by Robert Low
‘I am certaintied of it, Chilman. This is the man who slew your sister’s man, nuns or not.’
Batty, fighting for sense, realised these were not Maramaldo’s men but the Wallis riders. He wanted to tell them of Akeld, but a hand closed on his throat and squeezed breath and words out of him. The face behind it was slit-eyed with hate and triumph; this will be Anthone, Batty thought as his world narrowed to the stare of an angry man.
‘Aye, gasp, you wee fat murderer. Once the hemp goes round, you will choke harder.’
‘Hold, hold,’ cried another voice and Batty almost wailed with relief when the hand was removed; he sucked in rasping breaths and blessed God for his reprieve.
‘Fetch Mags,’ the voice called. ‘She will want to see justice done on her man’s murderer.’
Batty cursed then and would have waved a fist at the sky if his arm had not been held fast. You may be the font of all life, Batty thought savagely, but, God, you are a vicious bastard in the everyday of folk…
There were five men; Batty would not have missed them if he had been in his right mind and was bitter about that as much as anything. Three went back through the sheep and the ones called Chilman and Anthone dragged Batty under the tree. Dazed, he stood there while they looped a rope up over a branch and scattered the sheep from around them.
They had slip-noosed it as far as Batty’s head, as far as touching his brow with the rasp of it, when Batty finally found his force.
He lashed out a kick which took Chilman in the shin and sent him hopping and roaring. Anthone, one hand on the rope and the other grasping Batty’s good arm, was whirled sideways by a tremendous strength and sent flying over the barmkin wall.
Freed, Batty started to run, stepped on to the injured leg and felt it buckle under him with a fiery shriek of protest; he fell and rolled through the sheep, hearing the curses of the three men who had gone out over the barmkin wall.
‘In the name of Christ’s Wounds, Chilman – can you not hang on to a fat auld man wi’ the yin arm…?’
Someone fell on Batty’s back as he struggled up; a hand came round his mouth to try and get to the neck and Batty found a finger close to his teeth and bit, snarling. He felt it go clean through, felt the horrible moment of the sever in his mouth and spat it into the face of Anthone, while Chilman bounded away, holding his hand and screaming ‘my finger, my finger’; the sheep bawled and milled.
The others came roaring up, ploughing through the protesting sheep, with one shouting angrily at the others to stop mollycoddling the old bastard and get a rope round him. Is he your bliddy sweetheart that you treat him so kindly?
Batty wanted this one more than the others and thrashed and bellowed his way upright, first to his screaming knees, then his unsteady legs, with men hanging off him like hounds fastened to a bayed stag.
A grip on his wrist slicked away; men cursed and one howled as Batty kissed him with a forehead. Another took a roundhouse whack from Batty’s fist and then they piled on him like a football ruck.
Anthone had the noose round Batty’s neck and was snarling triumph, hauling hard so that the old-blood darkness closed in on either side of Batty’s sight like a narrowing tunnel. He heard a voice shout out ‘Ware – its Mickle Jock.’ For a moment he thought he heard a rumble, then a crack and, finally, the world gave up on him.
The bastel house of Akeld
The next morning…
It was a Scotch morning according to Sister Charity and Sister Faith had no reason to doubt her accuracy – the mist sat tight on the hills and flowed down into the valley like a burn in spate. Everything dripped.
‘Pestilential country.’
Juup was hunched up under a hooded cloak and Horner stood next to him; Sister Faith was aware that Juup was here to make sure Klett was kept alive as long as possible and so they were at odds on that. Horner was here because he would not let Sister Faith beyond reach of his hand now that he knew the Glastonbury riches were not in the chest.
Sister Faith prayed for Klett’s quick death and God’s mercy on him, her knees aching in the damp as the man swung above her from a trio of lashed poles. He was upside down and leaking what was left of his life into a watery pool and had screamed a long time, from the moment a sullen Maramaldo, weaving still when he stood, had consecrated him to flaying for the sin of letting Batty Coalhouse escape. Poxed, possibly to death in the long term, the short-term Maramaldo was still a sink of viciousness.
‘It was Zerdig,’ Klett had shrieked, but Zerdig was dead and so Klett, as Maramaldo had pointed out, had to take responsibility.
