by Andrew Greig
It was good as done.
Perhaps it was the thought of those I loved most, or fury at being so gulled (and having so gulled myself), but instead of turning back, I made my way through the wood and scrubs on this side of the burn, towards Kirkconnel. I went slow and quiet till well past the troopers, then crossed the river at the Howarth ford and ran on fast as possible through willow and beech.
I came at last to the bend where the burn turned shallow and wide. Great swathes of laurel lined the bank below. I shuffled down through the trees, pausing and looking before moving on. Finally I gained the nearest laurel, kneeled, pushed the glossy green aside and peered across the burn at the gable of the Kirkconnel kirk, veiled in rain.
There were none by the kirk. No lovers, no troopers, no Fairfax and Bell. All silent, just a reeshle of water spilling from leaf to leaf to the ground, and the wind in the treetops. A shepherd boy dawdled in the drizzle on the far side of the Lea. A bull bragged, then gave up.
Perhaps I was mistaken. Then I thought of the riders up at the brig, less than minute or two off away. A whistle, a gunshot, would fetch them, and their fellows.
Rob Bell had thought to catch the lovers, but they were also bait for the trap into which he himself had come. Doubtless Dowie Fairfax would be just ahint him, whispering encouragement in his ear. But where were they all?
The door at the top of the steps opened and the lovers stepped out.
She was in green, pale and resolute. Adam had her lightly by the arm, she turned to him, looked up into his face. Something was being said, their heads were very close. Even from across the river, I saw how their bodies sought each other, paired in close-rhyme. They stood a moment on the highest step of the stair, looking out over the gravestones. He pointed into the woods, she lifted her hand in what might be protest or assent . . .
Then I saw movement in the laurel below. Then patternless green revealed an arm, a dark head, a long pistol raised to aim. What followed defined five lives, yet would have taken but a minute by the dark timepiece in the Fleming hall.
I screamed, “Run!”
The pistol wavered. Helen jerked towards Adam, and in that flinching passed in front of him. The shot boomed, she cried out, then slumped back against her lover, began to sink as the legs went from her, I saw the crimson bloom right about her heart. A truly remarkable shot.
A cry of dismay from among the bushes, a wordless curse. Through leaves I saw a fresh pistol passed by another arm. Bell was now standing up among the bushes, fixed on Helen as she went down.
I thrashed through the bush, reached inside my jerkin, glimpsed a startled face turning my way, a trim jawline beard. Fairfax’s hand went to his sword, but tangled among the laurel he could not get it free as I snaked through the tangle. His eyes were dark and wide as he struggled to get his weapon up. I forced myself between two branches, could get no further so punched my arm forward through a gap. The stiletto juddered on a rib. Fairfax’s mouth opened. I withdrew, punched again and it went right in. A twirl to make siccar, then he drooped silently among the branches.
Adam was thrashing through the river. Helen lay ahint him on the steps. Rob Bell stood like a stookie, staring at what he had done, then slowly raised his arm holding the fresh pistol as Adam sought to climb the bank, clutching a branch in one hand, the other gripping his sword.
I squirmed through the laurels and stabbed at the leg before me. The squeal and the bang were simultaneous as Adam rose dripping on the bank.
His sword passed right through Rob Bell. I saw the point emerge through the back of Bell’s coat, the useless pistol drop.
“I cuttit him in pieces sma,” the ballad insists, twice, the better to make its hearers grue. My friend was scarcely human as he cut and slashed at the fallen man, making siccar and double-siccar. Then he stood above Bell and skewered the point of his blade through the belly into the ground below.
He stood, head lowered, gasping, a sight more pitiable and ugly than the corpse at his feet.
I took his arm. “You must awa,” I said. “Troopers are coming to arrest you.”
“Troopers?” He shook his head. Blood, Helen’s blood, wet on his cheek, Bell’s thick on his hands.
“This was planned. You maun awa, man!”
“But, but . . .” He turned to look back at the green shape unmoving on the steps.
