by J. R. Tomlin
He put his hand on hers and ran a thumb across the back. “I can't think on it, lass.” He took a deep breath and gazed with a twist of his stomach at the gaping hole and the pile of rocks.
His mouth tightened, and he called, “Wat, there's another wall to pull down. Set the men to work with the picks.”
An hour of the thump of picks and grate of shovels undermined the edge of another wall. This time James stood nearby on the parapet walk and watched it crash into a pile of rocks. His ears were still ringing from the sound of that crash when another sound pierced its way through: a winding of a hunting horn. James grasped the hilt of his sword. Men dropped their tools. Another blast sounded, the signal of a friend approaching.
“To arms,” James barked down to Wat. He'd never forget the lesson of Methven. Never turn your back if the English might have a sword at it. Never be sure that you might not be betrayed. Most like, it was a friend, but he couldn't think who. Any friend would be with the King in the north.
The men ran pell-mell for their swords, stacked at the foot of the slope.
The flutter of a banner... Horsemen, someone in the lead on a warhorse and a tail of men. James squinted, a white pennant. Red devices. When he made out three red shields, he laughed. Boyd!
James stood on the tattered edge of what was left of the parapet, grinning. He'd missed his old friend and mentor. And Boyd would have news--news of the King.
Boyd clattered up and reined his dancing horse to a stop. James laughed. He jumped off the edge of the broken wooden walk, landing atop the rubble and leapt to the ground. “Robbie!” The hundred men in Boyd's tail clattered to a halt.
The tall, lanky knight dismounted. “Jamie,” Boyd flickered a smile as James clapped him on the shoulder and then grasped his upper arms in his hands.
“You're a fine sight. What the devil are you doing down here?” He had to wonder where Boyd's grin was. As bad as things had been, Boyd had never lost that.
“I've word and orders.” Boyd turned to wave his men from their mounts. “I do not suppose you could spare a mite of food for my men?”
James signaled Wat to take care of the newcomers. “God be good, I'm glad to lay eyes on you,” James said as he motioned toward the keep. It was emptied except for a couple of benches and a side table but would do for a quiet talk. “Richert, bring us some wine and there should be cheese and bread about somewhere.”
At the open door of the keep, Boyd stopped to look over the destruction. “You always said they'd not hold it.”
“And they haven't. They won't.”
The inside was in cool shadow, only a glimmer of flame in the ashes of the great hearth. James dropped onto the bench and leaned back against the edge of the table. He frowned at his friend. “You have a grim look to you.”
Boyd waited, jaw working, as Richert put a wooden tray with a loaf of bread, a round of dark yellow cheese, and a wine flagon on the table between them. Richert left the door ajar to let a shaft of golden light make a triangle of gold on the rush-strewn floor. “Aye, I was home to Kilmarnock raising men. And I finally got news of my brother.”
James looked at his hands and waited, a chill wave washing through him.
“Executed a year past. Hanged, drawn...” Boyd shook his head. “I knew he was dead. But didn't quite know...” Boyd's scarred cheek twitched as he scowled at the far wall.
James poured a goblet full to the rim and put into Boyd's hand and filled a goblet for himself. He took a deep drink. “Like Thomas... Alexander...” James ran his hand through his hair. What could be said? “I'm sorry, Robbie.” He'd seen Wallace and still heard his scream in his dreams. “They've killed every King's man they've captured, but until you were sure...”
Boyd gave a quick bark of grim laughter. “Not quite every one.”
“What? Who not?”
“Thomas Randolph still lives.”
“They spared Randolph? But...” James frowned into his goblet. “The King's nephew? That's good news. But why did they spare him?”
“Because he's fighting for them now.”
James stared at Boyd. “God have mercy. Randolph?” James shook his head. He jerked to his feet and paced fast to stare out the doorway into the sunlight and prowled angrily back. “A traitor? Does the King know?”
“Aye. I sent word.”
James sat down his goblet and leaned his elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. “That must have hit hard. That Tom Randolph would do that after they executed his own uncles, friends too many to count... Why? How?”
