Never a place of joy, even in the green, bird-sweetened summer, winter made Hermitage a bleak grey slab that shouted ‘bugger off’ in stone. Set in a bleak landscape, the death of King James had it draped in mourning black, so that Mintie Henderson fancied she could feel the tomb-chill of the place just by riding up on it. She thought, then, that the stories concerning the laird who built it being boiled in molten lead for his wickedness could well be true.
It was also, she discovered, a great mistake to have arrived at this time. She had been sure the Keeper would have been here for Advent and more amenable because of it – but Lord Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell and Keeper of Liddesdale, was gone. As the sentry told her, the Keeper had ‘sklimmed up to Embra, for a king’s kisting and a bairn Queen’s ascent into the arms of God.’
Mintie, though she sympathised with the reasons for it, could not help but be irritated and offended by the pomp and circumstance in Edinburgh which deprived her of a hearing. The wee Princess Mary, she pointed out, was hardly likely to sit up and give orders or favours after having been duly blessed and crowned. They could have waited until she was a full fortnight old at least. Or, better still, until she did not wet on the royal robes.
The sentry pointed out that the child’s father, King James, had died, which news had sent the Keeper off on a fast horse, knowing what would follow and that the realm needed an arse on the throne, even one swaddled and damp – and anyway, what did a slip of a girl know about such matters?
Mintie crossed herself, a defiant gesture in these Reformer days in an undecided Scotland, and the sentry was not slow to note it.
‘My own father is dead and our holding spoiled this past fortnight,’ she told him stiffly. ‘He was fell murdered by one Sweetmilk Hutchie Elliott – with two “T”s – who has also run off with two valuable horses, a deal of money and a brace of good weapons. I came to have a Bill and justice done.’
The sentry was sorry to hear of it, though there was little that could be done, seeing as how the Keeper of Liddesdale was gone to Edinburgh.
‘Is there no man in charge of Liddesdale?’ Mintie demanded primly. ‘Or even of L’Armitage?’
The sentry was a Graham, a Border family never given to suffering fools lightly, so the proper name of Hermitage never even made him raise an eyebrow. He probably does not know it means ‘guardhouse’, Mintie thought scornfully.
Henry Graham knew well enough that Hermitage was the guardhouse of the bloodiest valley known to man or God, which was enough. He knew also that it was cold and that this young snip – Christ’s blood, she could be no more than fifteen – was keeping him from the warm, with her steely eye and perjink way of speaking. She had a neat way of dressing and holding herself, iron eyes in a face too wary to be pretty, with lips thinned into a bloodless line – but that might have been the strain of riding here after dealing with a dead father.
Well, Hen thought, her da’s wee rickle of acres was held from the Henderson chief, who in turn was bound to the Hepburns like a dog to a sausage, so she had done right to come here, though it would be no help to her. It was not more than a week since a Scots army had been routed to ruin on the Solway Moss – no more than a strong spit from here – and there were so many armed men everywhere that sensible men kept to their strongholds.
Still, he walked her over to Land Sergeant Will Elliot, since she had mentioned that name and he thought the sergeant might be kin to the reiver, a not uncommon occurrence. And because Will Elliot was the nearest thing to command that Hermitage currently owned. And because he was defiantly Catholic, when he was anything at all in these strange Reformer times, and Hen had seen this Henderson lass cross herself.
And, finally, because Hen Graham did not care much for Will Elliot, since he seemed to win more at dice than was reasonable for an honest player, while having the very job Hen himself coveted; let him deal with a purse-lipped wee snippy.
Will Elliot limped like a sailor on a rolling deck, courtesy of lost toes on his right foot, and was built in a series of squares, from the one that seemed to be his head, perched on the rectangle of his body, to the oblong dykes of his legs. He had a dark beard like stuffing spilled from a bad mattress and matching hair that straggled round his ears from under a bonnet that might have been blue once, but barely retained the memory of it.
He was cubbyholed in a room seemingly carved out of Hermitage’s stones, a dark place on a dull day and lit only by an evil-smelling crusie; this at least allowed him to get to a bench and eat a poray with a spoon without missing the bowl more than once in four.
