Reiver

by David Pilling

  Richie stood up. Apart from the dirk, he only had his sword, resting in its sheath against the wall. Adam and Ruth were within earshot inside the bastle. Davy was out hunting. He let his hands dangle loosely by his sides and tried to appear relaxed.

  “A fine day, indeed,” he said lightly, “though we shall have rain again soon, I fancy. Who are you, and why do you look for my master?”

  The Scotsman gave a crooked smile. It lent his sharp good looks a wolfish aspect. This one was a killer, Richie thought, despite his youth. A Liddesdale man, perhaps. Had the Armstrongs sought him out at last? He tightened his grip on the dirk.

  “That’s for him to know,” the youth said insolently. “I’ll talk to the shepherd, if you please, not one of his pet lambs.”

  Richie let the insult pass. The hard experiences of recent months had taught him to keep his temper, even in the face of deliberate provocation.

  The reiver was looking at him shrewdly, so Richie decided to drop the pretence. “I am the shepherd,” he said, “and my lambs are within call. Now tell me your name.”

  “Willie Kerr of Cessford,” answered the youth with a grin, sweeping off his bonnet. “I'm honoured to meet you, Richie O'the Bow. Always interesting to meet a legend in the flesh.”

  Richie frowned. “Legend? I am nobody, sir. Just one broken man among many.”

  “Too modest,” said Willie. “Ballads of your deeds are being sung in alehouses up and down the Border. Everyone has heard of Richie's Bairns. How they defied the Armstrongs at Crowhame. Slaughtered the Potts gang at High Shaws. Helped to defend the ruined pele at Eslington. Did I not see you myself, loose an arrow from the window of the pele?”

  He looked Richie up and down with something like admiration in his keen blue eyes. “Aye, it's quite a tale, and grows in the telling. How long have you been an outlaw? Two months? You've certainly been busy.”

  Richie was both embarrassed and gratified. Richie's Bairns. A good name for his gang. He should have thought of it himself.

  By now Adam and Ruth had overheard the conversation. “Say the word,” Ruth's voice sounded from one of the slit windows above, “and I'll put a shaft through this prating Scot's gullet.”

  “Let be,” Richie shouted irritably, while Willie laughed at the threat. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

  “Well,” he added, folding his arms, “let's hear it. What might the Kerrs of Cessford want with me? And how did you find your way through the Black Moss?”

  “As to your second question,” said Willie, “the ballads tell of your hideout in the Moss. Then we heard rumours at Cessford of a band of outlaws living in the old bastle at Hope's End. It didn't require a genius to make the connection.”

  Richie silently cursed the wretched minstrels who composed verses of his so-called deeds. Thanks to them, the location of his hideaway would soon be known to all. Once the Armstrongs learned of it, he was a dead man.

  Willie massaged his throat. “As to the first question, it requires a longer answer. I'm parched after a long ride, and my water bottle is nigh empty. Would you have a drop of ale about the place?”

  “I came alone,” he said in response to Richie's wary look. “None of my kin cared to brave the Moss with me. I swear it.”

  Richie knew the worth of a reiver's oath, but the Kerr intrigued him. “All right,” he said, jerking his head at the ladder, “leave your hobbler in the stable and come upstairs.”

  Shortly afterwards both men were sat in front of the fire, nursing cups of heated ale. Ruth sat in a far corner, darning a stocking and keeping a suspicious eye on their guest. She had her knife and Richie's loaded pistol close to hand. Adam stood by the door, equally watchful, an arrow notched to the string of his longbow.

  Willie raised his cup at Ruth, winked, and downed the contents in one long swallow. “Ah, now,” he said with a hearty belch, wiping his mouth, “that's the stuff for a winter's day.”

  Richie scowled at him. “State your business, man.”

  “You're direct,” replied the other, “I like that. Well, now. You will have heard the rebel earls fled into Liddesdale before Christmas?”

  “Aye,” said Richie.

  “God help men who seek yon evil valley for a refuge,” his guest continued, “but there was no other choice open to them, save exile. With just a few score loyal servants for an escort, the runaways went to Liddesdale and were received by two lairds. Black Ormiston and Jock Armstrong, better known as Jock O'the Side. You know them?”

