“Not us.” Lowering his voice, he said, “Hob, lead the lads back the way we came till you reach that pond shaped like a birch leaf. Do you remember it?”
“Aye, but will ye no go with us, then, Rab?”
“No. When you reach that pond, cut over the lower of the two hills you’ll see ahead of you. Kershopefoot Forest begins just the other side of it. Ride north and keep to the forest’s cover till you reach Kershope Burn. You can cross into Scotland easily there, and make for home through Liddesdale.”
“Aye, sure, but which of the lads will ye tak’ wi’ ye?”
“None of them. We can’t expect that ruse to work twice in a night, especially against so many. They’d just split and follow us. If there is anything that might keep them together, though, it’ll be the chance to capture Rabbie Redcloak.”
In dismay, Hob said, “Ye’ll no just ride bang up to them, laddie!”
“Not I. I mean to lead them a merry chase, but first I must be certain they know what a prize they’ll catch if they’re quick enough.”
“But, Rabbie,” Hob protested, “what if they send just a few after ye and the rest after us? They’ll see in a trice that ye’re nobbut one man.”
He grinned. “Aye, but they think that one has the strength and skill of a wizard, and they’ll believe that the rest of you are trying to draw them away from me. They’ll not think for a moment that it’s the other way about, not when they see this in the moonlight,” he added, pulling off the dark, furry, hooded cloak he wore over his padded leather jack and breeks, and flipping it so its red silk lining showed.
“But if they catch ye—”
“Then I shall employ my gifts of gentle persuasion to good advantage until you and the lads come to rescue me. If the worst occurs, I shall simply await the next Trace Day and win free by ransom.”
“Aye, if Himself will agree to pay one,” Hob said doubtfully.
“Never fear. I shall talk my way out of trouble long before we need worry about that.”
“Aye, well, ye’ve a tongue on ye could wheedle a duck off a tarn, ’tis true.”
“It is, so go now,” the leader said. “They’ve only waited this long to see what we will do. They won’t wait much longer.” Raising an arm, he shouted, “Ride, lads! We’ll have moonlight again!”
Still waving, he wheeled his pony toward the head of the glen, urging it to a canter. When he believed that both groups of ambushers could see his figure clearly and must realize that his men had not followed him, he pulled back on the reins till the horse reared and wheeled again, making his cloak billow wide and free. As it did, the misty clouds screening the moon parted to illuminate the cloak’s fiery red color. Spurring his pony hard, he rode up the slope to his left, opposite the waiting lancers. Keeping well clear of the ambushers on his right at the head of the glen, he charged back into the heart of Graham country.
After only a moment’s hesitation, both sets of riders galloped after him, shouting their excitement at having deduced the identity of the most notorious reiver on either side of the Border.
Certain that he could elude them easily whenever he chose to do so, he let them keep him in sight. He knew that the sturdy border pony he rode had miles of distance left in it, and exhilaration surged through him, filling him with energy.
The mist was clearing overhead, which was both a boon and a worry—boon in that he could easily see his way, worry in that his pursuers could see him just as plainly. Twists and turns appeared throughout the rugged, hilly landscape, but he knew them all. His agile brain had been sorting and sifting the best routes for escape from the instant he had seen the first ambushers.
He wasted no thought on the identity of those who pursued him. Since he was deep in Graham country, it was likely that at least some were Grahams, but the area nearby on both sides of the Border was littered with members of that unholy tribe, which was as likely to fight its own as to fight men of other loyalties.
Reaching the top of a bill, he glanced back and saw that several riders had narrowed the distance. Two were within bowshot, so he dared not linger.
Suddenly, from behind, a trumpet sounded. For an instant he thought it was Jed the Horn, but the notes played soon told him that it was not. Then, to his shock, a second horn answered, and a third—one from ahead, the other to his left, and both much too close for comfort. If he did not take care, he warned himself, they would surround him. The moonlight no longer felt friendly.
A dog bayed, then another, and another.
He urged his pony away from the sounds. Only one direction beckoned now. He turned toward the Mote of Liddel, where the river Esk joined Liddel Water a few miles to the northeast. From that point, for a short distance, the Liddel formed the line between Scotland and England. Spurring his pony, he realized that his sole remaining hope lay in the valiant beast’s nimble speed.
