Shake Loose the Border

by Robert Low

  One was a halo of tow-coloured hair and a curve of yellow beard like a Turk’s scimitar, perched on a lean body running hard through wiry too string. Once the yellow had been golden, but it was now near white, but he knew it well enough and the eyes were the same cool grey-blue, glassed as a summer sea and set in a seam of ruts.

  ‘Dickon,’ he managed and everybody muttered and nodded.

  ‘Back with us then – well done Jinet Graham,’ said Dickon and the focus of his attention beamed out of a flushed, chapped face and fussed with Batty’s bolsters so that he could sit more upright without undue strain on his back.

  ‘Here,’ Dickon’s wife said, thrusting a horn cup at him, ‘ye will have a drouth on ye if all the piss and sweat you put on my sheets is a measure.’

  It was small beer and very small at that, with just enough ale in it to make the water taste. He drank it down, for she was right and he had a thirst on him and when he was done, the other faces made more sense.

  ‘Batty,’ Dickon said, indicating the men round him. ‘Ye remember Fergus of the Mote and Tam Graham of Kirkandrews, also kin.’

  ‘I do,’ Batty answered and his voice appalled him, scratchy hoarse and slightly louder than whisper. ‘From when we first met at Powrieburn. There were ithers…’

  ‘Arthur of Canobie,’ Fergus answered bleakly. ‘Ambushed and killed a brace of years since. Armstrongs did that in revenge for Hollows.’

  ‘I am right sorry to hear it,’ Batty managed, then looked into the parched desert of Jinet’s face, the blue eyes bleak. ‘And for Davey-boy too.’

  She patted his hand, though it should be him soothing her for the loss of her son. She took the cup away and Dickon watched her go for a second, then turned and nodded to Batty.

  ‘Sair days,’ he said flatly. ‘Ye did well by my lad, finding his killer and exacting Graham vengeance. Six years have not balmed it much, for me or his mither.’

  Batty was too weary to point out that it had been Davey-boy’s own cheap gun that had done for Hutchie, but revenge was revenge.

  Dickon leaned forward a little. ‘I am not forgetting that he was there at Powrieburn because of Will Elliot. Nor that it was all to do with yerself, the Firebrand who torches everything he touches.’

  ‘Davey-boy went of his own accord,’ Fergus pointed out and Dickon reluctantly admitted it with a flap of one hand. ‘He went for his regard for Will Elliot, who was held hostage at Hollows; he wanted to be in on the rescue.’

  ‘I ken it all,’ Dickon said wearily, ‘yet where Batty steps death and fire follows. His footsteps are fu’ o’ blood.’

  ‘He brought me back,’ said a voice and Eliza pushed out of the flickering shadows. ‘He saved me from Nebless Clem.’

  Dickon shot her a savage look. ‘We will hear more on that bye and bye, lady, including how came your husband to die, the loss of Clem’s neb, the hemping of seven Graham gudewives and mair. Nebless Clem has a deal to answer for and I will expect a peck mair truth out of you than has been forthcoming, Eliza Graham.’

  He turned back to scowl at Batty, who was blinking owlishy as he tried to make sense of the revelation that Graham women had been hanged, not Egyptiani. ‘I hear he treated you badly and you thwarted him ower that wee Egyptiani creature, the Ape. A new feud – just what the dales need. But Thom Wharton is no long back frae Lunnon, where he kisted up his youngest son. Sudden fever they called it, but everyone kens he was poxed and his mind was away with the Faeries. Night terrors and worse, I had heard.’

  ‘From what we did to him at Hollows,’ Batty finished bleakly, looking at Eliza, who studiously avoided him. She had told Clem it was Egyptiani women in his woods, Batty thought and it was likely one or two of them had been auld foes of Eliza from girlhood. That sort of patient vengeance has to be considered.

  Dickon, oblivious to all else but the moment, spoke again.

  ‘We rescued a royal babe, but nae good deed goes unpunished and now Wharton wants his revenge also, for what you did in freeing the Ape. Wynking Gib has been hemped, which was the price for your clevery with the Carlisle postern. More will follow, certes. Well – you are a foul byblow of a Graham who has set the Border alight from Berwick to Carlisle, just when folk were thinking the war was done with. But you are still our byblow.’

