'I see,' Father looked lost; I doubted if he understood half what was going on. He looked to the advancing Armstrongs, and at the gathered Veitches, many of whom glanced nervously over their shoulders or at the hills that might provide refuge if they fled. 'I think, Hugh of Roberton, that we should set aside our differences and settle with the Armstrongs first.'
'That would be best,' Hugh agreed. 'I do not know why we are at feud anyway.'
Father grinned. 'I have long forgotten the reason,' he said. 'I will take the left flank of the Armstrongs.'
'And I the right,' Hugh's smile was back. 'The centre can care for itself!' He looked at me. 'You keep out of the way, Bessie's Jeannie Tweedie. We have much to discuss when this battle is won.'
'I never use that name,' I told him, but he had already turned his horse and was leading his men toward the Armstrongs, shouting his war-cry: 'A Veitch! A Veitch!'
I doubt you have ever seen a battle fought by Border horse, or prickers as we termed them. It is not like any other encounter that you can imagine. I stood with the Veitch women, watching as our menfolk rode to defend us, and like them, I feared for the safety of my men.
Hugh led his Veitches splendidly. I watched his every move as the combined army of Tweedies and Veitches advanced in a single mass, only to split in two when they were three hundred paces from the Armstrongs. Now normally Border horsemen use subterfuge and cunning when they fight. They used feigned retreats and sudden ambushes, false noises in the dark and ruses to upset and confuse their enemy. This battle had none of that. The Armstrongs came in force, angry at the death of Wild Will and my people of both surnames were fighting to defend their land. And us, their women.
As Hugh led his Veitches in a glorious charge against the Armstrong left flank, Father was in front of the Tweedies. I watched, unable to tear my gaze from the scene as all my men crashed into the Armstrong ranks. I heard Father's bellow even above the roar and clamour of battle. I saw the Yorling, my half-brother, leading his band of callants in a mad dash that turned the very tip of the Armstrong army and pushed it back, before he wheeled his horse round to hit them in their exposed flank. I saw Robert, my foolish, clumsy, spoiled Robert, fight manfully with the rest. Oh he was slow and weak compared to some but when it mattered he had turned up and he did his best for the surname. He did not disgrace himself on that day of bold deeds and bloody carnage. I was proud of my Robert, as I always knew I would be. Except he was no longer my Robert; he was Kate's Robert and he would be a good husband to her, and she a poor wife to him.
Most of all I watched Hugh. By that time I knew that he had been the man in my vision: Hugh Veitch of Roberton. The name had a ring to it. It still has a ring to it, don't you think? It is a fine name and he led the Veitches with pride and valour. Of course I was scared for him, but on the Border, women knew that men would go to reive and to war. That was the way of the world. It always had been and we could not see it ever changing. We were proud of the hardihood of our men and of the deeds of our surnames. I was no different to all the rest, and why should I be?
My Hugh fought in the van, carving his way through the ranks of the Armstrongs, out the other side and then guiding his men into that flank attack that scattered the enemy. I saw the Armstrong army break up as men on the fringes decided that flight was preferable to death or capture. Others joined them in sudden dismay. They had come looking for plunder and destruction, not for hard fighting against a determined foe.
All at once the Armstrong array crumbled and collapsed. They turned and fled and this time neither Hugh nor my father called halt to the dogs of war. The combined Veitch-Tweedie force pursued them into the tangled hills that surrounded our valleys, and I dare say that many of the Armstrongs did not return to their sinister Liddesdale again.
I did not watch the pursuit. I did not have to. I knew that all of my men were safe and that is all that mattered to me. As I waited for their return, I wondered what Mother would have to say about everything. And I thought of Hugh of Roberton.
Chapter Fifteen
AT HOME
MAY 1586
We married in the ancient chapel at Laverlaw at dawn on Beltane Sunday. Hugh looked decidedly uncomfortable in doublet and hose, with no sword at his side and in a place with bad memories of past betrayal. I had chosen Laverlaw for that reason: the best way to remove a bad memory is to replace it with a better one. I ensured that there would be no bad memories this time, as our marriage cemented the two surnames of Tweedie and Veitch into a single family.
I tried to get Hugh to drop his name of Veitch in favour of Tweedie, but he refused.
'I have always been Hugh Veitch and Hugh Veitch I will remain,' he said, adding a slow kiss to sweeten his words. I welcomed that kiss and continued it to its natural conclusion with a mad encounter that left us both gasping and in disarray and the bedclothes a rumpled mess.
