Border Storm

by Amanda Scott

  Scrope and Halliot greeted each other with nods, trumpets sounded the beginning of the meeting, and the two sides quickly mingled. The wardens’ table was ready, and the clerk—a man from Canonbie agreed to by both sides—awaited them there. He took charge of the grievances, quickly sorting them with the most recent ones on top as the wardens and their deputies took places at the table and prepared to begin the business of the day.

  Hugh noted that Mistress Halliot remained nearby, apparently guarded by the huge man who generally rode beside Quinton Scott. Hugh remembered the man’s name only because it was the most inappropriate to-name he had ever heard. Doubtless somewhere in the past there had been reason to call him Hob the Mouse, but no mouse stood six feet four inches tall in its bare feet or wielded a Jedburgh ax as easily as if it were a jackstraw.

  While the clerk rearranged inkwell and quills, and the two wardens settled in their chairs, Hugh found his gaze returning to Mistress Halliot. She was dressed as richly as her father was, and her father’s attire was as rich as Scrope’s.

  Hugh remembered from his own experience as acting warden that it had seemed important that he not allow the other side to outshine him. Doubtless Halliot and Scrope felt the same way.

  He watched Mistress Halliot, thinking again how beautiful she was. Her dark curls gleamed in the sunlight. With her dark eyes, pink cheeks, and red lips, she seemed to have more color than the other women. Most were older than she was, of course, but Hugh did not think it would matter if every one of them were young and beautiful. Mistress Halliot would still stand out.

  She looked excited by the activity but worried, as well. No doubt, she was concerned for her sister’s fate—as she ought to be if the lass had killed a man. Not that murder was always a hanging offense, for it wasn’t, but the murder of Scrope’s chief land sergeant would be, even if the accused murderer was a young woman.

  Having known Loder, Hugh wondered if May Halliot had merely defended herself. Scrope had written the complaint, and although Hugh had read it, it said little about the circumstances surrounding Loder’s death. Clearly, Scrope was keeping the details to himself until the time came to reveal them. It would not be long, either, Hugh realized. The wardens would hear the most recent grievances first.

  They selected their juries quickly, and it amused Hugh to watch the two of them pretend to consider their choices. Scrope had been quite willing to accept the list of Scots that Hugh had drawn up, and he was certain that Halliot had made his choices long before leaving home.

  The English warden chose the six Scottish jurors, and the Scottish warden chose the six English. Any defendant who requested a jury trial would be tried before the jury of his countrymen, albeit one carefully chosen by his enemies.

  The oaths given and taken, the clerk called the first case, a grievance against an Englishman, Steven Musgrave, and five of his cohorts.

  The charge alleged that they had come over into Scotland and stolen fifty cattle and horses, and that on being pursued they had captured four of their pursuers and subsequently ransomed them for a total of twenty-five pounds. They had also ransomed their captives’ horses—except for those that they had kept.

  The case was over quickly, because Musgrave pleaded guilty, hoping for leniency. The two wardens, after a brief conference, agreed on the fine he and his friends would pay, and he agreed to return the livestock and the ransom money.

  Hugh thought that Buccleuch would not have agreed to so tame a penalty, but his duties as deputy warden did not include giving advice to the Scottish warden or arguing with Scrope. Knowing Steven Musgrave, he knew there would be another grievance against him soon, probably for the same offense, even the same livestock. Justice would catch up with him.

  Not long after that, the clerk called out, “Mistress May Halliot, step forth and answer to the grievances laid against you. The charge is seduction of an officer of the English Crown, and the willful murder of that same officer, one Martin Loder, chief land sergeant to Thomas Lord Scrope.”

  The steady murmur of conversation that had accompanied the proceedings to that point died away to silence. It lasted only seconds before a pony snorted and shook its head, rattling its bridle. Hugh saw that Halliot was looking down at the table. Deep color tinged the man’s cheeks.

  Scrope said testily, “I believe the accused is your daughter, sir. You were charged with guaranteeing her presence before this court.”

