The Tweedie Passion (3 page)

LETHAN VALLEY
SEPTEMBER 1585

'Robert!'

He lay on his face, groaning softly. I put my hands under him and helped haul him upright, with his face twisted in pain and one hand on his haunches. 'Are you badly hurt?'

'Not too bad,' he said, trying to be brave. 'That devil in the yellow jack unhorsed me and landed a foul stroke.'

'I was watching,' I said. 'Luck was not with you.'

I saw Mother embracing Father, both of them chatting noisily, as if they were young people in love and not grey-haired oldsters who should have known better and behaved with more propriety.

'I think he cut me badly,' Robert was rubbing at himself.

'You will have the luck next time,' I wondered if I should offer to check his wounds, decided that I had better not look at that part of him and offered him my arm for support instead.

'He ran too fast for me to catch him,' Robert said. He limped at my side. I saw his father and my mother talking as the men of Lethan dismounted and discussed the late encounter with rough laughter and much exaggeration. To hear them talk you would think they had won a major battle rather than merely chase a bunch of young callants away from the door.

'Come on, Robert,' I knew that Mother and Archie of Whitecleuch were discussing Robert's recent participation in the action. I wished he had acquitted himself better although I knew he had at least tried. He had proved himself to be no coward, even although he had been bested in single combat. I took Robert to one of the chambers upstairs and eased him onto the bed. He lay there, face down and giving the occasional piteous groan. I thought his wound must be causing him considerable pain and wondered what was best to do. I was loath to leave him yet unsure if I could help by remaining.

'Well then!' Mother bustled in, all decision and authority. 'How is he?'

'Not well,' I said, part aggrieved that Mother should interfere and part relieved she was there for if anybody knew what to do, Mother would. 'Robert's wounded,' I said, looking at her hopefully.

'I saw,' Mother did not waste time. 'Lie still and let's have a look at you,' she said and without hesitation dragged Robert's breeches down past his knees.

'Mother!' I was not sure whether to be shocked, surprised or something else as I had a sudden look at Robert's haunches all delightfully bare for my inspection. I looked, expecting to see a huge open wound gushing out blood. Instead there was a faint weal, slightly red and with the skin only broken in one place.

'Oh tcha!' Mother tutted. 'Oh your poor wee soul.' She stepped back, shaking her head. 'I am surprised you are able to walk at all after enduring that.' She surprised me with an expansive wink. 'Do you think he will survive?'

'Is it that bad?' Robert spoke over his shoulder, trying to squint backward to view the injured part of him.

'Oh bad!' Mother shook her head again. Suddenly tutting again, she looked at me. 'I've seen worse in an infant! Now get up and get along with you.' She turned away in disgust. 'And you, Jeannie, can see now why Robert Ferguson is not right for you. A woman needs a man, not a greeting little boy.' For one horrible moment I thought that mother was about to slap him as he lay there, but she resisted the obvious temptation and instead hustled me outside the door. 'I do wish you would find a man,' she said.

Tempted to sneak back and watch poor Robert hauling up his breeches, I knew that Mother would not approve and instead walked into what we fondly called the Great Hall, from where a jubilant noise was emanating.

In case you have never been in the great hall of a border tower, pray allow me to describe it for you. As I have already explained, Cardrona Tower was no larger than many others in the Borders, a solid, four storey, whinstone built lump of masonry that would withstand the wind and weather for many centuries unless the English or some reiving band took crowbars or cannon to it. With walls some five feet thick, the interior was necessarily cramped, making the great hall a little less than great although it did extend the full width and length of the building.

With a vaulted ceiling above and straw covering the slabbed floor below, logs crackling in the fireplace and tapestries on the walls, the room was packed with men and women, children and dogs, all laughing at their victory over the raiders and lauding their own parts in the proceedings. A piper enlivened the proceedings with his Border pipes until Mother sent him on his way with a cuff to the back of his head.

'It is surprising that with all that gallantry,' Mother said caustically, 'nobody got hurt. You did not kill a single one of the attackers and only one of us was in any way injured.'

'Who was hurt?' Father sounded strangely surprised. Did he think that such a victory could be obtained without blood being spilled? I thought he knew better than that.

