by Andrew Greig
Adam looked Buccleuch in the eye. Not for so long as to be challenge, but at that moment, his head held high, voice firm and formal, he had a dignity and presence I could never attain. He had a family. He spoke for them. He was them.
“My Lord, I would gladly give my loyalty to you, and that of my followers and family to come.”
Buccleuch inclined his head, like a man at a card table modestly scooping up his winnings.
“Yours is an old and worthy family. Unfortunately, I do not think your mother will ever agree.”
“My step-father—”
“Will aye agree with her. I believe he values the prisoner, but he values his wife more. And she remains mired in old feuds, old hatreds, old loyalties. Such constancy in changing times is most admirable.” He shook his head. “Most admirable.”
It might as well have been a death sentence.
“When I am Fleming heidsman, I shall have my way.” Below the table, Adam’s hand was gripping his thigh in the effort to control himself. “And damn my mother!”
Buccleuch looked at him with interest.
“Yon’s no way to speak o’ your mither,” he said mildly.
I noted the shift of register, thought it perhaps good. Certainly he was considering something.
“I mean, sir, my mother is at heart an Elliot, and I am not. I hope much will soon change in the Borderlands, for we cannot go on as before.”
“And we will not. Ask your friend here.” For the first time he looked at me. Up to that point I had been the mute and un-acknowledged witness of these negotiations. “The smallest shard of his broken ball will say as much.”
“It does,” I said. My voice sounded thin. After all, I spoke for no one but myself. “Our hope is that in a new settlement the times will become more peaceable, enlightened and more kind. And more prosperous for all,” I added.
“Amen to that,” Adam said quietly. My speech had been short, but it was the distillation of our student days.
Buccleuch regarded us steadily, first one and then the other, then both together.
“A new settlement . . .” he said at last. “And prosperity. A renaissance, even. Who can argue wi’ that? You have missed your calling, Master Langton!” He stood up, his stool scraping loud on the flagged floor. “You may see the prisoner now.”
He called on the squat gaoler. I made to pick up my pack for Jed.
“Na, na,” Buccleuch said. “Just one visitor. We will wait for you outside, Fleming. No hurry.”
Adam picked up both packs and with a backward glance—plea? warning?—stooped to follow the gaoler down the low passageway.
Walter Scott and I walked alone by the scurrying river. The day was fresh, the first flowers bent their lowly, enduring heads in the wind. Three grey ducks were carried off downriver, bobbing over the rapids looking very pleased with themselves. An otter turned brown eyes on us, shrugged its back and was gone.
Scott was silent, looking about him with keen interest. Impossible to say whether he was assessing the beauty or the strategic value of our surroundings. Hands lightly clasped behind his back, slight smile on his broad lips, he was so ostentatiously relaxed that I realized he was not. This apparent gentleman of leisure on his morning stroll was a whirr of calculation.
“You ken them both well—do you think Master Fleming would outface his mother?”
The question was lobbed casually into the air, like a man tossing the ball for service at tennez royale.
I considered what I had glimpsed of love and repulsion, ownership, adulation and resistance, between those two. Their recent rapprochement. How she would dandle her arm over his as they sat now at dinner, how he looked at her with gladness, how they shared the same humour. His new poise and calm.
“Yes,” I said. “He knows in time he must be the Fleming heidsman, not his mother.”
Buccleuch nodded, flexed his arms. “Yet it may be many years till that comes about, for Dand Fleming seems both healthy and unco lucky.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. I understood then, clear as if I had heard the low instruction, seen the purse offered and palmed, that Dand had been meant to die at the hand of the Kerrs at Jarrall Burn. His survival, and that of Robert Bell, had been a setback. That was when Buccleuch had began to develop other plans.
He stopped and regarded a pair of swans nestled on the muddy bank. I stood by him and we watched the male entwine his long neck over the female’s, and her undulate elegantly free, and his fresh white wooing renewed.
“How can they stay sae fresh and fair amid this clart and glaur? What think you, Langton?”
