by Jack Whyte
“Aye, I can see that. I didna mean to.” Jardine stepped back, giving Bruce room to come in and close the door. “I’ve been thinkin’ about what was said here earlier an’ came to talk to ye, but ye werena here, and I was just about to go lookin’ for ye. D’ye hae a minute or two to talk?”
“Of course.” Bruce smiled. “Better yet, though, will you join me in the den for a toddy? The fire should be going by now, and if it is the kettle should be hot.”
They sat by the fire for a while in companionable silence, sipping at their drinks and staring into the flames, before Jardine came out with what was on his mind.
“I can let ye hae fower hunnert men. Jardines and Dinwiddies. For your task.”
“Four hundred? My God … But why? I’ve already said you don’t need to.”
“I ken. But it’s the thing to do. The right thing, I think. No’ because o’ duty to the English, God knows, nor even yet to your faither—mair for your grandfaither, God rest his soul. He thought well o’ you and he wouldna hae let ye leave Annandale wi’out support o’ some kind. Ye’ll ride wi’ Jardines, just as he did himsel’… But I’m noticing the size o’ these wee cups. Mine’s empty already.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Bruce murmured, smiling crookedly. “But they’re as easily filled as emptied.” He took both cups and went to the fire, where he measured and mixed the ingredients carefully while Jardine watched him.
“Something’s troublin’ ye,” the older man said shrewdly. “Was I wrong to make that offer?”
“What? No, by God’s holy teeth, that’s not what I was thinking at all…” He folded the scorched old pad over the kettle’s handle and lifted it off the coals, then carefully poured hot water into each cup. “You’re right in thinking something’s troubling me, but it has nothing to do with your offer. I appreciate that more than you could imagine, but as I said earlier, I think I have enough men of my own to do what has to be done at Douglas.” He paused, frowning.
“But ye’re still no’ sure about somethin’, am I right?”
Bruce pursed his mouth. “Aye, you are. But I don’t know why and that makes it even worse. It’s … It’s in my mind that I’m being used here, for some reason, and it makes me … uneasy. And I’m not even sure why I should think so…”
“Hmm. Well, here’s as good a place as any on earth to talk about it, right here in your grandsire’s den, where you and me hae both heard him talk about such things for years.” He paused, then went on. “Ye’re here on Edward’s business, are ye no’?” He watched Bruce nod and raised his cup. “Then ye’re bein’ used.”
He inhaled the fragrant vapour, then held the bowl of the cup in both hands, gazing into it. “There’s no’ a doubt o’ that in my mind.” His eyes moved back to the young earl. “Nor should there be in yours. Edward o’ England uses everybody to get what he wants. It seems to me, then, that what ye hae to decide is just how ye’re bein’ used … And to what ends. An’ what the costs o’ that might be to you in times to come. Have ye thought on that?”
“Aye. There’s been little else in my mind for the past two days.”
“Why? What happened twa days ago?”
Bruce sucked air between his teeth, a short, sibilant sound. “I met with the Englishmen sent from Berwick with the siege engines. I’d met their commander before, in Berwick, on my way up here, but there was nothing then that troubled me. Now there is. Something changed in the interim.”
“And ye think it has somethin’ to do wi’ Edward?”
“I know it has. No question of that. What I don’t know is the how or why of it. Do I suddenly find myself mistrusting Edward? No, not at all. Edward is Edward. I trust him well enough and I accept him for what he is. But he’s set a guard on me for some reason. A cleric called Benstead, a younger brother, I am told, of a man called John Benstead whom Edward has appointed to some position of importance. This priest is a loathsome slug, and Edward has seen fit to appoint the man as watchdog of some kind to keep an eye on me.” He took a sip of his drink. “Edward has a passion for keeping clerics hard at work recording everything that happens around him, but now he has extended that need to cover me, it appears, and I have this creature hovering by me every time I turn around.”
“He’s the leader o’ the Englishry that’s here wi’ you?”