  “Aye, my lord, and well do I know it,” Halliot said. He looked Scrope straight in the eye. “I regret to inform you that my daughter disappeared the very night the bill of complaint arrived. We have not seen her since.”

  “An unlikely tale,” Scrope snarled. “I took you for a man of honor, and yet now we see the truth. You are as much a villain as any other damned Scotsman.”

  Angry muttering from members of the crowd reminded Hugh that the situation could take a violent turn at any moment. He said evenly, “With respect, my lord, we have no cause to doubt his word. Sir William Halliot’s reputation is that of a man of honor. Moreover, my lord, you and every man here must know that women often act without consulting their menfolk.”

  “Aye, that’s a fact,” Scrope agreed, nodding.

  It being well known that Lady Scrope was as great a gamester as her husband and was as often as not the cause of his frequent financial woes, men amongst the audience quickly covered impulsive smiles, stifled laughter, and nodded with him.

  Scrope’s frown told Hugh that he had seen the smiles. He glanced at Mistress Halliot, trying to read her expression, as Scrope said sharply, “It matters not that the wench is absent. It only proves that she stands guilty of the charge.”

  “One moment,” Sir Quinton Scott said, his deep voice carrying easily over the murmuring crowd. “No one can wonder if a gently reared maiden fears to stand before such a tribunal as this. We can only hope that she is safe. We have not yet heard any evidence against Mistress May Halliot, and the bill of complaint clearly states that the other side intends to present such evidence. I suggest that we hear it before anyone makes rash declarations about punishment.”

  “Aye, let’s hear the evidence—if ye’ve got any,” shouted a skeptic from the audience. Others immediately echoed his cry.

  Scrope nodded, and a man stepped forward.

  He waited until the shouting died away, then said clearly, “I seen it.”

  “One moment,” Scrope said. “You must tell your story to the Scottish jurors. I doubt there can be any other form of trial in such a case.”

  He glowered at Halliot, but it was a moment before Halliot became aware of it. Hob the Mouse, standing just behind the Scottish warden and his deputy, had briefly claimed his attention.

  “What is it?” Halliot said, turning back when he realized that Scrope had spoken to him.

  Scrope said with a sneer, “I trust that you will not expect us to accept your avowal or Sir Quinton’s for your daughter’s innocence.”

  “I do not know what your trust has to do with it,” Halliot growled, showing hackle at last. “My word ought to be as good as yours or that so-called witness of yours. I am told that he is just another of your own men.”

  “Aye, and what of it? Who else was likely to see what happened in the dead of night but the man riding with Loder? Do you think he’d be serving anyone else?”

  Hugh was watching Laura Halliot, and when he saw her frown, he was not surprised. She had seemed to be a woman of intelligence as well as beauty.

  Halliot said, “Does this fellow of yours mean to testify that my daughter overpowered two grown men-at-arms and murdered one of them without the other doing aught to prevent it. Because, if he does, we certainly will declare the complaint invalid.”

  “That is not what I asked you,” Scrope said, raising his voice to make himself heard above a growing rumble of mutters. “I asked you, sir, if you—or you, Sir Quinton, if you act in his behalf—can declare out of your own personal knowledge and on your honor, whether the complaint against Ma
y Halliot, a subject of your march, is valid or not. Will you then take responsibility for the offense yourself if we can prove that you are mistaken?”

  Silence fell again, and Hugh felt a certain compassion for the Scottish warden and his deputy. He found it hard to believe, himself, that a lass could have murdered Martin Loder.

  Sir Quinton said quietly, “We should hear the evidence against her first.”

  “You either have such knowledge or you do not,” Scrope retorted.

  “I feel certain that Mistress May Halliot is physically incapable…”

  Halliot put a hand on his arm, silencing him. Then he said, “Her ability is not at question here, I’m afraid. Neither of us can speak honestly about what she was doing in the middle of the night when Loder died, my lord. You must hear the evidence, Quinton, and so must the jury unless some other man will step forward to speak for her. If May were here, she could speak for herself and we could judge her truthfulness, but since she is not…” He, too, fell silent, looking wretched.

