by Andrew Greig
I could not comprehend what I’d just seen. It felt like something had been shown me, but I did not know what that might be. The lamp flame bent once, twice, past her shining head.
I have never slept so purely as that night, as though held in arms incorruptible.
Hot-trod
I woke to a wondrously red dawn, then shouting voices, acrid smoke. I reached for Helen; she was not there. I peered through the window slit. Out in the darkness, the battlement of the peel tower glowed where the balefire burned high.
I adjusted my weapon under the jerkin, and hurried out to the courtyard where already men and horses gathered.
Such calling and clashing and wheeching, such stushie of horse and man and burning pitch-torch. So much horse shit! Servants, retainers, excited boys and hardened men I had never seen before, and many more still pouring in through the open gates. And at the top of the steps, tallest among the crowd of gentry gathered there, flame-lights flickering from his iron helmet, red cloak billowing loose over his armoured jack as he shouted instructions, stood Robert Bell, fresh-ridden from Blackett.
(He was of the cockerel sort, one who believes his cry alone makes the sun rise each morn. So mighty a crest, so puffed a chest, so small a brain!)
Be fair, he was damn impressive. While Will Irvine seemed befuddled, with his great nest of hair tipped sideways, still in his night garments with a cloak over his shoulders, Rob Bell took charge. He was taller than most, stood high with steel bonnet a toy in his strong hand, his black hair hung long in thick curls. The pistols at his hip glinted as he gave clear orders as a heidsman must.
I kept my distance, listened to the clash of news and rumour. The raid had fallen by night on Warden Angus’s own lands, reiving cattle and sheep and young Galloway ponies from farms and hamlets surrounding the great house. A shepherd had freed himself and hurried to raise the alarm. Balefires signalled from tower to tower, warning and summoning local families.
The Bells, long close allies to the Warden, were out in numbers. So Robert had ridden his hard-faced followers through the valleys to Bonshaw to call in the Irvines, and stake his claim as Helen’s protector. He strutted on the steps, giving orders, welcoming allies as dawn came.
Bully reborn as leader: I have seen it before. The man suddenly made sense. Though he had spared my life and smashed my nose instead, he was the one I looked to now.
I turned away and hurried down into the kitchens. The lamps were lit, the women of the house busying themselves, barefoot yet, in night attire as their hands flickered among cheeses, oatcakes, dried meat and fruit. They worked fast, near-silent, to great purpose.
Will Irvine pushed by me, his hair even madder than usual, like a furze-hedge in a gale.
“Woman!” he bellowed. “Where are my damn crossbow bolts?”
Aunt Ann glanced round, her face set and shining.
“Press cupboard at the stairheid, you old fool,” she said, then went back to wrapping up rations.
Helen stooped by the range, pulling oatcakes off the griddle. Will paused by her, gazed down, then put his hand on her shoulder.
“Mind your mither whiles I’m awa,” I heard him say.
She turned, thrust his wrapped rations into his hands.
“Go canny, Faither.”
He stowed the package and stared at her.
“I’ll bring ye back a fairing frae England.”
“Just bring yersel back.”
He put his hand tenderly to her cheek and was gone. I stood by Helen and began gathering up my piece for the trod. She glanced at me, all intimacy of the night gone. She was pale but her eyes were hot and wide. It seemed the revenge lust was upon us all.
She cut me a hunk of ewe’s milk cheese, so hard you could break a tooth on it. Oatcakes, fruit, dark dried meat, all folded together in a flick of her hands.
“Go canny, Harry,” she said. “Stay close to Adam and Jed.”
“They’ll ride with us?”
“Earl Angus as Warden has called the Flemings to the hot-trod. It may be the remaking of them, if it goes well.”
I followed her up into the courtyard. Half-dawn, firelight, a great stushie of men, horses and dogs. There was purpose but no panic as they made ready for the off, and I understood this was what they were born to.
Will was still pulling on his britches, his leggings. Ann passed him the metalled jack.
“Nane left ahint?” I heard her say, her voice low but taut as bowstring.
