The Fool's Mirror

by Alex Dylan

  Heughan let Willie do all the talking, grateful for his trusting friendship that anchored him. He listened and let his breathing slow. Only when Willie showed Heughan the small jar and gold coin did he find himself ready to speak. He unstoppered the jar and shook out three black cherries into his palm, sniffing cautiously. He crushed one between his fingers and tasted the sweet, inky black juice with the tip of his tongue. Then he spat it quickly away. “Dwayberry, I reckon,” said Heughan seriously. “Could just be women’s medicine but it’s nasty all the same. Likely, she uses it for one of those potions she brews herself.” He stroked the twin-tailed mermaid, another symbol he remembered was also etched on Melisande’s waist, “Aye, don’t remind me; she’s a sleekit kelpie. You were right.”

  Willie puffed himself up at the acknowledgement and wisely made no additional comment. He’d won his bet but at what cost? Heughan turned the gold coin over, looking at the worn markings and gave it back to Willie.

  “Where did Melisande get gold like this?”

  Willie shrugged. “It tastes real enough, but Hamish reckons it’s faerie gold. P’rhaps she brews it up with a potion? Is that her sort of magic?” he asked.

  He was half hoping that Heughan would laugh, but the big man was quietly thoughtful. Worryingly so.

  Heughan for his part was amused with Willie’s utter confidence in him. Willie genuinely expected Heughan to have everything figured out by breakfast. Heughan imagined him rolling home to his Jenny and his boys with a tale that began, “You’ll never guess what we found out last night…”

  That was Willie’s little secret. He went in the straight lines of tamed domesticity. Walked to a problem. Walked away again. Home to his wife and back to Heughan. Out with the riders, in with the cattle, other people’s cattle. It was just a way of life. Take the money, back to Jenny, like the tide shuffling to and fro. Heughan neither envied Willie nor judged him. He had been his friend forever. How could he begrudged him his happiness, wherever, however he found it?

  Where would he find his own happiness though? Somewhere where he could be free to make his own choices. At the helm of his own ship, following a star to the blurred lines. He was thinking about Roddy’s stories of Josef Moriscos and the magical book, the ‘Key of Solomon’. What if Melisande was her father’s best pupil? That might mean that her book could contain not only hidden maps and stars but more treacherous matters such as how to make poisons, or set the faeries to rob a man of his eyes in exchange for their gold. Heughan pulled himself up. He’d spent too much time listening to his superstitious lads! Then again, Melisande had interpreted the signs in the heavens for him, so perhaps she also knew the secrets of alchemy. Could a woman wield that much power? He doubted it. She felt softly yielding under him just the same as any other woman, and yet there was something indefinable about her. He didn’t want to believe that Melisande spoke with faeries. That would antagonise Willie to no end. There were too many questions and he needed his answers.

  “Listen, Willie,” Heughan said with some urgency. “I saw a rider come in not so long since. Something’s going on. No, I don’t know what,” he said, anticipating Willie’s questions even as he opened his mouth to speak. “Here’s what we do. Find Hamish and tell him to ride out to Burgh and keep his eyes open. We’re looking for a party of some four hundred men. They might be together. They might be spread out. They’ll be somewhere between here and the Firth. Tell him to take care. He’s to come back and pass word to Roddy.”

  Willie nodded.

  “Get away now and take the lads as we planned. Bring Aluino and I’ll meet up with you after sun-up. At the sandbanks, the bend in the river; you know the place. James Stewart will have to take the same route to York regardless. I wouldn’t have thought the royal party would make an early start, especially since Mark A’Court stayed tonight in Carlisle. If they break off for the hunt, we should be able to intercept them somewhere along the way and drive them as easily as rounding up cattle.”

  Willie grinned cheerfully. “Aye, and we’ve had plenty of practice.”

  Heughan slapped him across the shoulders encouragingly. “Go on,” he said. “I’ve got to get back to bed.”

  Willie was serious again, his eyes flicking to Heughan’s throat. “Aye, well mind yourself. She’s sleekit more than magical,” he warned as he slipped away into the contracting night.

