Here we go, here we go, here we go!
Liddesdale are the best team we know!
On booty and plunder we’re bent,
And we all give two hundred per cent!
The blood-chilling strains of the ancient border war song echoed o’er the night-dark hills, reverberated across the waste, and bounced off the surrounding forest as the marauding Nixons, a hundred strong, swept out of their lonely mountain glen and galloped full tilt for England, their sights set on distant Gungemyre. A hellish, murderous crew, unshaven, unbuttoned, and reeking of strong drink, their string vests plainly visible beneath their mail jacks, grimy headbands under the visors of their steel caps, rolled-up copies of the Daily Record wrapped about their lance-butts, they presented a sight to unman the boldest and render the nervous totally paralytic.
At their head, looking like a bare-legged Darth Vadar, rode the notorious Trouserless Will, so called because he had vowed not to wear breeches until he had settled his deadly feud with the Dumfries Dry-Cleaning Company (a painful story which we won’t go into here), and behind him surged Dicky and Tricky and all the rest of his ghastly foray. Over the heath they flew with an uncanny instinct guiding them clear of marsh and quicksand, except for those who blundered into bogs and peat-cuttings and sank bubbling without trace; through moonlit glades they thundered, swerving neatly between gnarled trunks, clearing fallen logs and picnic benches, and only occasionally being swept from the saddle by low branches; out on to the plain they drummed, addressing each other as “Jimmy” and shouting their marrow-freezing war-cries: “Gungemyre ya bass!” and “We ’re impartial, we don’t care who beats England!” as they bore down on their quarry, save for those who veered off in search of licensed premises, or fell asleep in the saddle, or simply got fed up and went home—for a capricious, undisciplined shower were the Nixons, which was why shrewd old Sir Prising, their chief, had sent out a hundred on this petty blackmail, knowing well that quicksands, low branches, pubs, lethargy, and ennui would have reduced their strength to the requisite half-dozen by the time they reached the target area.
So into England they rampaged, a vocal but dwindling band, and at their doom-laden passing even the rabbits shuddered in their burrows, night-jars had hysterics in the foliage, and tramps cowering ’neath their old newspapers exchanged fearful whispers: “The Nixons are abroad” and “They are? Then who’s out there galloping—their travel agent?” And now, on the last lap of the fell errand, their yells took on an even more menacing note, with “We’re the wee boys!” “Go on yersel’, Jock!” and “Thistle for the Cup!” piercing the night air and quivering the moonbeams …
Masterfully poised on the village dunghill at Gungemyre, Archie Noble caught the echo as it floated down the night wind, and smiled again his grim fighting smile—which was getting a trifle strained after two hours spent trying to put mettle and patriotic spirit into the reluctant villagers, and getting no takers. He had started with the Crispin’s Day speech, which was greeted by full-blown raspberries and a hail of vegetables, and progressed through Drake’s Prayer, selections from Magna Carta, and a couple of verses of “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” to a naked threat to have their social security stopped if they didn’t rally round and avail themselves of the assorted weaponry he had brought from the Thrashbatter armoury. All was in vain: the churls and wenches stood in vacant apathy, scratching their rags and only occasionally raising two derisory fingers in his direction. Archie, his manly features desperately glowing with derring-do and his boots sinking ever deeper in the sludge, made a last impassioned appeal.
“Men of Gungemyre! What, are ye men indeed, or cattle?”
“Moo!” bellowed the crowd.
“Moo yourselves, idle rotters!” cried Archie. “Why, have ye no thought for your wives and sweethearts, maids and tender virgins, assuming you have any, and the fate that awaits them from these hairy musclebound merciless Scotch ravishers?” Ignoring the hopeful murmurs and preenings of the wenches, he swept on. “An ye get not fell in and arm yourselves, how will ye save them from shame and ill-usage, and yourselves from ruin and slaughter?”
“We’ll bugger off an’ hide in ditches!” roared a large lurden at the back, and the mob bayed approval. “We’ve done it afore, we can do it again,” they chorused. “ ’Tis the Gungemyre Deterrent, an’ works every time!”
“And your homes?” Archie flung out a passionate hand at the row of mouldering shacks and prefabs, accidentally hitting one, which promptly fell down. “When your thatches are aflame, your wallpaper peeling in fiery strips, your rugs and duvets charred and reeking beyond repair, what then?”
