14. Andrew

A NDREW The valley of the River Esk, Scotland, 6th May 1613

I' D HOPED TO BE close to the border by nightfall, but Brutus was wearying. Not that he would have allowed me to see it – he held his head proudly, still setting his feet as precisely as any foot soldier who'd march till his officer told him to halt. But I noticed the change in his gait.

We Messengers could, by the king's authority, lay claim to any horse we wished. Ride one horse hard for a short distance and exchange it for a fresher one, to travel farther faster. And yet horses were not things, they were as varied as ourselves, each with their limits and their habits, and not all of them reliable. I much preferred to ride the one horse I knew well and guard his health along the road.

Besides, it wasn't speed I needed now from Brutus, it was strength. He had to carry two of us.

In London, he was only called to carry Margaret's weight upon the pillion for half an hour in the morning and the same again home in the evening, which he seemed to view as no great burden. Here, he did not gain the same relief, and I had noticed that he walked with greater care when he had Phoebe on his back, the way he'd once walked when I'd let a young lad ride behind me – as though he feared she might fall off, and he was seeking to look after her.

A horse that sensed a rider's inexperience would alter its behaviour to adapt to it. Some horses, prone to mischief, took advantage of such riders. Brutus treated them like glass. It was his nature, I was glad of it, but I knew that it cost him, always paying such attention to his movements.

As we came in view now of a little settlement, I felt his interest quicken. His great head lifted higher to catch the faint new sounds – a hammer strike on metal, and men's voices rising over the bright running of the water in the burn beside us – then his ears swivelled back hopefully, waiting for some word from me.

‘Aye,' I reassured him. ‘We'll try stopping here.'

Forward the ears went again and he snorted to show satisfaction and nodded, and I told myself for the thousandth time that any man who thought horses were creatures without sense or feelings had never spent time with them.

For me, horses were easier to understand than people.'Twas certain they were easier to understand than women, and a hundred times easier to understand than the lass seated behind me. This morning, with her words and looks, she'd made it plain she'd rather not be near me. Yet for some time now she'd been leaning on my back, asleep, her hand tucked underneath my belt, her head a gentle weight between my shoulder blades.

Like Brutus, I was careful not to jostle her, and riding in this way raised feelings of protectiveness within me, though she'd not have welcomed them. It helped me to remember whose initials marked that handkerchief she held so tightly. Mayhap she'd let go of it while sleeping, and with luck it lay an hour behind us on some thorn bush, torn and soon to be forgotten, as it well deserved to be. If so, we'd not be turning back to find it.

‘Where…?'

She'd wakened with no sudden movement, quietly, her head still resting on my back. She raised it now, as though aware whose back it was, and levered herself upright. With that motion came the wafting scent of that infernal handkerchief – a scent that was not hers, but his. The cloyingly expensive smell of indolence.

She said, ‘I do apologize. Did I sleep long?'

I briefly thought of lying, but there wasn't any point to it. ‘Aye, but ye've missed nothing.'

She seemed unconvinced. She must have caught sight of the settlement. ‘Where are we?'

I'd have telt her, if I could. Truth was, I didn't know. I'd been this way but the one time, with my father, and in honesty I'd been dead bored myself then as well, I'd been so young. I'd paid no proper mind to the way we were passing. I wished that I had. I only knew this was the way that went to the border and then to Carlisle, where we could safely pick up the road that would lead us to London – not by the route I took more commonly, but by the ways in the west.

I had knowledge enough of those roads, once we reached them, to help us evade Patrick Graeme of Inchbrakie's men. But we weren't yet at Carlisle.

And as to where we were , I answered Phoebe with the one thing I was sure of.

‘Armstrong country.'

Being English, she'd know nothing of the Armstrongs, nor the Elliots, nor any of the Border families so notorious for leading raids upon their neighbours in this lawless region that the king had finally brought his boot down hard upon them all, so they had grumbled into peace.

If I told Phoebe we were riding through the land of Reivers, she'd not be familiar with the word, nor would she understand the risks of being here, and I did not enlighten her. Why tell a lass that you had brought her to the lair of thieves?

Besides, there might not be a problem. While the glory of the Reivers was behind them and they weren't as fearsome as they once had been, their pride remained, and even among thieves, there still was honour.

I'd wait to judge our welcome.

The rough trail we had been riding on became more recognizable as something like a road, and Brutus perked up even more, his big feet fairly dancing on the rutted dirt as though he sensed an ending to the day was close at hand.

The sound of metal striking upon metal came much closer now, and I could see it came from a small forge set aside one of the houses at the near edge of the settlement. Besides the stone mill, there were only three houses in all, and this nearest one a bastle house – a kind of farmhouse common in the Borders, designed to stand like a small fort against the Reivers' raids. Two storeys tall and built of stone, it had a slate roof to repel attack by fire, and thick walls to stand battering, and only tiny windows on the upper floor, to keep out all intruders but allow a stout defence.