  ‘And, besides, the Grahams still want Blackscargil,’ Batty replied, stung and watched Dickon’s glowering face melt and reform.

  Jinet patted Batty’s shoulder. ‘Sleep noo. When ye awake, ye will be stronger.’

  She was right; Batty was stronger when he woke the second time, enough to sit up unaided and have Jinet tut about what that did to her stitching. The room was brighter, the shutters opened to let in the light and a cold breeze that scoured out the fug. From where he craned, Batty could see distant hills clear of snow and surmised he was in the top of Netherby’s fine tower.

  ‘I squeezed a deal of pizen oot o’ yon wounds,’ she scathed, ‘which was no fault of the wee learned gown at Soutra, but all your own doing by being up and dashing aboot too soon. I had to cut a bit and stitch a bit and if you persist in your legendary stubborn, all my perjink darning will go to waste.’

  ‘Aye, aye, you are right as all wummin invariably are,’ Batty replied mildly, ‘but you are forgiven for unlike all wummin you make a fine barley broth. Or so I have heard.’

  ‘I will slap yer lug,’ Jinet replied but her stern glare was mitigated with a smile. ‘I will fetch some soon enough, with fresh-made bread besides – but after Dickon has had a word.’

  Dickon bustled in with four at his back; for a moment, Batty thought they were Fergus and other kin until he saw the familiar grinning face of Big Tam, Red Colin, Ewan and John Dubh. He felt a flicker of panic, quickly quelled because they were smiling, but Ewan saw it.

  ‘Dinna fash,’ he said. ‘Yon hairy wee mannie is safe with his ain folk.’

  ‘Ah saw the bears,’ Big Tam threw in delightedly.

  ‘They let you stay, then?’ Batty asked and they all nodded.

  ‘Fine hospitality,’ Red Colin added. ‘Good food, good drink… and mair.’

  Batty could imagine the ‘mair’.

  ‘So you know where the Egyptiani lair for winter then?’ he asked and Red Colin nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Aye, aye – up by Dumfries…’

  He broke off when Big Tam dug an elbow in his ribs, hard enough to drive the breath out. Then realising what he had done, Colin clapped one hand across his mouth, eyes stricken.

  Batty shook his head with mock sorrow while Ewan glared at Colin. ‘They are moving away efter Lady Day,’ he said, ‘so will probably be safe.’

  Batty wondered why they were here at all, thinking them either safe with the Egyptiani or back in Edinburgh and when he said so, Ewan told him they had been in both and then thought of coming here to see if ‘Batty’s kin’ had any news.

  That made Batty look alarmed and at Dickon. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Too long, give or take,’ interrupted Jinet, sliding expertly through the throng of men with a savoury bowl. She shot a hard glance at her husband. ‘Dickon here thinks all guests are like fish – after three days they start to stink.Here’s the barley brose I promised ye.’

  Too long, right enough. The year was running towards a turn and the hills Batty saw were green with new growth and empty of snow – small wonder the Egyptiani were stirring, for winter was done with.

  The war wasn’t quite done with, according to what Ewan and the others had to say, tripping over one another to tell their news from Edinburgh. The French were still hot for it, there was dissent in Norfolk and Kent and everywhere else, so much so that the English were already calling it ‘the year of the many-headed beast’.

  ‘Nae matter all of that,’ Dickon interrupted suddenly, his voice like a slap on a table. ‘Nebless Clem is still loose and looking for ye – he probably already kens you are here, but I have set watchers and he will no’ make a move that I dinna find out.’

  �
��Then we’ll be away and leave ye in peace,’ Batty said, putting the bowl aside; Dickon laughed harshly.

  ‘Too late for that, Batty. Besides – as you have said, I have my own reasons for facing him.’

  Eliza Graham and her claim on Blackscargil, Batty thought but he stayed quiet on that and on his thought on what she had done and was not telling. He did have something to say, all the same.

  ‘This is not your fight, for all your claims of kinship. You are right, Dickon – the world is closing in on Batty Coalhouse. All sins fly back to roost.’

  Jinet made an exasperated huff of sound and took the bowl.

