The Fool's Mirror Read online

  Rodrigues shook his head in disagreement, “No, not another bloody woman. I believe the reports; no one, least of all the old men of the Privy Council, want that. They’ve had enough of being emasculated eunuchs at the court of the Virgin Queen.”

  “Virgin or whore, she still has no heirs, bastards or otherwise,” said Heughan, “and she’s so parsimonious, she keeps James just this side of beggary. If Scotland had money, we’d have a deal less trouble.”

  “And a deal less trade,” Rodrigues said astutely.

  “You mark my words; we’ll be rid of the Armstrongs before Old Bess decides.”

  “At the rate you’re going, they could both happen at the same time.”

  “Don’t start on me, old man,” Heughan dismissed. “I’m just keeping my promises and this powder keg called the Borders under control. Old fights with grubby motives. I’m sick of it.”

  “I suppose you think you’re better than that because you’ve found a cause to believe in?” said Rodrigues warily. “Do you think that The O’Neill is a bigger man, a better man because of his dreams? No, Heughan, it all boils down to the same three things: power, money and ambition.”

  “Not for me,” Heughan rebuked hotly. “What do you know about The O’Neill, anyway?” He recalled the sealed package so carefully opened by Rodrigues’s hot knife. "What happened to the letters the witch gave you? Did you send them to Ireland or was there some misfortune in your stolen book you haven’t shared with me?

  “As you have often heard me say, ‘misfortune’s wealth is an empty pocket’,” distracted Rodrigues, “which is why you and I, lad, work so hard to make sure our pockets are never empty.” He slapped Heughan playfully.

  Heughan scowled as the spurs in his pocket knocked against him, dug them out and hurled them onto the table.

  Rodrigues was surprised. “Are those Melisande’s?” he asked. “What were you doing with them at Sal’s? Did you try something? Is that why she went for you?”

  Heughan laughed. It was the sort of laugh that told Rodrigues his questioning was inconveniently sharp. Heughan crossed the space between them to grasp his friend by the shoulders, “Roddy, I respect you for the sake of our shared history and our long friendship, which I value. But to let a woman, especially that woman, come between us?” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Get your pet witch under control or keep her out of my way. She’s too suspicious. I don’t like the way she looks at me, speaks as though she knows things I haven’t told her. I won’t tolerate her interference, and I don’t care who she was, or is, or what she is to you,” he held up a hand to stop Rodrigues’s protests. “She is nothing to me but a burr up my backside right now.”

  Mercurially, he burst out laughing as he remembered another Irish proverb;

  May you never meet a mad bitch, a red-haired woman or a man who lent you money first thing in the morning.

  Today he had just dealt with all three.

  * * *

  Candlemas was by tradition a day for settling old debts. In the Borders, the tradition included old scores. Those labourers lucky enough to find hiring accepted their money gratefully and set about frittering it away on drink as quickly as possible. Those men who had been unsuccessful resented the others their good fortune but were happy enough to celebrate with them until the money ran out and drunken poverty made them socially equal once more.

  There was a larger group of men though who needed no hiring and desired no master at all. Throughout the city, taverns and wine shops bulged dangerously. The various reiver surnames collected their families and allies around them, plotting cautiously, carousing carelessly.

  Opposing families with blood feuds against one another were usually careful to keep out of each other’s way whilst within the city walls. As Big Man Maxwell delicately put it to his eldest son Billy, “Don’t shit on your own doorstep.” The Lord Warden and the City Watch kept a discrete distance and their fingers crossed. The reivers played by their own rules, and Ross Middlemore was happy enough to leave them to it, provided the customary tit-for-tat reprisals didn’t escalate. He felt sufficiently distant from London to apply the Leges Marchiarum, the unique Border Laws, with impunity. Ross’s punishments tended to be imaginative and terminal. He often said himself that dead men told no tales and accumulated no fortunes.

  Perhaps the influx of the rural farm boys for the hiring meant that their usual haunts were more crowded than was comfortable. Perhaps the general conviviality had been contagious. For whatever reason, the rival families of the Maxwells and the Kerrs somehow found themselves unhappily cloistered together in the ‘Brothers Arms’ on Annetwell Street.

