by Julianne Lee
Rather than explain to the creature, who wouldn’t have understood anyway, he stood, took her by the hand, and drew her away from the fire and into the tent he shared with Lindsay. He didn’t want the whore hauling his equipment out into the open, which by observations of the other pairs pawing each other around the fire he knew was more than a possibility, and so he guided her onto his straw mattress and parachute. Her giggling and silly chatter about her good luck to be with such a handsome man was so enthusiastic, it was almost endearing.
The act didn’t take long, particularly since Alex couldn’t allow the woman to see him or handle him, and he was out of his mind horny and drunk besides. He could only unzip his suit and lift her dress, and there was barely enough sense left in his brain to pull out the one condom he had, put it on, then climb on and start banging away. It didn’t take long at all, and when it was over he rolled off her, zipped himself, and gave her a pearl before telling her to leave the tent. Consciousness remained just long enough for him to watch her go, thrilled to squealing with her enormous tip, then he collapsed onto his parachute and passed out.
The morning sun woke him, entirely too high but cold in the late September. Alex’s head felt like he’d been clobbered with a mace, but the rest of him was warm and relaxed from last night’s encounter. He looked over at Lindsay, sitting on her mattress, and caught her frowning at him again. She looked away, and he wondered what the hell she expected from him.
“You were right,” he said through a throatful of phlegm. then coughed to clear it. “All I needed was to get laid.” There was something cold and clammy stuck to his thigh, and he reached into his flight suit for the condom that was now loose in there. Not sure what to do with it, he threw it into a corner where it would at least be out of the way until they moved on. It caught and dangled on a tuft of grass.
Lindsay said, “You used the condom? Whatever for? The diseases those things were invented for don’t exist here yet. Not till Columbus’s men pick them up from the red Indians and bring them back.”
He looked over at the limp bit of latex, grunted and shrugged, then adjusted his skivvies before zipping his suit again.
She continued, “Leprosy on the other hand...”
Oh boy. He glanced over at her, then looked away and shut his eyes. Something new to worry about. “Thanks for the trivia lesson.” He lay down on his mattress and tried to go back to sleep. But he was awake, his head was pounding, and his stomach felt like it had been kicked by a horse. He needed food. Maybe some more mead to take the edge off this. He struggled to his feet and made his way to the tent door and called for his other squire, who was a fifteen-year-old boy and not just pretending. He was a big kid, though, and looked older.
“Colin,” he said, “bring me a plate of cold meat and some mead.”
The boy gaped for a moment, unaccustomed to being told to do anything not involving the horses, and his gaze went past Alex into the tent. Alex turned to find Lindsay behind, staring at him. He turned to Colin and said, “Go, boy. Now.”
“Aye, sir.” Colin went.
Alex returned to his mattress without a glance at Lindsay, lay back, and put his arm across his face. There was a horrible, sinking feeling as he realized he still wanted her.
Chapter Eight
Quite naturally, the garrison at Galashiels Castle was the Scots’ next target, for they knew that castle wouldn’t be receiving supplies or reinforcement anytime soon. Edward Bruce’s army approached with as much stealth as possible, and encamped in a hollow some miles from the town before sending scouts to reconnoiter.
Impatient with long sieges, and inspired by the imprudent proximity of forest to the outer curtain of the fortress as well as a nearly moonless night, Edward grasped firmly those advantages and decided on a quick and daring approach to defeating this garrison. He took his best knights, including Alex and his forty, and bearing rope ladders slung over their shoulders, crept up on the ramparts on an early October evening.
Squires remained in the forest with the horses and infantry, but Alex allowed Lindsay to accompany him, a risky decision among men for whom being first in was a matter of spoils as well as reputation. To quell the objections of the privileged knights as well as the squires left out of the action, he had her carry a bucket of urine in case they were discovered and set upon by Greek fire. Urine and vinegar being the only things that would put out the oily, napalm-like concoction, it behooved them to bring some along, and carrying the evil-smelling bucket was a degrading job nobody else wanted. Lindsay wanted to play with the big dogs; he figured he’d let her.
