by Robert Low
Shake Loose the Border
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One June 1548 – St Monans, East Neuk of Fife
October 1548
Chapter Two November 1548 – Berwick-upon-Tweed
Chapter Three Later, 1548 – Blackscargil
Chapter Four Later still – somewhere else…
Chapter Five Last day of Advent 1548 – near Carlisle
Chapter Six Christ Mass Day 1548 – Carlisle
Chapter Seven Later, on the Eden
Chapter Eight Morning near Blackscargil
Chapter Nine Netherby on the Esk
Chapter Ten Netherby on the Esk
Chapter Eleven Blackscargil tower
Chapter Twelve Kershope, the next day
Chapter Thirteen The bastel house at Micklegate
Chapter Fourteen The Mutton Pot
Chapter Fifteen The Mutton Pot, later
Chapter Sixteen At the bridge
Chapter Seventeen With the Egyptiani
Chapter Eighteen Eastwards, up the Liddesdale
Chapter Nineteen Hermitage
Chapter Twenty Moss and moor
Author’s Note
Glossary
About the Author
Also by Robert Low
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Chapter One
June 1548 – St Monans, East Neuk of Fife
The smoke was thick, grey black, coiling and twisting like a snake out of the trench where they had lit the fires. It was so dense Batty could not see the flames from Newark Castle, but Sandy Wood, one of the Largo Lairds, told Batty of it as he wiped his streaming, blackened face.
‘They sacked and burned it,’ he complained bitterly. ‘Took prisoners away in their boats. Bastards.’
‘Prisoners? From the castle?’
‘Servants and tenants hiding there. You knew some?’ Sandy Woods asked.
‘Will Elliot. I heard he was Steward.’
‘He is – if he lives. They huckled them all down to the beach and their wee boats. Bastards.’
He turned away to roar at skeins of men moving up with pikes and hackbutts, but cut it short as a stocky figure appeared stumping along in boots and a jack hung about with bits of gilded latten chain. Hans Cochrane, face streaked with powder-smeared sweat, gave Batty as much of a salute as he always did, a half-flap of one hand; he did not even acknowledge the Laird of Largo.
‘Where do you want these wee poppers then Batty?’
‘Front of the line if you please Master Coalhouse,’ a voice interrupted and they turned to see a spade-bearded face on top of a carapace of half-armour and tall boots. The voice was rough with smoke and yelling and he fought the restive horse as he spoke, some of his words lost as it circled and shifted.
‘My Lord Wemyss…’ Sandy Wood began and the commander nodded brusquely, but talked only to Batty, looking at him and thankful he had seen him before and knew what to expect.
Master Coalhouse, the expert gunner, was a brute club of a man, his face hawk-nosed and up-chinned, so that his knife of beard seemed to curve like a scythe. He had wary eyes set in a blasted landscape of old lines and new wrinkles, a big-bellied body encased in a jack with no sleeve on the left, for he had no arm to fill it. All in all, he was a man birthed out of fire and sword, Wemyss had heard tales of a bloody feud with the Armstrongs along the Border and a history of slow match and petards and gunnery. Just what the moment needed.
Batty knew what Wemyss was seeing and stared back at pouched eyes in a face terse with age and new strains. No Holyrood painting yourself, he thought.
‘Load scattershot,’ Wemyss said, heaving himself off the horse. ‘When yon moudiewarts sort themselves out they will come up through the smoke and ower yon trench we dug last night because everywhere else is too steep. They will wheel on their fixed left flank, which is what I want ye to tear to shreds. Your guns and my hackbutts will rend them so we will.’
He laid it out with twigs and scores from his backsword.
‘They landed in the bay. Thought themselves braw and clever for coming ower the firth and landing in this wee backwater. Thought they would attack St Andrews when they cannot move out of Haddington to take Edinburgh.’