‘As will you, when you stand before God to explain what your own men have done at your command,’ Sister Faith said sternly, which had made Maramaldo scowl. He needed Sister Charity and her skills, which Sister Faith knew; it would keep them and the children alive, despite Horner.
That one leaned forward as she knelt, watching what was left of Klett drip his life to a close. The man who had taken the skin off Klett was a big, stolid-faced Saxon and the camp’s best butcher when left to his own; Sister Faith was sure she would not eat of any meat tonight.
‘Sister,’ said Horner quietly. ‘I respect and understand you. I understand also how you feel about the late Abbot, but that is long past and gone. Now is now and the Lord Chancellor wishes the Glastonbury treasure. The king wishes it. How can you think to oppose those wills?’
Sister Faith prayed and let him wheedle. She knew he wanted the deeds and would pull more plums out before he gave them to the Lord Chancellor, who would hand what was left after his own plundering to King Henry. Henry would not care so much for deeds – he wanted the other riches, the real treasure of Glastonbury…
Horner stopped after a while, when Maramaldo rode up. Back in the saddle, he noted, even if he fidgets. Fit and well enough to realise the mess everyone was in, but Horner did not say any of that.
‘Has she spoken?’ Maramaldo demanded and Juup shook his head; after a short pause, Horner did likewise. Maramaldo grinned.
‘Well, the plan proceeds, Master Horner, whether your fabled treasure is in it or no. In a little while, we shall have a small war and then all will be resolved.’
‘War plans seldom last longer than the moment they are begun,’ Horner answered and Maramaldo drew himself up in the saddle, a moment spoiled by the drip on his nose.
‘You are the expert on war here, Master Horner?’
Horner said nothing for a moment, acknowledging his lack. Then he slid a stiletto into the ribs of Maramaldo’s preen.
‘I do not have my part of the contract,’ he said. ‘Thus the Lord Chancellor does not have his due and so neither does my king, who will not look kindly on someone who let slip the Glastonbury riches. This puts your own reward at risk.’
Maramaldo wiped drops from the brim of his helmet with one gauntleted hand.
‘Let me worry about your king,’ he growled. ‘The grace of your Gross Henry will be assured by others, not you. I am still curious as to why Balthie Kohlhase is here and am sure you have knowledge of it; be grateful for that, Master Horner, for otherwise you would be discovering how Master Klett feels.’
‘Felt, Your Honour.’
Faces turned to the wet mourn of Juup, who looked damply back at them.
‘He is dead,’ he explained to Maramaldo, who saw the etched blanch of Horner’s face from the corner of one pouched eye. That one’s life dangled by the thinnest hair, for Musgrave had insisted that he be removed together with the nuns, for reasons which had not concerned Maramaldo until now. Yet he needed the nuns and was sure Horner knew why Balthie Kohlhase had arrived into the middle of this; he wanted that knowledge before he killed the man.
I wonder, he mused, if Master Horner can feel the breath of the Devil on his neck.
The wind tendrilled to his own and made him shiver, so that he touched an amulet of St Gregory for reassurance. Then, with a grunt, the Captain General shook himself, reined round and moved away, bawling orders to set his army in
order.
Somewhere in the Cheviot hills
At the same time…
There were voices, a smell of woodsmoke and a rain-sodden breeze. He knew he lay on a bracken bed and was covered with rough wool, so he thought there was a shelter, open at least on one side to the elements.
Batty did not open his eyes, for he heard movement and did not want to let anyone know he was awake. Instead, he examined himself with closed eyes and little movements, starting with the leg he knew well as a dull ember of ache from knee to ankle, with a hot centre where the arrow had gone in.
The other leg muttered a reply to it, but that was an old injury from when he was tumbled off The Saul at least a year since by Geordie Bourne’s shot and sent whirling down a long drop. He had scarted all down one side, he recalled, but the opposite one ached now – boots and fists, Batty thought as he remembered the recent fight.
His forehead hurt and he remembered why; the bastard-born whelp who had bruised it had his nose broken, for sure, he thought with savage triumph. Yet he ached as if a horse had been ridden back and forth on him – or men had kicked and beaten him. Both were equally likely, he thought, for God clearly thinks I am worthy of punishment, whether I am an archangel or no.