'Young Robert of Whitecleuch,' Mother explained his extensive injuries to the now hushed room, leaving them laughing hard. When Robert walked in the merriment increased, with the children demanding to see his battle wounds and Archie Ferguson scowling in embarrassment for his son. I sat in a corner, red faced, wishing that anything had happened except what had actually occurred. I hardly heard Archie's near-casual statement: 'we captured one of them.'

'You captured one? I did not know that.' Again my father sounded surprised. 'Where is he now?'

'In the black hole of your keep,' Archie said.

'Bring him here,' Father ordered. 'I want to see him.'

The prisoner was little more than a boy. He was about sixteen, straight- backed with a shock of fair hair and an expression of utter disdain as a brace of servants dragged him into the centre of the floor. We watched him with a mixture of amusement and trepidation. Was this an example of the reivers that scared us so much?

'He doesn't look much does he?' Old Martin said. 'A callant at most. What's your name, boy?'

'That's my business,' the boy said boldly.

'That is a brave answer when you are surrounded by men you were so recently inclined to rob,' Old Martin told him and repeated. 'What's your name, boy?'

The boy pressed his lips together and said nothing.

'He's harmless,' Father said. When he pointed, firelight caught the heavy ring he wore on his pinkie-finger. 'Put him back in the black hole, or kick him out into the night and let him find his own way back.'

'Hand me that poker,' Old Martin said. He pressed it deep into the fire. 'When it is hot enough, we will ask you again and this time you will tell us.'

I had known Old Martin all my life. I knew he had ridden with my father when they were younger; much younger, and I had never seen him cruel before. I stepped forward.

'No!' I said. 'You can't torture him. He is little more than a child!' I felt the boy's gaze on me as I tried to defend him.

'There would be no need if he told us his name and where he came from,' Old Martin seemed amused by my outburst. 'Then we will know if it was only a chance raid or if they intended to return.'

I could see logic in that. 'We need to know your name,' I told the boy. He stared at me through level brown eyes. 'If you don't tell us, that man there,' I pointed to Martin, 'will hurt you sore.'

'I know,' the boy sounded very calm. 'I still won't tell.'

'Western marches,' Old Martin said at once. 'His accent gives him away.' He withdrew the poker from the fire, inspected the end and thrust it back in. 'What are you, son? An Armstrong from Liddesdale? A Graham from the Debateable Lands? A Maxwell from Annandale?' He reeled off some of the most notorious riding families from the western marches of the Border, with the boy standing mute.

'It matters not who he is and where he is from,' Mother took the poker from the fire and clattered it down on the hearth. 'He is a thief and a reiver. We have the power of pit and gallows in our own land. Hang him.'

'Mother!' I knew of course that we had the power to do virtually as we liked to lawbreakers in the Lethan. The Crown had given the Tweedies that power centuries before but to the best of my knowledge we had never exercised it. Certainly I had never seen anything like that in my time.

The boy started and looked at Father, who shook his head slowly. 'Let me think about this,' he said.

'There is nothing to think about,' Mother had made the decision, as she was wont to do. 'He is a thief. Thieves are hanged. So we hang him.' She pushed the boy toward Old Martin. 'Put him back in the Black Hole Martin. We will get rid of him tomorrow.' She clapped her hands. 'The rest of you: get back to bed or to your homes or wherever you should be.' She took hold of my arm as I moved away. 'Not you, Jeannie. We have something to discuss.'

LETHAN VALLEY
SEPTEMBER 1585

When Mother spoke them, those words always had an ominous sound. On this occasion she virtually dragged me to her private chamber and sat me down with a hard thump on the footstool while she lowered herself onto the chair.

'Now listen to me Jeannie. I had hoped you would be over this silly notion you have for Robert Ferguson.'

Here we go again, I thought. 'It is no silly notion, Mother.' I said, while wishing he had made a better show of himself. On our Border, a man who cannot fight is of as much use as a man who cannot ride. 'We are for each other.'

'He is not a man,' Mother was surprisingly patient. 'Look, Jeannie. We have been through all this before, time and time again. I am a bit sick of it now.'

