“Sire, some of these men are not soldiers, they are citizens, burghers, craftsmen.”
“These burghers sank our ships and killed Richard of Cornwall! Do you presume to question my orders, de Warenne?”
“I do, Sire. There is no honor in this carnage. When the pages of history are writ, do you wish to be immortalized as England’s greatest king and lawmaker or as the butcher of Berwick?”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “You argue as passionately as your sister. All the de Warennes are damned presumptuous!”
“I dare speak my mind only because my loyalty is absolute. If you do not call a halt, the hatred between Scots and English will deepen so that it will be impossible to ever unite the two countries. What I witnessed outside covers me with shame, but worse, it covers you with shame, Sire. There are women and children being slaughtered out there.”
“Nay, my order was to kill only the men. Call a halt!”
Lynx de Warenne did not linger. He had what he had come for. Now he must get the word out to an army drunk with bloodlust.
Jory de Warenne could not remember a journey she had enjoyed more than the one from Newcastle to Wigton. Both she and Robert Bruce had indulged in an outrageous flirtation that lasted the entire ride. They were exceedingly formal within earshot of others, but the moment they knew they could not be overheard, they teased and toyed with each other in a shockingly intimate fashion. It was a game they enjoyed, made doubly delicious because it was a secret they alone shared.
Jory stood atop Wigton Castle gazing off in the direction of Carlisle, only eight miles away. The Bruce had brought her up to the ramparts knowing it was a place where they could be alone together. Robert stood so close to her, their bodies almost touched. Jory had to lean her head back to look up at him. His dark eyes licked over her like a candle flame. “I know Wigton intimately. It was one of the castles we seized when Baliol came to the throne and we were at odds with the English.”
Jory gazed up at him. “I can see you now, breaching her defenses, forcing her to your will, making her yield.”
He lifted a tress of silver-gilt hair that was being ruffled by the breeze. “Conquest is in my blood.”
As Jory looked up at him she pictured a conqueror, his claymore and battle-ax dripping blood. He wore a breastplate over his massive chest, but his arms and shoulders were naked, travel-stained with dirt and sweat.
Marjory felt her legs grow weak and her body begin to tremble uncontrollably as she watched his fierce gaze sweep over her. Her breath stopped in her throat. “Robert!” She felt herself sway.
He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her toward the stairs. How did he know her own legs were too weak to carry her to her chamber? Jory could not tear her eyes from him. He glistened with sweat and dirt, and the hard metal that covered his chest was hurting her breast that was pressed tightly against him. She welcomed the hurt! With each step he took the world and everyone in it receded farther away.
An ache began deep in her belly, then spread up through her heart and into her throat. Her very skin became sensitized as the wool of her gown touching her body made her want to scream. His arms were so powerful and made her feel so secure, she wanted them about her forever.
Jory was lost, utterly lost. She was limp no longer, and neither was he. He filled her with energy, he filled her with hunger, he filled her with lust! She had no previous experience of the pure animal need. Her swift arousal staggered her. She knew he was experiencing an arousal of his own. No! It wasn’t a separate thing at all. They shared the same arousal. Equally. It bound them together inextricably with its chains.
Jory flung an arm in the direction of her chamber and he understood the gesture without need of words. He carried her inside, kicked the door closed, then set her feet to the rug while he unbuckled his breastplate. She clung to him to keep from falling, wondering at the madness that gripped her to possess him, and to be possessed.
He had the broadest chest she had ever seen in her life. She couldn’t tear her gaze from it. He looked as if he’d been sculpted from bronze; he felt as hard as metal too. Her hands came up to glide over the superb musculature. “Robert!”
His mouth came down to taste his name on her lips. There was nothing tentative about the kiss. It was hard and savage and selfish. Jory realized at this moment that he was uncivilized, and heaven be praised, so was she. Together they tore off her gown and stripped the Bruce naked. Before the last garment fell away, Jory was climbing him as if he were an oak tree. Always before, when she had been intimate with her husband, she had been bathed and scented in the bedchamber. Now she smelled like nothing but a woman. He smelled like a man ripe with lust.
