“Beggars cannot always eat like kings.” Martin replied, and Campbell laughed at hearing his own words repeated.
Martin took a strip of meat. It felt as tough as old leather, but Campbell showed him how to tear strips off it without too much effort, and also how to get a drink of clear water from the thick moss under their feet. The water helped the meat go down and he was able to swallow several long pieces. He felt slightly less hungry ten minutes later when they stepped out of the forest and on to the road.
The first thing he did was look back, but Milecastle was hidden by the mist rising off the moor. He knew it was only a few miles way, but it seemed like much, much further. The road ahead of them was equally shrouded in mist and it felt as if they were alone in a vast gray, empty arena. Martin preferred the wind and rain—at least then you knew you were alive.
“Is it always this bleak?” he asked, and Campbell smiled.
“No—sometimes it rains.”
Martin nodded his head, then suddenly realised he was being teased.
“Here we are, “Campbell said. “Less than two leagues from your home, and you ask me about the prevailing weather? We are not in some wild foreign land—we have merely crossed a wall, an artificial barrier. The weather knows nothing of walls built by men.”
In truth, although so close to home, Martin did feel as though this was a wild, foreign place. There was no sense of the pastoral here—no contented cattle or well-tended fields. He could not relax, not here.
“You mentioned a place of relative safety?” Martin asked, suddenly remembering the earlier conversation.
“Aye. But it is a long walk from here—nigh on twenty miles. We’ll be hard pushed to make it before nightfall even if we run. And even then,” he said, half to himself, “I’m not sure whether I would be allowed to find my way there again.”
Campbell turned to Martin, and there was grim smile on his face.
“It looks like your first night over the wall may be spent in the open. Are ye ready for it?”
There was a knot in Martin’s stomach, and he knew he couldn’t blame it on the dried meat. But the future of his home might depend on him, so he nodded, and hoped that Campbell could not see his fear.
Setting their eyes to the north, they headed along the road, relieved to be finally rid of the overpowering trees around them.
“So where might this safe haven be?” Martin asked. “And how do you know of it?”
“It is an old place, from the time before the Bruce,” Campbell said. “The people there know the ways of the Others, and have defenses against them. And they took me in when I was on the road to Milecastle. But I believe I’ll say no more now—I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
Martin knew by the grin on the Scotsman’s face that he would get no more out of him on that subject. He chose to walk on in silence, his eyes continually trying to penetrate the fog, his body ready for any possible danger.
They walked for more than an hour, Campbell keeping up a fast pace that Martin, for all his youth, was hard pressed to match. The mist was thinning now, and they seemed to be climbing slightly. Through occasional breaches in the fog, Martin could see that they were approaching the foothills which marked the edge of his known world. Although they were still several miles away, he felt the thrill of going completely into the unknown.
“Where do we go when we reach the foothills?” Martin asked. “And what will we find there?”
“North-east for a while longer,” Campbell grunted. “And the going gets rougher as we reach the higher ground. The old road which the Romans built leads through the dead burgh of Newcastleton, and on across a withered moor towards Dun Edin and the old castle on the high rock. But we will not be heading that far. I plan to reach Newcastleton tonight, then we will skirt the great forest and head eastwards towards the old abbey at Jedburgh.”
Martin only had a vague idea of the geography on this side of the wall, and had only heard of one of the places Campbell mentioned.
“Dun Edin? Isn’t that where the Old Protector finally caught Charles Stuart?”
“Aye,” Campbell said. “Nigh on a hundred years ago, after the king of the Others had nearly brought your country to its knees. It was good for you that your Protector was so strong.” He stopped, and there was a faraway look in his eyes. “But bad for Scotland that he didn’t push home his advantage. He was back across the wall the very next day, taking Charles Stuart with him— back to London to face his public trial. If only he had pushed onwards—he could have ended it there. But he never caught the Boy King—and look at the trouble that has brought us now.”
“I’ve never really understood,” Martin said. “How did the Stuarts claim to have a right to the English throne in the first place, and how did Charles Stuart come to have a son? And how did the son grow to be the Boy King? And—”
“Enough,” Campbell said, and laughed. “I’d almost forgotten what it is like to be young and ignorant. Those are all long and bloody tales, whose origins go back centuries, but I will not tell them now, not here in the open where there are ears to hear. When we return to Milecastle you can pour me more of your father’s fine ale, and I will tell you tales until your ears fall off in boredom. But for the here and now, all we have to know is that the Boy King is here, he wants the throne his father once had, and our task is to find out what he is planning to do about it. Now perk up, our pace has been slacking while we waste our breath in prattle, and the sun is already passed its height.”
Martin stole a quick glance behind him, then stopped completely and turned around.
The mist had risen, and he was looking back the length of the road towards Milecastle. It was dwarfed by the scale of the landscape around it, the deep green of the forest leading to the blue grey of the escarpments and on to the slate blue of the sky. The castle’s turrets suddenly looked small and insignificant and, by stretching out his arm, Martin was able to cover the whole castle with his thumb. To either side of the castle he could see the wall stretching away into the hazy distance. He turned to say something to Campbell, but the Scotsman was already over a hundred yards away and he had to run to catch him up.
