Reiver

by David Pilling

  He loosed. The arrow skimmed through the window, straight and true, and buried itself up to the fletches in a reiver’s neck. Coughing blood, his victim fell, one hand clapped to the shaft imbedded in his flesh.

  The soldiers flanking Richie shot their calivers. He fell back and took another arrow from his belt. Another blood-curdling shout rose outside, followed by screams and oaths, ring of steel and crack of pistol fire from downstairs.

  “Stainton, Nartbie, Routledge,” shouted Jonas, “you three stay here and fire down on their heads. The rest, with me!”

  He clattered down the stairs. The men he had called out stayed to reload their pieces, while the others stormed in their captain’s wake. Richie dumped his bow and went after them. His followers were down there. Ruth was down there.

  Richie halted on the middle step. Below him the ground chamber was a mass of heaving bodies, almost too close-packed to wield a sword. Men grappled at close quarters: tearing at eyes, stabbing with their daggers, biting and scratching in the press.

  The reivers had forced their way through the slender guard on the door, but the defenders refused to yield any more ground. Cleave-Crown was in his element. His stout figure dominated the middle of the fray, Jedburgh axe rising and falling in a blur of steel. A reiver sprang at his throat with a knife. Cleave-Crown caught the man, headbutted him, hurled him bodily into a knot of his companions. Half a dozen reivers tumbled to the floor like skittles. The terrible axe chopped through two throats before their owners could rise. Cleave-Crown lifted one of his victims up by the hair, laughed as blood sprayed from the deep gash in the man’s neck and coated him in gore.

  Richie looked desperately for Ruth. He spied her near the foot of the stair, wielded his dag as a club. Ruth’s face was spotted with blood – not her own, thank God. Davy did his best to shield her. Adam stood by Davy, swapping sword-cuts with a reiver twice his size.

  “Nebless Will!” shouted Richie. “Nebless Will Armstrong, are you here? Step forth and face me, you coward!”

  There was no answer. Richie saw no sign of the Armstong in the throng. Nebless Will was easy to pick out, since (as his nickname implied) his nose had been lopped off in some ancient skirmish. He wore the gruesome scar as a badge of pride.

  More blue bonnets crowded through the door. The house would soon be overrun. Half the militia were down, though Captain Jonas was worth three men in himself, laying about him with a berserk fury that almost rivalled Cleave-Crown’s. Richie saw one Englishman shot through the head as the reivers outside took to firing their pistols through the windows.

  “Ruth!” he shouted, “Davy, Adam! Break off and follow me.”

  They heard him and staged a retreat up the stair, stabbing and clubbing at the reivers who gave chase. Richie shouted at Cleave-Crown to get out, though he knew it was hopeless. Nothing could shake his cousin out of a fighting rage. Cleave-Crown would fight on until all his enemies were dead or fled.

  Or he was slain. Richie cried out as a broadsword slashed through the melee and opened a deep cut on Cleave-Crown’s wrist. He looked down, puzzled, as his fingers stopped working. His bloody axe clattered to the floor.

  The reiver drew back his sword for the killing blow. Cleave-Crown lifted his wounded arm in defence. The sword flashed home and bit deep into his chest, straight into the heart.

  “John!” cried Richie. There was a scrum of fighting men between him and his cousin, and he could do no good anyway. Cleave-Crown fell, the length of steel still buried inside him, to vanish among the throng.

  Ruth seized Richie’s arm. “He’s gone,” she hissed into his ear, “you can’t save him. Live, and avenge his blood.”

  He allowed himself to be half-shoved, half-carried up the stair by Ruth and Adam. Davy brought up the rear, sobbing with rage, holding the reivers at bay with sweeps of his sword.

  Upstairs a soldier was slumped against the wall, hand clasped over the bullet-wound in chest. His face was pale and damp with sweat, his eyes closed. One of his comrades knelt by a window and took aim. The other bit off a fresh bullet. Neither paid any heed to the outlaws.

  “Climb,” shouted Ruth above the din of slaughter below, “it’s the only way.”

  She stabbed her finger at the roof, or lack of it. The ancient turf or heather covering was long gone, along with most of the rafters. Only a couple of ancient beams criss-crossed the gaping hole where the thatch used to lay. Far above their heads dark clouds swirled in a deep grey sky. Rain threatened, perhaps a storm.

