Cat's Cradle

by Julia Golding

  We remounted in the twilight and pushed on for the Highlands, taking tracks across country rather than risking the roads and towns. I had plenty of time to speculate as to what purpose my presence among the reivers was serving. Willy had made no further mention of me being to blame for this pursuit and I had come round to the view that it was far more likely cattle-stealing lay at the root of their problems. But I’d had more than I could stomach of tagging along with them – every step took me further north and further from my home.

  At daybreak, we reached the top of a hill and looked down upon a shallow scoop of a plain that suddenly opened out at our feet before the ground climbed again. The hills opposite were ranged like an opposing army against us. Scree littered their sides like grey crocodile skin – it would be tough going for the horses over there. A smudge of a day after yesterday’s bright morning, low clouds drifting like smoke, grazing the summits. Melting snow formed black puddles in the low-lying bottoms of the fields, green reclaiming the ground surrendered to the white.

  Taking a breath, I broached the subject of my future with my brother. ‘Look, Rabbie, why don’t you persuade Willy to let me go? I could ride into one of these towns we’re passing and make my own way back; wouldn’t that be more sensible than keeping me with you?’

  He gave a non-committal grunt.

  ‘Surely the sheriff will have stopped tracking you by now?’

  ‘They willna stop till we reach the Highlands,’ he corrected me.

  ‘But even if they did find me, I wouldn’t be any help to them. I’ve no idea where you’re going.’

  He shook his head. ‘Willy wants ye wi’ us. He has promised Malcolm that he willna let ye go.’

  ‘And you all do what Malcolm says even if he’s got some stupid idea in his head that I’m sitting on a crock of gold that belongs to you? Makes me sound like a leprechaun – and about as likely.’

  At that moment, the rearguard gave a whistle. As one, the Bruces urged their horses into a gallop, plunging recklessly across pasture, scattering sheep in their passage. It took me a moment to cotton on to the fact that our pursuers had been spotted but my mare had followed the lead of the other horses and already picked up her pace. Now my full attention was given to gripping with my knees to stay on. Skirts flapped as I bent low – pointless to wish for my Creek leggings which had made the whole business of riding astride much easier but I did so anyway.

  Crack! A shot rang out behind us, spooking my mare. We were approaching a stone wall that the men were taking at a leap. This was not good, not good at all. My skittish horse refused the jump, dancing sideways. I struggled to control her, turning her in a tight circle and brought her head round to take the wall at the lowest point.

  ‘No there!’ I heard Rabbie shout from the other side – but too late. We landed in the muddy puddle where a spring bubbled up in the grass. My mount struggled to gain her footing, slid and surged up. I went backwards, landing with a splash in the icy water, colliding with a stone at the base of the wall. With pain like a sword thrust, I felt something give – and it wasn’t the stone.

  ‘Are ye all right?’ Rabbie leaped from his horse and waded towards me.

  I rolled on to my stomach and groaned.

  ‘I’ll take that as a nae.’ He pulled my arm, eliciting another protest from me.

  ‘My arm – shoulder,’ I moaned. ‘If you don’t want me to be sick on your boots, don’t touch.’

  ‘Leave the lass!’ shouted Willy, doubling back. ‘There is nae time to get her on a horse. Leave her!’

  Rabbie looked at his mount, at my fleeing mare, and then at my white face. Another shot, much closer, crackled overhead. Willy turned his horse’s head and spurred onwards.

  ‘You’d better go,’ I urged my brother. I felt close to passing out – the pain in my shoulder was making stars bloom in my vision.

  He swore a vivid phrase, damning all sheriff’s men and stupid Sassenach girls and casting doubt on our collective parentage as he dragged me into the shelter of the wall just before our pursuers could leap on top of us.

  ‘Very good,’ I said in a hoarse voice. ‘You have a fine way with words.’

  Continuing with his curses, he deftly made a sling from my shawl. With no rider to control it, my horse had taken up the race across the field with the sheriff’s men, bumping into the front-runners.

  ‘One’s fallen!’ shouted the leader. He grabbed the reins of Rabbie’s horse and turned back, easily spotting us huddled at the base of the wall. ‘There they are.’

