"Aye," said Bothwell. "Not all of them are left-handed, but a large
number are, 'tis true. In the Borders they call all left-handed people
'keg-handed," 'car-handed," or 'corry-fisted." "
"Is it also true that here in the Borders a male child's hand is held
back from the christening so it remains unhallowed and free to
murder?"
Bothwell threw back his head and laughed so loudly the other four
turned around.
"No. That is a tale," he finally said. "Good Christians can murder as
well as anyone else, 'tis no hindrance. Why, Lord Ruthven, who just
expired across the border in Newcastle, beheld an angel choir on his
deathbed, did he not?"
"So they say," Mary replied. "But I would not like to answer for his
whereabouts now."
Sir John sounded his hunting horn, and the hounds were unleashed. "From
here on in, the forest grows denser. Let us not become separated. Two
stags were sighted a mile or so from here a fortnight ago." Raising
his arm, he led them single file.
The trees grew closer and closer together, a mixed forest of oak,
birch, and pine, and overhead the branches began to mesh and weave
together to form a roof. They fell silent. Up ahead they could hear
the scampering of the hounds through the underbrush.
But after an hour, no game had been sighted, not even a hare. Suddenly
they came upon the remains of a great stag, stretched out in a small
clearing. Evidence of a campfire was nearby.
"Poachers," said Sir John, shaking his head. "That they could be so
bold could come so near the estate!"
They passed the stag, already picked clean by carrion crows, and
continued riding. A mile or so farther on they saw two more deer,
likewise slaughtered. Sir John pulled his mount to a halt and just
stared.
"It seems your game wardens are blind, incompetent, or bribed," said
Darnley in a haughty tone. "And obviously, Lieutenant, your writ does
not run here." He glared at Bothwell.
"Come, let us try a bit farther," said Sir John. He attempted to keep
his voice calm.
But within five miles they found four more poached deer, and no live
ones.
"I am leaving," said Darnley, wheeling his horse around. "Clearly we
would do better at hawking on the moor."
Before Mary could stop him, he was trotting off.
"He will get lost," she said to Sir John. She was embarrassed, like a
mother having to make sure her headstrong five-year-old does not come
to harm.
"I will attend him," said Sir John with a knowing smile, turning back.
Seton and Nau followed him. "Lord Bothwell knows his way." In a
moment they had disappeared from view in the dark, narrow forest
path.
"I agree with Lord Darnley for once," Bothwell said. "There is no
point in hunting today. Poachers have been bold here. There is
nothing left for us." He blew on a small whistle he carried. Sir
John's hunt master answered it with a call of his own and Bothwell then
blew several notes, instructing him to bring the hounds back to the
kennels.
As they emerged from the forest, Bothwell said, "I've no mind to return
to Traquair House, nor am I in the mood for hawking. Tell them I've
gone toward Ettrickbridge on business that will occupy me the rest of
the day." He reined in his horse to change direction, and saluted her.
"You know the rest of the way; you can see the house from here."
"Let me go with you!" she suddenly said. "I would rather ride than
hawk."
"I have business to attend to as well. Personal business."
"I will not hinder you."
"Very well." He touched his horse's flanks with his spurs and set out
south, away from the Tweed River and toward the Yarrow, skirting Minch
Moor.
The hills were not high, but they were wide and rounded and swelling,
like a nursing mother's breasts. One after another they rose, all
covered with short, bushy heather, gorse, and moss, and spotted with
grey stones. Overhead the sky was a dappled dome of white and grey and
blue.
Bothwell rode as fast as possible on the stretches where it was fairly
level, but going up and downhill he had to slacken his pace. Seeing
him in this setting, where he seemed to belong as much as the
lichen-covered stones and the native hawks soaring overhead, it was
hard for Mary to remember that he had spent time abroad and had a
fashionable wardrobe at his disposal.
He rode ahead of her, not looking back, confident that she did not need
watching. They were traversing landscape that was a green-grey-brown,
strewn with rocks, the rounded bare hill tops encircling them, the wind
moaning softly as it combed through the stiff dead gorse. Little
streams of clear water, called burns, flashed in the intermittent
sunshine as they tumbled down the mossy banks, rushing into the black
pools below.
As they descended one of the hills and approached a clump of trees
bordering a burn, Mary realized that she was hungry. They must have
been riding for hours, but she had not kept track of the time. Looking
up at the sky, she saw a bright spot through the clouds that told her
it must already be midafternoon. For hours she had not thought of
anything but the overwhelming landscape around her. Everything else,
including thoughts of Darnley, had been blotted out in the majesty of
the skies and hills, and the clean wind blowing through them.
Abruptly Bothwell stopped, and dismounted. "Are you not hungry?" he
asked, as if he had read her mind.