'So am I!' I fought to control my temper as my voice rose. 'So am I, Mother,' I said in a more moderate tone. 'We have both said our piece. I am twenty one soon…'

'And still with no more sense than when you were twelve!' Mother butted in, as she had a habit of doing. She stood over me, dominant yet with worry shadowing her eyes. 'Jeannie; you will find that you need more than just a companion as you grow into a full woman.'

I could see that she was struggling to find the right words as she tried to balance her feelings for me as her only daughter with her reluctance to admit that I would have all the aspirations and desires of a woman. Save that crucial one that I seemed to lack. I chose not to help her. 'Robert and I will marry,' I said, 'and there is nothing that you can do about it.'

I saw her stiffen; I thought she was going to slap me. Instead she lowered her voice. 'If that happens,' she said, 'and you will notice that I say
if
. If that happens then you will be the owners of the whole Lethan Valley. You will have merged two of the most significant families in Peebles-shire.' Her face altered. 'I will not mention the
Veitches
.'

I nodded. 'I am aware of that.' I could see that she was struggling to keep her temper. Not twenty minutes earlier this woman had ordered the execution of a boy scarcely into his teens. Now she was biting her tongue in her anxiety to ensure that I did not make the wrong choice in a man. I did not then appreciate the depth of her love. I only accepted it.

'You are the only Tweedie of Cardrona and the Lethan,' Mother said bluntly. 'The family, your family, has held this land for nearly three centuries. You have a responsibility to maintain the connection between the land and your blood.'

'My life is not about that,' I said, as I had so often before.

'You are a Tweedie.' Mother said. 'Your life is about that. It is your duty and your responsibility to keep the land safe and the bloodline intact.'

I sighed. Would this woman never accept things as they were? I thought it better to pacify her. 'I do understand what you mean, Mother,' I said as patiently as I could. 'And if I marry Robert, I will have both the land and the bloodline.'

'For how long?' Mother's voice was flat. 'Your chosen man can hardly hold a sword yet alone use one. As soon as the Armstrongs, or the Elliots, or even the Bold Buccleuch of the Scotts find out that a weakling holds the Lethan, they will rob you from Lethanhead to Tweed and leave this valley nothing but a smoking desert.'

I looked at her, wordless. The words were harsh yet true. Robert was no fighting man. And then I remembered my vision and I knew that all would be well.

Mother saw my hesitation and pressed what she thought was her advantage. 'Think on that, Jeannie, before you make your decision, and think of what happened to Robert earlier today.' She stood up. 'You may sleep now.'

I felt as if I was two years old as I crawled out of my Mother's chamber and into the cubby hole that I had for myself one level beneath the roof. Despite the busy day, it was very hard to sleep with so many images chasing each other through my mind. As I listened to the rain hammering against the leather shutters I had placed within the arrow-slit, I thought of poor Robert falling before the sword of the Yorling. Then I thought of Robert's bottom, strangely vulnerable on the bed, shining white except for that red streak where the Yorling's sword had landed. I knew that sight should have stirred me, yet it had not. I also thought of the Yorling with his flowing black hair and that supple skill with sword and mount. It was with that image that I fell asleep: that image and the sensation that he and I were connected in some way.

I woke with that same feeling and a faint smile that I did not wish. Robert was my chosen man. By thinking of the Yorling I was betraying my own choice and my own decision. Yet I could not chase the pictures away. And, if I faced the truth, I secretly had no desire to. I retained that smile until that other memory returned: Mother was going to hang that young reiver this morning.

I had never seen a hanging before although, God forgive us, they were common enough along the Border line. You may know that both sides of the Border, the Scots and the English, were divided into three Marches, or divisions. Each side had an East March, Middle March and West March and each March had its own Warden who was responsible for dispensing justice in the case of disputes, and for putting down reiving. On the Scottish side the valley of Liddesdale had its own Warden, the Captain of Liddesdale, purely because it was the most turbulent place in Europe, with the most predatory riding families, such as the Armstrongs, Elliots and Nixons plus all the broken men and outlaws who belonged to no family or clan. The Wardens had one sure cure for lawlessness: the rope.

Now it was our family's turn to act as Warden: Mother had elevated herself to jury, judge and executioner and that stubborn, tight-mouthed young lad was to be the object of her revenge. I was not looking forward to watching the spectacle and left the tower with a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach and dryness in my mouth.