  Hugh saw that Mistress Halliot had tears trickling down her cheeks.

  Scrope grunted with satisfaction and gestured to his witness. “Tell us who you are and what you saw, man.”

  “One moment,” Sir Quinton said. To the clerk, he said, “Swear him.”

  The clerk administered the oath, whereupon the witness straightened and jutted his chin out, clearly feeling his importance. In a loud voice, he declared, “I be Cornus Grant, aid t’ Martin Loder, who be chief land sergeant t’ Lord Scrope. I saw the whole thing. That night, Loder were meeting wi’ the lass for… for purposes o’ mutual entertainment, as ye might say, the which she had suggested and agreed to.”

  Looking around, he leered at the now fascinated audience.

  Sharply recalling his attention, Scrope snapped, “Where did they meet?”

  “Near Liddel Water below Kershopefoot, your lordship.”

  Hugh saw that Mistress Halliot was watching Cornus Grant. Her eyes narrowed, and her forehead creased in a deep frown. Hugh felt sorry for her. Doubtless, she loved her sister, but if the lass had gone that far to meet a lover, she was not the innocent maid that Halliot would have them all believe her to be.

  “What happened there?” Scrope demanded harshly.

  “I were watching from below when Loder bent to kiss the lass. She pushed him into the water, and the current swept him away. When I caught up wi’ the poor lad, he were dead, and it bein’ summer and all, we had t’ bury him soon as we got him home. That wicked lass killed him, my lord, as sure as if she’d shot him.”

  This time the muttering had a different sound. It was easier for them all to believe that the lass had just pushed Loder. Even a big man could be pushed.

  Sir Quinton Scott said hastily, “That is a serious charge. Is there anyone here who will speak for May Halliot?”

  No one stirred, although many continued to mutter comments.

  “Is there no man amongst you willing to speak for May Halliot?” Sir Quinton repeated in a louder voice.

  “I will speak for her.”

  Laura Halliot stepped forward, silencing everyone.

  Thirteen

  I myself will be the formost man

  That shall come, lady, to feitch you home.

  LAURIE HAD NOT PAUSED to think before speaking, and now, as she scanned the huge crowd, she could hardly breathe. Her face felt numb, and her knees threatened to collapse under her. She looked at her father but saw no offer of help there.

  Sir William stared back at her, mouth open, clearly even more appalled by her declaration than everyone else was.

  Scrope found his tongue first. “Women have no place before a jury. Stand back now, lass, and keep a still tongue in your head.”

  Sir Quinton said evenly, “In Scotland, women do have a voice, my lord. Although you or others from your side picked our jury, its members are Scottish, and I believe they will agree to hear her.” He looked at the six men.

  Each nodded solemnly in response.

  Laurie noted that despite their nods, not one member of the jury looked at her or seemed particularly eager to hear what she would say.

  Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she looked back at Sir Quinton. He, at least, seemed willing to support her right to speak.

  He nodded encouragingly.

  Feeling more terrified than she had ever felt facing Blanche, she exhaled, faced the Scottish jury, and said clearly, “I am Laura Halliot of Aylewood. May Halliot is my sister. She did not murder anyone.” Realizing that her hands were shaking, she clasped them firmly at her waist.

  Over a new wave of commentary from the crowd, Scrope stood and pointed at her, shouting, “If she is the accused’s sister, we should believe nothing she says! She is bound to declare her innocent. Women have no comprehension of honor.”

  Laurie stiffened, but as she opened her mouth to speak, he turned to her and added, “You know naught about such things, lass. Your sister condemns herself by her failure to appear before us to answer to the complaint. Now, stand back.”

  Stubbornly, Laurie said, “May is not here because such an unjust charge terrified her into running away, my lord, not because she committed murder.”

  Before Scrope could answer, Sir Quinton said, “Do you understand the taking of an oath, Mistress Halliot?”

  “Certainly, I do, sir.”

  “Swear her as a witness,” he said to the clerk.

  The clerk stood. “Mistress Halliot, d’ye swear by heaven above ye, hell beneath ye, by your part of Paradise, by all that God made in six days and seven nights, and by God Himself, to tell the truth in this matter, so help ye God?”

