by J. R. Tomlin
James sheathed his sword and shoved his hair out of his eyes. No helm. That was what had Wat in a panic, but they'd not look like innocent sellers on their way to the fair with helms. He'd left behind his shield. Couldn't be helped. Would some English knight split his head for him this day?
He took in a deep breath of the morning air. Douglas Water flowing nearby made it damp and fragrant. If he died today, it was fighting for home. That was worth dying for. He tugged on the reins and lengthened his stride, a smile tugging at his lips. He didn't intend to die. Not yet. Did anyone ever think they would die? Had Thomas thought he'd be sent in chains to his death?
Footsteps and hoofbeats thudded in the morning hush. A cock crowed, thin, in the distance. The shadow of the castle ate its way across the hill. At the top of a tower, a breeze caught a yellow banner, spreading it, so it flapped and rippled.
Perhaps it would look strange if he stared at the castle. That wasn't where they were headed but a few miles northwest to Lanark fair. He stared at his boots and kicked a stone that bounced into the heather. He cut his gaze to the castle and raised an eyebrow when he realized that the castle gate was already open.
“That gate is ours,” he said loudly enough to carry back to his men. “Whatever happens, reach it and hold it. Let no one lay hands on the chains to close it. Hack off their hands if they try.”
Behind him, there was a slap of steel on leather as someone loosened a sword beneath the cover of a tunic.
“They'll piss themselves when they hear the battle cry. Most likely hide in the cellar,” Hew said. Someone laughed.
“Nae. The last place they'll go,” another voice said, low. “Not after what Sir James left down there as a gift or them last time.”
“Whist,” James hushed them. “We're close enough for voices to carry.”
The road divided; the narrower rutted track led up to the castle. James tugged his stubborn devil as it danced and took the way that wound half way between the castle and the shadowy forest, the castle village out of sight past its edge.
The sun was well up, and a bead of sweat itched as it trickled down James's neck.
“What's taking so long? Mayhap the devils learnt from last time?” one of his men muttered.
Suddenly, the English were there in the castle gate, a dozen surging down the road, a wave of shields and swords, led by a knight with a waving plume on his shining helm, mail gleaming like a new cut coin. James gave them a moment to thunder closer.
“Now!”
He tugged the rope and the bags of hay thumped to the ground. “A Douglas!” he bellowed. Wat had better hear him. “A Douglas!”
He vaulted into the saddle and jerked his sword free. The knight was upon him. His battle narrowed to the knight in front of him. He circled James, raining sword blows down. James caught them, wielding his sword two handed. Steel whanged against steel. The sword hacked at James's throat, and James lashed out, knocking it aside. His enemy leant back for room for another try. That gave James the room that he needed. He swung his longsword with all the strength that was in him. The knight's throat exploded in a shower of gore.
“A Douglas! A Douglas!” Wat yelled, thundering toward him past an English guard hunched on the ground, arms flung over his head.
James whipped his horse to a gallop. He glanced up warily at the heavy grate of the portcullis, like the teeth of a monster. His men beside him swept toward the castle in a wave of shields and swords, his starred standard streaming. Shouts floated down from the castle walls as he galloped through the tunnel-like entrance.
The keep door stood open, the inside a gaping darkness. A man-at-arms dashed across the bailey yard toward it. Wat leapt from his horse and slammed the flat of his sword against the back of his head. Fergus's horse plunged up the steps after a fleeing guard.
“To me!” a knight shouted, back to a wall. Men ran toward him.
Pointing with his sword to the door, James shouted, “Hold that,” over the grunts and shouts of fighting men, shrieks of fear and pain. Wat planted himself, feet wide and sword raised, in the open doorway.
James paced his horse in a small circle. A mob of men-at-arms hunched against the wall, shields raised and swords ready.
James rose in his stirrups. “Yield! Yield and you'll have mercy.”
The knight in a long chain-mail hauberk and green surcoat braced his back against the wall and shouted back, “Mercy from the Douglas?” He spit. Blood ran down his cheek.
