by Alex Dylan
“Leave her ghosts in the past,” Rodrigues said. “There’s nothing to be gained by disturbing the dead.”
Heughan pulled John Johnson’s paper over to him and looked at it again.
“I don’t want to know all her secrets. I just want to know if she can help. Where is she now?” he asked Rodrigues. “If we are going to break the lads out of the Castle, we’ll need someone on the inside, like the Armstrongs did, and she’s our best chance.”
Rodrigues shook his head in disbelief, “Ye gods and little fishes, Heughan! You really have no idea about women, do you? What are you going to do? Go down on one knee to Melisande, declare undying love and offer to make her part of a seditious prison break all in the same breath?”
Salt and the Solway and sedition, thought Heughan. “We need to speak with Melisande.”
* * *
Melisande had worked with unhurried persistence although dampness stroked her ankles. Water was always the only element able to slip by unnoticed. Here, it slithered with green malevolence, surreptitiously wearing away the walls of the prison. Sound couldn’t penetrate the air of the old dungeons, which was already thick with silenced voices.
The body was laid out on a large sandstone slab with gouged channels designed to allow blood to drain away. She tried not to think about its original purpose.
She examined the body and made an addition to an anatomical drawing in her precise, neat hand. His death-veiled eyes scrutinised her. The head lolled to the side where she had turned it away, the purpled tongue protruding through the teeth. Truth will speak out, even though the tongue is stilled, she thought.
Working down from the neck, she had reached the abdomen, which was flayed open, flaps of wax-white skin grotesquely preserving the dead man’s modesty. His ribs protruded as the hull of a wrecked ship. With one hand inside the chest cavity, she was prodding carefully, searching for the path of the knife blade that had killed him, when uninvited shadows barred her meagre light.
The sight of her clawing slaughtered entrails was the stuff of Heughan’s worst nightmares and rooted him to the threshold in horror. Rodrigues crossed himself instinctively, “Madre de Dios.”
Melisande withdrew her hands and wiped them on the front of her apron.
“What, in the name of Christ, have you done to him, Melisande?” Rodrigues hissed at her.
She hesitated momentarily, looking at Heughan, who stared blankly with empty eyes. She shrugged, not understanding the intent behind the question. Rodrigues strode over to her. He dragged his thumb and fourth finger down the man’s eyes and closed them with finality. He sketched a quick benediction over the corpse before rounding on Melisande with righteous indignation. He raised his hand to strike her, quivered at the apex of the arc and clenched his hand into a fist. Melisande stood her ground. Her eyes glittered with malevolent, impotent tears at the betrayal of his threat.
Seething, he reined in his anger and dropped his arm, lashing out to swipe the book and her tools from the table and onto the floor. She bent to pick them up but he grabbed her by the shoulders and swung her around to face him.
“How dare you?” he hurled at her. “You condemn this poor soul to an eternity of suffering. Who the hell do you think you are, girl?”
“You know full well who I am,” she snapped back at him. She squared her shoulders, “I am my father’s daughter. Did you not know that I must be about my father’s business?”
The crack of Rodrigues’s hand hitting her face ricocheted around the chamber, shattering into tortured colliding fragments. Rodrigues clenched his fist and held it still with one forefinger extended in accusation, though the rest of him shook rigidly with barely suppressed fury.
“Do not subvert those holy words for such a blasphemy,” he panted, struggling with the effort of speaking evenly. Melisande kept her head turned away from him. “You have split him open like a gutted pig, loosed his soul and forever denied him the Lord’s redemption.”
“Redemption?” snarled Melisande with spirited disbelief. “For a reiver? A bloody ruffian who robbed and raped until someone knifed him. His Judgment Day has been and gone.”
She shook herself free from Rodrigues, rubbing her hand down her face as angry tears tracked rivulets through the smeared gore.
