by Amanda Scott
“Aye,” they said as one.
The crowd grew quiet.
The clerk continued, “Then, if you please, Sir Quinton, repeat after me…‘I, Sir Quinton Scott of Broadhaugh….’”
“I, Sir Quinton Scott of Broodhaugh…”
“‘…do swear by the High God that reigneth above all kings and realms, and to whom all Christians owe obedience…’”
When Quin finished, Sir Hugh swore the same oath, and then they took their seats—the wardens in armchairs, their clerk on a stool.
The clerk said, “If it please you, Sir Hugh, you may call your first juror.”
Sir Hugh nodded and gazed out upon the multitude. The murmur of conversation that had begun as the three men took their seats died away in anticipation of hearing the first name called. Sir Hugh would choose the six Scottish jurors and Quin the six English ones. Quin appreciated the subtle suggestion that they would make their choices on the spot and at random, for despite Sir Hugh’s casual pretense of searching the crowd, Quin knew that just as much calculation had gone into the Englishman’s selections as had gone into his own.
Wardens could not simply pluck jurors like flowers from the field. They had to weigh personality, circumstance, and family relationships against the grievances with which they had to deal. At times, as he had learned from his surly mentor, the calculation required the craftiness and wisdom of a sage. Moreover, they were supposed to impanel only respectable men on their juries. Since the law forbade naming traitors, murderers, fugitives, betrayers, and other infamous persons from sitting, life being what it was in the Borders, wardens from both sides often had to overlook the rules in order to find twelve men to serve.
Impaneling the two juries took little time, however, and the clerk had them all swear their oaths as one. They were ready to begin the day’s business.
The clerk selected the most recent bill of complaint first and read it aloud to the company for consideration. The complaint being against an Englishman, the six Englishmen whom Quin had selected would hear it.
In a solemn, carrying voice, louder than anyone might expect from so slight a man, the clerk intoned, “Jed Elliot and Wat Tailor, step forward and be heard!”
Two burly men emerged from the throng, urged on by shouts from their cohorts. Glowering at wardens and jurors alike, both looked very determined.
The clerk said, “Jed Elliot, you have filed grievance before this body. Have you honestly declared the truth of what your goods were worth at the time of their taking had they been bought and sold in a market all at one time, and do you also declare that you know no other recovery but this, so help you God?”
The burly Scotsman rolled his eyes heavenward, then muttered, “Well, as to knowin’ no other recourse—”
Quin cleared his throat loudly, drawing Elliot’s startled attention.
The Scotsman sighed, looked at the jury, then declared hoarsely, “I do, then, by God and by Christ Almighty, as weel.”
The clerk, expressionless, turned next to the Englishman. “Do you, Wat Tailor, swear by heaven above you, hell beneath you, by your part of Paradise, by all that God made in six days and seven nights, and by God himself, that you are sackless of art, part, way, witting, ridd, kenning, having, or resetting of any of the goods and cattle named in this bill, so help you God?”
“Aye, I do swear,” the Englishman muttered.
The clerk turned to the two wardens. “This bill is cleared by the defendant’s own oath of innocence,” he declared.
“Here now,” Elliot protested. He fell silent when Quin looked at him, but the expression on his face made it plain that at best his silence would be momentary.
Quin understood Buccleuch’s warning about fairness. When one man held the fate of another in his hands, he could easily lose sight of all but the awesome power he wielded. At Broadhaugh he possessed great power, including the authority to order men drowned in the pit or hanged from the gallows, but the consequences that could result from Broadhaugh justice were small compared to this. At Dayholm a misstep could start a war between two countries. The thought sobered him.
To Sir Hugh, he said, “Can Tailor call others to swear to his innocence?”
Sir Hugh bellowed the question to the crowd, then waited a few moments. When no one stepped forward, he said, “Apparently, no man speaks for him.”
“Then let the jury decide,” Quin said, nodding to the six Englishmen he had chosen for his assize court.
