by Alex Dylan
“Is the gunpowder aboard then?” said Heughan finally as he watched the little wagon disappear behind the trees.
“Twenty-two barrels of it and every one of them trouble,” replied MacShane. “Thank God it’s gone! This past week I haven’t slept a wink, you bugger.”
“McGuire has the gold. You can have it tonight before the pair of us board,” said Heughan.
“You can keep the gold if you tell me what you’re up to.”
“Better that you don’t know. To be honest, I don’t rightly know myself. You’ll just have to trust me.”
“I do trust you, lad. That’s your secret, isn’t it, Heughan? Folk take you on trust; must be those eyes of yours.”
“The sword helps too sometimes.” Heughan’s grin was feral.
“That’s just a way of life, my lad,” smiled MacShane. “Now what about Molly? You’ll have to take her with you. The Excise lads will remember a bosom like hers.”
“Very funny. Was that all your idea? I wondered what you might dream up. She’ll leave by tonight for her aunt in Drogheda, kicking and screaming perhaps, but so be it.”
MacShane looked doubtful.
“Och, the life in the Borders is not for her. Besides, I have enough trouble with women there already.”
“Well, her so-called dowry will be loaded onto a boat for Brest in the early morning. You’ll be leaving on the same tide. Excise Declan and his boys will still be sleeping off the beer I gave them.”
Heughan looked directly at MacShane.
“Oh not those eyes, Heughan, please! My knees are stronger than Molly’s!”
Heughan spoke firmly, “You know you have my gratitude and that any help you need, anything you need for Hugh O’Neill, in Tír Eoghain, you can count on me.”
He clasped his friend’s arm and spoke insistently, "The Lords of Northumberland and the Marches are not to be trusted. Catholic or not, they’ll slit your throat for their own ends. The so-called gentry would do well to remember who’s been running the border for three hundred years.
"They praise us for our courage. Yes, we can ride all night into the face of a storm, sure we can handle a horse better than anyone, and so they haul us off to fight across the sea, to give their English army some backbone and expect us to be grateful for the pittance they pay for a man’s life.
"The sly ones keep their counsel, say nothing and pilfer away the gold. They’re the ones that worry me. We live by two rules in the Borders; family and the sword. If they’d come out into a field and face me with a sword, a sword and a hundred men, that’s what I know.
“I want an end to it, all this killing, running, hiding, plotting. I want the land I’m owed, settle my men there, and then I’m off on one of your ships and I’m just going to keep going until I fall off the fucking edge.”
“Well, God willing, it won’t come to that, and we’ll have our resolution soon,” said MacShane.
“I don’t care about your Catholic God. He doesn’t care about me. We look out for our own.”
“And others’ cattle, I believe,” MacShane interjected.
“That’s just a way of life,” smiled Heughan.
Chapter 8: Business as Usual
Carlisle City, March 1603
Sunday found Heughan back in Carlisle, back in his own bed, reluctantly alone and mindful of the Spaniard’s strictures to keep it that way. Old habits are hard to break though, and he found his thoughts wandering first to Molly, and then distractedly to Letty. There were worse ways to start the day.
The gunpowder was safely stowed well outside the city for the time being. The fewer people who knew about it, the better. Rodrigues would have to be told eventually. Heughan needed his network to move it to its ultimate destination – after he had worked out what to do with it. He lay abed thinking through various scenarios, trying to work through strategies in a straight line. Every time he thought he had found a solution, his plotting unravelled. Time and time again, he found himself back at the beginning of the problem. He let his thoughts roll back to Ireland.
The hoarse tongues of the Cathedral bells interrupted his pleasant, if idle, daydreaming, calling him to action. Bad habits were even harder to break than old ones. Heughan knew he had to go to church.
He found the massive Cathedral comforting, if for no other reason that it gave him a sense of proportion. God was astute like that: providing hope for even the worst people. Heughan was in the same business. His job on Sundays was to sit in the church porch and collect protection payments from all those who came to worship.