  ‘This and everything else is done for love of my son,’ she said and there was nothing anyone could add to that; Batty remembered the limp little form, bloody as wound-rags, robbed of all weapons.

  ‘When you are ready to ride,’ he said to Dickon and left the rest unspoken. It would be soon, he thought, for it was almost Candlemas and after it Riding became too much work for too little gain. But this was different…

  Jinet tutted, shaking her head and unworried by almanacs.

  ‘If you rise from that bed to go on the Ride,’ she said firmly, ‘then you undo all I have done and Hell slap sense into you. But we all know that, if Batty Coalhouse stepped one foot into Paradise he would remove it to fight here on Earth so I have few hopes for you.’

  They left, one by one and Batty sank gingerly back against the pillows, while Jinet gave a last fuss to them. At the door, she gave him a scathing look, knowing he would not listen to good advice about rest until the poison in him had finally seeped away.

  She was not soothed by his soft, rotted singing and knew the song was called Barthie’s Dirge; she shivered.

  ‘They shot him dead at the Nine-Stane Rig,

  Beside the Headless Cross,

  And they left him lying in his blood,

  Upon the moor and moss.’

  Chapter Ten

  Netherby on the Esk

  Dickon had slaughtered a cow and split it. One half went for pot stew and pies, the gralloch was made into humble and the remaining half was prepared for the spit. There was a constant buzz and movement, like a beehive, as folk got ready for the Lady Day feast, which was Dickon and the Grahams of Netherby showing their style and wealth rather than regard for the Virgin.

  Not that you could anyway. Fat Henry had decreed that the Virgin was no longer the one you lit the candles to, only Christ was to be so lauded, but some of the women of Netherby snapped fingers to that, wearing blue cloaks in honour of the Lady. Even the minister, brought from the kirk at Arthuret to lend solemnity to the rammy, dared not question the women of Netherby.

  Batty kept out of it as best he could and the weather kept his movements slow and few – the garth was a great puddle and everything was moved into the big kitchen, now laid out as a feasting hall. There should have been a balefire to mark the end of one year and the start of the next, but it was too wet for that.

  Ewan and the others helped cut wood, fetch, carry and spar good-naturedly with the Graham lads.

  Batty spent his time in the stall with Fiskie, who was warm and happy and fed so that his whuffs and puffs were all joy. Batty was less joy. He asked for any old leather flasks, big ones for water or ale and got three which had started to seep at the seams. He asked for powder and got it and he and the smith, Jock’s Richie, struck up a friendship while they scoured the forge for discarded tailings of ruined nails and other pieces of sharp rusted metal.

  Eliza came to him as he stuffed the flask with powder and lethal points. She brought him ale and a slice of freshly made humble pie, all savoury steam; he eyed both of them suspiciously.

  ‘What?’ she demanded.

  ‘Have you residue still in that bottle you gave your husband?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘If I have, why would I be wasting it on you, here and now? Are you in need of being laid insensible?’

  Batty wadded the mouth of the flask, feeding a length of match through it while she watched, fascinated.

  ‘Are you content here, then? They have welcomed you back, it seems.’

  She rubbed Fiskie’s nose and then sat. ‘I am back, but only because Dickon needs me to stamp the Name on Blackscargil. He wants Nebless Clem out of there and me back in it – at which point he will find a new Graham man for me to wed.’

  Batty started on a second flask, but paused long enough to cock his head at her. ‘You had better not treat him as you did the last,’ he said softly and she glared.

  ‘I treated him well enough…’

  ‘Dickon kens what you did,’ Batty answered, ‘and soon you will needs tell him all of it. Did you lay your old husband out with potions, then help carry him to the roof? You did not get yer wee alchemical from Egyptiani – I have seen the wummin here, including Jinet, grinding herbs for my back and other medicals; I am sure if they lived beyond Netherby they would be burned as witches, the pack of them. It was them made you the stuff you fed to your man, I am thinking. And the price was to let those seven women forage in your wood for herbs they could not find elsewhere.’

  He stopped, put the flask between his knees and started to fill it.

  ‘There was no Eyptiani in it. They were all Graham women frae Netherby, but Clem didnae ken that, did he – was it you or him who decided they’d be safer dead?’