They returned their verdict after a brief muttering conference: “Guilty.”
Glancing at the bill of grievance, Quin said, “The charge declares forty head of kine and three oxen. At thirty shillings apiece for the kine and forty for the oxen, the amount…”
“…would be sixty-six pounds, sir,” the clerk said quickly.
“Sterling,” Quin added. “Can Tailor pay such an amount?”
“He can and he will,” Sir Hugh said, exchanging a look with the burly Tailor. “I will stand good for it myself.”
The clerk called the next case, and business proceeded in a generally orderly fashion until noon, when the acting wardens declared a recess for dinner.
Chapter 19
“And have they e’en ta’en him…
Against the truce of border tide?”
JANET HAD WATCHED THE proceedings for only a few minutes before she had seen a kinswoman helping to set out food. Dismounting with Hob the Mouse’s help, she left her horse with another man-at-arms to look after it and went to join the other women. She thought her old friends and family members looked pleased to see her, but they did seem reticent at first and less friendly than in the past. Not until she noticed that each woman she spoke to looked beyond her rather than at her did she realize that she had brought along a somewhat intimidating escort.
Since she had walked away after seeing her horse safely in the care of Quinton’s man, she had not seen Hob signal two others to follow her. Seeing them now and knowing she could do nothing about them, she shrugged, grinned at the woman with whom she was speaking, and said, “My husband frets about my safety, I’m afraid. He does not seem to realize that with kinsmen on both sides of the line, I am most likely safer than most folks.”
“It does not do to be too sure of such things,” the woman said wisely.
Janet agreed with her, but she was glad to see old acquaintances again and felt certain that because of the truce, nothing untoward would happen. Enjoying the company of women from both sides of the line, she paid little heed to the trials as they proceeded. Just as one of the older women was suggesting that the men would soon call a halt so they could eat their dinner, she saw another old friend.
“Andrew, is that you?”
The boy was with several men, and when she called to him he glanced at her, then glanced away again.
She recognized one of the men with whom the boy stood as a friend of Hugh’s. The man took a step toward her, then seemed to change his mind, and she remembered her ubiquitous escort. When she looked over her shoulder to see Quinton’s two men frowning, their hands on their daggers, she sighed. It explained, however, why Hugh’s friend was walking away without speaking to her.
Andrew, too, had turned away.
“Andrew, come here. I want to talk to you.”
Hesitating only a moment, the boy strode to meet her. Touching his cap, he bade her good day, his dignified manner telling her that he wanted people to think him older than his years.
Concealing her amusement, she said, “What are you doing here, my lad?”
“I come to see them bluidy Scotch reivers, is what,” he replied grimly.
“And what else have you seen?”
He looked directly at her, and his eyes lit with pleasure more in keeping with his age. He said, “I seen a lamb with two heads, Mistress Janet. Did ye see it?”
“I did,” she acknowledged. “How fares your mam? Is she here today?”
“Nay, she’s wi’ the bairns. We got a new one since ye left. It’s nob
but a lass, though, and a puling one at that. Sir Hugh himself helped wi’ her birthin’, though.”
“Hugh did?” Janet was amazed.
“Aye, there were none else to help, so I fetched ’im, and then he sent Ned Rowan to look after the place, ’cause he said we needed a man about. I could ha’ taken care of ’em,” he added resentfully. “I dinna like Ned Rowan. He’s sweet on me mam, but she doesna want him.”
“Then she need not have him,” Janet said kindly.
“Sir Hugh says she will, though, unless she wants to go to Brackengill and look after him instead. All them women at the castle left when ye did, Mistress Janet, and their men willna let them go back.”
“Oh, dear,” Janet said, knowing that if her departure alone had not infuriated her brother, the circumstances that resulted from it must have done so.
“Aye,” Andrew said. “Be it true, then, that the reiver carried ye off, like they say he did?”
“Aye, true enough,” she said.
“They do say it were Rabbie Redcloak that took ye and that ye married wi’ him. Be that true, as well?”