  Melisande the magical? Heughan smiled inwardly. She was the dark of the mirror, drawing him into her.

  * * *

  Long after cock crow the next day, Heughan was unaccustomedly still in a deliciously warm and very comfortable bed. He was in no hurry to move, luxuriating in Melisande’s sensuality. She eased out of the bed and left him softly snoring, giggling under her breath at his oddly masculine snickering. It reminded her that she had a horse with the heaves to look after. She threw on her working clothes and wooden pattens. A high-stepping palfrey pranced softly across Heughan’s dreams as she clip-clopped her way out of the room and faded out of earshot.

  Bleary-eyed servants had risen before dawn. Many of them had not enjoyed the indulgence of sleep and were stumbling about at one with the dazed livestock constrained in the courtyard and waiting to be turned out to grazing.

  Melisande was fretting over the horse, wondering if she should ask Rodrigues for his opinion. As she was about to lead the gelding out into the restorative fresh air, she spotted familiar small flowers in the strewn hay; heather and common bog grass, plus a few withered stems of rosemary from her herb garden, snagged on a nail with some long blonde hairs. She picked them up, rolling the leaves between her fingers to release the sharp, woody fragrance that stabbed at deeper memories. “Bastard,” she swore under her breath, now having a shrewd idea how Heughan had come to have dried grass lodged in his hair the previous night. Who told you to bring flowers? She couldn’t exactly define her feelings but was vaguely disappointed to discover that she was, after all, just another of Heughan’s casual romances.

  Queen of Cups, reversed. A wronged woman.

  Ah well, Mele, she reminded herself, if you want to play, you should sort out three things first: the rules, the stakes and the quitting time. Heughan, I think it’s about time you left.

  Heughan was oblivious that he had just overstayed his welcome.

  Breakfast was a mean affair, Heughan decided, after the extravagance of what had been offered the previous night. He was quite famished and had hoped there would be marmalade but all Melisande had to offer him was a common breakfast of sourdough rye bread and cold meat. He wolfed it down. Melisande didn’t even have time to banish him; he left in such a hurry.

  Lettice spotted Heughan walking purposefully across the Ward towards the Gatehouse just as she was discretely emerging from the guest chamber in De Ireby’s Tower. She had spent a satisfactory night, for which she had been well-paid. Feeling pleased with herself as she crossed onto the outer staircase, she was about to wave to Heughan and catch his attention when he put his hand up. She thought he was signalling to her until he simply raked his hair back off his face. Her sharp eyes missed nothing and she saw the purpling mark on his neck, not quite hidden by his shirt. She stood back into the shadow of the doorway, silently watching with bright green eyes as he passed her by obliviously.

  She sniffed in loud disapproval, smoothed her skirts and headed into town, to the market place where a certain young man who was good with his hands was likely to be buying something to sustain him on his way to the Cathedral and work. Lettice decided that it was high time her apprentice started to think of how much he was prepared to invest in his future, not just his breakfast. She had a sample of his work tucked into her bodice and he needed to answer a few questions about why he was carving fancy gingerbread designs for another woman. Her companion last night had been oddly concerned about the same matter. If Nick Storey had a satisfactory explanation, she would educate him as to what exactly his money could buy and how he could advance his position.

  Chapter 13: Hangman Blind

>   Eden Valley

  It being both Truce Day and market day, there was no difficulty in Heughan slipping out of the gate as a welter of traders pressed inwards and onto the Scots Road. Country women argued spiritedly with the clerk and guards collecting tolls on the gate for produce. Parties of burly men were already gathering in small clumps at the roadsides, preparing themselves to shoulder their way through in a show of masculine solidarity, waiting and judging the moment to do so when there was least risk of antagonising the red-faced, brawny women who could snap the necks of chickens with peremptory indifference. Bravado required delicate timing. No one wanted to cause offence. Every man was armed but all hoped the Truce Day peace would last until they were safe by their own firesides.

  Heughan wended his way against the tide of humanity flowing into the city. He had passed the milestone at Rickerby before he was clear of bleating sheep, cackling geese, panniers of clucking chickens and the cacophony of farmers’ wives, all littering spoiled produce across the highway.

