by Barbara Bard
But Gilbert grew puzzled when Thorburn’s tracks in the churned muddy earth turned toward the northwest. “Where the hell are you going, you bastard?” he muttered. Yet, it was not until the afternoon of the following day when he received his answer. Topping a low rise, he reined in his piebald in shock. “Good God.”
A bare league away, a vast army stretched from the horizon to the horizon. Like an anthill on the move, black with distance, men on foot and on horseback marched southwards. Thousands of banners, their colors unseen, flapped in the wind. The muted sun still glinted off pikes and halberds, flashing like diamonds.
“That is King Robert’s army.”
Gilbert glanced sidelong at Sir Jarrett. “Why in the hell is he going to Robert’s army?”
Chapter 36
Feeling very much alone in the small camp they made on the outskirts of King Robert’s army, Catrin sat beside a small fire. She gazed at the mass of men and horses, often catching the wafting odors of cooking food, heard the distance ring of hammers on steel, the low roar of thirty thousand men talking. Despite Sir Alban’s reassuring presence, Catrin worried about being mistaken for a camp follower and pounced on.
“He has been gone so long,” she muttered, biting her thumbnail.
“I imagine it takes a while to get through all those men, even to find a King. Then he must wait for Robert to grant him an audience.”
Catrin glanced at the knight. “Still, it has been hours.”
Sir Alban sat down beside her. “My Lady, you must be prepared to accept he may be gone all night.”
She nodded, watching the Scottish army with trepidation. Though Ranulf’s clansmen and Sir Alban’s men at arms remained with her, she did not feel safe a few hundred yards from the assembled army of Scots. “What do you think will happen?” she asked him.
“I think the King will be open to the notion of riding to a peace talk,” Sir Alban said, staring back southward, over his shoulder, “but will continue on to the south. I also believe Edward will do the same thing.”
“Why do you keep staring like that? You have been doing it for the last few days.”
“My gut tells me we are being followed.”
Catrin stood up, following the direction of his eyes, to the south. “Hargrove?”
“My gut says so.”
“Why did you not say anything until now?” she demanded.
“Because I was not sure until lately,” he replied, his tone calm. “If I reported every gut feeling I get, I would be discharged from service for being a complainer. Besides, I just noticed a faint flash, like the sun on metal, less than thirty minutes ago.”
“That sounds like confirmation of your gut to me,” Catrin said, biting her thumbnail again. “So, what do we do?”
“We eat.”
Sir Alban filled a small pot with water and hung it on a makeshift hook over the fire. As Catrin watched in astonishment, he added dried meat and vegetables from their stores. “Why are you cooking when those men are out there?” she demanded, her voice rising on a short screech.
He eyed her calmly. “Whoever that is out there will not attack, if that is their intention, while we are so close to a massive army.”
“How can you be so certain?”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the south. “If they have evil intentions, which I suspect they do, they have remained secretive until they get us into a position where they can attack on terrain that give them the best advantage.”
He paused to gesture toward the almost flat region and the army camped so close by. “Here, not just we can see them coming, but so can thirty thousand irritated Scots.”
Catrin flushed. “Oh.”
“So, while we wait,” Sir Alban continued, calmly amused. “We eat.”
Ranulf returned at sunset, when Catrin thought she would go mad with worry. Her thumbnail bitten to the quick, she stood up as his horse cantered toward them in the half light as he rode silhouetted against the setting sun. She could barely prevent the barrage of questions she had lined up as he dismounted and turned his horse over to a clansman.
Still, something loosened inside her when she caught his easy grin gleaming as he approached the fire. “Well?” she began. “What did he say?”
Taking her hand, Ranulf led her back to sit by the fire. He gestured for Ian, Aswin and Sir Alban to join them, and accepted the skin of wine Ian handed him. “Sit, friens’,” he said, “and I wi’ tell ye all at once.”
Wanting to slap him for making her wait, Catrin obediently sat back down with Ranulf beside her. “I hope you bring good news,” she said, her belly fluttering and churning Sir Alban’s stew unpleasantly.
“Aye, ‘tis,” Ranulf said, “at least, fairly guid.”
“Stop teasing,” she snapped. “Speak.”
Swallowing a gulp from the skin, Ranulf wiped his mouth. “King Robert wi’ agree tae nae fight if King Edward also agree,” he said. “He wi’ continue tae advance tae the border and wait. But should Edward take e’en one step across, the battle be oan.”
Feeling both relieved and more worried than ever, Catrin said, “Then we have to get to Edward. Right now.”
Ranulf eyed her with humor. “These nags cannae fly, lass.”
“We also have to deal, somehow, with our shadow,” Sir Alban added.
“Whet shadow?”
As the knight explained his gut instincts regarding the men following them and the flash of light to the south, Catrin watched as Ranulf’s expression darkened. “Gilbert ‘o Hargrove,” he snarled, throwing a stick at the small fire.
“I cannot think of anyone else foolhardy enough to tag behind us,” Sir Alban agreed.
