Westmoreland cocked an eyebrow. His long, sallow, coffin-shaped face was a picture of aristocratic disdain.
“Have you, indeed?” he replied impatiently. “Then you had best be quick about it, fellow, before the whole valley is roused.”
Richie signalled at Davy to follow him inside the house. The earl stepped aside to let them through. Indoors was a single chamber with a dirt floor and low ceiling, iron pot full of pottage gently bubbling beside the hearth. There was a single narrow bed, covered in a woollen plaid and a bearskin, and a cloak spread out on the floor.
Also spread out was the burly figure of Nebless Will Armstrong. He lay on his face next to the hearth, his long grey hair dabbled with blood from a cut on his scalp. The stool Westmoreland had used to knock him out lay on its side nearby.
Richie was distracted from his fallen enemy by the Countess. She was backed into a far corner of the house, a naked dagger in her hand.
“Leave, whoever you are,” she hissed. “I’ll drive this knife into my heart if you come a step nearer!”
Richie’s breath caught in his throat. Never, save in dreams, had he ever beheld such a beautiful woman. She wore a plain brown kirtle of homespun wool, her black hair hung loose about her shoulders, and her jewellery was all gone: Richie noted the red marks on her fingers where the reivers had torn off her rings.
The Countess was a natural beauty, and needed no paints or powders to buff the silken quality of her white skin or the bloom on her cheeks. Her face was heart-shaped, with delicate red lips and lustrous black eyes. Richie looked into those eyes and reckoned he could happily drown in them.
Currently they blazed with anger and fear. “Away, I said,” she shouted, jabbing her knife at him. “I have nothing for you!”
“Madam,” said Richie with an awkward bow, “be assured we have not come to rob you. The Kerrs of Cessford sent us to pluck you from this kennel. Please, tuck away that knife and go with my men.”
Some of the fire in her eyes died a little. “On your word of honour?” she demanded hoarsely.
Richie could tell the Countess had not been long on the Border, to ask such a question. He placed his hand on his breast and bowed again.
“On my word,” he said.
She pursed her mouth and walked slowly towards the door. He was amused to note she kept the knife drawn. Two of his men respectfully touched their brows and escorted her out of the house.
Richie turned to Davy and Adam. “Fetch that thing,” he snapped, pointing at Nebless Will, “gag him, bind his wrists and ankles and sling him over a horse.”
He left them to it and ducked under the doorway. Outside the earl was already aboard a spare hobbler while the Countess gracefully mounted another. Ruth held the reins of her horse. Richie recognised the naked lust in the eyes of his followers. Like him, they had doubtless rarely seen such a lovely woman in the whole of their brutish lives.
Richie knew he had to get the men moving before their restraint snapped. “Away,” he said, climbing into the saddle, “let’s get out of this nest before the wasps are roused.”
They galloped back the way they had come, caution thrown to the wind, sacrificed for speed. Westmoreland and the Countess proved superb riders and kept pace with Richie at the front. Nebless Will, trussed up like a Christmas goose and thrown over a spare saddle, was dragged along in the rear. His shouts for help, if he made any, were stifled by the gag Davy had stuffed in his mouth.
There was no pursuit. The Kerrs had chosen a good night for the raid, with many of the denizens of Liddesdale absent on forays. Every so often Richie heard a shout as his men thundered past some cottage or farmstead. Dogs barked at their passing. Once a musket banged, but did no harm.
It was pitch black now. The broken men relied on starlight and the honed instincts of their guides. Soon they once again skirted the ominous silhouette of Hermitage, lit up by the blaze of watch fires on the roof. Either Richie’s men were unnoticed by the sentries, or the captain of the garrison preferred a quiet life. At any rate, the riders passed safely by.
The sky was beginning to lighten when they reached the pass of the Redeswire. Here a strong band of horsemen waited for them beside a ford. Willie Kerr and a score of his kin, with twice as many lancers and servants besides.
Richie signalled for his followers to halt. He folded his hands over the horn of his saddle as Willie Kerr came forward and trotted down to the edge of the ford.
“Richie Reade,” Kerr called up, smiling, “I see you’ve done your work. I salute you, as do my kin.”
