I demanded why it had been done so bloodily, without remonstrance or parley or any show of arms to fright the Nixons, but by ambush whereby were four men dead unshriven that might have lived, and the weight of murder on his soul and the Bells. He answered shortly that there was no other way but suddenly, “for ye saw these Nixons, what manner of fit men they were, and mounted, and give them a yard of law or advantage, they would have ridden Triermain through and put the Bells to the sword, aye, had they been fifty to the Nixons five. Wi’ such as Ill Will’s band to parley is to submit or die; ye must strike first and unaware, or ye strike not at all.”
This, he said, had been his purpose from the outset, but had not told me for fear I would have tried to prevent him, “and had the Bells seen us at difference, there had been no doing anything with them, to bring them to fight.”
I said he had deceived me wickedly, but ambush or no, could they not have been taken whole, or with slight hurt, for justice, “but ye slaughtered wantonly, making a carnage that need not!” He answered that the Bells being hot and raging that had suffered at the hands of thieves in days bygone, and in great fear besides, had been past preventing. This I said was a lie, for he being commander might have stayed their hands, and should, “for my lady bade thee protect her folk, not welter her village in blood!”
“And will ye instruct me, father, out of your vasty knowledge of arms, how to do one without the other?” says he. “Nay, forgive me, but I teach not you how to pray! And if I could ha’ taken them gently, and with little scathe, would ye have had them spared to ride on Triermain another day?”
Aye truly, said I, spared for their souls’ sake, and those of the Bells that had butchered them like brute beasts, and for his soul, and mine own that he had made me party to the deed.
“Because ye grappled a Nixon in the fray?” cries he, and laughed. “Is that where the shoe galls? What, man, it was bravely done, and kept the life o’ the loon that sits by you even now! Wouldst have him dead rather? Nay, go to! As for the slain, father, they lie not in your charge, unless ye take on you my sins and the Bells, aye, or the sins of all the world!”
Between grief and pain I cried out did I not bear the sins of every man, did not he, did not we all, and was it not for this Our Lord died?
He said he truly believed Christ died that had no choice, being taken of His foes, nor had died for our sins that had not yet been sinned. “But I see I have angered you, though whether for slaying of the Nixons or for disturbing your spirit, I cannot tell. And if your soul smarts for this night’s work I find it passing strange. Is your mind’s peace of greater account than the lives of the Triermain folk? Are the Nixons to be let live and slaughter and rob for the ease of your soul and mine? Nay, Christ taught not that, surely!”
Seeing him grown hot, I put away mine own anger and besought him as best could in my sorry condition, that knew not what he said, to seek God’s pardon for what was done, to which he answered impatiently that if I meant, to confess, it was a sham, “for what is confession but telling God what He knows already? For is He not everywhere, and if He marks the sparrow’s fall shall He not mark Ill Will that went head first into the dunghill? Let be, father, He knows me and you — aye, and my lady – and all that has passed this night, aye, and were ye by Ill Will’s grave would ye not comfort the widow that it was His will? So fret not for my soul.”
I wept, being sore of my wound and the torment of his wild words, at which he laid a hand gently on me, and begged say no more, and hold my peace before the Bells, “for it would be unseasonable chat in such an hour, when their stomachs are high for their own manhoods and the security of their wives and bairns and gear, and little like to fret of the Nixons their souls. So let be, father, and if you will, turn your plaint against me presently, but let the Bells alone, for your talk will do naught for the keeping of Triermain at present, and that is my charge.”
I gave over, more for my infirmity than his entreaty, and presently was aware of a brown comely girl of the Bells that stood by the door and smiled on Waitabout, who frowned and signed her away yet went presently and spoke with her, and coming again to me bade me rest and Wattie should bide and keep the folk from me, and then went out after her.
Wattie, that had been by all this while, was quiet, but then sighing, asked me timidly was it wrong that he had fought withal, and feared he had hurt one of the Nixons, “for I fetched him a mighty ding that wounded you, and another I thrust at but did him but little harm,” and rambled on of the same, how he had been angered and rejoiced for the Nixons slain, for which he was now sorry, and was it a great sin, surely, and Papist though I was could I but make all straight he would be beholden to me, and what should he do, and what of Hellfire? Babble of this kind which, to my shame, I heeded little, but bade him say his prayers and we should talk at a better time, for I was come to such faintness and distress corporal and spiritual that I could but lie there half-waking in my pain.