He looked up at that. “Nane to spare, Annie. I must gang wi’ the lave.” His voice was hoarse. “Take yersel to the tower, bolt and bar and dinna leave.”
He put his hand on her shoulder, gazed into her face. Something passed atween them, some wild look, something privy. Something Helen and I would later understand.
Ann nodded, turned away. Helen pushed in as Will buckled his great boots. She passed him another package—a wrapped Bible, liquor, I know not. He stowed it within his jack, clapped on his steel bonnet. Now dressed and fully armed, he did not look in the least ridiculous. Long-limbed, unflinching, implacable, he looked the heidsman.
Helen turned and touched my cheek with her chill hand.
“If you aren’a keeping what is yours, you are losing it,” she said. Her words struck home like a crossbow bolt. She slipped away through the crowd, towards Rob Bell on his high horse. I watched her reach up, grasp his thigh and hold out his wrap of ration, then a wee silver flask. He gazed down at her, slipped them into his saddle bag, and never took his adoring eyes off her as she went inside.
Then Robert Bell, as good as the acknowledged future husband of Cousin Helen, gestured towards the Border with his latch crossbow, and with a wordless shout led us out, his red cloak afloat behind him. As daylight came on and the watchfire burned low, he led some threescore men on horse, heading for our muster at the stone of Tinnis Hill, and I rode among them.
The way was uneven, the ground set with night-frost. The hills around us glittered white with false-snaw. Few birds sang in that dawn, the air scoured my lungs, the dogs ran silently ahead of our company.
I had never ridden among so many. Days in lecture hall, library and chambers were now faded as ancient manuscript. I knew only the bounce of the saddle, creak of leather, the chill in my hands as I swapped damp reins from left to right.
And the faces of my companions, most unknown to me, their features were vivid and dear. Some were silent, a few grim. A few I sensed rode reluctantly, having no choice for they had been called in by family heidsmen, in turn summoned by Earl Angus. But most were in high spirits, flushed, grins curling and breaking out along their heavy lips, like white on a wave approaching a savage coast.
I gathered the news as we rode. On discovery of the raid, the sleuth-hounds had ran out into the darkness with a small number of horse. However hard the ground, it is impossible to move beasts without leaving a trail and a scent. Even among the innumerable glens, valleys and hidden ways, they would be found.
In the meantime the muster had gone out locally, to the smaller, immediate families—time was all. If we could raise a gang and knew where to go within the day, we could follow hot-trod and none could stop us, even at the Border. At least, that was the theory.
“Will we carry the burning turf?” I enquired. And was laughed at. It seemed that existed only in the ballads. As did, I suspected, honour, reason and mercy.
I kept my mouth shut after that, feeling pitiably inexperienced and underequipped. I had no lance, no short sword. Many carried the latch, preferring the silent crossbow to pistol shot, but I had never even held one. My bonnet was leather, not steel. My jerkin, though tough, did not have metal sewn in to turn a sword, unlike the jacks the men around me wore.
I was a joke. A canard. A soft-handed scrivener. The man to my right slapped me on the shoulder and proffered a flask.
“Drink deep and be bauld, wee fella!”
Raw spirit coursed over my thrapple. I coughed, shook my head to clear the tears, drank again. An
d again. Felt the heat rise in my gut. Felt myself a bonnie fighter.
I handed back the flask. We looked briefly into each other’s eyes. His name was Branxie. He looked a bruiser, but his eyes were large and brown and tender as those of his horse.
“It’s not my quarrel,” he said. “I’m only here for the bevvy,” and we laughed and rode on for Tinnis.
I never knew if he lived out the day.
We gathered under that hill’s bald pate, hard by the standing stone from earlier times. The bulk were the Warden’s own men waiting there, the Douglases and their allies the Bells. The rest were smaller, local families, those who could get there in a hurry. I had thought we would be more. I had gathered the Earl of Angus was not highly regarded in the Western March, much of his interests being elsewhere, but he was Warden, and both loyalty to the office and self-interest meant it was worth keeping in with him. That and a certain indignation at this impudent reiving of our lands—the exact same thieving as they themselves were proud to carry out.