In black cloaks, and faces smeared with ash, several hundred Scots crept through the forest toward the castle, carrying with them large rocks and sacks of earth with which to fill a part of the moat so it would be shallow enough for crossing. The work went carefully and silently as the night deepened.
Once the moat was defeated and the Scots began to cross single file, Alex led his men, intensely aware of the watchmen above bearing crossbows. Edward’s men spread out along the curtain wall, and Alex was ordered to take his to the side of the castle nearest the portcullis. Once assembled beneath the walls and surrounding the castle, they all dropped their cloaks to the ground and with long rods began raising the grappling hooks of the ladders to the battlements. It took immense strength to lift the rod-and-rope ladder to such a height, and with enough dexterity to set the hook silently on the stone above. Even with the support of two other knights, Alex’s arms began to ache before he could pull the rod vertical, and nearly gave out by the time he was able to find an adequate niche in the dark and set the grapple three stories above his head.
As commander, he was first up his ladder, with his best men close behind him. Lindsay came last, carrying her bucket up the unanchored, stretchy, swinging rope ladder, and that bothered him. He would rather she had been ahead of him, but he could no longer treat her differently from the men. Instead, he put her from his mind and told himself she wanted it this way. She’d barely spoken to him since the skirmish with the provisions train, and it was plain that the more he tried to demonstrate to her his concern for her safety the more convinced she would be he was only making moves on her. Damned and damned.
He climbed the ladder, and paused just under the parapet to listen.
In a distant part of the castle a cry of alarm rose, and Alex cursed as he climbed the rest of the way and hauled himself over the stone wall. Quickly he ran, drawing his broadsword, but he pulled up when he saw nobody to oppose him. Torches flickered along the battlement and in the bailey below, and a dozen figures were hurrying toward the door. The watch on this side was gone.
He grinned. Cool. Alex ran toward the gatehouse, his men close behind in single file along the parapet. They found only one defender at the raising mechanism, that man outnumbered, surprised, cowed, and quickly dispatched. “Come!” Alex waved his men into the room. Several of them gathered at the mechanism and pulled mightily to raise the gate, and the rest hurried down the stairs toward the bailey. In the torch-lit dimness Alex saw Lindsay straining at the bar, and he remembered the bench press back on the ship. This task was one he knew she was quite up to, and that enabled him to ignore her and concentrate on what else was at hand.
English knights came, wielding swords and maces, and shouting curses. Alex and some others broke away to defend the gate-raisers, and he found himself challenged by a large knight whose blows rattled him to his boots. Alex staggered beneath their force, but gave no ground. There was very little ground to give in that space. His men had the gate moving, then a little faster. At the first crack wide enough to accommodate a man, Edward Bruce’s infantry and the cavalry squires pressed in and joined the fray with an elated cry. At the sound of shouting Scots below, the English knights fighting in the gatehouse broke off to flee to the parapet.
Alex’s opponent shoved him off, then turned and fled for the stairs. Alex chased him, and shoved him forward hard so he toppled head first down the spiral in a c
latter of plate and mail. Alex followed and finished off the moaning knight with a dagger to the throat, then hauled him on down the stairs so the body wouldn’t block the passage of Scots through the gatehouse.