“So, whet is he waitin’ fer?” Aswin asked.
“The best possible terrain,” Ranulf replied. “He ken he cannae beat us withoot an advantage.”
“Perhaps we should take the fight to him,” Sir Alban suggested.
“An ambush,” Ian offered.
“But we need to get to King Edward,” Catrin said, feeling her frantic worry rise again. “Can we not just let him follow to his heart’s content, then let the King deal with him?”
Ranulf shook his head. “I dinnae like it. He be a wily bastard, and a coward, and the two combined – nae guid.”
“Then it is my suggestion,” Sir Alban said, glancing around at the men and Catrin around the fire, “that we ride back south as though we have no clue he is there. When we find the opportunity to take him out, we do. As long as we know he is there, we are prepared.”
Ranulf nodded agreement. “That may be the best plan. We bide uir time fer noo.”
***
Though she tried not to, Catrin continually glanced over her shoulder and around the surrounding moors they rode across the next morning. Of course, she saw no hint of Hargrove, if it was him, following them. Yet, Sir Alban informed her that his instincts assured him they were still being hunted.
“A soldier often gets these gut feelings, My Lady,” he said. “I have learned to listen to mine.”
Ranulf gestured toward the east. “Me thinks they ride o’er that way, hoping to get ahead o’ us and lay a trap.”
“Why do you think that?” Catrin asked him.
“Ye must learn tae listen tae the land, lass,” he said, smiling. “I saw a flock ‘o ravens fly up sudden like from that way.”
“I expect I have much to learn,” she admitted with a sigh. “But all this tension, stopping a war, worrying about being attacked, is making my stomach hurt.”
“We wi’ stop this war, lass,” Ranulf said, reaching across to clasp her hand. “Hae faith.”
Squeezing his in return, Catrin tried to smile. “I will try.”
About midafternoon, the outrider that Ranulf sent ahead to scout the area galloped back toward them. Ranulf lifted his fist to halt his band, waiting until his clansman reined in his lathered mount to a slithering halt, saluting.
“Laird,” he gasped. “Ye be ridin’ intae an ambush. The
land narrows wi’ taller peaks around it.”
“Did you see men?” Ranulf asked.
“Aye. I could’nae count them, as they were hidin’, but I saw men atop the rocky crags.”
Breathless, Catrin watched as Ranulf studied the land to the south of them. “Can we simply go around them?”
“Nay.”
Gesturing for Sir Alban and Ian to join them, Ranulf said, “We need tae keep ridin’ as though we dinnae ken they are there. If we send riders tae climb the hills behin’ them, they wi’ be spotted.”
Sir Alban nodded. “I agree, My Lord. However, we have several good archers in our midst. I say we ride toward them as though we have no idea they are there, then at the last minute we charge, hard and fast. We shoot their spotters down, taking out as many as we can.”
“We keep the bowmen in the middle,” Ranulf said, rubbing his chin. “Includin’ Catrin. They shoot anythin’ movin’, cut doon their numbers. The rest ‘o us protect them, chop through Hargrove’s men.”
“But ye be as good an archer as any, laird,” Ian said. “Ye should fight wi’ yer bow.”
“I agree,” Sir Alban said. “You and Lady Catrin, among us all, need to survive and get to Edward.”
Shocked, Catrin realized that Sir Alban, as well as the others, planned to sacrifice their lives if necessary, to make sure she and Ranulf lived. They had no choice but to ride into this ambush and knew they might not survive. Rather than melt into the moors and live, they would fight and die right now to stop this war between Scotland and England.
“Is there no other way?” She whispered.
Sir Alban shook his head, smiling. “I for one am eager to face this challenge and see it through to whatever end may come. I am not afraid of dying.”
Murmurs from both the Scottish clansmen and the English men at arms informed her Sir Alban was not the only one who felt thus. Her throat closing, Catrin hefted her bow, and tried to raise a grin. “Then let us ride into battle, my friends.”
Sir Alban bowed. “My love and loyalty to you, My Lady.”
“Aye.” Ranulf took her hand and kissed it. “Like a queen ‘o auld, ye be, Catrin, worthy of the necklace ye won from me.”
Unable to speak through the emotion choking her throat, Catrin merely kicked her horse into a canter toward the tall peaks ahead. At Ranulf’s orders, the band’s archers nocked arrows to bows and rode in the middle while the rest hefted war axes and their swords on the outside.
An arrow ready in her bowstring, she watched the surrounding hills closely, her gut clenched. I could die here, this day. She did not find the prospect as daunting as she once might have. As long as I die fighting to the end. Scanning the area above her as they approached the peaks, she grit her teeth, bracing herself for battle.
“Noo!” Ranulf yelled.
Dropping her reins on her horse’s neck, Catrin kicked the beast into a dead run, charging into the narrow valley. Above, she saw her first target, a man at arms aiming a bow downward. Her arrow struck him dead center before he could fire, toppling him into the rocks.