“No, that’s Sir Christopher Guiscard. He’s well enough disposed towards me and he commands a hundred mounted men-at-arms whose task is to support the sappers he has with him. Guiscard’s a siege engineer above all else, and his concern is all about his engines and their fields of fire, and so he’s content to leave command of the men-at-arms to his subordinate, Sir Roger Turcott. And Turcott’s what you might expect him to be—a stolid, unimaginative turnip head.”
“Then what’s your difficulty with this clerk Benstead?”
“I detest the man. He offends everything that’s in me. I would love to send him packing back to Berwick, but I can’t.”
“Why no’? Ye’re the Earl o’ Carrick. Are ye no’ in charge o’ the whole thing?”
“Yes, according to Edward’s instructions. I am.”
“Then send the whoreson packin’.”
“I can’t. He’s given me no real reason to dismiss him and he was appointed to his task, whatever it really is, by Edward himself. I cannot simply send him home because I mislike the man.”
“Hmm. Then why d’ye dislike him so much, gin he’s done nothin’ wrang?”
Bruce took another sip from his cup, rolling the liquid around his mouth before answering. “Thomas Beg told me all about him in Berwick when first we heard he would attach himself to us. He’s a crawling toady, bowing and fawning to everyone he deems his superior or whom he senses might be useful to him. That’s bad enough, but on the other side he is a vicious, overbearing bully to anyone he feels is beneath him. God help the hapless servant who falls afoul of that humble priest. Even his looks offend me. He’s big and burly and yet cowering. Broad shouldered and ugly, with a face like a hatchet, all bumps and lumps and eyebrows and nose—a great, long, lumpy nose that should have been flattened when he was a babe in arms, if ever he was.”
“Aye … And how does he behave when he’s around you?”
“Well, I’m an earl, you see, so he oozes and bobs up and down, rubbing his hands as though he were washing them and practically quivering with pleasure when I notice him.”
“Aye, so the best thing ye could do is ignore him. There’s nothin’ ye have to trust him wi’, is there?” Bruce shook his head. “Well then, he canna betray ye, can he? Stay aware o’ where he is and what he does, then, and just ignore him ayont that. Ye’ll be glad ye did.”
“It’s like feeling someone is standing at your back with a dagger in his hand.”
Jardine grunted. “Well then, I dinna ken what mair to tell ye. Ye’ll just hae to watch him like a hawk…” He put his mug down on the small table beside him. “So ye’ll no’ be needin’ my men?”
“I don’t know, my friend, and that’s the truth of it … I might not, but then again I might, and if I do I’ll need them badly—some of them, at least.”
Jardine frowned. “I hope you ken what you’re talkin’ about, Lord Carrick, for I don’t.”
“How familiar are you with the countryside around Douglas Castle? Do you know if there’s a place nearby where you could hold two hundred men unseen and get them to me quickly should the need arise?”
Jardine’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I’m no’ that familiar wi’ it, but I ken o’ one place that might suit. There’s but one road leadin’ there frae here, an’ it crosses another road about a mile short o’ the castle hill. The crossroads is in the middle o’ the woods, so it’s well out o’ sight of the castle, even frae the top o’ the hill. They’re hawthorn woods for the maist part but there’s a big auld ash tree there, blasted wi’ lightnin’ years ago, that ye canna miss. We could wait there, I jalouse, and gin ye need us we could be wi’ ye in a half-hour o’ gettin�
�� word. What’s in your mind?”
“My gransser. He used to say a good commander keeps his mind on what might be needed, forbye what’s clearly needed. And that’s what I’m trying to do.” Bruce stooped and placed his long-empty cup on the floor by his feet. “I’m not convinced I’m right—not by a long stretch—but I’ve learnt to trust my instincts when they shout at me. If I’m wrong, there will be no harm done and your men will be in no danger. I still believe what I said earlier about placing no demands on the Annandale men. If I’m right, though, and there’s treachery of any kind afoot, I’ll send Thomas Beg to bring you back to join us. You can be sure from the moment you see him that there’s something far wrong. Will you do that for me?”
“Aye.”