  She started to speak, then her head fell, her poorly pinned kerchief allowing her hair to fall round her face. It would not hide anything shown there, she thought miserably.

  ‘Two were Graham women. The ithers were from across the border – Forsters and Charltons. All of them were cunning-women who met now and then…’

  A coven, Batty thought trying not to shiver at the idea. Usually, these were just the wee healers of their own folk – but if anyone cared, they could hunt them down as witches and destroy them all. Like Clem had done.

  ‘Clem’s own idea,’ she whispered. ‘I did not want it to happen. We went into yelling at yin anither and he…’

  Called you names and said things he could not afterwards unsay, Batty decided. Particularly the one about marrying you, which let you know that you had conspired to murder yer husband and that was all Clem had needed. Blackscargil was already his and he did not need marriage to seal it. You did not, all the same, tell him that the women in the woods were Graham and so the train of all this blood and slaughter lurched on to a new road.

  She looked pools of anguish at him and was on the brim of telling how Clem had really lost his nose when someone bustled into the stables, breaking the spell.

  ‘Och, here ye are,’ said Jinet, then looked sharply at Eliza. ‘Help is needed in the kitchen – and cover yer hair.’

  Eliza rose and left, scathed by Jinet’s following glance.

  ‘Are you sweetening that?’ she demanded of Batty when no-one else could hear. ‘Have you some interest there?’

  Batty laughed and, eventually, she saw his seamed face and silvered beard and was mollified enough to remember why she had come.

  ‘Here,’ she said and thrust a ball with some sticks in it at him. For a moment Batty stared and she took it as being overwhelmed and beamed.

  ‘I heard you knitted, a marvellous thing to see with the yin hand. I heard also that you lost your needles and wool – so here is a replacement.’

  Batty laid the flask down and took the gift, smiling at her so she would be pleased. The truth was that he had knitted less because it seemed God was contriving to foul his one remaining hand by slow degrees – his finger joints were stiff and pained and he did not enjoy knitting as once he had.

  Jinet never noticed, slathered with the deliciousness of news.

  ‘The carts from Carlisle are here,’ she said, beaming, ‘with all that we need to complete this day’s feast.’ She peered out, squinting into the garth; the rain had stopped, but the eaves dripped and the yard was slorach of mud through which folk moved on raised clogs and women daringly showed their shins to keep dress hems dry. She ca
lled out to them, laughing.

  ‘If Candlemas be dry and fair

  The half o’ winter to come and mair

  If Candlemas Day be wet and foul

  The half o’ winter gane at Yule.’

  They laughed back and plootered on while Jinet beamed. ‘I will go and make sure they brought the proper candles wi’ them.’

  Wax, Batty surmised. Expensive, but Jinet would honour the Virgin and Dickon would smile like a rictus and dig deep in his purse. She was all Eliza wanted to be and never would.

  ‘Just as well they made it through the wet,’ she went on ducking the drips above the door, her voice trailing after her like smoke, ‘for there’s bread and the like on those carts, too, enough to feed the dozen or so riders who came with them. Scared the De’il out of the Graham watchers, who thought it was a raid.’

  It was not a raid, as Batty discovered. It was an escort of twelve riders on decent shod horses – demilances of the English army, probably from the Lord Protector’s own men. They were dripping and their fat flag with a red rose drooped on its pole, drenched to weary flapping. For all that, the Netherby Grahams looked on enviously at their German armour, the harnasch, which was a back and breast with lobster-tails down to the knee to meet the great boots. They had burgonets and hooded red cloaks and the sullen air of men who knew all the metal would need cleaned before it started to spot with rust.

  In the midst of them, swaddled in a waterproofed leather cloak, was Harry Rae, the Berwick Pursuivant, being welcomed out of the weather by Dickon and Fergus and others; it seemed to Batty that there were a lot more Grahams than before and that the Lady Day feast was a good excuse for gathering them.

  He found out how good an idea that was when Harry Rae stood with his hurdies to the fire, his fancy coat discarded on the table in front of him, high in the solar of Netherby’s tower. It took Batty aback to find out how hard he breathed and sweated climbing all the way up to it.