The man never ceased to leave me a-gaping at his sudden shifts.
“I think they have an oil in their throats,” I replied. “Such that the dirt does not stick to their feathers. They spend much time preening.”
He nodded. “Very like, very like.”
As we stood together watching the courtship, he began to quiz me. Young Fleming’s intentions? I said I believed he was making plans to elope and marry in Carlisle, take what money he had and live abroad with his wife until such time as it was safe to return.
“Carlisle! How very fine and romantic. And would she agree to go with him?”
“My cousin has a strong will and mind,” I said. “But her heart is not open to me.”
“Do not elude me, laddie. Will she go?”
I made myself look into his eyes.
“Truly, sir, I do not know, though we spoke privately after the announcement.”
I had his interest there, I could tell by how casual he became. I told him of my brief interview with Helen. That I sensed her to be decided on Bell, not out of weakness but out of strength. Yet she would see Adam one more time. To explain herself.
“Or be dissuaded? Is that what she in part hopes?”
“It could be,” I allowed.
“One more tryst. Very good.”
Across the river, the female had tired of the courtship. With a hiss she slid into the water, the male waddling after her. Then with a long clatter of wings they took off and flew, he still in pursuit.
“I wish you to encourage him in this,” Buccleuch announced. “I will give what protection I can.”
“It is kindly of you, my lord, to take such interest. May I ask why?”
From his glare, I saw I had gone too far. I would have backed away, but my heels were already at the riverbank. He stepped forward, eyes glittering steel.
“Can you swim, Langton?”
“No,” I stammered.
He slowly put his left hand to my chest. His right lay on his sword hilt.
“Then you must take care to never get out of your depth.”
“I am truly one for the shallows, sir.”
He pushed, very gently, never took his eyes off mine. I felt the river rushing by my back and waited for its snell embrace.
“Perhaps I am a romantic, Langton,” he said. “I like to see true love win out.” He chuckled as he stepped back. “Besides, I would rather like to jerk the Bell-rope and hear that cocksure gallant ding out his alarum.”
That at least I could believe. He turned, and with a jerk of his head bade me follow on back toward the tollbooth. I did so, obedient as Philby had lately been.
My instructions were to learn of that last tryst, by whatever means, and inform Crosier without delay. I was not to accompany Adam Fleming on his meeting, but I must find out its upshot, whether Helen Irvine chose to stay or leave the Borders. If the lovers planned to flee, I should jalouse when they would go, and to where. This was vital so that they might be aided and protected.
We stood outside the tollbooth. The Captain of the troopers glanced to his master, who nodded once. Two of the troopers went within.
Buccleuch clapped me heartily on the shoulder as though we were both friends and fine fellows.
“Then your work here will be done, my trusty feir. Go home to your Justice, who says he is lost without you. After that, you might do well to go abroad for a s
pell. Rome is pleasant outwith high summer, and the Old Church has need of such as you. I have contacts, when the time comes.”
I took his instruction and his purse, but hugged my one small consoling secret to myself. For I could swim perfectly well, having been taught by no other than Cousin Helen, when we were children in the wide, sky-enlarging pools of fair Annan Water.
When Adam emerged from the cell he looked as though he had been to confession.
“Jed asks to see you.”
The cell was dim and smelled as they do, of stone and piss, death and sweat. That apart, I have seen worse. Jed was sitting on a long bench, back against the wall, arms round his knees. In the grey stone-light, his pockmarked face was pale but calm as he greeted me.
I gave him Mrs. Smeaton’s goodies, which he added to the windowledge. The small black Bible sat on a wee table.
“I see they gave you a chair,” I said. “And candles.”
“Aye,” he said. “They look after me right well. Keep my wound clean and all. My ain personal bodyguard without. And now this food and drink.” He chuckled. “I feel like a pheasant being fattened in the coop.”