Cresting a hill a short time later, he saw moonlight glinting on black water in the distance and knew it to be the Liddel. Minutes more and, barring accident, he would cross into Scotland.
They could follow, of course—and legally—by declaring a “hot trod” and informing the first person they met on the other side that they were in pursuit of a dastardly reiver. They could even demand that the warden of the Scottish west and middle marches help capture him. He smiled at the thought, but the smile vanished when he realized that the moonlight glinted not only on water but also on steel. Horsemen moved to line the water’s edge. He was trapped.
Resigned, he reined his pony to a walk, hoping that his men and their hard-earned booty had not fallen into what now looked like a singularly well-organized trap involving upwards of a hundred men and—from the veritable chorus of baying behind him—an equal number of sleuth hounds. Amused by the thought of Hob the Mouse’s chagrin should he and Curst Eckie Crosier lose their precious iron grates before they had mounted them to their windows, it occurred to him that if his men had eluded capture he might use those gratings to help bargain for his freedom.
Some twenty yards from the line of armed horsemen, with others closing in behind him, he drew his pony to a halt, murmuring, “Come and get me, lads. Power lies with the one who makes the other move first.”
He would have to resort next to his second famous gift, that eloquent tongue that supposedly could wheedle a duck from a tarn or an eagle from its aerie. He hoped the gift would live up to the legend. If it failed him, his captors would keep him locked up until the next Truce Day, and then he would have to face his own people with a bill of grievance hanging over him. There was a certain amount of irony in that situation, but he would nonetheless do everything he could to avoid it.
The horsemen at the water’s edge remained where they were—almost, he thought, as if they feared he might yet escape if even one of them should move.
He waited patiently and with dignity until the riders he heard approaching from behind him had stopped. Horses whuffled and snorted, and trappings clinked and rattled, but for a long, tense moment no one spoke. He knew their leader waited for him to move, and the knowledge amused him. It was a game, after all, and every man in the Borders knew its rules.
Remembering at least one incident when a captor had shot a captive in the back with an arrow from close range, he felt a tremor between his shoulder blades. He did not think the men who had captured Rabbie Redcloak would dare do such a thing, however. They would thereby succeed only in making Rabbie a martyr whose ghost would roam the Borders for years to come. No Englishman would want to effect such an outcome.
The silence stretched taut, and he sensed the men in front of him growing impatient. Their leader must have sensed the same, for he spoke at last.
“Rabbie Redcloak, I hereby order your arrest for leading forays against the Queen’s subjects; for driving off herds of cattle, horses, and sheep; for slaying innocent people and stealing their goods; and for kidnapping subjects of the queen and holding them illegally whilst demanding ransom for their release.”
“All that?” He turned without haste, searching the shadowy faces for the one who had spoken, as he added lightly, “Indeed, ’tis a litany of offenses, albeit a false one. Who, if I may mak’ so bold as to ask ye, has the honor to be my captor?”
“Sir Hugh Graham of Brackengill, deputy warden of the English west march, has that honor, you God-forsaken scoundrel. Seize him, lads! ’Ware arms!”
The next few moments might have proved ignominious had it not been for the captive’s great dignity. The men who surged toward him, clearly expecting him to resist, stopped and glanced uncertainly at one another when he calmly held out his hands, wrists together, waiting to be tied.
As they removed his sword, pistol, and dagger, one said, “Do we leave him on his horse, Sir Hugh?”
“Aye, I’m in a hurry to reach my bed, lads, so we’ll let him ride.”
Hearing amusement in his tone, the captive stiffened.
“Bind him facedown across his saddle,” Sir Hugh said. “Cover all but his devil’s face with that damned red cloak, so the world can see what we’ve captured.”
Stoically, their captive allowed them to obey that humiliating order, keeping his countenance and calm through sheer force of will. They passed ropes beneath the pony’s belly to tie his wrists to his ankles, stretching his body over the saddle. Only when the faithful beast shifted and shied in protest of unfamiliar hands beneath its belly did he speak, saying quietly, “Stand easy, lad.”
