Guardian Of The Dark Slap E-Book

Helen Susan Swift

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Scottish Borders, 1921. When Eleanor Armstrong and her brother Thomas move from Edinburgh to the old house of Anton’s Walls, they hope to give Thomas peace from the shell-shock that damaged his mind. Instead, they find a community that refuses to accept incomers and a house with an evil past.

Scottish Borders, 1321. Newly knighted Sir Andrew Douglas hopes for glory and adventure when he ventures to the crusades, but is diverted to fight the rogue knight Hugo de Soulis at Caercorbie.

Past and present combine in this dark tale of necromancy and demons amongst the moorland and hills of rural Scotland. Can Eleanor and Thomas overcome an ancient, powerful evil?

Leseprobe

GUARDIAN OF THE DARK SLAP

TALES FROM THE DARK PAST

BOOK FIVE

HELEN SUSAN SWIFT

CONTENTS

Prelude

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

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Background Note

Appendix One: The Twa Corbies

Appendix Two: Ce Fut En Mai: French Love Song

Notes

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Helen Susan Swift

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For The One I Love

PRELUDE

GALIPOLLI, SUMMER 1915

Gunfire lit the horizon, with the nonstop flashes destroying the sanctuary of the dark. Lieutenant Thomas Armstrong of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers crouched in the trench, feeling the ground tremble under his feet as the first shells exploded around him. The noise was so continuous that he could not distinguish any single sound and could hardly hear the man beside him speaking.

“Sir!” Sergeant Kilner mouthed the word. “We’ve lost Number One Section. A Turkish shell landed directly on top of them.”

Thomas nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant!” He flinched as a shell exploded twenty yards away, sending a shower of earth and small stones to patter on his helmet and shoulders.

The bombardment continued, with explosions all around the British and Anzac trenches, blasting dirt, stones, and fragments of men into the air. It rose to a crescendo and stopped abruptly at dawn, leaving men stunned, gasping for air, and scrabbling for cover in the bottom of shallow trenches.

The Turks will attack any moment now, Thomas realised. He forced himself to stand upright and peer over the dust-hazed landscape towards the Turkish positions. A glitter in the distance warned of a moving mass of men carrying rifles with fixed bayonets.

“Here they come, boys! Stand to!”

Whistles sounded along the length of the British trenches, and men emerged from cover, adjusting their helmets, checking their rifles, and staring into the rising sun.

The Turks advanced as bravely as always, a mass of men in dark khaki uniforms cheering as they ran forward. The officers led from the front, resolute in their determination to push the invaders from their land.

The British artillery opened fire, raising fountains of dust among the Turkish infantry, smashing men to a pulp, or sending deadly shrapnel to lacerate frail human bodies. The machine guns came next, the .303 Vickers, renowned for their reliability as they scythed down the advancing men. After a few moments, the Lewis machine guns joined the cacophony, with the riflemen firing last.

“Come on, Borderers!” Thomas shouted. “Show Johnny Turk what we’re made of!”

The men aimed and fired, worked the bolts of their Lee-Enfields, held the stocks firm to their shoulders, and fired again. Soon there was no need to aim; the Turks were so close the Borderers fired at the mass of dark khaki, working the rifle bolts frantically.

“Come on, Johnny Turk!” Thomas found himself shouting as he stood in the trench, encouraging his men. “Come and face the Borderers!” He emptied his revolver and paused to reload, pushing the cartridges into their chambers with trembling, dirty fingers. He dropped one cartridge and watched the growing light reflect on the brass as it spiralled, seemingly in slow motion, down to the dust.

Thomas jammed the final cartridge into his revolver and looked up. Despite their losses, the Turks were nearly at the trench, teeth and bayonets gleaming.

“Fire!” Thomas roared. “Send them back to Constantinople, boys!” He squeezed the trigger, saw his bullets knock a Turkish officer sprawling, and then the Borderers were fighting bayonet to bayonet.

A stocky Turk jumped into the trench and lunged at Thomas, who shot him, seeing the man’s head shatter under the force of the bullet. Another Turkish soldier took his place, and then another until Thomas had emptied his revolver and was fighting with fists and boots. He saw Wee Willie Scott leap into the air and smash his forehead into a Turk’s face as Danny Hunnam fell with a Turkish bayonet in his stomach.

“Fight them!” Thomas shouted and screamed as something long, sharp, and cold snaked into his side. He turned around and saw the swarthy face of a Turkish private, and then somebody cracked a rifle butt on his head, and he crumpled to the ground. Before he passed out, he saw a shadowy figure at the far end of the trench, a tall man dressed like a mediaeval knight.

What the devil is he doing here?

* * *

“Tom!” The voice came to him from far away. “Tom! Wake up!”

