Border Fire (42 page)

This time the silence continued after she stopped speaking. A moment passed during which she felt tempted to look to Gaudilands or to Hob the Mouse for reassurance, but she did not. Instead she shouted, “Do I have your word on it, lads?”

“Aye,” they shouted back.

“Your word as Borderers?”

“Aye!” This time their response was lustier, and cheers followed. Satisfied, she nodded to Ally the Bastard, who spurred his mount and rode off at a gallop, followed by his ten scouts. Even before they had disappeared from sight, Janet saw them begin to spread out, each man taking a separate route.

Flanked by Hob and Gaudilands, she followed Ally at a slower but steady pace, with the others falling in behind. The sun was just touching the western horizon, shooting rays under the ominous-looking cloud bank overhead, setting the billowy clouds afire with orange and red. As the company rode, the sky darkened, and they reached the line at the river Esk as the last colors faded, making it too gloomy to see the famous reddish cast of the Esk sand on its banks.

Not until Janet’s horse stepped from damp sand into the water did she look back. Excitement and pride in equal measure filled her when she saw again the host of riders following them. As she crossed from Scotland into England, she understood as she never had before Quinton’s powerful enthusiasm for raiding.

“But ’twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,

When we came beneath the castle wa’.”

D
ARKNESS CLOSED AROUND THE
riders. Black clouds hid the moon, and gusting wind shook trees and shrubbery and sent the temperature plunging, but the gathering storm thrilled Janet nearly as much as the steady drumming of hoofbeats behind her. Buccleuch’s plan counted on another dismal night, and the hoped-for bad weather certainly threatened. It would rain soon, and they still had six miles of hostile territory to cross before they reached Carlisle.

Her blood raced, and when the first pellets of sleet stung her cheeks, she felt an impulse to cry, “We’ll have moonlight again!” Only her awareness that enemies might be lurking nearby kept her still.

They rode on, pushing with surprising quiet into the southern moss, but their pace soon slowed to a walk. The night winds grew more savage, howling as they swept unchecked across King Moor, and darkness was complete. Without so much as a star, let alone a good Border moon, the pace seemed agonizingly slow, but greater speed would endanger not only the men but their cause as well.

Not long after crossing the Esk, Ally the Bastard sent a man back to tell them that the way was clear, and to warn them not to overrun his scouts, who were also, perforce, moving slowly. After that, a scout reported every half hour and remained with them until the next report came before riding ahead again. The only good thing about the slow pace was that the assault group could easily keep up with them. It would do them no good to arrive hours before the laden ponies did, because they would only have to wait for them.

The dark, rainy night provided excellent cover, Janet knew, and so she did not mind the horrid weather. Even when sleet mixed with the rain pelting down in sheets, and lightning flashed and thunder boomed like cannon fire, her steel bonnet and heavy, silk-lined cloak protected her from the worst of the chill.

Although it was only six miles from the Esk, they took the best part of the night to cover the distance to Stanwix Bank, but thanks to the weather, they did so without meeting anyone. Most sensible people had taken cover from the storm.

At last they reached the line of bluffs rearing above the north bank of the Eden, and in the glare of jagged lightning bolts got their first view of Carlisle. When the sky darkened again, Janet turned to Gaudilands. Over rolling thunder, she shouted, “How long till dawn?”

“Two hours, as near as I can reckon it,” he shouted back.

“The river looks dangerously flooded!”

“Aye,” he said.

With each flash of lightning, even through the driving, sleet-filled rain, she could see frothing whitecaps on roiling water as they descended the slippery track from the bluffs. The nearer they rode, the more her imagination threatened to undo her. Her pony would never make it across. They could all be swept into Solway Firth and out to sea. Sensible people would turn back. Then she thought of Quinton, imprisoned and miserable inside the great castle, the massive walls of which loomed darkly on the southern horizon. She could not abandon him, nor could she let these faithful, determined men know how frightened she was.

