Border Fire Read Free

to the northeast. From that point, for a short distance, the Liddel formed the line between Scotland and England. Spurring his pony, he realized that his sole remaining hope lay in the valiant beast’s nimble speed.
    Cresting a hill a short time later, he saw moonlight glinting on black water in the distance and knew it to be the Liddel. Minutes more and, barring accident, he would cross into Scotland.
    They could follow, of course—and legally—by declaring a “hot trod” and informing the first person they met on the other side that they were in pursuit of a dastardly reiver. They could even demand that the warden of the Scottish west and middle marches help capture him. He smiled at the thought, but the smile vanished when he realized that the moonlight glinted not only on water but also on steel. Horsemen moved to line the water’s edge. He was trapped.
    Resigned, he reined his pony to a walk, hoping that his men and their hard-earned booty had not fallen into what now looked like a singularly well-organized trap involving upwards of a hundred men and—from the veritable chorus of baying behind him—an equal number of sleuth hounds. Amused by the thought of Hob the Mouse’s chagrin should he and Curst Eckie Crosier lose their precious iron grates before they had mounted them to their windows, it occurred to him that if his men had eluded capture he might use those gratings to help bargain for his freedom.
    Some twenty yards from the line of armed horsemen, with others closing in behind him, he drew his pony to a halt, murmuring, “Come and get me, lads. Power lies with the one who makes the other move first.”
    He would have to resort next to his second famous gift, that eloquent tongue that supposedly could wheedle a duck from a tarn or an eagle from its aerie. He hoped the gift would live up to the legend. If it failed him, his captors would keep him locked up until the next Truce Day, and then he would have to face his own people with a bill of grievance hanging over him. There was a certain amount of irony in that situation, but he would nonetheless do everything he could to avoid it.
    The horsemen at the water’s edge remained where they were—almost, he thought, as if they feared he might yet escape if even one of them should move.
    He waited patiently and with dignity until the riders he heard approaching from behind him had stopped. Horses whuffled and snorted, and trappings clinked and rattled, but for a long, tense moment no one spoke. He knew their leader waited for him to move, and the knowledge amused him. It was a game, after all, and every man in the Borders knew its rules.
    Remembering at least one incident when a captor had shot a captive in the back with an arrow from close range, he felt a tremor between his shoulder blades. He did not think the men who had captured Rabbie Redcloak would dare do such a thing, however. They would thereby succeed only in making Rabbie a martyr whose ghost would roam the Borders for years to come. No Englishman would want to effect such an outcome.
    The silence stretched taut, and he sensed the men in front of him growing impatient. Their leader must have sensed the same, for he spoke at last.
    “Rabbie Redcloak, I hereby order your arrest for leading forays against the Queen’s subjects; for driving off herds of cattle, horses, and sheep; for slaying innocent people and stealing their goods; and for kidnapping subjects of the queen and holding them illegally whilst demanding ransom for their release.”
    “All that?” He turned without haste, searching the shadowy faces for the one who had spoken, as he added lightly, “Indeed, ’tis a litany of offenses, albeit a false one. Who, if I may mak’ so bold as to ask ye, has the honor to be my captor?”
    “Sir Hugh Graham of Brackengill, deputy warden of the English west march, has that honor, you God-forsaken scoundrel. Seize him, lads! ’Ware arms!”
    The next few moments might have proved ignominious