The Tweedie Passion

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Book excerpt

Prelude

LETHAN VALLEY, SCOTTISH BORDERS
MIDSUMMER 1585

I traced the vaulted roof above me as I lay in bed, allowing the starlight to ease through the arrow-slit window and reveal the weft and pattern of the whinstone slabs. Stone is a good thing; it is solid, enduring. Stone never lets you down or betrays you like people do or promises one thing and delivers another like our Border weather does. You can rely on stone.

As the light increased, I could see the joins where the masons had cunningly fitted the great blocks together and I could even see the marks of the chisels where the masons had carved, following the grain of the rock to create tens of thousands of individual masterpieces that were connected together to form this Cardona Tower.

It was not time yet. I knew that. The stars told me the time by night, as the sun told me the time by day. It was not hard: it was just another skill that everybody had, like the awareness of danger or knowledge of the presence of a deer or a wolf. You learned these things in the Borderland, or you died. There was nothing else to it; all the lessons had to be learned and remembered. If you forgot, then your life was forfeit. Death was cheap in the old Border between Scotland and England, and life precarious. A man needed a woman and a woman needed a good man if she hoped to survive and a strong man if she strove to thrive. I was a Tweedie from the Lethan Valley; our aspirations rose above mere survival. Always.

I lay still, enjoying watching the light from the stars seeping into the chamber. I heard an owl hoot, soft through the night and the answering call of its mate. Male and female calling to each other, living creatures united in partnership although temporarily divided by distance.

That was the way of the world. Everybody needed a mate; every man needed a woman and every woman needed a man. I did not have mine yet although I thought I knew who he would be. I lay there, smiling, as I thought of him. My smile altered to a feeling of exasperation as I considered his faults. There was a lot of work to do before he was ready. I could mould him though. I must mould him if I wanted to survive along this savage frontier.

It was nearly time. I left my bedchamber and slipped off my nightclothes, so I stood naked by the window, allowing the air to caress the curves of my body. Lifting the wooden sneck that held my door shut, I slipped outside, glancing to right and left in case there were prying eyes. There were none; I had not expected any in my own home. The spiral turnpike stair was empty. I stepped out; enjoying the thrill of possible discovery more than I perhaps should even as my feet recoiled from the chill of the stone steps.

I reached the roof, where stone slabs protected the tower house from fire and the parapet offered sentries protection from any attacker. The night air was refreshing, with stars stretching into the unknown abyss of heaven. It was not full dark. It is never full dark in midsummer in Scotland, with the daylight fading only to a friendly grey that shaded the brilliance of the stars and cloaked the hills in mystery. They surrounded us on three sides, these hills, vague in the dim, with the opening of the Lethan Valley on the fourth, stretching north with the silver streak of the Lethan Water in the centre.

It was Midsummer's Eve.

It was my birthday.

I was twenty years old.

I spread my arms and legs, allowing the air full movement around my body, luxuriating in the kiss and caress, the feel of freedom, the knowledge that I was me and this was my time. Raising my face to the night, I opened my eyes and mouth as wide as I could to allow the spirit of my night to come home. And I waited for him to return.

It only happened at midnight on my birthday, Midsummer's Eve. In Scotland, there is a belief that people born at that time are special, that we have gifts denied to others. Well, I am here to tell you that we are not. I am most remarkably like every other woman in the land. I have two legs, two arms, one head, and all the other bits and pieces, bumps and appendages that I should have, all in the proper place and all the correct shape and size. Well, maybe I am slightly too ample around the hips, but I won't talk about that. There is nothing extraordinary about me in the slightest, except perhaps that I am as stubborn as the most obstinate of cattle, I have the occasional vision, and I can talk quite a lot.

I did not talk as midnight approached. I waited for the vision to descend.

I was in a shallow valley, with the wind whispering through coarse grass. Nearby there was a peel tower, slowly smouldering and sending wispy, acrid smoke to a bruised sky. I was lonely and scared, although there were many men around me. One man approached me; tall, lean, and scarred, he had a face that could chill the fear from a nightmare and eyes sharp and hard enough to bore through a granite cliff.

I backed away, feeling the fear surge through me, knowing that there was nowhere to run. I heard cruel laughter from the men around, rising above the crackle of flames and the lowing of reived cattle.

'Come here.' His voice was like death; cracked, harsh, with an accent from the West.

I did not come. I backed further away until whipcord arms stopped me, holding me tight. I was held and then pushed forward toward the scarred man. I tried to face him, to talk my way out of trouble but the words would not come. My tongue failed me when it was most needed.

'Come here,' the scarred man repeated. He stood with his legs apart, his thumbs hooked into his sword belt, and those devil eyes searing into my soul.

'I will not come,' I said.

