by E R Dillon
A ghost of a smile tugged at Count Jardine’s lips. “It may astonish you to learn that it won’t be the first time I have done so.”
“As you wish, m’sire,” Kyle said. He touched his heels to the gelding’s flanks and sent it into a canter. The others stayed close behind him. For the next couple of hours, the only sound they heard was the drumming of hooves on packed earth. Whenever the horses tired or if the terrain grew too difficult to negotiate with ease, they slowed their pace. Otherwise, they held to a steady canter. They followed the track across the open fields, over the rolling hills, and through the woods.
From the time he left the garrison, Kyle could not shake the feeling of being watched. Though subsequent glances over his shoulder revealed no one behind them, the skin at the back of his neck still prickled after two hours into the journey. He began to wonder whether he was imagining danger where there was none, and he chided himself for being overly concerned with Count Jardine’s safety.
Before long, the sun dipped behind the tops of the trees to the west, and the chill of early evening began to descend upon them. They were approaching a bend in the road when Kyle called for a break. The horses dropped their heads to graze on the sparse grass beside the road.
“We should be halfway to Strathaven by now,” he said to the count. “There’s a village down that track to the east. I’m sure we can find a byre there in which to pass the night.”
“I intend no slight to those good people,” Count Jardine said, “but I would rather suffer a rock for a pillow than bed down with lice and fleas in moldy straw. Perhaps we can camp elsewhere.” He eased his position on the saddle with an involuntary wince. “Not too far from here, if at all possible.”
Kyle noted that the count was as bone weary as he was. Though he would never admit it aloud, he was more than ready to lay his head on a pillow of stone. “There’s a burn farther up the road. That’s as good a place as any to set up camp.”
They pressed on at a pace considerably slower than when they first set out.
As they plodded up the road, the count apparently caught one of the fleeting glances Kyle cast behind him. “I assume you’re on the lookout for Scottish rebels,” he said, drawing abreast of the gelding. “Sir Percy warned me of their presence in this region.”
“As Royal Envoy of France,” said Kyle, “you have more to fear from the English than from us. Scotland has long counted France as a friend. Our King Balliol even appealed to your sovereign Philip for troops when he led the rebellion against Edward of England. By the time French support arrived, Balliol had already given himself up to Edward to stop the bloodshed. No one faults Philip of France for tardy messengers and treacherous seas.” He reached down to pat the gelding’s sweaty neck. “Most folk around here don’t mind living alongside the English. It is the English who go out of their way to make life difficult for them.”
Count Jardine rode in silence for a long moment. “Several years past,” he said at length, “English seamen went on a rampage in the French port of La Rochelle. You might have heard of the incident. It was I who negotiated with Edward of England to compensate my lord King Philip for damage to the harbor and for the loss of seafaring vessels, which the English seamen had burned. At the time, Edward impressed me as a ruthless man, driven by ambition and excessive greed. Subsequent dealings with him have done nothing to change my opinion of him.”
“You’ll get no argument from me about that,” Kyle said.
Behind him, Upton and Turnbull exchanged the sort of glance that indicated they, too, were of the same opinion.
“Long before I met you this morning,” Count Jardine said, “I knew you by reputation. King Philip made fond mention of you some once or twice at Court.”
“How very kind of him,” Kyle said. “I must admit that our first meeting was rather informal. We slogged through a muddy field together on the outskirts of Ypres during a minor skirmish with Flemish troops. I understand the English are still squabbling with Philip over trading rights there.”
“With good cause, it seems,” Count Jardine said. “English sheep produce the long-fibered wool highly prized by weavers. Flemish weavers and fullers are renowned for turning such wool into woven garments of the best quality. Those same skilled weavers can turn flax into the finest linen, which is far superior to that from any loom in either England or France.” He patted his saddle roll purposefully. “France, on the other hand, makes the most excellent wine from sun-ripened grapes. With such marketable products at hand, it is no wonder there is conflict over which country has the right to trade with whom.”
