So I blessed her, without giving thought thereto, and she gave no sign but still looked on Waitabout. At this I left her, and went out the gate, sorely troubled, and when I looked back she had gone in. I asked Waitabout why he had not spoke to her, and he answered that the bargain being made between them there was no more to say “and we were ower close under the chestayne tree for my liking, father, so I would not stay.”
“That is an ill thought,” says I. “She has given you her word.”
“Aye,” says he, “but a woman’s word is kept after her own fashion, and it may not be yours or mine.”
I had indignation at this poor esteem of her, as it seemed to me, and asked him what manner of woman he thought she was. He was silent a moment, and then said he knew not, yet, but of two things he was sure, “that she will have her way in all things, for one, and for the other, she is a right lewd lady.”
Hearing this, I could not speak at first, and when I could, would have rebuked him for his vileness of thought and word, but he put in his heels and cantered away through the rain, and not a word more would he speak save to Wat, who called to him to mend his pace to that of the ass. Which he did, and a slow faring we made of it through the dank fields all misty, myself in anger to have heard my lady so scandalously spoken of by one that was no better than an outcast thief and blasphemous jester, and with a chill to my marrow that was not only of the cold rain and snell wind.
WE CAME TO TRIERMAIN as the day went down in chilly mist, with such storm of wind and rain that I might have been as dry up to my neck in Caldew flood, and wished myself any otherwhere than here. Waitabout rode ahead to make circuit of the place, spying out, as I supposed, how the Nixons might come. He pricked all about, here and there, marking how the land lay, and then came in with us, cursing at the wet and saying it was no defensible place, but must serve as it would. I asked how did he purpose to front the Nixons, and he said shortly let us see what manner of folk were these Bells, and he would tell me.
Now this Triermain is a poor place enough, lying under a fair wood on a little hill, of a dozen cabins such as the borderers build, but no blockhouses like those of Tynedale or Redesdale, where they build strongly of logs. Here was but wattle and plank and thatch, although there was wood aplenty to build better, but they were a shiftless people, and as for a barnekin wall or means of defence, there was none, they having dwelt secure in my old lord’s day and grown to that sloth that safety and good lordship ever breed in such folk. They numbered not above two score, a dozen being men grown, and the rest women and old folk and a great swarm of bairns that played in the mire about the cabins and in the poor plots, chasing the hens and clarting themselves, nor minded the rain.
They came out in a tribe to gape at us, and a sorry pack they were, the menfolk stout enough but dirty and ill-clad, and the women as slatternly as ever I saw, and if there were three pairs of shoon among them it was enough, and not a bonnet save that on the head of George Bell that was their chief, and it was but a piece of felt with a string under his chin. The fellows gave way to let him through, they standing sullen, but the women made a great cackle, snatching up their snottery halflings and shrinking back among the cabins to see Waitabout in his gear with lance and steel cap, as though he were a Nixon come to spoil them. He for his part held back nor spoke, looking to me to lay it open to the people.
This I did, on Bell asking me with respect what I did there, for I had not been to Triermain above twice in seventeen year, the folk being of the new faith (so far as they had any) and I under injunction of my old lord not to meddle with them; so they looked on me askance until I told them that I came to lay my lady’s commands upon them, when George Bell gave a great crow and cried to them:
“Said I not so? She has a care of us, aye, aye, a good lady, a sweet lady lord! Did I not tell you she promised our security against all thieves? Oh, a sweet lady!” And asked me when the men would come.
“What men, fellow?” I asked him.
“Why, the lusty troopers,” says he grinning. “To fight the Scotch knaves, hey-hey! Is’t the Bewcastle watch, or Warden riders frae Carel? Aye, said I not so, they will be here anon! Secure, says she, and good guard for us and our gear! Oh, a kind lady!”
I saw that he had translated my lady’s promise into troops of horse in the telling to his people, no doubt to puff himself in their eyes as one who had prevailed with her, for he was a windy reed, this Bell, and no cripple of his tongue, which I doubt not was how he had become superior among these clowns, as babblers will. I told him straight there were no troopers, but good arms for their defence, and at this his jaw dropped to his belly and he fell to yammering and bleating that my lady had promised such and such (as I think he had told his folk), and now they were left defenceless against the wolves, and no help, but all betrayed, and no fault of his, with much striking of his breast and caterwauling and excusing of himself, which the folk minded not but still looked to me.
