The appointed night came, and ere
they started in the uncertain light of a misty moon the keeper of
Redesdale supped at Girsonfield. "Ye're loaded, are ye, Parcy?" asked
the genial host in the burring Northumbrian voice we know so well even
to-day. "I'll give a look to our primings while ye drink a stirrup-cup."
More than a look he gave. Strong spirit from the Low Countries might be
good jumping powder for the Keeper of Redesdale, but it was a damping
potion for the keeper's musket when gently poured on its priming. At
Batenshope, on the Whitelee ground, Reeds and Halls and Croziers met,
and a joyous crew were the Croziers that night as they homewards rode up
the Rede valley. For at the first fire of Percival Reed's musket it
burst, and he dropped from his horse a murdered man. The Reeds knew it
for treason, and the subsequent conduct of the Halls left them no room
for doubt. It was, indeed, a fine foundation for a family feud, and for
generation after generation the feud went on.
What was the end of Hall of Girsonfield no one has chronicled; it is not
hard to imagine the purgatory of his latter years.
But it is not of him but of his innocent victim that tales are still
told in the Rede valley.
From the night when his spirit was by treachery and violence reft from
his body, there was no rest for Percival Reed.
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