There was a soft clunking of pewter and tin – pannikins and plates, Batty thought. Then something rapped loudly, paused and did it again.
‘Away in,’ growled a voice close by and Batty knew it for a woman. There was a clatter – a door opening, which made this no three-sided shelter – and there were more voices, the shrillest and loudest from another woman.
‘There he is – the murderer of my man. And you cosset him like a bairn, Trottie Wallis. Hand him up to me, as my rights demand…’
‘Divven you yell at me, Mags,’ came the growling reply. ‘Your rights? You had them only when you were wed on to a Wallis man. Now you are a no better than a Robson again and have no rights unless we Wallis hand them to you.’
‘You rank auld besom,’ spat Mags viciously. ‘I will have the murderer of my lovin’ man or else…’
‘Or else what, you sow?’
Good for you, beldame, Batty thought to himself.
‘Lovin’ man,’ Trottie went on scornfully. ‘This is me you speak with, Mags Robson. Me who handed you balm for the bruising and powders and paints to cover your shame of being thumped by your lovin’ man, Tam Wallis.’
There was silence and Trottie growled on like a pit dog.
‘He didnae get the name Evil-Willit for playin’ the lute an’ bringin’ you posies, Mags Robson.’
‘He was still fell murdered in the Tolbooth at Berwick…’
A man’s voice this and Trottie went for the throat of it at once.
‘Fell murdered? I heard he had been killed for his foolishness in pursuing a personal quarrel when everyone else was fleein’ the place. Killed, I might add, by this fat single-armed auld man here, so he was scarcely skilled and thus no loss.’
‘Aye, well – there was a quarrel. Tam was assaulted in the gaol…’
‘Pish and fiddle,’ Trottie spat. ‘I know you are sweet on Mags, Leckie Wallis, and will stick your big boots under her bed when suitable time has passed, but divven come tellin’ me of Tam Wallis’ finer traits to cozen your way with her. He was my kin, mind, and I know him well. It comes as little surprise to me to find that this lovin’ man o’ Mags Robson was in Berwick gaol in the first place for beatin’ a wee unlucky hoor half to death.’
‘Bigod, Trottie Wallis, you are rank midden with little shame nor pity…’
‘Ach, be silent Mags. In my own home I may speak as I please. Take your hate elsewhere…’
‘I will have my due,’ shrieked Mags. ‘And have others who agree…’
‘Aye aye – who might they be?’
The new voice was familiar, a quiet rasp that ground out a silence at once.
‘Headman Robson?’ the steady voice added. ‘I think not. Away, Mags. Tam Wallis died and we will kist him up with due ceremony and a deal of lies aboot his bravery and finer qualities. But I will decide if his slayer is to be hemped, not you nor any of those foolish enough to stand with you.’
Batty could almost see them shift and slither off, muttering. He almost cheered.
‘Is he well?’
Batty stopped breathing a little as Mags clattered cooking pots again; she clearly gave some affirming sign, for the voice grew closer.
‘When can he speak?’
‘Ach, bless Your Honour, he can speak now for he has been awake and listening the whole time.’
Batty sighed and opened his eyes, blinking back to the world. He was in a cruck house whose one window was unshuttered to let the rain-wind blow out the peatfire reek. There were tools and baskets on hooks, a creel for tarn fishing and bunches of grasses and herbs, pungent with last summer.
Faces, too, a brace of them. One was the bearded bluff Batty remembered on the barrel-body of John Wallis, Headman of the Wallis in these parts and, if he wanted to give himself the graces of it, the Laird of Twa Corbies.
The other was a woman, long gone from beauty into crabbed old age and greasy grey hair straggling round cheeks as knobbed and cracked as last year’s apples. Her eyes were black as little jet beads, never resting one place on Batty’s own face, but moving restlessly, as if seeking some way in past his eyes to search his soul.
‘You will be Trottie,’ Batty grunted. ‘My thanks – it seems I owe you my life and care. Was it you got me oot from under the lads who wanted me hemped?’
‘It was not,’ Trottie answered sharply. ‘You owe Mickle Jock for that.’
