by Robert Low
‘This yin is called Chilman,’ he said dully. Rae did not ask how he knew, simply nodded. Appleby went off, calling for ‘lists’.
Batty heaved himself back into the saddle and looked ruefully at the blood slathering his dagg; it would take a wheen of cleaning. It came to him, suddenly, that he was not bruised, or aching and that he had sprung free from Fiskie with an ease that had previously only been a memory. He felt a thrill of fear at that – the hand of God or Satan?
‘War, wummin and witchcraft,’ he muttered. ‘Sooner I am done with them all the better.’
There was one dead from the Trained Band and three with wounds, all from pricker lances. Two of the attackers lay in the mud and the other, Batty saw, had been shot through the eye by a long arrow which had burst out the back of his skull.
‘Leave them,’ he advised Appleby. ‘They will retrieve them for their families to kist up and mourn.’
They plodded on until Evensong carrying the dead and half-carrying the wounded as well as ducks and chickens and everything else they had plundered. Batty was aware of a dull ache in the stump of his arm that grew to a vicious nag and made him worry a little – but he put it to the back of the fire when Twa Corbies stuck defiantly up into the growing dark.
‘Well, at least it is not reduced,’ Henry Rae said with some relief, then squinted. ‘Whit’s that up there on the roof? Do they have some wee beast?’
Batty did not need to squint. Up there on the gabled slates, dancing between the merlons and hurling curses at the mushroom foulness of makeshift shelters and cookfires surrounding the tower, was Trottie. Batty almost laughed – then his eyes robbed him of humour.
‘Aye, aye,’ he said softly, ‘we are graced.’
Rae followed the gaze and stiffened in the saddle when he caught side of a panoplied tent and the blanket-sized banner, a great red affair with three yellow scallop shells.
Dacre, Batty thought, but no Red Bull is displaying it, so it is not the man himself but his wee kin from Lanercost, come to witness the triumph of his suit against the Wallis.
This will make it interesting…
* * *
‘What say you, Coalhouse?’
Batty blinked out of his sloe-eyed reverie to a tent fetid with leprous heat and old fears, at a table littered with discarded war gear, wooden platters of half-eaten food, bread mouldering quietly and plans gone the same way. Not that much different from the one he’d left in his dreams – it was the stump, he thought, which had been banged hard in the fight and was aching.
‘Utter folly. Ill-advised, ill-thought and ill-judged,’ the voice said again and Batty focused on the speaker while sleep shredded away like blue reek. The man raised his head from the paper he was reading. ‘My brother does not stint himself.’
Nor would he, Batty thought, for the writ Rae had handed the Dacre of Lanercost was full measure for the nine neat Rolls, each with a fortune in Glastonbury see lands. Some would have to find a way to Fat Henry, but enough remained to slake Bull Dacre’s greed.
‘Are you done with the sleeping?’ demanded Cuthbert Ogle testily, then turned round all the others at the table. ‘Why is this notorious brigand and Scotchman here at all?’
‘Be quiet,’ Dacre said softly and Batty heard Cuthbert’s teeth click; the look he shot back was one of outrage and then barely-concealed annoyance that he was not to be supported. The boy Ogle already kens the dance of this, Batty thought.
‘You have attempted to use these good people for your own ends,’ Henry Rae said looking at Dacre of Lanercost and the good people stared at him, then one another and saw a way out. ‘They are not yet so mired in it, though – your quarrel with the Wallis of Twa Corbies over their lands has dragged you here with a pretence of putting down a rebellion that did not exist until you made it.’
‘God’s Legs, herald, you go too far…’
Musgrave’s face was a bag of blood. Next to him was an Oswin or another Cuthbert and on the other side sat Luke Ogle, Captain of the Trained Band out of Berwick and the wee lord of Eglingham in his own right. Next to him sat a pallid, wasted-faced figure, his hands bound with fat wrappings and his eyes bruised – but Tom Horner, architect of the entire business, was thin-lipped silent and the reason for that was a manor Roll snugged up inside his doublet. He would stay silent, to his Commission and anyone else who asked how he came to have the mark of Christ’s crucifixion on both palms. Mayhap they’ll think it a wee miracle, Batty thought.