“Council property, who the hell cares?” chanted the crowd, and our hero, viewing those scowling peasant faces, unmoved save for those who were waggling their fingers in their ears at him, played his last card. Proudly erect, his fair curls undulating in the night breeze, the moon-glow highlighting his flawless ear-lobes, he squelched to a surer footing and voiced with soft yet resonant vibrancy that age-old call to action which never yet failed to touch the sturdy Saxon heart.
“Then hear my final plea,” quo’ he, and his words dropped like syrup-coated steel. “Since nought else avails, I put it to ye, as yeomen of England, sprung from her soily bosom, proud heirs of Crecy and Poitiers and Colombes Stadium, victors o’er Frogs and Jocks and Dagoes on bloody fields innumerable …” He paused, and his listeners, moved despite themselves, craned unwashed heads as he spoke, a wistful smile on his proud lips. “A shilling an hour, and threepence overtime after midnight! How say ye, bulldogs? Death before dishonour, and a five-bob bonus to the man who nails Trouserless Will!”
An ear-splitting cheer rang out from the villagers, damaging the welkin and bringing two more hovels down in crumbling ruin. They surged about Archie, horny hands clapping his back, eager faces giving him the benefit of their halitosis as they shouted amain those inspiring slogans which had sounded across the dewy plain at Agincourt and rung round the sunbaked cliffs of Roncesvalles: “Double time after 3 a.m.!” “What about third-party cover?” “Can we keep their horses?” “Half a dollar up front!” until our hero was like to choke, though whether with emotion or the noxious airs released from the dunghill by their enthusiastic trampling, who could say?
“Right, get fell in and number off!” he commanded briskly. “This is how we do it! Stunt men—up in the trees, ready to swing down on creeper ropes and boot them from the saddle! Feet close together, mind, and wait for the Korngold fanfare! Hedgerow Commando—into the brambles ready to spring out and drag them from their mounts—and I want to hear lots of ‘Take that!’ and ‘Merry ho-ho-ho!’ You men, there—your names? Warner, eh? Right, Warner brothers, start digging pits for them to ride into, and the rest of you make nets to drop on them from convenient buildings—oh, and ladies, we’ll need you to reload and arrange refreshments and cut up the remains! To it, bullies, they’ll be here any minute!”
He strode about heroically, humming the Warsong of Dinas Vawr, slapping shoulders, radiating encouragement, dragging shirkers from under the horse-trough, raising morale, and generally behaving like a born leader, or, if you prefer it, a first-class prat, his bright eye missing nothing as he disposed his forces, examined their weapons, ordered the more dishevelled to get hair-cuts, and picked out a nice safe line of retreat. “And give a rouse for Lady Dacre, wi’ three times three, if you can count that high,” he bade them cheerily. “She has a dinner engagement, but sends her good wishes, and I doubt not she’ll be along in the morning with medals and cooked breakfasts for all—and then,” he grated to himself, “she’ll get a piece of my mind, the stubborn, stone-deaf hussy!”
But wait, hold on, you protest … what was that about “a nice safe line of retreat”? Our hero isn’t going to slope off in the crunch, surely? Well, yes, he is—in fact, there he goes, fading like an intelligent phantom into the undergrowth while the sturdy Gungemyrians stand to arms, climb trees, crouch in ambush, and wonder uneasily if they shouldn’t have got a written contract—but it’s too late now, for out of the gloom comes the terrifying glottally stopped clamour of the approaching Nixons: Archie hears it too, and pauses in flight, spasms of heroic anguish ruffling his B.O.P. profile—for of course he isn’t chickening out! He’s answering the Call of Duty—and if you find that confusing, just imagine how the Gungemeronians will feel when they discover they’re without a leader to shout “It’s cutlasses now, men!” and cop the first bullet, with luck.
Cursing his necessary scram, and wi’ many a reluctant backward glance, Archie sped unwillingly up a wooded slope from whose summit he should have a grandstand view of the action—and got the shock of his life as a mounted figure, black and spectral in the moonlight, reared up in his path. A headless horseman? A stray Nixon? A jockey out for a practice gallop? Whoever, it was someone on whom to vent his frustration, and without breaking stride he launched himself in a flying tackle, shouting “Geronimo!,” misjudged the height, and brought the horse down with his arms wrapped round its fetlocks.