Thomas fought away the memories and opened his eyes. “I had that nightmare again,” he said. “What a mazurka!”1

“I know,” Eleanor told him. “You were shouting in your sleep.” Her smile teased him. “Your language was shocking.”

Thomas struggled to sit up. “Trench language,” he explained. “Not fit for a lady’s ears.”

“Well,” Eleanor said, “I’m no lady, I’m your sister, and I’ve heard it all before. Get up, wash, and get dressed. We’ve got a bit of a drive before us.”

“It was the war,” Thomas explained.

“The war ended three years ago,” Eleanor reminded sternly. “It’s time you forgot about it.”

“It’s in my mind all the time,” Thomas said.

“That’s why we’re moving to somewhere quiet.” Eleanor dragged the covers from the bed. “New beginning and no old memories. Come on!” She slapped his leg and pulled his arm. “Up!”

Thomas frowned. “This dream was a little different,” he said. “I thought I saw a knight in armour in the trench.”

Eleanor shook her head. “Were there not angels and archers at Mons? Maybe there’s a connection.”

“I was dreaming of Gallipoli,” Thomas said, shrugged, and slid out of bed. “Come on, sister-of-mine. We have a longish drive ahead of us.”

“I think I already said that,” Eleanor told him.

CHAPTER1

NEWBIGGING, SCOTTISH BORDERS, OCTOBER 1921

The hotel looked unprepossessing as Thomas pulled the dark green Crossley to a halt outside the front door. Two storeys high, with the whitewash peeling off the outside wall and the sign, Wardlaw Inn, creaking in the wind, it would not have appealed to him before the war. Now, in the aftermath of four years of bloody slaughter, appearance meant nothing, he had discarded luxury, and even comfort was not supremely important.

“Are you ready?” Eleanor asked brightly.

Thomas nodded to her with his eyes dull. “I’m ready.” He glanced along the street, seeking inspiration.

The village of Newbigging was quiet, with the drizzling rain dampening the autumnal dust on the pavement and weeping from a neglected gutter above the inn’s signboard. Nobody walked the street, while a solitary farm cart rumbled slowly along the road. The driver stared at the Crossley as he passed, saying nothing. He managed a reluctant nod in response to Eleanor’s cheery hail.

An aroma of dampness greeted them as they pushed open the inn’s front door. There was no reception desk, merely a small table with a vase of wilting flowers and a brass handbell. Eleanor rang the bell, the sound breaking the sombre silence of the inn. When nobody appeared, she rang again.

“I heard you the first time.” The man was in his late middle age, with a bald head and a limp. “What do you want?”

“We’ve booked in for the week,” Eleanor said. “Thomas Armstrong and Eleanor Machrie.” She waited for his comment.

“That will be two single rooms,” the man said after a short pause.

“Or a twin,” Eleanor said with a smile. “We’re brother and sister.”

Eleanor expected his downward glance to check if she was wearing a wedding ring. “My husband died at Ypres,” she said.

The man grunted, eyeing Eleanor sourly. ‘Twin,” he said. “First floor. Room number three. Where’s your luggage?”

“In the car,” Eleanor told him. “My brother will bring it in.”

The man nodded. “Dinner’s six till eight. Breakfast’s seven till eight.”

“Thank you, Mister…” Eleanor waited for the man to give his name.

“Johnston,” he said grudgingly. Turning away without another word, he slouched through a half-glazed door.

“Twin,” Eleanor confirmed. “First floor. Number three. Could you fetch the bags, Tom?”

She waited for Thomas to return and climbed up the creaking steps to the first floor, past the panelled walls with their faded pictures of Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and the ubiquitous Landseer print of a stag at bay.

The room was decorated in similar taste, with a once-good-quality but now worn rug on the ground above varnished floorboards, two iron beds, and pictures of Edinburgh Castle and the Eildon Hills on the wall. Eleanor half expected to see a portrait of Queen Victoria, dead these last twenty years, frowning down on them.

“How are the beds, Thomas?”

She heard the ominous creak of springs as Thomas sat on the nearest.

“Good,” he said.

Eleanor tested the second bed and nodded when she found it better than she had feared. “Here we are, then.”

“Here we are,” Thomas agreed.

“Tomorrow is the big day.”

Thomas nodded, sitting on the bed, staring at the wall with his mind elsewhere.

“You unpack while I look at the view.” Stepping to the window, Eleanor stared up the street. She gave a wry smile, thinking they must have arrived at the busy period, for now, half an hour later, nothing at all stirred in the village. Newbigging was dead. She counted three shops: a baker, a butcher and one with the name Elliot in faded gold letters against a brown background. Eleanor presumed the locals would know what Elliot’s sold, while any visitors would have to guess.