“We were supposed to bring the captives to Cessford,” Richie answered with deliberate calm, “yet you ride out in force to meet us halfway. Why?”
He sensed his followers slowly moving into position. Broken men could smell an ambush better than most. At a word or sign from him, all hell would break loose.
The odds were not difficult to weigh. Three against one. Richie’s Bairns would be slaughtered. A massacre by starlight. The story would make a fitting end to his legend, but Richie intended to live a while yet.
Willie grinned. “You must forgive our eagerness. We feared the raid had gone awry, and so came to help. Now I ask you to hand over the captives.”
Before Richie could answer Westmoreland spurred forward. “Enough of this talk of captives,” the earl snapped, “I am not a parcel to be handed back and forth. Nor is Lady Percy.”
Willie swept off his bonnet and bowed his head. “My lord,” he said humbly, “it is good to see you safe. My lady, you also.”
Westmoreland trotted down to the ford. He didn’t spare Richie a glance, much less offer thanks for the rescue.
The Countess followed. Richie ached at the sight of her, and couldn’t resist a parting word. “God speed your ladyship,” he said.
She halted and turned to look at him. Her pale face might have been set in stone, red lips pursed into a frown, black eyes drilling into his.
Richie wilted under the coolness of that stare. It made him feel like an animal. A clever dog, perhaps, one that had learned a trick or two. Yet still a dog.
Even dogs deserved a pat. “Thank you,” she said with a bright smile. “I never asked your name.”
“Richie Reade of Crowhame,” he answered. His pride had reasserted itself, and he refused to grovel a moment longer.
She offered her hand. Richie brushed his lips against the ivory flesh. Her fingers were cold to the touch, quickly withdrawn.
“Richie Reade of Crowhame,” she said, “my champion. When I raise a new army in France, I pray every man shall be your equal in courage and daring.”
Speechless, Richie could only touch his bonnet as she rode down to join the Kerrs. By now Westmoreland had crossed the ford, and was deep in conversation with Willie.
Ruth trotted up. “I hope you enjoyed the taste of Lady Percy’s hand,” she said in a friendly tone. "Treasure the memory, my lad. That’s the closest you’ll ever get to bedding a countess.”
He smiled weakly. Next to Percy’s wife, Ruth was a bony and unappetising creature. For the first time Richie noticed her greasy hair, mismatched teeth, plain freckled features. Her hands, already roughened after years of menial work. In a few years she would look tired and worn, like so many Border wives. In his mind the Countess would ever remain fresh and impossibly beautiful. A dream of perfection.
Richie sighed. This was not the time for such trivialities. “Willie Kerr,” he cried, “we were promised a good bounty for this night’s work. Have you brought the payment?”
Willie broke off his talk with the earl. “Of course,” he called back. “We keep our bargains, my friend.”
He signalled to his servants, who came forward with packhorses. The beasts were loaded down with gear. Food wrapped in linen parcels, bottles of ale, clothes, blankets, swords and daggers and pistols, longbows and sheaves of arrows, bags of shot. Everything a band of reivers might need, save hard cash: the Kerrs had been very clear on that score. The raid would be paid for in kind,
not money.
The servants unloaded all this gear and dumped it unceremoniously on the grass. With a parting wave, Willie led his riders away at the gallop. Westmoreland and the Countess rode at their head. Richie caught a last glimpse of her black hair, streaming in the wind, and then she was gone.
He turned to claim his real prize. Davy had guessed his intentions. Nebless Will had been heaved off his horse and made to kneel in the turf. The bonds on his ankles were cut, but his wrists were still tied behind him.
Davy and Adam stood either side of the Armstrong. Richie drew his dag from the holster and slowly dismounted. He took his time loading the gun, studying his enemy by the pale light of dawn.
He hadn’t laid eyes on Nebless Will for years. The man had aged badly. His grey hair hung in lank curls and framed raddled, square-cut features. An ugly man, inside and out. The livid pink scar where his nose used to be made him uglier still. He gazed back at Richie without an ounce of fear.
