The Border Vixen (35 page)

“Bobby,” the woman called plaintively from the bed where she lay. She coughed a deep cough; she had not been well for several days now and had kept to her bed. He suspected she might be dying, for she had grown very frail with the deepening of winter, and she had lived alone in this marsh for many years, as he had learned from her.

“I’m here, Old Mother,” he answered her, turning and walking over to the side of the bed. “Can I get ye something?”

She looked up at him with her rheumy blue eyes. “Yer not my Bobby, are ye?”

Her gaze was sharper, clearer than he had ever seen it.

Fingal Stewart shook his head. “Nay, Old Mother, I am not yer Bobby,” he said quietly. “But ye saved my life by insisting to the men of the warden of the West March that I was. For that I am grateful, and I thank ye.”

“I thought ye were,” the old woman replied. “My Bobby went to fight King James at a place called Flodden. He was just twenty when he left me. His da told me that he died, but I never believed it. I always knew my Bobby would return to me. Ye look so like him,” she said. “I was so sure. So very certain . . .” Her voice trailed off weakly, and a tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek.

“Flodden was more than twenty-eight years ago, Old Mother,” Fin told her. “King James the Fourth died in that battle. The battle in which I fought was at Solway Moss, and the king now is his son, James the Fifth.”

“Yer a Scot,” she murmured, shaking her white head. “A gentleman, I think.”

“Aye,” he said, the tiniest of smiles touching his lips. “I’m a Scot. The head wound I received took my memory, but thanks to yer tender care, I am slowly regaining it.”

“Do ye know yer name?” she asked weakly.

“My name is Fingal Stewart,” he said, “and I have a house in Edinburgh. That much I remember. I also recall a man named Iver who I hope can help me revive the rest of my memory. I dream of a stone keep and an old laird.”

“I am dying,” the old woman said matter-of-factly. “Will ye remain with me until I am dead, Fingal Stewart? And will ye see my body is treated with respect?”

“I will not leave ye, Old Mother,” he promised her. “I owe ye my life.”

“Good! Good!” she said, and her eyes closed as she fell asleep again.

Their positions were now reversed, and it was Fingal who spent his time over the next few weeks nursing the woman who had saved his life by claiming him as her kin. Her spirit was strong though her body grew weaker and weaker. He developed chilblains on his hands from being outdoors in the bitter weather seeking fuel to keep the tiny cottage warm for the woman. He set traps and caught several rabbits he skinned, butchered, and broiled for them to eat. The skins he tanned and dried, making coverings for the old woman’s hands, which were constantly icy.

She rallied for a time, and Fin was strangely glad. For now the woman was all he had. They saw no one, for the cottage was in the middle of a frozen marsh, and there was no road visible to his eye leading to it. She told him she had lived in the cottage her entire life. Her late husband has been one of the warden’s marshmen who patrolled the area making certain no one poached the water fowl, or the fish. Her father had been one too, which was why the cottage was located where it was.

The old woman had lost two sons and a daughter before her Bobby was born. She had raised him and tried to protect him, but he was a stubborn boy. He might have taken his grandfather’s position, but Bobby wanted more adventure than a marshman toiling for the warden of the West March had. When the call had come for men to fight the Scots for King Henry, Bobby had answered that call. When the battle of Flodden had been fought, and the Scots king killed, the old woman’s husband had gone to find if their son had survived. He could find no trace of him, and Bobby never came home again. Then several years afterwards her husband had died.

“I lost track of time after that,” the old woman said. Then she looked at him with clear eyes and said, “When I am gone, remain here until yer memory is better. No one ever comes here anymore. Ye’ll be safe. Yer not so bad a fellow, considering yer a Scot.”

Fingal laughed, but then he grew more sober. “We are all just folk,” he told her. “It doesn’t matter which side of the border we come from, Old Mother. It’s the kings and the powerful who cause trouble for us.”

She nodded. “There is much truth in what ye say,” she agreed.

His rescuer finally breathed her last one early-spring evening. The snows were melting quickly, and bits of green, which would eventually become reeds, were shooting up from the patches of water that just a few weeks earlier had been frozen solid. That morning she had noted the birdsong that had been absent during the winter. Then her eyes had closed. He sat by her side, holding her thin worn hand the day long, and as evening approached, she opened her eyes a final time.

