Raider’s Tide

MAGGIE PRINCE

Dedication

For Chris, Deborah, Daniel,and for my mother whoselandscape this is, withlove and thanks.

The northern counties from time to time had to withstand invasion by the organised forces of Scotland, but their chief embarrassment was caused by a system of predatory incursions which rendered life and property insecure.

Victoria County History of Cumberland

They have taken forth of divers families all, the very rackencrocks and pot-hooks. They have driven away all the beasts, sheep and horses…

The Silver Dale, by William Riley

On 14 April… the Scots did come… armed and appointed with gavlockes and crowes of iron, handpeckes, axes and skailinge lathers.

Border Papers, Scottish Records ii 171

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Map

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Keep Reading

Acknowledgement

Copyright

About the Publisher

Map

In transposing Beatrice’s story into modern English,the tone and content of her original narrativehave been preserved throughout,and her exact words wherever possible.

It is the late 1500s. Queen Elizabeth I is on the throne of England …

Chapter 1

I jump up, jolted out of my daydream. I thought I heard voices, muttering secretively. I peer into the dimness of the woods and listen. It’s easy to start imagining things when you’re alone on the last watch of the day. On the other hand, my hearing is sharp – sharper than average – and I often hear what I am not supposed to.

I rest my hand on the haft of my knife, and creep through the swathes of pale cream daffodils to where the rough ground of the Pike slopes down towards the sea. My knife has worn through the bottom of its sheath, and keeps catching on my skirts. I shift it round to the back of me, and move out into the open where the warning beacon stands, a pile of sticks and turf in a stone trough. I can see nothing out of the ordinary, just the sun going down in the west, shining red through the beacon’s propped twigs.

We keep watch because of a very real danger. It is three years since we were last attacked by Scottish raiders, who creep round the bay in their boats or race out of the hills from the border country. Now it is spring again, the invasion season, and a watch must be kept until the first winter frosts.

The sound isn’t repeated. I suppose I’m just jumpy, for I have worse problems than Scots to think of at the moment. Light glints on fast-moving water far below me, and I sit on the edge of the beacon to watch the bore tide coming up the bay. The wind wraps my skirts round my legs and brings fine sand billowing up the slope. I push my hair back under my lace cap, and glance south along the coast to where my cousins’ pele tower stands above the sea on its limestone cliffs. The tower itself cannot be seen from here, but warning smoke from their beacon can, when necessary. Yes, there are worse things than Scots. I was sixteen last birthday, and people have begun murmuring about marriage.

This past six years, since I was no longer a child, I have known that I must marry my Cousin Hugh, as my sister must marry his brother, Gerald, to ensure preservation within the family of our two farmsteads. It had always, until now, seemed a safely distant prospect.

I stand up and make a last patrol round the slopes, kicking my way through the bracken, straining my ears for anything that is not part of the normal life of the Pike. There’s nothing, just rustlings in the undergrowth as small night creatures wake up, and the distant screaming of seagulls above the tide line. I collect my cloak from a bramble bush and set off downhill through the forest, leaving the sea behind.

It is darker here, but I see it almost at once, a rust-coloured rag hanging from the lower branches of a wych elm. I struggle through the brambles to reach it, sick already. It is warm and motionless, surprisingly solid under its soft fur, a snared squirrel, choked by the wire noose it ran through.

Perhaps this tiny tragedy was what I heard earlier. I loosen the wire and lift it down, sad little hunchback. Its red tail drifts like thistledown against my wrist. Barrowbeck villagers hunt the squirrels for their tails, which make pretty if distressing gown edgings. For a moment I do not feel in any way like a grown woman, old enough to marry. Instead I feel childlike and inadequate, not up to dealing with a world which can do this. I settle the squirrel amongst the roots of the tree and am about to cover it with last year’s dead leaves, when it twitches and blinks, then runs up the tree and is gone. It must just have had the breath knocked out of it by the noose. I laugh, relieved, feeling my heart pounding in my throat at the shock, then pick my way back to the steep path. Above me, the squirrel flickers away through the treetops. Below me, my own family’s pele tower stands in the valley on its raised shoulder of land, a foursquare limestone fortress. I make my way down the hill, more unnerved than ever now, avoiding tree roots and white rocks that poke like bones through the soil. Behind me, in the darkening woods, one late blackbird sings wildly.