Good to see Dand’s meaty face glowing under his steel bonnet. Jed grinned at me and held up a short sword and a proper jack. Young Watt clung to his small grey cob, staring around defiantly, and I knew he was feart. As would be any man in his right mind, without a drink in him. The Flemings had brought but some twenty followers, including a dozen hardened men from the Kirkpatrick branch, for the family were unmade men fallen on hard times.
Adam sat tall and silent on his big roan, Philby in attendance, at a small distance from his stepfather. From spurred jackboot to steel bonnet he was kitted for battle. His face was calm but his sallow colour raised. One gauntlet lightly clasped the reins, his right hand hung down loose, long gloved fingers curling and flexing.
Robert Bell and Will Irvine rode up to them. Leaned over, in turn clasped Dand’s hand. They looked to Adam. His spur twitched, his horse trotted forward. His right hand came up from his side, shook first with Irvine, then with Bell.
The four of them rode over to William Douglas, Earl of Angus, who sat upright and aloof on his high horse, quivering with outrage. I had not seen him since the Armstrong wedding. On account of his title, I had expected a heathery Hielander, but he was much more Earl than Angus. He was lean and springy, elegant and tough, like a willow that catches the saw’s teeth. He wore crimson gloves, still had his beard trimmed in the French manner (which was perhaps tactless, given his recent conversion), and a jewelled dagger hung at either hip.
“Why two daggers?” I whispered to Jed.
“Guid wi’ baith hands,” he said. He nearly smiled. “That’s how come he changes sides sae easily.”
I did not hear what was said among the heid ones. Such was my part throughout, to be watching, implicated, but never in the inner council.
But I saw what I saw. I saw Bell looking magnificent, Will Irvine subdued, still hung over. Dand was bright-eyed to be among such company. Earl Angus was pale and vehement, furious at the humiliation, the King’s appointee made ridiculous. And Adam sat motionless on his grey cob, attending, his right arm hung down loose at his side, gloved hand restlessly flicking as though shaking off contagion.
Jed handed me sword and jack and gauntlets, watched silently as I donned and buckled. Around us men were checking their gear, pouching food, wiping drink from their lips. I have attended women about to give birth and seen the same fear and yearning to be done in their eyes. Those who survive birth or battle feel themselves reborn to the world, for a while.
“You maun make do wi’ a leather cap, shrimp,” Jed said.
“I shall rely on what is inside it to protect me,” I declared grandly.
He grinned. “Keep a calm sough, and the brains inside where they belong, and you’ll gang fine. The sword is but to make you look the part.”
A clatter and splash of horse crossing the burn. Four men rode up the slope towards us. Three of them in full armour, lanced and jacked, not farmers but hardened fighting men. The biggest I had last met in Liberton Tower when he told me to fuck off. Another had fine long fair hair that fell to his shoulders. The one they flanked was modestly smiling, eyes a grey blade as he swept by me.
Walter Scott of Branxholme and Buccleuch rode easily through our company. He gestured Earl Angus to come aside. The two men dismounted and stood some distance off in urgent parlay, not for the likes of us.
I leaned on the great stone, felt it faintly shudder under my palm as I watched. Which I must have imagined. What I did see was one had come to deliver a message or advice or a warning, and the other, supposedly the superior, inclined his head to receive it.
The sleuth-hounds and their men returned, worn, wild-eyed and slavering as they went first to Earl Angus and the heidsmen, then went among us. They had picked up several tracks of kye and sheep and horse winding down through the dales and burn-fissures, coming together to sweep through Liddesdale, as though toward Bewcastle Waste and the Border.
Unknown was the number of armed men who had carried out the raid, or their identity. The English Kerrs, some said. Others insisted it would be the Armstrongs. Probably not the Carletons, for little remained of their strength after Scott had done with them, and their land was all to the East. It could be but a few dozen bandits and unmade men, or ten score hardened reivers raiding at Lord Scrope’s blessing, by way of recompense for the springing of Kinmont Willie.
