The ropes are now strung from end to end of the bridge, looped among the timbers that once supported the planks. Every few minutes, one group clambers up the stone pier and begins their way across. Some swing hand over hand most of the way, others sling their legs over to shimmy across. There’s no time for rest. Every second is crucial.
Christian is the first in our group to make the climb. He moves nimbly, his limbs wiry but strong. Frozen, Adam stares up at him.
I grip his shoulder. “Go on. I’m right behind you.”
He nods, shoves his toe in a foothold and reaches up. I follow him, whispering encouragement whenever he stalls. Behind me, Sir Henry grunts with the strain of heaving his old bones upward. At the top of the pier, I latch on to the rope, dangling awhile as I talk myself into it.
If I let go now, there’s sand below me, maybe only fifteen feet down. But then Sir Henry swears as a stone crumbles and his foot slips. He flails a hand out, grabbing the rope from which I hang for support. I bob with the impact, my pack shifting to my side, then quickly recover and grapple for the next handhold. Hand over hand, I work my way across, my palms stinging even through leather gloves.
By the time we reach the third pier, my fingers are cramping and my shoulders burning. I cling to the stones. The ledge on which I stand is barely deep enough for my toes and the balls of my feet. My heels hang over the edge. Far below, dark water laps at the base of the pier. I glance at the far bank. Men are already scaling the hill and the first few have reached the lower wall of the town. I look back to where we started, then ahead to the opposite bank. Not even halfway.
Adam is already twenty feet ahead of me.
“Go, go,” my father urges impatiently.
I suppose this would be a bad time to tell him I’ve reconsidered, that I don’t belong here, that I’m more at home with textbooks and microscope slides and rows of students scribbling down my every word. I pull in a breath and inch my way around to the next rope. The gap between Adam and me widens. I grab the rope with two hands and pull myself along. This time, my father stays close.
“For Berwick, son,” he says, “and Scotland.”
For Berwick and Scotland. Berwick and Scotland, I chant to myself over and over, my grip growing stronger. Adam waits at the next pier for me. He extends a hand, beckoning. Only a few feet to go now. Distant, scattered voices shatter the silence of the night, but I shut them out, focusing on Adam’s hand.
And then ... his hand isn’t there anymore. His body jerks away and buckles backward, away from the pier, then plummets. I catch the barest flash of an arrow shaft protruding from his chest before the river swallows him whole.
Propelled by fear, I reach above my head and grip a broken timber to pull myself up into the framework.
“Hold tight, Roslin!” my father yells as he begins toward me.
I look into his eyes and recognize the fear there — the fear that we both might not make it through this day.
A force smacks against my right shoulder. At first I feel nothing, then a bolt of pain tears through me. I sense my fingers losing sensation, slipping. Far below, the river gurgles. I lose my grip ... and fall.
“Nooo!!!” my father screams.
His voice fades with the rush of air around me. Cold blasts my body. Water rushes into my nose and mouth.
No air, no air. Weight pressing all around me. My ribs tightening.
Darkness, everywhere.
32
LONG, LONG AGO
Berwick, Scotland — 1333
Moment by moment, like rousing from a long sleep, my senses return. The flap of wings begins as a rustle, then rises to a crashing din. Wind beats against my wet clothes. Only the warmth of the sun’s rays keeps the chill at bay. Grains of sand coat my tongue, their grit grinding between my clamped teeth. I try to spit them out, but gag instead. A cough wracks my lungs so hard I retch.
Then, a broad hand pushes at my ribs, forcing me onto my back. “I told you I would be behind you.”
I open my eyes and blink at the brightness. The first light of dawn shimmers over rippling waves. Water laps soothingly at my legs.
My father kneels over me, concern weighing his features. Beads of water drip from his hairline. “Bloody English archers.”
“My arm,” I croak. “I can’t ... feel ...”
In the distance, a city rises above the shoreline: Berwick. How had we gotten so far from it? I struggle with the question, my mind cluttered with cobwebs. I close my eyes, thinking hard, remembering.
