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  To Kevin

  for always making life interesting

  Don’t do this one again!

  How foolish are mankind to look for perfection

  In any poor changeling under the sun!

  By nature or habit, or want of reflection,

  To vices and folly we heedlessly run.

  —James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd

  Author’s Note

  For readers’ convenience, the author offers the following brief guide:

  Adam’s ale—water

  Auld Reekie—the devil

  Borderers—people who live in the Borders on the Scottish or English side

  Buccleuch—Buck LOO

  Castle steward—manages domestic concerns; collects rents, keeps accounts

  Castle warden or constable—acts in place of its owner in owner’s absence

  Clish-maclaver—gossip

  Fitchet—the slit in a lady’s gown that allows her to reach her pocket, purse, etc.

  Haugh—HAW (k) = low-lying meadow beside a river

  Hawick—HOYK (almost two syllables)

  Himself—refers to the laird or lord of the manor

  Keekers—eyes

  Kist—chest, box, chest of drawers (can also be a coffin, but not in this book)

  None—the clerical midday hour, about 1:30 to 2:00 p.m. in springtime

  Pliskie—mischievous, full of tricks, wily

  Sike—a narrow rivulet that may flow only in springtime and early summer

  The Douglas—refers only to the “current” Earl of Douglas

  Wheesht—As in “Hold (or Haud) your wheesht”—Be quiet.

  Prologue

  Coklaw Castle, the Scottish Borders, July 1403

  The night was black. Not a star shone, and the damp, clinging mist was as cold as mid-November. The castle’s tall, square keep rose above its outer wall, although the two appeared as one solid density against the night sky.

  Armed with a shovel and dirk, the thickset man known as Shetland Jamie felt his way to the crest of a low rise thirty yards southeast of the wall. He thanked God for the darkness and blessed the mist that hid him. He heard no sound from the wall walk above.

  The siege laid by Henry Percy, the powerful English Earl of Northumberland, had been in effect for fifteen days, but his army had not attacked for a sennight, so the Scots inside the castle no longer feared an assault. Doubtless, the earl meant to starve them out.

  Jamie had worried about his shovel making noise, but yesterday’s misery-making rain had softened the ground, so the downpour had been good for something beyond easing the army’s stink. Moreover, the heavy mist had muffled the night bird’s call he’d heard a short while ago, so it would doubtless muffle any sounds he made.

  Jamie had studied the rise from the day he’d first recognized the stunning opportunity that had presented itself to him. Now, following an image in his head of what he had seen earlier, he soon found the pile of rocks he’d left to mark his spot.

  Cautiously resting his shovel on a shrub, he gently set down the crockery jar that held the most precious part of his burden, out of the way but where he could find it again.

  Dawn remained distant, and the English tents and siege fires lay to the south, beyond the crest of a nearby hill. Northumberland’s tent was the finest, of course. The Percys were wealthier than God, and Shetland Jamie’s family was poorer than dust.

  But God knew all and willed all, did He not?

  Jamie believed that God had provided this chance and had willed the idea into his head. A wise man recognized opportunity when it came his way, and he knew that he’d have had to be blind not to see this one. The others had left him alone, guarding that fine tent for just a few minutes, but that had been enough.

  It would mean hanging if they caught him, but if they didn’t, he’d be far better off than he was now. God had paved the way for him tonight, too, with the darkness and mist.

  As he pictured numerous possibilities that the future might hold for him, he quietly shifted the pile of rocks out of his way. He would bury his treasure for the nonce and take good care that no one suspected what he’d done.

  Northumberland’s son, the formidable Hotspur, was here at Coklaw, too. He had said that the siege might last for a month but that, when they went, they would go quickly.

  Hotspur always moved quickly.

  Nevertheless, the siege was the oddest Jamie had seen. They had lobbed some of the earl’s new cannonballs at the curtain wall, and one had even struck the keep wall inside. But they’d done almost no damage. The siege, he thought, would be a long one.