Willie was with him too, naturally. Heughan needed someone quick with a dagger to guard him and the coin, even though he sat with his back to the impenetrable mass of the Cathedral wall. Thieves were everywhere in Carlisle.
Early as it was, Heughan was far from alone. There were plenty of others here already. He smiled briefly at Robert James, the organist. A succession of black-robed clerics glided between the shadows of the soaring stone columns. Heughan watched an animated discussion between one of the sub-priors and a man he recognised as Jeffrie Nortbie, master mason. They were wrangling over a set of plans that Master Nortbie was holding, oblivious to his apprentice, who had picked up his tools and was looking longingly at the half-finished corbels. While they argued back and forth, the apprentice wrestled with his conscience and the impositions of Sabbath rest. Heughan recognised him as Nicholas Storey, a younger brother to Edward, who sometimes rode with them.
Nicholas had a craftsman’s hands and an artist’s heart. The reiver blood was all his brother Edward’s, known as ‘Black Ned’ for more reasons than his saturnine looks. Nick Storey’s only wickedness was in his sense of humour, and he often used his carving skills in subtle ways to have a dig at the queer folk in Carlisle who irked his gentle nature.
Red Sally had harried him from Lettice’s bed on more than once occasion, threatening that she’d ‘heave him out by his beard except that he wasn’t old enough to grown one’, and so he had carved her onto a seat of the misericords as a broad-hipped scold, holding a man by his beard as she beat him with a washing beetle.
The prior had considered that it would be irreverent for his monks to perch their backsides on depictions of holy subjects and so the uncomfortable wooden rests were carved only with secular scenes. Heughan grinned to himself at the naughty thought of a priest’s buttocks spread over Sally’s face. It probably wasn’t that uncommon an event in any case.
Heughan reckoned that if the priests were hoping for a religious angel atop the cathedral columns to make up for the misericords, they were going to be disappointed, for Nick had carved a pattern of trefoils, surmounted by what was clearly a green man with oak leaves sprouting from either side of his mouth.
While Master Nortbie and the prior continued to talk, Nick had put down his tools and seemed occupied with inscribing a wooden roundel. Willie strode over to take a look. Whatever Nick’s artistic endeavours, they clearly didn’t meet with Willie’s approval. Heughan saw him crumple his face and mutter his favourite curse about ‘sleekit kelpies’ before he sidled around the pillar to eavesdrop on other conversations.
Heughan, braced with his back against the wall, had just settled comfortably when La’l Willie reappeared at his elbow, making him jump.
“Bugger off, Willie, you prat,” he swore good-naturedly, as Willie laughed at his little prank.
“Och prat is it?” asked Willie. “You’ll nae say that when you ken what I ken. I’ve been listening to yon fellows, and I’m minded of some very interesting news. Where’s Roddy? Will he nae be at his devotions today?” He twisted about, expecting to see the Spaniard propping up a pillar.
“Ach. He’ll stroll by later maybe. He has some odd ideas about what a man should or shouldn’t do on a Sunday. Bloody Spaniard. So come on then, what’s the news?”
Willie turned his full attention back to Heughan. “The queen is frae from well. As she has neither chick nir bairn to come after her, they say that she’ll like as name
her ‘sweet cousin’ as successor, and they’re in a right pickle to get the renovations done in case the teuchters comes south o’ the border any time soon.”
Heughan took a moment to digest what Willie had said. “You mean that the Scottish Court is coming to visit Carlisle?”
“Aye well, it’s no fa’ certain,” prevaricated Willie, “But they might if there was reason enough to.”
“Or if we could persuade them?” said a hopeful Heughan. “See if you can have quiet word with young Nick and find out if he knows anything else. Maybe offer to stand him a drink later?”
“Aye, well, as long as you’re paying and I dinnae ha’e to ta’e that evil bastard Black Ned wi’ us an’ all,” agreed Willie.
“I’ll pay as long as I’m paid myself today,” said Heughan. “So stop yammering like a gossiping woman and find me some custom.”