I bade him hold his peace and harken, “for my lady has sent you a stout captain, Master Noble here, to direct you how to set your place in defence, and arm yourselves in such wise for a show that the Nixons will let you alone. For seeing you bold, and ready to resist, they will give back.”
“Give back?” cries Bell, weeping. “Nay, they will take and burn all! They’ll have us, harrow and alas, we are lost souls! What says my lady? She promised, she made oath, oh, Father Lewis, we are undone, all together, our wives and bairns and all!”
He ran among them bleating and crying, and some women there were took up his lament, but for the men they marked him not, having doubtless heard him before, but still stood sullen looking on us. Waitabout said naught, but leaned upon his crupper. I bade him speak to them, but still said no word, and George Bell changed his tune to cry who was this reiverly fellow, that they should heed him. Still Waitabout was silent, but presently drew his poniard, and fell to playing with it, tossing it up most dexterous, and ever higher, and span it so that it lighted hilt first on his palm and stood up and balanced there, which was wonderful to see. The men laughed, and one fellow said he knew the trick of that.
“Let me see,” quo’ Waitabout, and cast the poniard to him, who caught it and essayed the same trick well enough, though not so featly as Waitabout.
“Where learned ye that?” says Waitabout, and the fellow grinned askance at his billies, and said thereabouts or other. Waitabout asked his name, and the fellow said he was Janet’s Richie’s Adam.
“And a Bell?” says Waitabout. “So art Adam Bell, as in the old story, who was a stout man. Keep the poniard, Adam, for thou’rt my privado5 henceforth. Now, had we but a William Cloudsley to bend a bow for us, we were three good men.”
At this another said that he could bend a bow, and Waitabout bade him take one from the ass’s back, for it was his own. “My lady wills that every man should arm himself, and keep the arms he takes, as a gift from her, to show her love for her people. Good gear, lads, and plenty on’t, of lances and swords and caps – no small gifts, sista, blades of twenty shillings and more. Go on, man, find a cap to fit thee, ’tis her ladyship’s bounty.”
This was cunning, for the gear was such as would have cost them six months rent, and even George Bell came forward, leavening his plaints with a cry that he must have back and breast, being chief among them. He would have had a caliver, but Waitabout whispered to him that a bow befitted him better. “Good shafts, Geordie,” says he, “ash wood every one, and dropped feathers. Fenny goose, Geordie, mark ‘em. Man, ye could hit Carel Cross frae the Castle wi’ shafts like them!” So he wheedled, leaning on his crupper, while the silly folk stripped the ass of its gear, and put on the caps and grinned before the women and bairns, that cried hey to see them, for they strutted back and forth like so many tatty Tamerlains, with the young ones making to touch the blades and drawing back all a-squeal. Thus the crafty knave armed Triermain before they well knew what he was about, eyeing them narrowly to see what of them were used to manage weapons, as Ad
am Bell and the fellow who had called for a bow, whose name was Charlie, and one or two likely others. And when George Bell, having made a great bustle with the women strapping on a cuirass for him, bethought him what this arming must mean, and was like to set up howl and complaint again, Waitabout bade him think what he did, that kept my lady’s chaplain (as he styled me) out in the rain, and no good welcome.
“Do you go in, please you, father, with Master Bell,” says he. “Belike he has confident news which you should hear, also you may make known to him my lady’s pleasure, while I see to things here.” I saw that he wished George Bell away, being one that would make bother of anything and hinder his proceeding, so I suffered myself to be conducted into the best of the cabins, which was a stinking pit, with a fire on the floor, and more bairns about than fleas, crawling in the corner, for they breed like rabbits these folk. Howbeit the women were at pains to do for me, though somewhat in awe, and sat me on a stool close to the fire, which I was glad of for all its foul reek, for I was starving cold.