“Good. The English force is of a size with my own, two hundred and fifty in all, but of those only a hundred are a fighting force, the mounted men-at-arms. The others are sappers, tasked with manning and handling the siege catapults. My Carrick force is infantry, a hundred and a half of those, backed up by a hundred bowmen. How many bowmen could you bring with you?”
“Another hunnert, I jalouse, mayhap half as many again gin I had time to raise them.”
“How much time?”
“A day or so. They’re a’ close by. I just need to send for them.”
“Good. Send for them at once, then. I’ll be gone from here by dawn tomorrow, to meet with my Carrick folk and the English force half a mile from Douglas Castle. We’ll meet in council tomorrow and make arrangements for the following day. Can you have your men in place by tomorrow night?”
“Aye, easy.”
“Right, then so be it. If all goes well, you’ll have a night in the open and no harm done, and then you can return to Annandale. But if I need you, I’ll need you at the English rear. With my hundred bowmen in front and your hundred and fifty behind, we’ll outnumber them by more than two to one and disarm them, then send them home. Guiscard won’t fight once he sees the number of bowmen against his riders. He’s a steady man and a good soldier, not at all hotheaded. He’ll withdraw and report back to Berwick for further orders.”
Jardine nodded. “Aye. An’ what will you do then? It’ll look like rebellion against Edward’s wishes. Your favourite priest there will see you suffer for that.”
“Let him. All I’m doing here is trying to foresee all possibilities and have reserves in place against the worst of them, and that sanctimonious whoreson is my sole reason for being suspicious. I’ll put him in his place tomorrow and that should be an end of it. Thereafter I’ll expect no trouble.”
Jardine shrugged and rose to his feet. “Fine, then. I’ll thank ye for the toddy and be on my way. And I’ll send men out wi’ the word for the bowmen right away. Five an’ seventy bowmen each frae Jardine and Dinwiddie and as many others as might want to come wi’ us. Three or four hours’ travel should see us at the big ash tree by mid-afternoon tomorrow.”
* * *
Bruce was up and away more than an hour before dawn the next day and made excellent time, despite his early fears for the weather. The sky remained overcast the entire time, but the clouds were high and the threatened rain never fell, so that he found his Carrick men, under Nicol MacDuncan and Thomas Beg, waiting for him when he arrived at the meeting spot, close by but out of sight of Douglas Castle. Everything was ready, and Nicol reported that they had met or seen no one on their way south from Carrick, and so they set out immediately to where the English force had gathered less than half a mile away.
The officer in charge of troop dispositions had already set out the lines of a camp for the Scots contingent some two hundred yards beyond the horse lines on the far side of the main English encampment, and as soon as he had dismissed his men to set up camp, Bruce made his way towards the large pavilion that was Sir Christopher Guiscard’s command post. The first thing he noticed on his arrival, much to his surprise and delight, was that the English cleric Benstead was nowhere to be seen. All the English knights were already there, though, and so as soon as he had greeted Guiscard and his officers he called them to order and launched directly into their reasons for being there.
There were sixteen knights in attendance, with a scattering of senior sergeants from the siege-engine division, and they listened attentively to Bruce’s plan to surprise the Douglas household the next morning. As soon as it was light enough for movement, the Carrick contingent would surround the castle, throwing a ring of bowmen into place where they could scour the battlements with arrows should the need arise. The mounted English men-at-arms would be held in reserve but assembled in plain sight before the gates, their threatening siege engines in readiness, their implicit double menace a highly visible deterrent against resistance. Then, with the risks of resistance clearly demonstrated, Bruce himself would ride out to parley with the castle’s castellan and make his best efforts to persuade her to surrender. If she refused, then they would attack the castle, which could not hold out for long against the English catapults, and the surrounding Carrick men, backed by the mounted English, were a guarantee that no one inside could escape.