Eleanor knew the layout of this village, although she had never been here in her life. It was similar to a score of other eighteenth-century planned settlements in Scotland, with two streets intersecting at right angles in a reasonably large market square, where the Inn, the church, and the shops were situated. Simple, robust, and practical, it allowed nothing for the local geography.

“This place doesn’t belong,” Eleanor observed.

“Why not?” Thomas joined her at the window.

“It’s too manufactured. Somebody has deliberately placed it here.” Knowing Thomas would not understand her reasoning, Eleanor looked beyond the houses to the distant hills. Long, grey-green, and gently curved, they had endured tens of thousands of years of history. “I prefer organic growth.”

“Oh.” When Thomas said no more, Eleanor knew she had lost him.

“Best get changed,” Eleanor said. “We’ll be late for dinner.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye, wincing at his clumsiness. “Let me help you.”

“I know how to dress!” Thomas said.

“Of course you do,” Eleanor said, fighting her pain. When Thomas thought he had finished, she adjusted his tie, brushed down his shoulders, and headed downstairs.

Although Eleanor and Thomas were the only guests in the inn, there were two other couples for dinner. One pair had evidently been married for many years, as they communicated with hardly a word while still managing to make themselves understood. The other couple had apparently never seen strangers before, to judge by the interest they took in the new guests. When the man bent forward to murmur something to his companion, Eleanor saw Thomas tense, with his right fist clenching around his knife.

“No, Thomas.” Eleanor shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” Turning around in her seat, she returned their scrutiny, giving them stare for stare until they dropped their eyes. Eleanor continued to watch them as they ate.

“Is everything all right?” The waitress was blonde-haired and cheerful, a breath of fresh air in that room of gloom.

“Fine, thank you,” Eleanor assured her. As she looked willing to help, Eleanor continued. “Are you local to the area?”

When the waitress smiled, her freckles merged, so half her face was one mass of ginger. “I’ve lived here all my life,” she said. “As has my family as long as time.”

“That’s good.” Eleanor gave her an encouraging smile. “You’ll know your way around, then.”

“As well as anybody,” the waitress replied.

“Do you know a house called Anton’s Walls?” Eleanor asked. “It’s a strange name, but I know it’s somewhere nearby. I didn’t see it on the Bartholomew’s map.”

“I ken it fine.” The waitress’s smile broadened. “It’s empty, though. Old Jock Armstrong died over a year ago if you were looking for him.”

“I was not,” Eleanor said. “Could you tell me how to get there, please?”

Pulling up a chair, the waitress sat beside Thomas. “Are you walking? There’s no’ a bus service that way. Maybe you can hire a chaise from Geordie Rutherford’s in the village.”

“We have a car,” Eleanor said. “It’s parked in the street outside.”

“Oh!” The waitress shook her head. “I wondered who owned the Crossley! I should have known it would be yours!” She treated Thomas to a smile.

“Is there a road to Anton’s Walls?”

“There’s a bit of one,” the waitress told me. “A country road, as we call it, not a metalled road.”

Eleanor nodded. She had expected nothing else. “It’ll be a quiet place, then.”

“Aye, it’s quiet,” the girl said. “There’s nothing much there except the moor. Not even sheep, since old Jock Armstrong died.” She glanced at Thomas, sitting quietly at Eleanor’s side. “Maybe Old Jock’s ghost.”

“That won’t bother us,” Thomas said quickly.

A rough voice broke in. “What do you want to go to Anton’s for?”

Eleanor had not seen the elderly man arrive. He stood beside the table, dressed in faded working clothes and smelling of damp soil and tobacco.

“There’s nothing there for toonies and stooriefeet. Anton’s is in the middle of a wilderness. Why would anybody want to build a house there?” The man’s voice was harsh, like gravel dragged under a gate, and a mass of wrinkles hid his eyes.

“It may be a wilderness now,” Eleanor suggested. “It might not have been a couple of hundred years ago. The population has shifted. Back then, there might have been hundreds of little farms, each with a family running it.” She turned to Thomas. “Get the map out, Tom. This lady might point out where Anton’s Walls is.”

“My name’s Sharon,” the girl volunteered.

“Deepsyke’s always been a muir,” the old man grumbled.

When Eleanor spread the map over the table, Sharon bent across with her long hair brushing against Thomas. “I’ve never seen it like that before,” she said. “Look at all the names written down.” She traced her finger over the linen-backed paper. “Hawkshaw, Wolf Rig, Wardlaw, Bareback Knowe, Hangingshaw, Dod’s Bog, Bareback Cleuch, Dundreich, Deepsyke Moor – they’ve spelt it wrong. It should be muir, not moor.”

Eleanor allowed Sharon a few moments to peruse the map. “Could you show us where Anton’s Walls is please?”