When Mintie came in he had just hirpled to a seat and paused in raising his spoon for only his second sup, so that Mintie saw drips pearl along the length of his moustache; he wiped them away with the back of one hand as Hen Graham explained who Mintie was and what she wanted.
It was clear to Mintie that the Land Sergeant did not care for it much, and he made that plain when he snarled Hen back to his post, then turned a jaundiced eye on Mintie and forced a smile.
‘Hutchie Elliott,’ he said.
‘Known as Sweetmilk,’ Mintie confirmed, ‘though he is neither sweet nor milk. He killed my father and stole two horses, weapons and money. I have come for justice.’
‘Hutchie Elliott,’ repeated the Land Sergeant and Mintie was irritated, wondered if the man was slack-witted.
‘He is. I understand your name is also Elliot – is he kin?’
The Land Sergeant’s blockhouse face creased into a scowl.
‘He is not,’ he growled and then offered her a shadowed smile. ‘Double “L” and single “T” are fine. Double “T” and single “L” are fine. As good Names as Graham or Armstrong.’
And then he sing-songed out the last: ‘But double “L” and double “T” – no man knows who they folk be.’
‘Yet you know him,’ Mintie persisted and knew by the shift of him that she was right. He confirmed it with a nod.
‘Hutcheon Elliott is from the English side. A brawler and a ramstampit hoormonger – begging yer young ears. Permitted to ride and commit all sorts with the Eliotts of Minto for all the extra “L” in his Name. Then they threw him out for his burning of a Ker house at Bloodyhaggs with the pregnant wife inside – that was a foulness too far, even for the furtherance of an auld feud.’
‘You know him well,’ Mintie said, trying not to show her shock.
‘Until recently he was in Berwick, displaying a caged rat the size of a fair hunting hound,’ Will went on. ‘He claimed it came from the Paris sewers, whose rich foulness made it only typical of the breed there and no monster. It died and he was left with no living from it.’
The jest thudded, flattened by Mintie’s cold regard.
‘I know nothing of that,’ she declared, but was not surprised at the revelation of Sweetmilk Hutchie Elliott’s previous employment.
She had not liked Hutchie Elliott from the moment he had appeared, begging work on a quarter day last year. Hutcheon was not a name so much as a description, given to the black sheep or the albino crow, offspring that were odd and almost certainly unlooked for. If a father had handed out that name – and a mother agreed to it – then there was an understanding of an offspring unwanted and a contrite wife once less than loyal.
Mintie had said as much, and her father had frowned and pointed out that every decent man had gone for the army, which was headed to fight the English. And besides, he had added in his big, quiet, gentle way, such an unloved whelp needed more of a leg-up in life than others.
There was no arguing with that, and help was needed with the horses they bought and sold at Powrieburn, so Mintie had bridled her tongue on matters. But she continued not to care much for Hutchie Elliott.
It wasn’t that he was ill-favoured – just the opposite, which was where, Mintie supposed, the hutcheon in him had lain for his father. It was plain to see in Hutchie’s reasonable features, wavy hair, and good white teeth, which he cared for with a frayed hazel twig.
Finer by far, Mintie thought, than should have been bred onto poor flax labourers by themselves. And there is why the mother agreed to everything her man decided, out of shame and fear of abandonment for her clear adultery.
Hutchie also thought himself fine as the sun on shiny water and it came as no surprise to Mintie when, not long after he had put his feet under the Powrieburn table, he came to her all heat and heavy breathing in the dark of the barrelled undercroft. He had a hand pinning her arms to her waist and another fumbling at her quim before she could yelp.
‘I am too young,’ she gasped desperately. ‘It is my menses—’
He grinned his white grin, pressing his hardness against her hip.
‘Auld enough to bleed, auld enough to breed,’ he pointed out.
She thought quickly, seemed to acquiesce, and when she had her arms free, hauled out the little knife she used to clean the Fyrebrande’s feet and poked him hard with it.
‘If it is blood you want…’
He yelped and sprang back, rubbing the forearm.
‘By God, you have as well. You have drawn blood, you wee besom—’
‘I will draw your insides out of your belly if you try again,’ she declared, and he went off, muttering.