  Nevertheless, the earl was Coklaw’s rightful owner, because the previous year, after Northumberland’s victory at Homildon Hill, England’s king, Henry IV, had awarded him all lands belonging to the Scottish Earl of Douglas. But even the Percys were not powerful enough to wrest those lands from the iron Douglas grasp. Everyone on both sides of the line knew that the Douglases could raise ten thousand men in a blink.

  As a result, Northumberland was irked with King Henry, and Hotspur was tired of fighting wars for a king who didn’t pay his debts. The plain truth was that the Percys had come to sympathize strongly with the Welsh, who also resented Henry’s treatment.

  Jamie cleared a space between plants for his hole and began digging. The ground was workable, but he did have to feel for rocks with his shovel or dirk to avoid clanging the shovel’s metal blade against one.

  After a time, he knelt to test the result of his labor. The hole was deep enough, but its sides were still rough, so he used the dirk’s blade to scrape the sides out more. He had wired the jar’s lid on, to keep it in place.

  Satisfied at last, he laid the jar in the hole, used his hands to push the dirt back in, and stood to tamp it down. Knowing that rain and settling would form a dip, he made a hill of pebbles, twigs, leaves, and rocks on top. He would look again in the morning to be sure that nothing remained to suggest that anyone had dug there.

  Standing with shovel in hand, he listened, but even the night birds were silent. He felt as if he were the only one in the world who was still awake.

  Retracing the path he had taken earlier, he followed the curving hillside toward the English encampment. Soon, he saw the glow of low fires ahead—more fires, he noted, than when he’d left. The mist was thinner, too, and he could see more men moving about than should have been up so late. Had they missed him and raised an alarm?

  As the thought crossed his mind, two burly shapes emerged from the nearby mist.

  “Jamie, be that ye?” a familiar voice muttered, as the shapes became two men muffled to the eyes.

  “Aye, Rolf,” Jamie muttered back. “Be summat amiss?”

  “Sakes, man, we been looking all over for ye. Where ye been?”

  “Damned if I know,” Jamie said, glad he’d planned for such questions. “I went seeking the latrine, and I been seeking me bed ever since.”

  “Well, stir your stumps, man. The Scottish Duke o’ Albany’s on his way wi’ an army to end our siege, so we’re making straightaway for Wales.”

  “Wales!” He glanced over his shoulder, back the way he had come. “But—
”

  “We’re to aid the Welsh rebellion. So hie yourself, or they’ll leave ye behind.”

  “We’re leaving now?” Jamie fought to keep the panic from his voice.

  “Aye, Hotspur means to make Carlisle afore dawn.”

  An icy chill settled over Shetland Jamie. He hadn’t even had a chance to count his treasure. Now he might never see it again.

  Chapter 1

  Teviotdale, the Scottish Borders, Easter Sunday 1428

  Although the waning, nearly full moon had slipped behind a cloud that gave it a silvery halo but dimmed the rugged landscape below, the five riders on the ancient drove road saw their way easily. Their sure-footed horses were accustomed to moonlight rides.

  Somewhat hampered by their booty—a pair of softly lowing cows and four nervous sheep—the small party traveled slowly downhill, northward, through a cut that men called “Leg o’ Mutton,” due to its shape. White Hill lay behind them, and the shadowy Witch Crags peaked in the northeast distance.

  The sixth and seventh members of their party acted as sentinels, the sixth riding the western hill crests that separated the cut from Slitrig Water, flowing swiftly northward toward the town of Hawick. The seventh man rode near the timberline of the eastern hills, skirting their rocky heights.

  The slope below those heights, to the party’s right, boasted patches of dense shrubbery and scattered trees near its base, denser woodland above, with grass and rugged crags from the tree line to the top. A gurgling stream ran alongside them to their left.

