Highland Warlord

by Amy Jarecki

  “I suppose.”

  “But why? You should be overjoyed that your brother’s earldom has been recognized and preserved, thanks to your bravery.”

  “Perhaps, but who kens when Robert will march his army to Galloway and remove my uncle from Caerlaverock Castle.”

  “Would it not be nice if they could do so peaceably?”

  “You’re too kindhearted.” Ailish gave the nun a friendly nudge. “I simply pray the king will rise up and use whatever means necessary to reclaim Maxwell lands.”

  Harris galloped past again. “Sir James, Sir, James! I’ll save you!”

  The lad’s antics made Ailish’s heart twist. Where was the knight now? Was he in harm’s way? Had he raised the army he’d hoped?

  Has he thought of me half as often as I’ve thought of him?

  “Ye ken,” said Sister Louisa, “Harris will need to be fostered soon.”

  “Oh, aye?” Ailish threw up her hands and looked to the skies. “And where might you suggest he go for such fostering whilst the kingdom is infested with Edward’s men?”

  “It is not for me to say, but the lad was obviously impressed with Sir James.”

  “Aye, and he will not stop talking about him.”

  The sister covered her giggle with slender fingers. “I reckon you cannot stop thinking about him.”

  “Sh. I have my duty to Harris and Florrie. There is still much I can teach them, which is all that matters.”

  “Mm hmm.” Sister Louisa picked a daisy from beside the bench and handed it to Florrie who was sitting on the grass making daisy crowns. “But you’d best think on my suggestion. The lad needs to be trained as a knight. One day he will be the leader of men and if he cannot wield a sword, no one will respect him.”

  Ailish rolled her eyes. She was the daughter of an earl, not Louisa. “Do you think I do not ken? And my journey to Scone only opened my eyes wider.”

  “I understand, but I do believe you need to start thinking about his future training.”

  “Och, he’s only nine years of age.”

  “And soon he’ll be ten…then afore you know it, he’ll be interested in the fairer sex.”

  Ailish snorted. “What would you ken about that?”

  Sister Louisa picked another daisy. “I had older brothers. And mind you, they all were practicing swordsmanship with wooden wasters by the time they were Harris’ age.”

  Folding her arms, Ailish watched the lad take the stick horse and thrust it into the air, pretending it was Sir James’ great sword. Though Sister Louisa had put it into words, she was well aware that when the boy showed the first signs of manhood, the prioress would insist on sending him away. If only Ailish could entrust the lad to Sir James. But the king’s knight had no time for children or fostering of any sort. For the love of God, he was living in a forest, sleeping on a bed of rocks for all she knew.

  “Mayhap I’ll write to the king,” she mumbled, thinking aloud.

  Sister Louisa stood and brushed out her apron. “That would be a start.”

  A racket came from the main gate and three nuns hastened to open the iron viewing panel.

  Ailish headed toward the noise, signaling for Sister Louisa to follow. The priory didn’t often receive visitors and when they did, they usually came without so much banging. “I wonder who’s there?”

  She ushered the nun against the wall where they could hear but would not be seen.

  “We require food and ale,” said a man with an English accent.

  “I am sorry, but we are only poor nuns,” said one of the sisters. “We have very little to spare.”

  “Ye all are alike, hoarding. Bring us bread and cheese, else we’ll break down this gate and burn ye out!”

  “Arrragh!” Harris roared as he galloped toward the gate. “Stop, you fiend!”

  “Harris, no!” Ailish cried, catching him before he reached the soldiers.

  “Let me go!” the lad shrieked as she carried him toward the wall, catching the eye of one of the three men peeping through the panel.

  Ice shot through her blood.

  Flay it all, she knew him. He was a vassal of her uncle and every bit as deceitful. Turning away, she sheltered Harris’ face from the man’s view and hastened into the dormer.

  Throughout Scotland, subtle praises of Robert the Bruce were whispered among the common folk, as well as the request for all able men to take up arms. Once word spread that James was recruiting with the intent to liberate the border, crofters and lads as young as eleven wandered into the camp, some armed with nothing more than a shovel.