She knew, too, that her fear could communicate itself to her horse. Already, it felt skittish beneath her. Inhaling deeply, she fought to steady herself both in mind and body. Quinton’s life and freedom might well depend on her. The men would go on without her, but they would not find him as quickly. Description was never as good as seeing the place, or knowing the door behind which he lay. Her husband would doubtless accuse her of acting impulsively again, but she had weighed the alternatives, and this time she knew she had done the right thing. At least, she had believed it before she faced the boiling waters of the wild, clearly misnamed Eden.

“Lass…my lady…” Hob’s tone was anxious.

Janet turned, managing a smile for the huge man, doubting that he could see it but sure that he would hear it in her voice. She said, “I’m here, Hob. Do we just charge straight across? I confess, I’ve not crossed wild water like this before.”

“Ye’ll follow the Laird o’ Gaudilands with Ally’s man upriver o’ ye to break the flow, and I’ll keep below ye on your right flank. These ponies be bred for tasks like this, so if ye can but trust yours, ye’ll make it safe. And if ye don’t,” he added with a chuckle, “I’ll snatch ye up afore the water washes ye awa’ into the Firth.”

She laughed then, turning her face up to the rain and sleet. “Let’s ride then.”

When Gaudilands took the lead, she followed him into the water. Fifteen minutes later, their entire fighting force was across and most of the assault party. Knowing the land ahead was mostly a barren slope, they rode on toward the castle at speed.

The storm reached its zenith as the assault force reached the wall, and Janet scanned the battlements anxiously, knowing everyone else was doing the same. She listened intently for voices, but neither heard nor saw any sign of life. Evidently the townsfolk and even Scrope’s guards had taken shelter from the storm’s fury.

Her relief turned to dismay, however, when the first ladders went up, and she saw that they were too short.

“The men can’t get over the walls,” she cried. The wind whipped her words away, but she knew she did not need to repeat them. Todrigg and Gaudilands had also seen that the ladders were too short. She saw Todrigg wave his men away from the wall and was startled to see them race toward the ponies. At first, she feared that they meant to turn back. When they began snatching tools from the ponies’ backs, she relaxed again and turned her attention back to the battlements. The castle might have been empty for all that she could see.

Gaudilands led part of the fighting force through the town to be sure that no one surprised them from that direction, but the town remained quiet, too. Another glance at Todrigg’s men showed them running toward the postern gate with shovels and picks in hand. Others followed Todrigg’s men, carrying axes, swords, daggers, lances, and even pitchforks.

Janet glanced at Hob the Mouse, still riding at her side. “What are they doing now, Hob?”

“They’ll undermine the gate or break the bolt and bars free,” he shouted. Neither of them cared any longer about making noise. Nothing they did or said would carry over the wall. The storm was too loud.

“We must stay with them then,” Janet shouted back. “When they break through, we’ll go in with them. You’ll not try to stop me, will you?”

“Nay, mistress, not unless I see them runnin’ into a trap. They’ll need me inside, too, ye ken, if the master canna move gey quick on his own.”

No one had mentioned this last possibility aloud before, but Janet had thought about it. She had not liked thinking that Quinton might be injured or, worse, incapacitated, but she was grateful that Hob—and doubtless others, as well—had thought about it and would deal with whatever state he was in when the time came.

She spurred her pony around the wall to the postern gate and rode up just as the men broke through. She saw Gaudilands and Todrigg take the lead, tackling the gatekeeper. Others grabbed the guard with him, and soon the pair were trussed like Christmas geese. The raiders tucked them into the guardhouse, out of the storm, and then crossed the yard toward the archway leading to the inner bailey and the keep.

“Follow me, Hob,” Janet said as she slipped from her saddle and pulled her dagger from its sheath.

Hob signaled to Ally the Bastard, who gathered several Bairns, sending others to help secure the castle proper. The first group followed Janet to the door in the west wall that Neal Graham had pointed out to her. Axes and picks quickly reduced the locked and barred door to rubble, and she picked her way carefully through it into a stone-walled anteroom. Holding her dagger in one hand, she seized a torch from a bracket with the other to light her way.

“Lead on, lass,” Hob the Mouse muttered behind her, no longer considering the proprieties. “We’re ahind ye. If ye’re challenged, just step aside quick.”

“We must find the stairs,” she said.