Spitefully, she thrust her hand back into the chest cavity. “Come feel for yourself, you doubting Thomas,” she goaded. “You’re always telling me you don’t believe in gods and priests, but I call you for the hypocrite you are.” She snatched a small wooden box and turned it so they could see that it contained a human heart, nestled in a box of salty white crystals. The shock on Rodrigues’s face perversely gratified her.
“This is a slab of meat, nothing more. I’m just trying to understand how it all fits together and make some sense of his death, so I can help those who yet live.”
Rodrigues stood shaking his head. “You can’t do this, you go too far,” he kept repeating. In the fury of their old disagreement, they had forgotten Heughan.
Melisande had stripped the clothes from the corpse and abandoned them in a hasty pile. Heughan stared at the familiar patches on the jack. He hardly dared look at the cleft body with its arms akimbo and meat hewn from bone. Sour bile gouged the back of his throat. He was ashamed at his relief in finding no sense of recognition in the distorted features.
Although he was accustomed to facing death, it was in the heat of battle when blood ran hot. Reivers died violently and with unexpected brutality, finding consolation when they transcended epic ballads. This cold end unnerved him.
Jack’s right, he thought. The fighting’s merry and the songs are sad.
He gave the corpse one last pitying glance, intending to leave. The broken body before him spoke with dumb eloquence. Beyond the putrefaction, the man had a name. It was Hamish.
Sorrow swept over Heughan in a huge drowning wave. Anger rushed in behind and clutched at his heart with scraping claws. In a trice, he was across the table, with his hand round Melisande’s throat, propelling her backwards in a macabre dance. The wall met them abruptly, winding Melisande and knocking all the air from her lungs. She scrabbled at Heughan’s hands, arms flailing wildly, feet kicking at the ground. He had her neck stretched upwards, her eyes were wild with panic. As in the far distance, Heughan heard his own voice shouting at her, spittle-flecked screaming of the man’s family, the desecration of his friend, one of his own. Her eyes were fluttering; she faded in front of him. He discarded her on the ground in disgust, where she lay collapsed and sucking air in heaving gasps like a stranded fish. Heughan turned his back on her.
He stood staring into the dark void, unwilling to face Hamish, unable to face Melisande. When her gasping slowed, his voice had the menace of stark control.
“You are wrong. I care. Hamish was my man, my friend and my family. Not by blood, but by bond.”
“I am sorry, Heughan,” she rasped.
He cringed to hear it. “Why do this? Why kill him?”
“I didn’t kill him. No one came to claim the body,” she whispered and then, realising her callousness too late, corrected, “No one came to claim him.”
“How could they when his family live beyond Annan?” he growled. “How could they when Ross and those Scottish bastards have all the roads so closely watched?” he shook his head. “Ross has guards on every gate in and out. Do you honestly think that strangers coming into the city to collect a hanged man would be allowed to leave unmolested?” he winced at his own candour. “They’d as like end up on the end of a rope themselves.”
‘He didn’t hang, he was…’ she started to say but Heughan interrupted her, “Give it to me.”
He didn’t trust himself to look at Melisande. He snatched at the box. “His heart at least will find some rest.”
He half turned his head to Rodrigues. “Take care of him, no matter what the cost. Pay in coin or pay on your knees. I don’t much care which but make sure you buy him lasting peace. And if you can’t afford it, fucking well ste
al it for him!”
Rodrigues jumped after him as Heughan strode angrily out. He skipped up the stone stairs, trying to keep pace with the bigger man, clutching at his elbow but grasping only handfuls of air. Puffed, he reached the courtyard in time to see a grim-set Heughan swing himself into the saddle of the nearest horse. The surprised groom jostled with him for control, but Heughan kicked him away and clattered across the drawbridge. The soldiers jumped out the way with angry shouts but let him leave; the return journey would be a different matter. The Spaniard knew in his soul that Heughan would take the road out to the Beeftub and prayed that he would stay away from the Solway crossing. He had too many deaths on his conscience already.
Belatedly, he thought of Melisande. He turned and descended to the charnel house.