After a time came Waitabout again, and Adam Bell that gave me his shoulder to the door, and they put a cloth litter between two beasts and myself therein, and Waitabout mounted the one beast with cap and lance and Wattie the other. Now did the Bells clamour about us, a few calling for my blessing but the most for Waitabout, laughing and weeping and crying “God thank you!” and “A red bull!”, and the brown girl I had marked before stood at his knee and held his hand, smiling wantonly, which grieved me sick to think what they had been at and the blood not yet dry betwixt the fires at Triermain.
George Bell would fain have companied us to Askerton, thinking to strut before my lady, but Waitabout said he must bide there with his folk by my lady’s command, “but presently you shall come in to her, or she out to you, for be sure she shall know how stoutly the surname Bells of Triermain have borne themselves this night.” George Bell was downcast, and said it was not fit being chief man that he should not go in to her, but the woman Meg fetched him a skelp to his lug that knocked off his steel cap, bidding him peace, and Waitabout would none to come in but the little lad of the owl’s hoot, to bear a link to light our way, for it was yet full dark.
So we came away from Triermain that I have not seen since and would I never had done, and my wound throbbing a great pain, yet no such pain as was in my spirit. We fared wetly through the fields and ash woods, and as it drew light Waitabout gave me to drink hot water but a sip, which something revived me, and we fared on, but with no talk between us.
Now as we came a mile nigh to Askerton we were aware of some that came towards us in the misty dim of dawn, and foremost Yarrow the deputy bidding us in a great voice stand. We wondered to see him who (I learned anon) riding on some affair in the hind-night, and chancing by our house, had learned from the bailiff of Waitabout’s watch to Triermain, and made great to-do thereon, and Lightfoot the lawyer waking also at his books had heard them, and been in great alarm, wherefore all three were come out, which was a great folly to my mind, for what could they do to any purpose? The bailiff was but part sober and laughing, and Master Lightfoot lapped about in a great coat and shawls aboard a mule, sore sneezing and wiping his neb red with the cold, and Yarrow cried out what of Triermain. The Waitabout reported what had passed, and all three sat as men stricken by a spell, but Yarrow most of all. For when Hodgson exclaimed of the four Nixons slain, crying “By Hell! By Hell! Saints be wi’ us, what a stroke here! Who wad credit it?” Yarrow swore, not he, for one, and put it to Waitabout that he lied, “what a scabby rascal, thou, and pack o’ daft clowns the Bells, to pull down four stark Liddesdale men? Away, thou rush, go to!”
Waitabout bade him ride to Triermain and see for himself, at which Yarrow cried out again that he lied, and all three babbled in amaze until Yarrow coming by my litter and seeing me wounded was like to fall from his saddle for astonishment, and I told him it was true. He went black with anger, willing not to believe it even now, and for the bailiff he bellowed his admiration, crying “Four stark Nixons! Ill Will and a’? Hey-hey, the Waitabout! Sic a ni
ght’s work! D’ye hear, Master Lawyer? What, Anton, what say?” and taking Waitabout by the hand, who said it was no such great matter to put down a foe that had his belly full of pride, “for see thou, the Nixons thought to find sheep, but found men, fifteen to their five, and so had their faring.”
Master Lightfoot, when the lout that led his mule had holpen him down, to great cries of “Stay, knave, stand so, lest I fall!” and gathered his shawls about him and ascertained of Waitabout and myself that it was true indeed, groaned and went white even to the nose of him. He shook and was silent biting his finger, but of a sudden broke out that he must inquire of this fully that had fallen out on my lady’s ground, “as to wit, attack and assault and grievous hurt and slaying, within her demesne, which if it should fall to be answered at law, we must be clear of all blame, and my lady’s innocence appear that was no party thereto any way, aye, shall appear, aye, shall it so”, all in a great pattering of words what time the Waitabout leaned on his saddle-bow and looked on him with that crooked smile.