‘Clumsy jackass. I told you to hold on.’
Slowly, it comes back to me: we were trying to relieve the town, get supplies to them, crossing the underside of the bridge, when —
“You’re going to live.” My father grips my left arm and shakes me. There’s blood on his hands, yet I see no wounds on him. “You’re going to live, damn it. D’you hear me, Roslin?”
I do, but why does he care whether I live or die? And since when did I start thinking of this man as my father?
The sea wind bellows in my ears and snatches the warmth from my body. I gulp for air, but can only manage a small breath.
My father’s gruff voice comes to me as if from the end of a very long tunnel. His words are too muffled to make out. I turn my head toward him. That’s when I see the feathered shaft sticking out of my shoulder.
The next thing I’m aware of is that I’m in a tent. Duncan is asleep sitting next to me, his arms crossed, his beard touching his chest. His lips flutter as he snores.
“Where am I?” I say. It takes all my strength just to summon those few words.
Twitching awake, he slaps his cheeks, then smiles. “Back at camp.”
“Did they get the supplies into the town?”
“They did.” His shoulders slump forward. “Those ahead of us on the bridge all made it across. Some of the men were even able to enter the town. It seems the archer who killed Adam and wounded you was only a sentry. But it didn’t take long for others to arrive. Keith ordered everyone back across. Nearly twenty died and as many were wounded.”
Every breath I inhale is painful. I glance at my shoulder. Thankfully, I was unconscious when they extracted the arrow. The point had burrowed deep within my flesh, shredding muscle and sinew before hitting bone. The arrowhead had been an armor-piercing pile, its metal tip barely wider than the shaft, rather than a barbed broad head. A smelly poultice had been applied and dressing packed over it, but around the edges of the rags used to soak up the blood, my skin is red and inflamed.
“It’s so damn hot in here.” Sweat saturates my clothes. I attempt to sit up so I can push back the blankets and cool off, but the moment I lift my head a rush of dizziness sweeps over me. I move my good arm to grab at the blanket’s edge, but even that effort drains me.
Despite my struggles, Duncan tugs the blanket tighter. “You’ve had a fever. Been asleep for over two days.”
“How bad is it?”
“If you can fight off the infection, you’ll pull through. No telling how well you’ll be able to use that arm, but at least you have another one.”
He fakes a grin of encouragement, but I’m not entirely sold on his optimism. This is the first time in quite awhile that I wished myself back in the twenty-first century. Treating and closing up a wound like this would be standard emergency room procedure. A day or two in the hospital for observation and then home with a generous dose of painkillers. Here, I’m relegated to leeches and someone trying to interpret the color of my urine.
“The siege?” I mumble. “Did they lift the siege?”
His lip curls. “The bastard said since we didn’t get our two hundred men inside Berwick, it didn’t constitute a proper relief. Lord Archibald argued the point, but to no avail. When King Edward still refused to break the siege, Archibald threatened to fly south and wreak havoc on the north of England.” He leans in close, his voice low. “We found out Queen Philippa is at Bamburgh.”
“How far is that?”
“Twenty miles, perhaps. But Bamburgh is reputed to be impregnable. It sits on a rock at the sea’s edge. Its towers part the clouds. Archibald hasn’t the machinery to take it. He knows that.”
“He hasn’t the time for a proper siege, either,” I add.
“Aye, but he went anyway, hoping Edward would chase him.” Scoffing, he stares down at empty hands. When he finally speaks again, his voice is husky with grief. “The moment Archibald was out of sight, Edward began building gallows in plain sight of the town’s walls.”
“They’re going to hang the hostages, aren’t they?”
“They’ve already begun. Thomas Seton, Sir Alexander’s son, was the first.”
A pit of sorrow opens up inside my chest. I hadn’t known Thomas Seton or his father, but these men had become like brothers to me. “So what now?”
Shrugging, he pours me a cup of ale. “More negotiations, I reckon. Nothing but empty talk. In the end, we either hand over Berwick — or fight to keep it. We’ll know soon enough.”