  Over the past month, they’d cleaned out the cave and established a command post exactly as the king had asked. And now it was up to James and a handful of trained warriors to turn this bedraggled lot into fighting men. Good God, feeding them was a chore in itself, not to mention the bows, arrows, clubs, and pikes to be made.

  With his hands fast on his hips, James stood atop an enormous boulder and watched the men spar. “Better!” he hollered. “Never forget the best offensive attack is good defense. Let them come at you, protect your vitals and bide your time whilst they tire. Only then should you attack, and when you do, aim for the gullet. If his trunk is covered with mail, sever the inside of his leg. He’ll bleed out afore he can raise his weapon.”

  “Again!” bellowed Torquil, who, despite his skirmish with James at Duncryne, had proved his prowess with a blade. To be honest, James was glad to have the lad in his ranks. He might be a bit course with his manners, but gallantry had no place on the battlefield.

  “I’ve a missive for Sir James,” bellowed a messenger, holding a letter aloft and riding into the clearing.

  James hopped down from his rock. “’Tis nigh time,” he said, taking the missive and examining the seal. At last, word had come from the king. He ran his finger under the wax, shook it open, and read.

  “What does it say?” asked Torquil.

  Davy stepped beside James and peered over his shoulder. “Where are we off to first?” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m ready for a fight.”

  Torquil patted his sword’s hilt. “Past ready.”

  Though James wanted to leap back onto the boulder and dance a reel, he held his tongue and affected a scowl. Bless the saints and all the stars, he’d been given word to take Castle Douglas and rid her of the infesting vermin. “…take no prisoners and ensure no Englishman ever again sets foot in her keep.”

  “Torquil, ready fifty of our best soldiers to march,” he said, shifting his gaze to Caelan. “And I need a dozen of your best archers.”

  “Not all of us?” asked Davy.

  James started for the wood, motioning for Davy to follow. “’Tis too soon for most of them,” he said as they approached the river.

  “You’re right.” Even though the rushing water provided enough noise so they would not be overheard, James checked the area to ensure no one was lurking. “We’re taking Castle Douglas.”

  “Praises be.”

  “I aim to burn it.”

  Davy gaped so widely his jaw nearly hit his chest. “I beg your bloody pardon? Have you lost your mind?”

  James tolerated no disrespect, except from Davy. The two of them were as close as brothers. Rather than argue, he shook the missive. “The Bruce is on the run—heading west where Edward’s forces cannot touch him. It will be a year or more afore he’s ready to ride into battle. Meanwhile, he’s asked us to conduct raids against English forces on our lands—small acts of rebellion to weaken them so when the time comes, they won’t stand a chance.”

  “Does that wee letter tell ye to burn your own keep?”

  “It demands that I ensure none of Edward’s men ever again set foot within her walls.” James slid the missive into his jerkin. “Look, if I cannot live in my own home in peace, no one will. Besides, if I raze the castle, they’ll ken I’ll stop at nothing to see justice.”

  “They’ll think you’ve bloody lost your mind.”

  “Then so be it.” Jame
s shrugged. “I care not what they think of me. But, by God, I want the bastards to fear me.”

  Hiding in his father’s stables after dark, James met with Gilchrist, his da’s old butler, one of the few servants whom Clifford hadn’t murdered. “We attack at dawn. Ensure no one loyal to Douglas is trapped in the fray.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  James clapped the man on the shoulder. “’Tis good to see you.”

  Gilchrist rubbed his hands together. “I cannot tell you how much it warms my heart to see you’ve grown into a man. You are the image of your da.”

  “Truly?”

  “He’d be brimming with pride if he could set eyes upon you now.”

  “I pray he’s watching.” James gestured toward the keep. “Now go, you mustn’t be missed. I want nothing to alert Clifford of my presence.”

  “Aye, sir.” Gilchrist started off, but before he reached the door, he stopped and turned. “Might I say ’tis a shame you do not plan to stay.”