Later, when the tremble of it tipped her into sitting, she found it running over and over in her mind. She was sure he would try again, and having thought about it all the way to her bed, had made up her mind to tell her father the very next day – only to find that he had gone off early to deliver a brace of stolid horses to a farmer several miles off in Blackdubs. Because there were all sorts milling about in the wake of the great failed affray at Solway Moss, he took Sweetmilk Hutchie with him, for the protection.
All day Mintie knew there was wrong in it, but the bad cess only fell on them all with the sound of screaming and hooves the very next night.
She rushed out into the yard in her nightshirt and with a spark-trailing torch threatening her unbound hair, but was too late to prevent Hutchie riding off on Effie, the nag her father had lent him – and leading the Fyrebrande out of the undercroft.
Jinet, who had been dazzled by Hutchie, lay sprawled and weeping on the cobbles, having let him in quietly and suspecting nothing.
Her mother, screaming the whiles, was rendered all the more useless by the other pair of equally wailing serving women of Powrieburn. That trio of witches were no help at all and sure that everyone was about to be foul murdered in their beds and no man here to help.
Mintie, soothing and determined, ignored the wails and pleas and Jinet’s sobbing apologies, saddled Jaunty the mare as soon as it was light and rode out with only her paring knife, fearing the worst. She found it not far off, a ragged bundle lying close to her father’s own mount, which cropped grass all unconcerned.
He had been shot in the back, which must have been with his own caliver, given to Sweetmilk, ironically, to guard his back; the hole in was small and the one out of her da’s belly was enough to make Mintie swallow once or twice, then turn away and be sick.
His own pistol, a good wheel-lock dagg, was gone, as was his purse, his leather jack and boots; the last caused Mintie more distress than any of the rest, simply because it left her father looking so vulnerable, even in death.
Blinded by tears and snot, she cut willow poles and fixed them as a sledge, then wrestled her father across it and dragged him home at the back of his own horse, despite the beast’s protests. What followed was a great lake of tears and head-shaking from the women, fainting and despair from Mintie’s ma. It was heartbreaking and brought Mintie to her own hot spill of tears more than once – but none of it was any help once he had been swaddled and put in the ground.
Not in any priory, either – though Mintie would pay Bygate for a Mass for his soul – but among the old Faerie stones that ringed their land, for the Hendersons had a pact with powries and the price, it was believed, was that the Faerie welcomed the dead.
The other Border Names, if they cared, simply made warding signs older than the cross, and the priests were all eye-lowered and huddled in these times, saying nothing at all and hoping they would not be noticed. Many of them remembered the burning of the Reformer preacher Patrick Hamilton by the Archbishop of Glasgow the year after Mintie was born – six hours it had taken because the faggots were wet, yet the Archbishop had sat stolidly through the whole of it, listening to Hamilton scream and praying, for the love of God.
There was little of God left in the Borders and even the Archbishop had known that – even before smouldering Patrick Hamilton to ruin, Archbishop Gavin Dunbar of Glasgow had produced the Curse, an admonition so foul that every Borderer was breathless with admiration. The reiving men of the Borders were cursed awake and asleep, from the crown of their head to the soil on their feet, from behind and before, above and below – it went on and on, and not one of the reiving Names cared a black damn, even as they applauded the skill in it.
After all, these were God-fearing folk who made sure the right fist, which would be called upon to commit the ungodliest of sins, was left unbaptised. Or, if you were a Ker, the left, for all that Name were contrary-handed.
As Mintie stood by the stone-lined hole with the swaddled body of her father and the smell of the new-turned earth fierce in her nose, she remembered his big, gentle voice and the stories he told. Like the one about the Christians.
The Borders were lawless and proud, holding their Names higher than God Himself, and the story her father had told her was of a traveller arriving at a lonely bastel house on a dirty night up the Liddes and getting no charity from it, only suspicion and shut yetts. In the end, wet and freezing, he declared he was a good Christian and desperately called out to ask if there were any Christians within at all.
No Christians, came the wary reply. Croziers and Nixons, but no Christians. Try up the dale.
After the kisting-up, Mintie was dried of grief, replaced by an ember of anger which smouldered away on justice. She resolved that she must be the one to do it, since her mother was not capable; at the best of times her mother could tally using a notched stick, but neither read nor wrote more than ‘God’, and was not the one to ride off to the Keeper of Liddesdale and make a Bill against Hutchie Elliott.