  The walls were made of rugged stone blocks, easy to climb. Ruth swarmed up the rear wall like a monkey and offered Richie her hand. Still dazed by his cousin’s death, Richie clambered up mechanically. He barked his knee on the stone, but took no notice.

  Adam and Davy also climbed the wall until all four were perched precariously on the top. Below them was a roughly twelve-foot drop onto grass. The reivers were all occupied at the front of the house or inside.

  “Now!” cried Ruth. The outlaws leaped. Richie landed heavily on all fours and lay prone for a second or two, the breath knocked out of him. Beside him Adam yelped in pain.

  “I’ve done my fuckin’ ankle!” he wailed, holding his foot.

  Between them Davy and Richie hoisted the boy up and carried him away from the house. Ruth followed, brandishing her empty pistol.

  There was no cover in sight. Fighting still raged in the valley around Collingwood’s manor, and the orchard swarmed with reivers. All around the outlaws was bare hillside. Their horses were gone, bolted or stolen.

  “Eslington lies a couple of miles to the north,” said Ruth. “We should make for the town.

  Richie gulped in some breaths and tried to compose himself. He was the leader, and couldn’t allow another, even his mate, to take charge.

  “Yes,” he said, fighting to keep the choke out of his voice, “to Eslington.”

  They followed the track north as fast as they could, Adam hobbling on one foot. Cleave-Crown’s death kept replaying in Richie’s mind. The broadsword plunged again and again into his cousin’s chest. His bright blood splattered the floor. Once again the Armstrongs had slain a Reade, and Richie could do nothing except run away.

  The outlaws stumbled on, leaving the sound of battle behind. There was no pursuit, for which Richie gave silent thanks. On foot, with Adam barely able to stand unaided, they would be easy prey.

  After a time they heard the thump of hoof-beats, somewhere on the road ahead. “Down,” hissed Richie, “pray they pass us by.”

  The outlaws scrambled into the verge and laid flat on their bellies among the heather and tufts of grass. Richie's heart thumped against the turf. Their cover was pathetic. Any keen-eyed horseman would easily spot them.

  The hooves grew ever louder. Richie braced himself. He exchanged glances with Davy. His cousin's face was spotted with wet blood. Eyes wild with terror and barely restrained fury.

  A troop of horsemen thundered past at the gallop. They paid no mind to the handful of outlaws cowering in the long grass, but hurtled on towards Collingwood's manor.

  Richie rose onto his haunches and watched them go. “What fools we are,” he spat, ramming his sword back into its sheath. “The country is roused. Those were Englishmen, off to rescue Collingwood.”

  His followers slowly got to their feet. Adam, still gasping at the pain in his ankle, had to be helped. They all looked sheepish. Everyone knew the custom of the March. Whenever a raid was in progress, the countryside was roused to drive out the invaders. By law, any freeman capable of bearing arms, whatever his station in life, had to drop what he was doing, snatch up his weapons and hurry to the scene.

  More riders soon appeared. Bands of mounted militia or farmers, racing along on their shaggy hobblers. Behind them came companies of militia on foot. Most were townsmen from Eslington armed with pikes and muskets and longbows. There were a few women among them brawny housewives who refused to stay at home when danger threatened.

  In their hurry, few spared the
outlaws a glance. “They probably think we're beggars,” remarked Davy.

  He plucked at the filthy collar of his jack. “Small blame to them. I have looked better.”

  “Come,” said Richie after a brief, embarrassed silence. “Our kinsman lies alone in his blood.”

  They turned and wearily trudged back to the scene of battle.

  11.

  Hours later, the outlaws stood on the crest of the hill overlooking Eslington manor. A cold November wind whipped across the tops and knifed through their clothes.

  Richie barely noticed the chill. At his feet lay the body of John Reade, known in life to friend and enemy alike as Cleave-Crown. They had retrieved it from the house, where he lay surrounded by dead Armstrongs.

  The blade of the broadsword that killed him had snapped off in his chest. It was the Devil's own job for Richie and Davy to prise it out. At last the gruesome task was done, and the broken end of the blade placed on the grass beside the corpse.