Robert grasped her buttocks, anchoring her as he impaled her on his upthrust shaft. Both cried out with the glory of it. Jory was panting with need, moaning and clawing and crying like a feline in heat. Fused together, they fell to the bed, his weight crushing her. He infused her with so much sexual energy she arched beneath him, lifting his magnificent body for the pure sensual bliss of feeling him plunge ever deeper.
It was as if he were storming her defenses with a battering ram. Jory threw back her head and laughed wildly. Her defenses had come down before he’d ever touched her. Robert’s own laughter rolled over her as he pounded his body into hers. It was rough and elemental and like nothing she’d ever experienced in her marriage.
Jory became so frenzied she began to bite him. It turned the tide instantly for both of them. One minute she was drowning in need, the next she was soaring on the crest of a wave of pleasure, her body dissolving in liquid tremors, sheathing his scalding, marble-hard manroot as it burst, spurting his male essence up inside her like molten sparks of fire.
When they were both fully spent, he rolled on his back and took her with him. Jory’s eyes gazed down into his, devouring him. The cataclysmic mating had shaken her, changed her. She had always known she was sensual and feminine. Now she realized sensuality paled beside what she experienced with this man. He could do anything to her and she would welcome it, crave it. Her heart soared with her newfound knowledge. He was the magnificent Robert Bruce and she was a perfect match for him!
His eyes traveled up her body as if he owned it, then came to rest on her heart-shaped face. His nostrils flared at the mingled scent of their bodies. She was so fragile, ethereal almost, he marveled that he had not shattered her. He had wanted her beneath him since he’d seen her at Newcastle. Nay, he’d wanted her sheathing his cock five years ago when she was seventeen. “I’m sorry, lass.”
Jory’s eyes clouded momentarily, then a smile lit up her face. “You lying bastard!”
He laughed then. “Nay, I’m not sorry, I am triumphant.”
She touched her lips to his heart, licking the sweat glistening there.
He lifted her off his body and laid her on her back beside him. Then he came up on his knees, straddling her, his eyes smoldering as his fingers began to explore the prize he had taken.
“Robert, not again!” she gasped.
“Jory, we only fucked. Now I’m going to make love to you.”
She felt as if her very bones would melt.
The lovers looked like complete opposites, one so strong, the other fragile; one so big, the other petite; one dark and swarthy, the other so unearthly fair. But under the skin they were perfectly matched, not only sexually, but temperamentally.
The Bruce’s lovemaking was slow, unhurried, and completely thorough, but the moment their appetites were slaked and they were both satisfied, he was off the bed and dressing.
“Carry me off to Carlisle,” she whispered.
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Temptation is in my blood.” For the space of a heartbeat, she thought he would take her, then the truth of the situation dawned on her. “You won’t be staying at Carlisle, will you, Robert?” she asked wistfully.
He scooped her from the bed and enfolded her against him with massive arms. “Soon I go to topple a king from his throne and to take back my castles
, then Annandale.”
Robert Brace’s resolve and ambition were so powerful Jory almost felt awed by them. “And then take Scotland?” she asked breathlessly.
He searched her face with his dark brilliant eyes. “You’ve seen inside my heart and read its secrets.” He kissed her swiftly, then spun her about and slapped her bottom. “I’m a bloody fool to let a woman come that close. Hurry and dress.”
A week later, Jory knew she could stay indoors no longer. The hills and dales were dotted with lambs, an early spring had brought everything into bloom, and the game was plentiful. She decided to go riding, mayhap even organize a hunt. She picked up her skirts and went to seek Alicia, thinking she must be just as ready for diversion as Jory herself was.
Alicia had chosen beautiful rooms in the front wing overlooking the Cumbrian Mountains. The magnificent Skiddaw, whose peak disappeared into the clouds, seemed close enough to touch from her chamber windows. Marjory tapped lightly on her door and waited. When no one answered her knock, she assumed Alicia must be downstairs. Then she heard a low moan.
Jory moved closer to the door and called Alicia’s name softly. Again, she heard a moan of distress and immediately turned the knob. There were times when Jory found Alicia Bolton extremely tiresome, but she was filled with concern the moment she saw Alicia doubled over with pain.