“Whisht! Wummin, is it?” said Willie indignantly. “Do I look like ‘Davy the Lady’ Armstrong to you? ‘Oooh Heughan,’” he minced, “‘you have such lovely eyes and your big sword is so long!’”
Heughan laughed in spite of himself. Willie had the measure of the man, even down to his distinctive gait but Davy the Lady was the younger brother of Sim the Laird Armstrong. Neither were men to be trifled with. Heughan thought grimly of their last abortive raid against the Armstrongs. The woman he’d killed was one of Sim’s, and he wouldn’t let it rest there.
“Piss off, Willie,” he said.
Willie tried a different tack. “‘Mind your manners and do as I say, yon naughty bad man, else I’ll cut your balls off and feed them to the chickens,’” Willie twirled, with a perfect mimicry of Melisande’s flouncing. Heughan scowled and tried to kick him but Willie was too nimble with the easy skill born from long practice. He laughed at Heughan’s discomfort. “Aye, laddie, she might have healed yer leg well enough but mind she doesn’t get into yer heid. She’s a crabbit skunner and no mistake!”
“I keep telling you, she’s no harm to me. Anyway, she’s not my type,” Heughan said evenly, meeting Willie’s mocking gaze.
“Aye, laddie. Nor you hers, so they say,” sniggered Willie cryptically.
The Jesuit brother was forced to kneel before the tall cleric in penitent submission. Within the hidden anchorite cell overlooking the high altar, they were locked deep, relics of another era and an older religion.
The Cathedral building had spiralled over the centuries, splitting as it pushed out and sideways like a crab enlarging its shell. Although the main supporting wall in the transept was a hodgepodge of architectural styles, its stoic heart was of Imperial construction; Rome’s best. Stoicism must have been sorely tested in such a posting on the inhospitable fringes of the Empire but the walls that Hadrian’s masons had built to keep England and Scotland divided still stood tall. They knew their business.
Past the anchorite cell indistinct prayerful murmurings, hope and guilt intermingled, were carried up to the vaulting bright blue and gold stars of the Cathedral heavens. All the way up to a pasty-faced god, who stared out from his gilded boss with empty eyes.
“Brother Vincent,” said the shadowy voice, “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“I am no longer known by that name,” he said.
The cleric chuckled darkly. “You may have forsaken the Church, but the Hounds of God will always sniff you out no matter how far you run, no matter where you try to hide, no matter what name you call yourself.”
“What do you want?” said Brother Vincent, driving directly to the point.
Under the cover of his cowl the cleric shook his head, “Nothing other than to make your acquaintance. For the time being, I am content for you to go on being whoever and whatever you are.” He watched as the man sagged with relief before adding, “However, there may come a time when I will need to call upon you.”
“No.” The man was adamant. “Leave me in peace. I have paid for my sins many times over.”
There was a dark sigh, “Ah but the sins were so very many, weren’t they? You are well named, aren’t you, Brother? Named for a saint who betrayed his friend, famous for bringing the dead back to life and rescuing orphans. Or are you that other holy Vincent, who sacrificed himself rather than send a book into the flames? It’s the very parody of your own life story, isn’t it?”
“I have paid my debts,” he repeated quietly.
“No,” said the other, “you have tried to cheat us, stealing for yourself and forgetting what you promised. It must be the bad influence of the company you keep,” he smirked. “There will come a day when you will have to give an account of yourself, perhaps sooner rather than later. That would be a good time to ask for mercy, but don’t expect any from me. You have the heart of a traitor and I would pluck it out, burn it in front of you and smear your own head with the ashes before I’d believe you’re penitent. When you are squirming in the hell-fires and begging to die, then I’ll consider the debts repaid.”
Brother Vincent held his tongue.
“We’ve had a message, ‘The chatelaine holds the key’. What does this mean to you?”
“Nothing. It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” replied Brother Vincent.
“No more lies, please. I know that a certain package found its way to you. What happened to the messenger after they delivered it?”
Brother Vincent frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I swear.”
“What was Dr Dee searching for and did he find it here?”
“I don’t know,” repeated Brother Vincent.