In the bailey Alex took on another challenger as fellow Scots ran past. His single-handed broadsword was at a power disadvantage against the other knight’s longer two-handed cross-hilt sword, and so he had to be light on his feet. Speed was a small equalizer, but all he had, and he concentrated on not being where he was expected. The English knight’s sword clanged and clattered against a stone wall one second, then pavement underfoot the next. Alex concentrated on getting inside the slower blade to break the man’s joints through the mail, and finding exposed skin he could harry, his blows as heavy as he could make them and still be quick. But he was tiring. He needed to put this guy away soon, or be the one to die. He took fewer swings, dodging to catch an extra moment between blows. The other knight was forcing him backward. Alex’s strength was flagging. He had to do something different. His gun was in his right thigh pocket. He reached with his left hand to unzip it, but his hauberk was too long and he couldn’t take the time to bend and reach it. He transferred his sword to his left hand to reach for the gun with his right, but now his speed was gone and he found himself staggering beneath the other man’s assaults. His shoulder felt like it would drop from its socket, and breathing was such a terrible effort it felt as if he were only exhaling over and over. Alex’s sword went back to his right hand and he pressed his opponent to keep from being backed into a wall. Then he circled and backed some more, not entirely certain where he was headed. But he made his opponent chase him, throwing his rhythm off. Alex began to catch a second wind.
Then he feinted to the left, swung his weapon like a windmill, and attacked to the right. The Englishman was forced to parry with his arm, and Alex felt the satisfying give of broken bone under the mail. Again he feinted and attacked, and was parried neatly by his opponent’s sword. But at the same time he drew his dagger with his left, stepped in, and stabbed the English knight in the throat.
The snarling knight only shouted in pain, coughed, and spat blood, renewing his vigor with the sword.
Alex cursed, then backed and circled some more, hoping there would be enough blood to weaken the guy. Swords clanged, and the Englishman cursed him and his unborn progeny, blood spraying from his lips as he spoke. Alex’s aching arm slowed, and desperation came.
“Die, dammit!”
The knight wouldn’t obey, though blood streamed over the neck of his coif and soaked into his surcoat, in a spreading, black stain that glistened in the torchlight. Alex erupted in an impatient roar and slammed his sword harder with each blow.
Finally the other knight stumbled, weakening with the bleeding. He began to stagger. In an instant Alex hauled back, gripped his sword with both hands, and with all his might delivered a blow to the head. The helmet dented and the knight collapsed, his head caved in on one side and blood streaming from the metal casing and across his face.
Gasping for air, Alex turned from the dead knight and looked for a spot to take a moment’s respite and regain his breath. He slipped into a dark corridor nearby and collapsed against the stone wall, gasping, chest heaving in the cold night air that was like knives in his lungs. Every joint in his upper body felt pulled apart and jammed back together like a child’s abused toy. But there was only a moment to rest, to bring the gasping under control, then he found some stairs and followed them up to the parapet where swords still clashed and echoed from the castle curtain.
He came out of the stairwell to find himself behind an English knight engaged with a Scot, and ran to take him, sword raised. But then a torch on the battlement revealed the knight’s opponent was Lindsay. She was fighting with mace and dagger, a fire of determination in her eyes. There was nobody else on the parapet: the rest of the fighting was in the bailey or within the castle chambers. Alex stood, sword raised, behind the English knight. Never taking her eyes from her opponent, she shook her head and bared her teeth. Alex shifted his weight, wanting desperately to kill the man but knowing Lindsay would hate him for it if he did it too soon. Like the rest of his men, she wanted the glory of having fought well. In fact, she needed it to appear the man she pretended.
The gun. He scabbarded his dagger, shifted his sword to his left hand, and reached down to draw the SIG M11. Calmly he chambered a round and pointed the weapon at the knight’s back.
“No!” Lindsay’s voice was hoarse and angry. Her adversary tried to look around to see what was behind him, but she kept him occupied and focused on her. The parapet was too narrow for him to do anything else.
Alex winced and groaned and flexed his fingers against the grip, wanting to pull the trigger but only pointing the muzzle.
“I said no!” Lindsay wailed hard on her opponent, and as she backed him up Alex also backed up. The knight trying to kill her was grunting with the effort, and red anger colored Alex’s vision. More than anything he wanted to blow this sonofabitch into the next century. Though he held his fire, he also kept the gun trained on the knight’s back and looked for the slightest sign Lindsay might be in trouble enough to make her change her mind. Even the tiniest suggestion she might falter.