  “Soon I will return and set things to rights with clan and kin. You have my word.”

  James watched as Gilchrist quietly returned to the keep, his back stooped and his strides stilted. The years had not been kind to the old man.

  He remained in the loft for the night. Hiding just beyond the gate were Davy and the Douglas men. The plans had been carefully laid. Now all James needed was to wait.

  He dared not close his eyes as he waited in the dark, the sounds of the animals below his only company.

  Before dawn, he made his move. Inside the keep, it was inky black and though he’d been away for eleven years, he knew every passage, every hall, and each winding curve of the stairwell as if he’d never been gone.

  When he arrived at the half-sized door to the wall-walk, he crouched in an archer’s recess and listened. Beyond, a breeze whistled. And soon, footsteps sounded.

  Gilchrist had confirmed two guards were posted—two of Clifford’s men who’d been awake all night and undoubtedly were eager to head for their pallets in an hour’s time when the guard changed.

  It will all be over by then.

  The mummer of their voices resonated through the timbers as James cracked open the door.

  “Did ye hear that?” asked one.

  “Aye.”

  James pushed the door a bit further with the point of his sword. Come closer, ye maggots.

  Footsteps shuffled nearer as James’ heart thundered in his ears. He could smell their fear as weapons hissed through scabbards. When they pulled the door wide, he burst through, thrusting his blade across the throat of the first, and plunging his dirk into the heart of the second.

  He dashed to the brazier and lit a torch, waving it over his head, alerting Davy and the others. Almost immediately, the Douglas set the bunkhouse alight while the shouts of trapped Clifford men rose.

  But James had no more time to waste. Caelan and his archers knew what they must do.

  James sprinted down the stairs directly to the master’s chamber—where his da had slept for years. As he burst through the door, Clifford still slumbered beneath a mound of bedclothes, barely discernable by the light of the coals in the hearth.

  “Up with ye!” James seethed, moving forward, ready for the snake to pounce.

  Clifford stirred, though barely. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice wary.

  “I am James Douglas, come to take what’s rightfully mine.”

  The bastard guffawed. “Your lands were forfeited over a decade ago. Your traitorous father saw to that.”

  Propelled by rage, James darted toward the bed with his sword raised. As the coverlet moved, a glint of iron caught the light from the fire. Just as Clifford sprang off the mattress with a thrust of his sword, James spun away, losing his balance.

  He crashed to the floor and rolled to his knees, while the blackguard pounced. James ducked, caught the cur’s wrist, and twisted him downward.

  “I’ll cut your throat and hang you by the neck from the walls of my keep,” Clifford seethed as he fought to counter.

  But James was stronger and thrust his blade into the man’s gullet. “It is not I who will be on display for a buzzard feast,” he growled, levering up his sword. “Know this: The son has returned. And Edward’s men will have no rest until the Scots have their vengeance!”

  10

  During vespers, Ailish bowed her head in prayer as did Harris kneeling on her right and Florrie on her left. Of late, her prayers had been more focused on the welfare of Sir James rather than for the poor and oppressed. Certainly, she prayed for everyone. But given Scotland’s misery, the knight needed as many prayers as he could get.

  News from the outside had been spotty at best. The king was in hiding and she’d heard not a word of Sir James or anyone else, for that matter. It was as if the coronation happened and then nothing changed.

  “God bless my sister, and please help her not to worry so much,” whispered Harris.

  How perceptive the lad had become. Did she worry unduly? Perhaps, but she had an enormous burden to bear. On top of it all, soon he’d be too old to live in a nunnery. What would she do then? It would destroy her for the family to be separated—at least until…

  A clamor of heavy footsteps resounded beyond the nave. Ailish turned as knights with swords drawn burst through the oaken doors.

  “Where is he?” bellowed a man wearing a helm, his surcoat emblazoned with the Maxwell coat of arms.

  Recognition gripped her while the sound of his voice made Ailish’s blood turn cold.

  Uncle Herbert.

  She wrapped her arms around Harris. “No!”

