“Ye will read my conscience to me, will you, master reiver! Well, I tell you it was beastly and bloodily done, and I am to thank you for it? Nay, I should thank you with an iron through that ready tongue of yours, by God!”
“For telling truth, lady?” said he, and shook his head. “Nay, you are too honest for that. For truth it is, and if I put it bluntly or was over-bold to show you how peace and safety are secured, faith, it is right you should know these things for what they are. It may be a hard lesson here, in your quiet hall, but had ye been at Triermain ye had learned it first-hand. And barbarous or no, I think ye would not wish Ill Will’s head back on his shoulders.” Looking on me he said: “Though Father Lewis would, which is a wonder, since his own Jesuits do hold that the end doth justify the means, and if my means were foul yet shall the end be fair for Dacre and Askerton.”
Had we been solus, he and I, I had spoken my mind of him and the Jesuits both, but ventured not now, waiting another thunderstorm from my lady, and if it came not pat yet did I fear its gathering, for her eye was angry bright and her nether lip doom itself. A long moment she sat regarding him, and God forbid she should ever so look on me, or that I should deserve it for so speaking her plain like a schoolmaster in patient instruction of a wilful pupil. But her mind was at work, though I read it not, and sure it was as shrewd as his, yet how she would have answered God knows, had not Master Lightfoot, who through this had been like a mouse on a hot griddle, railed forth of a sudden at Waitabout, rebuking him roundly that dared beard my lady with such scandalous familiarity and loathly talk of bleeding and bowelling, and called him rogue and thing and malapert common knave and a dozen lawyerly terms besides. At which my lady turned her wrath on him, damning his intrusion, “and if you could state a case as simply as doth he, ye would have had a woolsack to your arse long since!”
Being the better for that venting her anger, she turned again to Waitabout, sitting back in her great chair and eyeing him right coldly.
“Well, sirrah, you look to read me a lesson, and yet methinks you are at great pains to excuse yourself, but let that be. For your boldness to my face ye deserve the whipping I forgave you yesterday, but since I judge boldness to be the best part of you, I let it be again. Nor shall I debate ends and means with you, for I see you are one that thinks no small beer of his oratory, and I’ll not humour you there.” And now she stood up, and I marvelled to see her frosty look gone away, and in its stead a little smile as crooked as any of his. “This only shall I say, that for the slaughter ye wrought let your own conscience answer whether ’twas needful or no. I did not look for it nor will condone it. But for that ye made my folk safe, and served me bravely in my need, I thank you with all my heart and ever shall.”
Hearing this so unlooked for I marvelled again at the shifting minds of women that will be hot one minute and the next cold, or go from mirth to weeping and back in the blink of an eye. Though in her this changing was outward only, and within her will was ever steadfast, for good or ill. She spake it with a pretty pride, and right nobly as became her, and I thought that whatever good might come to Waitabout in his life, never would he have better than those words of hers. It took him unaware to get the thanks he had asked for, but having it he bowed his head and answered her right well.
“Now God thank you, lady, that was courteously said, and more than I deserve for my frowardness.” He begged her pardon for that, and I would he had left it there and gone away with all good will between them, so should much evil have been avoided, not least to me that have carried the weight of it these many years. But either in kindness to her or to pay Master Lightfoot for his dishonest dealing, he said that in amend for his blunt speech to her he would lighten her mind of a burden that the lawyer had put there “in telling your grace that you had cause to fear action at law, or bill or charge for what I did in your name at Triermain. Heed it not, lady, which was lawyer’s moonshine that knows not the custom of the country. There shall be no plaint against you out of Scotland, nor ever could be. What, a riding surname to cry redress at law for hurt taken by their blackmail reivers in the open doing of their crime? Nay, that is not their way. Even Ill Will would laugh if he yet had chops to grin withal! You may bid Master Lightfoot back to school, or to Hampshire!”