“To save having his guts ripped out, I should think. A choice mayhap some others would have taken if they'd had the chance. So more to the point, why did they not kill him when they killed everyone else out of hand? Even the Earl of Atholl, old King Longshank's own cousin.” Boyd shook his head. “Atholl and I kidnapped Streathern to bring him to Robert's coronation, remember? They hanged, drew and quartered Streathern, too.”
James looked around the nearly empty hall, walls with their streaks of soot where he'd fired it, and beams still raw from being replaced. “I can't pull down the hall, but I'll fire it again. With the walls slighted, I do not think they'll rebuild it again.”
“Probably not.”
James took a deep breath and picked up his goblet. “Perhaps they thought a traitor in the King's very family was worse than killing the man. What of the King? When you saw him? How does he fare?”
Boyd ran a hand down his face. “Well, when I left. But you won't have heard. Last winter he was ill. Coughing up thick gobs of slime, his lungs filled with it. Unable to breath and near to death, but he led us into battle anyway.” Boyd laughed again and for the first time sounded almost like his old self. “Damn the man. He had us prop him in the saddle. Gilbert de Hay and I held him up, and he led us.” He grinned. “We chased the Comyn of Buchan all the way to the sea! Then the King sent Edward to ravage Buchan end to end. All Comyn's castles are destroyed: Slains, Rattray, Dundarg, Duffus. All of them. Buchan is ours. ”
James threw back his head with a laugh. “Betimes the King is a madman. Going into battle so ill. But we won.”
“You're to bring your men north. As am I. We'll attack MacDougall of Lorn. That's another traitor who'll be paid. The King has not forgotten what he's owed.”
James upended his goblet and gulped down the last drops of wine. It was Lorn's men who'd given him his first wound. Iain Bacach MacDougall of Lorn who had sent two of the King's brothers to shameful execution. Holding out the flagon to refill both their drinks, James said, “We'll have share some braw fights then. That'll cheer you up, Robbie.”
“That we will, lad.” He downed his wine. “That we will.”
“Have your men set to with mine slighting these walls. Two more must come down. And tomorrow I'll fire the keep, then we'll ride north.” He raised his goblet. “Here's to Lorn. And vengeance.”
CHAPTER NINE
Smoke billowed in a thick column into the sky, and the sight made the hairs on the back of James's neck stand on end. Monstrous shapes writhed in it as though to escape destruction. James gave a sharp cough at the acrid stench.
The rutted road from the castle turned and twisted under green trees. That was the road they had taken when he followed his father to war. He and Wat sneaked down that slope to find Tom Dickson. The kirk where Tom had died fighting the English lay past the trees. In the castle, he'd executed the English who'd killed Tom. Beyond in Douglas Water, James had washed off the blood.
Ghosts.
Boyd laid a rough buffet on James's shoulder. “You had to do it. Don't look so glum, lad.”
A wry smiled twitched James's mouth. He'd never be more than a lad to Boyd. “I'll have a word with Will and be ready to ride.”
“Aye. I know it's Will you'll want to be speaking to. Not that lass I saw you looking at.” Boyd laughed. “You're a devil with the women, Jamie. I don't know how you do it.”
“You're a fine one to say so.” James grinned as he and B
oyd turned their backs on the blazing castle and strode quickly toward Will Dickson's home. Boyd had always liked a woman who was an armful, and when there was a woman about, she was like to be in his lap. Women seemed to love that laugh of his. “Will said he had news of Sassenach moving near Peebles. I don't allow them free passage in my Forest, you know.”
Boyd snorted and pulled open the door to duck in behind James. “Your Forest, is it? We've no time for hunting down English.”
Alycie handed a ruddy-faced, shaggy-haired lad a bowl that wafted a ribbon of steam as he sat at the table beside Will. There was a scent of rabbit stew. “Hunt down the Sassenach?” she asked.
“This the one with news from Peebles?”