“Fuck you, Richie Crow-Bait,” he snarled in a guttural voice. “Kill me and have done, just as I did to your folk. Aye. I stuck my dirk in your uncle’s belly and watched him die. Man, it was a grand thing, to listen to him squeal! Me and a few of the lads pissed on him, then cut off his head and sent it to old Forster as a present. Maybe it hangs on his wall.”
Richie’s dag was now primed and loaded. He took three steps towards Will, pressed the muzzle between the old reiver’s eyes. Squeezed the trigger.
The upper part of Will’s head exploded. Wet brain matter and shattered bits of skull spattered the grass. His body swayed, went limp and folded over.
A long silence followed. Richie looked down at the body, his mind empty, face unreadable. Davy and Adam backed away. Some of the gore had hit them, and Davy swore as he brushed one of Will’s splintered teeth from his sleeve.
Richie blinked. “Right,” he said, to himself as much as anyone, “it’s done.”
He walked away, his heart suddenly lightened. Crowhame was paid for.
16.
James Hamilton climbed the stair on the balls of his feet. He wore soft leather shoes and moved with exaggerated care, pausing at every step to listen for any sounds of life in the house.
There were none. His uncle, the Archbishop of St Andrews, had promised the building would be empty. James trusted his uncle, but even so he took no chances. There was always the possibility of betrayal. Someone in the archbishop’s household might have got wind of the plot.
In his arms James cradled a carbine, his most treasured possession. The gun was of superb workmanship, made to precise specifications by an Italian gunsmith. It was three feet and five inches long with a hexagonal bore barrel of two feet and five inches, rifled for extra accuracy. The stock was engraved with a deer cropping grass, while the butt held a container for bullets.
Hamilton had ordered the carbine made for just one purpose. Today, after months of planning, that purpose would be fulfilled. Or else he would die.
He reached the top of the stair. Here a wooden gallery projected out from the wall, overlooking the street below. A line heavy with damp laundry had been strung out across the face of the gallery, obscuring the view from the windows.
The laundry was meant to provide James with cover. He moved over to the middle window and cautiously peered under a stained pair of drawers.
Below, the street of Linlithgow, the royal burgh of West Lothian, was busy as it got on a cold winter’s day. A group of traders haggled under an awning. Two old housewives gossiped, their grey heads almost touching. James overheard their talk:
“Aye, the doctor said she was not long for the world…innards all rotten, and a dreadful stench…she must be in awful pain…”
The other woman shook her head. “Terrible. Poor Agnes. And she used to be such a fine, strong woman…”
Other people strolled about on their business, greeted each other, wandered in and out of the alehouses. A pig eagerly rootled about in one of the steaming middens, its muzzle buried in muck.
James withdrew. He sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes for a few seconds. Willed his heart to stop racing, his hands to stop trembling. When he was calm, or something like it, he methodically set about loading the gun.
It was a wheellock, lighter and easier to load and fire than the old matchlocks. James had spent every day for the past three months practising with it. Already a good shot, he was now deadly. The effective range of his carbine was four hundred yards. The street outside was barely thirty yards across. He would not miss.
“I won’t miss,” he whispered to himself, over and over. He carefully laid the gun, now primed and ready, against the wall of the gallery. Then he knelt and fell to silent prayer.
James was a Catholic, and a fervent supporter of Mary Stewart. Like so many Catholics in Scotland, he wanted to see the deposed Queen restored to power. This seemed an impossible dream. Mary was still a prisoner in England, her supporters defeated and scattered.
He had lost plenty of blood in her cause. Two years ago, on a fine May day, the armies of Queen Mary and the Regent Moray, her own half-brother, met in battle at Langside, south of Glasgow. While Mary watched from a mound at the rear, her pikemen formed into a wedge and attempted to force their way through the village. Moray’s troops opposed them, and soon both forces engaged in the murderous shoving match known as push of pike.
James had served among the Marian cavalry. As he prayed, he vividly recalled the interlocked hedges of long spears. Thousands of men bunched together. He had seen men in the rear ranks fire their pistols and then hurl the useless weapons at the enemy. Many landed on the tightly enmeshed pikes and settled on them like a carpet instead of dropping to the ground.