“Oh my dear, whatever is it?” Jory asked, rushing to her side.
“It’s nothing. Leave me alone!”
“Nothing? But you are in agony—have you been poisoned?” Jory picked up a goblet with dark liquid in the bottom and sniffed it.
“Stop spying on me!” Alicia screamed, holding her belly as if she were in the throes of labor.
Then Jory saw the girl’s skirts were soaked with blood. “My God, you’re hemorrhaging—let me help you!”
Alicia burst into tears. “Don’t tell Lynx, promise me you won’t tell him?”
Marjory de Warenne’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. Alicia Bolton was aborting a child! The brownish liquid in the goblet was pennyroyal, a strong abortifacient whose aromatic smell was quite distinctive.
Jory ran to the bed, pulled off a sheet, and tore it into squares of linen. “We have to get this bleeding stopped!” Her heartbeat was drumming inside her ears. God’s tears, didn’t the woman realize she could die?
“It will stop,” Alicia assured her through gritted teeth. “The pain is terrible, but with pennyroyal there is no vomiting or purging of the bowel.”
“You’ve done this before?” Jory asked, horrified. She was shocked at what Alicia had been doing. It was a revelation to discover that her brother was perfectly capable of siring children. How selfish Alicia had been to deny Lynx his heart’s desire; he so desperately wanted a child.
“Come, let me help you to bed,” Jory said to Alicia, thinking the woman was her own worst enemy. Didn’t she realize that Lynx would marry her in a minute if she bore him a child? Jory was on the verge of telling her this, when she reconsidered. She’s not good enough for him!
“Jory, please, swear you won’t betray me?” Alicia begged frantically. “This is punishment enough!”
Though Jory was repulsed by what Alice Bolton had done, she felt compassion for the suffering woman. “I won’t betray you, Alicia, but I strongly advise you to confess all to my brother.”
5
At Dumfries, all the Comyn men-at-arms along with their commander had been recalled north to the Scottish city of Scone. John Comyn, Constable of Scotland, was gathering an army as fast as he could. He was the power behind his kinsman King Baliol only because he wanted the crown of Scotland for himself one day. Now at the head of the Scots army he had gathered, Comyn swept down through Annandale on his way to England.
Jock Leslie, Dumfries’ steward, was angered when Comyn’s men rode through Dumfries and stripped it of its livestock and fodder to feed the army. Jock and his sons, along with the other castle retainers, were gathered in Dumfries’ bailey to assess matters.
“Dumfries is owned by the crown, and when King Alexander ruled Scotland and the Braces were wardens in Annandale, we were paid wages for our services. Since the Comyn clansmen have occupied Dumfries we’ve seen little coin, but at least until now we had the largest herds of cattle and flocks of sheep to fill our bellies,” Jock said with disgust. “Goddamn the bloody Comyns!”
“Ye should be ashamed, the lot of ye,” Megotta scolded. “They’ve gone to fight the English and they can no’ do that on empty bellies.”
“Christ, woman, only a week ago the Comyns were on the same side as the English. Now they’ve turned their coats again. I hope to God the Bruces defeat the Comyns and regain Annandale and all their castles. We got paid our wages when the Bruce controlled the western marches!”
“The Braces are the greatest turncoats in Scotland,” Megotta accused. “It’s their Norman blood.”
Jock’s lips twitched. He knew she was trying to goad him; in Megotta’s eyes, a Celt could do no wrong, and a Norman could do no right.
Alex Leslie spoke up. “In the forge, when they were gettin’ their mounts reshod, the soldiers were complainin’ that the Earls of Angus and Dunbar refused the call to arms.”
“They’re not the only ones, I’ll warrant. Every clan this side o’ the Forth prefers a Bruce to a Comyn.”
“Earl Patrick of Dunbar always was thick as thieves with Brace. The blood of all the Lowland clans is watered down with filthy English blood. It’s too bad our family didna stay in the Highlands. I spit on the Brace and the English!” Megotta cursed.
“Better get used to them.” Keith looked at his grandmother with tender concern. “The English are comin’, an’ sooner than ye think.”