  “I swear,” Laurie said. “My sister is not a murderess.”

  Sir Quinton said, “Understand me, mistress. You must declare this of your own knowledge and on your honor. You cannot simply claim to know your sister’s character and therefore to believe that she could never have done such a thing.”

  “I do declare it of my own knowledge,” Laurie said.

  She gave him look for look and hoped he and the others staring at her could not tell that her knees quaked or that her stomach had knotted itself round her liver.

  Scrope sneered again and declared loudly as he sat down, “Clearly, she does not understand the terms of her avowal. How can you declare anything of your own knowledge, mistress? To do so, you had to be there when the crime occurred.”

  “I was there,” Laurie admitted, but she did not direct her words to Scrope.

  Instead, her eyes shifted to meet the startled gaze of his deputy, Sir Hugh Graham. It was to him that she said, “It is true that a man fell into the river, but he called himself Sir John something. He was attempting to drown my sister when he fell, and he was certainly still alive then. It seems odd that your eyewitness did not mention that, since he claims to have seen all that happened,” she added with a challenging look. “It is also odd that he did not mention my presence.”

  A cacophony of gasps and outcries greeted her words, but Scrope leapt to his feet again, quelling the worst of the noise with an angry gesture.

  “I believe Cornus Grant,” he bellowed. “Were the lass here a reliable witness and May Halliot not a murderess, I say she would be here!” Turning to Laurie, he went on, “The reason Cornus Grant did not mention your presence, mistress, is because you were not there, and I tell you to your face that if I had a daughter capable of lying like this to a wardens’ court, I would beat better sense into her. The next thing we know, you will be claiming to have murdered Loder yourself!”

  Outraged at being called a liar before such a gathering, Laurie snapped back angrily and without thinking, “And what if I did make such a claim, sir? That still would not alter the fact that your witness lies through his teeth. What if I did kill that man—whatever his name is? What if my sister was not even present? Could your witness declare otherwise? For that matter, how is he so certain that the woman he claims to have seen was my sister? Let him tell us what she lo
oks like. What color is her hair?”

  The witness looked dismayed, and pandemonium erupted.

  When several men lunged toward Laurie, it was all she could do to stand still without cowering. In a twinkling, men with drawn swords surrounded her, but to her relief, they faced the multitude with their broad backs toward her.

  To her astonishment, at least two were English and another a defenseless child. Sir Hugh Graham and the big man who had been at his side from the outset had moved as quickly as Quinton Scott and Hob the Mouse, and the Englishmen’s swords, like the Scots’, were drawn and pointed threateningly outward.

  Between the two Englishmen stood a lad of perhaps ten summers. He carried no weapon, but his hands were fisted on his skinny hips, and he leaned forward belligerently, as if he dared any man to attack her.

  Laurie began to breathe a little easier.

  “Stand back,” Sir Hugh shouted. “We’ll have no violence here. We’ve heard Cornus Grant; now we’ll hear the lass. The jury will decide who speaks the truth.”

  Sir Quinton waved the Scots back, and Laurie saw several of his men move among them, calming tempers.

  The English were slower to respond, doubtless because Scrope’s fury was plain to see. He stood with his hand on his sword hilt, color suffusing his face, as he glared at his deputy.

  “This is an outrage,” he snapped when he could make himself heard. “I’ll tell you how Cornus Grant knows that he saw May Halliot. He knows it because Martin Loder told him what lass he was meeting and why. Grant saw them meet, saw them ride into the woods together, and he saw that lass kill Loder. It matters not whether he can describe her to her family’s satisfaction. He can describe her horse. Tell them,” he ordered.

  “’Twere a white palfrey,” Cornus Grant replied instantly.

  Caught off guard, Sir William’s reaction to the words was plain for all to see.

  “There now,” Scrope announced triumphantly, “we have the truth of it. And I’ll tell you what else we have. We have a second murderess, because if Mistress Halliot was there, she is as guilty as her sister. We should hang them both!”