Shouts and yells erupted all around as men charged at them from all sides. Finding her next target, Catrin shot yet another soldier from the heights, then found too many others right in front of her. Even as she and Ranulf fired arrow after arrow, surrounded by men who fought for their lives, she felt despair enter her heart. We cannot win this.
Sir Alban, beside her, swung his sword at the horsemen charging at them, chopping at their blades, already bleeding from rents in his mail. Catrin recognized John Saul, hacking his way toward her, killing one of the men at arms protecting her. “No!” She screamed, nocking an arrow and pulling the string to her ear.
Taking aim at the brigand leader, she released the arrow. It took him through his remaining eye, knocking him from his horse. Her satisfaction was short lived as Hargrove himself spurred his piebald toward her, grinning madly, reaching for her. Her next arrow, too hasty, clipped his sleeve and bounced off his mail. Then he grabbed her.
“Bastard,” Catrin hissed, swinging her bow around. It hit him across the side of his head, knocking him back in his saddle. He grimaced in pain, dazed. The brief second he could not fight gave her a tiny opening.
Kicking her horse, she forced the animal past his, behind him, nocking another arrow. Another set of hands reached to pull her from the saddle, forcing her to shoot him and not Hargrove. Wheeling his piebald, Hargrove spurred it straight at her horse, forcing hers to claw for its footing.
Instantly, Ranulf’s stallion reared, plunging into the Earl’s, throwing Hargrove from his saddle. The force of the two horses colliding also catapulted Ranulf from his mount’s back. Kicking her horse from the melee, Catrin nocked an arrow and fired at an outlaw who sought to stab Ranulf in the back as he staggered to his feet.
Ranulf drew his sword, advancing on Hargrove as Catrin found herself out of arrows. Glancing around, she saw Sir Alban, unhorsed, fighting sword to sword with another knight. Both Ian and Aswin lay dead nearby, their glazed eyes staring into nothing. Though she hoped others on her side also lived, she did not immediately see any. Yet three outlaws did, and stalked her, their swords in their hands, and her death glittering in their eyes.
They charged. Desperate, Catrin searched for any arrows she could use to defend herself with. A rider less horse, a quiver of arrows hanging from its pommel trotted past. Kicking her own after it, she reined her horse around the three outlaws, dodging them, and galloped after the loose horse.
Though it tried to spin away, she seized hold of its reins, yanking its head toward her. Without any time to spare, the three men spurring hard on her heels, she snatched the quiver from the pommel. Hanging it on her own, she kneed her horse into a tight spin, kicking it to the left.
The three men, unable to stop or turn as quickly, bunched together as they were, cursed in frustration as they curbed their mounts. Nocking an arrow to her string, Catrin shot one in the shoulder. Yelling in pain, he was still able to ride and raise his sword. But her next took him in the throat.
Charging, the survivors brandished their swords, no doubt seeking to ride to either side of her and take her down. Catrin shot one in the face, but her next arrow flew wild. As the outlaw bore down on her, she ducked low over her horse’s neck and danced it sideways at the same time.
The blade whistled over her head. Expecting him to wheel around for another try, she saw Sir Alban swing his sword and cut the horse’s legs out from under it. Screaming, the horse fell, taking its rider down with it. As the man rolled away from his thrashing mount, Sir Alban sank his sword into the man’s chest.
“Alban,” she cried, trotting toward him. “You are all right. Thank God.”
Raising his bleeding head, Sir Alban tried to smile. “Not – exactly.”
He pitched forward onto his face. Dismounting, Catrin ran to him, rolling him over. Only then did she see the gaping hole in his mail, the blood gushing from the fatal wound in his chest. She touched his cold cheek, her grief rising. “Alban.”
“I – killed that knight,” he murmured. “You – live.”
Before her eyes, he died, his body sinking, relaxing into the dirt beside her. Catrin bowed her head, her throat shut down with unshed tears. “Go with God,” she murmured. “Be at peace.”
Hearing the clash of steel against steel, Catrin glanced away from Sir Alban’s corpse. Ranulf and Hargrove still hacked at one another with their swords, but it grew clear to her that Ranulf neared the end of his limit. Both bled freely, but Ranulf limped severely, for a wicked slash had been opened in his thigh.
Grabbing her bow and quiver, she nocked an arrow, running for the two men just as Ranulf fell. Grinning triumphantly through the blood on his face, Hargrove raised his sword over his head to deliver the final fatal blow.
Catrin’s arrow struck him in the right shoulder. He staggered back, unable to keep his sword up. Her second took him in his left, knocking him at last to the ground. Dashing forward, she kicked
his sword out of reach, and bent her bowstring back, her arrow pointed between his wide, fear filled eyes.
“You are going to hang, Gilbert. For the murders of my father and my brother.”
Epilogue
A pavilion for the two Kings stood tall and proud, the banners of both England and Scotland snapping in the chill wind above it. A small crowd of nobles stood in a cluster, often glancing at the gallows that had been erected a short distance away. At the North and the South, the armies of King Edward of England and King Robert of Scotland waited to hear if they would be set against one another.
