them. A similar argument and arrangement followed with Walter Ridley, whose nephew Tom’s Watt watched with interest. Driving their fees ahead of them, they caught up to the prisoners, almost into Carlisle. The reivers were gasping and dripping with the brisk run over rough ground forced on them by the grinning Archie Give-it-Them.
“Yah, get on with you, ye’re soft as southerners,” he was sneering happily at their protests when Carey came trotting alongside.
“Bastard,” croaked Young Jock over his sweat-soaked shoulder when he caught sight of Carey. “Fucking bastard Courtier…”
Carey raised an eyebrow a fraction, tutted, looked critically at the prisoners and told Archie to take them for a little run round the walls of Carlisle before he put them in the dungeons, since they still seemed so fresh and lippy.
Wednesday, 21st June, 2 a.m.
At the same time as Dodd was hearing his neck-verse in his dream, Janet Dodd was shaken awake by one of her women, a young cousin by the name of Rowan Armstrong.
“Mistress, mistress,” she hissed, “Topped Hobbie’s ridden in, there’s reivers coming.”
Janet was instantly awake. She pulled her stays over her head and her petticoat, while Rowan fumbled her kirtle off the chest. “How far?”
“A few miles away. He could hear them but not see them.”
“What are they doing out on a night like this? Are the men awake?”
“I told him to fetch up Geordie.”
“Good girl.” A horn sounded from the barnekin, loud and urgent. Janet disappeared in the midst of her kirtle, reappeared, her fingers flying among the lacings. She went to the narrow window, opened the shutter and leaned out into the muggy darkness—cloud and no moon, a fine soaking rain. “Did Topped Hobbie say who it was coming?”
“He thought it was Grahams, but he doesn’t know. He thought he heard Jock of the Peartree’s voice, mistress.”
Janet pulled her lip through the gap in her teeth. “You go and wake the other maids, get yourself dressed and booted, then go help them bring in the cattle and the sheep nearby.”
“What about the horses, mistress?”
“Shilling and Courtier are both in the lower room of the tower already.”
The horn stopped blowing, there were torches being lit in the barnekin. She peered out into the blackness as she pulled on her boots. “Geordie,” she shrieked.
“Yes, Janet,” her brother’s voice sounded strained.
“Is the beacon lit?”
“As soon as we can get the kindling to catch, Janet. There are other beacons alight already, the March is up.”
“Are the men in harness?”
“They will be. We’ll ride out and fight them in…”
“You will not. You will bring in every beast we have and bar the gate, then get on the wall with your bows.”
“We canna catch them all in the time.”
“Bring in what you can.”
“But if he fires us…”
“Every roof is wet through. Do as I say.”
Janet ran down the stairs with her skirts hitched over her belt, out the door of the tower and into the barnekin which was already filling with desperately lowing cows, two half-panicked horses and frightened women trying to control over-excited children. Janet ran out of the gate and climbed on a stone to direct the running traffic of cattle, horses, men, boys, chickens, pigs, children, and, she would have sworn, rats as well. They could hear hooves; she waited as long as she dared, then shook her head.
“Come in, Geordie and Simon and Little Robert, leave the rest!” she yelled. “Come on in.”
Her cousin and her brother came galloping out of the mirk on their own horses, and Willie’s Simon had an arrow in his arm. Janet waited on them as the hooves and the shouting grew louder, slid through the narrow gate last of all, helped Geordie shut it and bar it and barricade it with settles from the hall, as a couple of arrows thudded into the wood. There was whooping and the flicker of torches on the other side.
“Go to the kitchen,” she told
“Yah, get on with you, ye’re soft as southerners,” he was sneering happily at their protests when Carey came trotting alongside.
“Bastard,” croaked Young Jock over his sweat-soaked shoulder when he caught sight of Carey. “Fucking bastard Courtier…”
Carey raised an eyebrow a fraction, tutted, looked critically at the prisoners and told Archie to take them for a little run round the walls of Carlisle before he put them in the dungeons, since they still seemed so fresh and lippy.
Wednesday, 21st June, 2 a.m.
At the same time as Dodd was hearing his neck-verse in his dream, Janet Dodd was shaken awake by one of her women, a young cousin by the name of Rowan Armstrong.
“Mistress, mistress,” she hissed, “Topped Hobbie’s ridden in, there’s reivers coming.”
Janet was instantly awake. She pulled her stays over her head and her petticoat, while Rowan fumbled her kirtle off the chest. “How far?”
“A few miles away. He could hear them but not see them.”
“What are they doing out on a night like this? Are the men awake?”
“I told him to fetch up Geordie.”
“Good girl.” A horn sounded from the barnekin, loud and urgent. Janet disappeared in the midst of her kirtle, reappeared, her fingers flying among the lacings. She went to the narrow window, opened the shutter and leaned out into the muggy darkness—cloud and no moon, a fine soaking rain. “Did Topped Hobbie say who it was coming?”
“He thought it was Grahams, but he doesn’t know. He thought he heard Jock of the Peartree’s voice, mistress.”
Janet pulled her lip through the gap in her teeth. “You go and wake the other maids, get yourself dressed and booted, then go help them bring in the cattle and the sheep nearby.”
“What about the horses, mistress?”
“Shilling and Courtier are both in the lower room of the tower already.”
The horn stopped blowing, there were torches being lit in the barnekin. She peered out into the blackness as she pulled on her boots. “Geordie,” she shrieked.
“Yes, Janet,” her brother’s voice sounded strained.
“Is the beacon lit?”
“As soon as we can get the kindling to catch, Janet. There are other beacons alight already, the March is up.”
“Are the men in harness?”
“They will be. We’ll ride out and fight them in…”
“You will not. You will bring in every beast we have and bar the gate, then get on the wall with your bows.”
“We canna catch them all in the time.”
“Bring in what you can.”
“But if he fires us…”
“Every roof is wet through. Do as I say.”
Janet ran down the stairs with her skirts hitched over her belt, out the door of the tower and into the barnekin which was already filling with desperately lowing cows, two half-panicked horses and frightened women trying to control over-excited children. Janet ran out of the gate and climbed on a stone to direct the running traffic of cattle, horses, men, boys, chickens, pigs, children, and, she would have sworn, rats as well. They could hear hooves; she waited as long as she dared, then shook her head.
“Come in, Geordie and Simon and Little Robert, leave the rest!” she yelled. “Come on in.”
Her cousin and her brother came galloping out of the mirk on their own horses, and Willie’s Simon had an arrow in his arm. Janet waited on them as the hooves and the shouting grew louder, slid through the narrow gate last of all, helped Geordie shut it and bar it and barricade it with settles from the hall, as a couple of arrows thudded into the wood. There was whooping and the flicker of torches on the other side.
“Go to the kitchen,” she told
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