The forge abutting it was built of stone as well, and its inhabitant stopped work as we approached. He had the rough look of a man who earned his living with his hands, fair-haired and in his middle-thirties with the leather apron of his trade tied over homespun clothing, and his sleeves rolled up to show impressive forearms. I thought he stared at me a little overlong, but as I brought our party to a stop outside his open forge he dragged his gaze instead to Brutus, who was then demanding all attention.

The blacksmith gave it to him. ‘That's a rare, fine beast. Pure courser of Naples, is he?'

‘Aye.'

‘I've not seen his equal.' Setting down his hammer, he bravely stepped forwards, and Brutus – as he did with all men who praised him – permitted the touch, even letting the blacksmith take one of his great forefeet into his hands and examine it. ‘Recently shod, I see.'

‘Aye.'

‘A pity, that. To shoe a horse like this would be a privilege.'

Brutus gazed down at the blacksmith with what I can only call fondness, then angled his ears back towards me, expectantly. I had no fears of forgetting he'd been bred at court, for his head was so easily turned by a wee bit of flattery. But just the now, I agreed with his instincts.

The mill might be larger, and farther beyond was a castle that no doubt could offer more comfort, but this was a strong enough house that could offer protection, and those who pursued us weren't likely to look for us here.

I said, ‘We may not need the horses shod, but we do need to stable them the night, if ye have room.'

Again he favoured me with that peculiar stare, then said, ‘Aye, I have room enough. And beds, too, for yourselves.'

I thanked him. But I had a question, first. ‘Have ye a family?'

‘Aye. Two lads,' he told me, ‘and my mother. Why?'

‘I serve the king, and in his name I hold this man a prisoner.' I nodded at Sir David, who had halted his mare close enough behind that he could hear all we were saying. ‘We are followed now by men who seek to set him free by force. I would not wish to put your family in harm's way.'

The blacksmith studied me. ‘Who are these men?'

I told him, and he nodded. ‘They are fierce, the Graemes.'

He'd know from experience. While there seemed little binding the Graemes in Perthshire with their distant cousins who'd settled years past in the Borders, they sprang from the same source and shared the same blood.

‘But they are none of my kin,' he assured me, ‘so ye'll have no trouble beneath my roof.' He was less certain, though, when it came to Sir David. ‘Will he be dangerous? What was his crime?'

The question, though fair, wasn't one I could answer. Not only because of my oath, but because I was not altogether convinced that Sir David was guilty of anything. He held himself in all ways with such dignity I could not help but hear his brother telling me, ‘He has done nothing wrong' with such conviction I was half inclined to take Sir William's part and feel Sir David must be innocent.

Not that my feelings changed the mission. I was but the Messenger. Yet if I were to guard the man, I surely ought to guard his reputation, since like life, if lost, it could not be restored.

I gave the blacksmith no specific crime, but said, ‘'Tis nothing that need worry ye. Your family will have naught to fear from him, he is a gentleman.'

I had no doubt that Phoebe, at my back, would raise an eyebrow at my reference, after all the words we had exchanged this morning about gentlemen, but thankfully, she held her tongue.

‘And yet ye keep him fettered.'

‘I do fetter all my prisoners. The law requires it.' I prayed the blacksmith did not have the education that would let him catch my twisting of the truth.

The dice fell in my favour. He gave a short nod of acceptance. ‘Then stay and be welcome.' He offered his hand. ‘Sandy Armstrong. Round here, I'm Hob's Sandy.'

A pattern of naming that helped to keep everyone organized when they all had the same surname – it meant that his father was Hob. Returning the blacksmith's firm handclasp, I gave him my name, but didn't introduce the others. This was still uncertain country, and the best protection was to guard your privacy.

The blacksmith didn't seem to mind. Turning, he crossed to open the broad, wooden door centred in the stone front of his bastle house and swung it wide. ‘There ye go.'

Houses like this were built to defend not the family alone, but its livestock as well. Cattle, horses, and chickens – whatever you owned – could be safely shut in for the night behind thick walls and a stout wooden door on the ground floor, while you and your family slept one floor above. An ingenious design.

Phoebe had not yet discovered the plan of it. When I dismounted and lifted her down from the pillion I saw her look of dismay and I realized she thought we'd be sleeping the night in a barn. And God help me, I couldn't resist. ‘Were ye wanting the stall on the left or the right?' I asked.

Her look of horror was well beyond price. ‘What?'

‘The manger appears to be already taken…'

‘You cannot be serious.'

I couldn't hold back my grin any longer, which spoiled it. ‘Of course I'm not serious. I ken this is like to surprise ye, but we're not all uncouth in Scotland. We do ken what beds are for.' I'd not planned that to have a double meaning, but when her cheeks suddenly reddened I reasoned it might just be better for me to stop talking.