  The little gang stood in quiet vigil over their kinsman. They had borne him some distance from the house, far enough to escape the reek of slaughter. While they grieved, others were at work carrying out the rest of the dead. The bodies were laid out in two separate rows. One for Englishmen, one for reivers. All of Captain Jonas' men were killed in the final onslaught, though Jonas himself was missing. He had doubtless been carried off prisoner to Liddesdale, from where the Warden of the East March would soon be receiving a hefty ransom demand.

  Richie knew the fate of the dead reivers. As outlaws, beyond the law and protection of God, their bodies would be burnt or dumped into a pit. Their souls were condemned to Hellfire. Not that the thieves of Liddesdale cared a straw for eternal damnation: “No Christians here, but Armstrongs and Nixons”, was one of their proudest boasts.

  “He will be decently buried,” said Richie, “as a Christian. I'll not see him consigned to the fire.”

  The others murmured agreement. They were also beyond God's law, and stood in peril of their souls. To avoid damnation Cleave-Crown had to be buried in consecrated ground.

  Below them the valley was peaceful. The reivers were gone, driven away, taking several hundred head of kyne with them. Collingwood was also gone. The old knight was nothing if not game, and had set off in hot pursuit after the robbers who lifted his beasts. More dead men lay strewn about his house, in the courtyard or near the orchard. His servants were busily stripping the bodies or chasing after riderless horses.

  One of the servants, an elderly man who walked with the help of a stick, came limping up the hillside. He touched the brim of his tattered bonnet in salute to the outlaws.

  “Master said you could take some food and drink,” he said. “Clothes and horses too, if you want them. As thanks for your help.”

  The old man sniffed, and rubbed the side of his nose. “You're Richie O'the Bow,” he grunted, nodding at Richie.

  “Aye,” Richie answered curtly.

  “Thought so. Heard songs about you. There'll be a few more after this day's work. This the one they called Cleave-Crown?”

  He bent over the corpse, tutting at the livid gash in the dead man’s breast. “I knew him too. A devil among the whores at market, he was. A bloody man with much blood on his hands. Just more food for crows.”

  “Thank you,” Richie said coldly, “and thanks to your master for his hospitality.”

  The old man shrugged his bony shoulders. “Thank him yourself, when he gets back.”

  After some hesitation, Richie led the outlaws down to the manor house. There, in the cobbled cart yard, they were served food from the kitchen. Bread and beef, cheese and apples and tankards of the dark, powerful ale commonly brewed on the Border.

  Most of the stray horses had been caught and fetched into the yard. “Take your pick of them,” said the old servant. “Not the grey, though. She belongs to Sir Cuthbert.”

  Richie nodded his thanks and strolled over with Davy to inspect the beasts. Still numbed with grief, they went through the motions of checking weight, sleekness of coat, general alertness, teeth and nostrils and ears. The sturdy little horses were already bitted and saddled, and carried other pieces of useful gear on their backs: plates, spoons, sewing kits, flint and steel, water bottles, blankets, spare clothes, coils of rope, even a greasy pack of playing cards. Everything a reiver might need in the field.

  “Good stock,” remarked Davy. “The Armstrongs keep their hobblers in decent fettle.”

  “Aye,” Richie said distractedly. He was sorry to lose Jack, the animal he had raised from a foal. They had forged a bond over the years. Jack knew his moods, had responded to his slightest touch. Now the poor beast would have to bear the weight of some hellspawn Armstrong.

  Something else Liddesdale has taken from me.

  Eventually he picked out a creamy white stallion: a little high-spirited, but strong and only two or three winters old. He was walking his new Jack around the courtyard, watched by a couple of grooms, when Collingwood returned.

  The old knight clattered into the yard, steam rising from his hobbler’s flanks, his lean face flushed with exertion. Behind him rode a troop of lancers, forty or fifty strong, all bloodied and blown from the chase.

  A groom rushed over to take his master’s reins and help him down from the saddle. Collingwood impatiently waved him away.

  “Master Reade,” the knight cried, “I’m glad to see you safe. You did a great service, coming here to warn us of the reivers.”

