by Barbara Bard
“The last thing we need is for some peasant to report Englishmen this far north,” Gilbert said. “If you see anyone, report to me immediately.”
As it happened, no more than two hours passed when George returned at a gallop. “Over those hills, My Lord,” he said to Gilbert, bowing in his saddle. “A young shepherd and a flock of sheep. We cannot ride past him without being seen.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No, My Lord. I believe he is quite alone.”
“Good.” Gilbert leaned back in his saddle, smiling with satisfaction. “Ride within range of your bow and shoot him down.”
George blanched. “In – in cold blood, My Lord?”
“He is nothing but an animal,” Gilbert said, scowling. “Do you not have the belly to do as your liege lord commands?”
“He is but a youth, My Lord,” George protested.
“Give me your bow and quiver, coward,” Gilbert snarled. “I will remove this paltry peasant myself.”
Seizing the man’s bow and arrows, Gilbert spurred his horse to the top of the ridge, finding the young Scottish shepherd well within range of his shot. Nocking an arrow to the string, he pulled it back to his ear, taking aim. The boy saw him too late, his jaw dropping in shock and terror.
Releasing the bowstring, Gilbert saw with satisfaction the arrow strike the boy in the throat. Even at this distance, he heard his last gurgles as he choked to death on his own blood. The flock scattered as the shepherd fell to the ground, bleating, then gathered together again to resume grazing.
Turning in his saddle, Gilbert waved to his men. Handing the bow back to George, he gestured toward the flock. “See if your courage will permit you to kill a few sheep,” he sneered.
Flushing, George bowed and rode down from the ridge. Gilbert found Sir John watching him with something in his eyes that he could not identify. Disgust? Condemnation? “Rabid dogs,” he snapped. “All of them.”
***
Hidden carefully in the hills above Dorford Castle, Gilbert watched and waited, unable to see any opportunity to sneak into the fortress on its pinnacle. With his men on constant watch in order to remain undiscovered by any Scot – peasant or knight or common man at arms – Gilbert tried and rejected many ideas on how to invade the place and bring Lady Catrin out.
He saw no sign of her, but did observe the huge numbers of armed men in brigandines, both on horses and afoot, busy patrolling, training or lounging at their ease. As usual in any nobleman’s castle, he watched servants, peasants, yeomen and merchants coming and going from the castle’s walls. The village, whose name Gilbert did not know, lay just west of the great gates, where many folk walked or drove wagons to and from.
By the time three days had passed without any helpful ideas on how to get inside and bring Lady Catrin out, Gilbert began to think it hopeless. The drawbridge went up every night to come down every morning, but the sheer number of armed men between himself and the Duke of Whitewood’s daughter remained daunting.
“Might we scale the walls?” Sir John asked, peering down at the castle as the sun set on their third day in hiding, watching.
“We might,” Gilbert replied. “But I highly doubt Lady Catrin can climb down them. In addition, we do not know where in that bloody rock pile she is.”
“Perhaps I should leave my weapons here,” Sir John said, peering down. “Go in there as a merchant or peasant. Have a look around.”
Gilbert nodded thoughtfully. “That might be our only opportunity. We are running out of supplies, and the longer we are here, the greater the chance we will be discovered.”
“Then come first light,” Sir John said. “I will enter the village and join a line of wagons. Once inside the castle, I will see if I can locate her. If I get lucky enough to speak to her, maybe I can bring her out right from under Thorburn’s nose.”
“Just do not get yourself killed,” Gilbert said. “I need you.”
Though they lit no fires and ate cold fare, the band took turns watching the darkness. Gilbert had no sooner rolled himself into his blankets to sleep, awaiting his turn, when one of his men whistled softly. The signal that someone had been seen.
Seizing his sword, Gilbert got to his feet and hurried up the short hill that overlooked Dorford Castle. Crouching next to the man named William North, Gilbert watched, and listened. He glanced sidelong at William, who touched his finger to his lips and pointed down and to their right.
“Someone is coming,” he whispered. “Alone.”
Chapter 6
Though she took her meals with Ranulf, Catrin spent much of her time wandering the castle and the bailey, trying to find a means to escape. she was treated with respect by all she encountered, she knew she was watched and not just by the guards on the high walls that surrounded the castle. She suspected her personal maids reported her every move to Ranulf, and even the peasants from the village or who worked there eyed her with the intent of informing the soldiers what she did and when.
Despite her hatred of Ranulf, Catrin found herself drawn to his father. Though she felt she betrayed her own father and brother, she liked to seek him out, and listen to his tales of the Scottish past. Though he continued to believe his son, Kyle, still lived and traveled afar, the rest of his mind seemed clear, his memory keen.
“Ach, fer ye tae hae seen it, lassie,” he said, his eyes wistful. “Banners bright against the green land, the sunlight oan the spears, the swords. Battle she were, at Falkirk, when William Wallace raised the heart ‘o the Scots.”
“But was he not executed for betraying the King of England?” she asked.