The blacksmith – Hob's Sandy – had fitted the ladder in place to the trap door that led to the upper floor. I let him take Phoebe and Westaway up with him while I stayed back with the others to see to the horses.

This work had a rhythm that calmed me. The bridles and saddles and blankets removed, and the brushes and combs all applied in their order, removing the sweat and the dust and the dirt of the day so the horses could rest. The wee Garron was not over fond of the curry comb, but the black mare would have stood all the day for it, arching her neck to the feel of its strokes.

‘They should have named ye Princess and not Charger,' I informed her, ‘for ye like a life of softness, do ye not? And here ye are, stuck on this road with us, poor lass.' I tapped her offside foreleg. ‘Up.' She raised it daintily, so I could take her foot into my hands and pick the muck and gravel from her hoof.

Sir David, leaning on a nearby post to watch me, said, ‘I think you've missed your calling.'

I was dealing with a stubborn stone. I didn't raise my head. ‘How so?'

‘Not to disparage your work as a Messenger, but I can well understand why my brother was sorry to lose you as one of his stablehands.'

Hector looked over at that. He'd been cleaning a saddle, but now his attention was wholly on me. ‘Ye were a stable lad, like me?'

‘Aye, for a time.'

Sir David said, ‘He was a very famous stable lad. He—'

But I cut him off then with a glance, a frown, a swift shake of my head.

‘He what?' asked Hector.

I could see Sir David thinking. He recovered with, ‘He polished twenty saddles in an hour.'

Hector, impressed by this, redoubled his own efforts, and I let my eyes roll at Sir David, who responded with a shrug, as if to say, ‘What else was I to do?'

In tones more serious, he said, ‘That was a kind thing you said earlier to the blacksmith.'

‘What was?'

‘When you told him that I could be trusted. That I was a gentlemen.' He sounded moved by it. ‘Thank you.'

The stone in the mare's hoof shot free finally and I released her foot, straightening. ‘Aye, well,' I said to him, ‘see ye don't make me regret it.'

There was some strategy involved in getting all of us upstairs. Sir David climbed the ladder first, which took more effort with his manacles. Then Hector followed, carrying one portmanteau, and me, with the remaining two. The ladder protested my weight, but held until I'd reached the upper floor. Hauling up the ladder after me, I let the trap door fall and made sure it was closed securely.

Only then did I turn round, to find myself facing a woman who stared at me as though she'd just seen the dead.

‘Christ defend us,' she said, as the bowl she held slipped from her hands to the floor. Thankfully it was a wooden bowl, empty, and so fell undamaged, although it spun noisily. Cursing beneath her breath, she picked it up while the blacksmith remarked, ‘I did warn ye.'

The woman was clearly his mother. They had the same colouring, and the same eyes, and just now she was gaping at me in the same way her son had when I'd first approached him.

The blacksmith explained, to me, ‘Ye have the look of my father. He was a large man, like yourself.'

From how they'd both reacted to me, plainly the resemblance was a strong one. I made light of it. ‘Mayhap I have an Armstrong hiding somewhere in my pedigree.'

The blacksmith laughed. ‘Mayhap ye do. We could be cousins. Anyhow, that's what we're telling the neighbours, so they'll say naught if anyone asks after ye. We take care of our own here at Langholm.'

So that was the castle then – Langholm. And these were the few houses built round its mill. And I'd made a good choice by not carrying on to the castle itself, for Langholm Castle was held by the Lieutenant of the Borders, who while loyal to the king was hard and ruthless. Had he been at home, Sir David would be sleeping in the dungeon this night, and not sitting now beside the fire with Phoebe's father.

Phoebe wasn't in my view, but then the room itself was dim. There were no windows, and the only light came from the fire upon the hearth and from the candles scattered round that gave a homely warmth.

The blacksmith's mother had retrieved the fallen bowl. She took my arm. ‘Come, I'll see ye fed afore I go.'

I looked a question at the blacksmith, who said, ‘She's taking my lads to my brother. As groundskeeper up at the castle he has his own lodgings with plenty of room for them all.'

My relief likely showed. He had taken my warning to heart. It was hard enough being responsible for the one lad in my care without having to fret about somebody else's. My relief was the greater when I saw his lads, for the elder could not have been twelve, and the younger was smaller than Hector.

Their grandmother brought me a supper of broth thick with barley and pieces of chicken. ‘Sit ye there,' she said, meaning the elbow chair set near the wall. It was high-backed and sturdy, the broadly carved wooden arms worn and well loved. ‘'Twas my husband's chair, built for a big man.'

I found it comfortable, and told her so, with thanks.

With a broad smile of pleasure, she replied that I was welcome to whatever little they might have. ‘I telt yer wife the pair o' ye could take my bed the night, and close the curtains for some privacy.'

I nearly choked upon my broth at that suggestion. I tried not to look at Westaway, who'd quickly turned his head as if preparing to defend his daughter's honour. Not that there was any need, since she could do it for herself. I bore the scars from years of Phoebe's words. I knew if I were ever fool enough to try to touch her, she would slay me where I stood.