The bailiff cried the lawyer to leave it, for here was no matter of law, but demanded anxiously were any beasts lost, or goods of my lady’s tenants, or houses burned or spoiled or any such damage, as to dykes and fences and farm tackle, “aye, damage, man, see thou, aught that will cost?” Waitabout answered that a few of the Bells had taken scratches, but no harm done to beasts or village or insight, to which Hodgson cried it was no matter for scratches so the gear was safe, “for the buggers would make a pound damage out of a broken pot, see thou, and seek stay of rent for it, would they not, aye, George Bell would he!”
He was in a sweat to be home with the news to my lady, she being abed still, but Master Lightfoot laid hold on him, saying time enough for that, it must be thought upon, aye, and in no haste, whispering in the bailiff’s ear, who looked askance now on Waitabout, and presently Master Lightfoot said he must have word with him on the instant, before we came to the house, so Waitabout got him down, and the lawyer taking him familiarly by the arm drew him aside in close talk, and very earnest with him, while the bailiff cursed the rain.
Myself was content to lie in the litter, rain or no, being faint but spared for the moment the uneven motion of carrying which had distressed my wound. As we waited, cold and wet enough, the bailiff and the deputy fell to brangling, for Yarrow being overcome with the news knew not whether to go, stand, or anything, while Hodgson seeing his vexation, and guessing it came of jealousy of the Waitabout, jeered slyly at him, and said, had he but had the wit, when my lady besought his aid and Carleton’s, he might have offered his service, and had the glory that was now Archie Noble’s. “And him but a broken man, but you, that could not see Skiddaw till it fell atop o’ thee, why, ye had your fortune in your hand and saw it not!”
Yarrow damned him roundly, asking how, and the bailiff said had he served her (and she a close marrow of the Queen’s Grace), then surely his fortune had been made out of her gratitude, that had stood her champion in her sore need. Yarrow swore he could not, being bound by his commission and Carleton’s command, on which the bailiff brayed a great scorn.
“A fig for Carleton and thy commission that between them will never get thee but ten score shilling a year and a lance in your liver! Why, man, wouldst ha’ won the favour o’ Lady Madge Dacre, and where would that not ha’ ta’en thee, aye, to office and preferment and the Court even?” He smiled behind his hand, saying my lady might have wed him even, her saviour and a proper man, and the simpleton deputy, not seeing himself mocked, cried out in wonder, on which Hodgson, savouring his ill jest, spoke of one Lacklugs Armstrong, a man of no account on the Scotch side, that had yet married a knight’s widow with a thousand pound a year, and he that had no beard or shoulders such as Yarrow’s, and cast-eyed to boot.
Yarrow gnawed at his nails to hear him, and still Hodgson plagued him, that had lost not only a fortune but credit, “for ye might ha’ ruffled it round Carel Cross the day, and told the boys o’ four stark Nixons slain, and how Ill Will was bad to handle but ye fettled him at the last wi’ your swashing stroke, your backhand lick, so, beneath the oxter, aye, and killed them a’ yoursel’, bar one, and bade them excuse ye to Lord Scroop, and would ha’ cracked a cup wi’ him, but ye must back to Askerton where Lady Madge stayed supper for ye, aye, fowl and green lettuce and a grand claret. Aye, Anton lad, what might ha’ been, but you, your brain’s in your pintle, honest man!”
At this the poor deputy saw the game, and was like to choke for rage, and said let Waitabout look to himself how he would answer for the work, “for he’ll no thanks of the Land Sergeant or Wardens, nor your fine Lady Nose-i’-the-air, neither!” Looking to where Waitabout and Master Lightfoot conferred, he muttered of taking him up to Carlisle straight, and Hodgson laughed and cried, aye-aye! take him up that slew the Nixons, belike he would ride meek to Carlisle!
Yarrow bit his lip and said he would ride first to Triermain, to see if it were true indeed, and Hodgson bit his thumb at him and the Land Sergeant and Warden also, saying it lay not in their charge that had washed their hands of Triermain yesterday, but the red bull could mind the red bull’s business, and let that content them. And as Yarrow rode, bade him beware the beasts nibbled him not, so green he was.