Angus’s blue eyes grew sad. “Aye, so they did. But a true Scot, he was. All through time he wi’ be remembered as a hero.”
“So, you were there?”
“Aye, so I was, lassie, so I was.”
As she asked questions, Angus told her tales of heroism and gallantry, of death and blood, and her own blood churned at the sound of his voice, the stories sparking her imagination. Never had she thought of the Scottish being so loyal to their own king, how hard they fought for their freedom from English rule, how much they loved their land.
Just as she loved her own country, felt loyalty to King Edward down to her bones, yet hearing him speak of tremendous feats of daring in battle, she wondered if she misjudged these people by hating them and thinking of them as barbarians.
“Tell me about your wife,” she said.
“Me beautiful Ailsa,” he said, smiling as he gazed out the window. “Tall and fair, wi’ hair the color ‘o honey. Eyes the color ‘o the spring sky. Gae me two strong sons, she did.”
“How did she die?”
His eyes grew sad again. “Was the fever. Half the village and the castle took sick, thus she passed and left me alone.”
“I lost my mother when I was very small,” Catrin said, also staring out the window. “I do not know what caused her to die, as my father has refused to tell me.”
“Ach, lassie.” Angus smiled. “She be lookin’ down from heaven oan ye.”
When not with Angus or Ranulf, Catrin walked the bailey, permitted to go into the stable to see her grey gelding and feed him bits of carrot or crusts of bread, but not permitted to take him out. As she stroked his soft nose, and felt his warm breath on her hands, she eyed the grooms and watched their routine. Yet, she saw no opportunity to steal her horse out from under their noses and ride him out of there.
Even if she managed that much, the guards on the walls watched her every move. One night, she woke a few hours before dawn and got dressed. Walking out of the castle, she encountered no one. Even the hounds in their kennels slept. Her hope rising, she crept from shadow to shadow, silent, thinking that perhaps the guards on the walls napped at this ungodly hour.
Glancing up, she saw no faces staring down at her. All appeared dark and quiet, not even the calls of hunting owls disturbed the night’s silence. Turning, she thought to see if perhaps the drawbridge was lowered, she slammed head firs
t into the brigandines of a man at arms.
“Me Lady.”
He offered her a small bow, grinning. “What brings ye oot in the wee hours?”
Flustered, Catrin fought to find an excuse. “I, er, could not sleep. I just wanted to take a walk.”
“Then ye wouldnae mind if I joon ye.”
“I would mind,” she snapped. “I will return to my rooms. Alone.”
Leaving him, she walked quickly back to the castle and her chambers, throwing herself down on the bed and punching her pillow in her frustrated anger. “There has to be a way out of here,” she muttered. “There has to be.”
She discovered her way out shortly after dawn. Peering out her window, she examined the castle’s outer stone structure. The tower she resided in was built into the massive wall, and straight down lay freedom. Looking closer, she found that not every stone had been perfectly aligned. If she had courage enough, she might creep like a mouse down the wall to the ground.
Once more hope rose in her breast. “I can steal a horse from the village,” she told herself, pacing her rooms. “But how can I climb down the wall in a bloody gown?”
At breakfast, Ranulf made no comment about her night time adventure and meeting the guard, then rose to go about his duties as clan laird. Venturing out into the bailey again, Catrin studied the men’s clothes. “That is what I need right there,” she muttered, eyeing the tunics and lienes the men wore. “Now, how to go about stealing some?”
That she found easier than she thought, as she followed the washer women at a discreet distance and discovered where they hung the laundry to dry. Fortunately for her, it was in a part of the castle that only the servants used. Knowing they ate their midday meal together, Catrin lingered until after they left to eat.
Grabbing a pair of lienes that appeared to be about her size and a dark grey woolen tunic, she hid them under a pile of straw. Then walking back into sight as though unconcerned she was watched, she waited until after her supper with Ranulf. Once the place grew quiet for the evening, she hurried down from her chamber.
The clothes were still where she had left them. Triumph filled her as she took them back to her chambers and changed into them. Only when she peered down into the shadows, did she begin to wonder as to her own wisdom.
“You are going to kill yourself,” she muttered, gazing at the stones she could barely see. “That is one long drop to the ground.”
Setting her will and determination, Catrin gathered a little food she had collected in case she found a way to escape, and a full leather water bottle. Putting them into a small cloth sack, she tied it to a piece of rope she used for a belt, then climbed out of the window. Steeling her courage, Catrin turned around to face the wall, and found the first tiny stone protrusion with her toes.
The stones turned out to be more regular than she thought. Using them for hand and footholds, she carefully and slowly climbed down them, using every ounce of strength in her hands and arms. By the time she had gone halfway down, her muscles screamed in agony. Gritting her teeth, she ignored its strident voice, and refused to talk aloud to herself in case she was heard.