  Richie nodded curtly to indicate he might have. In truth Black Ormiston and Jock O'the Side were well known to him. A couple of murderous brigands, feared on both sides of the Border, with reputations as black as their names suggested. He almost pitied the hapless earls, forced to place their lives in the grubby hands of such men.

  “Would you believe, Northumberland's wife is with them?” said Willie. “The Countess refused to desert her fallen husband. She must be a brave lass, as well as beautiful. God knows what will become of her in Liddesdale. It doesnae bear thinking on. She and her servants have already been robbed, they say. Black Ormiston gave them his house to lodge in. A stinking kennel with dirt on the floor. And she a fine lady, used to rich living and every kind of comfort!”

  Richie shifted impatiently. “Anyway,” the reiver went on, “on Christmas Day the Earl of Northumberland was out wandering the hills, like a common beggar. He was picked up by Hector Armstrong and carried off to Hector's house at Harlaw. Hector has since sold him to the regent Moray.”

  “For a fair price, no doubt,” Richie grunted, “well, good riddance. The man was a fool and deserted his soldiers to face the Queen's vengeance. The sooner Moray hands him over to Elizabeth, and she chops off his head, the better.”

  He was intrigued by the flash of anger in Willie's eyes. It was quickly smothered, but gave an insight into the young reiver's character. He genuinely believed in the rebel cause.

  “Westmoreland and the Countess are still in Liddesdale,” he said. “We Kerrs of Cessford mean to get them out before the Armstrongs cut their throats or sell them to the Tudor.”

  “My family are of the old faith,” he added proudly in response to Richie's questioning look, “and would see Mary Stewart on the English throne. The Countess and Westmoreland won’t have to suffer the hospitality of Liddesdale for much longer.”

  Richie drained his cup and set it down near the hearth. “Noble sentiments,” he replied, spreading his hands, “what has any of this to do with me?”

  Willie leaned forward eagerly. “We cannot afford to start a feud with the Armstrongs and their ilk. The cost in blood would be too high and distract us from the main purpose. Therefore we look to others to rescue their captives. All the world knows of your feud with Nebless Will. How you will do anything to strike at the Armstrongs. Pay them back for the destruction of your home and kin.”

  None of this double-dealing on the part of the Kerrs surprised Richie. They had only recently been in alliance with the Armstrongs, as he knew only too well. It might well have been a Kerr who put his broadsword through Cleave-Crown’s chest. Now they looked to betray their supposed friends.

  This was the way of the Border. Men who did their best to cut each other’s throats one day might be found the next sharing a jug of ale in Carlisle alehouse: possibly conspiring against their neighbours. There was very little trust to be found along the Marches, only naked profit, hard blows and deadly feud.

  “You want me,” Richie said, slowly and deliberately, “to go into Liddesdale and pluck the Earl of Westmoreland and Countess Percy from under the noses of the Armstrongs?”

  “Aye,” Willie grinned, “that's it. I knew you were a man of quick understanding. You would be paid well for your trouble, have nae doubt of that. Cash, horses, gear, anything we can provide.”

  “Such as four neat graves,” said Ruth, her voice full of scorn. “We have no army, Willie Kerr, to invade Liddesdale and slaughter the Armstrongs. How could the four of us hope to ach
ieve this thing?”

  The young man waved away her objections. “No army is needed, madam. We have our spies in the valley. Westmoreland and the Countess are held in the same house, and guarded night and day by six Armstrongs. Twenty riders, well-mounted and armed, should be enough. In and out, on swift horses, before the guards have time to blink. The rest of your party will be made up of other broken men.”

  Lordless men, thought Richie, with no blood connection to the Kerrs. Clever.

  “Why should we do this?” demanded Richie. “Risk our necks on your behalf? To hell with your rewards. Piss in the wind. Give us a real incentive.”

  Willie grinned again and held up his index finger, as though it was a trump card. “Certainly. The Armstrongs who guard our friends have a captain. A certain noseless villain. I believe you know his name.”

  Richie drew in a deep breath to hide his sudden excitement.

  “That I do,” he hissed. “Nebless Will.”

  15.