  Half the pack continued on after the fleeing Bruces, leaving the rest to confront us.

  ‘It’s two Bruce whelps!’ the leader announced, pointing a crop at us. He was a finely dressed gentle man, well mounted, with only the softest Scots burr, suggesting an English education. Enter the Sheriff of Lanark. ‘Stay where you are!’

  ‘I’m not exactly going anywhere like this,’ I muttered for Rabbie’s benefit. His grip on my arm increased a fraction; I could feel that he was shaking but trying valiantly not to show it. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll get us out of this,’ I promised.

  ‘Well now,’ said the man, pushing the brim of his hat further up his forehead. ‘If it isn’t the Bruce lad. Rabbie, isn’t it? Poor taste of your mother to give such a thief a noble name. The girl’s your sweetheart, is she?’

  Rabbie glared up at him but said nothing.

  ‘No sir, he is not. He’s my brother,’ I said in the firmest voice I could manage. ‘As you can see, I’ve taken a spill from the saddle and am in need of assistance.’

  ‘Assistance!’ The man laughed. ‘A Bruce girl talking like a London lady! That is a first.’

  A second man approached wearing a battered tweed cap decorated with fishing flies. He squinted at me thoughtfully.

  ‘The lass looks very familiar,’ he pondered aloud, rubbing his beetling eyebrows. With a sinking heart I recognized my old enemy, the ghillie from Corra Linn. He snapped his fingers. ‘Aye, I have it! I met her trespassing on my lady’s land, sir. Spun me a tale, she did – lies from start to finish, though I didna ken it then. Dinna believe a word the lass says.’

  The sheriff tapped his crop on his boot, assessing the pair of us. ‘Boy, where are Lady Ross-Baillie’s cattle?’

  Rabbie’s face was a blank. ‘I ken naethin about any cattle.’

  ‘Girl?’

  I would have shrugged if my shoulder had allowed. ‘Despite what your man says, I am not a liar and I have no knowledge of the lady’s cows or where they are now.’ This was said with fingers crossed because, as you know, Reader, I have been known to bend the truth somewhat when it suits me.

  The sheriff was unimpressed by our protestations of innocence. ‘If you tell me what you’ve done with them, I’ll be lenient. I’d say you were both looking at a capital offence at the moment; I could reduce it to transportation but only if you prove that you repent your larcenous ways.’

  He meant to hang us! As far as I know he had no evidence we had done anything wrong – he couldn’t just sentence us to death on a suspicion.

  ‘I don’t take kindly to threats, sir,’ I said stiffly. ‘As I explained, we don’t know where the cattle are. If you were a gentleman, you would stop these useless questions and fetch a doctor to look at my shoulder. I think I’ve broken something.’

  The sheriff beckoned to a couple of his men who had hung back during our discussion.

  ‘Take them back to Bonnington House for questioning. Tell Lady Ross-Baillie that I’ll return soon. First I have to find out if we’ve caught any more of these damn cattle thieves.’

  So much for the sheriff keeping an open mind about our guilt.

  ‘But, sir,’ protested Rabbie, ‘my sister isna lying about her injury. She needs a doctor. She canna ride all the way back to Lanark with a broken shoulder.’

  ‘She should have thought of that before she took up with the Bruces. I’ll have a doctor look at her when she is safely in my custody.’

  The sheriff w
aved us away and turned his horse to pursue the rest of his men.

  The two who stayed behind pulled us roughly to our feet. I suppressed a whimper of pain. By now I had guessed I must have snapped my collarbone and my left arm was out of action. Frankly, Reader, the thought of riding with all my bumps and bruises made me feel faint.

  ‘What are we going to do wi’ the lass?’ the shorter of the two men asked his ginger-haired companion.

  ‘She’ll ride in front o’ me. She willna slip away in her condition. Put the lad on his horse but tie his hands.’

  So trussed up like Christmas geese and separated, Rabbie and I began the long journey back the way we had come.