Westaway stayed silent, wisely, and I thanked the blacksmith's mother. Her hand settled on my shoulder, very likely in a gesture she'd used often with her husband, and she looked past me and said, ‘'Tis a good man ye've married, lass. Just like my Hob. Bigger men have the biggest hearts. See that ye don't let him go.'

I braced myself for Phoebe's answer, but none came. The blacksmith's mother gave my shoulder one last pat before she moved to gather up her grandsons. Lighter footsteps trod the floor behind me, and to my astonishment I felt another hand rest on my shoulder in a touch that felt affectionate.

I froze. Phoebe's father looked just as surprised, though they seemed to share some sort of private glance over my head that left Westaway satisfied, for once again he said nothing.

I followed his lead. Phoebe baffled me daily. Whatever her game was, I wasn't aware of the rules and was probably safer not knowing. I finished my broth.

‘Let me take that,' she said. She removed my bowl, then returned, seating herself on the stool at my side.

For the moment, the blacksmith was busy with setting the ladder in place again at the trap door so his mother and two lads could be on their way.

I turned my head to look at Phoebe. Low, I asked her, ‘Are ye well?'

She flushed a little, but she tipped her chin up bravely. Met my eyes. ‘Yes, thank you.'

‘Ye've not hit your head on anything?'

‘Not that I'm aware of. Why?'

‘No reason.'

I could say no more, because the blacksmith had returned to take the chair across from us. The fire had a pleasant, earthy scent that I'd not breathed in years, and Hector, in the unreserved way of the young, asked, ‘Are ye burning mud?'

I chuckled. ‘No, lad. Those are peats. There'll be a moss nearby.'

The blacksmith nodded. ‘Aye. The Tarras Moss.'

Politely, Westaway said, ‘Do excuse my ignorance, but what's a moss?'

I hadn't known it was a Scottish word. There were so many differences between our native languages. I tried to think of what the English knew it by. ‘A bog, ye'd call it.'

‘Aye,' the blacksmith said again. ‘A place where what ye think is ground deceives ye, and the peat floats on pools deep enough that they'll swallow ye whole and the Devil will take ye and ye'll nae more be seen. Not in this lifetime, anyways.' He placed another dried brick of peat onto the fire, watching as the flames slowly took hold. ‘It saved the Armstrongs more than once, the Tarras Moss, for none but us ken where the ground is safe to tread, and when the English came for us, we'd only to retreat into the moss and bide our time to get the better of them.' His mouth curved in a smile of reminiscence. ‘Back in eighty-eight, the Earl of Angus thought he had us cornered, so he did. He was Lieutenant of the Borders then, and we were outlawed thieves, and when he moved against us and we took our refuge in the Tarras Moss, he thought he would outwit us. He found a spy who took some of his men to wait at the far side of the moss, while he and his other men flushed us out from the other, but we were not to be fooled, we escaped him, and in our retreat nearly captured his kinsman.' His smile broadened briefly, then faded. ‘A victory, it would hae been, but for the loss of a few. My own grandfather, Ringan, was killed in the skirmish. He never came home from the moss.'

A foul place to die, I imagined. I told him, ‘I'm sorry.'

He shrugged. ‘There's not been a man of my family who died in his bed. I doubt that I'll be any different.'

Sir David attempted to cheer him. ‘But you're not a Reiver.'

The blacksmith's glance knew better. ‘Nor was my father. He did honest work, he looked after his family, it didnae change anything. He was an Armstrong, and we're not allowed to be honest in all men's eyes.'

I saw the pain that passed over his features, and knew it for what it was because I shared it. The loss of a father you loved was a hard thing.

I asked, ‘What became of him?'

‘Someone accused him of stealing a horse. There was doubt, mind. The Border commissioners weren't all convinced, and the horse's owner said he wisnae sure, but still, my father was an Armstrong, so they drowned him in the drowning-place, the Grieve, just up the Ewes water.' One more brick of peat went onto the fire, this time more forcefully. ‘So no, I dinnae think I'll die abed. But if I live to see my lads grown, that will be enough.'

I wished I could work my Gift at will – that I could look forwards in time and See for certain whether he would sit beside that fire with grandsons of his own upon his knee, but I could not. I only knew that by our coming here, we'd put him and his family in danger.

I pushed back my chair and said, ‘I need to see to the horses.'

Sir David said, ‘Surely not yet. You just—'

‘Saddles need cleaning,' I cut him off.

And to his credit he held back his protests and lifted an eyebrow and only said, ‘Ah.' Then stood with me and motioned to Hector to join us while Phoebe looked at me as though I were mad.

‘Don't wait up,' I advised her.

She didn't.