Janet’s breath caught in her throat. Before she could think of something sensible to say, she was startled to hear her brother’s grim voice behind her.
“Janet, I want to speak to you.”
Turning to see Hugh striding toward her, she noted with relief that he could not have heard Andrew’s remark. She bent quickly to say in a low voice, “Andrew, what you heard is not true, and you must not tell anyone that it is. Promise me!”
“But I—”
“Run along, lad,” Hugh said curtly. “I want to speak to Lady Scott.”
Andrew looked puzzled, and Janet said, “That is my name now, Andrew. Go now, and remember to tell your mam that I think of her often.”
As the boy took to his heels, disappearing into the crowd, Hugh said, “What were you talking to him about?”
“He told me that you helped Jock’s Meggie when her time came,” she said calmly. “That was kind of you, Hugh.”
“Aye, it was,” he agreed. “It was a damned nuisance, as well.”
“He also said that you sent Ned Rowan to look after the place. Meggie does not like Ned, however, and won’t marry him. You will have to find someone else.”
“That is not for you to say, Janet. I’ll do what I think best. Are you well?”
“You can see that I am,” she replied, accepting the change of subject. “Thank you for agreeing to the marriage. It was the best course, I think.”
“It was the only course,” he said bluntly. “One day we’ll talk about your part in the reiver’s escape, lass. I know well that you are not blameless, but this is no place to talk.” His tone promised that the future conversation would not be pleasant.
Before she could reply, one of his men shouted that the clerk was ready to call the proceedings to order again, and Janet felt only relief at having the conversation curtailed. Clearly, it was no time to mention her dowry to him.
She was sorry, however, that she would not have time to speak to Quinton before he had to resume his duties. She would have liked to tell him what Andrew had said. There was no hurry, though. The truce would keep him safe long enough to return to the safety of Hermitage or Broadhaugh. She would tell him then.
Quin and Sir Hugh had no sooner taken seats again than the clerk called the next bill: “Sir Edward Nixon accuses Arch and Will Crosier of taking eight head of kine and six horses from Bewcastle. Accused and accuser, step forth and be heard!”
Sir Edward Nixon, a richly attired gentleman known to everyone there, was the first to obey. The clerk recited the accuser’s oath, to which Sir Edward declared loudly, “I do so swear it, by God.”
The two accused strode forward next, and when the clerk had recited the oath, they looked at each other and muttered gruffly in unison, “Aye.”
The clerk turned to the wardens. “The accused are quit by their own oaths.”
Silence blanketed the crowd, and Quin could not wonder at it. The two Crosier brothers, kin to Curst Eckie of that ilk, were a pair of thieving scoundrels known the length and breadth of the Borders on both sides of the line. He was not surprised when Sir Hugh, with a glint of amusement in his eyes, said, “Can any other man avow the innocence of this worthy pair?”
Concealing his own amusement, Quin was about to shout the question to all and sundry when Will Crosier—known fondly to his friends as Ill Wild Will—said, “There be two wha’ will speak for us. Rob and Martin Armstrong will.”
Chuckles rippled through the crowd, and seeing the two men whom Ill Wild Will had named standing near the front, Quin beckoned to them.
“Will the pair of you avow the innocence of these two men?”
“Aye, I will,” Martin Armstrong declared, jutting forth his bearded chin as if to defy anyone to question his sworn word. “By Christ’s wounds, I will.”
Meeting that defiant gaze, Quin held it for a long moment, then turned to Robert Armstrong. “Rob, will you avow the innocence of these two?”
Rob looked at the ground and scratched his chin whiskers for a long moment while the crowd seemed to hold its collective breath. Then he looked at Quin.
Quin returned the look steadily.
Rob’s gaze slithered away and inched back. He drew a deep breath, avoided looking at anyone but Quin, and said quietly, “Nay then, I’ll no forswear m’self before God Almighty to summat I dinna ken to be true.”
Quin said, “Then under the truce this bill will be declared proven.”