  *

  After an overnight stop at an inn near Hamilton, we trotted up the drive to Lady Ross-Baillie’s estate late the following day. After so many wearisome miles, I was back where I started on the land bordering the mill. Bone-weary and half delirious from the laudanum the men had given me to dull the pain, I was too far gone to care. The journey could have been worse. the sheriff’s officers had surprised me by being unexpectedly kind, allowing me a straw pallet to sleep on at the inn. I had been grateful as I would have got no rest with my shoulder otherwise. The innkeeper’s wife even found me a strip of linen to make a better sling and strapped my arm to my side to help the bone set in the right position. But no amount of consideration could prevent the discomfort of riding so far and I was ready to collapse when we dismounted in the stableyard.

  I’d spent the last few hours cursing the stupidity of the Bruces for picking on a friend of the local sheriff to steal from – talk about tweaking the tiger’s tail – so I was not in very good humour with anyone who bore that surname.

  ‘Ye’ll stay in one o’ the servants’ rooms until Sir Charles Laud gets here,’ announced the ginger-headed man. Turning us over to the butler with a brief explanation, our guards departed.

  Our accommodation up in the attic was a vast improvement on the last few nights. We were shown into a small room under the eaves with one tiny bed and a mattress on the floor. A tray of bread and cheese had been set on a stool for us. There was even a jug of water for washing. All I needed now were dry clothes, but that was too much to expect. The brace of footmen who had escorted us to our prison turned the key as they departed, leaving us alone.

  I lowered myself to the bed with a groan.

  ‘Are ye all right, Catherine?’ asked Rabbie, helping me out of my damp shoes.

  ‘It’s Cat, Rabbie.’

  ‘Och aye? The name suits you.’

  ‘Our mother called me Maudie. Can you believe it? Maudie sounds like a ribbon-and-lace kind of girl – the sort who would cry if her frock gets muddy. I’m not planning to change back to it.’

  Rabbie poured a beaker of water for us both. ‘Maybe she thought ye’d be that kind o’ lass.’

  I snorted. ‘And pigs might fly.’

  ‘Maybe ye would have been, if she hadna left ye.’

  I was stunned that he had just admitted that I had told the truth all along.

  ‘Perhaps I would’ve been,’ I replied with a catch in my voice, ‘but we’ll never know, will we?’

  ‘It was cruel to abandon ye like that. I think I hate her for it,’ he said fiercely.

  ‘Nan thought she might’ve intended to send for me if she’d lived.’

  ‘But still . . .’ He shook his head.

  ‘Yes, but still.’

  We lay in peace for a few minutes, resting after our long ride across the lowlands. I could still feel an echo of the jolting trot of my last mount as if I were riding on my bed.

  ‘Will they hang me, Cat?’ Rabbie’s voice sounded so thin and uncertain.

  I reached over the side of the bed and grasped his hand. ‘No, of course not! I won’t let them. I haven’t told you much about me, but I’ve been in worse fixes than this and got out. And I have powerful friends – my adopted family, I suppose you’d call them. They’ll step up to defend anyone who belongs to me.’

  ‘Ye’re sure? Ye are nae lying to me?’

  ‘I’m positive.’

  ‘Good.’ He let go of my fingers and I heard him turn on his side. Swiftly, his breathing turned into the regular rhythm of sleep. He’d trusted my word – trusted his big sister enough to put his worries aside. It was the most precious gift he could have given me. I just hoped I would not let him down.

  ACT V

  SCENE 1 – THE SHERIFF’S COURT

  We were woken early the next morning by the same footmen who had escorted us to our prison. Now better rested, I had enough wit to notice the smart blue and gold livery, white wigs and gloves – a gaol with very superior wardens.

  ‘You are to come with us,’ the short one with a hooked nose announced. ‘Lady Ross-Baillie and the sheriff are waiting for you in the library.’

  ‘Allow us a moment to tidy ourselves,’ I replied, rolling carefully off the bed and propelling them out of the door before they could think to protest. I closed it quickly on them.

  ‘Rabbie, we need to decide what we’re going to say,’ I whispered, trying one-handed to tie back my hair in a ribbon.

  Rabbie stepped up to take over the task for me. ‘Aye, I’ll tell them ye had naethin to do wi’ any reiving.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing as it’s as good as a confession that you were involved! No, we’ve got to stick together on this. We are both innocent – at least for today.’