He felt the animal shudder, but it calmed, and he drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. When the leader called for them to ride, though, humiliation became of less concern than the pain caused by the ungainly position.
His padded jack protected his chest and stomach, and his leather breeches protected his nether parts, but the men who had tied him had stretched him tight and the bindings hurt. They had not bothered to remove his steel bonnet or to bind his stirrups, and the stirrup near his head began bouncing about when the rider leading the pony urged it to a trot. The metal stirrup rang torturously against the captive’s helmet and threatened his face if he looked forward or back. The one on the other side smacked his calves and thighs, reminding him of a day in his boyhood when his mother had taken a beech-tree switch to them for some long-forgotten sin. He hoped he did not face a long journey. In the mood Sir Hugh was in, he would not put it past the man to make him ride facedown all the way to Carlisle.
In fact, they had ridden for less than an hour when he saw castle walls loom ahead. Although his awkward position let him see less of the landscape than usual, he knew that they had reached Brackengill, Sir Hugh’s home. Remembering that Sir Hugh served as a deputy to Lord Scrope, warden of the English west march and keeper of the royal castle of Carlisle, he decided that Sir Hugh intended to house him overnight before delivering him to Scrope.
They rode through tall, wide-open gates into a torchlit courtyard, and before the gates had shut behind them, the captive noted that the number of men escorting him had decreased significantly.
“Bring him.”
Sir Hugh’s curt command resulted in the captive being quickly cut loose and pulled off the pony to stand precariously on weakened, pain-ridden legs between two of the armed men. They dragged him willy-nilly into a low-roofed, dark building that looked and smelled like a stable. It was cold. His host, he decided sardonically, would not be housing him with any degree of comfort.
His wrists were still bound, and his fingers and hands had grown numb. His entire body ached as if it had been racked.
Torches burst into flame and cast a flickering red-orange light over the scene. His senses had not misled him. They were inside a stable, and some half-dozen men stood around him, their shadowy faces reflecting the reddish glow. Involuntarily the captive thought of hellfire.
Ruthlessly banishing the comparison from his mind, he forced himself to stand erect and face his captor. Somewhat to his surprise, he regarded Sir Hugh almost eye-to-eye. That was no common occurrence, for with the exception of Hob the Mouse, he usually looked down upon his fellows.
Sir Hugh took off his own steel bonnet, revealing a thick mass of curly red hair. Hanging the bonnet on a stall post, he pushed one beefy hand through his curls and scratched his head. His neatly trimmed beard glimmered red in the torchlight. His eyes glinted like cold gray steel.
The captive inhaled deeply, then in a voice heavy with the Scottish Borderers’ accent, he said, “I’d be gey willing to mak’ a fair bargain over this wee misunderstanding betwixt us.”
“You are in no position to make any bargain,” Sir Hugh snapped. “Your race is run, Rabbie Redcloak.”
“’Tis true ye caught me fair, sir,” he said, “but I canna think what grievance ye mean to claim agin me.”
“Theft, for one, you scoundrel!”
“Ah, but I dinna carry any stolen goods, as ye must ken the noo.”
“You are a thieving murderer!”
“Yet there be no man, lass, or bairn wha’ can claim to ha’ suffered harm at my hands this nicht, sir.”
“Mayhap that is so tonight, but it is of no—”
“Moreover,” the captive interjected swiftly, “I might could just put a wee finger on certain articles that ha’ gone missing over the past month or twa gin ye give me cause to act in a generous manner toward ye, sir.”
“I do not doubt that,” Sir Hugh said grimly. “Has it not occurred to you yet to wonder just how it is that you find yourself in this predicament tonight?”
Since he had been wondering that very thing from the instant he realized that a considerable force of men had driven him into a trap and surrounded him, he said simply, “Aye, I canna deny ye’ve whetted me curiosity considerably on that point.”
“We knew you would strike at Haggbeck,” Sir Hugh said smugly.
The captive said nothing, knowing Sir Hugh wanted him to suspect betrayal by one of his own. Refusing to rise to the bait, he waited patiently for him to go on.
“I knew you’d not be able to resist retaliating after we raided the Crosiers in Liddesdale. On that occasion my men purposely claimed to ride from Haggbeck.”