In the valley I pass the stonewalled midden where Leo, our cowman, is shovelling manure. He calls out, “Evening, Mistress Beatrice!” and grins. I wave back. “’Tis a good evening for Scots,” he calls after me. I sigh, and lift the heavy iron latch of the gatehouse door. Somehow, I’m not in the mood for Leo’s wit tonight.

In the gatehouse I step over the horse rug. I never stand on it. It used to be Peter, my favourite pony. The heat from the candle on the wall-pricket sears my cheek. I leave the door open for a moment to allow fresh air in. This nail-studded door, half the thickness of an oak tree, is the only outer door to our home, and therefore the only entrance to defend when we are attacked, but the result on the lower floors, where there are no windows either, is that the air is often stale and heavy. The only other way out is underground, a passage below the kitchen which leads downhill to the barmkin, the high-walled enclosure where our animals are sometimes kept.

I open the inner door. Greasy smoke hangs in the gloom. I can hear the clank of iron pans beyond the low arch which leads to Kate’s kitchen. There will be bread warming on the hearth, and stew steaming in a pot suspended from the rackencrock over the fire. I’m hungry, and Kate will be angry with me for being late, but I need to breathe. This is too suffocating after the wind on the Pike. I set off up the spiral stone staircase, and meet my younger sister, Verity, coming down.

“Beatie, where were you? I’m trying to sort out next week’s watch rota. Germaine wants to exchange with you on Monday.” She sits down on a step.

Verity at fifteen is taller than me, her hair a darker brown and her eyes a darker blue. The word which older members of the family use to describe her is ‘wilful’. Verity really couldn’t care less what they say. She is one of the people I am closest to in the world. I sit down on the step below her.

“Sorry. I was on the Pike. Dickon has the ague and there was no lookout, so I took over his watch. Where’s Mother?”

“She’s out. She went off in a temper to visit Aunt Juniper.”

We exchange a look. “And Father?” There are only two places where Father might be: lying in wait next to the highway, or drinking himself into a stupor upstairs.

Verity pulls a face and gestures up the stairs. I groan. Faintly I can hear Germaine playing one of the nauseatingly sentimental tunes my father adores, on her three-stringed fiddle. “I wish I’d stayed on the Pike,” I mutter, feeling a twinge of longing for the peace there. Nature might be brutal and complicated, but at least it doesn’t play the fiddle.

We talk a little longer about how to organise the watch, then I continue on up four floors, round and round the circling steps, to the battlements. It’s turning cold. I pull my hooded cloak more closely round me. In the centre of the battlements is the crenellated beacon turret, with its tall wooden pole topped by an iron crossbar and two tar barrels, ready to be ignited should any neighbouring beacon flare up in warning. We keep a ring of fire here on the coast. There are beacons on the Pike, on Beacon Hill behind us, at my cousins’ pele tower along the cliffs and on Gewhorn Head, the promontory across the bay.

Up here on the battlements the air smells of damp earth and new leaves. William, one of my father’s henchmen, is on guard tonight. He is dozing on his feet, but when he hears me he jumps, and starts marching dizzyingly round the battlements, his gaze turning from west to north to east.

“Good evening, William.”

“Good evening, Mistress Beatrice.”

I lean with my elbows on the stone parapet, and after a moment William joins me. Stars are coming out in the east, like maker’s flaws in expensive blue pottery. In the west the last glow, as if from a kiln, shows uneasily. Bats dip and swing below us. Far down in the meadow Leo heads home, and a homesteader calls to her dog.

I love all this, but I do not love my Cousin Hugh, except as a cousin. If the queen refuses to marry, why cannot I? I am perfectly capable of running this farm unaided. Verity and I mostly do already. Why, for heaven’s sake, would I need a husband?