  ‘But ye didna ask to be wi’ us when we were caught.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll even mention the kidnapping – that won’t help your case any.’

  ‘It wasna kidnapping.’ He tugged my hair a little too hard. ‘We were just keeping ye close.’

  ‘That’s what you were doing, was it? I thought Willy threatened to kill me if I tried to escape – and to skin you alive if you let me go. But we haven’t got time for that now. I need to get a message to Bridgit to tell her where we are. She can contact my friends for us.’ I gave my face a quick lick and a promise with the water in the ewer. Noticing that Rabbie was looking decidedly unkempt, not at all reputable, I wetted the end of my shawl and attacked before he could stop me.

  ‘Get off me, ye daft quean!’ He batted me away but gently, taking care not to harm my injured shoulder.

  Seeing his weakness, I approached again. ‘It’s only a little water!’

  ‘It’s cold!’ he squawked as I got him full in the face and rubbed hard.

  The commotion attracted the footmen’s attention. The door flew open and our guards rushed in, expecting to break up a fight. Rabbie and I froze in surprise, water dripping from my shawl on to the back of my brother’s neck until he thought to push it away.

  ‘No scrapping!’ warned the larger of the two footmen, yanking Rabbie back by the collar. ‘We know what you Bruces are like.’

  ‘We were washing, not scrapping,’ I said primly, holding my improvised washcloth up as proof, ‘and for your information, I am not a Bruce.’

  The footman shrugged as if nothing I could say would possibly persuade him against his fixed opinion of us. ‘We’ve waited for you long enough. Come along.’

  Squeezing out my shawl, I spread it over the stool to dry as if I had all the time in the world. When you are a prisoner, you have to make the most of your small gestures of independence.

  ‘Hurry up, miss,’ huffed the footman.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ I said breezily. ‘Keep your wig on.’

  Rabbie snorted and ducked the clip round the ear that the footman aimed at him.

  The house was a lot warmer on the lower floors, thanks to the fires in the family apartments. Through open doors I could see a pleasant parlour, a dining room and a music room – this house, though nowhere near as fine as Frank’s Boxton – was luxury on a grand scale.

  ‘Tell me about the lady,’ I muttered to Rabbie as we approached a pair of double doors.

  ‘Widow, tough old bird nae matter how she pretends she’s not, very rich,’ he replied in a r
apid whisper. ‘Fiercely protective of her property, land and cattle.

  The footmen opened the doors and stood back to let us pass.

  ‘The prisoners, my lady,’ Hook-nose announced.

  We entered a book-lined room with large windows facing out on to a snow-covered lawn. Stubs of rose bushes in a border below the window hinted at last summer’s splendour now buried in ice. Frost feathered the corners of the window like Brussels lace. I dragged my attention from the superb view to the two people waiting by the fire.

  Seated in a winged armchair was an elderly lady with fluffy white hair, somewhat like the raw cotton Bridgit had fed to the carding machine. Her arthritic hands were clenched on the bone handle of a walking stick. Dressed at the height of fashionable mourning – a purple satin gown with black edging – she gave not a flicker of emotion as we came in.

  Our old friend Sir Charles Laud, the Sheriff of Lanark, stood opposite her, hand leaning against the mantelpiece as he kicked a log that threatened to tumble off the grate. He looked as well turned out as he had in his riding gear: this time dressed in a navy blue coat, yellow silk waistcoat and unwrinkled breeches. His valet should be commended.

  ‘Your arm?’ Sir Charles asked without introduction.

  ‘I believe it is my collarbone, sir,’ I replied, ‘as I told you when I begged for your assistance.’

  ‘Has it been looked at by a doctor?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Sir Charles frowned and shot a glance at the lady. ‘Godmother?’

  She held up a shaky hand. ‘I’ll see to it, Charles dear. I did not think we should disturb Dr Gordon last night as it was clearly no emergency.’

  He turned back to me. ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘It is tolerable, sir,’ I replied sourly.

  He gave a nod, dismissing the matter for the moment. ‘To business then. Lady Ross-Baillie wishes to know what you have done with her prize cattle. Twenty head, wasn’t it?’ He turned to the lady for verification.