'You shouldn't have taken it at a run. You could have hurt more than your ankle. Foolish creature.'
This expression was mild compared to what he wanted to say - and do - at that moment. She was behaving like a spoilt child and deserved more than a gentle reprimand. He pursed his lips grimly.
However, she was lighter than he had expected, small boned although she was quite tall. Bodily contact was not unpleasant, she was warm, sweet smelling, her hair resting against his cheek...
Damned woman. Damned woman, he muttered to himself and set her down rather more sharply than was kind on one of the flat stones within the circle. There, without a word of thanks, she began to moan and rub her injured ankle.
He pushed her hands aside. 'Let me look at it.'
Angrily, she thrust him away. 'No. Leave me alone. There's nothing you can do. Unless you're a doctor.' And wriggling her foot, she winced. 'It's probably just sprained a little. If I could rest for a few minutes.'
'Very well,' he said wearily. 'Let me know when you're ready to go down.'
She looked towards the road, distant beyond the stony field. 'How can I walk that far?'
He looked at her. 'I'll see if I can find a stick somewhere. You can use that. If not, I'll carry you. You're not very heavy.'
She darted him an angry glance. As if the whole episode was his fault.
Never had he met such a thankless, ungracious young woman and he walked quickly away before she could think of any ill-natured comment.
Leaving her with little hope of finding a branch for support, he was glad to escape from her and to concentrate on his reason for coming here in the first place. The view was breathtaking. The site commanded a magnificent landscape over the Cheviots, reaching out to touch the border with Scotland.
As for the five headless women, they were less forbidding at close quarters than seen from below. On closer examination the torso shapes were the result of natural erosion, confirming Hector Elrigg's theory that the fluting effect might well produce alarming sounds when the wind was in the right direction.
He made his way carefully through the nettles, which were their natural protective vegetation and whose roots had long ago hidden any significant details of what had been the purpose of their original builders.
Lost in thought, he was suddenly aware of Miss Crowe looking over his shoulder.
'You've been such a long time, I thought you'd gone without me,' she said anxiously, sounding so contrite and scared that, smiling kindly, he was able to bite back the words: As you richly deserved.
In no hurry to leave, he continued to look at the view, fascinated by the mystery of this strange prehistoric site.
As if reading his thoughts she said, 'Why were they put here?' - her voice a whisper as if they might be overheard, their presence resented by the ghosts of this ancient place. 'Do you have any idea? I mean, how they were carried up this steep hill?'
'They are questions to which we will never have proper answers, I'm afraid. No more than how the Pyramids of Egypt were built.'
Pointing towards a horizon where Scotland began: 'Defence? Was that what they had in mind?' she asked.
'Probably. A lookout post for the hillfort below.'
'It must have been more than that, surely. A lookout post wouldn't have lasted for thousands of years.' Caressing the outline of the nearest stone, she smiled. 'Could they have been Celtic princesses perhaps?'
Faro smiled. 'If you mean, is that winsome legend true, I can assure you of one thing. These stones had been well established for centuries, a landmark long before the Romans came.'
'Or before history was written.' She moved away from the stone, hobbling a little. 'I think I will be able to manage now - if I may take your arm.'
'Of course.' He helped her from the perimeter of the stones to the edge of the field. 'What brought you here?'
'Oh, I don't know. Natural curiosity. It's an intriguing story, one wants to believe that it's true. At least I'd like to. And I wanted to know why the village people were so afraid, why they avoid it.'
Leaning against the fence for support, she pointed towards the Eildon hills. 'Have you read Sir Walter Scott, by any chance?'
'Of course,' Faro replied. 'He is one of my heroes.'
She shook her head. 'A splendid writer, I give you that. Of romances. But he got it all wrong, didn't he?'
Faro looked at her, amazed at her perception. He had read all Scott's books eagerly, avidly, and realised the minute he set foot in Elrigg how far his hero was from the core of the truth.
'This is hardly the land of romance, of Gothic mystery as he portrayed it, don't you agree? You just have to be here a few hours to set that right.'
He found himself remembering that her choice of reading lay in the Sensation novels category, when he answered: 'You think the fairy tale of brave gallant Scot and sturdy Celt was a myth?'
'I most certainly do. As were his brave knights and beautiful maidens with high moral principles and dreams of chivalry. Men and women aren't like that. They're flesh and blood - weak creatures.'
'Not all flesh is weak,' he said stoutly.
'Don't tell me you believe all the ballads handed down from one generation to the next and from the heart of this nation's poetic soul. Can you be that innocent - or idealistic?'
She laughed and, before he could reply, she added solemnly: 'Scott was a Borderer himself, he must have known the truth, the terror and cruelty that he winced away from writing about. But he opted for the false name of romance to turn a blind eye on reality, on what really happened, and instead was content to present history as a kind of Arthurian legend.'
He knew it was true. Nothing was further from the reivers' thoughts than dying for their God and