“Lord Allysson’s carriage is coming through tonight,” William says in an offhand manner.

I turn to look at him. “Have you told my father?”

His gaze slides away. “I had to, mistress. I didn’t want another beating like the last one. Mebbe a sprig of valerian in his wine? I reckon he’s got wise to Mistress Verity’s trick with the stone in his horse’s shoe.”

I sigh. “I could try it. Thanks William.” It isn’t easy having a father who’s a part-time highway robber.

Back downstairs in the kitchen Kate, our cook, is standing inside the hearth, stirring something, her hair wrapped in a white cloth and her overskirts tucked into her belt. She lifts her red face from the blaze.

“About time, young woman. This broth is well nigh incinerated. Get your plate.” A cauldron of steaming mutton stew is standing on a trivet at the side of the fire. Kate ladles some on to my plate, and takes half a loaf of black bread from the warming oven in the wall. I sit down at the long table, mutter a quick grace and eat in silence. Verity has vanished now, but elsewhere in the tower Germaine’s music creaks on.

Kate throws more logs on the fire and turns the wheel of the bellows, sending the flames roaring high. I realise now that she is boiling bones for glue. The disgusting smell starts to fill the kitchen. Kate sings while she works, something about a cold-hearted maiden who condemns a young man to die by not loving him enough. I find that my sympathies lie entirely with the maiden. Kate crosses to the chopping block on its tree-trunk legs, lines up the next batch of mutton bones left over from the stew and swings her cleaver high. The firelight throws her giant shadow across the smoky walls. Our kitchen is the only room which is two storeys high, to dissipate heat and allow some light in, since there are no windows on the ground floor. High up, the narrow window slits show the night sky. Owls and bats live up there. There are flutterings as Kate’s shadow flies through the darkness and crashes down. I shiver. There is a strange feeling in the air tonight.

Later, in my room three floors up, I peer out of the window. We had glass put into some of our windows last year – not into the arrow slits of course – and so it is more difficult to see out now, through these tiny, greenish panes. I thought I heard a horse outside, and my father’s nervous cough. I do wonder quite how all this expensive glass came to be paid for.

A heated stone lies in my bed, under my sheepskin bedcover. My cat, Caesar, grudgingly relinquishes his place on it as I climb between the sheets. I leave my faded blue bed-curtains open. I don’t want to be cut off from the world tonight. When I kick the warmingstone out, scents of lavender and thyme billow up from the rushes on the floor. Caesar sidles on to the stone, jumps back, creeps up on it again. Finally he decides to burn, and his purring is like the sea on the pebbles over the hill as we both settle down for the night.

I dream of Scots. They are in the lower section of the spiral staircase where it opens into the gatehouse and the kitchen archway. I run up the stairs away from them, but it is worse there, because the stairs are enclosed and narrow between curving walls, and I cannot see how close they are behind me.

I wake with a jump, hot and trembling. In the darkness the dream is still too real. I stare in the direction of my door. I am afraid to reach out for my tinderbox and candle, but eventually I do. The shadows swoop and dance as I light the candle. I need company to drive the nightmare away, so I wrap a shawl round my shoulders and go up on to the battlements, throwing glances behind me down the stairs. Martinus is on watch. He smiles and greets me, and talks comfortably of ordinary things, food, horses, the pattern of the stars, and we stand for a long time leaning against the beacon turret, under the stare of the wall-eyed moon.

Chapter 2

In the morning I find that my mother has still not returned, so I decide to walk over the hill to Aunt Juniper’s to meet her, and perhaps have another half-hearted go at seeing Hugh in a husbandly light. Before this, however, there are the morning’s tasks. We are not rich. We do not have many servants, so Verity and I do much of the work involved in running the household and farm. This morning I set some of the men to pounding seaweed into our outer door, to make it fireproof for the summer. We are late doing it this year. Then I walk down the hill to open the barmkin and release the flock of sheep belonging to our neighbour, James Sorrell. The sunshine drives away the last of my nightmares. I have vague recollections of dreaming about Hugh dressed in a suit of armour, which in view of my misgivings was probably wishful thinking.

