THE CHAINS OF FATE an utterly compelling and romantic historical saga (The Heron Quartet Book 2), page 5
As we rode out of the town, a ruffianly band of soldiers were gathered in the Market Square, their young officer addressing a motley crowd of Penrith folk: and my interest quickened at once, for we had been hearing vague reports for the last week that Montrose was in Cumberland, raising the militia for an invasion of Scotland. But the officer was not Montrose, of course, though his voice as he read My Lord Newcastle’s Commission of Array held the same Scots intonation. Reluctantly, as though the soldiers were in some way a link with Francis, I tore myself away and we took the road for Carlisle.
We reached the city the following afternoon, and rode in under the huge twin-towered citadel known as the English Gate, passing by the soldiers on guard-duty without question: and enquired of the first respectable passer-by we saw, where a decent bed might be had for the night.
The reply was almost unintelligible. Grainne and I looked at each other, and Jasper said in his penetrating voice, ‘What did that man say, Mamma?’ Fortunately, the worthy citizen had a sense of humour: amidst his chuckles he told us of the best inn in Carlisle, ‘But it’s verra dear, Mistress,’ and of one slightly cheaper and not nearly so palatial. We decided without thought on the more expensive one, for surely by this time tomorrow we would be at Catholm?
So close it was now, and I looked at small, grim, decaying Carlisle with fresh eyes. For certain, Francis knew these narrow, cobbled dirty streets, had ridden and walked them, had (bearing in mind the unwelcome information given to me in the letter I had received in Oxford from my Great-Aunt Elizabeth at Catholm) visited the squalid alehouses and taverns which seemed to proliferate here. There was of course a garrison, Royalist, and I wondered if My Lord of Montrose, who had brought Elizabeth Graham’s letter to me, was within the town, or elsewhere in Cumberland raising his army. And I began to look at every young man with fair hair, with a mixture of hope and fear, in case I should see Francis.
But I did not, and we duly arrived, desperately tired but elated at being so near to our goal, at the recommended hostelry and ordered two chambers, one for us and one for Holly, stabling for our horses, a hearty supper and provisions for the next day’s journey. The landlady herself brought our food up to the low-ceilinged, comfortable little bedchamber, and displayed a friendly interest in us. When she heard of our destination, her round sleepy brown eyes grew larger still. ‘Liddesdale! Are you sure that’s the place you want, Mistress?’
‘It is,’ I said, ‘we’re visiting cousins there.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the landlady. ‘Yon place has a very bad name. Fifty years ago you’d have dared enter it only with an army at your back; infested from end to end with thieves and murderers of the worst sort it was. Of course, they hanged a lot of them after the Union, and it’s peaceable enough now, but there’s still thieves and robbers about, Mistress, and I wouldn’t have thought it wise to go there without a guide at least.’
‘Oh, no!’ I said, despairingly, for this seemed like yet another intolerable and frustrating delay in our apparently never-to-be-ended journey. ‘Are you sure? We were told it was quite safe …’
‘Begging your pardon, Mistress, but that may have been true a half-dozen years ago, not now. Times are bad, the gentry go off to fight for King or Parliament, there’s no one to keep order or check the robbers, and all the soldiers are cooped up in Carlisle waiting for My Lord of Montrose to lead them into Scotland, and God alone knows what trouble that will bring. The Scots Army is over the Tweed, they say, and the harvest was bad last year, and all in all folk have got to live, and more often than not in these parts they do what their fathers and grandfathers did, which is take to thieving. So you see, Mistress, it isn’t safe, it’s twenty miles or more from here, and after this rain we’ve had you won’t be going fast, and there are mosses, floods, burns that can trap you if you don’t know the road. Yes, Mistress, you need a guide.’
‘Well, do you know of anybody?’ Grainne asked, and the landlady said slowly, ‘There’s a gentleman downstairs from those parts, come in on business. I know him, he’ll see you safely to your cousins as long as he’s sober — I wouldn’t trust him with his own mother, drunk. He’s the only one I can think of who might be able to take you there tomorrow.’
It did not sound a very safe idea, to go with this unknown and distinctly unreliable-sounding ‘gentleman’, but my impatience was getting the better of my natural prudence. Despite Grainne’s dubious look, I said instantly, ‘Is he below? Might we talk with him about it?’
‘He’s in my back parlour with my Johnnie, they often play cards together,’ said the landlady. ‘If you would like to come down, I’ll tell him you wish to speak with him.’