When I returned she was already asleep, or pretending to be, in the bed with the curtains drawn round in the corner. The small bed that must have been shared by the blacksmith's lads was filled by Westaway, stretched out and snoring. The rest of us made our own beds on the floor where we could with the blankets provided.

I'd readied two excuses why I'd not be sleeping with my ‘wife' in case the blacksmith asked me, but he did not interfere.

He did, though, waken me afore the sun was up. His hand upon my shoulder was insistent, and his voice held urgency. ‘Ye must rise. There are riders.'

I was on my feet. ‘Here?'

‘At the castle. They've stopped there to rest their horses, but they'll soon be coming on. My eldest lad ran home to give us warning.'

‘Graemes?'

‘Aye.'

‘How many?'

‘Five and thirty. Maybe more.'

Sir David was awake now, too, and starting to sit up, eyes wary.

‘Dress yourself,' I told him. ‘We are leaving.' I was doing likewise when the blacksmith shook his head.

‘Ye cannae wear the scarlet.'

‘I've a cloak to cover it.'

‘That will not be enough. The Graemes are claiming they're hunting a fugitive of the king's justice who's wearing the garb of a Messenger.'

I was forced to admit Patrick Graeme was not only crafty but clever. I wasn't well known in this part of the country, so his tactic made it my word against his, meaning in any town I would be jailed while the magistrates dealt with the matter, and he would be free to ride off with my prisoner.

He'd taken my badge of authority and made it something that marked us for capture.

The blacksmith said, ‘Wear this instead.' And he offered a doublet of plain, homespun wool, dyed a warm, wheaten colour, with breeches to match, and a jerkin of well-weathered leather. ‘They'll fit ye, I think,' he said. ‘They were my father's.'

I hesitated, looking at his face. ‘I cannot take your father's clothes.'

‘Who else can wear them? Ye can see I'm not his size.'

‘One of your lads may yet—'

‘The Graemes mean to kill ye, do they not?' His jaw set stubbornly. He pushed the clothes into my hands. ‘I'll not be having that upon my conscience.'

While I strove to think of words of thanks that would not seem inadequate, he turned from me, saying, ‘Make haste now, and waken the others. My lad and I will see your horses are ready.'

Sir David had dressed and was watching me while, having fastened the old doublet over my shirt, I shrugged into the worn, sleeveless jerkin, with care.

He remarked, ‘Those clothes might have been made for you. Mayhap you do have an Armstrong or two in your pedigree.'

I could have told him that I owed my height and size and colour of eyes all to my mother's family from the Western Isles, who'd passed their Sight to me as well, but I said only, ‘I think not.' And went across to waken Westaway.

Phoebe had wrapped the plaid in the wrong way again, but I'd no time to correct her. We'd already wasted enough time in packing, and now I'd discovered the blacksmith's lad had put the pillion on the wrong horse, so I'd have to remove it, and—

Sir David said, ‘You should leave that, and let Mistress Westaway ride with me.' He'd come to stand at the side of the black mare while I worked to unhook the pillion.

‘Why would I do that?' I asked him.

‘For her safety.'

That stopped my hands, and I could feel the rush of blood I sometimes felt afore a fight as I looked up to meet his steady eyes. My voice, even to my ears, sounded challenging. ‘And how would ye keep her safe where I could not?'

Sir David, clearly not a man for fighting, told me, ‘Use your reason, not your pride. Who is my cousin attempting to save?' When he saw that I'd answered that within my mind, he carried on, ‘His men will not harm me . They will not fire upon me. Faith, I doubt they'd dare to chase me, for if I were injured, they would have to deal with Patrick.'

He was right. It would be safer to let Phoebe ride with him. Reversing what I'd done, I made sure the pillion was firmly fastened. We were by ourselves, with no one near us who could overhear, but still when I stepped closer to Sir David to fasten the belt for the pillion round his waist, I kept my voice low, deliberately. ‘It may be they'll not harm ye,' I said. ‘But if Phoebe's harmed, or even frighted, then your cousin Patrick and his men will have to deal with me . And they should ken that I'll not stop until I have my justice. Understand?'

The fierceness of my tone had taken him aback, but now he gathered calm again and faced me. ‘Yes, I think I do.'

He did not need my help to mount. He was a fine, accomplished rider. But I waited till he'd settled in the saddle afore calling Phoebe over.

She was worried, I could see it in the tight lines of her face, so I tried smiling, though I wasn't sure I managed it convincingly. ‘Ye'll have your wish the day. I'll let ye ride with a more amiable companion.'

Phoebe, knowing we were in a hurry, moved to let me lift her to the pillion, but her eyes met mine knowingly. ‘You think the men who chase us will be gentler with Sir David, so there is less danger to me if I ride with him.'

I didn't look away. ‘The men who chase us,' I said, ‘will not catch us.'

I lifted her onto the horse. The black mare was more spirited than Brutus, and danced sideways a little. I held Phoebe's waist till she had a firm hold of Sir David's belt, and then I told him, ‘She's nervous of horses, so keep the mare calm.'

