably more regard for dogs,” Quinton said gently.
“Ye’d best be gone from here whilst ye can,” Lem muttered. “Ye’re a murdering thief, and half the Border’s aroused the night, searching for ye.”
“Aye, but they are not here now, my lad.”
“If ye fire that pistol, we�
�ll soon see how far away they be.”
“A point to you,” Sir Quinton admitted. “Moreover, despite what you may have heard to the contrary, I am no murderer. Have you got a sword, lout, or must we wrestle like bairns?”
“Master, no!”
Janet heard the second voice, but she was not certain that either Lem or Gibby had. She did not recognize it, so she knew that it was not Tip or Hob the Mouse. She wondered where Tip had gone. Was it he who had fetched Sir Quinton, or had Sir Quinton and the second man stumbled onto them just as Gibby had stumbled onto her? And where were Hob and the rest of Rabbie Redcloak’s Bairns?
She managed to sit up and to shrug the leather jerkin up where it belonged, but pulling up the breeks would require extreme finesse it she were not to bare her nether parts again. Where the devil had her cloak gone?
Quinton had not said a word to her. Another thought followed that one, and the profound relief she had felt evaporated. She dared not speak to him either—not as a wife to her husband in front of Lem and Gibby. Her eyes pricked with tears, and her throat ached, but she dared not cry. Even if Quinton forgave her for the rest, she would not soon forgive herself. She realized that her cloak lay beneath her. Using it to cover herself, she struggled back into the breeks.
For the few short moments that had passed since Quinton’s demand to know if Lem carried a sword, she had watched their dark shapes and Gibby’s. Quinton had slipped from his saddle, ignoring his companion’s warning. Neither Lem nor Gibby had said another word.
“Well,” Quinton said, “have you got a sword or do you patrol unarmed?”
“I’ve got a sword,” Lem growled. “’Tis yonder where I set it whilst I—”
“Whilst you raped a defenseless lass, or did you think her a lad you could—”
“I never!” Lem seemed more upset by the suggestion of buggery than by the imminence of his death.