George Bell, that was full of himself, called for water and a clout to wash me, which I did, and rated the women to give me good cheer of the best they had. And this I will say, that if the Triermains lived like swine in some sort, for a filthier hovel I never was in, yet they fed as well as any of their like in the south country, aye, and better. It was but a bare board and a cracked dish with them, but they had big broth, without barley, but prunes, and salmon potched with greens, and a powdered beef that would have made a lord sing, for I never tasted better, and good bread. With it was strong black ale which they call Cumberland yell, and afterwards cheese and apples. I had a great stomach to it all, and the old grandsire that sat by the wall called in a cracked voice for them to give me hot water6 also, and presently hoists up with many a sigh, and comes to my shoulder leaning on his stick and whispered that I should bless them presently “for though the folk are badly fallen hereabout, yet some of us would say Mass still, did my lady but will, aye, would we.”
Now all would have been pleasant, with a full belly and the fire, but for George Bell that clattered on this and that of my lady, and how she had looked, and spoke with him, and had answered the Land Sergeant, all this being to make himself great among the women that served us, but from their looks it skilled not.
“A good lady, aye, a sweet lady, that used me kindly, and asked how I did,” cries he. “Aye, and called me ‘Master Bell’, did she not, father? And her so gowned wi’ fine stuff, aye, and jewels, and gave me her hand to kiss! D’ye hear, Meg? Eh, what say, Meg, gave me her hand, oh dainty, aye, a white hand. What say, Meg?”
Meg answered that he talked as the geese muck, everywhere, and he fell to cursing her, and begged my pardon for it, but prated on of my lady, standing by the fire in his steel cap and cuirass still, toasting his backside that peeped out of his rent breeches, a very scarecrow in his borrowed gear that wist not how he looked.
Now, whether ’twas the warm or the fare or the hot water, I know not, but the fear I had felt was something diminished, having seen the readiness with which the Triermains had armed themselves, and doubting not that Waitabout would put them in such stance as would fright the Nixons. Presently he came in, and to my questions said it was well enough, for the wind had died and the mist come down, which might hinder the Nixons or cause them wait for another time.
“So should all be well, since my lady may to Carel tomorrow, and if her bright eyes prevail not on my Lord Scroop for a parcel of horse as a plump watch to Triermain hereafter, then I’m out of reckoning,” says he. “Master Carleton may say her nay for his own policy’s sake, but not my keen Lord Scroop, for that is one that fears not Liddesdale, not he; nay, he’ll put himself in the road of any thief, Scotch or English, and take joy in’t. A hard lad, a rough rider, this Scroop.”
This put more heart in me, as promising security for the future, for if the Lord Warden himself gave her assurance for a day or two, she might levy such force of her own as should guard her bounds thereafter.
“Aye,” says Waitabout, “but these fine things are not for tonight, and I would it were mistier towards the Waste, so should Ill Will bide by his ingle. There is a moon in the hind-night; God send it shine not well for Liddesdale.”
I went to the door and looked, and it was deep dark, and misty even among the cabins, which cheered me. I asked Waitabout what order he had taken with the Triermain men, and he said, enough. I asked, if the Nixons came, would he make a bold front to them in the village or in the field beyond where they would come, and he smiled and asked me what care I would have for the souls of the people after this.
“As to that, it is for my lady,” says I. “If she gives me leave I’ll go among them, as I have not done heretofore because of my old lord’s prohibition. Yet I fear she will let me.”
“Even so,” says he. “For the care of their souls, you must wait and see, but one way or t’other, it is your charge. The care of their bodies is mine, and I too must wait and see. Each to his trade, father.”
This putting off pleased me little, but hoping to see what his dispositions were, I went with him as he walked out by, going round the village, but no one about, they being gotten to sleep already, save one fellow that stood by the pen in which they had brought the cattle for safety. It was but a little herd, and poor beasts, thin with winter, that made me wonder that it should be worth the Nixons’ while to raise blackmail of such a place.
“Five pound is five pound,” says Waitabout, “and twenty-five in Scotland, seest thou. Nay, but Ill Will looks further on, to Langholm races, where he may cock his bonnet and say ‘Aye, lads, the Dacre folk pay me black rent. What, the new lady is a wise wench, a canny lass.’ That will be his boast – and if Triermain pays, then it will be Naworth next, and Hethersgill, and Walton, and even down to Brampton. It hangs on this one night, father.” Saying which he smiled, and as we walked I saw him cast his eyes about, as though he looked for that which I could not see. I asked him where the men were, and he said lightly that they would come to his whistle at need.