It took some time for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom after the comparative brightness of the outside day, and he couldn’t find her. The candle flame guttered momentarily, catching Rodrigues’s eye. Frowning, he picked his way to the gilded lettering flirting with the light. Hamish had given him the surprise of an unexpected reunion. It seemed it was the day for it. He picked up Melisande’s book, stroking the soft leather of the cover with the confused tenderness of a lover long-denied. It fell open to the centre pages, where thirty naked women tethered themselves to stars and stared at the sun and moon in the heavens. Not noticing the cards spilling onto the floor in a quiet cascade, he hugged the book to him and stole away without a further thought of Melisande.
She had huddled into a corner, where she shrunk the space around her, silently weeping her anguish, with no mercy from the cold and the dead.
* * *
Some time later the scurrying of rats scratched at her uneasy sleep. She woke cold and stiff on the damp cellar floor, listening to the blackness waiting in the corners. Her candle had martyred itself a long time since, forlornly melting into a misshapen lump. She felt for the rough edges of the sandstone to haul herself upright.
Hamish was still her ghoulish companion, now just a pale outline under a shroud. She tried to ignore him and searched with her hands, feeling for her book, frowning when she couldn’t find it. Her foot slipped on a card on the floor; she bent carefully, patting the ground until she had retrieved all of them. She needed to find another light and stretched her hands out in front of her to find a way through to the stairs, a Lazarus leaving the tomb.
The Outer Ward was empty and the hour late. She spied lights in Lady Mary’s Tower and started to walk towards it. The darkness of the night clawed her back, covered her mouth and pulled her sideways into the doorway of De Ireby’s Tower. The big man held her close and sighed stale wine fumes across her cheek, saying nothing until they both were still.
“Melisande, my little meddlesome mistress; where have you been?” Ross rasped. He fumbled with her breasts and she squealed in protest.
“Shhhhh,” he breathed heavily.
She struggled against him, trying to snicker her lips above his fingers to bite him. He struck the side of her head sharply with his beefy forearm, pinched her breast hard until he made tears run.
“No, don’t struggle, Melisande. Don’t make me whip you with the bull pizzle. Not again.”
He felt her obey. “Good girl,” he said approvingly, groping his free hand down her belly, feeling for her thighs. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, my poppet?”
She wriggled underneath his hold as he clutched her skirts upwards; he punched her in the back. “Don’t make me work too hard, I want to save my strength for you.” He kissed the nape of her neck, pulling her tighter as she tried to squirm away from him.
“The young whores are soft and pliable, easy to bend, easy to break,” he whispered to the back of her head. “But they don’t know as many tricks as the old ones, do they, aye, my little minx?”
Ross caressed her hip and buttock slowly with one hand, stroking her like a horse. She tensed, expecting a blow.
“Good child-birthing hips you have, such a waste not to put them to use, don’t you think? You could still bear me a son, Melisande, secure our line, secure our fortunes,” he said urgently.
Tears were streaming down her face, her sobs overpowered by the press of his hand. He groped again for her skirts,
“How long has it been since you had a man’s prick, Melisande?” he laughed nastily. “I know all about your secret little ways. I know about your whores and your filthy, unnatural habits; you’re an espier who steals secrets from the king and a witch who perverts nature.”
He ripped the front of her bodice, letting her breasts tumble out and squeezed one, testing its ripeness, “Are these witch’s teats, Melisande?” he asked and bent his head to suckle lustily.
She closed her eyes, not wanting to look, trying to block her ears to the wet slurping noises he was making.
“It’s only my silence that has kept you from the stake,” he slurred. “Nothing comes for nothing, Melisande. I have my price, same as you.”
She felt his desperate fumbling and shook her head.
Ross pressed her against the door with his weight, the iron bolts pushed hard into her back. She met his eyes with silent pleading, shook her head again. He laughed cruelly, washing her with the stink of sour lees. She pushed a hand into her skirts, searching. He caught at her wrist and slapped her hard across the face, drawing blood before he grabbed her hair, banged her head, thumping it against the wood of the door.
