Border Fire (36 page)

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, too, 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.

“Ride, master,” Hob shouted. “They be breaking truce!”

Even before Quin heard the warning and saw the well-practiced battlefield maneuver with the horses, he had feared an attack. The signs had been undeniable, for the other party was heavily armed and had watched him and his people more closely than mere taunting would account for. More than once he had seen one man lean near another to talk without looking away from the Scots.

“Hold where you are, everyone,” he shouted before his men could spur their ponies. “They outnumber us, and I’ll not risk my Jenny or any of the other women by encouraging them to chase us or make battle. We’ll face them down.”

“They’d never dare harm me,” Jenny said stoutly. “I know that banner, sir. It is my cousin, Francis Musgrave. I cannot believe he would dare to break the truce.”

Moments later, the leader of the English party, closely followed by his men, rode up to Quin and declared loudly, “You are under arrest, Rabbie Redcloak, for theft and for murder. You are to come with us.”

Stunned by the unexpected identification, Quin fought to collect his. wits.

Jenny said angrily, “You are mad, Francis Musgrave. This is Sir Quinton Scott, Laird of Broadhaugh, close cousin to the Laird of Buccleuch, and my husband! You cannot arrest him. He is deputy warden of the Scottish middle and west marches, as you know right well!”

“He is under arrest nonetheless,” Musgrave said firmly, adding with a flinty look at Quin, “We outnumber you, Broadhaugh, two to one.”

Quin saw other riders coming over the rise and realized that Musgrave had planned his attack well. “I’ll go peacefully,” he said. “Jenny, ride to Buccleuch with Hob and our other men and tell him about this. Do not, under any circumstance, put yourself in danger, but do exactly what Buccleuch tells you to do. Now, go, lass.”

Tears glittered in her eyes, but she raised her chin. “Recall that I know you well, Francis Musgrave,” she said angrily. “Moreover, if I find out that Hugh had aught to do with this outrage, I’ll…”

“Do not blame Sir Hugh, cousin,” Musgrave said. “We learned only a short time ago that Broadhaugh is the notorious reiver, Rabbie Redcloak. I will do you the courtesy to pretend you did not know of his past. However, you should know that we mean to make a gift of him to your brother, and Hugh may not be so credulous. We mean you and the others no harm, though. You may depart in peace.”

“Peace!” she snapped. “What do you know of peace, to break a solemn truce like this? You should be ashamed of yourself. God will punish you, Francis, and by heaven, if I can help him send you all to perdition, I will!”

“That’s enough now, Jenny; go to Buccleuch,” Quin said calmly. Turning to Hob, he added, “Stay with her. I depend upon you to guard her well.”

“Aye, master,” Hob replied. “And, mind, we’ll have moonlight again.”

“Now word is gane to the bauld keeper,

In Branksome Ha’, where that he lay…”

I
GNORING TEARS THAT STREAMED
down her cheeks, Janet watched as they constrained Quinton like a common felon with his arms tied behind him and his feet bound beneath his horse’s belly. He held himself erect throughout the humiliating process, and his dignity reminded her of her position as his wife. She did not raise a hand to dry her tears, but they continued to flow.

Beside her, Hob murmured, “We should go, mistress, whilst we can.”

“We will wait until they have ridden away,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice to match his. “They must see that we are outraged, Hob, and not think for a minute’s time that we fear them. We will sit quietly and watch, so as to make them constantly aware that we can serve as witnesses to this unlawful act.”

“By God, madam,” Gaudilands said behind her. “Were it not for you and the other women, we’d soon teach them a lesson. I can promise you that.”

“Then you would give them grounds to declare later that you caused the trouble instead of them,” Janet said without turning her head. “This way, they can never say that we initiated any of this. They are wholly in the wrong, and we shall be able to say so without fear of hearing any action of ours condemned in turn.”

The Scots sat silently after that until the English band had disappeared over the rise with their prisoner.

Hob said quietly, “Now, mistress?”

“Now,” Janet agreed.

Leaving half of their men to escort the other women, she rode ahead with Hob, Gaudilands, and Todrigg to Branxholme, where Buccleuch had remained to let his leg mend itself. Darkness fell some hours before the big gates swung open to admit them to the torchlit bailey.

Leaving their horses with lackeys, Janet hurried into the hall with Hob and the two gentlemen following. She found Buccleuch alone, sitting at his ease in a cushioned armchair with his leg propped on a bench set lengthwise before him. A goblet of wine rested companionably on a small table at his elbow.

He frowned at her hasty entrance, but made no move to stand. “What’s amiss, lass?” he demanded. “And why the devil have you brought Todrigg and Gaudilands with you? Where’s Quin?”

“They’ve seized him, sir. They’ve broken the truce, and I am ashamed to say that those who took him are Musgraves, members of my mother’s family and hitherto men for whom I held both respect and affection.”

His startled reaction sent the goblet at his elbow flying, but he paid no heed to the resulting clatter or mess. “The devil you say!” he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright now. “They’ve broken the truce?”

“Aye, Wat,” Gaudilands said angrily. “We’d scarce left the ground when Francis Musgrave and about a hundred others swooped down upon us.”

Todrigg said, “They arrested him as Rabbie Redcloak.”

“Damnation,” Buccleuch exclaimed, adding as an obvious afterthought, “I beg your pardon, lass.”