He held up his fettered wrists. ‘I could do that more effectively without these.'

I didn't trust him. But I knew that he was right. ‘I would have your word, first, that ye will not run.'

‘You have it.'

Such an easy promise – one I should have been too canny to relax my guard for now, but it was more important to ensure that Phoebe would be safe. As I unlocked the fetters and removed them, I reminded him, ‘My horse is faster than the mare. My pistols are kept loaded. And my aim is true.'

The prospect of a chase had Hector restless with excitement. His red shirt, like my scarlet livery, had been tucked into one of the portmanteaus, and in its place he wore a shirt of Westaway's under a jerkin cast off from the blacksmith's lad, so he was once again a smaller version of me.

From the saddle of the Garron he looked over at me, hopeful. ‘Should I have a pistol, too?'

‘No,' I said. We were all ready now.

The blacksmith had mounted his horse as well to lead us out. ‘Single file,' he cautioned us. ‘That way our tracks will not betray our numbers.'

He might not be a Reiver, but his Armstrong blood ran in him strongly enough that his grandfather, Ringan, who'd died in the raid on the Tarras Moss, would have been proud.

He kent a place to cross the river where the banks were stony so our horses' hooves left no impressions. By a winding path he led us up the hill beyond and brought us out onto the moorland, where the waking earth had breathed a mist that hovered low above the ground and lent the lonely view a strangeness.

This was no ordinary moor, for while it had the common things – the coarse, wheat-coloured grasses and the darkly spreading clumps of heather overlaying the new green of spring – I also smelled the peat, and Brutus was already on his guard, great nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of hidden pools of stagnant water. We were on the moss, and looking down into a rugged, thickly wooded glen that stretched between ourselves and the smooth rise of hills on the horizon.

More trees had climbed the slopes and clung to them in ways unnatural, so here and there a stand of rowan mixed with stunted birken trees bent stubbornly against the wind, like armies of old men who would not fall afore the enemy.

A whaup – or curlew, as the English called it – passed above us with its piercing cry. My mother's people of the Western Isles would have believed that to be an ill omen for our journey, but I did not hold such superstitions. I was riding at the back, where I could keep an eye on everyone and guard them from behind, but when we reached a level place, the blacksmith motioned us to stop, then wheeled his horse around and came back down the line to have a word with me.

‘I'll have to leave ye here,' he said. ‘I must get back in case the riders come. It wouldnae do for them to find my lad alone.'

I understood, and told him so.

Relief showed in his eyes. ‘We'll tell the Graemes that ye left us yestere'en, along the road to Carlisle. If they think ye ride that far ahead of them, they'll not stop long, they'll be too keen to follow.'

‘And your neighbours?'

‘Are all Armstrongs,' he said proudly. ‘Not a man among them will betray ye.' He seemed very certain, and I hoped his faith was justified.

I shook his hand, and thanked him, pressing coins into his palm – more than I'd ordinarily give for a night's lodging, but these circumstances were exceptional.

‘'Tis too much,' he said.

‘Ye've given me your father's clothes,' I pointed out.

Acknowledging this with a nod, he returned the thanks gruffly and turned my attention to the hills on the horizon. ‘Ye'll be heading there, just where that spear of light has touched the land, ye see?'

I saw.

He said, ‘Keep to this high ground and out of the glen, aim your horse's nose towards that spot, and ye'll come through the moss like ye were born to it. I'll send a guide to help ye if I'm able.'

He left us then, and I moved up to take the lead. Passing Sir David, I drew up straighter in the saddle, levelled one more warning look upon him, and said, ‘Mind ye keep your place, now.'

As we ventured on, a low, familiar warbling filled the air around us, growing ever louder.

Phoebe asked, ‘What is that noise?'

Sir David answered first. ‘'Tis but the blackcocks at their haunt, my dear. They gather in the mornings at this time of year to strut and jump and fight off all the other males to win themselves the favour of the greyhens.'

I caught the dry note of amusement in his voice and knew he'd aimed a barb a me, but when I half turned to look back his eyes were wholly innocent, so all I said was, ‘We are being tracked. Best to keep silent.'

Truth be told, I needed silence just to concentrate. It was no easy task to find the safe path on the moss, even with Brutus's keen instincts, and our progress, although steady, left us too exposed for comfort.

I was focused so entirely upon the ground beneath me that I didn't hear the man approaching till he came alongside, walking swiftly and with ease, well muffled, wearing clothes much like the blacksmith's in their colour and their cut, his hat drawn low.

He said, ‘They're close ahind. Come, follow me, I'll take ye where it's safe.'

When I didn't turn immediately, he urged me, ‘None but Armstrongs ken this way. Come. There's nae time tae waste.'

I'll send a guide to help ye if I'm able. Bless the blacksmith, I thought. Thanking our new guide, I followed where he led, and motioned to the others to do likewise.