There was no argument of any kind; everyone knew why they were there and understood the situation, and Bruce, watching closely, could see no sign of disgruntlement among the English knights. Only when everything had been agreed upon did he ask about Benstead’s whereabouts, and Guiscard told him that the cleric and his assistant, Father Robert Burlington, had been unexpectedly summoned early that morning to attend upon the prior of the nearby Monastery of St. Gildas. No reason for the summons had been given, and Guiscard, apparently happy to be rid of the odious priest, had asked no questions.
When the two English priests arrived back shortly after noon, Bruce saw them passing in the distance, but made no attempt to acknowledge them. Benstead seemed to be glaring at him, but he paid the fellow no attention. He gave the man no further thought at all until later that afternoon, when he was talking with his uncle on the inner fringe of the Scots camp. The drizzling rain that had been threatening all day had begun to fall, and Bruce was about to return to his tent for his cloak when Nicol raised a hand and murmured, “I think someone’s lookin’ for you.”
Bruce turned to see an English man-at-arms, wearing a corporal’s insignia, coming towards him.
“Forgive me, Lord Carrick,” said the man after he saluted, “but I couldn’t find you. They told me you were somewhere else.”
“Well, you’ve found me. To what end?”
“You are to attend a gathering in Sir Christopher’s pavilion, my lord. A command meeting. I think it might have started already.”
“A command meeting?” Bruce made no attempt to hide the disbelief in his voice, and he bit down hard upon his anger. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll come. Who sent you, by the way?”
“The priest, sir. Father Benstead.”
“Thank you, Corporal. Go about your business.” He turned to Nicol, one eyebrow raised high as the corporal stalked away. “You were right,” he said softly. “It seems I am being summoned. Well, well.” He raised a hand, seeing that Nicol was set to go with him. “No, Nicol, I’ll collect my cloak and go alone.”
When he entered the pavilion, still racking his brains for what could possibly have justified the extraordinary summons, he stopped no more than a few paces in, seeing Benstead there watching and obviously waiting for him.
“Ah, young Master Bruce, there you are, and late as usual. Come in, come in. You know everyone…”
Bruce gawked about him like an idiot, swaying from side to side and ducking and raising his head exaggeratedly as he swung this way and that to peer into the shadowed corners of the great tent. Apparently satisfied at last that the corners were all unoccupied, he then turned to gaze keenly, with eyes narrowed to slits, at the men assembled in the semicircle of folding chairs around the pavilion’s open central space.
“Master Bruce?” Benstead said. “In God’s name what ails you, sir? Are you unwell?”
The question, and the alarm
in the voice that posed it, brought an end to Bruce’s strange behaviour. He turned and looked frankly at his questioner.
“Unwell?” His voice was strong and calm and filled with assured self-confidence. “No, if it please you, I am very well. I simply thought to see this fellow you were talking to, somewhere behind me. But he’s not there.”
“What fellow?” There was no missing the querulous asperity in Benstead’s voice now.
Bruce straightened his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height. “The young Master Bruce you were speaking to. Where did he go?”
Some of the seated knights traded uneasy glances. The cleric, seated at the table, continued to frown in annoyance.
“Where did who go?”
Bruce threw the edges of his rain-wet cloak back over his shoulders, peering down with lowered chin and draping the folds to his satisfaction before he reached to his waist and unbuckled and removed the belt that hung there, supporting a plain, sheathed dagger on one side and a well-worn leather purse on the other. He hefted the thing in both hands, for it was heavy, and walked forward to the desk, where the now disconcerted cleric sat watching him.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Benstead flushed. “It’s … ehh … it’s a sword belt.”
“No, not so.” Bruce’s voice was mild. “No sword belt, this. Notice the gold on it, if you will.” He hefted the belt again. “The weight and worth of it, I mean. See the crest of Carrick on each of the fifteen lozenges. This is an earl’s belt, and it is mine.” His voice hardened, not by much but sufficiently to add an edge to his next words. “Bear that in mind from this moment on, Benstead. If you ever address me in future by any title less than my lord of Carrick or my lord earl, I will have you lashed to a wagon wheel and flogged until your bones are bare. The right and privilege of doing both lie well within my power and pleasure.”