‘I go as far as the Bull Dacre commands,’ Henry Rae answered levelly. ‘And he commands that you cease and desist and return you to tranquillity lest he has to make a report to Wharton and the King himself, whose ear he has.’
‘Aye, aye,’ Dacre of Lanercost agreed mildly. He was of ages and size with Musgrave, but his face was pinched and narrow. Too much fret, Batty thought, about being in the backyard of his legitimate brother and not having the station or coin to be much more than a wee lord.
‘Is that what you have to say?’ demanded Musgrave, rounding on Dacre. ‘Aye aye? You set this this Ride out…’
‘And now the Ride is done,’ Dacre interrupted and Musgrave glowered. He kens the writing here, as do I and I cannae even read, Batty thought. But Musgrave is even lower in station than the Dacre of Lanercost and his stewardship of Bewcastle hangs on a shaky peg – he is only Deputy there, appointed by his da. And his da is the very Musgrave who had both the Dacres, father and bastard of Lanercost, thrown into the Tower and put to a treason trial.
They’d got off with it, but a dozen years had not mellowed their hate much.
‘What has been promised here?’ demanded Musgrave, eyes narrowing; Batty saw the Ogles and assorted relations shift surreptitiously away from him. Henry Rae’s stare was glass and old ice.
‘Whatever it was,’ Batty said, his voice startling all the faces to stare at him, ‘you are not included in it. That should tell you much.’
In fact, Dacre of Lanercost held another one of the parchment Rolls – Batty was sure it was not the best of the holdings, but it was enough to make him relinquish his wee war with John Wallis. Musgrave had been promised nothing and would have to thole it, but the way he looked made Batty think he had made an enemy there.
Hey-ho, he thought, let him join the throng…
The young Lord Ogle cleared his throat, which brought Musgrave’s scowl round to scour him; the boy was blissed as a sleeping bairn under it, Batty saw.
‘I know this much about fishing,’ he said to Musgrave, smiling sweetly. ‘I know when to drag in my line and go home from an empty pool.’
A few of his relations laughed softly and rose with him.
‘So, my lords,’ Henry Rae declared, gathering up his gloves. ‘We are done with the business here.’
‘I have my orders,’ Luke Ogle said sullenly, ‘to recover a brace of guns from Captain General Maramaldo.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Musgrave declared, ripping himself from the table in a fury. ‘Maramaldo is no longer commander of anything, not even his own fate…’
‘You have the right of it there,’ Batty said easily. ‘His fate is in the hands of Dacre. God and the Bull knows what he is saying to forestall it. Nuns will be part of it.’
The Ogles hurried to gather up and leave, not wanting to hear anything they might have to ignore at their peril. Musgrave went pale and blinked, but he was Border bred and came back from it, though he must have been seeing hemp and flames, Batty thought.
‘You had a writ from me to save my sister,’ he said, ‘which you failed. That is the all of it.’
‘I recall it. I recall also telling you your carrot was poor and your stick wormy and now both have broken,’ Batty said and the ember in his voice made others draw back, as if he might combust on the spot.
‘There are two other sisters you need to hand over to me,’ he added and Musgrave’s smile was vicious as wolves.
‘Good luck with that,’ he replied. ‘You and Captain Ogle here have the same proble
m with recovery it appears. Ask the new Captain General of the Sable Rose.’
The tent emptied like a burst water barrel, a flood of wee desperate men heading for cover like disturbed crows. All except Luke Ogle and Henry Rae and Batty.
‘It seems you have need, one for the other,’ Henry Rae declared. ‘As yon moudiewart Musgrave might say – good luck with that. My task is done here. I will ride to find John Wallis and appraise him of the situation – it would be an obligement on me if you would assure the occupants of Twa Corbies that they are now safe.’
‘As safe as anyone in these lawless lands,’ Batty agreed and Henry Rae shot him a sharp look.
‘We part, all obligations discharged then,’ he said and Batty saw that was important to the herald, so he inclined his head in agreement. Rae took a breath, blew it out, nodded to them both.