“Ah,” she said, smiling. “Here is my Bobby at last.” Then with a gasp so faint he barely heard it, the old woman died with a gentle shudder.

Fingal Stewart said a prayer for the woman’s soul. He hadn’t even known her Christian name though he had lived more than five months in this wee cottage. Because until almost the very end she had believed him to be her son, he had addressed her as
Old Mother
, which pleased her. Now he was forced to pray for her in those terms. The entire time he had been with her she had worn the same dun-colored skirt, a bodice that had probably once been white, and her old woolen shawl. Now Fin searched through the woman’s possessions to see if he could find something nicer in which to bury her.

He stripped her scrawny frame, and washed it as best he might with a rag and some warm water from the pot on the fire. Then he redressed her in a clean worn chemise, several petticoats, and a medium blue velvet skirt and bodice he had discovered in a small trunk. Her man had obviously gone raiding as well as being in the service of the warden of the West March. There was no other way a man of his small status could have afforded a velvet gown for his wife. Fin combed the woman’s thin white hair, and plaited it neatly. He took a wide silk ribbon he had found with the dress, placing it beneath her chin to tie at the top of her head. It would keep her jaw from falling open. He would bury her on the morrow as it was now dark.

He ate some stale bread and cheese, then lay down on his pallet. Awakening before the dawn, he arose and ate the rest of the bread with what remained of a rabbit he had broiled two days ago; then fetching a shovel, he went outside to find a place he might dig a grave. He found a reasonably dry spot just a short distance from the cottage, and realized another grave was already there—her husband’s undoubtedly—but there was room for the old woman. He dug the grave deep, stopping only when he sensed he would hit water. He tossed a shovelful of earth back into the grave to make certain it would be dry. About him the gray of predawn had given way as the coming sun began to stain the horizon, and the birds began to sing.

Returning to the cottage, Fingal Stewart picked up the body of the old woman and, lifting it from the bed, carried it to the simple tomb. Jumping down into the grave, Fin laid the body neatly, the arms over the chest. He placed a small cross he had made from some sticks beneath her hands. Then climbing from the grave site, he began to fill it in, piling the brown soil into a mound. It would flatten out naturally over the next few months, but hopefully the grave would not collapse into itself. Kneeling, Fingal Stewart said a prayer for Old Mother’s good soul. Then he returned to the cottage.

He remained there for the next several days. He didn’t know if anyone would come to check up on the old woman, but until his memory was fully restored, he didn’t want to have to speak with anyone. One word from his mouth and they would realize he was a Scot. He had to go to Edinburgh and find the man named Iver. Oddly, he knew exactly where his house was. But where the man named Iver was he did not know. Still, the first objective was to gain the safety of Scotland, of Edinburgh, and finally of his house.

Standing outside the cottage, he was able to determine north by the placement of the rising and setting sun. Finally, on the third day after the woman’s death, Fingal Stewart set out. He had no idea how far he had to travel, but once he gained the border and saw someone, he might safely ask. He had boots on his feet courtesy of Old Mother’s late husband. He was clothed respectably, though he hardly looked like a Lord Stewart. His hair had grown to his shoulders, and he kept it tied back. He had a beard, although he knew he did not wear a beard. There had been no means of shaving it; however, he had trimmed it short with a knife. Perhaps at his house in Edinburgh there would be something with which to shave his face and cut his hair.

He had trapped two rabbits, cooked them, and wrapped the pieces along with the last of Old Mother’s oatcakes. He didn’t think his scant rations would last him as long as it would take to get to Edinburgh, but he had found a small cache of coins beneath the mattress of the cottage’s bed. All were dead here. He felt no shame in taking those coins for himself. He had no idea what lay ahead. He walked for at least two hours, finally coming to a river. It was the Esk, his memory prompted him. The force he had traveled with prior to his injury had crossed it on horseback. Scotland lay on the other side of this water, but how was he to get across? There would be no bridge, of course. Neither the English nor the Scots would make it easy for the other to invade. He wasn’t certain he could swim across. Sitting down on the bank of the river to rest and consider what to do, he suddenly heard a voice hailing him.