A score of the sword and some pebbles. ‘We are on their left. Sir John Sandilands is ower on their right, though he has only a few men, mostly his own tenants including women and brave bairns. They scarce make a hundred, but they are watching his castle burn and are fired for revenge, making a deal of noise to seem more of a threat.’
A final lump of round stone. ‘Sir James the Bastard Stewart is coming from the north. Those on the beach cannot come at us up the cliffs so must move forward, wheel on their left flank and rush us ower that trench. Sir James’ll be here within the hour, bringing Frenchmen with him and then we can show these English how bulls run and chuckies row.’
‘Bastards,’ echoed Wood and the men nearest picked it up and yelled it back at him, laughing.
Not be laughing long, Batty thought bitterly. There are more than a few hundred skilled men on that beach, struggling to unload horses and ordinance; it was no small force and arriving like a thunderbolt, as Sandy Wood had said. Through the drift of smoke he could see the forest of masts from their fleet – and that meant stronger guns if they could be brought to bear.
But Sandy Wood and his brother and Sir John Wemyss had seen it long before, had set to preparing for it as best they could with what was to hand, which was not much but all good. So had the Privy Councillors back in Edinburgh, Batty added to himself. They sent me and three guns here, showing more resolve and cunning than they had in a year; one more day of gabbing round a table about it would have been too late.
‘Hans – bring up the wee casks.’
Cochrane, a skilled gunner, knew the import of Batty’s order and scowled. It meant close work and a frantic scrabbling to load and fire otherwise the enemy would rush them. The gunners sweated the small casks up and cracked them open, ladling spikes and nails and odd lumps of metal down the barrels.
Batty thought the guns too light – they were rabinets, small enough on a wheeled carriage to be trundled fast by a single horse and a brace of sweating men. They launched no more than a fist-sized shot if that, but the spray from a load of sharp metal would scythe men down to bloody pats. The trick with it, Batty knew, was to let them get close – but not close enough for survivors of the scythe to rush in.
Men formed on either side of them, spiking their Y-shaped rests into the ground and blowing on the matches to keep them glowing like red rat eyes. They will run soon as the enemy charges, Batty knew and if we don’t run with them we’ll be sliced like pie.
The Scots were armed and armoured decently enough, all the same – Wemyss had a few score of his retainers and the Lairds of Largo had even more from their estates, former seaman and shipmen of their old da, Sir Andrew Wood, once the Lord High Admiral of Scotland.
Batty eyed up his own men, the gun captains Cochrane, Tibault Roquenau and Piers Schoufrenne the Fleming. They and a handful of Frasers freshly fled from some feud in the north formed the battery and only one was armoured – Ewan Fraser in his ankle-length saffron serk and long mail coat, leaning easily on a massive two-handed sword. He peered out from under an ancient bascinet and grinned.
‘Dinna fash, Master Coalhouse.’
He was still young enough to be dark of hair and beard, but the frets round his eyes told a different tale. He had washed-out blue eyes and a strong frame – slender too, Batty noted ruefully – but the look in those eyes was a pool of old misery. Batty knew why; Ewan and the handful with him were the last of his clan,
the Lovats of Beauly. With 300 other Frasers he had gone into a battle with the Ranalds and McDonalds and other enemies across some norther marsh. The Lovat Laird was dead, his son and heir with him.
‘I am the last Lovat of Beauly,’ Ewan had told Batty when he had presented himself, sent from Lord Arran to act as an escort for the guns. He was bitter-proud of it and it did not astound Batty to realise that he would return one day and slaughter as many Ranalds and McDonalds as he could before dying.
The enemy sorted themselves out and swung into action; Batty heard the trumpets and did not have to do more than nod to Hans Cochrane to get ready.
The enemy came swinging up over the trench, round the rocky foreshore like a closing door, right through the fading smoke of the old fires. Nearest to them, the hinge of their swinging door, hackbutts appeared, cautious and creeping, to be met by a scatter of fire from either side of Batty.