But she was smart. She was varying her rhythm, and setting the pace of the fight. Just a shade quicker than the knight, she kept him off balance. Her dagger parried, her mace struck elbow and knee, and the knight was weakening. Staggering. Finally she was able to get inside the sword and whack his head with her mace, stunning him enough to make him lean against the battlement. Now it was a simple matter to hit him again, then again from the other side so he draped over the inner wall, and Alex helped her shove him over the side of the parapet. The knight landed on his head several stories below, then lay still in a crumpled heap.
Both Alex and Lindsay looked over the wall to the bailey ground, silent. Lindsay gasped from exertion, wavering, then sank to her knees. Alex restored the chambered round to the clip and pocketed his pistol, then leaned against the battlement and watched her as the noise of clashing weapons began to die in the castle. The fight was nearly over, and the victorious voices were Scottish. Lindsay stared hard at the dead man, and slowly regained her breath.
Finally, still staring, she said, “You lied.”
“Huh?”
“Killing people who want to kill you doesn’t feel like a job.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve killed a guy.”
She turned to peer at him. “It is.”
“No. The provision train. That one you walloped is dead, I’m sure.”
Her mouth gaped, and she appeared to want to speak, but didn’t. Then she looked down at the body below.
He sucked air between his front teeth. “No, you’re right. I lied. It doesn’t feel like a job. But at the time it was the only answer you would have understood.”
For a long moment she stared into the middle distance, thinking, then she nodded. With a deep breath she then turned to him and said, “Thanks for watching my back.”
He slapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Bravo Zulu, soldier.” She had only a blank look for that, and he elaborated. “Well done.”
Her response was something between a laugh and a sigh, but she didn’t smile. “He was a fellow countryman. They’re all my countrymen, Scots and English.”
Alex’s reply was immediate. “That guy was your enemy, trying to kill you. Make no mistake about that. Countryman or not, he was your enemy.”
She thought about that for a moment, then nodded again. He turned and led the way down to the bailey, where Scots were herding disarmed prisoners into a cluster, shouting and jeering at the cowed men. The prisoners stood motionless, sullen and quiet, staring at the ground and not at their captors. One young squire was in tears, and sniffled pitiably among the more hardened knights as they were herded away to the detainment cells in the gatehouse.
Alex found Sir Hector, who told him the garrison commander had
retreated to the keep and was now barricaded there.
They all stared at the small tower to the left of the gatehouse. It was accessible by only one door, near the parapet, reached by a span of wood that had been withdrawn so the invaders couldn’t get to the door to beat it down. There were no windows in the keep, only tiny arrow loops. Alex said, “How long do you think he’ll hold out?”
Hector shrugged and turned to Alex with a twinkle in his eye. “Perhaps he believes there will be relief soon.”
Alex and Lindsay turned to look at Hector, and Alex snorted a laugh through his nose. “He’s going to be a seriously disappointed sonofabitch, then. Think we should tell him?”
“Edward has already, and the commander isn’t of sufficient trust to believe him. They will hold us off for a while, then succumb when they become hungry enough and thirsty enough. The relief will never come as expected.” A smile then brightened his face. “Come. The prisoners are safely tucked away in the gatehouse and under vigilant guard. We’ve caught the garrison during supper, and there’s plenty to eat for everyone.”
Alex and Lindsay went with him to the Great Hall and sat with the rest of the victorious Scots for a good supper of meat and wine. Among the many tales of the night’s exploit, Alex regaled the room with the story of his young squire’s skillful kill. Lindsay, her cheeks ruddy with wine, the heat of the room, and the excitement of the evening, grinned and bore the praise, but the haunted look was in her eyes. Alex had seen it before in men he’d flown with, and had most likely worn it himself during times when the ugliness of the world tore his soul. He figured all Lindsay needed was to toughen up. Surely she’d be fine once she learned to partition her emotions and keep the horror contained.
Meanwhile, they all ate till they could hold no more, for nobody ever knew for certain when the next meal would be. Most of them, including Alex, tucked away pieces of bread and cheese in their clothing for later.