No matter. The offence was clear, and beasts and honour must be retrieved. Though the Warden, his kye and his honour, meant nothing to me, I caught that company’s righteous rage and excitement as though it were the Plague itself. The Maxwells were absent, unsurprising after Earl Angus had driven them out of Annandale. It was rumoured Sir James Johnstone hoped to raise his people and meet us on the way. In any case, we would ride hot-trod to take back what was ours.
I let go the great stone. It must have been blood beating in my palm that made it seem to tremble.
Jed stayed at my side as we jostled toward Adam.
“Mark the maister,” he muttered. “I to his right, you at the rear.”
I looked at him. It would be hours till we met the enemy, if ever.
“I do not like this,” he said. “Mind whit happened to old Jock.”
So he too had misgivings about Adam’s father’s death. Young Watt glared at us anxiously. If I had carried liquor, I would have passed him it.
“How fares your coz?” Adam asked as we came upon him.
The student and the lover and the wayward, brooding drunk, all were gone. In full tack, he was a Borders fighting man, strong and assured.
“Bonnie,” I said.
His eyes lit. A smile broke across his face.
“Of course!”
“And near-betrothed,” I added, and regretted it on the instant.
He went moon-pale. He stared up ahead at Robert Bell, jostling alongside Earl Angus. Bell’s scarlet tabard parted in the breeze, revealed the armour and the muscle beneath.
“Like hell she’ll be,” he said. “We’ll talk later.”
And so the whole company—now four score horse, at a guess—began slowly, then swept on down the brae towards the burn and the Esk valley.
“This goes too quick and unthought,” Jed said low.
Adam shrugged. As we forded the stream, I look off to my left and saw Buccleuch and two followers heading back toward Branxholme. The scowling, long-haired third follower now rode with us.
“Yon’s Davy ‘The Lady’ Graham,” Jed whispered. I tried not to stare. “You’ll ken him?”
“Why would I?”
Jed had a wee grin to himself.
“Better not tae. The man has an awfy quick temper, whatever his tastes.”9
I avoided his eye, but marked Graham closely as we hurried towards the Border.
Jarrall Burn
Folk might liken us to a small army—we were both less and more than that. None were paid, except by booty. Each had a heidsman, but no order or rank beyond that. The men I rode with all had trades—farmers, herders, smiths,
farriers, innkeepers. They rode their own horse—the small Galloway cob, like themselves, did not look noble, but shared their great resilience and skill. They kept their weapons and gear in house or loft or tower. They could be armed and horsed within an hour.
So, not an army like the Roman, nor Longshanks’s or Jamie Saxt’s. Such Border raids were quite small, dozens, couple of hundred at most. They avoided formal battles they could not win. But they raided by ways they kenned well in a land full of secrets. They could converge, attack, disperse. Our hot-trod was typical in being short-lived, but a day or two.
The men around me were not drilled automata, led by centurions, paid at the month’s end. They were skilled, hardened, self-reliant, feeding themselves along the way, fighting for family, livelihood and reputation. Twenty such riders could raze a village, forty take a tower. In his heyday, Maxwell claimed to raise two thousand, though he exaggerated. Little wonder Jamie Saxt had to treat the Border lairds with caution.
No, I tell Willie Drummond when he asks for my tales of that hot-trod, we were not an army. We were more dangerous and endangered than that. In such alliances, forces could change side mid-battle, for though all talked of honour, family advantage meant more.
When I read Thucydides again, many years later in exile, I recognized Athenians and Spartans for what they were—men who had livelihoods outside of fighting, yet each skilled and hardened and relishing combat where it was to their advantage. Such men are more dangerous than armies, and far less predictable.
My nib dries as I stare out the window at our phantom hot-trod pouring through the valleys, some forty years syne. Let me admit it was exciting. Never have I felt so raised and ready to live or die.
We climbed to the pass at Whitrope, then followed the burn down through rough pasture, willow and rowan. The white frost had lifted by the time we passed the castle at Pittenton, where more Douglas men joined us.