‘Hold,’ Batty said, watching the banners and the ghost shapes through the smoke. Green horizontal stripes, white sheets, red crosses, they fluttered boldly. There was even a great white banner with a gold St George killing the dragon – and a fatter, whiter one banded at the top in blue and studded with little black crosses.
‘Yon’s Lord Clinton’s badge,’ Sandy Wood yelled out. ‘He’s commander here. Fire on that, Master Coalhouse. Blow his heid aff.’
The pikes nearest to him roared approval but Batty ignored him. He would fire when he was ready…
The shapes coalesced. Hackbutts spun and fell; something whirred between Batty and Ewan like an angry wasp, but neither paid it any mind – to Ewan’s left, one of his men was shifting from foot to foot and roaring in his own tongue, frothing. Huw, Batty remembered, a hard-eyed youth who was never done smiling and boasting about what he had done in battle and would do again.
Ewan lifted his sword and whacked him hard with the flat, a blow on the blue bonnet that Batty was sure would lay the man out with a cracked pate until he realised there was a steel cap under it; the man stumbled a little and shook his head. Batty leaned closer to Ewan.
‘Is he right in the head? What was he shouting?’
‘He will be fine as sunny water,’ Ewan shouted back over the increasing din. ‘It’s only Huw, asking for claymore – to be let loose to charge them rather than stand here and be shot at. Huw was on the brim of it but now is not until I say so.’
‘Dinna let him,’ Batty replied grimly, ‘for if he runs in front of my guns there will be nothing for his ma to weep over.’
Arrows flew, but they were shot blind and came in spurts like rain. The English bowmen were using their bows as spades to try and shift out the smouldering bracken in the trench they ploughed through, but a great mass of men was pushing through – billmen, Batty saw. A length of wood shorter by several feet than a pike, with a thin axe-head on one side and a piked point on the other, capable of being used with a small, round strapped-on shield.
That’s the English way – bills and bows, Batty thought, when everyone else uses pikes and hackbutts – but the killing power was all in their archers, who would launch shaft after shaft at the tight ranks of pike before the billmen closed. They will have mercenaries with them, all the same, Italians and Germans who fight and dress like Landsknechts, who in turn fight and dress like the Swiss, favoured sons of war. Those piked-armed lads would be the ones to take on Scots pike, not the English with their bills…
He felt Cochrane’s eyes on him and nodded. Cochrane bawled out orders, touched fire to pan; there was a series of deep little popping sounds, a great gush of smoke and the front rank of the distant figures misted with blood and shrieks. Cochrane was roaring for spongers and charges and prickers.
They did it twice more and then Batty saw the moment the enemy found their courage – they had been surging back and forth and now, under a sword-waving captain, started forward in earnest. Batty stopped his men from reloading, waved his good hand round his head once or twice and then clapped Ewan Fraser on one shoulder.
‘Away,’ he said. ‘Leave the fight to those suited best for it.’
He led the way, pushing into the massed pike ranks behind him until stopped by a burly figure who grinned yellow and gap at him. He shifted to go around and was blocked, knew it was thought a good joke on those scampering to the rear by the way the others around the man sniggered.
He had no time for pike jests. He hauled out his dagg and stuck it under the pikeman’s bushy chin, watching the eyes grow large and round. It was fearsome, that pistol, a great long barrel and a butt ending in an axe head and the joker’s grin had altered to a wet-mouthed grimace.
‘Blood of Christ,’ said his neighbour; there was a buzzing sound and the man next to him went backwards in a pink mist. The joker shifted to one side and Batty moved through, though he turned on the way for he would not put his back to them now.
In the rear, he went to where they had parked the train, which was too grand a word for two carts, some Border hobbies, casks and boxes of powder and shot. There was bread and hard cheese and thin wine, too, so Batty took his ease with the gunners, hoping none of the enemy who washed over his guns had spikes or the thought to use them. He and the Frasers ate and drank while the smoke and shouts and screams drifted over them.