To the north end, beyond the cabins, two fires burned low on the field edge, and I asked should they not be damped, “for if the Nixons coming in the mist should see them, they will be guided, but if they are out, they may lose their way in the murk.”
“Liddesdales could find their way through the blackest deep of Hell,” says he. “Nay, father, ’tis not fear of straying will keep Ill Will at hame, but if he puts his nose out of his bastel and feels the chill and discomfort. Our best guard this night will be a wanton wench and a quart of French wine in Riccarton, to keep the wolf in’s lair. If it sorts with your priestliness, pray that Ill Will gives himself to fleshly pleasure even now, so are we more like to be spared.”
Now it was so dark and the mist growing thicker that we could not see the wooded hill hard by the village, and for the fields the fog rolled over them like sea waves. Northward all was hid beyond a furlong distant, and all very still, save for the cattle that grunted in their pen. Being clammy and somewhat tired, I said we should be glad of Askerton the morrow, and our own beds, and did he not think that we might come untroubled through the night, “which will be glad news to my lady, if they come not.”
“Aye,” says he. “If they come not.”
On that I left him, for he purposed not sleep, and went myself to lie down in the cabin, which I was loth to do for the vermin there, but my eyes were so heavy I might not wake. All were abed save the grandsire that sat still against the wall and mumbled, for the woman Meg and George Bell lay behind a curtain, and the lesser women and bairns on their straws and the hounds by them. I found a place less filthy, and got me down, but was so sorrily bitten, and Bell snoring like a bullock, and the stink so vile of the little Bells, and the fire reek, that I had but poor repose on the hard ground, and my sciatica no help. The ancient coughed sore and whined to himself on an old ballad (which is their great delight) of a warlock lord that dwelt in Hermitage and so offended his neighbours
that they lapped him in a great sheet of lead and boiled him in a pot.
They cooked him on the Nine Stane Rig
And a grand broth they made on’t,
And had his gear and beasts awa’
His good wife and his daughters twa,
Hey, ’twas salt tae the broth they made on’t.
God save us, these are their lullabies! He was quiet at last, save for the rheum in his lungs that coughed and crackled all night long, and then I slept also, wishing I might dream of Mexico or Africa or anywhere so I was shot of this beastly border. But as our fears will make up our dreams, so I dreamed of Askerton Hall ablaze and cast down, and my lady apart on her palfrey with a hawk on her wrist that was an eagle for size, and when she cast it flew screaming “A red bull!” in human tones and lighted on a great chestayne tree where one hung, but I could not see his face that was hooded. She rode beneath the tree and looked on the hanged man, and again I felt that knowing that was between her and Wait-about, but whether ‘twas he that hung I could not tell. But the hawk cried again, and the words were those that he had sung in the armoury, to wit, that a Dacre never ran away. A fell dream from which I woke slowly in a great sweat, seeing Askerton whole again, and the folk there in good attire, and my lady passing among them all smiles, with a goodly company armed to attend her, and of one side she showed a sweet smile like an angel and t’other that fell cruel smile, but the folk marked neither but pressed about her to bless her name, and so I came full waking in that clammy den, and the loon Wattie by me, urgent to russle me by the arm.
“Up, father! Father Lewis! Come awa’, father, come awa’! Up, man! They’s coming! They’s coming!” And ran out and in again, bidding me haste that was not well awake, and in such confusion that I knew not where I was for a time, or what he meant. I stumbled out, sore lamed with the sciatica from that hard lying, and at the door Adam Bell who closed it as I passed through and set his back against it. He had on jack and steel cap and lance, and bade me on where Waitabout stood armed between the fires at the village end. Wattie bustled me on, in great alarm, although the cabins slept still, and a Triermain man armed at each door as it seemed to guard them. Yet when we were come up to Waitabout, and I all out of breath looked back, the men were gone, save for Adam that followed at pace. All was still though not so dark now in the hind-night, and the mist thinner that hung in wraiths upon the fields.
The Candlemass Road Page 8