I did not like the image, but said he had Buccleuch to thank for keeping the Bells at bay. We talked but for a short while. He said his wife was coming to visit, and perhaps his grown-up children. He said I should have a wife and children, and leave something behind that was better than myself.
I said I would do my best. He cleared his throat.
“Had a friend once,” he said, looking at the dirt floor. “My brither, as it happens. When he was sentenced, he asked that I be his hanger-on. Tae shorten things, like.”
In childhood I had seen and turned away from enough hangings. I knew how long it took a man to kick and choke and pish for the onlookers’ entertainment.
“That’s a terrible thing to have asked of you,” I said.
“Aye.”
Silence in that place of stone, the river sweeping by outside.
“Did you do it?” I said at last.
“We bribed the hangman to let me and my cousin haud a leg each and pull.” Our eyes met. I felt myself a priest taking final confession. “You see, I had given my word,” he said.
He looked down at his battered hands, as though still dumfountert at what they had done in their time. Then he whistled saft atween his teeth, sat back and asked how Adam was taking the Bell engagement. I hesitated, then said he was looking for one last tryst with Helen.
“Aye,” he said. “Of course.” He studied his knees for a while. “You will watch his back.”
I did not say Buccleuch had forbidden me to guard the tryst. I did say that with Rusby dead and the engagement announced, Adam should not be in danger.
Jed lay back on the bench. He looked worn out.
“Mind what I tellt ye,” he said. “Watch the eyes, no the hand.”
The gaoler thumped the door, bawled it was time up. I stood by, wanting to embrace. I had not understood how much I cared for the man.
“See you again soon,” I said. “At the Assizes, if not before.”
“Aye, maybe.” Jed looked back up at me calmly, then held out his big muckle paw. “God be wi’ ye.”
We shook on that. As I turned to go, he said, “Thank you for coming to see me,” and it sounded more final than any goodbye.
We rode homeward with three troopers at our back as an escort. Buccleuch had insisted. After all, he said, Jed Horsburgh was Adam’s man and Rusby had been of the Bells, so Master Rob might be looking for revenge.
“Though doubtless he will have other things on his mind!” Buccleuch had concluded with a smile, then waved us off.
“Scott of Buccleuch is a sound man!” Adam enthused as we rode for Lockerbie. “He assured me he will bring Jed to the Assizes. Earl Angus expects to have his cousin Edward for Judge, but Buccleuch plans to have him recalled to Embra, and one of the Scotts installed in place.”
I said I was glad to hear it. Justice in the Borderlands was even more partial than in the capital.
“Then we talked of chess, and Marlowe as against Jonson, and brandy over Armagnac, and how the Reform has killed what little music and playing we had in this benighted country!”
I glanced behind. The troopers rode a hundred paces back, looking hard about. They were not honorific or ornamental. Had they been instructed to kill us, they would have done it by now.
“He is a charming man, no doubt,” I said. “He has killed many, though I think lately he gets others to do it for him.”
“So I’m glad he is on our side.”
“It doesn’t work like that. We are on his side, at best.”
“When I am heidsman . . .”
“So you have come around to the idea, taking charge?”
“With the right woman at my side, I can undertake anything, even making our Borderlands a place of peace and renaissance.”
I looked at him. The man was glowing, in his early prime, resolved and exuberant, fair hair loose in the chill wind, cheekbones like the blade of the adze. Perhaps he could persuade Helen. Perhaps they would marry, go abroad, and return in due time, once Rob Bell had conveniently died in whatever incident my patron was doubtless preparing for him.
We bypassed Lockerbie to the south and pushed on for home in the hard, clear Borders sunlight. The wind was cool but all around the birds were coming back to song, and the first lambs and whaups were crying from the greening fields.
All might yet be well.
We got home to Nether Albie round dusk and left the troopers at the gate. We watched them wordlessly ride away, then stabled our wabbit cobs.