Afterward we toasted ourselves in honey-mead and laughter as we adjusted each other's clothing and righted the bed.
'What will the maids say?' Hugh wondered.
'They would be jealous of me,' I said truthfully and failed to stifle my girlish giggle. 'More to the point, what would my mother say?'
'She would say that you are using the Tweedie Passion for its rightful ends,' Mother's voice came from the doorway. I looked up in a mixture of dismay and embarrassment, wondering how much she had heard and, more to the point, how much she had seen.
'Mother!' I smoothed my skirt across my lap and attempted to look innocent.
'It's a bit late for that, Jeannie,' Mother said, although the twinkle in her eye proved she was not displeased. 'I expect you two to produce a dozen grandchildren for me. I only had the one daughter; I want sons and daughters enough to populate both our valleys and some left over.'
'Mother! Please!' I was genuinely scandalised that my mother should say such things.
Hugh, however, was not abashed. 'We will do our best to oblige,' he said, laying his hands on me in a manner that even husbands-to-be should not do in front of their mother-in-law. Or, indeed, in front of anybody else.
I slapped him down, pushing his hands away, trying not to laugh in front of Mother.
'Now that your father has to rebuild Cardrona Tower to my standards after the Armstrongs destroyed it, I need willing hands to help so the quicker you two get producing the better.' She turned away and spoke over her shoulder. 'It is good to have you in the family, Hugh. I never had much time for Robert Ferguson; he was and is no match for my Jeannie.'
'You were going to have me marry him, Mother,' I reminded.
'That was family business, Jeannie,' she said. 'I was acting as matriarch of the Tweedies, not as your Mother. Please God you never have to make the same distinction.'
There were green boughs around Laverlaw Chapel for the wedding, with early laverocks singing high above and all the leading families of both surnames present to witness this historic union that ended a blood feud that had lasted centuries. I was in a bit of a dream that day, unsure if it was truth or fantasy as I prepared for my wedding.
When Robert Ferguson arrived I kissed him for the first and last time, and I apologised for ill-treating him so badly that day I discovered him with Kate Hunnam of the Kirkton.
'It does not matter,' Robert told me. 'We are to be married later this year.'
'I am glad of it,' I told him, and I meant it. Now that our respective matrimonial disputes were resolved I had no quarrel with Robert. 'I wish both of you all the happiness in the world,' I said.
'As I do to you,' he responded at once, with the generosity that was typical of him, although he was more prone to show it to horses rather than to people.
After the kiss I shook his hand and gave Kate a slight nod. That was all I would spare for the woman who had been a friend and who had betrayed me. What we had once had was now spoiled and would never return. We both accepted that without another word being uttered. I wished I had taken the opportunity to lay the whip across her flesh when I had the
chance: that was my only regret. I think that I have wasted sufficient words on Kate Hunnam and I will move on to happier things than those concerning that woman.
Naturally my father posted half a dozen riders around the chapel to ensure that nobody took advantage of the peaceful nature of the wedding. Perhaps they did their job well or maybe word had got out that the combined Tweedie-Veitch surname would brook no interference; either way we were left alone. After defeating the Armstrongs there were few surnames who would care to beard us in our own land. Indeed we were now one of the more respected names on the Border.
We brought in the minister from Peebles to perform the ceremony, and while he was there we sang doleful psalms to celebrate our union. The Reverent Romanes was a broad shouldered man with an eye for the ladies, yet his attention did not stray for an instant when he was surrounded with the hard-riding Tweedies and Veitches.
'Are you sure you wish to go ahead with this marriage?' My father asked me.
I nodded. 'I have never been more sure in my life,' I said.
He gave a small smile that hid huge amusement. 'I remember you being equally sure you wished to marry Robert Ferguson.'
'I was younger then,' I told him solemnly.
'You were,' Father said. 'That was all of eight months ago. Will you become a Veitch? There was some worry in his voice.
'I will not,' I said. 'I was born Jean Tweedie and I will die Jean Tweedie.' That is a thing we do in Scotland: in other places, when a woman marries she loses her surname; in Scotland she keeps her own name and fortune. I am still Jean Tweedie, although now my husband is Hugh Veitch.
I wore a fine light-blue gown that had belonged to my mother, with a circlet of flowers to lighten my black hair and shoes so tight they damn nearly crippled me. I kicked them off at the first opportunity, I can tell you. Fashion is all very well but not when it interferes with comfort. I am mistress of a Border surname, not some pampered and powdered lady from an Edinburgh town house. I have not seen these shoes since so I suppose that some lucky young girl saw them on the floor and appropriated them for her own wedding at some distant time in the future. Either that or Robert took them to re-use the leather for his horses. Certainly they would not fit Kate, as her feet are as large as her desires for men. Poor Robert: I hope his love for horses compensates for his wife's love of playing the two-backed-beast around the Borders. I do not interfere: it is none of my business.