Mintie had been taught reading and writing by her father, who wanted a clerk he could trust, and that role had been filled by his daughter since the age of twelve, so that she wrote a fine book hand and a fast charter script.
Will Elliot listened to all this, nodding and breaking bits off some bread, which he chewed. He barely read or wrote himself, so he was all admiration; and finally remembering his manners, he invited Mintie to sit and offered her some of the poray, but it looked particularly unattractive, so she refused. He offered her small beer, which she took and sipped.
‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I can make a Bill for you, but nothing will be done until the Keeper returns. You should know also that we are men short since the English under Wharton are stravaiging everywhere in the wake of the defeat at Solway Moss. There are few even to guard Hermitage.’
‘Is there no one will go after Hutchie Elliott?’ Mintie demanded.
He thought of lying, then sighed and shook his head.
‘No. He has gone into the Debatable for sure, where he either has friends or will be dead for the cost of his stolen purse and horses. I fancy the latter myself.’
‘That is no justice nor consolation to me,’ Mintie snapped back, and then, to her horror, felt the tears well and had to stop, biting her lips.
‘It opens the lungs, washes the cheeks, brightens the eye and softens the temper, so weep away,’ Will declared, so gently that Mintie was astonished. He offered her the contents of a black leather bottle, sloshing it meaningfully and uncorking it so that the pungent smell bit her nose.
‘Drinking water neither makes a man sick, nor in debt, nor his wife a widow,’ she flung back at him, and he shrugged, unperturbed by her poor gratitude.
‘I am unmarried, never sick up good drink and spend not a half-groat on it – all confiscations.’
He winked knowingly, took a pull and stoppered it, making that strange grimace which seemed at odds, Mintie always thought, with the pleasure men took in strong drink.
‘If you are unhappy with the Keeper of Liddesdale, try the Warden of the March at Roxburgh,’ he went on, then split his bearded cliff of a face with a smile. ‘Though I suspect Lord Maxwell is too busy with all the elbowing for favours at court. Or go to Carlisle,’ he added with a larger grin. ‘Hutchie Elliott is English, mind. It might be that the English Deputy Warden has men to spare, since he won at Solway Moss.’
The last was another attempt at jest, but Mintie thought about it on the ride back home, a long, cold, wet journey down past the Bygate Priory, all spoiled with burning and pocked with shots from the raids following Solway Moss. The reivers who had done it might well have been Scots paid by the English and hot for Fat Henry Tudor’s Reforms, but it was more likely they were locals who knew the best shine was to be had in a Catholic priory.
They had also burned out the Armstrong wool mill at Mangerton, for all that the Armstrongs were in English pay, like a wheen of others Mintie could name – including the Keeper, she was sure, though she had that to thank for Powrieburn being untouched.
But war and greed knew no loyalties when blood got in the eye and fire the hand; cruck houses all the way down the valley were charred husks and she came down the frown of it, heeled by the black dog of despair, tempered by the thought of how her own home had escaped; the Faerie paid their debts, she thought. Her mother and the Powrieburn women did little to lift the mood and Tinnis Hill itself seemed to loom over them, drowning them in shadow.
Still, it was the Twelve Days and everyone tried to be merry for Christ’s sake. Bet’s Annie, youngest of the trio of serving women in Powrieburn, enlisted her brother’s cousin, Wattie, as an ostler and because he was ‘a man aboot the place’. She had to sniff at the questions Mintie put to her regarding his talents when he arrived a few days later, but in the end Wattie was accepted. He was fair with the beasts, though the job of man seemed beyond him, for he was a sliver with protruding teeth and scarce older than Mintie.
The point was made all the same – Mintie, for all her years, was the true Mistress of Powrieburn, even if she had to work through her distraught ma yet. Everyone knew it, accepted it, and life went on as normal as any household could which was perched on a lawless corner of Liddesdale, with the outlaws of the Debatable Land on one side and the ravaging thieves of England just across the Kershope Water. Not to mention the Scots reivers up the Liddesdale itself.
The day after Christ’s Mass, Mintie rode off, despite protests and hand-wringing, to take her lament to Carlisle.
‘You will be seized and robbed, so you will,’ Bet’s Annie declared across her folded arms as Mintie saddled up Jaunty. ‘There is war abroad and neither side is welcomed by the other. Your ma is fair laid up with worry.’
