The Spiral Dance by Robertson R. García Y

Author:Robertson, R. García Y. [Robertson, R. García Y.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0688109020
Publisher: William Morrow & Co
Published: 1991-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

—Thomas Nashe, 1567-1601

THE KIRK ON THE GREEN

Anne stood at the brink of the dance. Swaying to the ill-tuned fiddles. Smelling Jock Barley’s Blood simmering in the still-pot. The Sabbath dance of these Border Scots seemed infectious, almost a mania—a madness strong enough to carry away the most sober heads. She felt tempted. The whirling Scots, the skirling pipes, the bubbling barley spirits, nearly swept her away.

Piping ceased, cut off in midmeasure. Anne rose to look past the crowd. Women in wide skirts parted from men in leather breeches, making a path for horsemen. Anne reached out for Alison, feeling responsible for the girl.

A party of riders in half-armor and pot helms came clattering up on Border hobbies; bearing bows, pistols, and two-handed swords. Blue-and-white pennants fluttered below their lance points. The lead rider was a bull-sized Scot, wild and grim-looking, wearing a blue Stewart tartan pinned with a gold sunburst.

“Kerrs, m’lady.” Alison looked more excited than alarmed. By now Anne was over-familiar with the Border tribes, and it mattered much to her what kind of Kerrs these were. She was on tolerably good terms with the Ferniehurst Kerrs—who had only ridden off with her once. But beyond the Kerrs she saw the red Cross of Saint George, borne by an English ensign; behind him were men on foot in white coats carrying hackbutts, and farther back a hedge of pikes showed above the hackbutteers. An English captain lounged on horseback among the Kerrs, wearing the Earl of Sussex’s badge.

Seeing her own people put real fear in Anne. She could only imagine that they had come for her. Holding tight to Alison, she backed into the crowd. Anne was dressed like a Scot, but half the North Country might know her by sight.

Alongside the Englishmen was a preacher’s blue serge coat, ringed by riders bearing tall Jedburgh axes with wicked round cutting edges. The Kerrs could not be Ferniehurst Kerrs—Ferniehurst was at feud with Jedburgh. They had to follow Walter Kerr of Cessford, warden of the Scots Middle March, and an ally of Sussex.

The preacher trotted forward, tall and angular, with a stem look and prophet-sized beard. A hush fell over everyone, then he thundered at the crowd, “Where in Scripture does it say yew are ta prance like proud Philistines on this the Laird’s Day?”

Anne almost laughed at the question. Her fears had been for nothing. Sussex’s men made no move to search the crowd, and must not know she was there. Instead of being dragged off to prison, she was going to be subjected to another lecture on Reformed religion.

Jock stepped forward with the swagger of a wolf who did not fear a hackbutt ball. His only visible protection was a blue-and-white ribbon in his bonnet; Kerrs and Armstrongs shared the same colors. Anne cursed his courage under her breath. Bravado would only draw attention.

“Yer lairdschip’s most mistaken,” advised Jock. “These people prance like Scotts. Any Kerr can tell yew Scotts are too thick-footed ta learn foreign steps; not from a Frenchman, nor even from a Philistine.

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