In an instant he was afoot, only to find the fallen rider poised in karate fashion, snarling “Ha!” So, he thought, a fellow Black Belt—and after that it was all too fast for the eye to follow, as feet flashed, hands chopped, nerve centres were probed, insteps were locked round necks, somersaults and rolls were performed, drop-kicks delivered and avoided, and boot-sole met boot-sole as each tried that rather awkward savate kick where you stand on one leg and lash out sideways—risking a hernia, by the looks of it, but that’s martial arts for you. At which point Archie, silently acknowledging his opponent’s skill, had recourse to that deadly ploy known only to the ninja masters—hobbling suddenly with a cry of “Ouch! My blasted knee’s gone again!” It took the other off guard, and with a cunning clutch and heave our hero bore him to the earth and was preparing to butt him stupid when the rider’s hood fell back to reveal—did you guess?—features of marble beauty gleaming in the moonlight, flashing violet eyes, auburn tresses cascading o’er the dew-pearled sward, and parted red lips only inches from his own.
“You!” he cried.
“Thou!” exclaimed Lady Godiva, emphasising the social gulf between them.
Yes, recognition was mutual, and you know what happens when a hero finds himself unexpectedly prone on a supine heroine (especially when they’ve got off to a bad start) and her p.r.l. are only inches from his. A moment’s breathless pause as their eyes meet, and then he’s locked on to her like a hydraulic pump, apparently trying to eat his way through to the back of her head, and the only question before you go for pop-corn is: will her limp hand a) clamp passionately round his neck, or b) ball into a fist as she lands him a big one?
In this case, neither. Godiva was too stunned to resist (or was she secretly enjoying it, the wanton?), and when he unplugged presently for lack of breath, and she too had taken in life-giving oxygen, they stared bug-eyed on each other for a space, snogging forgotten in simultaneous astonishment. Then:
“What are you doing here?” in unison, Godiva forgetting the second person singular in her confusion. Shades of pink, denoting bewilderment, outrage, and finally fury mantled her ivory cheek as she surged to a sitting position, pointing downhill to mist-wreathed Gungemyre, whence came din o’ combat: clash of steel, bodies falling in pits and leaping from bramble bushes, creepers snapping under the weight of swinging stuntmen, and shrill appeals for paramedics.
“Deserter! Base recreant scarperer!” flamed Godiva. “Ah, what o’ my village that thou wert sworn to succour? Dastard, to leg it in coward flight at the first onfall—”
“Madam, belt up!” Before his curt command her violet pools widened to startled ponds, for this was a new Archie Noble, harsh and tight o’ lip, his eyes gleaming like fridge-fresh martinis. “Peace, dammit! Here is no time for lady airs or dumb misprisions!” His lips untightened in a sardonic smile. “ ’Twill save a deal o’ hassle if I tell thee thou art looking at Head of Station B for Border—aye, a double-nought operative, licensed to slay and ignore traffic signals—”
“Thou?” Godiva’s slim fingers flew to stricken lips. “An agent o’ Sir Francis Walsingham?”
“We professionals call him W,” snapped Archie. “Right, mistress—why are you stoodging around at this time of night, dressed like a principal boy?” For my lady was fetchingly attired in traditional panto gear of Robin Hood cap, shortie tunic, tights and high boots—convenient active service gear for an Elizabethan heroine, and guaranteed to draw two-tone whistles from pit and gallery.
So startled was she by his revelation that Godiva actually answered without even a preliminary “How dare you?,” though there was much miff in the gesture with which she flicked a stray beetle from her hair, and her words were as proud icicles.
“Patrician concern for my dependents drew me from my scratcher—aye, noblesse oblige, a concept beyond the ken of mere cloak-and-dagger artist,” she added, her wonted hauteur taking over again. “Dacres frowst not abed when their vassals are in peril, Master Spy—but when I fare forth to see how you and the Gungemyrers are doing, what do I find? Thyself impersonating a frantic rabbit, abandoning the poor souls to merciless rapine—”
“Rapine, my foot! Know, gormless aristocrat, that Gungemyre is secured, thanks to my dispositions, and I withdrew only because the info I carry is too precious to be perilled in such petty turn-up—in which your bone-headed whim had landed me, remember?”