I want to ask him more, but the outcome is already written. The details seem too insignificant to share. As soon as Archibald returns, I’ll insist on talking to him, convince him to surrender the town, so he can live to fight another day. But I know him well enough by now to realize that isn’t going to be easy to do. Probably impossible. What weight does my word carry?
Even knowing what will happen, I can’t change anything. Yet why do I keep trying?
A heavy silence settles between us as I empty my cup. I don’t have the energy left to ask anything else. I’m hungry and thirsty, but more than that I need to rest. I close my eyes and let the drink infuse my bloodstream, washing away my worries.
A good night’s rest has left me feeling slightly more human. My fever has broken, although my shoulder still throbs. I can use my right hand now, but I still can’t lift my arm more than halfway.
“Seton has signed a truce with King Edward.” My father hands me a bowl of stew as I sit up. “The agreement expires at sunrise on the 20th.”
I dip a finger in the steamy liquid. It’s warm, but not scalding. I sip at the broth. It tastes of beef, but I force myself to swallow anyway. If I want to regain my strength, I have to eat something and fresh fruits and vegetables are in very limited supply here. “What is today?”
I have to ask. I’ve lost track. Without a regular schedule, the days blur together. I can’t tell what day of the week it is, let alone know the date, especially after losing two whole days slipping in and out of consciousness.
“Today is the 15th of July.” He plops down on the stool next to me. Grimacing, he kneads at his knees with gnarled fingers.
One side of the tent has been left open and while the breeze is welcome, the afternoon air is still hot — nothing near as torrid as a July day in the Midwest, but today is abnormally oppressive for summer in Scotland.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“For what?”
“Saving me.” I set the bowl down. It seems a useless gesture that Henry saved me, given that I’m going to die soon anyway. I suppose it’s the thought that counts. “I know we’ve had our differences, but —”
“The day you were born, your mother died. She was twenty years younger than me and yet ...” He hangs his head, his words coming haltingly, as if he has to force every syllable out. It’s not the Henry I know — the hardened warrior who regards sentiment as a weakness. “She had just enough energy to push you out. By the time you drew your first breath, she had taken her last. I loved her more than life, more than anything.”
I have no idea where this is going or why he’s mentioning it now, but I let him go on.
“She had the same hair, same eyes, same nose as you. Even the laugh was the same. Every day I look at you is a reminder of what I lost.”
“So that’s why you let Duncan and his wife raise me?”
“In a way, aye. But where William was rugged and independent, learning to ride and fight at an early age, you were often ill and read to pass the time. I knew Duncan would teach you how to fight and he did. In time you grew stronger and healthier, but also more defiant. You often voiced your dislike for war, saying we should embrace peace and trade, instead. At one time, you wanted to join the priesthood, but I wouldn’t allow it. If I’d had more sons, I might have, but I had only the two of you, so I couldn’t. I’ve worked too hard to gain what little I have. I grew up as one of the lesser Sinclairs of Orkney, fourth son of a fourth son, always overshadowed by my more prominent cousins. When Mariota’s father proposed your marriage, I leapt at it. Apparently, he’d had a falling out with Alan Stewart’s father. Blacklaw was part of her dowry, so I had to move quickly on the matter before the offer was gone.”
His lips twitch with a wry smile. “You argued with me over that, too. Even as beautiful as she was, accepting her meant giving in to me. In the end, you yielded — only because Duncan talked you into it.” There are bags beneath his eyes so deep they form creases in his cheeks. Hard years have taken their toll on him, making him appear far older than I know he is. “When William told me he was going to join Lord James Douglas as he carried King Robert’s heart to the Holy Land, you decided to go with him. I made you promise to keep each other safe, but you ...” His voice cracks. He blinks away tears, turns his head away to hide them. “You alone returned.”
A reminder of his grief twice over by then. But how does blaming me solve anything? “So why did you jump in after me? Why not just let me die?”
Slowly, he turns his head to look at me. “And lose you, too?”