“Here.” Without hesitation, Sharon stabbed a finger down. “Right in the middle of Deepsyke Muir.”

The name sent a shiver through Eleanor as if the bleakness of the moor had entered her soul. “A syke is a burn 1 in boggy ground, isn’t it? Is Deepsyke Muir as bleak as it sounds?”

“Aye.” The old man breathed out stale tobacco fumes. “There’s naething there but bogland and dark water.”

“It’s not that bad.” Sharon shook her head. “Don’t listen to Martin here. He likes to see the dark in everything!” Her eyes laughed at the elderly man. “Don’t you, Martin? Deepsyke Muir is a lovely place when the sun shines. You’ll hear the laverocks singing, the whaups calling, 2 and the bees searching for heather honey.”

“You’ll hear the hoolet too,” Old Martin croaked. “Dinnae forget the hoolet.”

“Exactly,” Sharon said. “You’ll hear the hoolets too. That’s the owls,” she explained for the benefit of city-bred people who did not know what a hoolet was.

“There’s nothing there except moss, heather, and peat holes deep enough to suck you down forever,” Martin said. “You’d best get back to Glasgow or wherever you belong.”

“Edinburgh,” Eleanor told him, smiling.

“Aye.” Martin stepped back. “Edinburgh.” He repeated the name as if it were a curse. “You’d best get back where you belong. There’s nothing for you in Anton’s Wa’s except hardship and misery.”

“We’ve seen that.” Thomas looked up with a dark light at the back of his eyes. “We’ve seen hardship and misery.” Reaching out, he gripped Martin’s wrist. Eleanor saw life spark into Thomas’s face for a second, and then it died away again as he released Martin and slumped in his chair.

Sharon looked from Eleanor to Thomas and back with a question in her eyes. Eleanor diverted her attention. “I heard that the house was named after somebody called Anthony. Is that correct?”

“Aye,” Martin answered first. “Jock’s great-great-great-grandfather, Anthony Armstrong, built the place. He gave it some fancy name that nobody heeded. Everybody called it Anthony’s Walls, which became Anton’s Wa’s, although the stooriefeet call it Anton’s Walls.” His glare at Thomas conveyed his contempt for stooriefeet as he called incomers to the area.3

“Are you a local historian?” Eleanor asked politely.

Martin favoured her with a dark glower. “No.”

“Martin knows everything about the Wardlaw Valley,” Sharon said. “Or he thinks he does. Isn’t that right, Martin? You’ve been here so long you probably lived through it all,”

“I know enough.” Martin spoke without looking directly at her.

Sensing a little tension, Eleanor took the map and carefully crunched it into a hideous mess on the table. Absently, Thomas sorted it out, folded it neatly and replaced it inside his jacket.

“Thank you, Tom,” Eleanor said.

“Sharon!” The voice was sharp as Johnston stood in the doorway. “Your job is to serve the guests, not gossip to them.”

“Excuse me, please.” Sharon stood, bobbed in an old-fashioned little curtsey, and scurried away. Eleanor looked at Thomas hopefully, but he did not watch her hips swaying in their black-and-white uniform. Instead, he stared straight ahead, with his eyes seeing events that happened years before.

Eleanor hid her disappointment and masked her pain behind a bright smile.

With lunch over, Thomas and Eleanor walked around the village. It did not take long as there was not much to see, just two streets, a handful of small shops and the war memorial. Eleanor knew these structures were springing up throughout the country in tribute to the tens of thousands of dead Scotland lost in the Great War. She thought the monument at Newbigging was too elaborate for such a small place until she saw the number of names inscribed underneath the figure of a soldier with his head bowed and rifle reversed.

Eleanor read the names. Armstrongs, Johnstons, Elliots, Croziers, Grahams, and others. All the old Borders surnames, all dying a long way from their homes in the war to end all wars.

Thomas put out a finger, tracing one of the names. “I was with him when he died.” He spoke quietly. “Davie Graham. A Turkish sniper got him at Gallipoli. He’d only taken three steps from the boat.”

“Poor lad,” Eleanor commented.

“Aye, he was seventeen years and two days old.”

Eleanor listened as Thomas relived his war, his finger following the names of men, tracing the letters as his memories traced their lives and deaths.

“Shuggie Elliot. He died at Ypres; the gas got him. Nice lad, Shug.” Before Eleanor could stop him, Thomas stepped back, snapped to attention, and saluted. Although they were deep in the Scottish Borders, Eleanor knew Thomas had never left the war. When he looked at her, she wondered what he saw and what images were in his mind.

“Rest easy, lads,” Thomas said. “We’ll never forget you.”