Fergus cursed. “Let's at them.” Beside him, Philp swiped the blood from a slice on his round face as he stalked his horse toward the English mob, the other men hard behind him, dirty and dented and growling.
“Hold,” James said. He nudged his horse a step toward the Englishmen. “My word on it as a knight. Surrender and I let you live.” A bleeding man-at-arms on the ground groaned.
The knight's eyes darted from James to his men and back again. “You swear it?”
“By the Holy Rude,” James told him. He looked into the pale, sweating faces of the Englishmen, one by one. “Throw down your sword.”
The knight's arm sagged down to his side. “I—” Even from where he sat, James heard his gulp. “I yield.” He tossed his sword onto the ground.
James motioned with the point of his sword. “All of you. Now!”
A shield and then a sword clattered onto the ground, then another and another. James pushed his hair, dripping with sweat, back out of his eyes. “Philp. Hew. Gather the arms. Wat, we need rope.” He narrowed his eyes at his captives. “On your knees.” He paced his horse back and forth, glowering at them as their hands were tied behind their backs.
The knight raised his head. “Douglas,” he said from his knees. “You took an oath.” Blood dripped on the ground from a gash across the knight's forehead, but the morning light glinted on his polished mail.
He swallowed a gush of bile at the memory of a bared neck bent below his sword and the gush of hot blood. “I did,” James said coldly.
“Kill them, my lord,” Philp urged. “Take their heads off like you did at the Larder.”
“No.” James sheathed his sword and peeled off his bloody leather gauntlets. “We have more important things to do than soil our blades with their blood.”
Wat jerked the knight to his feet by his bound hands. “I'll set a guard on them. In the great hall?”
“Outwith the walls. Strip them of armor and make sure they have no weapons. Not even an eating knife. Then come to me. We have much to plan.” He glared at the yellow banner above the gate. “Philp, pull that Clifford banner down from my walls.”
Philp, pale blue eyes in his leathery face, stared at James before turning to run up the steps to the parapet. James watched as he pulled down the pole and ripped the yellow banner loose. It floated like a dead leaf to the ground in front of the gate.
Gelleys was kneeling by the parapet steps, blood leaking through his fingers as his pressed it to his arm. An English guard lay still and unmoving in a red puddle nearby. Johne Rede knelt, holding himself up with one hand, the other pressed to his belly. James nodded to Richert who trotted to his horse and untied his bag of healing supplies.
James swung from the saddle. “Wat, send one of the men for Will and Iain Smythe. And Alycie will have supplies for the wounded. I don't want the rest of the village here yet.”
“Allane, Sande, see to the horses.”
The men trotted to do his bidding, gathering reins of the mounts as men climbed from the saddle.
“Picket them. Wat, I want men on the walls but leave the gate open. Forbye, we'll have tooing and froing. Put a guard on the horses, as well. Move those prisoners out of here. On the far side of the castle away from the village with them.” He sent Philp with a couple of men to find any English servants from within the keep.
The crowd of prisoners cast dark looks over their shoulders as they were herded out the gate. James gave them a last look. If they were fool enough to come back in his lands, he might not be so s
oft next time. Then he snorted. Easy enough to think they might not return, but their masters would have something other to say about that.
The yard was in chaos for a few minutes as the horses were gathered, snorting and skittering, still excited from the fight. The men were shouting and laughing, slapping shoulders, cursing their defeated enemies. The door of the keep slammed open, and two men in gray homespun stumbled out, Philp behind them. He shoved one down the steps to land on his knees, eyes wide with terror. James pointed to the gate and they were shoved and prodded out to join the other prisoners. The last of their mounts followed, and the bailey quieted as the men were chivvied by Wat to their tasks.
“My lord,” Will said from the shadow of the gate passage. Alycie was beside him, clutching a basket to her chest, plaid pulled tight around her shoulders. “I told her that she should wait. But she never listens to me.”
“I'll help with the wounded.” She smiled, but her gaze darted to the body that still lay on the steps to the parapet. Richert was bent over Johne Rede. The man moaned.
“Fergus, get that body out of sight,” James ordered. He went to her and patted her shoulder. “You all right, lass?”