"Aye," she admitted, dismounting.
"You have the endurance of a soldier," he said admiringly. "Of course
I had heard of your tirelessness in the Chaseabout Raid. And I saw it
myself right after the Riccio murder. But anger can act as a powerful
spur. Today you were not angry. It was a truer test."
"You were testing me?"
"Only as I test all things, to see what they are made of. I cannot
help myself." He smiled, as though confessing a secret fault. Then he
led his horse over to the burn, and let it drink the clear brown
water.
"Why is it brown?" she asked.
"Because of the soil and peat it flows through," he said, cupping a
handful of it. "But look. It is absolutely clear, and clean. The
brown is not dirt or mud. Drink it."
She bent her head down and sipped the water until her lips rested on
Bothwell's palm. The cold water was slightly flavoured, with a
tingling freshness.
"It is better than wine," she finally said.
"Aye." He wiped his hands on his breeches.
They sat on a boulder by the side of the burn and shared Bothwell's
food: hard cheese, smoked meat, and heavy barley bread. Around them
the hills watched, naked and silent.
"How can anyone find his way about?" Mary finally asked. "It all
looks the same vast and tract less
"That is why only a native can enforce law here," he said, chewing his
bread. "Your brother the Lord James, as an outsider, could not. Nor,
begging your pardon, could your royal father, King James V."
At the mention of those names, she was suddenly transported back to
court and its old concerns.
"Let us not speak of these things," said Bothwell, again reading her
mind. "You wanted to know more of the Borders, so let us speak of the
code of honour here. It is: never betray anyone to the law, offer
hospitality to all, and never break a promise. That is all. Only
three things. And they vow thus, "I swear by Heaven above me, Hell
beneath me, by my part of Paradise, by all that God made in six days
and seven nights, and by God himself." " He leaned his head on his
arm. "Is it not simple?"
"You are fortunate to belong to a world that you understand," she said.
She pulled herself back further from him, in a way that only she was
aware of.
"I understand it, but my true place in Scotland and in my own home was
disrupted when I was still only a boy. My father divorced my mother
and I was sent away; and just before that, I saw my father betray
George Wishart, so that he was burnt at the stake. My father lied to
him, right in my presence, swearing he'd be safe. Then he arrested him
and turned him over to his enemies. You can see why I have no use for
liars, why I hate them so." He bent down and carefully folded the
cloth his food had been wrapped in.
"Ah." She sighed and twirled a piece of spongy moss in her fingers.
"Fortunate is he who knows his own world and is allowed to live in
it."
"We often find that we must choose our own world, decide for ourselves
where our home will be, then hack out a place for ourselves. Come." He
gathered up his horse's reins. "I have a bit more to patrol, then a
visit to pay."
Patrol? Had he been doing that all along? He had not seemed
particularly worried or watchful.
"The area seems empty and quiet," he said, again reading her thoughts.
"We are not in the territory that sees much activity. But I wanted to
make sure."
Over more swelling hills they rode, as the sun sank lower. There
seemed to be no place where a man could hide, save behind the
occasional dry stone dividing walls running over the hills. But as the
mists began to rise gently from the low-lying areas, she was not so
sure. The mists, thin at first, quickly thickened as the sun sank
behind the hills.
At length they came to a cottage made of stone with a thatched roof,
nestled in one of the folds between the hills. Bothwell dismounted and
tied his horse up outside, then motioned to her to do likewise and
follow him. He knocked on the door and a man, past middle age but
still sturdy, opened it a crack. He stared for a moment at Bothwell,
then called someone from within. Then the door creaked all the way
open.
Mary stepped inside the low-ceilinged, one-room dwelling. A peat fire
smouldered in the middle of the floor, where an iron pot was suspended
over it, with a soup or brew bubbling. Several little dogs with long,
silky hair began to bark.
The couple, dressed in frayed wool garments, were gesturing to Bothwell
and offering him the only seat they had: a three-legged stool. He
started to defer to Mary, but with a look she forbade him to reveal her
identity.
"Bless ye, Earl, bless ye," the woman was saying, opening a leather
pouch with coins which Bothwell had handed her.
"A man's life is worth more," Bothwell said. "But it is not given to
mortal man to repay in kind. This is the best I can do."
"He was but a lad, not important in your forces," said the father. "And
it was almost a year ago."
"What is a year?" asked Bothwell. "Do you miss him any less?"
"No," admitted the mother.
"Did I not promise?" said Bothwell. "I gave my word I would not
forget your sacrifice. But your Rob was hard to find. I had to make
many inquiries; forgive my delay in reaching you."
"But to bring this in person ... we now wish to give you something as
well, if we can," said the woman.