“She’s deid, you ken that,” I said. “For your family’s sake, awa!”
Still he hesitated. His hand went to his side. Fresh blood oozed through his fingers, then he nodded.
We stumbled back into the woods. I heard shouts, saw the troopers gallop into the kirkyard. One ran up the steps, leaned over what had been my cousin, my friend, my other self. As he reached down to touch her, she was already passing into story.
We made it to the top end of the wood. A crash of horses, we dropped down as the second group of troopers rushed by. Adam looked at me, uncomprehending.
“I think she would hae come wi’ me,” he said.
“I think she would hae,” I said gently. “Now show me where your horse is.”
We parted under the trees as the rain passed and sun struggled through. I got him onto his horse while he was still dazed and passive.
“Who did this?” he asked, looking down at me.
“Bell and Dowie Fairfax,” I said firmly. “And they’re both deid.”
I told him twice not to go by Carlisle, for they would be looking for him there. He gave me a queer look, then winced, still holding his side. He agreed to go by small ways to the Border, gain and follow the old Wall, get to the east coast and sail from there.
“Then the world is yours,” I said.
He looked at me from eyes like dark piss-holes in the snow, his face all blood, snot and dried tears.
“But the pearl is lost. There’ll no be anither.”
“No.”
Soft plops as the last water ran from leaf to leaf to ground. He straightened up in the saddle.
“They will not harm you?”
“This ambush was never for me,” I said. “I should be able to talk my way out.”
“You aye do.”
He twitched the reins, turned his horse for the Border.
“I trust we’ll meet again,” I said. “But I must tell you . . .”
He looked down at me. We clasped hands.
“I know, Harry,” he said. “Me and aa,” and for aye.’
Then he was gone, and I headed back through the woods towards Nether Albie. There was nowhere else to go, and foreby I was beyond caring.
I nearly made it back. Just climbing the last of the brae when three troopers burst out of the trees and surrounded me. The Captain’s second jumped down from his horse.
“Where is Fleming?”
“No idea.”
He put his hand to his sword. The others likewise. This was where the Fates would cut my thread.
“Whaur’s he gane? Is it Carlisle?”
A gey long pause. The sun was full-out, now low and yellow across the far hills. It was a bonnie world, right enough.
“Aye.”
The second looked at me, saw what he expected to see, a man surrendered into truth. I vaguely heard someone riding up ahint me. The second turned away from me, put one boot on his stirrup, ready to mount.
“Kill the wee bastard,” he said casually.
The nearest trooper drew his sword. I instinctively stepped back, reached within for my stiletto and I was just raising it when the sword slash came. I put up my right hand against it, and saw fingers fly into the sky and the world turned black and white, and down and out I went.
Donjon
Clearly, I came back from that sword slash, but never again quite the whole man.
I wandered through caverns of Hell with my right arm flaming, my own burning flesh lighting the way. I was dragged, bundled, tormented, cross-examined by demons, some of whom I recognized. I was given cool water, then burned again. I understood well I was dying here, and wanted it do
ne. My mother sought me out and looked me in the eye, the eternal fires burning at her back, and said, I tellt ye, son, I tellt ye! In pity I reached out with my good hand, my left, my scribing hand, and gently said, It is but as you dream, Mither.
And in the saying, knew it to be so.
The room was small, of cold grey stone. My hand and arm burned still, but it was only a fleshly fire. The man looking at me calmly was but a human demon.
“We cauterized the stumps,” he said.
“Thank you,” I croaked.
Buccleuch almost smiled. He leaned over me where I lay.
“I wanted you alive, that you might know my displeasure.”
“I did what you asked,” I protested. “My lord, I tellt you the tryst.”
He took my bandaged hand between his.
“Indeed you did. Then you did the one thing I said you must not do. You interfered.”
He squeezed. After a while my scream tailed to a whimper, then gasping, then silence. He watched me with interest.
