by Jayne Castel
“Is it still hot?”
“Aye.” The lad motioned to where an iron cauldron smoked at the northern edge of the wall. The cauldron had been strategically positioned there, just in case the English tried to put up ladders at that end of the wall.
“We have to move it down, so that it’s directly above the gates,” Maximus instructed. “Come on!”
Ignoring Cassian’s surprised glance, Maximus crouched down and followed the two lads to the cauldron. This part of the wall was exposed, and more than once he felt the draft of something flying past his head.
When he reached the cauldron, Maximus’s eyes started to water. Acrid smoke wafted over him, catching in his throat. Choking down coughs, he joined the lads as they heaved the pot and its iron scaffold off its bed of glowing coals, and proceeded to push it over the rough stone.
It was hard work, harder than it looked, for the top of the wall was now littered with the bodies of the fallen and debris. The iron was too hot to touch with their hands—as such, they had to use their forearms and shoulders to move the cauldron. By the time they’d gone merely a couple of yards, sweat poured off Maximus.
“Need help?” Cassian appeared at his side then, and together, the four of them inched the cumbersome cauldron into position.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The ‘Battle Hammer’ drove into the gates, causing the wall to shudder with each impact. The screech of iron followed each blow.
We have to stop it.
Maximus collapsed behind the cauldron, next to Cassian and the two gasping lads. They were all utterly spent, their faces crimson from effort, sweat streaming off their brows.
“Fetch torches,” Maximus ordered the lads, his voice raspy with effort. “And two pairs of smith’s gloves. Quickly now.”
With nods, the boys scrambled away.
Breathing hard, Cassian crouched next to Maximus. They were currently protected from arrows by the bulk of the pot of smoking pitch, although for their next move the pair of them would be dangerously exposed.
“You think this will work?” Cassian asked, blinking sweat out of his eyes.
“It had better,” Maximus grunted. “We’re out of Greek fire … so this is our best hope of sending that battering ram to Hades.”
The two men fell silent then, conserving their energy and waiting for the lads to reappear. Maximus’s eyes continued to water, and he blinked rapidly.
Cries and shouts filtered over the walls. Maximus didn’t just breathe in smoke, but also the tang of fear and desperation. The men who defended Dunnottar were stalwart and brave, yet they’d started to flag under the onslaught, as one by one, the warriors around them fell. It was hard to cling to hope when you watched your friends die. After dusk each day, the castle mourned its dead, but with the rising of the sun, the fighting drove sorrow from their minds.
Maximus frowned, remembering the agony on Draco’s face as he’d been carried off the walls earlier. It was just as well the curse hadn’t broken—for those arrows looked as if they’d pierced something vital.
A roar went up at the southern end of the wall then. Next to Maximus, Cassian muttered an oath. Following his friend’s gaze, Maximus saw that the Wallace had abandoned his spear and blade, and was now fighting the English bare-handed. Beside him, Donnan De Keith did the same.
Red-faced, their eyes wild with fury, the Scots fought savagely, pummeling the faces of two English soldiers who attempted to scale the top of the wall.
And then, as they watched, Wallace and Donnan sent the attackers tumbling backward.
A heartbeat later, the two of them grabbed the top of the ladder and threw their full weights against it.
Maximus’s breath caught as he watched the ladder rear back from the wall.
For an instant, it hung there, perpendicular, and then it toppled backward. The men clinging to it let out a collective wail, the sound echoing along the wall—before the ladder collapsed into the defile.
XXXII
IN FLAMES
A THRILL PULSED through Maximus. It had to be now, while the men swarming below were distracted. He caught sight of the lads returning then, each carrying a blazing torch and a pair of thick leather gloves. It was hard to run the gauntlet of Welsh archers, keeping as low as possible, while wielding a torch, but the boys managed it.
Maximus favored them with a tight smile. He handed Cassian a pair of gloves and put on his own, before relieving the boys of the torches. “Well done,” he grunted. “Keep back now … we’ll take it from here.”