Lightfoot shook to his dewlap to be so rallied by one he had termed rogue and thing and malapert, and his weighty opinion set at naught, but my lady having taken him by the ears once he was loth to vex her again, so held his peace. But she, who saw ever to the point, asked Waitabout, if no plaint or charge was to be feared, what need had he of haste to begone out of the March? He put it by, saying he was so minded that tarried not long anywhere, but she suspecting some better reason, pressed him, and so he must satisfy her.
Truly, he said, it was for his own skin’s sake, “for though there shall come no legal plaint out of Scotland, be sure there shall come lances, and after one quarry. There is Hungry Jock Nixon that sits this while in Calfhill Tower telling such a tale as will make Flodden seem a petty bickering, and word of the tokens he bore runs even now from Caerlaverock to the Merse. Aye, and one name with it, and that name ‘Waitabout’. Nay, lady, Hungry Jock will have my head on his point if it take him twenty year, he and his kin, and that means half Liddesdale, what of Elliots, Crosers, Armstrongs and a’. They call it feud, seest thou, and they are hundreds, stark vengers all, and I but one broken man, so must I be done wi’ this frontier right early, and shall never see it more.”
At this she cried out and looked to Lightfoot, who chittered and shook like an asp-leaf, with wringing of hands and Godamercy we are all undone forever, and oh, had my lady but sought his counsel beforehand, but Waitabout laughed and bade him peace, “for as I told you, they will ride not on you or Askerton, firstly for fear that my lady would pay them again as they were paid at Triermain, having great riches and power to levy arms, and secondly because it was I alone that was red hand in the deed doing. So me they must have, for their honour’s sake, and for the four empty saddles. Nay, they would think shame to look for revenge on any here but Archie Noble Wait-about-him. But his head will content them.”
This was a wonder to my lady, who sought first my eye and then Lightfoot’s and so back to him in her astonishment.
“And ye told me but a moment since you had no need of my maintenance? Now, by God’s wounds, I never saw one that needed it more!” And rounded again on the lawyer that had told her naught of this, “but quibbled and twisted me with your words whether I should or should not maintain the man at law, and how for convenience ’twere best I were shot of him, cozening me to neglect my bond, but never a word that his life lay in the hazard, why, thou prating beetle, thou!”
Master Lightfoot was like to weep, protesting he had not known, whereon she tongue-lashed him the harder that had counselled her in ignorance, “aye, and would have had me break faith, thou clementine mouldy gargoyle, what with your might and should and mayhap, thou gaberdine canker! Shall I not stand by him that stood by me?” And seeing Waitabout smile, cried did he dare grin at her, and should she not keep her word? At which he grinned indeed.
“Now there spoke Dacre, there bellowed the red bull! Nay, sweet lady, never frown on me, for though you honour me with your concern, yet truly there is no need you should secure me. For I am weary o’ the border, and right glad to go, nor shall their vengeance come up wi’ me this side York, and beyond that they cannot ride.”
Now this talk between them had been plain and straight and well understood by both, and by us that marked it, the lawyer and myself. He was troubled to hear my lady so hot to maintain the man, come what might, but I was pleased to see such worthy intent in her, and good feeling between them. But now there came a change upon them, and I doubt that Master Lightfoot divined it for all his subtlety and sharpness, for it had naught to do with practic matters outward, but was of their inner minds and regard each of other, being man and woman. For now my lady looked on Waitabout with a difference, which I think had been
in her heart these many hours past, but only now did she make it plain to him, speaking right proudly.
“And how if it is my good pleasure to secure you, aye, and right potently? How if I undertake to maintain you here ’gainst all comers?”
He asked, to what end, “for if you give me assurance under your lordship, then shall the feud encompass you and all yours, and, lady, while I value myself well enough, I am not worth a border war, and that would be on your hands surely, for their honour’s sake.”
“What you are worth is for me to judge,” said she, and a little wanton quirk touched her lip and was gone. “How if I make you my constable of Askerton land, to raise and lead me troops of men sufficient to any peril from Scotland? Was it not done lately by my grandsire, and sure if you can make these great thieves, these Nixons, hop headless with but a sorry parcel of clowns to back you, can do the like for all the Scotch border, given but power thereto.” And now she smiled indeed, but right pridefully as became the Lady Dacre. “What lacks to this? There is gold enough, God knoweth, so shall there be no want of men or arms or good maintenance. Well, Master Noble? How if I offer you this?”