  The usurper sauntered toward her, leveling his weapon with her eyes. “Release the lad or I’ll run you through.”

  “Stop at once!” ordered the prioress, hastening from the choir. “This is hallowed ground. You are interrupting God’s holy prayers.”

  Ignoring the nun, Uncle Herbert grappled for Harris.

  “You will not take him!” Ailish screeched, scooting away.

  Florrie stomped on his instep. “Go away, you fiend!”

  The blackguard whacked the lass with a backhand, sending her to the stone floor. The nuns screamed while Ailish watched in horror. But Herbert had not come for Florrie.

  Making a snap decision, she grabbed her brother’s hand and broke into a run, heading for the rood screen and the sacristy beyond—a place to hide.

  “After them!”

  “Haste,” she growled, as the child stumbled, his legs not long enough to keep pace. Before they passed through the screen, a beastly man grabbed her arm while another ensnared her brother by the scruff of the neck.

  “No!” she screamed, fighting to keep hold of the lad and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Release me!”

  The tyrants tried to pry them apart. Gnashing her teeth, Ailish held tight while Harris kicked his captor. “Let go!”

  No matter how much she resisted, her efforts were in vain. It took three knights to peel the lad away. The boy fought like a hero, stretching his arms out to her. “Don’t let them take me!”

  She twisted and struggled to break free, but she was no match for the two brutes gripping her by the arms. “I will find you!” she shouted as they dragged her to a pillar and tied her wrists around it while Harris disappeared out the door.

  Herbert looked her up and down with a nasty sneer before he turned.

  “You cannot kill him,” she spat. “Harris is the true Earl of Caerlaverock.”

  The imposter stopped and glared over his shoulder. “You are quite mistaken. I am earl. And if you cannot own to it, you will suffer the same fate as your father.”

  As she clenched her fists, every fiber of her body turned to fire with the force of her hatred. “You are a deceitful liar!”

  Her uncle pointed his sword at her throat. “Your arrogance is exactly why you are unfit to care for the boy. You are just like my brother.”

  Ailish stopped fighting and glared at the cur while a flicker of hope flashed th
rough her mind. If she was unfit to care for Harris, then what did her uncle intend to do with the lad? “Where are you taking him?” she demanded.

  “Far away from here. The whelp must learn respect for the crown.”

  Her brother would live?

  Refusing to allow a modicum of relief to show on her face, Ailish narrowed her eyes and curled her lips. “You mean Edward?” she said as if the King of England’s name were a curse.

  “I most certainly was not referring to the murdering, self-proclaimed King of Scots.”

  “Robert Bruce is the king—he’s the only true heir.”

  “You and your misplaced sense of birthright.” Herbert snorted, sheathing his sword. “Your cowardly king is not only in hiding, he sanctioned James Douglas to sack Clifford’s keep. The lunatic murdered His Lordship and impaled his head on a spike above the main gate. And, by God, Douglas will meet his end in the Tower where he’ll join his father in hell.”

  “Clifford?” Ailish jerked against the ropes. Sir James had begun his raids with his own castle? And sacked it? “Lord Clifford was a tenant at best.”

  “And you will never be tamed.” Herbert backed out the door. “But Edward might have a place for your father’s devil. If he cooperates.”

  No sooner had the doors of the church slammed when Coira dashed to the pillar and untied Ailish’s bonds. “Are you hurt, m’lady?”

  “Only my pride.” Rubbing her wrists, she was far more concerned about her sister, now sobbing in Sister Louisa’s arms. “More importantly, is Florrie well?”

  The child wiped her eyes and sniffled. “T-that man hit me.”

  “There’s a bruise coming up on her cheek,” said Sister Louisa.

  Ailish examined her sister’s face. There was a red mark on the side of her cheek, but the strike hadn’t broken the skin. She kissed the lass’ forehead. “Are you sore anywhere else?”

  Florrie shook her head.

  Ailish bent down and looked her sister in the eyes. “I need you to be strong for Harris. Can you do that for me?”