“Never look back,” was all Campbell said when Martin finally reached his side. “It only makes it more difficult to go forward.”
The pace Campbell was setting was, if anything, faster than before, and Martin found himself struggling to keep up, especially since the path was climbing ever more steeply. He could see the brow of the hill some way ahead and focused himself on getting there. He looked over to find Campbell smiling at him.
“Do you think you could beat an old man to the top?” Campbell said, and immediately broke into a run, gaining a few precious yards for himself before Martin realised.
Martin forced his legs into action. He had never been a sprinter—that was Sean’s department— but he knew that he had the stamina for the longer effort. It was only last year that he had won the Milecastle to Carlisle run on the day of the summer fair.
The Scotsman was getting ever further away, but Martin refused to try at this stage to catch him—the top was over a quarter of a mile away, and the Scotsman would have to be a devil to sprint all that way.
With a hundred yards to go Campbell began to falter, and with twenty to go Martin was on his shoulder.
They crested the hill together and both collapsed on the side of the road, panting heavily. It was several seconds before Martin was sufficiently recovered to speak.
“You daft old bugger, you could kill yourself with an effort like that.”
Campbell smiled.
“It’ll take more than a gentle stroll like that to put me down. And it stopped you fretting for the road back did it not?”
If the climb had been a piece of subterfuge, Martin had to admit that it had worked. His heart pounded and his throat was dry, but he felt strong and alive and ready for the road ahead. He sat up and looked around—forward this time to the way in front of them.
Beneath them the hill f
ell away sharply, the road following a twisting path to its foot where it forded a small river by means of an ancient stone bridge. Beyond that the road vanished into the thick cover of woodland that stretched as far as the eye could see, up and over the larger hills beyond whose tops were still hidden in thick mist.
Campbell saw him looking.
“They say that in the days before the Bruce much of this land was cleared. Farmers plied their trade on these hills, and the forest was kept in check. There was trade with the lands south of the wall. And if you can believe it, people even tore down sections of the wall to build their houses. But the dark days after Bannockburn put paid to all that.”
Martin stopped him.
“You have mentioned Bannockburn more than once. What is it? Is it a place?”
Campbell slapped his head in mock exasperation, but his eyes were twinkling when he replied.
“In God’s name, what do they teach their children in England? Do you know nothing of the history of the Others?”
Martin was embarrassed. “The Protector has decreed it illegal to speculate, or even think about them,” he stammered. “Our history relates to England, and England alone.”
“Aye,” Campbell said, “And any defeat can thus be safely forgotten. When we come to safety tonight, I will start your education—I take it you are willing to learn? I would not want to be making a criminal out of you.”
Campbell did not wait for a reply. He rose to his feet and headed off down the hill.
“Come,” he said. Let us see if there are any fish that would like to become lunch.”
Martin resisted the urge to have one last look back along the road and followed the Scotsman down the hill.
By the time he caught up with Campbell the man was already wading into the river and bending over a large rock. Martin knew that trick as well, and possibly better than the Scotsman.
Two minutes later he was proved right as he coaxed a one pound trout out from under a rock in a faster moving patch of water, and tossed it onto the bank.
Campbell cursed him for a lucky dog, but Martin knew it was more than luck—old Menzies had been a good teacher, and he had been a better pupil. Many times in his youth they had used this trick; the finding of a good size rock in flowing water, the tickling of the cold flesh of the fish until it lay quietly in your hand, and the sudden grasp, holding hard, that allowed you to tease it out from under the stone. Menzies had been good, almost magical, in his fish-catching prowess, but Martin’s skill was not far less.
Five minutes later he had another, slightly bigger fish this time. When he turned to throw it to the bank Campbell was already there, a fire started.
They wrapped the trout in heavy wet leaves and placed it at the edge of the small fire. Martin noticed that Campbell had taken care to put up as little smoke as possible.
“Surely we’re safe in the daylight,” he said.
“Safe from the Others maybe, but there’s other things in these woods, and some of them are mightily curious.”
Martin eyed the woods warily, but he saw nothing but the trees, and the smell of cooking trout soon brought his attention back to the fire.
They ate in silence, and Martin believed that the fish was the best he had ever tasted. Campbell buried the remains after they had finished, and spread the fire’s ashes over a wide area.
“Best to leave no trace,” he said. He rummaged in his backpack once more, and came up with what looked to Martin like a skinned animal. He went to the river and bent over, and finally Martin realised what he was doing—he was filling up an animal’s bladder with water. Martin also realised how ill equipped he was for the journey.
He had a flint and some dried straw for making fire, a small bag containing powder and musket load, and, in a pack over his shoulders, a thick cloak wrapped tight in a roll. Apart from his sword, and the garlic bulbs he had collected on the wall, that was it. Suddenly he felt naked without his musket and wished he had taken the time to retrieve it.
By contrast, the old Scotsman seemed to have everything he needed at hand. Martin believed that, if it hadn’t been for the current situation, the Scotsman might even be said to be enjoying himself.
When he looked up, Campbell was already making for the road.