  The western slope of the cut was neither as high nor as steep as the eastern one, although the Slitrig side of that west ridge was steeper. Foliage on the cut’s east slope was thicker than the trees and shrubbery to the west.

  Familiar with every cranny and dip in those hills, the riders knew they would be home within the half-hour. Other than an occasional nightjar’s call and the soft chuckling of the stream, the night was still.

  The large man riding his sturdy roan next to the leader’s big, powerful black heaved a sigh. “Nowt to boast of in this lot o’ beasts,” he muttered in near disgust.

  “We did not lift them to boast of it, Sandy,” the leader muttered back. “We took them to feed our people and because the Turnbulls likely stole our kine first.”

  “ ’Tis true, that. But chance beckoned us to take more. Had Rab been—”

  “With luck, they won’t miss a half-dozen beasts,” the leader interjected curtly. “The last thing we want is a feud with the Turn—”

  A shout drew their attention to the west slope. Light from the moon, emerging from its cloud, revealed a rider pounding downhill toward them.

  “That be Shag’s Hobby!” Sandy exclaimed unnecessarily.

  Turning in the saddle toward the riders behind them, the leader said clearly but without shouting, “Jeb, you and Ratch hie those beasts into the woods. Keep them still and yourselves out of sight. Dand, get Hobby’s attention and wave for him to follow us. We’ll be riding apace, but be ready to slow before the next turning. Shag will see us from the east ridge and will follow when he can.”

  Sandy protested. “Sakes, me l—”

  “Silence!” the leader snapped. “I told you, Sandy, call me nowt tonight save Bean. And if you’re thinking we should ride home like madmen, you’re daft. You ken fine that Hobby’s haste means riders are coming. We must make anyone who sees us now believe that we’re nowt save innocent travelers.”

  Sandy shook his shaggy head but urged his mount to a faster pace. Then he said, “I doubt ye’ll be tellin’ that tale if them riders catch us.”

  “Haud your wheesht! We’re nobbut a mile from Coklaw. If Jeb and Ratch keep our beasts hidden and quiet, we’ll be just four innocent riders.”

  “If them wha’ come didna already see us wi’ the beasts—”

  A shout came from Hobby, now more than halfway down the west slope: “A dozen riders coming up yon road through the pass! Likely they’re after us!”

  Waving for him to follow, the three remaining riders gave spur to their horses.

  Twenty-four-year-old Sir David Ormiston of Ormiston, riding from Hermitage Castle in Liddesdale to Hawick for the night, crested the drove road pass above Leg o’ Mutton and, in the increasing moonlight, saw three riders racing toward the cut’s narrow end. A fourth man, nearing the base of the slope below, shouting as he rode, gave Sir David to understand that the three had set watchers to guard their passage.

  The shouted warning amused him. The group was small, and although he scanned the east slope for more watchers, he saw none and had no interest in the horsemen, raiders or not. He acted for the fifth Earl of Douglas and had business with him in Hawick.

  Jock Cranston, the captain of his fighting tail, drew rein beside him. “D’ye think they be reivers, sir?”

  “If they are, they are unsuccessful ones. Do you see any beasts?”

  “Nay, but they may be just heading out. Or mayhap they’re English.”

  “A mere four men or five if they have a second lookout yonder?” David shook his head. “The three were in a pelting hurry when I topped the hill, but they’ve slowed and—”

  He broke off, stunned. The moon, abruptly freed of the cloud that had dimmed it, beamed brightly down on the leader’s horse, turning its black hide glossy and revealing a big diamond-shaped white star between its eyes when it tossed its head.

  “I know that horse!” Sir David exclaimed. “But who would dare—?”

  Louder shouts from below interrupted him.

  “They’re fleeing,” Jock muttered. “ ’Tis gey strange, if ye ask me.”

  “I’m going after them,” Sir David said. “You and Coll bring the others more slowly, Jock. I don’t want us to look like raiders. If I’m right, that lot is heading for Coklaw, so I mean to learn who the bangster is that dares to ride Black Corby.”