  As is the way with bad fights, it had begun happily enough with plenty of drink and laughter. It took a long time for the shared jokes and the back-slapping to give way to traded insults and full-frontal assault. By the time tempers were souring, the red towers of the Castle opposite looked grey and the Cathedral buildings were huddled in gloom.

  After a whole day’s drinking, young Billy Maxwell braced himself against the tavern’s dirty wall, feeling decidedly sick. It was an old argument and he’d heard it all before. Everyone wanted what someone else had. Old Man Kerr was standing nose to nose with his dad, jabbing a finger at his chest and complaining about his portion. Young Robby Kerr, big, dirty blond and dumb, stood to one side and cracked his knuckles menacingly. Big Man Maxwell laughed cruelly, “Fuck off, Kerr. You can’t chase me back down the years. What’s done is done. You got your share.”

  Kerr was unpersuaded. “I know those weasel Routledges hid more than they’re telling. Give me an excuse to go to the Lord Warden. I guarantee he’ll listen.”

  “Aye, go on then,” scoffed Maxwell. “And you’ll end up the same way; shunned by the rest of us and hunted across the border.”

  Billy watched in a stupor of disbelief as Robby Kerr took a wild left-handed swing at his dad. Big Man Maxwell stepped backwards as Robby over-balanced and then retaliated with a vicious king-hit. Robby was dead as he hit the floor. An unkindness of Kerrs swarmed over Maxwell, pummelling him to the ground with their fists and feet, everyone trying to pull a dagger or a sword. Billy roused himself to join the fray but sober heads with bigger hands held him back and he found himself roughly handled out of the door and thrust into the gutter and the dank night. He had sense enough left to realise he needed to get away but the hue and the cry had already begun. The Kerrs were baying for the kill, tumbling and spilling out of the light of the tavern, brandishing torches and weapons aloft, marching the short distance towards the Castle and all the while screaming: ‘hot trod’.

  The chase gathered followers and momentum, as those reivers who owed allegiance to the Kerrs answered the call and joined in the hunt, as they were obliged to do. Billy ran in the opposite direction to the mob, through other people’s gardens beyond Fisher Street, forcing a way through mud, mire and midden, trying to think what to do next.

  He knew he had to get away back home and rouse the men, protect the steading. He didn’t know whom he was more afraid of facing; the angry pack behind him or his mother waiting for him at home. His mother’s tongue had more bite than the ice of the night air for sure. He stumbled out into Grape Lane, tripped over his own feet in his haste and bumped into Heughan in Sal’s doorway.

  Heughan had half drawn his sword when he saw the look of pure panic on Billy’s face. He laughed out loud, “Billy, you look scared out of your wits! Fuck off home, you sad bastard; there’s no point in trying to crawl in here until you’re feeling more of a man. Go on home to your mam,” he said and booted him on the backside, sending Billy sprawling.

  “Fuck you, Heughan!” Billy screeched as he lurched to his feet.

  Heughan sneered, “Get away home, boy,” and walked away from him.

  Billy wavered unsteadily and brushed the filth from his legs. He heard running behind him and turned, pulling out his knife. Two of his dad’s men caught up to him. “Come away, Billy. Before the hot trod reaches us,” o
ne panted.

  “Where’s my da’? We can’t just leave him,” he said obstinately.

  “At the Castle, The Lord Warden’s tek him,” the other man said. “And if we don’t move, we’ll all be goners. Come away, lad. They’ll come looking for us tomorrow or the next. We need to be ready.”

  Billy let himself be persuaded. With a last angry glance in the direction of Heughan’s disappearing shadow, he allowed himself to be pulled towards home, the final line of defence.

  Chapter 6: The Cost of Living

  Caldbeck Fells

  It was a clandestine morning over the fells. Grey cloud swirled over the tops and mist hung in the smallest of the dips and nooks in the bracken on the lower slopes. Heughan knew it would be damp all day. His wounded leg ached as he stood and listened to the strangled cries of the crows in the distance beyond the limp trees, trying to conjure up the memory of the crack dry days of summer he longed for.