  Glad of the solitude, he tramped along the lazy curves of the Eden to make his rendezvous in a grove beyond the sandbanks. Willie had brought up Aluino and with Heughan mounted and armed, the party of stern men set off.

  By mid-morning when the Cathedral bells began to chime sonorously, commerce was brisk in a packed market place. Lowing cattle at the edge of the Greenmarket set up a tremendous din, which was augmented by the shouts and cries of the street traders. Self-important burghers of the eight guilds met in the Guildhall, with its brightly coloured flags and banners fluttering in the late spring breeze. Young apprentices accosted passing customers, encouraging them into the shuttered stalls of the solid houses which fronted the Market Square in a flaunting display of premium prosperity.

  The Lanes by comparison were a criss-cross of mean gable-ends and narrow alleyways, shouldering for sunlight. Along Grape Lane, knots of people exchanged gossip and coin more furtively. Sally did a roaring trade, as always when happy men were flush with cash and eager to enjoy themselves. Rodrigues had barricaded himself in the counting house with his strong box, as was his normal routine. Only those who came to make deposits with him, either of coin or of information, were to be ushered into safeguarded secrecy, with the doors bolted tight behind them. Black Ned had been posted as a guard but found distractions surrounding him. When it became apparent that Rodrigues was not to be disturbed, he left him to his own devices and ambled off to find amusement elsewhere. Black Ned was a man of basic pleasures. If he wasn’t going to be able to knock a few heads together on Rodrigues’s account, he would pick his own fights.

  Hawkers and peddlers touted for custom with noisy cries. There was the delighted hubbub of business being well-conducted; the normality of trade, the bartering and exchange of both legal and illicit merchandise.

  By the time the bellman pushed his way through the crowds, swinging the clapper heavily and shouting ‘Oyez, oyez!’ the city was eager for fresh news. A thrum of anticipation went up when those closest to the steps realised that a royal herald accompanied the town crier. Neighbours standing shoulder to shoulder shushed one another to hear a proclamation read.

  In a clear voice the herald began, “In the name of His most gracious Majesty, King James, burghers and citizens of Carlisle be advised that the late Marches and Borders of the two realms of England and Scotland are now at the heart of a united country. Those who have frequently and maliciously conspired to harry the governance of England and Scotland have disturbed the tranquillity of the nation and have failed in their obedience towards the king. Proclamation is to be made against all rebels and disorderly persons; no supply shall be given them, their wives or their bairns. That any person who does knowingly receive, harbour, comfort or succour a reiver is as guilty as if he himself bore arms.”

  The herald paused for dramatic effect. He didn’t expect the substantial crowd to start laughing.

  “Och aye, is that all ye have to say for yoursen,” mocked a voice. “We’ve heard it all before from the good bishop of Glasgow. He didn’t leave anything out the last time, and I doubt you’ve any extra to add. We get it, we’re all cursed anyhow. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”

  “Or forty head of cattle!” piped up another.

  There were jocular outbursts and catcalling around the crowd. The herald was dumfounded. He wasn’t used to being made a laughing-stock. When there was a lull, he made a brave effort on carry on, “All those guilty of the foul and insolent outrages lately committed in the Borders are required to submit themselves to the mercy of His Majesty under penalty of being excluded from it for ever.”

  There was a moment’s hush and then as one the crowd roared with angry voice. “He ain’t king here yet.”

  The bellman found himself pulled backwards into the crowd, losing both his hat and bell as he was dragged down. Grasping hands reached for the herald, who clung to the pillar of the Carel Cross like a drowning man on a ship’s mast and shouted his final message.

  “His Majesty commands the names of the Borders are no longer to be used.” Black Ned Storey in fighting mood was one of the first to reach him.

  “Eat those words and fuck off back to Scotland, you miserable weasel shit!” he growled at the terrified herald.

  “Aye, Ned!” cheered others behind him. “Make him a meal of it, for he looks like he’s about to lose the last one he had!”