This is a good time to be alive. Queen Elizabeth is on the throne and stability reigns throughout the land. We hear of distant battles fought and won by our English army and navy on land and sea, the news sometimes brought to us a year or more after they happened by fancy-talking travellers from the south. Our only real problem is the Scots, who raid the border counties of Westmorland, Cumberland and Northumberland from March to September every year, though I daresay they feel that we are their problem too, since our men also cross the border from time to time.

There’s a lot to do now that spring is here. Our lower rooms and cellars, which have been used as food stores through the winter, must now be cleared, so that cattle, goats and horses can be herded in there fast in the event of a raid. There are times when I wish that one or both of my parents took more interest in the daily running of Barrowbeck Tower.

My father appears to be limping this morning, and I wonder if last night’s robbery on the highway did not go according to plan. “Hurt your leg, Father?” Verity asks unsympathetically as she sorts stones to repair the barmkin wall. Father is tottering down the slope towards the dairy in search of fresh milk for his morning dish of bread and milk. Despite their mutual insults it is always obvious how fond Verity and Father are of each other. I think they recognise themselves in each other. I am more like Mother, full of dreams and secrets.

“You can give back yon good pair of shoes if you don’t like what bought ’em, Daughter,” he shouts at her. Verity takes off her shoes and throws them at his retreating back, but he ignores them. I hold the barmkin gate open for him, and he shambles in, pushing his way among the sheep who are shambling out.

James’s sheep have been kept overnight in our barmkin instead of on their normal grazing on the saltmarsh foreshore, because it was full moon last night, and they would have been caught by the high tide, as has happened to many a human soul. I watch the sheep go strolling off down the hill on each other’s heels like, well, sheep, and I head back up to the tower. We all have to come and go to and from the barmkin the long way round. From outside it appears a separate thing from the tower. It is a high-walled, semi-circular enclosure lower down the hill, attached at each end to the sheer rockface from which our impregnable outer wall rises. The Scots have breached the barmkin many times, but they have never found the secret stone archway hidden under the floor of the dairy, which itself is built straight into the rock wall, like a cave. Deep in the hill an underground passage leads to our storage cellars and the curving slope up to the kitchen. Even if they did ever find it, they would then be confronted by an iron-bound oak door and a spiked wolf-pit. We scarcely ever come and go this way, for fear of leaving marks of passage, though the temptation is often great on a rainy day.

By midday Mother still has not returned, so I set off to walk up through Barrow Wood and over Beacon Hill to meet her. I want to talk to her alone. Nothing is inevitable. No official betrothal has taken place between Hugh and me. Not even the preliminary de futuro contract has been signed. I need to catch her in a good mood and make my case. She and my father are a glowing example of why matrimony should be avoided. She has often told the story of how, as a bride of sixteen, she travelled the Old Corpse Road on the back of a donkey to marry my father. “It would have been better had I married the donkey,” she once said in an unguarded moment.

Saint Hilda, my horse, is cropping thistles at the edge of the trees as I enter Barrow Wood. I stroke her nose and decide to leave her behind today. Walking will allow me more time for thought. I have a good nuncheon of cheese and bread in my sheepskin bag. I do not intend to hurry back.

I follow the direct but strenuous route over the top of the hill, where flat, fissured limestone slabs alternate with patches of bracken. Herb Robert grows in crevices, and lady’s-slipper orchids tremble in the shade. I take off my boots. The stones are warm and smooth through my black linen stockings. I sit down on a rock to eat, looking out over the bay.

This is not my best batch of bread ever. It emerged from the oven dark and bitter-tasting. I fear there was a mould in last year’s wheat, caused by the damp spring. Sometimes these moulds cause outbreaks of madness right across the north of England. We’ve tried all ways to keep the bitterness out of the bread, such as not letting the leaven stand too long, a week instead of a fortnight. Unfortunately, the resulting bread is then so hard that you could brain Scots with it.

