Border Fire (35 page)

He reminded himself that many of the men with Graham were acquaintances, even friends, of Sir Quinton Scott and that those who were not would respect the power of his present position. Awareness of that power settled over him like a familiar, magical garment, increasing his confidence so that it nearly matched the zestful delight he experienced when leading a raid. Power was heady stuff.

Reaching the stream, he signaled his men to wait and rode without pause to meet Graham.

Sir Hugh rode forward alone, too.

When Quin met his stern gaze, his confidence ebbed a bit. His breathing felt labored, but he ignored the tension, keeping his gaze fixed warily on the other man. The relief he felt when Sir Hugh extended his right hand exhilarated him, renewing his confidence.

“We meet at last,” Quin said heartily, emphasizing his university English as he gripped the outstretched hand.

Sir Hugh said evenly, “I did not learn until yesterday that Buccleuch’s deputy was my new brother-in-law.” He did not seem particularly gratified by the fact, but neither did he show any sign of recognizing his erstwhile captive.

“Nor did we realize until minutes ago that Scrope was sending a deputy,” Quin replied. “I should not have known your identity until your men named you had Jenny not expressed her delight at seeing you.”

“How is Janet?”

The gentle emphasis on Jenny’s preferred manner of address made Quin’s lips twitch, but he repressed the smile, saying in a manner haughty enough to befit Jamie’s own minister of state, “You must ask her yourself, Sir Hugh. As you see, she awaits us with the others. I warrant that she will be pleased to speak to you.”

“I heard about Buccleuch’s accident,” Sir Hugh said. “I hope he is mending.”

“He is,” Quin replied. “Forgive me for pressing the point, and pray believe that I mean no offense, but I did expect to deal with Scrope.”

“He thought the experience would benefit me,” Sir Hugh said blandly.

“Ah, indeed. Shall we take our places then? This water is rather too cold to keep the horses standing in it long.”

Sir Hugh gave him a challenging look. “I hope that my request to meet midway did not offend you.”

“Not in the least,” Quin replied, returning the look. “Where strict procedures rule the day, fatal misunderstandings are less likely to occur. Do you not agree?”

“Aye,” the other man said curtly. Gesturing to his followers and spurring his mount, he splashed to the Scottish bank.

Turning deftly with him, Quin rode beside him up the pathway formed by his own men to the table where the two deputies would sit to hear grievances.

In moments, men from both sides had mingled to erect tents and trestle tables, and to tap enormous casks of ale. Women spilled down the hillside on the English side of the line, carrying baskets and cloths which they spread on the tables before helping the Scottish women set out the food. Dogs barked and tried to steal morsels of food. Traveling merchants appeared with their packhorses, quickly unloaded them, and set out their wares to attract buyers. Vendors of wine, spirits, and other creature comforts set up, as well. There were even sideshows, with spokesmen crying out for all and sundry to see such delights as a two-headed lamb and a woman who could tie herself in knots.

Although some folks wandered off to see the sights, most stayed near the wardens’ table to keep an eye, for a time at least, on the business of the day. Complainers and defenders crowded around with friends and families to support them, not in solitary groups but in teeming hundreds. Laughter and the cries of vendors punctuated a din of conversation against a musical background of skirling pipes, blaring horns, the clinking of bridles and other gear, and the stamping and snorting of horses. There were even children, running after each other, shouting and laughing, made merry by the grand freedom of the day.

The clerk proved to be a short, thin, middle-aged man from Carlisle who had been approved by both sides. He spread a gilt-fringed, red-velvet cloth on the wardens’ table, and Quin and Sir Hugh set their brass-bound grievance boxes upon it. Following normal procedure, Lord Scrope had forwarded the English complaints to Buccleuch and had received the Scottish ones in return.

The clerk took his place between the two deputies, set down his log, carefully extracted two quills and his inkwell from a leather pouch, and set them out neatly between the brass-bound coffers. Then he straightened, looked at the two deputies, and said in solemn but stentorian tones, “Sir Quinton Scott of Broadhaugh, and Sir Hugh Graham of Brackengill, are you both prepared to swear the oath?”

“Aye,” they said as one.

The crowd grew quiet.