He then inquired of me my wound at last, and again questioned closely that no harm had come to Triermain its cattle or furniture, of which I reassured him, and he was satisfied, saying it should be great comfort to my lady that the Nixons were put down, as also that the cattle and beasts were secure and the Bells with roofs to their heads, and her rents safe that way. “What! A great stroke, aye! And if ’twas more than we looked for, what o’ that? Oh, Tom Carleton, what shall ye say to this? What o’ thy quiet policy now? Aye, or Liddesdale or the whole border? Hey-hey, a little bit lass not a day in’t parish, and snaps her fingers and whist! four great thieves laid stiffer than the Pope’s conscience! By, man, a feather in Dacre’s hat, this!”
I doubted she would so regard it, and yet wondered what she might make of it. For in short space had I seen how each weighed the thing in his own fashion, the bailiff counting in goods and gear and rents assured, the poor callant Yarrow in jealousy and hurt pride, Master Lightfoot in terms of law and good appearance, doubtless the Land Sergeant according to his policy, even the boy Wattie in fear of his soul, but none in lives lost, and souls also, save my poor self. I said somewhat of this to Hodgson, and he answered, aye, father, each to his trade, seest thou.
Now Master Lightfoot, that had stood apart rattling like a windmill at Waitabout’s ear while we endured the bitter weather, came and said we should in to Askerton “and there take order how to proceed, for it were well to be prepared beforehand against any point of law, though none shall rise, I think, yet Justice loveth a careful client, so shall we consider well, to make all straight.” And sneezed and sneezed again, and told Waitabout he should have content, but leave it in his hands awhile, all should come right, good fellow, aye, right enough. And now inquired, with much shaking and sneezing, for my wound, and said it must be looked to, aye, a sore wound, though not got through any fault of my lady’s, but accidentally, yet sore enough for all that and must be tended presently, and more of the like until the bailiff, that ran with rain like a pump, cried on him to leave drivelling and mount his ass before we drowned there in the fields. Which he did yet babbling, and Hodgson chafing after him, and Waitabout looked on me right wearily but said no word. So we came again to Askerton Hall as day broke.
MY LADY BEING NOT RISEN Hodgson would have sent word through her maid to apprise her of Triermain, but this Master Lightfoot would not have, saying she might hear anon but first there was much to be done, so let her be, and for the household the less said the better, “for gossip maketh mischief, and it were well no foolish rumour or light talk were bruited about.” The bailiff said stoutly she must be advised straight, whereon Master Lightfoot, that was commonly an ayenay-mayhap sort of man, became peremptory, saying he must have his way for my lady’s sak
e, whose man of law he was and did but for her good in matters that the bailiff knew not. They would have fallen quarrelling had not Waitabout taken the lawyer’s part, and bade the bailiff heed him that knew his business best, “and we were beholden to you rather for dry clothes and a bite to eat, and some medicine to our hurts that have borne the brunt of it this night.” Whereon the bailiff gave over, though sullenly and with many shrugs and ill looks to be thwarted of telling my lady which he would have done with great advantage.
He would have had me taken up to my bed, but Wait-about, having looked to my wound and taken my pulse, said I would fare better in the warm, so they put me in the hall, in a little privy corner or nook in the wall by the fire, such as the Spaniards call an alcoba, with a bed therein and screen, where my old lord was wont to lie after deep drinking that he could not manage the stairs to his chamber. I was glad enough of it having shed my sodden garments, and my teeth chattering as with an ague, but Wattie made a great fire of which I had the benefit in my corner, and Hodgson gave me a posset hot and spiced that I was the better for, though weary and sore in every limb of me.
Waitabout stripped him before the fire, bidding Wattie do likewise, and now we saw that the lad had taken a sore gash to his leg in the fray, but had said naught of it. Waitabout cuffed him gently, calling him stark man and mad wag that minded not the knocks he took, and washed and bound it for him. “So we are three with patched wounds,” said he, “the priest and the loon and the broken man, and all got in the fray at Triermain,” and said they should make a ballad on us of “we three”, which liked me little enough that had borne an unwilling part therein. They two partook of beef and a mess of eggs, but I had no stomach to it, but only the hot dram of posset.
The Candlemass Road Page 10