  He turned back to what remained of the bastle tower. It was blackened at the base with the lingering effects of the fire and only partially intact. A staircase wandered halfway up a wall before petering out. “Damn you, Sim,” Heughan cursed under his breath. Inside the tumbledown stones, La’l Willie was banking up a warming fire with peat, and smoke filled the small ante room.

  “Don’t bother, La’l Un’,” said Heughan. “Come on, let’s be off.”

  Willie didn’t bother arguing; he grabbed his hat, a dandy confection in fawn wool, set off with a brazen pheasant’s tail feather. It was an ostentatious disguise for the robust felt, plate and leather helmeting underneath, the same construction as the reivers’ jacks. Willie slapped it onto his head and followed Heughan out. They saddled up their horses and walked down the track, settling into the gait of the horse and the uninspiring morning.

  The crows at the end of Blood Lane lifted raucously, arguing constantly as they blackened the Caldbeck fells.

  “They’re worse than us,” said Heughan over his shoulder to La’l Willie.

  La’l Willie smiled, “Och I’m nae so sure, my laird.”

  They walked on. Willie could hear Heughan cursing under his breath, which only made him smile some more. He tipped his hat forwards to a rakish angle.

  “You’ve no choice but to hot trod for him. Ah it’ll nae be so bad, big man, we’ll dae oor bit an’ then bugger off.”

  “I know; we’ll just show our dirty faces. It’s just I don’t fancy doing a favour for that miserable bugger Kerr. All right, he’s lost his son, but you’d never know it; he’s a heartless bastard.”

  “Aye mebbe but he’s no’ as bad as the Maxwells. Now they are murderous, miserable bastards, and I don’t need an excuse to kill the fuckers, son or no dead son,” said Willie with real venom.

  “Ach, they’re all the bloody same,” cursed Heughan.

  “Fucking reivers, eh?” smiled Willie. They both laughed.

  After about five straight miles, they arrived by the giant boulder in the crook of the river and there were the lads, a score of them. Hamish stood on the boulder, looking out for them. Heughan greeted them each in turn. It had been nearly a week since he had seen them, and he was pleased to be reunited with them, his dank spirits swelled at the sight of them. His reiver blood flowed in their veins too, and they were entwined in the river and on the wind of their fierce heritage. No help for it; dreamer he might be but reiver he undoubtedly was, with all the mire, blood and noise that came with it.

  “How many are joining us?” said Heughan.

  “A couple of the Carruthers boys were here. They set off already. They said they’d be waiting for us up ahead,” said Hamish.

  Heughan shrugged. Last we’ll see of them, he concluded.

  More riders arrived in dribs and drabs, jostling their horses alongside Heughan’s men. When the wet ground at the foot of the boulder had been churned ankle deep by the sturdy horses, they set off, spaced apart, single file, Heughan at the head.

  After less than an hour, Heughan pulled up his horse and stood up in his stirrups; he sniffed the oncoming wind. He looked at Willie. Willie knew that look. It was the look that said ‘be prepared’.

  Willie shifted in his saddle, “Fartleberries! Here we go,” he swore under his breath.

  Heughan had the instincts of a hawk, and if he was downwind of a fight, he could tell before any other man what was up ahead. He shrugged the cloying damp from his shoulders and turned in his saddle, “Might be a wee bit o’ bother just ahead, lads,” he said.

  “Might there now?” ventured Willie gingerly.

  “Mmm, maybe worse than we thought. Maxwell’s place is in the dip ahead on the back slope, and I reckon Kerr’s getting himself a kicking,” said Heughan.

  “Oh aye?” said Willie, certain Heughan was right.

  Just then a rider-less horse appeared through the gorse, clearly panicked. Aluino stiffened. Heughan grabbed for the reins as the horse pulled up at the sight of the others.

  “Tie him on, Willie,” instructed Heughan. “I don’t recognise him, do you?”

  “It’s one of the Carruthers boys’,” replied Hamish, swiping his hand across the horse’s rump and holding it up to show them how it was soaked in blood.

  “They didn’t wait then?” said Heughan. The men were quiet.

  “Not one of ours,” agreed Willie. “So I’ll be hanging back then?”

  Willie was never afraid of a fight but his joints were aching from a bad night’s sleep in a chilly draught and with another horse to handle, it seemed sensible.

