Chapter 1
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 them. 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!”
No time. Hide the dirk! Would the bolt hold? Footsteps on the landing!
“He’s here, Beany. You’re for grief now, and it serves you right.”
The latch rattled. A deep, familiar voice growled, “Open this door!”
“I will not! ’Tis the middle of the night. Go away! You’ve no business here.”
The door crashed open. The big, dark-haired man filled the doorway. Even in the dim light of a moonbeam through the small window, anger blazed from his eyes.
Without hesitation, Sir David strode to the breeks-clad figure in the middle of the room and snatched off the knitted cap.
A cloud of tawny hair cascaded to her waist.