“Laddie! Laddie!”

Looking up, he swiveled his head about.

“Across the water, laddie,” came the voice. “Are ye seeking a way to ford yon river? Perhaps I can help ye if ye have the coin.”

Fingal Stewart looked over the river to the other side, and saw a man standing by a small boat. “I’m a poor soldier who fought at Solway Moss. I’ve just been released by the English,” he called back to the man. “I have no coin, but I’ll give ye a day’s labor if ye’ll get me back to Scotland so I can get home.”

“What can ye do?” the man asked him.

“Whatever ye need done. I’ll chop wood, herd yer livestock. I can write if ye need a letter written,” Fin answered the man.

“I have two daughters in need of servicing,” the man called back. “If I bring ye across, will ye linger long enough to do what needs to be done?”

Fingal Stewart wasn’t certain he had heard the man correctly. “
What?
” he said.

The man was already in his boat, and rowing across the Esk. As the river was not particularly wide where they were, the prow of his little vessel slid up onto the English side of the riverbank in short order. The man, of medium height and stocky, climbed out and came towards Fin, holding out his hand. “I’m Parlan Fife,” he said. “Let me explain.”

Fin shook the man’s hand. “Could ye do it as we cross back to Scotland?” he asked. The man looked relatively sane.

“Help me push ’er back into the river, and get in,” Parlan Fife said.

Fin complied, but when they were midriver, his ferryman stopped rowing.

“Now, laddie, hear me out. My wife is dead. I’ve six lasses, and I’ve managed to get four of them wed respectably. But I have nothing left with which to help the two who remain, and it would take far more than I could earn in a thousand years to find husbands for Lily and Sybil. They’re nae ugly or misshapen, but they have another fault that cannot be corrected, nor that a decent man would accept in a wife.”

Fin was fascinated. “And what is that?” he asked Parlan Fife.

“They like to fuck,” the ferryman answered him.

“What?!”
Had he heard the man correctly?

“They like to fuck, and they can’t get enough of it,” Parlan Fife said. “Their reputations are such that some call them witches. It’s been a long winter, and they have had no man to satisfy their needs in months. The few families here abouts keep their men away from my lasses for they fear them. Oh, now and again one comes calling, but my lassies wear them out and send them home half dead. Ye look like a strong man, and if ye’ve been in an English prison since the king’s last battle, then ye should be ready for a rough and tumble. I’ll take ye the rest of the way across, but ye must agree that ye will service my lasses for at least ten days. After that, yer free to go on yer way again or remain if it pleases ye. I could use the company of another man myself.”

“The king’s last battle?” Fin said. “What news of the king?”

“Will ye agree to my terms?” Parlan Fife said stubbornly.

Fin considered. To fuck a woman. Aye. It had been months since he himself had satisfied his own lusts. And before Solway Moss? He couldn’t remember. “Aye,” he said. “I’ll give yer two lasses a good ten days to ease their lusty natures. Now, tell me of the king, Parlan Fife.”

The ferryman began to row again towards the Scots side of the river. “The king is dead,” he said. “Died in mid-December just after his little daughter was born. Scotland has a queen. Her name is Mary. These will not be easy times for Scotland with an infant for its monarch. Already the English king is saying he wants her for his son. That England and Scotland should be one.”

The king dead! There was certain to be more war, with the English believing that Scotland was vulnerable, the French Queen Mother fighting to keep her daughter safe, and the powerful lords fighting to gain control of their queen, and thereby ruling Scotland. They would divide into factions behind England, behind France. How he knew this Fin couldn’t have explained, but he did. It had happened before.

The little boat finally touched the Scots shore. Fingal Stewart jumped out. He was home again. A few days of servitude to Parlan Fife and his daughters, then he would be on his way again. He followed the ferryman away from the river, walking for several minutes until they came to a stone cottage. There were three small children in the front playing at a game of tag with a large dog that seemed to be watching over them.

“My grandchildren,” Parlan Fife said. “Two are Sybil’s; one is Lily’s.”

“Their sires?”