“And whose fault was that? Why didst not disclose thyself for government hit-man this afternoon?”
“Fat chance had I! Was I to blow my cover before thy minions? Did I not sue for private audience, and drop code-words and secret signs like I was scattering confetti? But hoity-toity never noticed, did she? Too busy swanning around like Lady Muck lording it o’er the humble peasantry! So I must e’en play along, allowing myself to be dragooned into defending your ruddy yokels, and hoping I could put you i’ the picture anon!” He snorted a contemptuous pshaw. “This is what comes of recruiting amateurs from Girton!”
“I wasn’t at Girton! And Sir Fran—W, I mean—gave me ne ’er a code-word!”
“Well, he picked a real dilly in you!” quo’ merciless Archie.
“ ‘Hang him, bailiff! Set him dancing! Up i’ the air wi’ him!’ What art thou, some kind of sadistic kook? By heaven, mistress, ye came nigh to popping my cork, which matters little,” he added, shrugging nobly padded shoulders, “but thy prideful folly might ha’ sent England itself down the tube!”
“I was but kidding, to pressure thee!” retorted indignant Godiva. “And how was I to know who you were? No one warned me that Head o’ Station B would look like an out-of-work bin man who went around murdering stray reivers and snitching steeds and scoffing other people’s walnuts—”
“That,” grated Archie, “was mere mischance! Could have happened to anyone. It didn’t entitle you to press-gang me into Operation Gungemyre!”
“I was only doing my job as landed gentry!” stormed Godiva. “ ’Tis fine for some, wi’ nought to do but undercover snoopage! Some of us are but part-time agents, with civilian responsibilities … nay, but hold the phone!” She slapped a perplexed thigh. “How knew ye that I was a W agent?”
“Keep it down!” he hissed. “Know ye not there be bugs i’ the wood? Aye, Spanish bugs trained to listen and report to Onionland! Earwigs—get it?” He chuckled, grimly, but getting no ovation from Bemused Beauty, sighed, and became the steel-cold agent again.
“I shall take it from the top, lest the readers get confused,” said he crisply. “Know then that I, posing as a broken man, have been on the look-out for Dago plotters hereabouts, and to finance my operation, W was to send abundant lettuce in the form of jewellery, by secret courier—”
“Me!” said Godiva, proud if ungrammatical. “My jewellery, too!”
“—who would deposit it at the Cart and Wain left luggage in Carlisle, for collection by one Prometheus Progmore—an alias of mine, and I didn’t choose it,” he added curtly. “But when I heard thee this afternoon bewailing that thy rocks had been reft from thee, the old computer registered that thou must be the courier (that’s a laugh!) and that anyone calling at left luggage asking ‘Anything for Progmore?’ was in for one hell of a wait.” He drew breath, flexing denunciatory brows. “So prithee, Mistress Foulup, discourse—as to how ye lost that vital cargo, and why a God’s name did W entrust it to a half-witted Sloane Ranger wi’ no obvious qualifications save blue blood, red hair, and more curves than a scenic railway—which is probably why he took you on, the impressionable old snob,” he added, this time with a disgusted tchah.
“Quite finished—sirrah?” inquired Godiva, whose peerless profile had clicked up another notch with every scathing word. She yearned to kick in the slats of this presumptuous Civil Servant, but schooled herself to reply with sub-zero composure.
“For starters, the jewels were mine own, gladly placed at the disposal o’ cash-strapped State, to pay the wages of such as thou. Secondly, I was employed as courier because, half-witted Sloanie though an envious hireling may deem me, yet am I a Dacre, bottle-fed on loyalty, weaned on honour, nourished on patriotism, and (when need arises) slimming on self-sacrifice, aye, dedicated only to service o’ this fair land of ours!” At this point a noble mist filmed her uplifted eyes, while the strains of “There’ll Always Be an England” floated o’er the moonlit glade, and in the bushes even fugitive bunnies and pursuing ferrets stiffened to attention. “Nay, we o’ the Upper Crust serve not for gold or guerdon, but only for our country’s glory—oh, and for all those precious things, like honey on the lawn at even-fall, the scent of yeomen wending their way home from honest toil, the clonk of leather on willow, maypoles dancing by the fire at tea-time, conkers and tadpoles and warm woolly mittens, and all that stuff so dear to us that foreigners don’t understand!” She brushed a hand o’er pearl-dropped lashes. “Anyway, I was coming up north on business.”