“No tricks, whore. You’ll not slice me with your knife.”
He held her wrist tight and forced her hand out, frowning when she held open the gold discs on her palm. She wiped her lip, gingerly running her tongue around to swallow the blood.
“Every whore knows payment is always made in coin,” she said hesitantly, unsure of his temper. She watched the glint of gold in Ross’s eyes. He was calculating.
“Where did you get this from? Have you taken to coining now?” Ross laughed nastily. “You know the punishment for that is the same as killing your husband?”
Melisande ignored his jibe. “It was a gift. It’s not just a coin; there’s a luck penny too, for healing and protection.”
Ross laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t need a witch’s protection. I’ve got my own. It’s coin, Melisande, nothing else. How many have you got?” he said, smacking greedy lips.
“Enough that you’ll leave me alone to get them for you,” she lied.
Ross released her, “When?”
“I don’t know. It’ll take me time to collect them,” she bargained.
“You’ve got until Whitsun,” sneered Ross. “Or I’ll collect in kind.”
He moved to kiss her and she turned her head to block him. He stopped and laughed at her instead, lumbering away into the night. Melisande braced herself against the door until the stars made no noise. She pulled her torn clothes together and edged round to the postern gate, slipping away into the night, away into the city, to find some safety.
* * *
“I hate goodbyes, Hamish,” Heughan spoke to the wind.
It rustled through the bleached grass. Heughan felt the haunting of the place and shivered in spite of himself. The brow of the hill overlooked the bowl of the Beeftub. From here he could see the far horizon, where grassy ripples ebbed and flowed. When it was full of cattle, it was a gladdening sight. Void and empty like this, it was desolate. Tears welled in his eyes. He lied to himself and blamed the raw wind cresting the hill.
“I should have been with you, lad. We could have gone down fighting. You should have been with me, looking for a king who never came. At least you’d still be alive.”
Heughan felt wretched, guilty at sending Hamish to his death, traitorous for enjoying that night of pleasure with Melisande, hopeless for having failed in the mission he had set himself. Although he directed most of the anger at himself, there was plenty left over for others. Chiefly, he blamed Rodrigues for sending him chasing after a woman in the first place, but his contempt extended to Melisande for making him doubt the
Spaniard.
A small cairn marked Hamish’s final resting place. Heughan had buried the box deeply and piled stones over the top to protect it from scavengers. He corrected himself; to protect it from any more scavengers.
Abruptly, he thought of Melisande again. All his problems recently traced back to her. Rodrigues was right; she had made a fool of him. Anger coursed through him. The pain of the land at every senseless death it had witnessed found a channel through him and rushed into existence in an overwhelming surge.
Heughan was blazing mad.
He rode from the Beeftub through the night, dropped his horse at Annan, leapt onto a ready saddled-up post horse and set off at breakneck speed for Carlisle.
His anger spurred him on. He was in his rhythm; heart, lungs, head and hooves beating out the time. Nothing could stop him when he felt like this. He could go all night in the saddle or even on foot if he had to, face into the sleet, wind and the drilling border rain that was like no other.
Rodrigues would be a whisper in his slipstream by now. The Spaniard, young or old, could not live with him at this pace. Soft-skinned dago, he thought, the wire core of Border reiver unravelling. If he lost his sword and daggers, Heughan still had his teeth to rip off an ear or a man’s lips. There was nothing like a reiver kiss to install fear in your enemies.
I warned him to keep her away from me, he told himself. Don’t let a woman come between us. Now there has to be a reckoning. Two of Swords. I have made my choice. It’ll be the same choice I’ve always made; true to myself, mastered by none.
His sweat was thick and dry, his fustian shirt caked on his back. His long hair was streaked with water running from his temples. He knew the horse was straining, desperate for water but thirsty he must be. He crossed the Esk below Longtown; no need to kill Ross’s men when he could avoid the patrols. Mist rising off the river flurried over the water meadow like the swirl of a flung cloak. He brushed it aside impatiently.