Will nodded. “Tell Sir James what you told me, Rane.”
The lad started to rise, his eyes widening, mouth full as he chewed. James waved him back down and straddled a stool. Boyd squatted next to the door.
“At Easter Happrew, my lord,” the lad said. “Near the Lyne Water. It's said they're hunting you—a couple of knights and a troop of English soldiers. But the knights...” He looked at Will and then back to James. “They're Scots.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My father. His malting is there. They took it for a headquarters, so he sent me to tell you.”
“And he is sure the knights are Scots?”
The lad washed the food down with a gulp of water. “He said so. He's not sure how long they'll stay, but the knight, the blond one, he sent out patrols.”
“How many are there?”
The lad scratched his head. “Perhaps five score.”
James clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Easter Happrew is only a short way from Peebles.” He looked at Robbie Boyd. “A day's ride out of our way, but I'm thinking worth the time. It well should keep them from noticing for a bit that I've left the Forest, and we may find ourselves a prize. Worth it, I'm thinking.”
Boyd looked at him silently for a moment and nodded. “You say your farewells whilst I check that the men are ready.” He winked at Alycie, and she blushed, rosy cheeked.
James stood up, smiling. “Rane, is it?”
“Aye, Sir James.”
“Can you manage to sit a horse's back?”
“I rode here on my hobelar, but it's not fit to go back.”
James put an arm around Alycie. “You follow after Sir Robert. Tell him I said you need a mount. I need you to show us where this malting is. You can guide us, can you not?”
The lad shoved his bowl back and jumped to his feet. “That I can, my lord.” He dashed to the door. It slammed behind him.
James frowned at Will over Alycie's head. “I don't like this. Having to leave. I'd have her somewhere safe. Perhaps Alycie should go to one of the convents. Mostly they're not bothered.”
Alycie shoved against his chest and stepped back. “But sometimes they are. There's nowhere that's safe, Jamie. You know that. At least here I'm of some use.”
He pulled her close and wrapped her in his arms, laying his cheek on her soft hair.
Will cleared his throat. “Don't fash yourself, my lord. I'll see my sister comes to no harm. If the English come back, when they come back, I'll make sure she's out of sight.”
She squeezed her arms tight around his waist and leaned her forehead against his chest. “I wish there was somewhere safe. I wish we could go there. All of us.”
He blinked hard. “Sometimes, hen,” he kissed the top of her head, “sometimes so do I.” He cleared his throat. Tears were unmanly. He took a deep breath, tilted her chin up. She brushed her lips over his, soft and sweet. “If I can, I'll send word when I'll return.” He gripped Will's shoulder. “Keep safe.”
He strode out into the mid-morning light. On the road, Wat was yelling amidst a clatter of tack and the snorting of the horses. The men, two hundred strong with Boyd's force added to James's, stood on the road checking their horses' tack, chewing hunks of bannock, scratching and talking.
CHAPTER TEN
James mounted, wheeled about, and trotted to join them. He gave the command to move, the talk withered, and the men climbed into their saddles. Gelleys rode out first with the outriders he led, Philp and Hew. Wat nodded to James and called to the dozen men who would form the rear guard. They waited as James raised an arm overhead and signaled the main force to follow.
James rode into the Forest. He followed the game trails and shallow streams through the wilderness of gnarled trunks and branches that cut off the summer sun. That night they camped in a small haugh next to the Lyne Water. The next day as the sun set in ripples of rose and gold, they reached the outer edge of the Forest.
Gelleys emerged from the undergrowth so quietly that James's mount shied. James settled it and swung from the saddle. “English?”
“Guards around the edge of the village. Only two of them. Fools.” He snorted.
Behind James, Boyd laughed. “The main force?”
Gelleys shook his head. “Nae seen a hair of their heads.”
James chewed his lip as he looked over their men. “We'll go in afoot. Robbie, have a dozen men of your guard the horses. If things go awry, we'll split up and meet back here.” He motioned to Rane and draped an arm around the lad's shoulder. “You'll show us to the malting and then hide, you hear?”