“Had you not done so, the lassie would still be alive,” he said softly. I said nothing. There never would be anything I could say to that.
“But Rob Bell is dead, as you intended,” I protested. “The Bells have lost their leader and Earl Angus is weakened.” He kept the steel of his eyes on me. “And the marriage will not happen, so the Irvines have lost alliance with the Bells.”
“The Irvines are lost to themselves, I fear. Without the money anticipated from the match, they will soon be bankrupt. The Crown will most like hold the lands, which I shall administer. Earl Angus will ruin himself with little assistance from me.” He waved his hand, a minor thing. “You have not asked about your friend.”
“Did you capture him? Is he alive?”
He gave a queer smile.
“Adam Fleming will not be seen again in this land.”
It could mean one thing or another. The more I pleaded to know my friend’s fate, the more inscrutable he became.
“Enough,” he said. He leaned forward, his face inches from mine. “You disobeyed my clear instruction—I have had men hanged for less. Second, you have killed Dowie Fairfax, who has long been a conduit between me—I mean, the King—and Cecil at the English Court. I have lost my most useful man, and the Auld Bitch will have a fit. I suspect she will want you hung slowly, then your guts burned afore you—aye, the hail hypothec and rigmarole.”
He smiled, and I looked into human Hell on Earth. Thank God we finally die, and that forever.
“What of Jed?”
“Horsburgh? He was killed yestreen, trying to escape.” He shrugged. “Regrettable, but it happens.”
Jed had seen this coming. There was nothing left. Walter Scott of Buccleuch steepled his fingers and considered me.
“Then again, as you say, matters have worked out not o’er-ill. And I admit to a passing fondness for you. In another place, at another time, we would have had much to talk about. Foreby, though you should by rights be hanged and beheaded, it is tricky to kill a man twice.” He looked over his fingers and smiled down at me. “So what are we to do with you, eh?”
“Set me in your service for life, my lord.” It seemed that, despite everything, I was still keen to live. It is a lifelong habit. “I could be most useful.”
He nodded. “I do not doubt it. But then again, you have disobeyed me once, and might do so again.” He stretched his arms wide and stood up.
“You mind our discussion about Earl Bothwell? How he was shut alane in the dark below Dragsholm fortress, and furrowed a deep rut all round his pillar as he went insane?” A great dreid rose in me then. “Here at Crichton Castle we have a fine donjon. An oubliette. It will be interesting to see how long your inner resources last, as you contemplate the loss of all you hold dear. That may get you through the first five years.”
“May your balls roast like chestnuts on the Deil’s fire! Lord Buccleuch my arse—you are nowt but a jumped-up laird.”
Buccleuch flushed, his hand went to his dagger. Then he paused, nodded and reached for the door.
“Quite so,” he said. “Death is indeed preferable.”
Then they came, bundled me down steps, opened a mighty door and threw me down into the pit.
How absolute that dark. How alone one is. How complete the silence. Then one hears one’s heartbeat and one’s thoughts, and both become torment inescapable. There is nothing else but a blanket, a bucket. Without room to lie down, one sits, stands, kneels. From time to time—hours, days?—a clunk, faint grey light, gruel and water are lowered down. One ingests them, then darkness and silence resume.
The sound of your heart. Alone at the mercy of your thoughts. Terror begins to eat you alive, without end. Weeks, months? Complete darkness. Timeless. Devoured not by fire but by absolute dark and the heartbeat gnawing in your ear. This is Hell indeed.
I can write of this no more, lest it comes to me yet again in the night.
Exile
The light of day jabbed needles into my eyes. Throughout our interview, they would not stop watering.
“Interesting experience?” Buccleuch asked.
“Ghastly.”
“No doubt, no doubt. Alone in pure dark under the ground. Buried alive.” He paused, looked at me keenly as I wiped my eyes against the light. “How long would you say you were there?”
“Dinna ken,” I stammered. “Six months? A year?” It had felt like forever. I mean just that. No night or day or season, just unending dark and one’s ceaseless thoughts. It seems we do not need the fires of Hell to torture us.