Keep going. You can do it. I promise, you can rest once you touch the ground. She dared not look down, even if she could not see the bottom in the dark. There was no moon, and clouds scudded across the dim light of the stars. After creeping down the wall for what seemed like an hour, she thought she should be close to the bottom.
I have to know. Hanging onto the incredibly small protrusions that held her entire body’s weight, she slowly turned her head to gaze down. She saw nothing. Damn and blast. Taking a deep breath, she went down another few feet. Then another. That was when she missed her foothold. Instead of resting her toes on the rock, she put her weight there, and found nothing.
Catrin fell.
Without time to scream, she thumped to the earth below, about five feet down. The drop knocked her breath from her lungs and bruised her backside, but when she shakily stood, she found herself sore but unharmed.
Taking a few moments to hide in the shadows and rub her burning arms and legs, she regained her wind and gazed up at the top of the wall. Like the ground had earlier, it vanished into the dark and she saw nothing. If guards heard her, surely they would have raised the alarm by now.
Grinning, but not daring to laugh aloud, Catrin began to walk across the heather. Without the moon or the stars to guide her, she had no idea what direction she headed into. But her room faced north, so she thought that if she angled somewhat to her left, she would be close to the village when the sun came up.
Walking across the moors, she was free and happy. She would steal food and a horse, then gallop hard south, toward the border. Once she crossed into England, she could reveal who she was and obtain an armed escort back home to her father. She knew how to get the most out of a horse, and by riding day and night she could be home within a few days.
Absorbed in these thoughts, Catrin almost failed to see the shapes of men rising out of the heather.
Chapter 7
Ranulf woke to the sound of someone pounding on the door to his chambers. His warrior instincts kicking in, he rose, clad only in his small clothes, and seized his sword. “Come,” he called.
Duncan, one of his retainers, who was on guard duty that night, opened the door and rushed in.
“Ranulf,” he gasped. “The Lady Catrin, she be oot oan the moors.”
“How in the bleedin’ hell did she dae that?” he demanded, shoving his legs into his lienes.
“She done crawled doon the ooter wall, she did.”
Ranulf froze. “She what?”
“Aye.” Duncan’s voice and face expressed his admiration for the lass’s pluck. “We dinnae see her on the wall, but we caught a glimpse ‘o her runnin’ ‘cross the heather. She be too far tae try a shot, in the dark and all.”
“I am rather glad ye dinnae shoot her,” Ranulf admitted, shoving his arms into a tunic. Grabbing his sword belt, he tied it on. “I like the lass. Gae, get the horses saddled. I be right doon.”
Duncan saluted and left, leaving Ranulf to find his boots, and lace them around his lower legs. “Crawled doon the wall.” He chuckled, then burst into laughter. “She a right bonny lass wi’ courage tae spare. Pity she be Sassenach. She wid make a right guid Scot”
Plunging his sword and dagger into their sheaths, Ranulf ran out of his chambers and down the steps. He discovered the bailey teeming with life as his clansmen shouted curses and jokes, saddled horses, and swung aboard their stamping mounts.
“Lower the bridge!” Ranulf yelled over the tumult.
As the drawbridge slowly clanked downward against the creaking of windlasses, it hit the other side with a hollow boom. Mounted up, Ranulf yelled his clan war cry, and kicked his horse into a gallop. With at least a hundred men behind him, he rode into the night, racing across the heather.
“Which way?” he hollered at Duncan.
“Northeast.”
Reining his mount toward the left, he discovered the clouds overhead breaking apart. Starlight shone down, not enough to track her by, but enough to see by. If she topped a low-lying hill, he might be able to see her against the faint light.
Watching for any sign of Catrin, he almost failed to hear the faint cry over the thunder of the hooves behind him. Cocking his head, he willed the sound to come again. It did. A woman’s scream of rage and pain. Dinnae tooch the lass, uir ye be a dead man.
Gritting his teeth to contain his own anger, he urged his horse into an even faster pace. His mount’s rear quarters bunched under, bucking with the effort, Ranulf topped the hill and galloped down the far side. His clansmen behind him, the ground shook under the pounding of their horses’ hooves.
Balancing himself in the saddle as he galloped downhill, Ranulf rode at a dead run. Straight into the milling band of about five men and a furious woman. “Circle aroond, lads!” he yelled, drawing his sword. Curbing his horse sharply, he felt his mount’s rear end slide across
the heather even as his mount’s front legs kept running forward.
The group of five scattered, yelling, running for their horses. His clansmen, over a hundred strong, spread out in a wide circle, closing in around the other group, cantering, trotting in a huge circle, their arrows nocked into bowstrings, aiming.
Lady Catrin, clear in his sight, rose from her knees as his mount slithered to a halt. A man also rose, cursing audibly, his English accent clear in Ranulf’s ear. He knew that voice. He hated that voice.
He kicked his horse forward at the same time he yanked on the bit. The horse, caught between two adverse commands, reared high, his front hooves flailing. Ranulf heard them strike flesh, and a male’s anguished yell of pain. The dark shadow went down.