Well, thought Archie, all that should send King Philip scuttling back to the Escurial. Aloud he asked: “So what happened to the pay-roll?” and Godiva’s proud gaze faltered ere she whipped it back into line.
“Why,” said she, trying to sound casual, “ ’twas heisted … by some Scotch highwayman or other.”
“Highwayman? Scotch?” His face fell like a collapsing scrum. “Oh, stone the corbies! You don’t mean—Gilderoy?”
“Something like that,” confessed Godiva, tho’ her ankles jellied at the mere mention of the loved-hated name, and the Head o’ Station B smote impassioned palm to stricken forehead.
“Gilderoy! Scotland’s top agent and my deadly rival, who hides his spying self ’neath mask of romantic tobyman, the rat! Oh, madam, what snafu was here! Not only ha’ ye lost the goods, the bloody Jocks have got ’em! Hard jewellery, too, better than oil-rigs!” He took anxious chin in troubled hand. “They must ha’ known of thy mission—aye, their spies are everywhere, from dole queues to football management.” He wheeled on her j’accuse-wise. “I’ll bet he smooched it out of you, didn’t he, hypnotising thee wi’ burning kisses? Aye, thy beetroot beauty betrays thee! Gad, what a technique the blighter’s got!” He thumped angry fist on exasperated knee. “And at such a time, when I am in dire need o’ the long green to finance a counter-stroke ’gainst Dago deviltry!” Seeing alarmed inquiry o’erspread her perfect visage, he briefed her crisply on the outline of Operation Heretic—which he had gleaned, you remember, by eavesdropping on Frey Bentos talking to himself. (So now you know why he was looking so thoughtful when he trod in that bowl of walnuts; Bond himself would have been equally preoccupied.)
“This much I overheard—that they plan to put an impostor on the Scottish throne, to our eventual undoing in England, and that your man Bentos is up to his tonsure in the plot and meets with La Infamosa and the bogus Stuart in Carlisle this very night,” he concluded. “But whither they go thence, who their other confederates are, and where exactly in the border they plan to snatch royal Jim and substitute the lookalike, I know not yet. So ’tis plain I must clobber them wi’out delay before they leave the city.” He ground frustrated bicuspids. “Given the cash thou hast lost, I would ha’ mustered my Station B operatives to take them out, squeeze them of the details, and then snooker their whole vile Dago apparat—but now, wi’ my chaps’ pay in arrears and the idle bastards unionised up to here, such hope is vain! Boy, when things go wrong!”
Contrition, we know, was not Godiva’s long suit, but the way he punched a nearby oak and doubled up, nursing his fingers, plus the knowledge that the initial goof had been hers, moved her to point to the bright side.
“Nay, all may yet be well!” she cried. “Certes, I’m parrot-sick about the Dacre Diamonds, but there’s lots more where they came from, honestly! Shalt have bucks and to spare, once I’ve written to Coutts—”
Sucking bruised fingers, he voiced indignant scorn. “Tho’ it be but Monopoly money to thee, mistress, still ’twould come too late! ’Tis now or never! So …” He squared chin and shoulders in resolute unison. “… I’ll just have to take ’em out single-handed. A nuisance, but thus crumbles the cookie—”
“Can’t the Warden help?” cried Godiva, and he gave a derisive snort.
“Ever tried stirring up local government in a crisis? They’d still be filling in forms when this pretender’s coronation mugs were in the shops! Nay, here is need o’ that lightning decision and ruthless execution which men associate wi’ Double-Nought Noble.” He shrugged modestly. “And if I have none to aid me i’ the clinches and watch my back when the rough stuff starts, what o’ that? Won’t be the first time.”