“You were going to let me die in England, anyway,” I remind him. “You didn’t even try to raise the ransom. Why should I —”
“Do you want to know why you were coming north when Archibald found you? There was indeed an exchange to take place. But not for ransom.”
“For what then?”
“Me.” His joints crack as he rises to leave. “I was going to take your place, so you could have your freedom.”
33
LONG, LONG AGO
Berwick, Scotland — 1333
On the morning of the 19th, I rise before the sun’s light falls upon the western hills. With exquisite slowness, Duncan’s page helps to dress me in full armor. It’s the first time I’ve worn it since the day I fell from the bridge. Working the mail hauberk over my head has been a feat unto itself, since I can still barely extend my right arm above shoulder height. I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming out in agony as I straighten that arm to slip it through the sleeve. Even the lesser weight of the aventail — a hood of mail that extends to the tops of my shoulders — causes discomfort. Finally, the page straps the metal plates on to protect my arms and lower legs. I may not be Iron Man, but I certainly look the part.
Last night, the rain had poured down hard, not relenting until an hour ago. I hadn’t slept at all, more for knowing what’s to come than because I’d been afraid of being swept away in a flash flood. Looking at the faces around me as I join the others, it’s obvious I’m not the only one with that problem.
Yesterday, Lord Archibald returned from his feigned attack on Bamburgh. Nothing had come of it. He’d barely arrived within sight of the great fortress before receiving news of Edward’s hanging of young Thomas Seton. In the meantime, our camp had been relocated far to the west, near a village called Duns. The intention was to get ourselves well out of sight. From the top of Halidon Hill, just north of Berwick, Edward can see almost everything. The only thing obscuring his view is the hill further to the north called Witches Knowle.
Duncan and I make our way to Archibald’s tent, where several dozen other nobles are already awaiting his first command. Sunlight glints off polished bascinets. Grim faces stare down at dew-slicked grass. The chink of rowel spurs sounds as more join us. Boots squelch in the mud with shifting weight. Here and there, a low murmur of greeting is exchanged.
No one smiles. No one raises their face to the morning light.
The moment the
tent flap opens and Archibald walks out, silence drops like a bomb of foreboding. Everyone pulls back into a wide circle, giving him clear berth.
“Today is the day, then.” Archibald forces a smile of encouragement, but the normal confidence is lacking in his demeanor. He pulls in a deep breath and draws his shoulders back as he looks from face to face. “King Edward steadfastly refused to acknowledge our relief of Berwick, even though we crossed the bridge and delivered much needed supplies. Several times, he has refused to abandon Berwick to protect his own cities and people. This morning I received a message from him again stating that the truce expires today. There are no more chances for negotiations, no possibility of relieving the town, no hope the English will leave until they either have what they came for or are beaten down for their arrogance. Many have criticized me for my unwillingness to act with haste.” His gaze lingers on Alan, but only a moment. “Some have called me indecisive. A coward. But whatever you think of me matters not. The day is here.”
I can’t imagine the load he bears for his decisions or the judgment that has already been passed on him. Seven hundred years from now, the history books will portray him as a mere shadow of the man his brother the good James Douglas was. They’ll refer to him as the Tyneman — the loser. Yet I know Archibald to be a good man, a respected leader.
If he knew how many lives are to be lost, would he avoid battle? Perhaps the opportunity to change fate rests not with me, but him? I have to say something. Maybe coming back here is my chance to avert tragedy?
Now or never.
I rush forward, my arm bumping his as I stop with my mouth inches from his ear. I keep my voice low, so only he will hear. “I beg you, my lord, do not take to the battlefield. This day will not end well for Scotland if you do. Thousands will —”
“Have you abandoned courage so readily, Roslin?” he whispers back. “The first arrow has not yet flown.”
“And they will, Archibald. Flight after flight. He won’t come down from Halidon Hill. I promise you that. He has no reason to. The moment you descend from Witches Knowle, your fate is decided. Scotland will lose Berwick. Thousands will die in the folly.” Including me and you, I think but omit adding. “I have seen what is to come, my lord. Believe what I say.”
In the Time of Kings Page 20