It was not a simple route, but I kept Brutus in the footsteps of the guide, and looked back often to make sure that all the others safely managed it as well. When we were halfway down the glen, Sir David looked as though he would have asked a question, but I raised a hand to hold him silent, knowing our pursuers might be close enough to hear.

We were within the woods now, moving ever deeper into the dark tangle of the birken trees and rowan, and the stunted oaks that bound their branches overhead and cast an eerie shade that broke the dawning light into uncertain fragments.

Nearby I heard water running, rapid like a river, and with each breath I inhaled the strong, cloying scent of dampness rising from the ground.

Brutus baulked, and I reined him in, and our guide turned and told me, ‘'Tis perfectly safe, Hob.'

I saw his eyes, then. And I knew.

He was no man, but a wraith.

I had followed a dead man away from the safe path and into the depths of the Tarras Moss, where there were pools that could swallow ye whole so ye'd no more be seen, and now we were all of us going to be dead.

The wraith wanted me to dismount. I weighed the wisdom of this for a moment and finally decided that it might be best to converse on the ground and look less like a madman. If I kept my voice low, the others would, with luck, assume I was talking to Brutus, a thing they often saw me do.

Once down from the saddle, I moved to make show of checking the fit of Brutus's bridle, and told the wraith, quietly, ‘Will ye take us up again to where ye found us?'

‘Nay, lad, I telt ye. The English hae their watchmen set tae follow ye, and will by now hae all our southern entries guarded also. Ye must bide here, as I taught ye.' I saw something close to kindness in the wraith's expression. ‘I ken well ye wanted nae part of this life, Hob, but life disnae allus allow ye tae choose.'

He took no notice of the others. Perhaps he did not see them, or, since they could not see him , he counted them inconsequential. But for once, I did not have to guess who he imagined I was. He had called me Hob, which meant that clearly he believed I was the blacksmith's father, from my size and clothing.

And I had a strong suspicion from the way the wraith was talking to me that he was Hob Armstrong's father, Ringan, who had died here in the Tarras Moss during the battle with the English.

I tested my theory. ‘Father—'

He grinned. ‘Are we living in the castle, now? Father, is it? I'm yer da, my lad. Now, keep yer heid well doon, and mind what ye were taught, and dinnae shift yerself from here until it's safe.'

Sir David called, ‘Is something wrong?'

Impatiently, I looked up, and at the sharpness of my action Brutus jerked his head against my hold and I gave his neck a reassuring pat, and when I turned my head the wraith had vanished.

Tight-lipped, I held back what I wished to say, and instead answered, ‘All is well.'

Sir David said, ‘I'm glad to hear it. I thought we were meant to keep to the higher ground.'

I said, ‘It didn't feel safe.'

I allowed Sir David some credit for making no comment when he surveyed our current surroundings, which I had to admit appeared anything but safe, but he held his tongue admirably when I announced we would be stopping here awhile, ‘here' being a nondescript clearing of sorts with a handful of rocks and fallen trees for seating, nearly lost in the densely green undergrowth.

Sir David merely halted and continued to say nothing when I came back to lift Phoebe from the pillion and escort her to a seat upon a stone across the clearing, where at least some light broke through. But when young Hector, who by now had dutifully dismounted the Garron and come forwards to assist Sir David, raised a hand to the mare's bridle, then Sir David told him sharply, ‘Hector, do not move.'

I turned. My pistols were still in their holsters on my saddle, fully fifteen feet away, but even as I registered that fact, Sir David reached his own hand down and, in one swift motion, took a firm hold of the back of Hector's jerkin and lifted the lad to sit afore him on the mare.

I would have cursed aloud, if not for Phoebe, but I thought the words with feeling. Reaching for my knife, I started for him, but already he had walked the mare back several paces.

‘Logan, stop,' he told me. ‘You misunderstand.'

I understood he had the lad between us as a shield and was attempting an escape, but when I would have told him this, he shook his head and pointed at the ground where Hector had been standing.

‘There's an adder.'

He had halted for a second time, and seemed now to be waiting. Just behind him, Westaway, yet on his horse, was waiting, too. I stopped, and watched the place he'd pointed to, and sure enough, the leaves began to move. And then the snake emerged, its markings jagged black like saw's teeth on its long, grey body as it slowly made its way across the clearing and slipped silently into the tangled roots and leaves and grasses on the other side.

Hector's eyes had gone wide, and Sir David gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘He was a sound sleeper, that one. Like you, my lad. Else he'd have wakened when he heard our horses approaching, and made himself scarce.'

‘Was he not hunting me, then?'

‘Never. Adders won't harm you if you let them be. They're retiring, peaceable creatures who wish to live quietly, bothering no one, removed from the world and its noise. But if they're attacked…' He looked over the lad's head then, his eyes keeping level on mine. ‘Well, they've no choice then but to defend themselves with what defences God gave them.'