  Twenty riders slipped through the dusk, their hooves muffled on the springy turf. Their weapons were muffled also, wrapped up in layers of cloth. Not a clink of arms was heard as they passed silently through the maw of Hell.

  At midday they had ridden south, following the line of the Border from Cessford. In swift silence they passed the Redeswire, near the pass that led into the foothills of the Cheviots. Near Riccarton they waited awhile, taking a quick meal of watered ale and hard biscuit beside a stream, until the shadows started to lengthen. Then, at Richie’s signal, they mounted up and continued south.

  Soon enough the black lump of Hermitage Castle appeared below them. This box-like Scottish fortress was meant to guard Liddesdale and keep the inhabitants in some kind of order. A permanent garrison of fifty troopers was kept there, ready to ride out and deal death at a moment’s notice. The castle squatted in the middle of a vast stretch of open, rolling heath and hillside, immovable and impregnable, brooding over ancient wrongs.

  It was a dry evening, but fearfully cold. As the score of broken men picked their way over some moorland west of Hermitage, they could see the beacon lights glimmering on the roof of the castle. Richie imagined the sentries on the battlements, wrapped up in heavy cloaks and nervously peering at the darkness of Liddesdale.

  Every man will be at his prayers, he thought. Not tonight, O Lord, not tonight! Let there be warning fires from Liddesdale. No hoof beats on the turf. Let every Armstrong, Crosier and Nixon sleep sound in their beds tonight, and keep me from harm.

  The garrison would never suspect – he hoped – that a small party of desperate men would be coming the other way, intent on robbing the robbers. If they did, would the soldiers even attempt to stop them? Richie could only wonder. Anything that kept Liddesdale quiet, even a raid by a mixed band of English and Scottish outlaws, was worth permitting.

  Richie was in charge of the raid, but knew almost nothing about the new men at his back. There was no time, in the brisk meeting at Cessford, to weigh and assess them. Hard men, certainly, used to living rough in the shadow of the gallows. Most were young, he noticed. Like himself, they might be victims of some raid, their homes burned out and families put to the sword. Such men had nowhere else to go except the wild, to live as best they could as thieves and killers. Others may have chosen outlawry. For men raised in the bloody traditions of the Border, preying on one’s fellow man was easier than carving out an honest living.

  The broken men said little when introduced to Richie on the Kerr farm at Cessford. They accepted his leadership without complaint.

  “Here is Richie O’the Bow, lads,” cried Willie Kerr. “You might have heard of him. A slayer of Armstrongs and the finest bowman in the March. You cannot fail under his charge.”

  A few of the scarred youths glanced at Richie with mild interest. They seemed to know his name. One or two looked faintly amused. He was younger than most of the outlaws, and looked it: Ruth often teased him about his boyish features.

  Still, Richie was encouraged by their quiet obedience and efficiency. Every man knew the plan, which was simple enough: ride to Jock O’the Side’s house inside Liddesdale, rescue Westmoreland and Countess Percy and take them to Cessford under cover of darkness. What happened to the fugitive earl and Simple Tom’s wife after that was none of Richie’s concern. Presumably they would be sheltered by Catholic sympathisers on the March, or smuggled to their friends in Scotland. He cared not, so long as he got a crack at Nebless Will.

  Four of Richie’s men acted as guides to Jock’s house. They had ridden with the Armstrongs before going their own way, as broken men will, and knew Liddesdale well.

  They passed by Hermitage, and then down, into the heart of the dark and hellish glen Richie had so often dreamed of. All was quiet. In the distance the lights of cottages could be seen, scattered among the darkness. He silently prayed they encountered no riders coming the other way. At the first hint of danger, he and his followers would turn and flee. This was not the place for heroics.

  The guides took them across a narrow burn and then through some low-lying meadow. It was almost dark, the sky above fading rapidly from deep blue to purple.

  Richie’s heart skipped when he heard noises somewhere ahead. Men talking in loud voices, the clop of hooves. A curse, and a sudden neigh of laughter.

  One of the guides flapped a hand at his comrades. “Light down!” he hissed. Every man slid off his saddle and crouched in the damp grass. Richie clutched his reins in one hand, the other poised on the butt of his pistol.

  The voices slowly drifted away. He breathed a little easier, wiped the cold sweat from his brow. After a pause, he climbed back into the saddle. All the while his hobbler had stood quiet and silent beside him, not twitching a muscle.