“That explains the demand for long-haired sheep, no matter the source,” Kyle said, his mind on Ogilvy and the other homesteaders who were still at risk of losing their stock to raiders. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment, but upon his return, he would ascertain Sweeney’s movements on the night of Ogilvy’s raid.
Dusk slowly closed in around them. A cold wind blew in from the north, causing the branches of the trees around them to bob and sway. The track ahead seemed to end abruptly at a river. The gelding splashed into the knee-deep water and drank deeply before ambling across to the far bank, where the track continued on through the woods.
The others forded the river behind Kyle. “We shall pass the night here,” he said. “Upton, take Turnbull with you to find a decent place to camp upstream.”
The English soldiers dismounted, abandoning their horses on the side of the track to crash away through the thick undergrowth.
Count Jardine climbed gingerly down from the bay. Kyle threw his leg over the gelding’s bowed head as it grazed and slid to the ground. Before either man could work the kinks from his cramped muscles, Upton erupted from the underbrush in a shower of twigs and leaves, with Turnbull at his heels.
“This way, if you please,” Upton said. He and Turnbull gathered the reins of their horses and led them into the dense brush.
Kyle and Count Jardine followed with their own mounts in tow. Briars tore at their clothing and brambles scratched their bare skin. They shortly emerged in a small clearing under a huge pine tree. A thick carpet of dead pine needles around the base of the broad trunk would provide ample insulation from the cold ground. The whisper of purling water marked the river’s location just beyond the thicket of alder and beech.
Upton and Turnbull removed the load from the pack pony before stripping the saddles and bridles from the horses and hobbling their forelegs. Turnbull went to the river to fill a skin bottle with fresh water to drink, while Upton carried the sack of provisions over to the huge pine tree.
Count Jardine made himself comfortable on a protruding pine root. He kept his saddle roll close beside him, as though afraid to let it out of his sight.
In the middle of the open area, Upton scraped dead pine needles aside with his booted foot. When he’d exposed a sizeable circle of bare earth, he gathered an assortment of dead limbs and piled them in the center.
“No fire tonight,” Kyle said. “A cold supper will have to do.”
“If Scottish rebels offer no threat,” Count Jardine said, “from whom do you expect danger?”
“These are perilous times, m’sire,” Kyle said. “For your safety, I prefer to err on the side of caution.”
The count seemed satisfied with Kyle’s response.
They shared a simple meal of coarse brown bread and hard cheese in the deepening twilight. They passed around the skin bottle of water to wash down their supper.
Count Jardine, with the tact of a true diplomat, politely declined to drink the water. It was obvious he preferred the contents of the stoppered flask he took from his saddle roll. “Water is for washing. There is nothing like good wine from Gascony.” He produced a carved horn cup into which he poured a measure of the dark red liquid from the flask. “You may taste it, if you so desire, but I warn you, you’ll spurn your English ale ever after.”
Since Upton sat beside the count, he was the first to partake. “It’s sweet, like
a clary,” he said with appreciation. “A wine fit for a king, or in this case, a king’s envoy.”
Count Jardine gazed upon Upton with interest. “Know you aught of wines?”
“A little,” Upton said, “and only because a wine merchant tried to cheat Sir Percy by passing off a batch of new wine as that aged on the dregs.” He grinned into the fading dusk. “From then on, Sir Percy insisted that I sample every keg before he laid out a single penny for it.”
“Have you a favorite?” Count Jardine said.
“I prefer the sweet ones,” Upton said, passing the horn cup on to Kyle.
“This is good,” Kyle said, after taking a sip. “The best I’ve had in a while.”
“High praise, indeed,” Count Jardine said, “from someone who can boast of dining with the King of France.”
Kyle chuckled as he handed the horn cup to Turnbull. “I wouldn’t exactly call it dining. We’d just set up camp near Ghent, when one of my men presented me with a hot pie. Apple, I think it was. What he failed to tell me was that he’d pinched it from a Flemish baker. I found that out for myself when the baker showed up moments later demanding the return of his pies. It seems several went missing from the rear window of his shop where he put them to cool. His Majesty King Philip and I ducked out the back of the royal tent with the apple pie in hand. The baker saw us making our escape and chased after us brandishing a stick. Philip and I consumed the evidence on the run. As I recall, it was the tastiest pie I ever ate.”