  “A big hat and no cattle, La’l Un,” teased Hamish.

  The lads laughed; they knew Willie would crawl across fire with both his legs missing to fight alongside Heughan.

  “Aye, hang back here a while. We’ll have a look,” said Heughan, more serious.

  He tied up the top of his jack, pulled his helmet forward, sat square in the saddle and drew his sword. The rest of the men did the same, except for the two outriders, who held fast to their lances. Silently and with purpose, they moved off into the mist and through the gorse, reins in one hand, swords in the other.

  Oh yer poor bastard Maxwells, thought Willie gleefully.

  Heughan and his men quickly reached the ridge overlooking the small valley and sure enough there, on the far slope, was a frantic skirmish. Heughan assessed the ground; there was a horse and rider, down and clearly dead, in the brook running through the centre of the scene, with another body a few yards away. The Carruthers boys, thought Heughan. He counted a dozen Maxwells, and he could see Kerr and his lads back-to-back in a small circle, about eight of them, dismounted, trying to shield themselves and Old Man Kerr, still on his horse in the centre, from incoming arrows and fire sticks.

  Heughan decided they would show themselves on the top of the ridge, as the very sight of them might just sway the faint-hearted to run; it had worked many times before. Heughan was clearly identified by his well-known and feared insignia, the pinioned hawk bright blue and bold on his chest and left arm. Everyone else wore their kerchiefs on their arms.

  Immediately as they were spotted, there was panic in the Maxwell ranks; the arrows stopped and the shouting intensified as everyone drew attention to the new threat standing on the ridge. The Kerrs were quick and broke out screaming at the Maxwells, who ran uphill into the huts around the stone bastle.

  When they turned to look back, Heughan was belting down the forward slope, already crossing the brook, with the others close behind him, “C’mon, you bastards! Come on! Come on!” screamed Heughan. He was in a trance, the sound of blood in his ears, the sweat running clean down the centre of his spine.

  He could smell the smoke from the homestead, he could smell the stew in the pot. He knew exactly where his lads were; he was seeing in blurred double vision but each man in focus. Aluino was stiff with power, muscling his way up the hill and into the fray.

  Heughan reached the Maxwells first, two of them running from him uphill. He drove Aluino into the back of one and slashed at the other.
No need to dismount; his lad, Ricky, was right behind him and finished them both off. Hamish had reached the turf huts, and he stormed into the thick of them, with two of the liberated Kerrs alongside him, cutting and dropping the Maxwells. Heughan took two more men and circled around the fencing at the back of the homestead, just as Old Man Kerr was being pulled from his horse by a couple of desperate Maxwells. There was a bandit in the tree above the huts, loosing off arrows at a good rate into them. Heughan hurtled an axe at him, which hit the archer on the lower leg, tripping him out of the tree. Ricky and young Jackie dropped on him before he could get up. Leaving them to it, Heughan took off after the hostage Kerr.

  “We’ll slit his throat, Heughan, come no closer!” screamed one of the Maxwells, holding Kerr.

  “You stupid arse, Kerr,” cursed Heughan under his breath, and then out loud, “Go on! Kill him! I don’t fucking care, but you’ll never get another good night’s sleep, I tell you now. You’ll have to keep running for years, boys, ’cause you know I’ll hunt you down and cut off your fucking heads for this. You took his boy, that’s enough.”

  “If we let him go, you’ll kill us anyway!” shouted Billy Maxwell, his knife at Old Man Kerr’s throat. Heughan could sense some calm, he knew Hamish and the others had things under control. No rush now, he thought.

  “No, Billy, we’re done here. You’ll live to fight another day, son. It’ll be on my side frae now on, mind.”

  “God above us, Heughan! I want to trust you but mam said you’ll kill me,” whimpered Billy.

  Heughan laughed. “I will if I see you crawling into Red Sal’s place in Carlisle again. But then again, so would yer mam!”

  Hamish drew up alongside Heughan, they exchanged brief glances; all was secure.

  “Come on now, give me Kerr and we’ll no’ take the cattle. We only came to take revenge for his lad. That’s done. Now let me get out of this bloody awful morning.”