He stepped towards me, slowly and with each footstep sinking into the springy grass. A gust of wind sent smoke from the fire around him, so he appeared to be emerging from the pits of hell. He let go of his belt and extended his hands toward me. They were long-fingered, with nails like talons, reaching out to grab me. I tried to pull backwards, to ease further away.

I was held again, surrounded by harsh laughter.

My nightmare was about to get worse.

The single shout broke the spell and we all looked to the west, where a lone rider had appeared on the hill crest. Silhouetted against the rising sun, I could not make out details. I only saw a tall, slender man on a horse with a banner in his hand. He stood there for a second with his horse prancing, its fore hooves raised and kicking at the air, and then he plunged down toward me, yelling something, although in my vision I could not make out the words.

'Robert!' I said and knew that all would be well.

It was the same vision every midsummer on the anniversary of my birth. It never varied in detail or time. I stood there, stark naked and now chilled as the image faded and the stars shone down in all their majesty.

'How had Robert known I was in danger?' I asked. 'Why was he riding alone?'

The stars did not answer. I only knew that my vision would one day become reality. Being born on midnight of Midsummer's Day may well make me special but the gift of second sight was a curse I would be happy to pass along to somebody else. All the same, I knew that at some time in the future, Robert would save me from an unknown band of reivers.

'Get back into bed!' Mother's voice was nearly as harsh as that of the scarred man. She grabbed me by the shoulder, hustled me down the stairs, and nearly threw me back into bed. 'I knew you would be up this night.' She glared down at me. 'It's time you stopped such nonsense. After all, you are twenty years old now.'

I looked back at her. 'I saw Robert again, rescuing me.'

'You saw no such thing,' she said. I watched the anger fade from her eyes, to be replaced by genuine worry. 'You'll find your man, Jeannie,' she said softly. 'And it won't be Robert Ferguson.'

The door shut quietly as she left my chamber, leaving me with my thoughts and the image of that lone rider. I turned on to my back, placed my hands behind my head and smiled. I knew that Robert would be there for me when he was needed.

Chapter One

LETHAN VALLEY
AUTUMN 1585

The laverocks were busy that autumn, singing their sweet song as we attended to the harvest. I have always loved bird call, from the liquid notes of the blackbird that sweetens the summer to the evocative call of the geese as they wing their way northward in the spring and return in the autumn, and that year of 1585 was no exception. I stopped my work to listen to the laverocks, trying to spot one in the vastness above.

'The barley won't gather itself, Jeannie,' my father said, 'so get busy with that reaping hook.'

I bent to the work, taking the hook in great circles that sheared through the stalks of the barley without damaging the grain. It was hard work but necessary, for every stroke added to our winter store and increased our security for the coming harsh days of winter.

As I worked, I looked around, savouring the valley in which I had lived all my life. We farmed in the traditional manner here in the Lethan Valley, with long rigs of grain set between those holding hay for winter fodder and strips of land left fallow for the following year. The rigs stretched from the edge of the flood plain of the fast-flowing Lethan Water and rose to the green slopes of the hills that enclosed us on three sides. To the east was Ward Law, the hill on which father posted a watchman to look out for reivers, for the devil and all his associates were unchained as the nights lengthened and the darkness encouraged theft, pillage, and reiving. Chief of our devils were the Veitches who lived in Faladale, over the waste of hills on the west side of our valley.

I saw my father cast anxious eyes to the sky as a spatter of rain dampened us. 'We'll finish this before the coarse weather comes,' he said, 'and we'll pray for the sun.'

'It's not the weather that concerns me,' Mother was twenty paces lower down the slope, 'it's that smoke in the air.'

We all stopped at the words, sniffing at the air as if we were dogs. There was only the faintest of whiffs carried on the fresh breeze and mingled with the scent of grass and late wild flowers. Father nodded. 'The wind's carrying it from the north,' he said. 'Peebles way.'

'It may only be a house fire,' I said hopefully.

'It may be that,' Mother said.

We both knew that it was not. The weather was not cool enough to light a fire. Smoke meant fire and fire meant trouble. September was early for the Riding—or Reiving—Season to begin, but that smoke was troublesome.

'The Veitches are riding,' Mother said and glanced at the spears we had piled at the edges of the field-rigs.

Father cupped hands to his mouth. 'Willie! Willie Telfer!' He had the knack of catching the wind to help carry his words.

We looked toward Ward Law, where distance made Willie Telfer appear very small. He raised a hand in acknowledgement.

'Is all well?' Father bellowed.

'All's well!' The words came faintly to us.

'Is there any sign of the Veitches?' Father made the word sound like a curse.

The Veitches, as you will have guessed, were the enemy of our blood, our name, and our family. Nobody knew when the feud with the Veitches had started, although there were many rumours and tales. I only knew that as far back as time, the Tweedies and the Veitches had been enemies and always would be. The very name of that family made Father's lips curl and his hand reach for his sword, and I was sure that the name Tweedie had the same result if uttered in the foul valley of Faladale of the Veitches.