Count Jardine threw his head back and laughed aloud. “You are too modest, Master Kyle,” he said, still smiling. “Tell me about your Scottish rebels. Will we see any, do you think?”
“In this tangle of woods,” Kyle said, “fifty rebels could be lurking on the other side of that thicket, and we wouldn’t see a single one.” He pulled his cloak around him against the cold evening air. “But with respect, m’sire le comte, they’re not my rebels. More than likely, they’re poor folk who don’t take kindly to watching their children starve because of heavy taxes levied upon them to fill Edward of England’s coffers.”
Count Jardine took the carved horn cup Turnbull returned to him. “Ah, yes, Edward of England,” he said, his expression grim. “A damnable thorn in Philip’s side.”
“A damnable thorn in everyone’s side,” Kyle said. “Folks around here want to raise their children in peace and tend their herds without interference. They’ve had precious little chance to do either with the English harrying them.”
“You approve of their rebellion, then?” Count Jardine said. The troubled expression on his face was barely visible in the failing light.
“Men who take the law into their own hands, even if their cause is just, place themselves outside the law, not above it. As sheriff’s deputy, I am sworn to uphold the law, no matter that the law is English.”
Count Jardine nodded in approval. “So,” he said, changing the subject, “Sir Percy couldn’t wait to see the back of me.” He laughed without humor. “I cannot blame him. A year past, I carried a mandate to him from Philip of France, ordering the closure of the port of Ayr.”
“Perhaps he feared you brought ill tidings this time, too,” Kyle said. “Ayr’s harbors are the busiest of any along the western coast of the lowlands. If those harbors close, trade will cease, and as every merchant knows, without trade there is no profit.”
He lifted his eyes to the silvery rim of the moon beginning to show over the tops of the trees. “Get some sleep,” he said to Upton. “I’ll stand first watch and wake Turnbull for the next.”
The English soldiers settled down on the ground, huddled in their cloaks on either side of the count, who wrapped himself in his wool mantle and rested his head on his saddle roll.
At the edge of the clearing, Kyle found a shadowy place to stand under an ancient oak where he could keep watch over the others. He leaned against the gnarled trunk, relaxing his weary muscles as much as he dared. He let the soothing sounds of the night wash over him, though the friendly chirp of crickets failed to dispel the feeling of being watched. He placed a ready hand on the hilt of his sword, his weapon of choice on this particular occasion. Should a foe beset them in the darkness, he did not want to risk accidentally bludgeoning a member of his own party to death with his battle axe.
Across the clearing, pale radiance from the moon gave the white pony substance and form as it grazed. The darker horses beside it blended into the gloom of the trees behind them.
As the night wore on, the moon crept higher in the starlit sky. Except for the forlorn howl of a lone wolf in the distance and the bark of a fox somewhere nearby, the forest was at peace. Kyle was beginning to sag with fatigue when the sudden hoot of an owl on the limb above him startled him to full wakefulness. He detached himself from the shadows and trod soundlessly over to where Turnbull slept beside Count Jardine.
“It’s time,” Kyle said, tapping Turnbull on the shoulder.
Turnbull clambered to his feet with a grunt. He clapped his metal helmet on his head and trudged over to the ancient oak to stand watch in the shadow of its branches.
Kyle stretched out on Turnbull’s pine needle bed, his sword within easy reach. He drew his cloak around him, and despite the discomfort of the bulky leather scale armor, he sank into a dreamless sleep.
****
Something woke Kyle an hour later. He lay on his back, listening for whatever might have disturbed his slumber. The forest around him was quiet.
Too quiet.
No crickets chirped.
No nocturnal creatures shuffled through fallen leaves rooting for food.
He sat up to peer at the horses, whose acute senses he trusted more than his own. The white pony stood on the far side of the small clearing like a silver statue, its head raised and its ears pricked toward the ancient oak.