“Christ’s blood,” Ill Wild Will swore. “We’ve our three oaths against one!”
Quin glanced at Sir Hugh, then back at the accused. His voice carrying easily, he said, “We have weighed your three oaths against Sir Edward’s, Will, and we find yours the weaker.” To Sir Edward, he said, “Will you accept payment, sir?”
“I will for the cattle,” Sir Edward said. “I want the horses back if you can get them. As you have seen by my declaration, they are particularly valuable beasts.”
“We will see what can be done,” Quin promised. “You have my word.”
The Crosiers looked unhappy, but they did not debate the decision, and business continued until the last grievance against the Scots had been decided. A number of bills remained unsettled against the English, but when Quin suggested calling an end, Sir Hugh nodded in agreement.
“These others will hold till next time,” he said, “and Scrope will be glad that you suggested it. He reminded me that even though the law says we should deal with all the grievances that have been filed, it is wiser to settle bill-for-bill. As to the imbalance in amounts favoring England today, that need not concern us. Our side always pays up promptly, after all, and will doubtless do so this time long before your Liddesdale lot pays a jot of its share.”
Quin recognized the comment as provocation and ignored the temptation to remind him that more grievances had been filed against the English. That could change by the next wardens’ meeting, and besides, he knew that what Sir Hugh had said was true. It was not only that Liddesdale did not like to pay, though. Generally speaking, the Liddesdale men were less able to pay than their English counterparts were. Keeping these thoughts to himself, he began to put away his papers.
Little remained to do beyond allowing the clerk to read their joint proclamation of what the day had accomplished and to name a date for the next meeting. Having achieved the first task easily and the second with less conviction—surprising no one, since everyone knew there would be much haggling over that date or any other—the clerk declared the day’s business at an end.
The acting wardens charged their followers to keep the peace until the next Truce Day, then made their farewells to the assembly. As trumpets sounded and the crowd began moving away to collect belongings and prepare to depart, the clerk said to Quin and Sir Hugh, “I shall make fair copies of the order of business for each of you. And since neither of your principals was here, I shall make copies for them, to
o, and will send them all as soon as I have completed them.”
Thanking him, the two deputies stepped away from the table, still keeping a watchful eye on each other as they moved to join their separate companies.
It took Quin a few moments to find Jenny, but he spotted her at last, talking with a lad he assumed was a kinsman. Managing to catch her eye, he waved, then shouted to Hob the Mouse to collect their people and prepare to depart.
The sun was nearing the western horizon and soon would set. He wanted to be well away from Dayholm before it did.
His party was soon mounted and ready. Lifting Jenny to her saddle, he swung into his, signed to the others, and spurred his horse to a canter, turning away from Kershopefoot Burn to follow Liddel Water to the nearest fording place. The group following him was smaller and quieter than at the beginning of the day. Many had already departed for their homes, and everyone was tired.
Looking back, Quin saw that a significant number of riders from the English cavalcade lingered on the Scottish side of the burn, and although they rode near the burn, they seemed to be keeping pace with his party. When he and his men rode over the rise into Liddesdale, he lost sight of them briefly but saw them again soon afterward, riding along the crest. He recognized some of the men but not their leader’s banner. As he and his men neared the ford, two of the English riders shouted taunts at Ill Wild Will and Arch Crosier. The Crosiers shouted back.
Quin glanced at Hob the Mouse, who growled at the Crosiers, “Hold your whisst, ye fashious bairns.”
Quin saw Jenny frown at the riders following them, but he was not unduly concerned. Each person attending the truce was, by law, inviolate to his enemies until the next day’s sunrise. Therefore, even with hostile riders on the hillside above keeping step with him, he and his company should be safe. Nevertheless, instincts honed by years of raiding and battle set the hairs on the back of his neck to tingling.
At a point where the landscape to the east soared up through forestland to the Larriston Fells and the Cheviots, as Quin and his party neared the ford, the group above them suddenly spurred their horses.