She nodded, but her mouth formed a tight, pale line. “There are men to care for.” She thrust her pointed chin at Gelleys. “If someone will help him to the steps, I'll bind that up.”
After she was settled, James put an arm around Will's shoulder. “You and Iain start emptying the stables. Picket the horses with our mounts. I'll share my plans with you later.”
James smiled as Alycie flicked her long braid aside with a toss of her head as she sat on the stone step. Her head tilted, she daubed Gelleys's wound with a green salve and wrapped a strip of linen around the gash.
“Such a fight!” Gelleys said eagerly. His face was whey white below his thatch of dark hair, but that didn't slow down his tongue. “I was sure the damned Sassenach would get the gate closed, but Fergus put a blade through the man lowering it before it went even a foot. I've never seen such a victory. Beating them like that. Why we didn't lose a single man and five of the English dead. A knight captured and twenty men-at-arms—”
“One castle,” Alycie interrupted. “And the English will be back.”
“I know.” He blinked at her, his face falling with disappointment. “But don't you think it was a great victory?”
James strode past a dog that stopped to lift its leg. He stood over them, arms crossed over his chest. “Gelleys, you'd talk the ears off a deaf man.” The lad, as James thought of him of although they were of an age, looked up at him with a guilty grin.
“Of course, it was a thrilling victory. It's just—” Alycie tied off the bandage, patted his arm and stood up. “All done. It should heal, but if it gets hot with fever, come tell me. Or Richert.”
James shoved fingers though his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. “You did well, Gelleys. Everyone did. See what food they've found in the great hall. Inside with you.”
A horse neighed from the stable doors as Will and Iain Smythe led two animals out. James pointed out the castle gate. “Picket them. We'll decide which to keep.” James crossed his arms. “I might make a trip into Buittle Castle tomorrow and sell one or two of the scrubbier horses. See what news I can gather.”
Alycie frowned at him. “I hate when you do that. One day someone will recognize you.”
“They won't, but I don't see how I have time. If Will took them, someone would know he doesn't raise horses.” James stared through the walls with a brooding look, turning slowly to take in the whole of the castle. He'd expected the fire he'd set to it last year to have left more scars. Only a few streaks of black crept up the gray stone. “That will have to wait. Somehow I must find a way... I may hold the lands, but power is yet in their hands as long as they hold the castles.” He could hear the bitter tone in his voice but couldn't repress it. “The King's own Lochmaben Castle. Buittle, Dumfries, Caevlaverock, Tibbers. If they dare not move through the Forest, I dare not attack them behind their stone walls.”
Will paused on this way to the gate. “Couldn't Wat go to Buittle for you? Philp could give him a hand.” The horse he led snorted and stomped, jerking its lead.
The thick oaken door of the keep creaked as it opened. “Do what?” Wat asked, shoving shut the door behind him.
Alycie put her hand on James's arm. “I'm done with the bandages, my lord.”
“Will, have someone gather the women and the older children from the village. I want the kitchen and storerooms emptied. Empty the hen houses, too. After the horses are picketed, have the men haul out the grain and hay. There's no time to waste. They should take whatever they can carry. Pile the furniture in the cellar once it's empty.”
He waited until Will was on his on their way out the gate to unloop his purse from his belt. Handing it to Wat he said, “Give the damn Sassenach two siller each.” He frowned as he decided which of his men hated the English the least and wouldn't murder them on the way. “Hew and David can guard them on their way. Have them follow them until nightfall and see they keep to the road to the south.” He gave a brisk nod. “Allow the Sassenach no weapons, mind you, not even an eating knife.”
Iain Smythe led two more whinnying, stamping horses from the stable. Two men carried lumber from a store room between toward the gates, and one cursed when he stumbled over a squawking rooster that flapped its way indignantly out from under his feet.
Wat tossed the leather purse in his hand and gave a wry laugh. “Siller from the Black Douglas?”
James's mouth twisted. “You want to ruin my reputation, man? Don't say that it's mine. I just want them gone. Forthwith! Make sure they don't stop on the road before nightfall.” He looked around and shouted, “Philp! Where are those shovels and picks?”