So Grainne and I stood at the door of the landlady’s back parlour and waited while she ascertained that our prospective guide was in a fit state to receive us. Then she ushered us into a small, cosy room with a cheerful fire and a large table, covered with a red turkey carpet, at which two young men sat, with cards and a pile of money in front of each. ‘Mistress Heron and Mistress Sewell wish to discuss the matter of a guide with you, sir,’ she said, curtseyed, and went out.
The two young men rose and bowed, removing their hats. One was obviously the landlady’s son Johnnie, sharing her brown eyes and large, clumsy build. The other was not so tall, and though as yet probably only in his mid-twenties, already inclined to stoutness. Despite this, he was a very good-looking man, with long curling hair of a most unusual shade of deep beech-red, a curved jutting nose and rather prominent blue-grey eyes. His high colour rather spoiled the effect: it owed something to an excess of wind and sun on a fair skin, and more I guessed to a surfeit of strong liquor; he appeared to be sober, however. With a gallant smile, he said, his voice strongly Scots, ‘Gilbert Graham at your service, ladies. May I be of assistance to you?’
I stared in astonishment, for a Gilbert Graham was Great-Aunt Elizabeth’s grandson, elder brother of Francis’s boyhood friend Malise. Now the thought had been implanted, I could see the likeness to Elizabeth Graham, in the high-bridged imperious nose and peaked eyebrows, and most of all in the red hair which had once, judging by her portrait still at Goldhayes and made when she was young, been her greatest beauty. I glanced at Grainne, seeing her look of startled enquiry, and then, wondering if I was about to make a fool of myself, said, ‘Yes, I believe you can, Cousin Gilbert.’
He stared at me in bewilderment. ‘Cousin? Mistress, I canna say that I’ve ever seen you before, to my knowledge, though that’s a sair loss indeed … What were your names again, Mistress?’
‘My friend is Mistress Sewell, and I am Thomazine Heron. Your grandmother and my grandfather were sister and brother, and to my mind that is kinship.’
‘Heron!’ said Gilbert Graham, enlightenment cracking across his face. ‘So that’s it … Mistress, I crave your pardon, I hadna suspected … well, well, I think this calls for something of a celebration, eh, Johnnie? Another long-lost cousin!’
‘Another?’ I said hopefully. Gilbert guided us into chairs and sat down himself, while Johnnie went in search of further liquid refreshment. ‘Aye, your cousin Francis came back, oh, a year ago or more. Now, there’s a lad after my own heart, no’ like that sickly feeble brother o’ mine, though when he was wi’ us before I’d nae such hopes o’ him — apart from that affair wi’ that wee lass Kirsty, which was why Mam wanted him sent back tae ye. Aye, she’s glad enough tae see him again, and Johnnie’s sister Meg is sighing after him too, not tae mention half the whores in this Godforsaken town, begging your pardon, Cousin.’
Something had happened to my stomach, constricting it. I had long known of the existence of this Kirsty Armstrong, with whom Francis had dallied briefly, when he was fifteen. He had assured me later that it meant nothing, that it had been nothing more than youthful experimentation, but now Gilbert’s information seemed to give the lie to that. I said carefully and casually, ‘I was hoping I might see Francis, I haven’t spoken with him for so long … is he still at Catholm?’
‘Well, he’s there at the moment, though he’s likely to be awa’ any time,’ said Gilbert. ‘He and my brother Malise were wi’ Montrose down in the Fells, drumming up men for this invasion they’re planning, and they came back tae Catholm for a wee rest. Wi’ any luck they should still be there when we get back tomorrow, Cousin.’
At this moment Johnnie returned with a jug of wine and two extra cups, so that in the bustle of pouring I was able to control my excitement and keep it from my face. Grainne reached across and squeezed my hand briefly, and I gave her a hopeful smile in return. The wine was a strong dark claret, and I greatly appreciated its fortifying strength at that moment. Cousin Gilbert continued talking, a pastime he seemed to enjoy greatly, but it all flowed over me. I was overwhelmed by the one outstanding fact, that Francis would be at Catholm to greet my arrival: and after all the sacrifices, the delays and frustrations and ordeals of our journey, this seemed to be, at last, the justification for all we had endured, the culmination of all my hopes. I could have wept with delight: and only my utter exhaustion kept me from wishing, most desperately, that I could persuade Cousin Gilbert to ride with me now, to Catholm, so that I could see my dear and only love at last, after eighteen months or more of grief and despair and separation.