“Can you hear that?” Eleanor lifted a finger. “I hear music. It sounds like some old French song.” She frowned, for the music was familiar, although she could not say from where. She began to sing, softly intoning the words.

“Ce fut en mai

Au douz tens gai

Que la saisons est bele,

Main me levai.”

Eleanor stopped, shrugging. “I don’t remember where that came from. Do you know it, Tom?”

When Thomas shook his head, Eleanor saw the light die from his eyes again.

“It’s a French song,” Eleanor prompted without success.

“I can hear music, right enough,” Thomas said, “but not French music.”

Eleanor nodded. The French words had faded, and the sounds of somebody singing came from a small house at the very edge of the village. Looking older than the rest of the street, the building was thatched, with tiny, deep-set windows and an open door. “We’ll stand outside and listen,” Eleanor said. “I’m sure nobody will mind.”

Laughter punctuated the music, with light female voices joining the deep male and the clink of bottles or glasses. Only then did Eleanor see the sign hanging above the door with the name Dryfe Arms in faded black letters on a plain white background.

“It’s a bit of a hole in the wall,” she said, “but shall we go in?”

Thomas nodded and stepped through the door. Eleanor followed him to find the place crowded. The music stopped as soon as they entered, and a score of men and women turned to stare at them as if they were aliens. One broad-shouldered man brooding in a corner fixed them with a malevolent glower and ignored Thomas’s cheerful greeting. As Eleanor wondered if they should leave again, Thomas stepped up to the shirt-sleeved barman.

“What do you have?” Thomas glanced over the meagre display behind the bar.

The barman frowned. “Beer or whisky.”

“Do you have any wine for my sister?”

“Beer or whisky.”

“One pint of Youngers then, and a small whisky with water.”

After Thomas found two seats at a small round table, most of the clientele stopped staring at them and resumed their previous occupations. Only the broad-shouldered man continued with his pointed glare.

“He’s a cheery fellow,” Thomas said.

Eleanor nodded, leaned back, and listened to the music. It was rough and ready, without any sophistication but with plenty of energy as men and woman in shabby working clothes banged their feet on the ground and sang lustily. Some of the songs were new to Eleanor, others she recognised, although the words and tunes differed in detail.

Eleanor saw old Martin in the crowd. He fixed her with a very intense look, shook his head, looked away for a moment, and then returned to his scrutiny. His neighbour, a burly man in late middle age, ran his gaze down her body from head to foot and back and favoured her with a nod.

Eleanor nodded back, smiling.

After half an hour and two more whiskies, Eleanor was irritated by the broad-shouldered man’s staring. Aware that every eye was on her, she walked across to him, weaving past the tables and chairs.

“It’s ages since I saw you! You look so different like that.” Treating the man to her best smile, she touched his shoulder. “We’ll meet again soon, shall we?”

The man started, lifted a dirty red hat, and stormed out of the inn without saying a word. Eleanor returned to Thomas, who stared ahead of him. Eleanor did not think he had noticed.

Old Martin gave Eleanor a slight nod that could have signified approval. He stepped over to her. “That man was Wally Nixon, the factor,” he croaked. “An ill man to cross.” He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “You did well, my friend. Now listen to my song and pay heed.”

Eleanor nodded. She felt something had changed, as if she had stepped through a hidden doorway. Brushing away the French song that whispered in her ears, she tried to concentrate on Martin, knowing something significant was about to happen.

CHAPTER2

Leaving Eleanor, old Martin returned to his table and remained standing.

“You all know me. I’m Martin Crozier, so haud your tongues when I’m singing the Twa Corbies.” He began to sing in his weary old voice, with the room obediently quiet. He fixed Eleanor with a stare as if to ensure she was paying attention.

The Twa Corbies is a five-stanza Border ballad where two corbies – crows – talk about a dead knight lying behind a dyke. Sung properly, it carries an air of tragedy, of the desolation of loss and the ever-present sadness of the old Border. Eleanor had heard others singing it and had been disappointed, for although they were undoubtedly melodious, they failed to capture the horror of the crows pecking the “bonny blue een” from the abandoned knight.

From a grumpy old man, Martin Crozier became the object of everybody’s attention. He sang in a voice rusty with age but with such power and feeling that Eleanor had to listen.

“As I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies makin’ a mane,”

Martin’s broad Border accent seemed to heighten the meaning of the words, so as Eleanor sat in that room, reeking of strong tobacco smoke, she was mentally transported back in time to the old border of peel towers and raiding armies.

“The tane unto t’other say,

Where sall we gan and dine today?”

Eleanor could see the two black crows sitting on the grey-green turf of the dyke, searching for food in a devastated countryside. Martin’s cracked voice portrayed the essence of those days in a song where every word carried menace. The crows spoke of “a new-slain knight” and the chilling message that,

“His lady’s ta’en another mate

So we may mak our dinner sweet.”