His careless gallantry rang like a trumpet blast in her shapely ears, for though her final school report (“Spoilt and arrogant pill, deportment unbearable”) had been endorsed by many detractors, even Godiva’s hairdresser could not have denied her by-jingo spirit (see previous pages). Now her flawless skin gleamed like a body lotion commercial and her bosom quivered with patriotic abandon as she volunteered—nay, demanded—to be taken on the strength, urging her undercover (albeit amateur) status, her award of the Modesty Blaise Rose-bowl for unarmed combat at Benenden, and her zeal to make amends by putting the boot in for Queen and Country. To all of which he gave the sexist horse-laugh, she blew her beauteous stack, and a pretty little tiff ensued, thus:
Switching gear, you see, the minx. She accompanied the throbbing words with a forward sway, all pout and smoulder, and with her lips like tremulous crimson cushions and her patriotism vibrating at close range, Archie found himself wondering if her assistance might not come in handy at that. After all, female charm had a place in intelligence work … look at Mata Hari and Pussy Galore …
“Nay, if ye put it like that,” quo’ he hesitantly … and then as she sashayed closer still, giving him both violet barrels, love’s thunderbolt, which had been hovering over his unsuspecting head since their first meeting, zapped him full belt—and he was clasping her supple softness in passionate embrace, renewed lip-wrestling was taking place, hidden woodwinds were playing “Linden Lea,” and the moon-bathed glade was soft wi’ the balmy scent of snowdrops and mistletoe (it’s February, remember).
The strains of the hidden orchestra gave way to the gentle sclorchhh! of disappearing bath water as their lips drew apart, leaving our hero’s emotions in turmoil. What was he doing? He, a double-nought action man, supposedly fireproof, enraptured by pneumatic form and honeyed mouth which only seconds ago had been spitting fire at him—for while his official conscience was carpeting him for canoodling on the firm’s time, his heart was telling him that he was hopelessly hammer-locked by Cupid. Duty and common sense were no defence against subtle perfume that worked on him like nerve gas, and he could only nod dumbly as she murmured: “Little need hast thou of aid i’ the clinches, but if ye need me to watch your back … or front … just whistle.” Her lashes lowered wi’ seductive swish. “Am I welcome aboard, skipper? I’ll try not to be a nuisance.”
“Oh, all right,” he gulped, and deciding that while a burning declaration of love was out of season from Head of Station to part-time assistant, something more was necessary, he added hoarsely:
“Ah … um … well … my lady …”
“Godiva,” she husked, nestling. “Goddy, to my … friends.”
“Yes, well … Goddy … what I want to say is, you see … well, I know I’m no Gilderoy (thank God) to dazzle thee wi’ Celtic charm and flashy kilt …” His manly chin lifted, and true-blue decency osmosissed from every strapping inch of his athletic frame. “Nay, mere honest English am I, four-square and a yard wide, if you know what I mean, and when this beastly business is over …”
“Say no more,” she whispered. “I know. Oh, and … Archie—I may call you Archie, mayn’t I, while we ’re sort of off-duty? Look, I’m sorry about the hanging thingy, really. I get carried away at times, you know, with the feudal tyrant bit, right?”
“Don’t mention it. Perfectly understandable.” He resisted an urge to tango her round the glade while he devoured her ear-lobes. “Well … we’d better be pushing along … I mean, the sooner we scupper these Spanish bounders, the better—”
“Yes, let’s!”
“It’ll take a day or two, I expect … you’re sure they won’t miss you at Thrashbatter?”
“I’ll get some passing mendicant to take a note to Kylie. She’ll love being left in charge—taking soup and blankets to the Gungemyrites.” She gave a tinkling laugh, which was music to his love-smitten ears. “Gosh, some feudal tyrant, I! I’d forgotten all about them, what with … this and that …”
With an effort Archie dismissed her ear-lobes and became the decisive executive again. “Fear not for thy village, fair Goddy. My dispositions should have all sewn up by now—harken!”
They harked, and sure enough, from the misty bottom came sounds indicating that it was Gungemyre 4, Liddesdale 0, and the villagers were doing a lap of honour. Only a quartet of Nixons had made it to their goal, and been overwhelmed by the creeper-swingers, bramble-jumpers, and pit-diggers whom Archie had shrewdly organised; now they were suffering the hideous fate of captured blackmailers, and Godiva shuddered as Trouserless Will’s frantic plea for mercy rang through the night: “Hang me, shoot me, but for pity’s sake put not breeches on me, or I shall be foresworn! Nay, ye would not have me break my vow!” But they would, forcing him into a pair of tight jeans, while his hapless companions had their bags taken off and their bottoms painted in the Dacre colours and decorated each with a carefully adjusted daffodil, whereafter they were bound across their saddles and sent back to Scotland as a terrible warning. Aye, a savage frontier it was, gossips …