*
Despite our weariness, I was not prepared, so near now to my goal, to indulge in any unnecessary rest, and so we were up betimes the next morning, ready for the last day of our travels. Cousin Gilbert, however, was evidently not so eager, for we had broken our fast before he appeared, red-eyed and unshaven, to join us in the stable-yard. He had obviously celebrated our meeting lavishly after we had left him the previous night, for his breath still stank of stale wine. However, he was jovial enough, displaying something of the gallant charm to which Francis had once referred, and explaining his business in Carlisle. ‘I bought a nice wee mare from a friend o’ mine here, she’s won a race or two in her time and I’ve a mind tae breed from her. But I need nae excuse tae come up tae Carlisle, it’s a grand place for the lassies, ye ken, the Minister at Castleton’s gey hot on fornication and drunkenness, and my Mam has the deil’s own tongue in her heid. God rot all those self-righteous interfering busybodies that call themselves ministers o’ the Kirk!’ He recognized Drake and Hobgoblin, and extolled the latter’s ability to win races, and was still waxing strong on what was evidently one of his favourite topics of conversation as we left the inn.
Grainne and I exchanged grins behind his back as we clattered through the stone-cobbled streets of Carlisle towards the Scotch Gate. Gib Graham certainly had an entertaining style of speech, unless you were the sort to be shocked by his bluntness: and I was glad we had Holly, purposeful and pessimistic, trotting gloomily at our back, for I would not have put it past Gib, escorting two attractive young ladies alone, to have attempted to force his unwanted gallantry on us. Certainly, he gave the impression of being, as well as easy-going and jovial, negligent, careless and thoroughly unscrupulous. He did not seem, in character at any rate, to bear the slightest resemblance to his formidable grandmother Elizabeth, save possibly in the last-mentioned quality.
For the first few miles, we rode through the flat, open country to the north of Carlisle, a bleak and featureless landscape that made little impression on my excitement. For the past eight months, ever since Great-Aunt Elizabeth had sent word that Francis was at Catholm, I had hoped and planned and dreamed of this day, of how I would ride up to the place like some long-lost lover in an old ballad, and fall into his welcoming arms: and now it had come at last. This was country he knew, his eyes had seen these moors and mosses, his horse’s hooves had trodden the same cold muddy tracks. Suddenly I felt so close to him that it seemed almost as if I had only to turn round to see him riding up behind me, assured and mocking and eager, his long mouth curling in the wry ironic way I knew so well. But all I saw was Gib, fat and garrulous and good-natured, riding with all the grace of a sack of meal. Yet even that unfortunate picture did not seriously upset my fantasy, and I turned back to stare avidly at the approaching North, and the promise of Francis that drove me onwards.
As we neared the Border, the hills of Scotland reared up ahead of us, blue with distance, ominous on this grey, windy April day. We crossed the River Lyne and the road, or rather track, began to climb out of the low-lying scrub and moss and occasional bleak village or farmstead. Showers of rain swept over us from the west, out of a rushing magnificent sky, ragged and torn with shades of grey. The hills in the distance were blotted out periodically with rain or low cloud, and occasionally a great shaft of sunlight, like a huge moving finger, would sweep across the landscape, touching trees and hills with sudden vivid glory. Once a rainbow, graceful and soaring, balanced its ethereal colours in a broad arch in front of us, lending a faerie, multicoloured light to everything it touched: and seeing it reminded me acutely of the April day three years ago, very like this one, when Francis and I had first declared our love for each other. It seemed a good omen: my heart lifted still higher, despite the squalls and the discomfort of my cold wet cloak, and I peered eagerly between Goblin’s ears as we reached the edge of a low hill and saw Liddesdale laid out below us.
Here, at its south-westerly extremity, not many miles from the sea at Solway, the River Liddel was wide and curved gracefully between the low hills on either side, well-wooded and seamed and troughed by little burns, or sikes, of clear frothing water. There were many signs of habitation, both the poverty-stricken hovels of grass and mud, with the smoke finding its way out through the roof, that Francis had once mentioned, and the more substantial stone-built towers or houses of the lairds. Several of the latter which we passed were in ruins, some no more now than a heap of rubble from which, evidently, a large proportion of the community obtained building stone for walls or byres. Sheep abounded, fine beasts with plentiful wool, but the cattle grazing near the homesteads were small, dark and distinctly undernourished. Up here, too, it had obviously been a long hard winter.