“Interesting,” he commented. “It was but a month. I wonder what ten years would feel like.”
He knocked on the door, his man passed him some items, then went away. Walter Scott sat on the stool and offered me a cup. I sniffed it and felt dizzy. It was the pure South. Vineyards under hot sun, distant hills shimmering, poplar trees along the turpid river.
“Drink,” he said.
I sniffed again, and drank. If it killed me, so much the better.
“In idle moments I have been considering your case,” Scott said. “Good, is it not?”
“It is life itself,” I blurted.
“Yes, each vintage seems better than the last . . .” He slapped his knees. “It appears Fairfax’s death has not been unwelcome in the English Court. It seems he had swindled the Earl of Essex of a small fortune—as who, given half a chance, would not?—and has been reporting to Spain. A man may serve two masters, but three . . . Robert Cecil congratulates me on a job well done. We have agreed Dowie Fairfax was stabbed to death by some insignificant runt in private quarrel. What d’you reckon on that?”
“Very like, my lord. Very like.”
I gulped down wine. It warmed all the way down, and left in the mouth a fulsome dryness that made you desire more. The hand that held the cup, mine own, was unearthly white and shook.
“On the other hand, Jamie Saxt—His Majesty, to you!—is disconsolate. It seems he valued Fairfax—they might have fondled in younger days, who knows? He would like to see the man who killed him die a long and painful death. Moreover, he kens I have this man—you, laddie—locked up in Crichton donjon. So what are we to do with you?”
And then he told me. I would be transferred to a place of execution—Melrose would do nicely—and on the way I would escape.
“Like Jed?” I said.
“No, you really will escape. I will make it convincing. After that, if you are identified and captured, it is none of my affair, and they will certainly hang you. I would suggest you make for Berwick and sail from there to the Continent and do not return.”
He was very clear on this. I should not return before Jamie Saxt became King of the Two Nations, and the Borderlands had been put down, the Bells silenced, Earl Angus dead, Johnstone made weak, and Janet Elliot and her husband, and even he himself, gone the way of all flesh. Should I live that long, of course.
Did I agree to his conditions? Damn right I did.
On t
he bright morning Scott walked me through the lozenge courtyard to the guards who were to take me to Melrose for hanging, he took me by the elbow.
“We will not meet again in the land of the living,” he said mildly. “Or if we do, I will have you killed. If you talk or write about me or this affair, I will have you killed. You understand me?”
“Without difficulty,” I said.
He smiled. “It has been, in its way, most interesting,” he said. “Good to see the low-born rise—but ceiling, laddie! Mind the ceiling!”
We paused some twenty paces from the guards. He reached into his doublet and casually dropped into my pocket something that chinked.
“A wee something for the journey,” he murmured in my ear. “Gang weel, laddie, as though you were my ain.”
Then he called to the guards, “Take this trash to the High Sheriff to dispose!” winked at me and was gone.
The overnight lock-up in Peebles was little more than a shed. My manacles were left loose, the high window unbolted.
I dropped down onto the ground in the silent night. I awaited the ambush, the immemorial “killed while trying to escape.” None came. A thin moon lit my way through the houses and byres to the river. I set myself downstream towards Berwick as my patron had suggested.
Like hell I did. You think me stupid? Buccleuch might change his mind, or be having his fun with me, or it might suit his purposes to have me picked up across the Border. I believed I was beginning to get a hold of his subtle mind: if I survived, it proved I was fit to survive. If I did not, then I was not.
I followed the Tweed upstream through the night, till dawn found me in a hay-barn hard by the lesser-used drove road to the markets of Embra town.
I rested up through the day, kept an eye on the road, and took stock. I had nothing but some ill-fitting, sturdy boots, my old jerkin, a plaid cloak and an antique hat it had amused my lord to clap upon my head. I had become a stoorie-fuit, one of no consequence, a stravaiger best avoided.