I was not alone in that. Many of the women and some of the men seemed to share my trepidation as we gathered outside the barmekin walls. At the side of the Lethan water there was a small mound with a prominent tree we called the gallows oak where traditionally these things used to take place, and we collected in a circle around, waiting. I sought out Robert, of course.

'I am not looking forward to this,' I told him, reaching for his hand.

He edged slightly away. I had forgotten that men did not like to show public displays of affection. Robert certainly did not. 'It's only a hanging.' He said, as if he had witnessed scores in his time. I knew for a fact that this would be his first. 'A
reiver
.' He said the word as if it was a curse against God.

'It's a young boy,' I said, 'somebody will be mourning him. He will have a mother, a father,' I glanced at Robert with a hopeful smile, 'perhaps a sweetheart.' He did not respond.

The boy was silent as two sturdy men, Willie Rennie and James of the Ford, hustled him out. They had tied his hands in front of him and hobbled him so he could take only short steps. Despite his youth he kept his head up and his mouth closed. He did not look afraid.

'Poor little boy,' I wanted to step forward and comfort him. Mary's Bessie Tweedie was in tears: she had two sons of about the same age. I saw her looking imploringly toward Mother, whose face was set like flint. Others were watching in fascination as James of the Ford cut through the boys hobble and mounted him on a horse, facing ignominiously backward. 'What are they doing?' I sought Robert's hand. He did not respond.

When the boy was mounted, James of the Ford led him to the gallows tree as Willie Rennie casually tossed a rope over the lowest branch, which stretched out at right angles from the trunk. There was a murmur from the crowd with some people pressing forward for a better look and others holding back. Now that the time had come, only a few averted their eyes. One mother grabbed hold of her son and lectured him sternly as he jumped up and down, laughing. A gaggle of dogs barked around us, tails wagging and jaws slavering.

'I can't watch,' I said.

Robert looked at me. 'It's only a reiver' he said.

I have never liked him less than at that moment. 'It's a young boy!' I nearly shouted. 'Mother! You can't do this!'

People stared at me as I pushed through them, determined to reach my mother and put an end to this horror. 'You can't hang this boy,' I told her, until she nodded to Willie Rennie, who grabbed hold of me.

'You stay out of this, my bonnie lass.' His voice was like the growl of a hunting dog.

James of the Ford tied a noose in the rope and slipped it around the boy's throat so casually that I wondered if he knew he was preparing to end a young life. I tried to move to help, only for Willie Rennie to hold me tighter.

'Robert!' I shouted, hoping that he would come to help.

The boy held my gaze. He remained impassive, staring over the crowd as if they were not there. He looked at my mother without expression as she lifted her hand and smacked it down on the rump of the horse. It jerked forward so the boy slid off the back and hung there, legs kicking and face screwed up as the noose tightened around his throat.

'No!' I screamed as loudly as I could. 'No!'

I did not see from where the riders came. In common with the rest of the crowd, I was concentrating on the drama unfold before us, watching that poor boy kick and gyrate as he choked to death when the storm arrived. The first I knew about it was the shout 'A Yorling!'

I whirled around to see who had shouted that dread slogan. It was the Yorling himself with his long black hair flying beneath his steel bonnet and his yellow jack prominent as he galloped toward the gallows tree. The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses, and the Yorling's men followed in a wedge formation that split the crowd in half. I watched with a mixture of delight and astonishment as the Yorling flicked out his sword and sliced through the gallows rope. The boy fell heavily and rolled on the ground, gasping until one of the Yorling's followers jumped out of the saddle and cut the cord that bound the boy's wrists. Without any hesitation, as if he had expected no less, the boy vaulted onto the saddle of a spare horse and let out a hoarse yell of his own.

'Come to me, my dark lady of Cardrona!' The Yorling yelled and rode straight for me.

I had no time to react as the Yorling barged his horse against Willie Rennie, knocked him down to the ground and grabbed hold of me with his left hand. Before I knew what was happening I was face down over his horse and we were galloping past the gallows tree and down the valley.

It was all over in far less time than it took to tell. One moment I was watching the noose tighten around the neck of that poor boy and the next I was in a very undignified position over the back of a horse, a prisoner of the infamous Yorling.