Rane gave a jerk of his head in assent. “It's just a mite past Torbank Hill.”
James handed his reins to one of Boyd's men. They followed Rane up the steep hill shaped like a sand dune. James motioned to follow as he crawled the rest of the way. Robbie and Wat followed. He lay flat on his belly at the crest, taking a look across the purple and pink heathery stretch of land dotted with beech trees casting long shadows in the last rays of the sun. The braeside was speckled here and there with patches of yellow gorse. In the distance lay the village.
Rane scooted his way to beside James as he studied the welter of small houses with thatch roofs. A piddling gray stone tower stood only three stories high with no outer wall.
“It isn't big enough to hold the soldiers, so they took our place.” Rane pointed to the long stone building with a slate roof on the far side of the tower. The village was oddly quiet, the enclosure where sheep would be sheltered at night empty. A guard was a black silhouette against the last ray of sunlight as he paced a path to and fro.
“Does the door bar from inside?”
The lad looked at him as though he was crazed. “Why would it do that? It's chained from the outside at night.”
“Good man, Rane.” James scratched at his narrow strip of beard. “Best you take the long way home. Long enough so they don't know you've been sneaking about at night.”
“Aye, my cousin has a croft not far. I'll bide there for the night.”
“Robbie, go back down and circle to the other side of the village. Probably there's another guard for you to deal with. When an owl screeches a third time, come in.”
Boyd nodded and trotted in a crouch down the braeside, leading his men. James lay flat to watch on the village as the blanket of night fell. The crush of heather under him scented the air. A bee buzzed near his hand. Wat whispered and sent two men to guard their flanks.
James studied the sprawling village. A few of the cots had spread to two or three rooms. A shaft of moonlight broke through a cloud to glint on the tower, but no light shone in its narrow slit windows. There were slats of light showing in the windows of the malting though. Shutters opened, a figure momentarily silhouetted in the window. The light inside dimmed as though torches were snuffed. The night turned from gray to purple.
“Wat,” James said softly, “Send Allane and Sande to see to our friend down there. One owl's hoot when they're done.”
Their departure was a whisper of movement.
James slithered down to his awaiting men. “Ready your weapons. On their signal, we move.”
“Reminds me a bit of a night at Methven,” Wat said.
James smiled. “Except we're the ones doing the sneaking th
is time.”
“Well, I've heard the Sassenach want to meet that devil of a Black Douglas.” Wat laughed softly. There were whispers of blades as they were drawn from their scabbards. “Might be I'll introduce you to them when we're there.”
“Fergus come with me on to kick in the door.”
The man grunted assent.
On the scree of an owl, James drew his sword. “Mayhap they'll be glad to meet me.”
He watched as the men spread out. All blooded under his command, they knew what to do. They would go in quiet and surround the building. He whistled to Wat to start the men creeping over the crest of the hill. In a crouch-walk, James led them forward, silence more golden than speed. A thud sounded as someone tripped in the darkness over a dark shape and a stifled curse. He froze, but nothing stirred in the oblivious village. The sliver of moon slid out from behind a fleeting the fleeing clouds. It's faint like gleamed on his face. He put his hand to his mouth. Scree... Scree...
A breeze brought the scent of rabbit cooking inside a cot as he slipped past, back pressed against the wall. James could just make out the dark shape of the building ahead, hulking black in this still watch of the night. How many English were yet on watch? Awake?
His very foremost men were at and around the walls, crouched and waiting. Fergus's bulk at his side, the two of them stooped as they moved through the darkness. At the building, James touched the rough stone of the wall as he moved low to the ground. It was impossible to see the door in the darkness.
From inside came a voice, “I'll lead a search tomorrow myself. Take half our men into the Forest. I swore I'll hunt Douglas down, the damned brigand.”
James's breath caught in his chest at the familiarity of the voice.
“It's too risky, Randolph. We don't have enough men. Forbye, the Torwood is nothing but a trap waiting to snare a man.”