The mould tends to be worse in the barley and rye bread which the homesteaders make. I wonder sometimes how far the death-hunts and burnings which sometimes plague us round here are a result of these outbreaks of collective madness.

The beacon is behind me, a raised stone hearth piled with wood and turf. I lean my back against it. A tinderbox lies in a covered cavity beneath it, with dried moss and tar-soaked rotten sticks for kindling. I gaze round me, sleepy in the warmth and stillness. The crown of the hill is like a monk’s skull, a white summit fringed by trees. There are still monks over the water at Cartmel, despite the old king’s wisdom in tearing down their dens of iniquity. Sometimes I wonder about the iniquity. Despite being impoverished themselves, the Cartmel monks give to the poor, and are also said to shelter fugitives.

I look out across the distant curve of the bay to Gewhorn Head, where wolves still roam occasionally, and beyond, to the lakeland hills hidden in a smudge of mist. This is when James Sorrell appears. I don’t know which of us receives the bigger fright when his face materialises above the rock wall.

“Beatie, whatever are you doing here?”

“I’m on my way to meet my mother, James. For heaven’s sake, how do you manage to be so quiet? You frightened the life out of me. What are you doing here?”

“It’s my turn on watch.” He sits down beside me, and looks at me in silence. James does not communicate well. His manners are often rough, and surprisingly for a landed farmer in our prosperous region of the north, he has never learned to read or write. I feel it is something to do with the fact that his father used to beat him half senseless when he was a child. We all knew it. I can remember my mother flying into a rage with the old man, and being shown briskly off the premises of Low Back Farm. Because James cannot read or write, Verity keeps his farm’s financial books for him, and as a result he has fallen in love with her.

He takes off his leather jerkin. He smells of sweat and cattle. “I haven’t seen Verity lately,” he says. For some reason, perhaps because he knows I like him, James lives in the forlorn hope that I will help him obtain my fifteen-year-old sister’s hand in marriage. Nothing could be further from my mind.

“She’s busy, James,” I answer, and pass him some bread and cheese to cheer him up. We sit in silence for a while. The world is very beautiful today. Below the rocky plateau on which we sit, on a level with our feet, young hazel leaves are curling out of their buds. High above us a hawk hovers. Trouble for someone. A hint of the strange feeling I had yesterday returns. I say, “You know, James, I feel as if we’re being watched.”

“Aye?” He looks sceptical. “It’ll be the Green Man, I daresay.”

I laugh. Now he is making me nervous. “No, nothing like that. I expect it’s just a deer watching us from the woods.”

He smiles. “Well it’ll be the Green Man now. Speak and ye’ll see.”

“Oh stop it, James.” I lean back, knowing he finds it amusing to frighten people, and wishing I had not started this conversation and given him the opportunity. There’s nothing on this sunlit hill to harm us. Except – a flicker of light westwards across the bay. I straighten and stare. James has seen it too. He sits forward. The flicker vanishes and is replaced by a thin line of smoke rising from the watchtower across the water. It is the warning beacon. The Scots are coming.

Chapter 3

I have a moment of simply not believing it. I think, this doesn’t happen. Three years without a raid have made me complacent.

It makes me slow, slow to react, slow to get on my feet and grapple the tinderbox from its dry place under the beacon. James is faster. He is flinging dried moss and tarry sticks on to the pyre, poking them under the wood, pinching out little tendrils for me to light. I strike a shower of sparks into the moss. All of them go out. I strike again. A few sparks wriggle along the dry filaments and then they go out too. I strike again. The moss takes, bursts into flame. I light one of the tarry sticks from it, twisting it, giving it air, and then thrust it into the centre. A fragile line of smoke trails upwards. James picks up his jerkin and sways it back and forth to create a draught, not too hard, not too gently. He is good with fires. With a sigh, a rotten branch catches and sends up a puff of flame.