The lads nodded, their eyes as wide as moons now. Without another word, they both scurried away, leaving Maximus and Cassian with the torches, gloves, and the pot of hot pitch.
Maximus swiveled round, his gaze meeting Cassian’s. “Ready?”
Cassian flashed him a feral grin. “Let’s rid ourselves of this cursed ‘Battle Hammer’.”
Maximus nodded, his fingers clenching around the torches while he readied himself to rise to his feet.
Once he did, he would be exposed.
The archers had noted movement above the gates, and so had focused their attention upon the area. Arrows clattered off the surrounding stone and clanged against the iron cauldron.
Maximus swallowed. Having seen Draco brought down by the archers, he was in no hurry to follow him.
However, this had to be done.
Gritting his teeth, he lunged to his feet and rose over the cauldron, lowering the flaming ends to the smoking pitch.
Ignite, damn you.
An arrow whistled past his left ear, so close he flinched.
Whoosh.
The pitch burst into flames.
Maximus reeled back, and then Cassian grabbed hold of him, hauling him to safety.
Together the two of them crouched behind the cauldron. A flaming pot of pitch atop the gates would attract attention. They had to act quickly or those below would draw back to avoid being doused.
“Now!” Maximus bellowed.
Together they reached out with their gloved hands and swung the pot hard against the wall. It wavered precariously on its iron frame, but held.
Maximus positioned himself as near to the base as he could, his gloved fingers gripping against the rough iron.
Mithras, it’s heavy.
Without the aid of the scaffold on which the pot hung, he and Cassian would never have been able to lift it. Leveraging the pot against the ramparts, they shoved hard, their grunts of effort mingling with shouts of alarm from below.
But it was too late.
The pot lurched and then up-ended, spilling its fiery and liquid contents over the wall.
Screams followed, terrible cries that made a man’s blood run cold. Yet, lying on his side next to Cassian under the lee of the ramparts, Maximus was too intent on recovering his breath to even notice them. His arms and shoulders burned from the effort it had taken to get that pot over the edge.
The screaming continued.
Dragging himself up, Maximus was greeted by a column of dark smoke. Shielded from the archers for the time-being, he dared lean against the ramparts, his gaze dropping to the ‘Battle Hammer’ directly below.
Next to him, Cassian muttered another oath.
It was chaos down there. The structure housing the battering ram was in flames, as was the wagon. Men ran around, beating at the flames upon their bodies, while others fell as the fire consumed them.
And as Maximus and Cassian watched, Shaw Irvine’s ‘Battle Hammer’ went up like a beacon, flames roaring high.
Breathing hard, Maximus shot Cassian a victory grin. “I wish Draco could see this.”
Gavina didn’t leave the infirmary; she didn’t leave Draco’s side. Around her, she was vaguely aware of Elizabeth, Aila, and the other women moving about the space. And all the while, the boom and shudder of the Battle Hammer’s assault rang in her ears.
Gavina waited for the crash of the gates giving way, and the shouts warning that the castle had been breached.
/> But none came.
And then, the keep went strangely quiet.
Shortly after, a lad rushed into the infirmary, face flushed. “The ‘Battle Hammer’ is in flames!” he gasped.
Glancing up from where she’d been sponging Draco’s fevered brow, Gavina took in the smiling faces of those around her, the gazes gleaming with relief.
The siege wasn’t over yet—but with that battering ram dealt to, Edward Longshanks would have to find another means of forcing his way inside the castle.
Warmth suffused Gavina then, relief uncoiling a little of the tension in her chest. Her attention returned to Draco. He lay upon his back before her, his ribs rising and falling shallowly. His eyes were closed, and a light sheen of sweat covered his face.
Gavina’s throat constricted. She hated to see him suffer so. Surely, the curse would be working its magic upon him now? Maybe suffering was all part of it. Even so, she couldn’t wait for morning to come.
For the first rays of dawn to wash away his hurts.