As we rode upstream, along the side of the valley above the river to avoid the often marshy and flooded ground below, the high fells began to close in. On the other side, two or three miles away, a great range of hills emerged menacingly through the low cloud which shrouded their heights. They were, perhaps, less spectacular than the mountains through which we had passed in Cumberland, but somehow infinitely more bleak and terrible. The new grass had not yet begun to grow, nor had the bracken, and they presented their winter aspect — hunched, sullen shoulders ochre-yellow with dead grass, patched and dappled here and there by the rich russet of last year’s bracken, and dotted with the faint greyish blobs of sheep. Their lamenting cries could be heard on the hills above us, wind-borne, eerie and full of loneliness. I am not a particularly fanciful person, but something about the place, the sinister bleakness under the thin veneer of green moss and the trees on the riverbank, made me shiver. It was easy to remember that only forty years ago, it had been the most evil, lawless dale in all the Borders.
After we crossed the Kershope Burn, and so entered Scotland, the hills drew inexorably closer, as did nightfall. Our progress was slow, guiding our horses along a narrow, stony, treacherous path, frequently pausing to dismount so that the horses could more safely negotiate the burns and gullies that crossed our path. Gib pointed out the places of note as we passed them: Whithaugh, the tower of one of the most notorious branches of the Armstrongs; Capshaws, a green park by the river almost in the English manner; the crouched bulky hills with their strange harsh uncouth names, Blinkbonny and Beddo, Blackgate Rig and Cooms Fell. A mile or so after Whithaugh, the river divided. From the right, below the homestead of Powis, flowed the Liddel, and running into it was Hermitage Water. We altered our course to follow the latter stream and now, Gib informed us, we were entering the Elliot part of the valley, for the Armstrongs had tended to dominate the western and lower half of Liddesdale, the Elliots the upper. The tower on our left, on a bluff or ‘heugh’ above the stream, was Redheugh, home with Larriston in upper Liddesdale of the chief of the Elliots, Robin of that name, who by virtue of having friends in high places had escaped the retribution meted out to some of his less fortunate kin at the scouring of the Borders forty years previously. Opposite was another Elliot stronghold, ‘The Park’. We saw few people: occasionally a string of pack animals would straggle past, or a man ploughing his ‘infield’ would shout a greeting, but the rain which had now begun to fall more heavily obviously kept most within doors.
‘How much further is it?’ Jasper asked his mother, and Gib, overhearing, said, ‘No’ more than three miles left, laddie, no’ long at a’.’
I was glad, being by now soaked, and stiff, and weary, and also very hungry, for the provisions we had eaten at dinner-time, on horseback, had been fairly inadequate. We followed Hermitage Water as it rushed down its valley, broad and fairly shallow, with flat marshy meadows and rank mosses, spiky with gorse, out of which rose gently the tawny hills, with the bracken scars on them like blotches of dried blood. Snaberlee Rig, Thiefsike Head, Arnton Fell, and behind the steep conical shape of the latter, the shallower rise of Ninestane Rig. ‘And just below yon hill,’ said Gib, pointing, ‘is Catholm, between the Whitrope Burn and Roughley Burn. See yon trees, there, ahead?’
As we drew steadily nearer, the hooves splashing and squelching through the mud and puddles, I could discern something, a grim grey finger of rock, stabbing between the trees. ‘There it is,’ said Gib, and into his careless voice came a new note, strangely compounded of pride and dislike. ‘Yon’s Catholm.’
It stood by the side of a tiny burn, Catholm Sike, that trickled down Ninestane Rig to join Hermitage Water. The ground here rose gently from the valley floor, and the various streams were lined with alders and ash and crab-apples, gnarled and bent from their winter confrontation with the wind. On a tiny outcrop of rock some past Graham had built his tower, and flung round it a low stone wall, seven or so feet in height and some sixty feet in diameter, behind which he could shelter his stock in time of raid and war. In these slightly more peaceful days, the wall now supported barns and stables, as had the wall round Ashcott. But there the comparison with the other family houses which I knew, ended. Goldhayes was a gracious, civilized mansion, its moat for enhancement of its warm beauty, doubled by reflection, and not intended for defence. Ashcott, golden and sleepy, had flirted with warlike intentions, the battlements and towers and the pretty, impractical gatehouse no serious deterrents, rather like the coy protestations of some lovely lady to her not unwelcome seducer. But to the builder of Catholm, the impregnability of his tower, sixty feet of nearly solid stone, broken only by a few tiny windows and an iron-grilled door, had quite literally been a matter of life and death. Death, and threat, and grim purpose hung all about it like a shroud: and I could well imagine a tower like this being a suitable setting for shouts of the Heron motto: ‘No surrender!’