  They guffawed as Ned grabbed the proclamation and tore strips off it, shoving them roughly into the herald’s mouth. The man began to choke and turn blue.

  “Turn him up!” they shouted as Ned hauled him upside down by his ankles and slapped him on the back until he vomited the parchment back up. The crowd were callously raucous and laughed at the spectacle.

  “King, be damned!” shouted Ned to the crowd below him. “There’s no law here but reivers’ say.” The crowd cheered back with encouragement. “Right you are, Ned!”

  Someone grabbed a hurdle from one of the cattle pens and passed it over the heads of the crowd to the steps. With cries of “Scrag him!” and “Royal arseholes!” ringing in his ears Ned bent the herald over the hurdle and pulled down his breeches, exposing his naked backside to the crowd. They roared their approval. Someone passed Ned a horse’s bridle, which he swung around his head.

  “We’ll ne’er stop riding on the say-so of some arse, royal or not!” he shouted to a chorus of cheers as he whipped the leather straps across the herald’s buttocks. Other men clamoured for his attention, grabbing the bridle from him, keen to leave their own mark on the hapless herald.

  Some wit called out, “Leave him to Buggerback Elliot,” and a scuffle broke out.

  Soon there were pockets of men swinging and punching as they settled their own scores. Unsteady feet slithered on the cobbles and the dung as the scrum struggled to right itself. The unfortunate were kicked underfoot and had to crawl away through the cattle pens, trying to avoid a stamping.

  Afterwards, no one could remember when, in the general mayhem, the soldiers had appeared or how they had managed to encircle the town centre without anyone raising the alarm. In the confusion of the melee, no one even noticed that the three city gates had been firmly shut. The trap had been closed.

  Mark A’Court’s troops were trained, disciplined and ruthless. They were more than a match for the scrapping reivers and the fights were quickly subdued by the simple expediency of herding people together so densely packed that they didn’t have room to swing a punch and were rendered immobile. Pike men armed with wickedly sharp halberds as well as their long pikes held the shafts cross armed and fenced the crowds.

  They pushed against the mass of humanity and forced a path for Mark A’Court, who clanked angrily through, two high spots of colour burning on his cheeks. When he reached Ned Storey, he smashed a straight-armed mailed fist into his nose, felling him with one blow. Ned crumpled in a mess of blood and crushed bone and was held on either side by two guards.

  Mark A’Court pulled the barely conscious
herald off the hurdle and signalled to another two guards. They hauled him away face down with his feet dragging across the cobbles but his dignity restored.

  Mark A’Court stood on the uppermost step of the Carel Cross and spoke with the quiet confidence of one accustomed to being obeyed. The crowd was stilled.

  "You would do well to think before you dare to defy a king, especially this one. There is no mercy here except through His Majesty’s divine intervention. Think on that and hear what I have to say. There is one king and one rule of law for the whole of the land. The Borders are no more. England and Scotland are no more, do you hear me? One country, one king, one law.

  “You will, all of you, submit. The days of the riding surnames are over. Armstrongs and Grahams, Elliots, Johnstones or Maxwells, Kerrs, Moffats, Storeys, Tailors or Routledges, it matters not. Your names are no more. On the king’s authority, and on pain of death, their use is forbidden to you. Heidsmen submit yourselves to His Majesty’s justices and beg for his mercy or it will go hard with you, I promise.”

  An upright burly man elbowed his way through the crowds and shouted defiantly at Mark A’Court. “What name am I supposed to use if not my own?”

  He turned to the crowd, “Who can I be, if not me, not a Routledge?”

  A cheer rippled through the crowd until the nearest pike man hit him on the forehead with the metal studded shaft of his weapon. Two others had him by the arms before his knees hit the ground.

  Mark A’Court walked down the steps and grabbed his chin in his gloved hand, squeezing until he saw the man wince. He looked him in the eye, which was swelling shut and dripping clotted blood.

  “Haul him up,” he said brusquely.

  The two guards holding Adam Routledge pulled him to his feet, facing Mark A’Court. Adam squared himself and looked into Mark’s green eyes.