Body aching, Maximus climbed the stairs in the guard tower, to the quarters he shared with his wife. Dusk settled over Dunnottar now, bringing with it a welcome reprieve—a few brief hours before the fighting started anew.
Stepping inside the main chamber, Maximus’s attention went to the glowing hearth and the iron tub filled with steaming water before him.
A sigh gusted out of him.
“I thought ye would appreciate a bath tonight, mo ghràdh.” Heather glanced up from where she was kneading bread upon the table in the center of the chamber.
A weary smile stretched across Maximus’s face. “You have no idea, just how much, carissima.”
Wiping off her hands, Heather crossed to him. He enfolded her in his arms, burying his face in her rosemary-scented hair. Maximus leaned into her; he was a fortunate man indeed, to have a woman like this to return to at the end of each day.
“Ye did well today,” Heather murmured against his shoulder. “The whole keep is humming with news of how ye and Cassian brought down the ‘Battle Hammer’.”
Maximus drew her closer against him, his hands running down her back. “That should slow Longshanks down a bit,” he murmured.
His mood shadowed then. Losing the battering ram would be a blow for the English, but no doubt they’d recover soon enough. Longshanks wasn’t done.
“Come.” Heather drew back from him, her grey-green eyes warm. “Let’s get ye into that bath before the water cools.”
Maximus didn’t need to be invited twice. He longed to soak into the hot water, to let all the day’s tension and fury seep from him. Stripping off his filthy leathers, he stepped naked into the tub and sank down into it with a groan of pleasure.
Heather returned to her dough, shaping it into a flat disc and placing it upon the iron griddle that hung above the fire. “Supper will be fresh bread and cheese,” she announced. “Sorry it’s nothing fancier.”
“It sounds good to me,” Maximus replied, reaching for the cake of lye soap and the wash cloth she’d left for him. He then began to wash, cleansing himself of the smoke, blood, and grime of battle.
For a short while, husband and wife fell into companionable silence. Then Heather crossed to the tub and lowered herself onto a stool next to it. “Would ye like me to wash yer hair?”
Maximus grinned. “Yes, carissima.”
Even without looking her way, he could sense her answering smile. Heather liked the Latin endearment he used with her.
“Ye took a few knocks today,” she observed as he handed her the soap.
“Aye … but not as many as Draco.” Maximus paused then. “He’ll be loving all the attention though, no doubt.”
He glanced down at the red welt on his left flank; a chunk of stone from a catapult had caught him in the morning. His whole body felt bruised and battered. Fortunately for him, the dawn would soothe his hurts and ready him for another day of battle.
His belly contracted at the thought, his good humor fading. “I’m sorry, Heather,” he said softly. “I really thought we’d broken the curse.”
“Don’t apologize for what isn’t yer fault,” she replied, moving around so that their gazes met. She wasn’t smiling either now, and the tenderness in his wife’s eyes made Maximus’s gut tighten further.
“But I assured you that once we solved the riddle it would be done. I’d be mortal, and we could have a normal life together.”
She shook her head, refusing to let him take the blame. “Aye … because that’s what ye believed.” She paused then, stubbornness lighting in her eyes. “Ye didn’t lead me down a path I didn’t want to travel, Max … and I refuse to believe all hope is lost.”
Their gazes fused, the moment drawing out. Heather reached out, taking his hand, their fingers entwining. She then squeezed tight. “It’s not over yet.”
XXXIII
AWAITING THE DAWN
“WE SHALL BUILD another battering ram.”
Edward of England glanced up to see Shaw Irvine standing in the doorway to his tent. His pugnacious jaw was set, his brawny arms folded across his barrel chest.
Edward exhaled slowly, wearily. It wasn’t yet dawn, but he was already awake, dressed, and finishing a light meal of bread, butter, and honey in his tent. This hour was the only moment of the day he had to himself. The last person he wanted to see right now was the Irvine laird.
Especially after yesterday.
