The Chill of the Irrawaddy (The Soldier's Son Book 3)

Book summary

In The Chill of the Irrawaddy, Andrew Baird faces peril in Burma as he battles dacoits and King Thibaw’s soldiers while trying to rescue a captive girl. Amid the chaos of the 1885 Burmese War, Andrew struggles to protect his relationship with Mariana and secure a pardon for Bo Thura.

Excerpt from The Chill of the Irrawaddy (The Soldier's Son Book 3)

BERWICKSHIRE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1884

Andrew guided the dog cart to a twisted rowan tree at the side of the macadamised road and pulled Mariana’s cape tighter across her shoulders. An easterly wind carried rain from the German Ocean to spatter on Mariana as she sheltered under the tree.

“It’s lovely here,” Mariana said, looking over the damp fields towards the River Tweed.

“Apart from the foul weather,” Andrew replied.

“Oh, I don’t mind the rain,” Mariana said. “When we were young in Inglenook, Elaine and I always left the house when it was wet. We enjoyed the rain after all the dry weather.”

Andrew smiled, thinking of Mariana back in her home in Natal. “I could imagine you two dancing in the rain,” he said. He still thought of Mariana’s sister, Elaine, from time to time, even though it was five years since a force of renegades had murdered her and her parents on their farm on the Natal-Zululand border.

“Elaine would love it here,” Mariana looked over the green, fertile Border countryside, with the solid stone buildings nestling against swaying trees and cattle grazing in the fields. “It all looks so peaceful.”

“It does,” Andrew agreed. “It’s hard to believe this was once the most contested frontier in Europe, with Scots and English having battles, raids and skirmishes for hundreds of years.”

Mariana took a deep breath. “If you stand still and listen,” she said. “You can hear the tension.”

“Can you hear tension?” Andrew asked.

“Undoubtedly,” Mariana smiled at him, brushing back a loose strand of hair that had escaped from her hat. “Can’t you hear the voices of the old people?”

Andrew lifted his head. “All I hear is the wind in the trees and the rain pattering in the puddles!”

“Oh, Andrew!” Mariana tapped his arm. “You need to use your imagination! You can taste the tension in the wind and sense the old reivers and warriors.” She surveyed the landscape, from the rippling Tweed to the broad fields and distant green Cheviot Hills. “There is poetry in this land, Andrew; can you not sense the romance?”

“Can you sense Sir Lancelot?” Andrew asked. “According to some legends, he lived at Bamborough Castle; that was his Joyous Gard.”

“That’s quite a few miles south of here,” Mariana replied.

“He was a travelling man, a knight errant, and would go riding and hunting,” Andrew said. “We don’t know how extensive his lands would be, but I think he’d know this area well.”

They stood two hundred yards from the River Tweed, five miles west of Berwick. A stone’s throw away, a pair of stone buildings dominated a grassy knoll and sheltered behind a group of trees. One was a Georgian house, two storeys tall, with rain weeping from its grey slate roof and classically proportioned windows and doors. The other was much older, a crumbling ruin of a tower that had stood guard over a ford across the river for centuries.

“Can we look at the castle?” Mariana asked.

“We can,” Andrew told her. “Come on!” Taking Mariana’s hand, he helped her from the dog cart and guided her through the open five-barred gate and onto the rough track that curved upwards to the grey buildings.

“I hope the owner doesn’t mind us nosing his property,” Mariana said as they avoided the puddles and accidentally kicked loose stones up the path.

“He won’t mind. I know him,” Andrew replied.

Grass grew on the central ridge of the track, and a mouse scuttled in front of them. Andrew glanced sideways at Mariana, saw her genuine interest in the tower and nodded.

This idea might work. I have captured Mariana’s attention; I hope I have set the scene for tomorrow’s question. Andrew looked at her fondly, lifted a hand to touch her shoulder and dropped it again.

“What is the castle called?” Mariana hardly glanced at the Georgian farmhouse. Her eyes were busy on the grey-stoned tower, where a rowan tree clung precariously to the upper wall, and moss furred the lower layers. A bevy of pigeons exploded from the ruin, wings flapping noisily, with a single crow observing them from the topmost height.

“Corbiestane Tower,” Andrew stopped at the apex of the curve, where a group of whins whispered in the breeze. “A corbie is a crow, so it means the Tower of the Crow’s Stone.”

“There’s the corbie up there,” Mariana nodded to the crow.

“The tower guards a ford across the Tweed,” Andrew indicated the river. “On this bank, we are in Scotland, while the opposite side is England; this ford would be an important crossing point for both countries.”

Miraculously, the rain stopped, and a shaft of sun landed on the tower’s doorway, showing a carved stone above the entrance.

“What’s the carving?” Mariana asked. She stepped closer, craning her neck to see. “It looks like,” she turned away, facing Andrew with new colour flushing her cheeks. “It’s not, Andrew! It can’t be.”