Eleanor imagined that unfortunate young knight, with his blood still congealing on his battered body, while his girl rode away with a new lover, and one crow sat “on his white hause-bane” while the other picked “out his bonny blue” eyes.

Martin’s eyes seemed to fix on Eleanor as he sang as if he were conveying some special message to her.

“O’er his white banes, when they are bare

The wind sall blaw for evermair.”

When Martin intoned the final, hopeless words, Helen envisaged the knight lying abandoned on the ground. She looked around, expecting rapturous applause, but realised the audience had lost interest. Martin had an audience of one. Eleanor had never been prone to follow the crowd in anything, so she stood up and clapped, wondering if anybody else had the good manners to join in. When Thomas followed her example, Eleanor blessed his kind heart, but nobody else moved. In that whole room, not one other person understood Martin’s message.

After a few moments, Martin ordered the barman to refill his pewter mug with Youngers beer and sat beside Eleanor. “You’re in the wrong place.” He ignored Thomas.

“Where should I be?”

“You understood the Twa Corbies,” Martin accused.

“I did.” Eleanor nodded. “You sang it well.”

“What’s your name?”

“Eleanor,” she said.

“Not your first name.” Martin sounded irritated. “What’s your real name?”

“I’m Eleanor Machrie,” Eleanor said.

“Mrs Machrie?” Martin glanced at Thomas, who stared straight ahead with his mouth slowly working as he shouted silent orders to long-dead men.

“Mrs Machrie,” Eleanor confirmed.

“That’s not the name I want,” Martin said. “What’s your family name?” He leaned across the table, so his face was closer to Eleanor’s. “Where are you from, Mrs Machrie?”

“My family name?” Eleanor knew she should have been offended by Martin’s persistent questioning but still felt the power of his song. “My maiden name was Armstrong,” she said.

Martin’s smile was unexpected and took twenty years from his age. “A Border name, that’s why.”

“I don’t understand,” Eleanor said. “That’s why what?”

“That’s why you can understand,” Martin explained in his cracked voice. “You belong.”

“This place is not very welcoming,” Eleanor complained. “I don’t think the people want me to belong.”

“People are transient,” Martin said. “And belonging is not about being welcome. It’s about blood.” Standing up, he drained his tankard in a single noisy draft, wiped the froth from his half-shaven chin and looked at Eleanor through red-rimmed eyes.

“Your blood is from here. You can hear the message in the wind and feel the spirit of the hills.”

Eleanor stared at him, suddenly uncomfortable. “Who are you, Mr Crozier?”

Martin ignored her question. “You don’t want to belong here, Eleanor Armstrong. For the love of God, don’t go to Anton’s Walls, or you’ll never want to leave. Go back to Edinburgh and take that damaged man with you.”

“What?” Eleanor asked, but Martin was already loping away, shouldering aside a much larger man as he pushed through the door. A blast of cold air entered the room, causing Eleanor to shiver.

A woman pushed the door firmly shut.

“Did you hear that, Thomas?” But Thomas was shaking, dodging shells that had exploded six years before. Eleanor sighed. “Come on, Tom. It’s time we were back. We have another long day tomorrow.”

The crows flapped away, circled the village, and landed in front of the Wardlaw Inn. Not understanding the crows’ significance, she paid them no heed as she guided Thomas away from the Dryfe Arms.

Eleanor lay in her bed until Thomas fell asleep. She listened to him fidgeting and wondered what he was dreaming.

Oh, God, if there is a god. Grant me the strength to help my brother through his trauma. She closed her eyes, seeing again the wounded men waiting outside the hospital, some with hideous injuries and smelled the mixture of fear, raw blood, and powerful disinfectant.

Reaching into the bag at the bottom of her bed, she stealthily removed the small silver hip flask, unscrewed the stopper and placed it to her lips. She fought the shaking. Keep me from weakness, Lord, so that I can help my brother through his pain. The whisky was welcome as it exploded in her stomach. She drank more, draining the flask dry, and closed her eyes, grasping at sleep as a relief from her worry.

Later that night, something woke Eleanor. Opening her eyes with a start, she looked around the unfamiliar room, unsure where she was. She sat up in bed, checked Thomas, pulled the tangled covers over his twisted, sweat-sodden body, and stood up with her head full of strange fancies. That song from the previous night still rampaged through her brain, while she could feel old Martin’s eyes still scrutinising her as he asked his strange questions and gave his weird pronouncements.

“Your blood is from here. You can hear the message of the wind and feel the spirit of the hills.” What on earth had that meant?

Stumbling to the window, Eleanor looked outside. Newbigging was quiet under pale stars, with the street lights flickering on the uniform architecture, yet something nagged at the back of her mind.