'No sign of them!' Willie Telfer called out.

'As well,' Father said, 'for if they were to strike when half the men were at the summer shieling, we would be hard pressed to fight them off.'

'The Veitches are also at the summer shieling,' Mother reminded gently. 'They will not come during the harvesting.'

I was not sure if I was more relieved or disappointed. Part of me was afraid of these devils, the Veitches, every one of whom was trained since birth to murder Tweedie men and ravish Tweedie women, but another part of me thrilled to see my menfolk in action, to hear the clash of sword on sword and see the brave deeds and bold actions. I had been brought up on the Border Ballads, you see, and believed in the tales of chevaliers and hardy knights. I also knew the sordid reality of cattle theft and torched cottages, as did we all.

'My Robert would see them off,' I said, more loudly than I intended.

'Your Robert?' Mother injected scorn into those two words. 'He is not your Robert, Jeannie my lass, and never shall be.' She shook her head. 'He is the younger son of a minor house and hardly fit to talk to you. Push him out of your mind, Jeannie, and cast around for a more suitable man.'

Father opened his mouth to interrupt and closed it again without saying anything. Father rarely gave advice about matters of the heart, leaving it to his womenfolk, that is, Mother and I, to say our hearts and afterwards make our peace. 'Keep them at it, Bess,' Father said and moved away. I watched him mount Dryfe, his stallion, and spur northward down the valley.

'You heard your father,' Mother said. 'We want this cut and the hay stooked before night's upon us.'

I nodded, caught Robert's eye and we smiled at each other. Despite what mother said, Robert was my lad, as you will know by now. We had known each other since childhood, or rather we had never not known each other. We grew up together, fishing or guddling for trout in the Lethan or the River Tweed, netting the salmon as they returned to spawn, racing each other to the summer shielings, working in the rigs or with the cattle, riding around the valley and along the ridges of the Heights. We were like brother and sister in some ways, and everybody and his mother should have known we should be wed one day. That one day would be when I was full woman and he was full man.

However, there is a huge gap between knowing something should happen and the actual event itself. Robert Ferguson and I knew we were right for each other and I had long since told him our plans for the future, but neither my mother nor Robert's father agreed. My mother said she would not let me marry until Robert had proved himself man enough to take a wife, and Robert's father, Archie Ferguson, just did not like me. I did not know why he should feel like that. I am a personable girl, active in what I do, and I am from good stock. Indeed, my family is better than the Fergusons of Whitecleuch or any other Fergusons in the Borderland between Berwick and Solway Sands. If bloodlines were to be compared, I can stand proud against any in Scotland, and that means any in the world.

As you can see, I am still indignant that any mere Ferguson should question my right to his son if I choose him. However, as we had neither lands nor cattle, Robert and I had to wait until our respective families realised that Fate, the Lord, and all the deities that may or may not exist in river, loch, hill, earth, and sky had decreed we were meant for each other. Or until some other man took my fancy, which was something that I knew would not and could not happen. We were destined you see, for I had seen it in my visions.

And therein lies my tale.

When Father trotted off that fine September day to seek the cause of the smoke, Mother took charge of the harvesting, which meant we moved faster and worked twice as hard. In the Lethan Valley, nobody argued with Lady Tweedie. Or if they did, they certainly did not argue a second time.

Occasionally I caught Mother raising her head to check the tenants were working as hard as they should. Sometimes she gave a grim nod of satisfaction, more often a sharp bark of reprimand. Once I caught her looking at something with a smile on her face and I followed the direction of her glance to see what amused her so. I saw she was watching Clem's Adam as he bent forward to his task. Clem's Adam was a fine handsome man of about thirty, with a face that many women spoke about and a body that would have graced any of these sculptures in the ancient abbeys. Yet it was not his face that Mother was smiling at but quite another portion of him that he thrust skyward as he faced the opposite direction.

Was a man's behind so interesting? I shrugged; slightly embarrassed that Mother should act like she did at her age and especially as she was a respectable married woman. She was too old to be thinking about men, especially men other than her husband, my father. I glanced over to Robert who was working in a similar position. What I saw did not interest me, so I saw no reason to linger.

'Keep working!' Mother had obviously switched her attention away from the rump of Clem's Adam.

If Father had remained with the harvesting, the rain would have beaten us. As it was, we beat the rain, so the barley was taken into storage and the hay cut and stooked at exactly the same time as the heavens opened and the deluge descended.

'Get back inside.' Father returned the minute the rain began in earnest. 'All of you. There are reivers about.'

'They are early this year,' Mother said calmly. 'Is it the Veitches?' Living on the Border makes one stoical about the unexpected.

'Not this time,' Father said. 'Much worse than that.'