“It’s a phallic symbol,” Andrew hid his smile. “The Romans used it as a sign of good luck, which means either the original building here is very old, or the builder cannibalised a Roman ruin for his tower.”

“So, this tower might have been here in King Arthur’s time?” Mariana asked, glancing sideways at the symbol and then looking away.

“Not this particular tower, but I’d say there’s been a building guarding the ford for centuries, perhaps back to Roman times. In that case, something would have been here in Arthurian times and perhaps owned by Sir Lancelot. He’d appoint one of his knights to watch for raiders, either Scots or English.”

“Oh,” Mariana lifted her skirt higher and walked to the tower, touching the stones as if to recapture the legends of King Arthur. “To think that Arthur, Guinevere or Lancelot might have been here.” She looked over her shoulder at Andrew. “Do you think the present owner would mind if I went inside?”

“I am sure he wouldn’t mind at all,” Andrew replied. “But be careful; it’s a bit tumbledown.”

Avoiding looking at the carved stone, Mariana stepped through the battered doorway and looked up. The tower was a hollowed-out ruin, with bare walls reaching to the silver-grey sky, knee-high weeds sprouting on the ground and vegetation thrusting between the stonework. Birds had nested in the arrow-slit windows, and the wind moaned through the gaps.

“It’s lovely,” Mariana said. “To think Lancelot might have been here.”

“This tower was built long after his time,” Andrew reminded her. “He might have visited the site, though, if he ever existed.”

“Of course, he existed,” Mariana retorted.

Andrew smiled at her passion. “Of course he did,” he agreed.

Mariana smoothed her hand over the rough stonework. “But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, “She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.”

“Indeed,” Andrew recognised Tennyson’s poetry.

“Maybe Tennyson visited here before he thought of the Lady,” Mariana said. “He wasn’t far away, was he?”

“I know he loves the Lake District,” Andrew said. “I don’t know about the Tweed.” He changed the subject. “Would you like to see the house?”

“You know I love looking at other people’s houses,” Mariana replied. “Will the owner not object to two strangers dropping in unannounced?”

“The house is empty,” Andrew replied. “And I have the key.”

Mariana took his arm. “Oh, you clever thing! Come on then, Andrew! What are we waiting for?”

The key turned smoothly in the lock, and Andrew pushed the door open and stepped aside so Mariana could enter first.

“It’s completely empty,” Mariana said. She strode into the house, looking around her. “What a lovely place, and so fortunate being so close to Lancelot’s tower.”

Mariana has convinced herself that Lancelot lived on the tower, Andrew thought. Maybe that’s no bad thing.

“What do you think of this house?” Andrew asked. He closed the door and stepped back to allow her a better view.

“It’s beautiful,” Mariana replied. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she raced to the landing upstairs, with the sound of her boots echoing in the hallway. “There are four rooms up here,” she said.

Andrew followed her upstairs, checking the walls and ceilings for signs of dampness and black mould.

“What would you do with this house if it was yours?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Mariana replied. “I’d have this room overlooking the tower, and your bedroom would be over there, with a view to the river.” She hesitated for a moment. “I nearly said the Tugela River.”

“I guessed that,” Andrew said. “The house’s situation is similar to Inglenook.” He allowed Mariana a moment to recover from her memories. “Except for the possible Arthurian connection. Would you like to live here?”

“I’d love to,” Mariana replied. “I’d see Lancelot and Arthur every day.”

“Good,” Andrew said. “That’s why I bought it. Farming is currently going through a slump and prices have dropped, so it was dirt cheap.”

“Oh,” Mariana put a hand over her mouth, staring at him. “So it’s yours?”

“Ours, if you want to share it,” Andrew said. “Unless you have some secret sweetheart you want to run off with.”

Mariana turned away. “You know very well that I do not have a sweetheart.”

You used to think you loved me, Mariana. What happened?

“Indeed,” Andrew said, hiding his disappointment. “When you’ve had your fill of Corbiestane, Mariana, we’ll return to Berwick.”

“When can we move in?” Mariana asked.

“When all the legal paperwork is completed, and I have the workmen install modern plumbing and lighting,” Andrew said. “After that, you can do what you will to the house.”

When Mariana smiled quietly, Andrew knew she was already planning her alterations.

“The stone,” Mariana said. “Where is the Corbiestane?”

“At the back,” Andrew led her outside, carefully locking the door behind him. The Corbiestane was a large lump of rock with the crudely carved figure of a bird inscribed on one side.

Mariana ran her hands over the carving. “What was it for?”

“Nobody knows,” Andrew told her. “There are many legends, but nothing is certain.”

“I think Lancelot’s knight had a corbie on his shield, and he carved the stone to let everybody know he was guarding the ford,” Mariana said.

“That’s as good an explanation as any,” Andrew agreed. “Now, shall we get away before the heavens open again? Tomorrow, I am taking you to Edinburgh to see Saint Margaret’s Chapel.” He saw Mariana looking at him but did not explain further. Mariana was studying Corbiestane farmhouse, deciding what type of wallpaper she wanted.