In that same moment, she saw a guard in the room ahead, and when he vanished at sight of them, fear leapt within her that he or someone else might harm Quinton. Running now, hearing shouts ahead, she found the stairs and darted up them to the next level, where she found a long, empty corridor. Running along it, past a number of closed doors, she did not pause until she reached the second one from the far end.

Stopping, she stood back, pointing. “There,” she said. “Oh, be quick!”

Seizing an ax from one of the men behind him, Hob the Mouse swung at the door. The second stroke splintered the wood and broke the door almost in two. It lurched drunkenly from one iron hinge, and when the bolt slid out of its socket, that half fell to the floor. Hob the Mouse began shoving wreckage aside, but impatiently Janet dropped her torch and ran beneath his arm into the shadowy cell.

“Quinton, it’s us,” she cried. “Oh, my dear, speak to me! Godamercy, but I hate finding you behind bars.”

He was slumped in a back corner on what looked like a pile of filthy rags. Though he stirred, she doubted that he had recognized her.

“Quinton, wake up! Speak to me!” Grabbing his face between her hands, she forced him to look at her. “It’s Jenny, my love. Oh, look at me!”

“What the devil?” His words were almost undistinguishable. Had she not known him well, she would not have understood them. “You cannot be Jenny.”

“Aye, it’s me. I disobeyed you again.” She straightened, putting her fists on her hips. “What are you going to do about it, eh? You cannot even stand up.”

One of the men had carried a torch into the chamber, and she could see Quinton collect himself. His eyes narrowed as he fought to regain his wits. She saw bruises on his face, and he looked thin and haggard.

“I have food, love, and ale,” she said coaxingly, adding in a harsher tone when he did not respond, “We are taking you home. Now, damn you, get up! I cannot carry you, you know.”

“I’ll take him, mistress.”

She looked up and saw Hob the Mouse looming over them. Feeling perilously near tears, she muttered, “Aye, you carry him. But mind, he must stand when we reach the courtyard. He’ll not want any damned English to see him carried out of here like a sack of laundry.”

“You want your mouth washed with strong lye soap,” Quinton muttered, grunting when Hob picked him up and slung him over one shoulder.

Janet looked at his upside-down face. “At least you didn’t fling my English birth in my teeth, but you just try that soap, my laddie, and see what it gets you. You couldn’t wash a babe, as weak as you are.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said, and she noted with relief bordering upon euphoria that his voice sounded stronger. That he did not complain about Hob’s carrying him was not a good sign, though.

Following the huge man and his precious burden out of the cell, determined to keep Quinton talking in the hope that it would help him gather strength, she taunted him again when they reached the stairs. “I suppose you will want to take command when we’re outside again,” she said, “but this is my army, so don’t be thinking that you can just start ordering them about. They answer to me, sir.”

Hob glanced at her over his shoulder, and she was grateful to see the twinkle in his eyes. He knew what she was doing. To her astonishment, none of the other Bairns contradicted her declaration either.

One of them stood at the foot of the stairs. “Good, ye’ve got him,” he said, adding cheerfully, “We’ve taken the castle. They sounded an alarm, but our lads outside set up such a clamor that Scrope and his lot think we must be a thousand or more. They ran off when they heard the din, and they’ve holed up in his keep behind a great barred door.”

“Leave them there,” Janet said instantly.

“Aye, sure, mistress, but we was thinking ’twould be a good thing to take a captive or two. Their ransom could feed all of Liddesdale for a year or more.”

“No,” Janet said, and heard her husband echo her reply.

“Set me down, Hob,” Quinton said.

Without protest, the big man obeyed.

“There will be no plundering,” Quinton said sternly, his voice sounding steadier than he looked.

“I told them that before,” Janet said, “and they promised.” She looked directly at the man by the doorway. “You and the others promised as Borderers, Will Elliot. I’ll not allow you to go back on your word.”

“We wouldna do that, mistress,” the man assured her. “We just thought…”

Quinton straightened, looking more like himself. “We will do naught to anger Elizabeth,” he said. “Scrope will soil himself over this business, as it is, and that must satisfy us for now. Is that my cloak you’re wearing, Jenny?”

“Aye,” she said. “It’s a bit damp. Do you want it?”