Men stumbled out of the ranks, gasping or shrieking over their bloody wounds. Others were left like a snail’s trail when the mass of men surged forward. Eventually, like a tide, they would surge back again.
Then there was a flurry of men, a series of knots stumbling and shouting; Batty watched them, arms pumping and empty of pike.
‘Stand to,’ he roared. ‘They have broke.’
The air went like a spoon in gruel, thick and slow. Men broke to the right and left, running blindly, anywhere, away from the vengeful edge of the enemy; Batty heard a voice bawling for them to stand, to rally, but he did not think they would.
New figures loomed, stumbling and wet-mouthed, but slashing bloody edges. A bill flashed and Batty ducked it, stuck out the dagg and fired – the long lance of flame seemed to engulf the man, who vanished in it, screaming.
Someone else hurled forward, spattered with gore and yowling like a cat, his fingers like claws which was all he seemed to have; he fell on the edge of John Dubh’s targe and the weight dragged them both down, snarling and cursing.
Another bill-edge flashed and Batty reared away from it, stuck the dagg back in his belt and scrabbled out his backsword, stabbing at the helmeted head until the man fell away, trailing blood.
Batty gave him no chance and leaped on him like the wrath of an avalanche, kicking him repeatedly until his bascinet helmet flew off and then keeping up the flurry in his black-bearded face, pale and blood-slathered and panicked. He beat him like a red-haired step-wean with the backsword and watched him jerk and writhe and scream. Then he drew back his arm and pegged the man to the ground as if he was a curing hide.
Men roared, the sound like surf on shingle as Batty struggled to pull the sword out again, then cursed and went for a new pistol instead. Men moved alongside him and he realised it was the Scots pikemen, returning warily and half-ashamed, waving their wee backswords and looking to find the long pikes they had thrown away in fear.
They enemy surged away, backed away until Batty was facing a wall of them a pike-length away; the fringes to either side heaved and struggled with other fights – but they were distant matters to Batty, who only saw the fear in faces at the way Ewan Fraser slid and ducked, his two-hander sword making a high, thin ping of sound as it snicked pieces from men.
A man came up alongside Batty, stuck his Y-fork in the blood-sodden turf, rested the long weapon and shot; the ball struck one of that enemy wall of men and shafts and the victim shrieked and half-turned, throwing up his arms; the bill in it spun like a lance of light and Batty saw it come down on him, could not move…
Light blew into him and skidded him to the edge of an abyss. Batty lay in a cave of ice, his head resting in a cold so hard it seemed to burn on that side
; the rest of him pulsed and throbbed with a pattern he could see on the inside of his eyelids. His neck ached; he opened his eyes because someone demanded it and shook him relentlessly until he gave in. It took him a long, blurry time before he found himself staring into the red-speckled face of John Dubh, heavy with concern.
‘You’re up then,’ John Dubh said and blew out his cheeks. ‘There’s a mercy. Will you try for standing or lie there a’ day?’
Lie here a’ day, Batty decided, listening to the wind mourn out of the sea over the dead and dying. It spoke of rain and tears; he struggled to rise.
Then, like a distant bird, Batty heard a trumpet, another and yet one more. Heads turned to look – cheers rang out and Wemyss came riding up, all Alamain rivet and plumes.
‘The Bastard Stewart,’ he announced triumphantly, as if he had personally summoned the man up. He looked down at Batty, who was finally spurred to levering himself upright; he saw the bill a little way off and John Dubh followed his glance and grinned.
‘Aye, God smiles on ye, Master Coalhouse – you were clipped by the flat and if it had turned a quim hair either way it would have sliced you like a bridal cake.’
‘Well done,’ Wemyss beamed, as if Batty had contrived the entire event. He rode off and, in another few minutes, the Bastard Stewart was riding up in half-armour, his face pale but his manner determined. Seventeen he was, Batty remembered dully, fighting the blood-orange pulse of his senses. Half-brother to the wee Queen Mary, sired by her Royal da on Lady Margaret Eskine.