  They slowly moved on. Richie’s instincts screamed at him to abandon caution and ride like hell to Jock’s house. Better still, turn about and get out of this accursed valley before it was too late. He fought to stay calm and trust the guides.

  Fires glimmered in the distance. Richie held a swift whispered conversation with his guides.

  “There is Jock’s home,” said one, pointing at the lights. “Yon will be the watch fires.”

  Richie could dimly make out the shape of a house, nestled in the glen below. It seemed a typical rough Border dwelling, not much larger than Richie’s cabin of wattle and turf at Crowhame.

  Six men guarded it. Among them, if the Kerrs could be trusted, was Nebless Will. His heart beat faster at the thought of being so close to his enemy at last.

  “Right,” said Richie, “let’s be about our business.”

  He rode back to his men. “There it is, lads,” he hissed, as loud as he dared, “you know the plan. In and out as fast as we can. Kill the guards if they resist. Snatch the earl and the countess, get them aboard our spare horses. I want Nebless Will taken. Alive. Understand?”

  The outlaws murmured agreement. Richie nodded and turned about. He dug in his heels a little, and Jack obediently shifted into a canter. His followers spurred forward in silence. Blades were drawn, pistols lifted from holsters.

  They surged down towards the watch fires. Richie heard cries of alarm, saw figures running to and fro. Two men knelt and aimed their matchlocks at the riders.

  He bent low in the saddle. Two flashes lit up the night as the muskets fired. The aim of the Armstrongs was hopelessly off, and their bullets flew high over Richie’s head. They turned to run.

  Richie levelled his pistol and fired. His shot went wide, but was soon joined by others, a ripple of gunfire from the men around him. The outlaws unleashed a wild yell. Swords and lance-heads gleamed in the firelight. Within seconds they were among the Armstrongs, slashing at blue bonnets.

  Two of the sentries were swiftly chopped down. Another two stood firm and used their musket butts as weapons. One shrieked and fell, spitted by a lance in his belly. The other clubbed a broken man from the saddle, tried to seize his reins as the riderless hobbler thundered past. An outlaw shot him down from behi
nd. He collapsed, gasping, a pistol ball lodged in his spine.

  Two sentries left. Richie steered Jack towards the nearest, who ran for the safety of the house. The other had already darted inside.

  “Nebless Will Armstrong!” Richie howled. “I have you now!”

  He hacked at the man he chased. His sword carved through the bonnet and hit solid bone. Richie gasped at the jolt of pain in his wrist. The Armstrong flopped to the ground, dead or knocked out cold.

  Richie brought Jack to a standstill, leaped from the saddle and knelt beside the fallen man. He turned him over and cursed at the young face – with nose intact – that stared up at him. Dark blood leaked from the gash Richie’s sword had cleft open in the top of the skull.

  Dead or not, Richie cared not. He rose and turned to the doorway, which was now shut fast.

  Suddenly all was quiet, save for the groans of dying Armstrongs. A few strokes of the dagger, and these too were silenced. The fight had lasted mere seconds.

  Richie cupped his hands around his mouth. “Open the door, Nebless Will,” he shouted, “or we’ll fire the thatch. You will be roasted alive, just as you roasted my kin at Crowhame.”

  Angry voices were raised inside. One Scottish, one English. The high trill of an indignant female voice joined them. A loud thump, and then quiet again.

  The bar was drawn, and the door swung inward. A tall, athletic figure stepped out. His clothes were ragged and beggarly, yet he held himself with arrogant poise, left hand on hip, right hand balanced on the hilt of his rapier.

  He gazed fearlessly at the band of ragged outlaws. “I am Charles Neville,” he announced crisply, with a pronounced aristocratic drawl, “Earl of Westmoreland. If you fellows want Will Armstrong, he is stretched out on the floor inside. He bandied words with me, so I was obliged to hit him with a stool. A most unmannerly ruffian.”

  Richie was taken aback by the earl’s careless insouciance. One or two of the broken men chuckled, and Davy laughed aloud.

  “My lord,” said Richie when he had recovered, “we have come to rescue you and the countess, and escort you both to Cessford.”