Father was watching with an indulgent smile on his face. I stepped over to him and whispered in his ear. 'I have been holding this for you.' I slipped his ring inside his fist. 'You must have lost it when you pushed Robert's brother over Posso Craig.'
Father took the ring without demur. 'It was the best way to get your mother to accept him as your husband,' he said.
'Thank you Father,' I kissed him and returned to Hugh. As I have said before, murder was acceptable in the old Border, as long as it was for a good reason.
'I hope you are both very happy together,' the Reverent Romanes glanced around at the growing clamour as Father introduced mead and French claret to the crowd.
'We will be,' Hugh said. He held out his hand. 'Thank you for your services, Minister.'
The Reverend Romanes took the hand somewhat gingerly. 'You are part of my flock,' he said.
'If you ever need a favour, Minister,' Hugh said, 'you let me know. A rival church burned, a sinner killed, anything like that, I am your man.'
I swear I saw a twinkle in the good Reverend's eye. There was a man there, beneath the solemnity. I wondered viciously if Kate had noticed. If so she would have the ministerial robes off him quicker than he could say grace. 'I don't believe I will require either of these services,' the Reverend said.
After the minister returned to care for the spiritual wellbeing of his more restrained parishioners, no doubt thankful to have survived intact among us wild men and women of the valleys, we began the real festivities. The ale, mead and wine flowed free as a pair of Border pipers arrived to add their music. I saw my half-brother dancing with Kate and wished him well. I knew that Robert would be in the stables with his horses and did not interfere.
They say that the partying lasted two weeks and that may well be true. I cannot tell, for after only twelve hours of dancing and general laughter, Hugh took me by the hand and led me upstairs to our chamber. I felt my mother's eyes following me and wriggled my hips to her, waved a hand behind my back and climbed the turnpike to prove yet again that I had my full measure of the Tweedie Passion. I knew I would have many hundreds of occasions to test that in the years ahead, and with the man I would choose above all others.
But at night, when the moon is full and a wind stirs the branches in the trees, I sometime start awake and think of that night on the Nine Stane Rig, when Hugh first awakened the Tweedie Passion within me. And then I roll over, reach for him in the dark and prove that it has not gone away. It never shall; not between me and my man, my Hugh Veitch of Roberton.
Historical Note
There is no Lethan Valley in the Scottish Borders, but there is a Manor Valley, on which I based the location. The topography is much as I described, and at one time there were ten peel towers dotted along the valley floor. The remains of three survive, two ruined and one nearly intact.
There was a feud between the Tweedies and the Veitches, who held neighbouring lands near the Tweed. As with all Border feuds, there was bloodshed and murder involved and nobody was quite sure how it started. My own account is entirely fictional. The story of the Spirit of the Tweed is part of local folklore, although I added a slight twist.
The Armstrongs of Liddesdale were indeed one of the most feared riding – or reiving – families of the Border. They were not a surname to cross: names such as Ill Will Armstrong, Kinmont Willie and Johnnie Armstrong are still remembered in song and ballad.
The Wolf Craigs exists as I have described, although I shifted the location from the Pentland Hills, where I courted my own love.
The Nine Stane Rig and the associated folklore also exists, exactly where I have placed it. It is a fascinating, uncanny place which can be visited. Not all can sense the atmosphere, but for those with the feelings it is not a place to miss. Take a copy of Scott's Border Ballads when you visit and listen for the ghosts.
The lifestyle along the Border was much as I have described. It was a lawless frontier where raid and feud ruled, and it seems that cynical kings in both Edinburgh and London preferred that: they used the border counties as a buffer between their respective countries, and the wild men and women of the hills and valleys were always useful in time of war. Only when King James VI of Scotland took over the English throne was there a hope of peace in the old Border, and when that happened in 1603, a sort of peace descended. Yet there can still be an uneasy atmosphere in the southernmost counties of Scotland and it is best not to push these men and women too hard, lest the old, not-quite-dormant spirit comes out again and the call 'A Tweedie!' or 'An Armstrong!' echoes from the long green hills.
Helen Susan Swift
July 2016
Also by the Author
Dark Voyage
The Handfasters
Women of Scotland
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