  “Aye, that could be Rab Gledstanes’ Corby,” Jock agreed. “And we ken fine that Rab isna riding ’im. Whoever the lad be, he rides like he kens the beast well.”

  “Corby is even better trained than my Auld Nick is,” Sir David said curtly. “But if that chap runs him into a rabbit hole, or worse, he’ll answer to me, by God.”

  “Ye could be mistaken, sir.”

  “Bring the lads, Jock. I’m away.”

  “Wi’ the deevil in ye, too,” Jock muttered loudly enough for him to hear.

  His only reaction was to smile grimly and spur his horse after the riders below.

  The road he followed was safe enough, and Auld Nick was agile. But Sir David also knew that the speed he was demanding from him was such that his crusty father, and likely others, would deem it reckless.

  Nevertheless, he wanted to catch up with the riders before they could vanish. A thought tickled his mind about who might be leading them, but he dismissed it half-formed as daft and fixed his attention on the path ahead.

  Glancing back as he forded the stream that tumbled down the center of the cut, he saw his men following more slowly. The riders ahead had disappeared around a curve before he’d ridden halfway down the slope.

  Auld Nick was willing, though, and the moderate pace that his master had set earlier from Liddesdale had not taxed him. The stallion was eager to make speed.

  Although the moon was bright whenever the scudding clouds allowed it, the light it cast was too dim to read tracks from the saddle of a galloping horse. Sir David did not try. Instinct and the unique black stallion made him confident that his quarry would race to Coklaw Castle, midway between the end of the cut and the river Teviot.

  A quarter-hour later, the castle’s huge square stone tower loomed ahead, pale gray in the moonlight. He saw no sign of the riders or their horses, but he knew Coklaw. Its stables and yard lay inside the wall, and the gate was swinging shut.

  “Hold the gate, Clem!” he shouted, recognizing the lad shutting it.

  Clem waved, and Sir David slowed Auld Nick. “My men are right behind me,” he said to the lad. “Stay here to admit the
m. Someone else can look after Nick.”

  Riding more sedately into the stableyard, he saw another lad in breeks, boots, leather jack, and a knitted cap trotting across the yard from the stables.

  Sir David shouted, “Here, lad, come see to my horse!”

  The boy failed to heed him, but another one, no more than eleven or twelve years old, darted from the stable, shouting, “Aye, sir. I’ll see to him for ye.”

  He did not recognize the youngster. “Do you know who I am?”

  The boy’s eyes flared like a nervous foal’s. “Aye, sir. Ye be Dev—that is, Sir David Ormiston.”

  “Auld Nick will be hungry. You’re not afraid of him, I hope.”

  “Nay, sir. I’m no afeard o’ any beast. I’ll gi’e him oats and hay.”

  “Good then. I’m going inside.”

  The boy’s eyes widened more. He glanced warily toward the stable and back at Sir David. “I could send some’un tae tell Old Greenlaw ye’re here.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. If your steward’s not snug in his bed, he ought to be.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “Never mind, I know the way,” Sir David said, striding toward the tower’s postern door, the one the other lad had used.

  Shutting the postern door, the person who had dashed across the yard ran up the stairs, muttering, “Lord, preserve me. There’s no time! That was Dev, and he saw me. He thought I was one of the lads, but he must not find me still up.”

  There was no time to lift the heavy bar into its brackets, let alone to bolt the iron yett across it all to make that entryway impregnable. It did not matter, though. Dev would use the main entrance.

  “Just hurry, Beany, get upstairs.” Puffing, then startling at the sound of a crash downstairs—the door, the damned door, crashing back against the wall—

  “He’s inside, not out front!”

  Heavy, hasty footsteps pounded up the steps below.

  “The landing’s yonder. There’s the door, push it open. Close it… doucely, doucely! Throw the bolt and get rid of your dirk. Hurry!”