‘Then unlay her,’ Mintie replied tartly, ‘by making sure Wattie does his work as he should. I will be back in a day or two. Besides – the Hendersons of Powrieburn pay out blackmeal to every Name for Scotch miles in every direction. Who would want to kill that milch cow, war or not?’
In fact, she was back in two days, and never got further than Askerton, on the English side. The snow came down and hissed across the Bewcastle Waste until she could not see farther than Jaunty’s head and stumbled into Askerton Castle with her feet and hands frozen and her face so numb she could hardly speak.
Tod Graham was the Land Sergeant there, and once his clucking wife had rubbed sense and feeling back into Mintie’s limbs and plied her with possets, he sat down opposite and listened to her tale.
At the end of it, he shook his head.
‘The crime was done across the Border, so it is no matter for Carlisle,’ he declared firmly. ‘The Scots Middle March Warden or the Liddesdale Keeper would have to apply to the English Warden here to have it resolved. That is the way matters work – though I doubt they work at all in these days. I would not waste your time going all the way to Carlisle.’
‘I would offer a fair reward,’ Mintie attempted. ‘I can manage five pounds, English.’
It was sum enough to arch Tod’s eyebrows – as much as a skilled servant earned in a year in England – but still he frowned and shook his head. The English Deputy Warden, Wharton, had won a great battle against the Scots at Solway Moss. Hardly anyone had died in it, for the Scots had so clearly not wanted to fight that they had fled or given in, and it was said King James had died of the shame.
The result, Tod explained gently, was that the two countries were at each other’s throats, and Wharton had forbidden contacts across the Border, knowing full well that Name blood was stronger by far than national pride. God forbid anyone is married on to someone on the other side of the Border now, he added, for Wharton has declared the death penalty for that. There would be no Truce Days, where Wardens on either side could sort out claims of criminality in a sensible manner – now March law pertained. Which is to say, no law at all.
‘You should not be here,’ he ended, ‘and it is only out of Christian charity that I welcome you in.’
That and I am a Henderson and so no kin of yours that this Wharton can accuse you of consorting with, Mintie thought bitterly. Henderson was a Name feared by no one, a Name who paid blackmeal to all, just for the right to live quiet.
In her barely unfrozen heart, Mintie had known all this from the start and accepted a night’s lodging in the warm of Askerton before setting off back home the next morning.
Tod Graham watched her go into the great white of the day and wondered if she would be fine; it was not a long ride back to Powrieburn, but the weather was false and there were all sorts out and about and up to no good in it.
‘Is there nothing can be done for the wee soul?’ his wife demanded, and Tod didn’t know why it happened, but the words were barely in his ears before a face swam up into his mind. It was not a good face, even for kin, and he almost thrust it away.
Yet the more he thought on it, the more the idea formed. He was, if he admitted it to himself, ashamed that his Deputy Warden, Sir Thomas Wharton, was paying Armstrongs and Croziers and others, on both sides of the divide, to ride into Scotland for burning and slaughter. Tod was a Graham, of course, who had a long-running feud with the Armstrongs and any of the Names who stood with them, but even so, what Wharton was doing was black-hearted.
Besides, the kin Tod Graham had in mind for Mistress Araminta Henderson’s task would benefit – and not just from the money. The man had, Tod thought, been languishing long enough in bitterness and the stews of Berwick and would be washed into the deepest stank of them entirely if left much longer.
He frowned about it a bit more, then got ink, quill and paper and painstakingly, tongue between his teeth, sharpened the implement and then scratched out a letter. There was not much in it – the man he wrote to would need to get someone else to read it to him – but the sweat had popped out on his brow like apple pips by the time he had finished.
Then he summoned Leckie Bell, who was young and stupid enough to consider the task an honour in this weather.
‘Ride to Berwick,’ he told the boy. ‘Seek out the Old Brig Tavern and the thumper employed there. Give him this and tell him that his kin, the Land Sergeant at Askerton, would be pleased if he would consider it.’
He glanced at the boy, newest recruit to the trained band of Askerton, and hoped he would be safe, not only on the journey, but afterward.
‘The man you want is called Batty Coalhouse. You will not miss him.’