Instantly alert, he looked over at Turnbull, whose face was a whitish blur under the oak tree’s spreading limbs. A light breeze stirred the branches, transmuting shadows on the moonlit ground into fearsome shapes. He stared long and hard into the darkness, unsure whether one of the shadows actually moved with the deadly stealth of a hunter stalking unsuspecting prey, or whether it was merely a trick of the light. He kept his eyes trained in that direction, and after a long moment, he decided it was only his imagination. He was about to lie back down when he caught the unmistakable glint of naked steel in the moonlight.
“Turnbull!” he shouted as he leaped to his feet, sword in hand. “To arms!”
The undergrowth beyond the pine tree suddenly thrashed to life. Dark figures swarmed over Upton and Count Jardine as they tried to rise.
Kyle heard someone cry out in anguish. Before he could engage the shadowy form of the nearest intruder, a savage blow from behind sent him sprawling. A heavy weight pinned him to the ground. Gauntleted hands on the back of his head shoved his face down into the soft earth to smother him. A booted foot on his right wrist rendered the sword in his hand useless. He bucked and writhed, but try as he might, he could not dislodge his assailant. In desperation, he clawed for the dirk at his waist with his left hand. His fingers closed about the hilt. He drew the blade and stabbed repeatedly behind him until the sharp point sank into yielding flesh. With a howl of rage, the weight on his back lifted abruptly.
Kyle scrambled to his feet, spitting out pine needles and cursing roundly. Unable to distinguish friend from foe among the dark forms scuffling in front of him, he struck out with the flat of his blade. The blow connected solidly with flesh and bone, eliciting a gratifying grunt of pain.
The dark form of an intruder, faceless under a drawn hood, detached itself from the shadows to advance on Kyle. The intruder circled to look for an opening, and then suddenly lashed out with the sword in his left hand.
Steel rang against steel as Kyle blocked the stroke with his blade. The shocking impact of the powerful blow traveled up his arm to his shoulder. The finer aspects of swordplay never appealed to him, unlike his former comrades-in-arms who augmented their
income on occasion by betting on the outcome of their practice matches. His own skill was sufficient to defend himself, and he was satisfied with that. The intruder standing before him in the moonlight, however, possessed no finesse at all, for he wielded his weapon more like a club than a sword.
The intruder lunged, attempting to come up under Kyle’s guard.
Kyle parried the thrust with a metallic clang.
The intruder recovered, only to back away, gripping the hilt with both hands, poised to deliver another mighty wallop.
Kyle braced his feet, his sword ready, but the blow never came.
A shrill whistle rent the air, coming from the shadows beyond the pine tree. Kyle’s adversary lowered his sword before sinking into the darkness behind him.
The intruders vanished as quickly as they came, crashing away into the brush until the forest was quiet once again.
Kyle heard nothing further in the ensuing silence, except the rasp of his own breath. It was useless to give chase in the darkness, for it would be like seeking a shadow among shadows. At that moment, he was more concerned about the fate of his companions.
He lifted his arm to sheath his sword, wincing at the sharp twinge that shot across his shoulder. A low groan from under the pine tree brought his head around. The blade of his dirk glinted at his feet where he’d dropped it. He bent down to pick it up, hefting the finely honed weapon in the hope that the sound came from a wounded intruder.
“Mon Dieu!” said a weak voice from the shadows.
Kyle’s anxiety level went up a notch. He sheathed his dirk before dropping to his knees to feel along the ground. Almost at once, his hand met with the downed man’s shoulder. The fabric of the man’s woolen cloak felt wet and sticky to the touch. His questing fingers continued along the man’s upper body until they come into contact with the smooth hilt of a knife and the cold metal of the brooch beside it.
“M’sire le comte!” he cried, fearing the worst.
Count Jardine clutched at Kyle’s cloak, pulling him close with remarkable strength for an injured man. “It is vital that Philip of France gains possession of my belt,” he said, his thick accent nearly unintelligible. “It must not fall into English hands, do you hear?”