‘Assure the safety of those inside Twa Corbies,’ he said and left.
Ogle looked at Batty. ‘Well – it seems we are left with the harrigles of this poor feast. Have you any suggestions as to how we might encompass our mutual desires?’
‘Short of forming up and taking on a brace-hundred and more hardened fighters from the Germanies, you mean?’ Batty said and Ogle blanched. Batty knew his own command was scarce a hundred and, red coats and Trained Band name apart, they had little resemblance to fighting men.
He felt crushed by it. All this from a rickle of nuns in an auld fortalice…
‘Aye, well – thanks for your thoughts, empty though they are,’ Ogle said bitterly.
‘It appears to me,’ Batty said, ‘that John Wallis of Twa Corbies might be persuaded to help, if not out of gratitude for the ending of his feud with Bewcastle, but for something the Borders kens well enough.’
Luke Ogle’s face was uncomprehending, so Batty told him what Henry Rae carried in his scrip – one more Roll that would sweeten the Wallis. No matter that it was for lands far to the south and never to be seen by Wallis – Henry Rae would help broker the sale of them, take his due and pass the bulk to John Wallis.
‘Blackmeal,’ Ogle said, sitting down and starting to see the possibility. Batty frowned as he hitched the uncomfortable doublet, rising wearily to his feet.
‘The other matter that will bring him galloping here,’ he said, ‘lies in yon tower.’
‘The mad old woman?’
Batty chuckled. ‘In part – but the most of it is the boy she has been protecting, a lad with the worst name in the Border lands.’
Ogle blinked and then Batty told him why he had hopes for the aid of Wallis. Ogle’s face grew bright with admiration.
‘His son is in there? Ye can strop your wits sharp talking with you, Batty Coalhouse,’ he said, then cocked his head to one side like a suspicious crow. ‘What is in this for yersel’?’
Ever the Border lord, Batty thought and felt the crease and twist of the doublet.
‘God be thankit if you have a front-buckle jack to spare I would consider it a blissing from Heaven itself.’
Ogle took a moment to realise the man was serious, then shook his head with mock amazement and agreed to it.
‘You will need it,’ he said, ‘if you are to face the Wallis Cheviots. You might not even make it to where you can speak with the heidman himself.’
Batty leaned back. The ache was back in his knee, the stump throbbed, he had a touch of lime in one foot, felt like a Border pony that had been ridden hard and left wet and was more tired than he had ever been; he had never felt better about his life.
E’en sae, sal gude-guidin an’ gude-gree gang wi’ me, ilk day o’ my livin; an’ evir mair syne, i’ the Lord’s ain howff, at lang last, sal I mak bydan.
Chapter Eighteen
Windylaws, not long after
Woodsmoke swirled sullenly on the damp air like a mourn to the last rays of a dying sun. It had never been more than puling weak, but it had made an appearance like a Henry Rae for better weather, then sank gratefully below the horizon.
There was still rain on the wind and the grass under his belly was leaching chill wet into him, but the vantage was a good one and Batty would not move from it.
A man whistled his way from the horse lines, his mind empty of anything but broth and joining his gauded friends round the fires. There was good cheer and a tendril of music – Sabin must have paid them something, at least in part, Batty thought.
The camp was a leprous sprawl of mushroom tents and fires. It had been here too long and was already starting to stink; there would be sicknesses soon and folk would die.
But the ground was wet. Those big German wagons were heavy beasts, Batty thought and heavier still was the brace of guns. You couldn’t move them without a decent road and this part of the Cheviot, even allowing for Windylaws, was a stranger to roads.
Batty looked at the buildings. The broken-toothed tower where he had galloped up to, following the trailing flames of a dead, burning nun. Where Sister Faith had told him he was chosen by God.
The bastel was still blind-egg empty and streaked with char. Maramaldo’s big tent sat close to it and that, Batty was sure, now had Sabin squatting in it. The toad.
There was a lad at the broken door of the bastel, leaning on a pike and yawning-bored. There is no point to a guard if there is nothing to guard, Batty thought – so at least one nun remains.