I was well aware that speech had naught to do with the adder, but Hector took all at face value, and asked him, ‘If it did bite me, would I have died?'

From where the lad sat, he could not see the moment of conflict that showed on Sir David's face as he weighed whether to tell him the truth.

I spared him by stepping in, cheerfully telling the lad, ‘Hector, I promise ye, lad, ye've got no chance of dying while I'm here to guard ye.'

The lad looked fair pleased. ‘No?'

I shook my head. ‘No chance at all.'

Hector grinned and jumped down from the mare's back and went to help Westaway, who after all of this drama was stiffly dismounting.

Sir David did likewise in his calm and elegant way, and held out his wrists to be manacled, patiently.

I met his gaze without words. Then leaving him unbound, I turned and went back to where Brutus was standing, aware of the weight of the eyes that were watching me, waiting for me to announce our next move.

In my life, never once had I wished for a wraith to appear, but I wished for it now. Ringan Armstrong, if he had in truth been the wraith who had led us down here to our probable doom, opted not to oblige me by showing his face again. I saw no movement at all in the trees, and heard no sounds but those made by us or by nature.

And then, very faintly, I heard the sure rhythm of hoofbeats. One rider, alone. Coming nearer.

The others heard it, too, and I motioned them to get behind me as I drew my pistols from their holsters on my saddle and stepped forwards to confront whoever was approaching.

I expected he'd come cautiously. He didn't.

With my pistols levelled at him, I called out, ‘That's far enough.'

He halted his horse, but seemed otherwise unconcerned. Not the response I'd expect from an ordinary country man who'd stumbled onto a party of armed strangers deep in the woods of the Tarras Moss. And this man – middle-aged, roughly dressed, looked in all ways like an ordinary country man.

‘My God, he telt nae lies. Ye hae the look of Hob.' He gave his head a half-shake. Then he grinned, and dismounted, and led his horse forwards, ignoring my weapons. ‘How in the Devil did ye end up down here? He said he had telt ye tae go by the high ground.'

So this , then, was our guide. I took a keen look at his eyes and slowly lowered both my pistols, and my guard.

Sir David answered for me. ‘Logan felt the high ground was no longer safe.'

The man, who so resembled both the blacksmith and the wraith that I assumed he was an Armstrong, looked me over with respect. ‘Your feelings serve ye well. I wasnae the only rider coming ontae the moss tae follow ye. There were twa others, who came up just ahind me.'

I didn't need to ask the question. ‘Graemes?'

‘Aye. They overtook me. Asked me if I'd seen three men, a lassie and a lad, and one man all in scarlet.'

It was not the lack of sunlight in the woods that drove the swift chill down my spine. They're close ahind , the wraith had warned me. And they had been. Very close.

‘Indeed, says I,' the Armstrong carried on, ‘they set off on the road tae Carlisle, yestere'en.'

I frowned. ‘And they believed ye?'

‘Well, they turned right quick and headed back the way they'd come. As anyone could see, ye were nae on the moss. And even Graemes ken well none but Armstrongs could survive here in the woods.' He grinned again and clapped my arm with an approving hand. ‘Ye mind those feelings, lad, and allus listen tae them well.' Then, to make sure the others understood, he said to them, ‘He saved your life.'

I couldn't take the credit, but I couldn't have explained why not. I let the matter pass. And I was more than ready to allow our Armstrong guide to lead us from those woods, with their uncertain light and smell of dead and dying things, where any step might take you onto ground that wasn't ground at all, but dark, unholy mire that dragged you down into a living grave from which you'd not return.

As we came out into the open air once more, I deeply breathed to fill my lungs and bring some order to my thoughts.

I tried to think a step ahead of Patrick Graeme. We'd escaped him this time, but the next time we might not, and I knew well he'd come at us again. I'd Seen it on that day in London, in the stables of my own house, when I'd looked at Phoebe and I'd suddenly been elsewhere, with her sitting on the pillion behind me, and strange men on horseback riding down upon us.

She had asked me in my vision then, Can we outrun them? I'd have given much to know the answer. But as I looked around me now, I reassured myself this landscape was not what I'd Seen – not fields divided by a road, but trackless moors and hills. And while I didn't fully trust Sir David, letting Phoebe ride with him instead of me meant I'd be fairly sure this day was not the same day from my vision.

Not that any plan was foolproof, as life had taught me to my cost, but being cautious did no harm. The Graemes had gone by the road to Carlisle. We'd go east instead, drawing them into a landscape more foreign to them, more familiar to me. I had ridden the great road from London to Newcastle more times than I cared to count. There, I'd have the advantage.

The getting there, that was the problem.

The towns close by us now were too exposed and would not offer safety. There was but one way I thought we might manage it, though it would prove a rougher path for Phoebe and her father.

Urging Brutus forwards, I drew level with our Armstrong guide.

‘Which way is it from here,' I asked him, ‘to the Roman wall?'