Eleanor heard an owl hoot once, twice, and a third time, the sound somehow melancholy in that sleeping village. The hoolet, she thought, with a wry smile, and shook her head. Eleanor did not know how long she watched the horseman before his presence registered in her tired brain. Perhaps because he looked so natural in the Borders, or maybe because she was still half asleep, he was quarter way up the street before Eleanor realised she was staring at him.

He rode past slowly, unhurried, with the hooves of his horse making little sound, yet although Eleanor looked directly at him, she could not describe anything about him until he lifted his head and looked at her.

Eleanor would swear that it was old Martin Crozier astride that horse in the small hours of the morning, except in the half-light, he looked straight-backed and younger, with a long cloak descending from his shoulders and a bulky bag hanging from his saddle. He gave her one long, searching look and then he was gone, leaving her unsettled without any reason. After all, there was no reason why Martin should not ride his horse any time he liked. Eleanor watched him cross the central square and past St Bride’s Church. When she looked away, Martin vanished, although Eleanor had not seen him turn into a side street.

Eleanor’s uneasiness continued as a pair of crows landed opposite the hotel, dark bodies highlighted by the street lamps.

CHAPTER3

Dawn can be spectacular in the Scottish Borders, with a deep orange glow highlighting the long smooth curves of the hills and spreading up the sweet valleys. It is an ethereal time of great peace, as if the growing light disguises the history of dispossession, invasion and sordid deeds. Thomas was usually awake before dawn as if to prepare for an expected attack, and Eleanor joined him at the side of the window.

“Good morning, Thomas,” Eleanor said.

“Good morning.” He looked at her with his eyes slowly clearing. “What are you doing here, Eleanor?”

“We’re looking at Anton’s Walls today,” she reminded.

Thomas nodded, rational again, and the shadows were absent from his eyes. “We’ll start immediately after breakfast.”

Eleanor listened as the plaintive cry of sheep rose from the green slopes around the village and wished that she could have her brother and husband back from the war. Instead, she put on her brightest smile.

“That’s the spirit!” Eleanor said.

The waitress who served them was the same red-haired girl who had been so helpful the previous evening, and she greeted them cheerfully.

“Are you off to Anton’s Walls today, then?”

“We are, Sharon,” Eleanor said.

Sharon glanced out the window. “It’s a pity about the weather,” she said. “You won’t see the moor at its best.”

Eleanor looked outside, where the pink dawn had evolved into thin greyness. “It’s not too bad.”

“It will rain before nine o’clock,” Sharon said cheerfully. “You’d best take your coat and hat.”

Thanking her for the advice, Eleanor added. “We take the road northeast, don’t we? And then turn left.”

“That’s right, take the hill road up towards Hawick for three miles or so and look for a track on the left. You won’t see it from the road, but there’s an ancient standing stone a hundred yards from the turn-off. There might be a signpost, but it’s probably fallen now.” Sharon shook her head so her dark blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders. When Eleanor studied her, she saw the waitress was not as young as she had thought, for there were little lines around her eyes and mouth. Eleanor would have judged her age as mid-twenties.

“Deepsyke Muir is not level; it undulates up and down.” Sharon waved her hand up and down to demonstrate what she meant by undulates. “After rain, the down bits get wet. You’ll have to watch for the bogland because the floods get deep. When you pass the highest point, Deepsyke Head, there’s a nasty dip that fills in bad weather; that’s the ford over the Deep Syke, and Anton’s is straight ahead down the track.”

“Thank you.” Thomas surprised Eleanor by speaking. “How far down the track?”

Sharon screwed up her face. “About a mile from the black road. You’ll be driving in your Crossley, won’t you?”

“That’s correct.” Thomas replied first again.

“The new model?” Sharon asked.

“That’s right.” Eleanor felt a surge of joy at the light in Thomas’s eyes as he pursued his favourite subject of anything mechanical. “The 19.6.”

“The 19.6 is famous for its hill climbing.” Sharon was so enthusiastic Eleanor wondered if she was going to ask to join them. “A Crossley will manage the track better than most, but even then, you’ll have to be wary of the Deep Syke if it’s swollen with rain.”

Eleanor said nothing as Thomas replied again. “I didn’t see that name on the Bartholomew.”

“I doubt it’s marked,” Sharon said. “The track goes right across, or rather, right through.” She smiled. “You’ll see the ruins of Blackhouse Tower as well.” She leaned against Thomas, much to Eleanor’s delight.

Thomas smiled. “Thank you for your help, Sharon.”

Eleanor thought her brother was about to say more when a door banged shut somewhere in the hotel, and he started. She saw the light vanish from his eyes as though somebody had drawn a shutter, and he sank back down on his chair. Eleanor put her hand over his as he reached for a knife.