This was a marvel to me, though for Lightfoot he would have been gladder to see Clement’s Inn afire. The Waitabout kept his countenance before her challenge that had in it such esteem of her station, but not that only. For in that moment there was again that knowing between them that I had seen afore, and now it went to the souls of them, and if any say a priest can be no judge of such, I say that a priest is a man still and knoweth as well as any the way of a maid with his kind. Waitabout knew, for I saw his face, that here she made offer not only of place and fortune, but of her own self, and, light mind that I have, I heard in mine ear the bailiff’s taunt anent one Lacklugs that wed a knight’s widow, and Wait-about’s own word that had esteemed her “a right lewd lady”, he having seen in her that wilful humour that recked not of consequence so it met with her own desires. What had wrought on her, the great lady, that she should fix upon the broken man, I know not, though indeed he was a stalwart lad comely enough to look upon and no common man, but wrought it had, and but for my presence and the lawyer’s I doubt not she had been more forward with him still, and what might have come of that, who knows, not I.
So she stood, proud as the Queen’s own self, bold of eye and lip and sure in her beauty fair. He spoke soberly as though in awe, which well he might be, saying here was more than ever he had looked for, “yet bethink your grace that if ye make me your constable and chief at arms, ye throw down a glove that Liddesdale shall snatch up, aye, and mayhap more than they. Ye will shake loose the border.”
“Do I care for that, so I keep my word to my own liking?” said she, with a fine disdain, and if her brow was pale her glance was warm enough. “So, Master Noble, ye have had time to draw breath and settle your wits. How if I offer you this,” and made a little spit in her hand, and held it forth, “and more besides?”
Even Master Lightfoot knew, with those three words, whither she went, for he turned green and wrung his hands and gazed on her and Waitabout as though they had been basilisks. Myself was spellbound and all forgot my hurts, looking to see him take the hand held out in such sure confidence, and indeed he regarded it, and then herself, but shook his head.
“Indeed to be my lady’s constable and man were great honour, and beyond my deserving, and so I thank you, but it may not be.”
She was like one turned to stone for disbelief, and then she cried wherefore? in a hard voice that shook. He looked down, his head of one side, and sighed, and then threw up his head and begged her pardon, “for I would give no offence to such a fair offering. But there is a chestayne tree beyond the barnekin, and it casts a long shadow.”
It smote her like a blow, and she went white to the lips for astonishment, gazing on him wide-eyed until her colour mounted, and then if ever I saw a look to kill, she had it, but commanded herself. She turned straight about and sat in her great chair, her knuckle white on the boss, and though shame and hot rage were in her that had been refused so unlooked for, yet she mastered it. A long moment she sat, then rising again, spoke short.
“You have leave to go,” and with that was out of the hall nor looked behind her. Master Lightfoot turned this way and that, and made to follow, and bore up dismayed, and then followed again, and Waitabout came where I lay and held out his hand.
“You must bless me in my absence, if bless me you will,” said he, “for I have tarried overlong. God keep you, Father Lewis, and mend your hurt that was well got.” And smiled, saying they would make a forayer of me yet. He took up sword and steel cap, bidding me tell the bailiff, that he might put bread and cheese in the kitchen window thereafter for a merry remembrance, “though I come not for it, yet another may,” and so was gone.
HOLY CHURCH DOTH WELL to let a priest from marrying, for having no wife or child to cherish of his own, so is he fitter and more apt to love and care for all mankind, making of them his family. This is the glory of his calling, and not the least of his burthens, for when those he has cared for are withdrawn from him he hath no kin nor kith to turn to for comfort, save God and His saints, and so gets him to prayer in his loneliness. As I did now, that in truth had done naught for the souls of Waitabout and my lady, though I had great care in my heart for both, but might not show it to them or any way benefit them thereby. For one was gone I knew not whither, and without that grace I might have helped him to by persuasion, though I do doubt it having striven thereto without avail. The other I might not serve not being within the Faith, which grieved me that knew her sore of spirit, for to such as my lady pride is the very life of them, and hers had taken such a dour dint as she had not known in all her small score of years, and was like to be ill-minded therefore.