‘Aye, well, I will shake his hand with the one I have left when I see him.’
John Wallis laughed and perched himself on a three-legged stool, the better to be at Batty’s eye level.
‘You will wait awhiles,’ he said. ‘Mickle Jock is Trottie’s ram, who finally ran out of patience with all those causing his ewes distress and upset. He ran at them – caught Anthone a right clankie-o. He may have broke a bone or two there.’
Batty recalled the milling sheep; in a pen, with nowhere to run, they would have panicked and anyone who knew the beasts was well aware that they were not docile all the time and could be roused to a fair rage if it came to the bit.
‘Weel,’ he said to Trottie. ‘Nudge him a sweet tumshie in his feed. Have one for yerself…’
‘Divven try and charm me, hinney.’
Her voice was cold and sent Batty’s eyebrows up with surprise.
‘I am a Cheviot Wallis,’ she went on, ‘and from the time I could make my own water I have been taught to hate you and your kind, all the blue bonnets from across the Border. I was told it is a fine thing to cut the throats of you – and if it hadn’t been for the upset to my sheep, I would have done so.’
John Wallis saw Batty’s look and laughed, then laid a hand on Trottie’s arm.
‘Away, Trottie – you are a soft as fresh sheepshite when it comes to wee lost souls, be they litter runts or injured auld men with but one arm. And speak true now – there is as much bad cess against Mags as Christian charity in this.’
Trottie huffed and clattered pots but did not deny it; smiling, John Wallis looked at Batty.
‘I recall you from the Tolbooth,’ he said levelly and Batty agreed that it had been him and that he remembered John Wallis well enough.
‘Your wee bonfire o’ the Dacre deeds was no doubt fine,’ Batty added carefully, ‘but I believe there are copies.’
Wallis sighed and nodded.
‘Wee lawyers will ruin us all,’ he answered. ‘It was a gesture, hopeful of letting the Dacres know our mind on the matter, to make it clear that even if the rights to Twa Corbies and more are stamped with wee lawyer seals, it will be on parchment only – they will need an army to serve their writ. What is the business of them nuns?’
The last took Batty by surprise and he moved a little, trying not to wince.
‘Caught up in matters,’ he said, which wa
s no lie but still stepping lightly round the truth. ‘They came to Akeld in time to find your Wallis men suffering at the hands o’ mercenaries from across the water.’
‘I had heard,’ Wallis answered grimly. ‘Five good men ill-used and hung.’
‘A wee hound told you,’ Batty said and Wallis nodded, considering Batty carefully now.
‘You saw that? Well, why would you not – you are a Borders man, a hot trod ride all on your own, I have heard. What brought you here?’
He was sharp, Batty realised, firing off his arrowed little questions at the end of some seemingly empty witter.
‘Bewcastle sent me,’ he answered, judging truth was best here. ‘One of the nuns was sister to Mad Jack himself and he wanted her found from her overdue. I did not expect Maramaldo and his men.’
‘Well, I would not concern yourself overmuch,’ Wallis answered. ‘Them paid-men are set for a slap sooner rather than later.’
‘They have guns,’ Batty pointed out. ‘A brace of sakers, no less.’
Wallis smiled some winter at Batty and levered himself up.
‘Guns,’ he said scornfully. ‘Big slow useless engines, deadly only if you run straight at them.’
‘Like Ancrum,’ Batty responded, irritated, then wished he had not hauled out that spectre by the scruff of the neck. Wallis said nothing and Batty wondered if the man knew who had commanded the ruinous Scots guns at Ancrum. Probably not, he realised in the next breath, because I would not be treated so kindly.
‘Can he ride?’
‘In the morn,’ Trottie answered without missing a beat. ‘A wee bit rest and some o’ old Trottie’s best care will see him in the saddle by then.’
Wallis nodded, turned and left while Batty struggled a bit more upright, wincing at the pain in his leg; he realised it had been rebound with fresh cloths. Trottie grinned gum at him.
‘It had been dressed nice,’ she said, ‘by a nun, no doubt, complete with clean water and long prayers.’
When Batty nodded, she cackled at the suspicion in his eyes and capered in a little circle, which made him sit back a bit. She cackled the more and made the sign of the horns at him.