The clerk continued, “Then, if you please, Sir Quinton, repeat after me…‘I, Sir Quinton Scott of Broadhaugh….’”

“I, Sir Quinton Scott of Broodhaugh…”

“‘…do swear by the High God that reigneth above all kings and realms, and to whom all Christians owe obedience…’”

When Quin finished, Sir Hugh swore the same oath, and then they took their seats—the wardens in armchairs, their clerk on a stool.

The clerk said, “If it please you, Sir Hugh, you may call your first juror.”

Sir Hugh nodded and gazed out upon the multitude. The murmur of conversation that had begun as the three men took their seats died away in anticipation of hearing the first name called. Sir Hugh would choose the six Scottish jurors and Quin the six English ones. Quin appreciated the subtle suggestion that they would make their choices on the spot and at random, for despite Sir Hugh’s casual pretense of searching the crowd, Quin knew that just as much calculation had gone into the Englishman’s selections as had gone into his own.

Wardens could not simply pluck jurors like flowers from the field. They had to weigh personality, circumstance, and family relationships against the grievances with which they had to deal. At times, as he had learned from his surly mentor, the calculation required the craftiness and wisdom of a sage. Moreover, they were supposed to impanel only respectable men on their juries. Since the law forbade naming traitors, murderers, fugitives, betrayers, and other infamous persons from sitting, life being what it was in the Borders, wardens from both sides often had to overlook the rules in order to find twelve men to serve.

Impaneling the two juries took little time, however, and the clerk had them all swear their oaths as one. They were ready to begin the day’s business.

The clerk selected the most recent bill of complaint first and read it aloud to the company for consideration. The complaint being against an Englishman, the six Englishmen whom Quin had selected would hear it.

In a solemn, carrying voice, louder than anyone might expect from so slight a man, the clerk intoned, “Jed Elliot and Wat Tailor, step forward and be heard!”

Two burly men emerged from the throng, urged on by shouts from their cohorts. Glowering at wardens and jurors alike, both looked very determined.

The clerk said, “Jed Elliot, you have filed grievance before this body. Have you honestly declared the truth of what your goods were worth at the time of their taking had they been bought and sold in a market all at one time, and do you also declare that you know no other recovery but this, so help you God?”

The burly Scotsman rolled his eyes heavenward, then muttered, “Well, as to knowin’ no other recourse—”

Quin cleared his throat loudly, drawing Elliot’s startled attention.

The Scotsman sighed, looked at the jury, then declared hoarsely, “I do, then, by God and by Christ Almighty, as weel.”

The clerk, expressionless, turned next to the Englishman. “Do you, Wat Tailor, swear by heaven above you, hell beneath you, by your part of Paradise, by all that God made in six days and seven nights, and by God himself, that you are sackless of art, part, way, witting, ridd, kenning, having, or resetting of any of the goods and cattle named in this bill, so help you God?”

“Aye, I do swear,” the Englishman muttered.

The clerk turned to the two wardens. “This bill is cleared by the defendant’s own oath of innocence,” he declared.

“Here now,” Elliot protested. He fell silent when Quin looked at him, but the expression on his face made it plain that at best his silence would be momentary.

Quin understood Buccleuch’s warning about fairness. When one man held the fate of another in his hands, he could easily lose sight of all but the awesome power he wielded. At Broadhaugh he possessed great power, including the authority to order men drowned in the pit or hanged from the gallows, but the consequences that could result from Broadhaugh justice were small compared to this. At Dayholm a misstep could start a war between two countries. The thought sobered him.

To Sir Hugh, he said, “Can Tailor call others to swear to his innocence?”

Sir Hugh bellowed the question to the crowd, then waited a few moments. When no one stepped forward, he said, “Apparently, no man speaks for him.”

“Then let the jury decide,” Quin said, nodding to the six Englishmen he had chosen for his assize court.

They returned their verdict after a brief muttering conference: “Guilty.”

Glancing at the bill of grievance, Quin said, “The charge declares forty head of kine and three oxen. At thirty shillings apiece for the kine and forty for the oxen, the amount…”

“…would be sixty-six pounds, sir,” the clerk said quickly.

“Sterling,” Quin added. “Can Tailor pay such an amount?”