He looked at the sky. It would be a long night and he had laid out the plan carefully – he would locate and petard the last of the powder for the guns. Then he would locate and free nuns and children. At dawn, regardless, the Trained Band would start in with noise and arrows and, when the Sable Rose spilled out to form up and laugh at them, the Wallis Riders would sweep down.
‘Simple,’ he had ended. John Wallis, one hand on the shoulder of his returned boy, Will, had nodded.
‘You take much on yourself, Master Coalhouse. Why is that, I wonder?’
Trottie cackled and Batty eyed her sourly. God or the Devil, he thought, neither of them having much regard for my auld bones. He said nothing all the same and, in the morning, had ridden Fiskie out with a wave and a nod to Captain Ogle and trying to avoid the hard stares of folk he knew were Chilman’s relations.
Join the bliddy throng, he thought savagely.
The wind shifted like a fine lady wafting through a hall; Batty tasted it like a horse, curling his top lip back from his yellowed teeth; the memories crowded on him.
* * *
You need to proof that against weather, Ned Yelland told Batty. Else it will get iron rot and fall to ruin.
Batty, proud of his new burgonet, had listened carefully, as he did to all the mysteries Ned Yelland passed on regarding engines large and small.
Orkney Butter, Ned told him. A mix of oil of olives, wax and sheep tallow. It stinks like a dead hoor’s armpits, but if you keep rubbing it into the metal regular like, it will keep the rain off.
Then he laughed and added: ‘keep everyone off.’ And he slapped the brown-black gleam of his big gun, beaming while Bella stirred something over a fire and turned to him with a smile that even managed to honey the putrid in the pot…
* * *
He tasted it now on the wind, a wee treacherer of Orkney butter reek that let him know where the guns were laired. All he had to do was get to them, find the powder store and hope it was not too close – the guns were not to be damaged – take the slow match he had made from under his buttered burgonet, set it, fire it and hope the winking red eye would not be noticed until it was too late, yet time it perfectly for the rise of dawn.
After that, he would find a way to save the nuns and bairns.
Ach, a wee stroll, he said grimly. And God or the Devil is on my side, if you listen to wummin with witchcraft.
He waited, eyeing the wind on the moon, watching the camp, hearing the murmur and remembering, with an ache as sharp as the one in his stump, all the times he had sat round that fire with men such as these, listening to them talk. Of women and war and plunder. And women. And food. And women.
These were not Landsknechts but tried to dress like them, the best of them doing it the way those big German fellows had fallen into – plundering the fallen and making the ill-fitting fit. They looked as if they dressed in gaudy rags and the nobility had aped them with stylishly tailored versions.
But these were not big Germans, whose day was passing anyway. These were stradioti, Albanians and Greeks, Saxons and French though they were steeped in sin and war, Batty thought. There were even men from the Italies – Maramaldo had liked to think himself a fine condottiere, but he was just an Italian bandit with aspirations to station. Batty wondered how the man fared, then wondered why he cared.
Sabin, on the other hand, was a blood-dyed belly-slitter with no aspirations to anything other than murder. I have, Batty admitted to himself, mayhap been blinded by my own arm into hunting the wrong man in the Sable Rose.
There was a moment when Batty knew it was time and he moved back to where Fiskie stood, patient in the dark. Batty patted him with soothings, collected what he needed and gave a last hitch to the new jack; it was not yet comfortable, but a balm after Stucley Taylor’s ill-fitting doublet. Then he took a breath and moved, soft as Faerie.
All things that breathe must light on the world, must turn it, must slide, scart or scuff some trail, move mulched leaves with a wingbeat, drip sweat in dusty hollows, scar bark or just scour silence.
Batty had a lifetime of silent moving, a cold cunning that had kept him alive, a one-winged hawk in a land of two-winged buzzards. He moved like a whisper of breath, softly pounding heart and rushing blood.
He paused – no sign nor gesture, not in the wind like blood in the water to a shark. No ripple on his neck warned him and the grinding wheel of music and raucous song was a balm in the dark.
The ground trembled a little, a smell touched him – oxen, big beasts shifting with hunger for their forage was running out and they were being fed too little. Too little, Batty thought, to heave big engines over the sort of ground that sank under his boots.