Edward pulled a face. “Your toy lies in a smoldering heap, Irvine … there isn’t time to construct another.”
Irvine’s mouth compressed. “With your help, I can … I just—.”
“Enough,” Edward growled, cutting the man off. “You aren’t getting another battering ram.” He raised a pewter goblet to his lips and took a swig of ale. God’s teeth, this man was wearisome. Irvine never stopped talking. Since the Scot had joined him, they shared supper together every evening. Irvine prattled on and on. He loved that ‘Battle Hammer’ of his—never stopped talking about the bloody thing.
At least Edward didn’t have to hear him boasting about the siege weapon now. Even if its destruction had been a bitter blow to them all.
He’d breach Dunnottar’s defenses eventually, but it would just take longer.
Edward set down the goblet on the makeshift table beside him with a thud. The devil take Scotland. He was getting too old for this.
Brushing crumbs off his surcoat, Edward rose to his feet. His joints pained him this morning, as they often did before he got moving. Despite his best efforts to ignore his advancing age, today he felt every one of his sixty-two years.
Shaw Irvine backed up a few steps as Edward walked by, stooping to exit the tent.
Irvine, like the vexatious shadow he was, followed him.
Outdoors, a warm breeze caressed Edward’s face. Summer was indeed upon them, although in the midst of a campaign, it was easy to forget what time of the year it was. Edward heaved in a deep breath.
How I miss Margaret.
It had been months since he’d seen his wife. If only he could click his fingers and find himself standing on English soil, Margaret by his side.
Edward’s gaze settled upon the solid walls of Dunnottar, outlined against an indigo sky. Dawn wasn’t far off.
Wallace was inside somewhere, waiting him out. England and Margaret would have to keep while the outlaw still eluded him.
Edward turned, his attention spearing Shaw Irvine. The laird had gone red in the face. His lips parted as he readied himself to speak.
However, a shout from behind them interrupted him.
“Sire!”
Hugh De Burgh strode through the camp toward them. Dressed for battle in a heavy hauberk, the coif pulled up, the knight was a formidable sight indeed. Hugh had followed Edward through many battles, and the king was pleased to have such a knight at his side.
However, the look on his captain’s face as he approached made Edward tense. The man wore a deep scowl.
“What is it
?” Edward greeted him.
“Word has just arrived from Stirling, sire … the garrison has fallen.”
Edward’s breathing caught. “What?”
“It gets worse,” Hugh plowed on. “Comyn and Robert Bruce have joined forces against us … their men have slaughtered ours.” He paused there, his scowl deepening. “There is a rumor that William Wallace fights with them.”
A chill swept through Edward, engulfing him from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. “A rumor?” he finally managed. “Has he actually been seen?”
Hugh nodded. “A big man with wild dark hair and beard fought alongside Comyn’s younger brother … and has helped take back Stirling. Folk say he is William Wallace.”
Edward’s gut clenched.
Had Lady Gavina De Keith spoken the truth? Had that blacksmith lied to him?
Heat swept through him, dousing the chill of shock. It pulsed in his belly, in time with his heartbeat.
Slowly, he turned his gaze to Dunnottar once more. The De Keiths deserved his wrath, but it was the Wallace he really wanted.
And the bastard isn’t even here.
Edward’s hands balled into tight fists at his side. The blood roared in his ears; Irvine was speaking, but he couldn’t hear him.
Nearly two weeks he’d been here. He’d wasted countless soldiers upon the siege, men he could have used elsewhere.
I’ll have Blair Galbraith’s guts for this.
“What do you wish to do now, sire?” Hugh’s voice cut through the roar in his ears. “Shall we ready the ladders for the morning’s assault?”
Edward unclenched his jaw, tasting blood. He’d accidentally bitten his tongue. Someone was going to pay for this—dearly.
Edward of England wasn’t anyone’s fool, but right now, he felt as if he’d been played like a lute.
Wallace is behind this. He wanted me away from Stirling … this was his plan all along.