“How much further today?” Martin shouted after him, groaning as his earlier exertions in climbing the hill made themselves felt in his calves and ankles.
“About ten miles to Newcastleton. We should make it by dusk,” the Scotsman said, and, crossing the bridge, they were once more on the road north.
They walked on, continuing uphill, the way harder now. Campbell did not propose another run, and in truth Martin did not feel he would have been able to raise even a trot. His wounded arm was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and a quick exploration of the bandage showed it to be wet through, so much so that his fingers came away red.
“Campbell.” He said, and the Scotsman stopped, “I think we need to tear another strip from my shirt.”
The Scotsman tutted and muttered under his breath as once more he cleaned the wound. This time, before ripping another strip from Martin’s shirt, he padded the wound with some moss.
“That’ll keep it clear, and stem the flux.” He said. “But we must take care to keep it clean at all times.”
When Campbell finished, Martin rearranged his clothing. He was going to feel cold in the arms, but the wound was well bound.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “Even old Menzies would call that a job well done.”
Campbell bowed slightly.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He said. “But come. The day is getting on, and we have far to go.”
So saying, he started out once more at a brisk walk.
Eventually they were walking in mist again, having reached the higher hills. It was growing perceptibly darker around them. Time after time they seemed to have crested a hill, only to find another stretching away in front of them. Martin’s legs were weary, and his breath was starting to hitch in his throat. Yet again his clothes were soaked through, and his boots squelched each time they hit the path. He did not believe he had ever been so miserable—not even in the aftermath of the debacle in the byre.
He realised, suddenly guilty, that he had given little thought to Sean. He looked backwards, as if he could see past Milecastle to the road beyond, but there was only mist and fog. He said a silent prayer for his friend, then, head down, continued the long trudge.
After nearly two hours, Campbell stopped to allow them a drink.
“About four miles to go I would guess,” he said and grinned at Martin’s groan. “Don’t worry— one more hill, then it’s all downwards. I cannot promise you any comforts at the end of it either, but we will have shelter, and a fire, and if luck is with us, a coney to eat. Here,” he said, handing the bladder to Martin, “you finish it, there’s a brook at our destination—we can fill it up again there.”
Martin drained the last dregs of water gratefully, and handed the bladder back to Campbell. Just as he was passing it over a movement caught his eye over the Scotsman’s shoulder as something short and green and fast ducked behind a tree. Martin had an impression of a pair of deep green eyes that looked straight through him. He started, and grasped the Scotsman’s arm.
“I know,” Campbell said before Martin could speak. “They have been with us for the past half hour. Don’t worry—I was seeking to find them, but it seems they have found us first.”
“Who are they?” Martin asked, but Campbell put his finger to his lips.
“Friends. Friends who are very shy, very careful. They will show themselves when they are ready.”
They started walking again.
“And ignore them, if you can,” Campbell said, seeing Martin scrutinising the area under the trees. “They can hide better than you can see anyway. Watch the road. Tell me of your life in yonder castle if it’ll take your mind off it.”
Martin started, hesitantly at first, but then he found
that he was pouring out the story of his life: his mother dying giving birth to the lifeless body of his young sister, his friendship with Sean, and slowly, cautiously, editing out the parts which would make him look worse, the story of the affair in the byre.
Campbell laughed uproariously at that, and Martin thought he saw a flicker of green in the trees to his right, but he said nothing of it.
He continued with his story, telling of his affection for Menzies, and his hopes and fears for the Thaneship that would be his one day. He surprised himself by bursting into tears, and wiped them away guiltily with the back of his hand.
Campbell laid a hand on his shoulder.
“We will return soon,” he said. “And you can show me your wall and your castle, and, yes, even the byre, or what’s left of it. But look,” he said, “we have conquered the hill.”
Martin looked up. It seemed that he had been staring at his feet forever, just concentrating on putting one in front of the other. He had not realised that the incline had become less, nor that the countryside had opened up below them into a panoramic view.
The scene nearly took Martin’s breath away. At some point during his monologue the mist had lifted once again, and the sky had cleared. Far to the west the sun was going down, a fiery, red ball that seemed to fill a quarter of the sky. He realised that he could see the sea, its surface red as blood as the dying sun sank into it and suffused it with colour. The sky was shot with pinks and purples, thin clouds scudding far overhead, their surface being caught and transformed by the last rays of sunset.
The hill was less steep on this side, falling away to a flat landscape that stretched as far as they could see, a plain that was all forest, its trees showing their autumn colours in shades of purple and brown and red. The road seemed to disappear into the wood about four hundred yards ahead, following the path of a small stream that gurgled and rumbled over the stony ground. Far to the east the silver crescent of a new moon was just appearing over the horizon, and, as if on cue, the clouds parted and the evening star blinked into existence overhead.
“I sometimes wish I was a bard, able to make songs to do justice to sights like this.” Campbell sighed loudly. “But it is just another nightfall, to be feared like so many before it. Onwards, our destination is just down there,” he said, pointing down into the nearer reaches of the forest. “And it’s time we hid ourselves away for the night.”
The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition Page 6