“Ha! If they come to Dumfries to crash us beneath their heel, we’ll poison the bastards. Jane and I know our herbs and potions, healing and otherwise!”
“No!” Jane cried. “I would never use my gift for evil.”
Jock looked at his daughter’s eyes, wide with distress and fear. “Come here, child. Ye have naught to fear. The Leslies are castle keepers. We serve whoever garrisons Dumfries Castle. I am half Anglo-Norman and I know the English are no more monsters than the Scots.” He spread his hands. “They are simply men.” Jock realized he should have weaned his youngest daughter away from the old woman long ago. Jane should have a husband and bairns to fill her life.
Jane swallowed hard. Simply men! That was precisely what she was afraid of. She reached for her talisman and remembered that she’d had a dozen requests for protective touchstones in the past two days alone. Men as well as women wanted them. If there was naught to fear, why were the people of Dumfries suddenly seeking the power of magic to protect themselves?
In Berwick the madness stopped, the dead were buried, and Edward Plantagenet immediately issued orders that whatever had been destroyed in the city must now be rebuilt. The walls of the fortifications were raised higher and the ditch was deepened. To set an example, the king wheeled out the first barrow piled high with mortar and stones.
Within a week, Edward Plantagenet improved the laws and appointed capable men to administer them. He also abolished the hated tax on wool, called the maltote. Some of this was done in an effort to atone for the slaughter he had ordered, but word of what the English had done at Berwick spread over Scotland like smoke from a wildfire, choking the Scots and filling them with hatred for the English conquerors.
When King Edward received King Baliol’s missive renouncing his fealty, the royal Plantagenet anger was roused again. “The false fool! De Warenne, you will see that he is plucked from his bloody throne, and brought to me on his knees begging for my mercy! Within the month I want Baliol lodged in the Tower of London!”
John de Warenne had so many men-at-arms to deploy, he chose some of Lynx’s foot soldiers, along with battalions belonging to Percy and Bohun, to stay behind in Berwick to rebuild and to keep the seaport securely under English control. He directed Anthony Bek, the warrior Bishop of Durham who command
ed his own levy of soldiers, to capture King Baliol, then de Warenne took the main body of the army up the coast toward Dunbar where he knew Earl Patrick would remain steadfast to the English. At Dunbar, Edward Plantagenet planned to rejoin his army as it crossed the Lammermuir Hills and cleared the way to the capital city of Edinburgh.
Robert Bruce began to gather up men-at-arms from throughout Northumberland. More Irish and Welsh troops, along with supplies, poured into Carlisle each day, and by the end of the week, Bruce was ready to march into Scotland to take back what had been his.
When word reached him of the massacre at Berwick he knew Comyn, who commanded the Scottish army, would retaliate. Robert Bruce assumed Comyn would march his main army to confront the English. He was astounded when he learned his bitterest enemy was avoiding the English in the east and was instead destroying towns in the west. Comyn’s forces were meting out the same mindless destruction that Edward had used at Berwick. He encouraged his army of Scots to ravage the English countryside as soon as they crossed the border, first destroying the monastery of Hexham, then sweeping through Redesdale and the other dales, drawing ever closer to his goal of Carlisle. Every English town and village in the Scots’ path was looted then burned, their men, women, and children put to the sword, their livestock driven off, and their churches razed.
Inside the walled city of Carlisle, Robert Bruce waited, ready, willing, and more than able to take on his enemy Comyn, the hated Earl of Buchan.
Comyn selected three thousand of his finest. The Scots relished the idea of a surprise attack, but until over a thousand were inside the city’s walls, they had no idea they were the ones who would be surprised!
Leaving one of his brothers to defend the castle itself in the unlikely event it would come under attack, Robert Bruce and his other brothers descended upon the Scots from the north, south, east, and west. The enemy tried to flee, but the encompassing walls held most of them captive, like fish in a barrel. The slaughter was both easy and terrible in its scope. Before the afternoon light began to leave the sky, almost one thousand Scots lay dead in the streets of Carlisle.
A Year & a Day Page 5