“Perhaps not. However, you will make it your business to know, and when you find out, we will speak again. Until then, you may go.” He waved a vague blessing, “In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritu Sancti and so on and so forth. You don’t believe it anyway, do you, you old rogue?”
The sole witness waited until the departing footsteps had died away to faint and distant echoes. Only then did the reiver detach himself from the shadows, standing silently and attentively.
“Keep a close eye on him,” the cleric commanded in a thoughtful tone, slipping a rose seal ring from his finger and passing it to Hamish. “And send word to me when you know what he’s doing. Watch your back though, he’s a dangerous enemy.”
When Mass was finished and the godly dispersed to Sunday pleasantries and appropriate observances, Heughan found Willie hunkered in a corner of the ‘Half Tun’ tavern at the far end of Peascod Lane. A quick conversation confirmed what Willie had earlier outlined to Heughan in the Cathedral. Heughan supped his ale thoughtfully and conjectured, not for the first time, how much advance intelligence Rodrigues had, what games the Spaniard was playing.
Rodrigues had used the excuse of Sim’s latest attack on Heughan to suggest that he needed an unassailable base in Carlisle, under the tacit protection of its Lord Warden. Ross Middlemore held no love for the Armstrongs. So there he was; borrowing a whore’s soft feather bed instead of sleeping wrapped in his cloak. Heughan was accustomed to a more nomadic existence, alternating between England and Ireland, following the cattle, his obligations and his hunches.
Melisande’s involvement was a new and entirely unwelcome development. All the long years he and Rodrigues had ridden out together in the Borders, he had never once, as far as Heughan could remember, mentioned any familiarity. He wondered if he hadn’t been paying close enough attention and had missed the important details. Jon O’ might have been right when he said I couldn’t see what was under my nose, he agreed reluctantly. Was it happenstance that he’d so seldom crossed paths with the witch, or a more sinister manipulation on Rodrigues’s part?
Rodrigues was his loyal partner, a man to be trusted, for all that he was a Spaniard. Prudence cautioned him to keep an open mind and ask more questions. Heughan thought back to what he knew of the Lord Warden of the Border Marches. Ambrose Middlemore had a deliberate understanding with the reivers; he was happy to ignore them, so long as they paid him well for the privilege. It was unusual for a Warden
to conduct his business personally. Most preferred the comforts of the capital but Ross Middlemore was currently out of favour at court and banished to the lonely wilderness of his office. He had earned his promotion under Lord Scrope, Warden of the English West Marches. It was a nominated title, easily revoked, and Ross was desperate to secure the permanent entail, but for whom? His sons had been killed a number of years ago. Heughan wondered if Melisande was just Ross’s woman or connected to him in such a way that she would benefit from his right of succession. He remembered their encounter at Great Orton and frowned. Then she had seemed genuinely afraid of Ross. He swigged some more yeasty ale and reprimanded himself for being soft. The Castle witch thought like a man and acted like a thief. Bugger if she wasn’t a perfect reiver! If circumstances were different, he would have had her to bed before now and called her ‘wife’. He laughed at his own folly.
Life had become very complicated lately. He hated the politics but it was a means to an end. He had old and valued friendships, owed allegiances to powerful men and was himself responsible for many others. As much as he might desire, he could not, would not, shirk his responsibilities. Between his troubles with the Maxwells and Sim’s Armstrongs, there was a reckoning to be had.
Don’t make a custom and don’t break a custom.
Willie had been watching his silent deliberations and was quick to recognise the set of his chin. “Aye, my laird,” he said. “What’s it to be? Say the word.”
“We ride,” said Heughan.
They left before dusk, riding out of the various gates in small parties to avert suspicion. There were more than twenty of them in the raiding party tonight, including Black Ned, riding across the countryside by snaking paths in a long strung-out line. Heughan wasn’t happy about it but he needed the manpower and Ned was coldly brutal in a fight. Rodrigues had been ridiculous, refusing to ride on a Sunday. Scouts foraged ahead, with Hamish on his fast pony, and reported back. Heughan had Willie and Seamus hang back and watch the rear of the column.