Hob the Mouse moved up alongside the leader. "That be one in the eye for the English, I'm thinking."
"Aye, it is," the leader said with a chuckle. "'Tis a fine braw night, Hob. Good fresh air, a compliant moon, and a good stretch of the wit make life mighty fine for a man of adventure."
"Profitable, too," Hob said with a laugh. "Curst Eckie and me, we've got grating enough for both his cot and mine."
"Whisst," Rabbie commanded as they approached a shadowy, shrub-crowned hillock. "Can that be-Ambush!" he cried, realizing that the shadows at the hillock's top were not shrubs but mounted men. He wheeled his pony toward a cleft worn into the hillside by a rivulet, but before he had ridden ten feet, he saw above him a screen of lances and more steel-bonneted men. Grimly, he drew rein.
"Dinna turn aside, Rabbie," a man shouted behind him. "There canna be but ten o' the villains!"
"Nay, lads," he said loudly enough for his voice to carry to the silent ambushers. "In five years I ha' lost only three men-four if ye count the hanging-and I'm no going to lose any tonight unless God Himself ordains it. They outnumber us, and they've cut us off on two sides. There are lances ahead."
"Faith, they'll clap us all in irons!"
"Not us." Lowering his voice, he said, "Hob, lead the lads back the way we came till you reach that pond shaped like a birch leaf. Do you remember it?"
"Aye, but will ye no go with us, then, Rab?"
"No. When you reach that pond, cut over the lower of the two hills you'll see ahead of you. Kershopefoot Forest begins just the other side of it. Ride north and keep to the forest's cover till you reach Kershope Burn. You can cross into Scotland easily there, and make for home through Liddesdale."
"Aye, sure, but which of the lads will ye tak' wi' ye?"
"None of them. We can't expect that ruse to work twice in a night, especially against so many. They'd just split and follow us. If there is anything that might keep them together, though, it'll be the chance to capture Rabbie Redcloak."
In dismay, Hob said, "Ye'll no just ride bang up to them, laddie!"
"Not I. I mean to lead them a merry chase, but first I must be certain they know what a prize they'll catch if they're quick enough."
"But, Rabbie," Hob protested, "what if they send just a few after ye and the rest after us? They'll see in a trice that ye're nobbut one man."
He grinned. "Aye, but they think that one has the strength and skill of a wizard, and they'll believe that the rest of you are trying to draw them away from me. They'll not think for a moment that it's the other way about, not when they see this in the moonlight," he added, pulling off the dark, furry, hooded cloak he wore over his padded leather jack and breeks, and flipping it so its red silk lining showed.
"But if they catch ye-"
"Then I shall employ my gifts of gentle persuasion to good advantage until you and the lads come to rescue me. If the worst occurs, I shall simply await the next Trace Day and win free by ransom."
"Aye, if Himself will agree to pay one," Hob said doubtfully.
"Never fear. I shall talk my way out of trouble long before we need worry about that."
"Aye, well, ye've a tongue on ye could wheedle a duck off a tarn, 'tis true."
"It is, so go now," the leader said. "They've only waited this long to see what we will do. They won't wait much longer." Raising an arm, he shouted, "Ride, lads! We'll have moonlight again!"
Still waving, he wheeled his pony toward the head of the glen, urging it to a canter. When he believed that both groups of ambushers could see his figure clearly and must realize that his men had not followed him, he pulled back on the reins till the horse reared and wheeled again, making his cloak billow wide and free. As it did, the misty clouds screening the moon parted to illuminate the cloak's fiery red color. Spurring his pony hard, he rode up the slope to his left, opposite the waiting lancers. Keeping well clear of the ambushers on his right at the head of the glen, he charged back into the heart of Graham country.
After only a moment's hesitation, both sets of riders galloped after him, shouting their excitement at having deduced the identity of the most notorious reiver on either side of the Border.
Certain that he could elude them easily whenever he chose to do so, he let them keep him in sight. He knew that the sturdy border pony he rode had miles of distance left in it, and exhilaration surged through him, filling him with energy.
The mist was clearing overhead, which was both a boon and a worry-boon in that he could easily see his way, worry in that his pursuers could see him just as plainly. Twists and turns appeared throughout the rugged, hilly landscape, but he knew them all. His agile brain had been sorting and sifting the best routes for escape from the instant he had seen the first ambushers.
He wasted no thought on the identity of those who pursued him. Since he was deep in Graham country, it was likely that at least some were Grahams, but the area nearby on both sides of the Border was littered with members of that unholy tribe, which was as likely to fight its own as to fight men of other loyalties.
Reaching the top of a bill, he glanced back and saw that several riders had narrowed the distance. Two were within bowshot, so he dared not linger.
Suddenly, from behind, a trumpet sounded. For an instant he thought it was Jed the Horn, but the notes played soon told him that it was not. Then, to his shock, a second horn answered, and a third-one from ahead, the other to his left, and both much too close for comfort. If he did not take care, he warned himself, they would surround him. The moonlight no longer felt friendly.
A dog bayed, then another, and another.
He urged his pony away from the sounds. Only one direction beckoned now. He turned toward the Mote of Liddel, where the river Esk joined Liddel Water a few miles 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?"