Being dejected and failing of sleep for the soreness of my wound, I got up from my couch, and saving a giddiness that passed, was well enough. Hodgson coming in to see how I did, gave me more of the posset, and I was even better. He had heard of Master Lightfoot something of Waitabout’s going, and was full of scandal and wonder at his naysaying my lady’s offer of service, guessing shrewdly what lay therein, “for sure I thought e‘en yesterday she had a fancy to him, for all her airs, hey, father, how say ye? What, for a constable, oh, a lusty constable, hey-hey! Aye, I said but now to the lawyer, she would ha’ put him to the gallows one day, and to bed the next, for had I not seen it in her eye? I did, did I! And she slept not afore three, saith her maid Susan. Aye, what o’ that, father, hey? Nay, but he’s best away, the lad. What? Silk lies not well against sacking, never. A month hence she would ha’ been like to puke at him. Off and on, on and off, that’s the way o’ the gay ladies!”
Now out on thee and Lightfoot both, thinks I, for it will be the talk of the parish by supper-time, and when he marvelled that a broken man should so neglect his fortune, I bade him hold his tongue for a rank tattler that knew not what he said. He brayed his great laugh, saying what did a priest know, but there was a swift stop to his folly when my lady came down of a sudden, booted and breeched in her boy’s habit for riding, pulling on her gloves and bidding him sharply to summon her page and palfrey, for she was for Triermain on the instant, and Hodgson must attend to show her the way.
“Aye, and see to your charge that should have seen to it hours since! What, a village of mine beset by thieves, and a fray and hurt done to tenants, and God knows what scathe to their goods and houses, and my bailiff takes his ease and a bellyful of beer! Aye, skip, Hodgson, you shall hear from me, Hodgson! Skip to the kitchen, where Susan gathers necessaries for the people, and have ‘em packed and attend me straight! About it, man, go, go, skip and shuffle to some purpose or I’ll have that log-scattering knave in thy place, and thou’lt tend the fire in his!”
She railed him from the hall, and I was as glad as astonished to see her in her busy mood again so soon, though pale she looked and somewhat hectic about the eye. She rebuked me for being up and must sit me in her great chair by the fi
re, and taking away the posset called for Susan to make me a rosewater drink which was sovran, she told me, against fevers from bloody hurts.
“Bide and stir not till I return,” she said, “nor vex yourself for all this bother, of which you have had enough already. Nay, I have neglected you, and these poor folk of mine, what with windy talk of lawyers and the like!” And while we waited for Hodgson she paced about tapping her switch and putting sharp questions of Triermain, as what injuries had been taken, and what damage, and of the folk how many were young and babes, and how habited and housed, and sware a great oath when I told her. But of Waitabout not a word, nor you may be sure did I speak his name.
Page Peterkin coming in to say that all was ready, she snapped his cap from off his head and clapped it on her own, saying she had burned her bonnet yesterday, and did this well become her? Which it did right saucily, and looking on her so smiling fair, if pale, I was moved to think Waitabout a great fool.
When she was gone there came in Hodgson full of dole, saying she had taken a kitchen wench that knew the way “and would be of more service than I, whom she called a handless slug and a tunguts and I know not what beside! God, to be so miscalled that served my old lord three-and-twenty year, for she’ll turn me out, father, I ken fine, aye, will she! Jesus, a harpy and a vixen, and a bitch that she is! And I serve as best I know, do I not, father, did I not ever? Aye, but slug and tunguts is all my thank!”
I bade him mark her not, for she was young and peremptory and in no good humour that day, but would be more comfortable anon, when all was more settled. Nor would turn him away, whose worth was great, I assured him, and indeed it was not little to manage under command. She would not be so cruel, I said. But he was glum.
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