  This was a marked change from his previous tone. Richie, who had a natural distrust of gentlemen and their whims, stroked his hobbler’s neck and said nothing.

  Collingwood stiffly climbed down from the saddle. He handed his bloody sword to a servant to wash and approached Richie with a warm smile on his raddled features.

  “We retrieved the kyne,” he said merrily, peeling off his padded gauntlets. “The reivers on horseback got away, but we caught up with those on foot, driving my beasts through the waste. A hundred and fifty prisoners taken. I’ll refer the thieves to my lord Hunsdon, who will doubtless hang the lot.”

  He clapped Richie on the shoulder. “A few less cut-throats to trouble this Border, eh? Come, I wish to speak with you in private.”

  Richie looked to Davy, who shrugged. They were surrounded by Collingwood’s servants, as well as a horde of armed men. It might not be wise to refuse.

  He reluctantly followed Collingwood’s spare figure into the house. Inside was a short, stone-flagged passage leading to the buttery next to the kitchen. Casks of ale, salted fish and meat were stored here, as well as candles and wheels of cheese. The room was cold, with whitewashed walls and no windows. Dead pheasants and joints of smoked ham hung from hooks on the ceiling.

  Collingwood picked up a couple of pewter tankards and stooped to pour ale into each from a cask. When they were brimful, he handed Richie one and raised his in a toast.

  “Good health,” said the knight, tipping back his head and taking a long swallow.

  Richie cautiously sipped at his. Ale, he noticed. No wine for the broken man. It was good ale though, strong and freshly brewed.

  Collingwood belched and wiped his moustaches. “That’s better,” he sighed. “Nothing like a drop of decent beer after the hunt, eh?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” Richie answered. “There is no beer in the wild, and I am usually the one being hunted.”

  Collingwood laughed, an empty nasal bray without a speck of genuine mirth in it. He was a poor actor, Richie thought. His contempt and disdain for the outlaw standing before him was almost palpable.

  “I’ve known plenty of robbers in my time,” said the knight. “Outlaws, reivers, broken men… call them what you will. They’re all the same at heart, and all end the same way. Dead in a ditch, or swinging from the end of a rope.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re different from the usual species of gallows-bait. Not many reivers would have risked their skin to help another. To help me. Not unless there was something in it for
them.”

  He paused to allow a response. Richie said nothing. His feud with the Armstrongs was none of Collingwood’s affair.

  The old knight drank down some more ale. “You’re a close one, Reade,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Small blame to you. Every man has his secrets. I don’t mean to ferret about in yours. And yet.”

  Richie braced himself. Now for it.

  “You’re a Redesdale man,” Collingwood went on. “In the past weeks Redesdale has emptied of fighting men. All gone off to join the rebel earls. But not you. Why?”

  “Outlaws have no time for politics,” Richie replied blandly, taking another swig of ale. He wasn’t used to the stuff, and it made his head swim.

  Collingwood snorted. “The riding families of Redesdale are up to their necks in every type of villainy. Yet they can afford to dabble in politics. Never mind that. This raid on my estate is a nuisance. I had intended to join the earls myself. Now I am obliged to stay here for a short time, in case the reivers come back.

  “A short time,” he repeated with emphasis. “Before Christmas I fully intend to ride south with a band of picked men. Newcastle and York should have fallen to the earls by then. The final battle shall be at hand. With God’s help, and the blessing of the Virgin, the New Year shall see Mary Stewart placed on her rightful throne in London.”

  His bony forefinger prodded Richie in the chest. “Come with us. Join my standard and ride with me. I have need of all the good men I can find. You must be of the old faith, like all the folk of Redesdale. Help us destroy the Protestant whore Elizabeth. Think of the rewards! Your outlawry revoked, a fine house and lands and servants to call your own. Queen Mary will be generous to those who win her throne. God will be generous.”

  Richie needed little time to consider this offer. The rebel earls, in his view, stood rather less chance of conquering England than he did. From what he knew of Northumberland, his nickname of Simple Tom was thoroughly deserved. Nor had he heard much good of Westmoreland. As for their rumoured ally, Crookback Leonard Dacre, his eyes were said to be fixed on the Dacre inheritance. He would happily place a sack of dung on the throne, so long as he got his baronetcy.