“Thank you, Sharon.” Eleanor diverted attention from Thomas’s reaction. “Now we know exactly where to go. Onto the Hawick road and watch for a track on the left.”

“That’s right,” Sharon said. She put a hand on the back of Thomas’s chair. “It would be good to see Anton’s occupied again. Deepsyke Muir can be a lonely place.”

“We want somewhere quiet,” Eleanor said with a telling glance at Thomas. “The quieter, the better.”

“You could not find anything quieter,” Sharon said before she hurried away in response to another customer.

Thomas mustered a weak smile. “Did you hear that gunshot?”

“It was only somebody banging a door.” Eleanor released his hand. “Come on, eat up, Thomas, and we’ll get away.”

“A door?” Thomas repeated and grinned. “I thought it was a rifle. My nerves must be getting the better of me.”

Eleanor nodded. That’s the first time he’s admitted his nerves. This place is already working.

* * *

Newbigging was awake when they left the inn, with half a dozen locals wandering to the shops, a pair of horse-drawn carts jostling for position in the street and a group of youths examining the Crossley.

“Is this your car, mister?” a broad, open-faced youngster asked Thomas, with something like awe in his voice.

“Yes,” Thomas said.

“How fast does it go?” The boy looked as if he was ready to jump in the driving seat to try her out.

“Sixty.” Thomas slid into the driving seat. He grinned at the boy. “Sometimes faster if we’re heading downhill with a following wind.”

“Sixty!” the boy said, with wonder in his voice. He stepped back for a better look.

“Should I not drive?” Eleanor asked.

“I’ll drive,” Thomas insisted.

Taking a deep breath, Eleanor sat in the front passenger seat, prepared to take over if Thomas’s mind retreated into the past. They drove out of the village with the hood down, the sound of the engine drowning out the bleating of sheep and half the local youths watching in envy. The countryside altered as they headed northeast, from well-tended fields to long stretches of pastureland dotted with sheep and the occasional prosperous farm snuggled into the hills. Twice they passed a ruined tower house, the simple defensive structure that had once held the Borders against invasion or reivers.

“This was a contested land,” Thomas said, with his eyes alert.

“It was,” Eleanor agreed.

It’s good to have you back, Thomas. Stay a little longer this time.

When Eleanor saw the great grey-green hump of Deepsyke Head rearing up to their left, they began to look for the turn-off. Heather stretched on either side, rising to distant hills where tendrils of grey mist slithered close to the ground.

“Sharon was right,” Eleanor said, checking Thomas’s watch. “Here comes the rain.”

The first droplets were light, but Eleanor was not fooled. The dampening patter was the harbinger of the remorseless Scottish drizzle that soaks the clothes and creeps insidiously through every possible defence humanity creates.

“Park here for a moment,” she said, and Thomas pulled up beside a weeping hawthorn bush. Leaving the Crossley, Eleanor dragged up the hood, knowing it would only give a limited cover.

“The rain is very atmospheric,” she said brightly. “Look for this side track. It can’t be far away now. Sharon said it’s near an old standing stone.”

“That will help,” Thomas said, smiling. “There must be a thousand stones here.”

After a few miles, Eleanor realised they must have passed the track as the heather moor gave way to fields of sheep and grey-stone farm steadings. She smiled when she saw a pair of crows in the middle of the road, remembering Martin’s song the previous night.

“We’ll have to go back,” she said.

Thomas performed a three-point turn in an already-spreading puddle and returned slowly along the narrow road as the rain steadily increased.

“There!” Eleanor nearly shouted the word. “There’s something! Is that not a standing stone?”

Nine feet tall, the stone thrust skyward beside the road, so prominent that Eleanor wondered how she had missed it when they drove past.

“It looks like one,” Thomas agreed.

Gorse bushes had grown tall on either side of the track’s opening, obscuring it from view, while a half-rotted wooden signpost leaned at a drunken angle behind a spreading elder tree. Years of Border weather and human neglect had almost obliterated the words, with just enough remaining to make out what had once been written.

Anton’s Walls.

“That’s us,” Eleanor said as excitement surged through her body. She saw the hoodie crows rise slowly from beside the signpost and again remembered the song from the previous night.

“As I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies making a mane,”

Shrugging away the words, she looked at their route.

Despite her desire to retain optimism, the sight was not prepossessing. There seemed more puddle than track, with brown mud between the dark water and boulders thrusting through tufts of coarse grass.

“Do you want me to drive?”

“I do not.” Thomas bristled at this assault on his driving skills, selected first gear and eased the Crossley onto the track. The hoodie crows returned to their previous position, with their predatory eyes watching the car’s progress.