Tears sprang to his eyes as he replayed the battle’s final stages. Moray’s hackbutters worked their way around the flank of the Marian army and fired lethal volleys at close range into her pikemen. Dozens fell, others were hurled back onto their comrades. The wedge of pikes fell into hopeless confusion. Sensing victory, Moray threw all his reinforcements at the crumbling Marian right wing.
Within forty-five minutes, all was over. Mary’s army fell to pieces, and a final desperate cavalry charge did nothing to restore the situation. James had ridden in that charge. The long white scar under his ribs, inflicted by a lance, was his proudest boast. He had barely got out alive bent over his saddle, fist stuffed into the wound to staunch the bleeding.
The distant blast of a trumpet jerked him out of these bitter memories. He got up and looked eagerly over the sill, towards the northern end of the street.
His target approached. The Earl of Moray, Regent of Scotland, half-brother to the exiled Queen Mary. He was already visible, mounted on a fine grey gelding, exchanging offhand salutes with the citizens. The Regent was all in black and gold, his trim figure dressed in a slashed doublet and short cloak, black hose, knee-high riding boots of soft brown leather, a feathered bonnet and small white ruff. He was popular in Linlithgow, and swapped offhand salutes and coarse jests with the citizens.
James moistened his dry lips. This was the man he hated above all others. The man he had plotted to kill for so long. For personal reasons as much as politics. After Langside, Moray’s soldiers had burned James’ house at Bothwellhaugh. It now lay in ashes. His family were forced to rely on the charity of friends to keep a roof over their heads.
He carefully studied the procession heading his way. Moray wore no armour, and carried only a sword. His retinue was small: just six mounted troopers and eight servants. The regent obviously felt secure in Linlithgow, where he had come from Stirling to visit the Provost, Charles Drummond.
Lord Jesus, drive him closer to me…closer…
James slowly reached for his gun. His prayers had calmed him, and he moved with the slow, deliberate assurance of a man utterly convinced he was doing God’s work.
His fingers closed around the stock. Still with the same exaggerated care, he lifted the arquebus and rested the end of the barrel on the sill. He knel
t, eyes fixed on his quarry.
Moray trotted blithely to his doom. Now James could make out the Regent’s face. Unlike his beautiful sister Mary, Moray was a plain-featured man with a prominent nose, pointed chin and ruddy complexion. His thin mouth was framed by a fussily trimmed beard. James longed to squeeze the trigger and blow that loathsome face to pieces.
No. He controlled himself and slid the barrel a few inches over the sill. The muzzle now touched the underside of the stained drawers hanging from the line. The assassin waited, perfectly still, finger poised on the trigger. His heartbeat slowed. The world also seemed to slow around him.
Moray halted, almost directly below, to exchange a quip with the gossiping housewives. They laughed and blushed at his attentions, squawked with delight when he dug out coin from his purse and tossed it to them.
James squeezed the trigger.
He had adjusted his aim, so the bullet hit Moray in the lower abdomen. James wanted his target to suffer. To linger for days in unspeakable agony with the bullet twisting in his gut.
Moray doubled over, as though punched in the belly by an invisible fist. The women screamed as he toppled from the saddle. His bonnet fell off and he landed heavily in the dirt, blood spewing from his mouth.
James didn’t stay to watch the aftermath. He ran from the gallery, clattered down the stair, jumped the last three steps and hurried down to the courtyard at the rear of the house. All the entrances of the house, save one, had been barricaded with timber or packed with spiny gorse to delay his inevitable pursuers.
The exception was a ground-floor door opening onto the yard. James ran outside, where a saddled horse waited for him. She was a swift courser, the best his uncle’s money could buy. He stuffed the carbine into its holster, slashed the horse’s tether with his knife and led her by the reins through the gate.
Behind the yard was a narrow winding lane, leading down to the river. James swung himself aboard the courser and urged her into a canter. There were no cobbles here, just bare earth. Small risk of her slipping. His heart pounded at the din in the streets behind him: outraged voices, screams, even the crack of a pistol. By now Moray’s guards would be hammering at the barricades of the house. With luck this would keep them occupied until James had made good his escape.
Reiver Page 14