I was minded to wash and eat, but Adam lingered a moment in the yard, looking up at the first stars. A slim young moon lay on her back and the air was fine-smelling with horse and beechwood smoke. On the long ride I had thought myself to a stupor, a dwam, and now was one of those moments, especially at dawnin’ and gloamin’, when the world stops long enough to be bonnie beyond words.
“You have never been in love, Harry.” It was a statement, not a question. “When you are, you keek into anither’s soul, and so ken your ain for the first time.” He was speaking low, in his heart’s tongue. “Your hairt rins wi’oot stop, like a broken spicket in the yard. The hail world . . .”
He tailed off, looking up into the oncoming night. He came back down, smiled and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Harry, even gin I lose all, it will hae been worth it. I have kenned her love. There’ll be nae after-stang.”
I watched him hasten to the peel tower and go within. No regret, no after-sting indeed. I was right glad for him, then and now, though I fear enlightenment in these lands will be a long time coming.
Doos
An ill wind blows through our house, and it sprang up at morning service. We were all seated there, Drummond, wife, family, servants, faithful retainers (moi), honoured guests (ditto), relatives, and the farming people and free men from the estate. Within minutes, it became clear the minister was using the new Book of Common Prayer to lead our service.
Low muttering from the back. The minister coughed and glared, Drummond looked uneasy, torn between his natural desire to please all, and his loyal royalism (after all, he and his father owed everything to the Stuart court). The minister began again. More stirring and muttering. I think someone spat, or else like me had a bad cold.
The minister looked to Drummond, seemed to see some support there.
“Ye’ll haud yer tongues, you rogues, and hear the King’s service.”
At that, Drummond’s eldest lad John stood up in our pew and walked out the kirk. Followed, after a hesitation and slight scuffle, by his brother Charlie. Wee Edward began to shuffle, but was grabbed and held firmly by his mother. At his heels the miller and the weavers left, with their wives and children. The tenants stayed but most looked uneasy. The smith, a huge man with hands the size of cabbages, stood up behind us, glared at the preacher whose face had gone the colour of fresh liver.
<
br /> “It is no the King’s service we are here for, but God’s.” His grand simplicity was spoiled a wheen when he added, “Ya daft wee haivering pollock,” then walked out.
The dominie of course stayed, being paid out of Drummond’s purse. As did I, for the same reason. Fact was, for a long time it had made little difference to me. I usually sat through these services inwardly reciting the grand opening verses of De Rerum Natura, or mumbling Montaigne’s “Oh, senseless man, who cannot possibly make a worm or a flea and yet will create Gods by the dozen” during prayers, with an outward look of extreme devoutness.
The service continued with what remained. Since then, Hawthornden has been rife with quarrelling. Doors bang, muffled shouting, motherly tears and pleas. It seems the eldest boy will leave the household. Thinking of the exit of the weavers, the miller, the massive and eloquent smith, the privileged son, I think there will be a much greater stushie to come.
And I will not be here to see it. Each morn my chest fills more, my heart labours and misses, this hand tires and shakes. I wish only to finish memorializing my friends and enemies, to free them from ballad-myth and folk tale—a doomed project, for all that is put into words distorts the world, as though it were seen through swollen raindrops strung along a black wintry twig.
After visiting Jed in Dumfries gaol, we waited. Or rather, Adam waited for a tryst-message from Helen, and I marked him as closely as I could, while resisting hints from Janet Elliot it was time for me to go home. Though he had cleared out of the tower, he still went over there several times a day, as if by old habit, usually to emerge on the battlement. He would pace around, then stand and stare out southward.
Curious, I went up there alone and had a good look. It was quite impossible to see Bonshaw, for the Irvines were some eight miles down the twisting Kirtle valley, well beyond Kirkconnel and hidden by braes. The usual way, she had said. Not by flags or smoke or secret messenger. How did they do it?
All I could do was wait and watch. Adam spent much time with his mother, low-voiced in discussion, then loud in laughter. One afternoon he even went hawking with Dand, just the two of them and Perrin, the new stable boy, carrying the gear and a sack. I was not invited.