Richert looked up at James, shaking his head. James blew out a gusty sigh, but they were lucky to have only lost one man. He'd rather Alycie didn't see. She'd seen enough horrors in her life, so he'd spare her another.
Across the dusty bailey yard, Philp stood in the doorway of a wooden storage shed. “Where do we put them, Sir James?”
“Stack them outwith the gate.”
James's stomach grumbled. No doubt they'd found food in the keep kitchen, but eating would have to wait. There was so much to do his mind reeled with it. He guided Alycie up the steps and pulled open the door. Inside, the great hall was long and drafty. Its stone walls were strangely barren, only a single banner draped behind the high table. Some of the stones still bore black streaks of soot and the high-beamed ceilings looked raw and new. But the torches on the walls and the crackling fire in the hearth gave a pleasant light. A scent of bread and onions and meat wafted with the smell of the pine fire. James's stomach gurgled again, and Alycie ducked her head, mouth twitching a little.
He snorted. “No time.”
He motioned to a doorway. “Most of the stores will be down there. Let's take a look.” He smiled to himself. Eventually, they'd work their way through the castle stores to see what was in the Lord's chamber. And after, one night of his life, he would spend with Alycie in his own castle. The English be damned.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A good distance from the walls, his men still in their leather armor stood gathered with the villagers in homespun, silent and gaping.
Sweat dripped down James's face. The day was hot and sticky with the summer sun a quarter-way up the morning sky. He swatted at swarming midges.
This is where I stood and watched the last time my lord father came riding home, he thought. He rode his gray horse that pranced as they came, and his starred pennant blew in the wind.
James picked up a broad, heavy grappling hook and peered down between the stone merlons that formed the uprights of the wall's battlements. Gelleys and Allane led two horses, the heaviest they'd found in the stables, harnessed, and stopped in front of the long pike of dirt where they'd undermined the edge of the wall. Philp joined them and waved to him.
“Ready,” Jam
es called out. He dropped the long rope over the edge and shoved the grappling hook into place on the merlon. He braced a foot against it and shoved until it was jammed into place. The wall shuddered under his feet. James caught his breath, ready to jump if he needed to. Yet he was sure it would take work to bring the wall down. He thought he was sure.
More hooks and ropes lay at his feet on the embattled parapet walk. He shoved and kicked the hook into place above the other as Gelleys pulled them to attach to a horse's harness. Two more went on the next merlon and Allane fastened them to the horse he held. “Hold!” James shouted. He ran along the walk and took the steps two and three at a time to the bailey.
He ran for the gate. The wall would only come down at his word. Then let the English hold it if they could.
He emerged from the shadows of the tunnel-like gate. The two men had led the horses so that the ropes stretched taut. James turned to back away from the wall, breath coming fast. He wiped the sweat from his face as he backed up. Gelleys and Allane eyed him, ready to move on his word. He nodded. “Now.”
Each man took a horse's halter. They urged the animals. Philp whipped the horses' hindquarters with a birch switch. “Hoi. Pull.”
The horses strained. James frowned up, chewing his lip. They'd used tripled ropes, but they still might not hold. Still, the wall groaned. It cracked. Chunks of mortar showered from it. Stones thudded onto the ground.
“Move them,” James yelled.
The horses gave one last heave and surged forward. The wall thundered as it shattered, horribly loud. James jerked a step back, and winced, forcing himself not to cover his ears. The wall was no more, just rubble and a billow of dusty debris.
There was silence. A loud gasp rose from the onlookers as one. One of the horses, snorted, shying. Gelleys hauled on its halter. Wat yelled to gather the hooks and ropes.
James felt a hand on his arm and turned his head. Alycie stood beside him, examining his face. “Jamie?”
He nodded slowly. “It's all right.”
“Mayhap. But...” She pulled her plaid tight around her shoulders. “Where is your home if you destroy it? And how can you ever protect us?” She sighed. “No, I suppose it has never been a protection since the Sassenach came. It's just strange to think of no castle in Douglasdale.”