“He can and he will,” Sir Hugh said, exchanging a look with the burly Tailor. “I will stand good for it myself.”

The clerk called the next case, and business proceeded in a generally orderly fashion until noon, when the acting wardens declared a recess for dinner.

“And have they e’en ta’en him…

Against the truce of border tide?”

J
ANET HAD WATCHED THE
proceedings for only a few minutes before she had seen a kinswoman helping to set out food. Dismounting with Hob the Mouse’s help, she left her horse with another man-at-arms to look after it and went to join the other women. She thought her old friends and family members looked pleased to see her, but they did seem reticent at first and less friendly than in the past. Not until she noticed that each woman she spoke to looked beyond her rather than at her did she realize that she had brought along a somewhat intimidating escort.

Since she had walked away after seeing her horse safely in the care of Quinton’s man, she had not seen Hob signal two others to follow her. Seeing them now and knowing she could do nothing about them, she shrugged, grinned at the woman with whom she was speaking, and said, “My husband frets about my safety, I’m afraid. He does not seem to realize that with kinsmen on both sides of the line, I am most likely safer than most folks.”

“It does not do to be too sure of such things,” the woman said wisely.

Janet agreed with her, but she was glad to see old acquaintances again and felt certain that because of the truce, nothing untoward would happen. Enjoying the company of women from both sides of the line, she paid little heed to the trials as they proceeded. Just as one of the older women was suggesting that the men would soon call a halt so they could eat their dinner, she saw another old friend.

“Andrew, is that you?”

The boy was with several men, and when she called to him he glanced at her, then glanced away again.

She recognized one of the men with whom the boy stood as a friend of Hugh’s. The man took a step toward her, then seemed to change his mind, and she remembered her ubiquitous escort. When she looked over her shoulder to see Quinton’s two men frowning, their hands on their daggers, she sighed. It explained, however, why Hugh’s friend was walking away without speaking to her.

Andrew, too, had turned away.

“Andrew, come here. I want to talk to you.”

Hesitating only a moment, the boy strode to meet her. Touching his cap, he bade her good day, his dignified manner telling her that he wanted people to think him older than his years.

Concealing her amusement, she said, “What are you doing here, my lad?”

“I come to see them bluidy Scotch reivers, is what,” he replied grimly.

“And what else have you seen?”

He looked directly at her, and his eyes lit with pleasure more in keeping with his age. He said, “I seen a lamb with two heads, Mistress Janet. Did ye see it?”

“I did,” she acknowledged. “How fares your mam? Is she here today?”

“Nay, she’s wi’ the bairns. We got a new one since ye left. It’s nobbut a lass, though, and a puling one at that. Sir Hugh himself helped wi’ her birthin’, though.”

“Hugh did?” Janet was amazed.

“Aye, there were none else to help, so I fetched ’im, and then he sent Ned Rowan to look after the place, ’cause he said we needed a man about. I could ha’ taken care of ’em,” he added resentfully. “I dinna like Ned Rowan. He’s sweet on me mam, but she doesna want him.”

“Then she need not have him,” Janet said kindly.

“Sir Hugh says she will, though, unless she wants to go to Brackengill and look after him instead. All them women at the castle left when ye did, Mistress Janet, and their men willna let them go back.”

“Oh, dear,” Janet said, knowing that if her departure alone had not infuriated her brother, the circumstances that resulted from it must have done so.

“Aye,” Andrew said. “Be it true, then, that the reiver carried ye off, like they say he did?”

“Aye, true enough,” she said.

“They do say it were Rabbie Redcloak that took ye and that ye married wi’ him. Be that true, as well?”

Janet’s breath caught in her throat. Before she could think of something sensible to say, she was startled to hear her brother’s grim voice behind her.

“Janet, I want to speak to you.”

Turning to see Hugh striding toward her, she noted with relief that he could not have heard Andrew’s remark. She bent quickly to say in a low voice, “Andrew, what you heard is not true, and you must not tell anyone that it is. Promise me!”

“But I—”

“Run along, lad,” Hugh said curtly. “I want to speak to Lady Scott.”

Andrew looked puzzled, and Janet said, “That is my name now, Andrew. Go now, and remember to tell your mam that I think of her often.”