The Laird

by Virginia Brown

  “It has merit,” MacNeish acknowledged, still frowning, “but reeks of peril.”

  “All of England reeks of peril.” Douglas tossed a stick into the fire, sliced a glance at Rob. “You are quiet this eve, Glenlyon. Are you satisfied with the day’s spoils?”

  “Yea.” He lapsed into silence, unable to summon words that would explain his gloom.

  “Tomorrow,” said Douglas, “we lay waste to Wakefield’s demesne. Your lady will no doubt hear of it.”

  “Aye.”

  Leaning forward so that firelight was on his face, he surveyed Rob with a lifted brow. “I have fired my own keep to thwart the English. Do you have doubts now?”

  “Nay, not for what we do. Wakefield deserves no less than any English baron. It is not for that I fret but for the safety of the lady left behind.” A wry smile curved his mouth. “I am unused to such worries.”

  Douglas grinned. “Simon MacCallum will see to her good health, as will those devil MacGregors you left behind.”

  One of the men beyond range of firelight lifted a voice in protest of the epithet, and general laughter eased the tension of moments before.

  “Then you’ve no quarrel with wasting Wakefield’s lands and taking what we will,” Douglas said when the laughter had died down, and Rob shook his head.

  “Nay, for the earl has been no friend to his daughter. I have little use for a man who puts aside his own.” There was an unspoken reference to Angus Campbell in his words that he knew James Douglas understood.

  Douglas shrugged. “There are many with divided loyalty these days. We shall help them choose, heh?”

  “Aye, that we shall.”

  THE RIVER WEAR snaked through moors and sloping hills, plummeted over rocks in places, frothing in deep pools. The rains had ceased at last, but footing was wet and perilous.

  They were camped near the river, a rushing torrent that pushed past rugged crags, when a sentry brought news of an approaching force.

  Mud-smeared, he swiped a hand over his face and made it worse as he told Douglas, “Three hundred strong or more come from the south. Wakefield’s standard flies.”

  Wakefield. Rob, who had been in counsel with Douglas and several others, felt a spurt of elation. They’d hoped to smoke out the earl. God above, they’d laid waste to near all of his tenants, visiting destruction upon fields and stores with rampant indiscretion, taking coin and goods without regard. It was time the earl came to meet them.

  “They outnumber us,” said Sir Alec of the Isles, a troubled expression on his face, “by a hundred strong.”

  The muddied sentry shifted from one foot to the other. He glanced from Sir Alec to Douglas. “Knights ride with the foot, battle-trained, they look, no yeoman soldiers these.”

  “Aye?” Douglas laughed softly. “What say you, then. Do we wait to offer them cup and cake, or do we ride to greet them on our own terms?”

  The decision was unanimous.

  Douglas sent a three-pronged column, one at the front and two at their flanks, with orders to harry at will. It was his favorite form of warfare, the harrying and then hiding, swooping down to strike and inflict casualties, and escaping while the enemy rallied for assault.

  They gave the English no respite the rest of that day and the night, so that Wakefield’s forces spent sleepless hours sitting up in full armor and holding to their horses, ready at a moment’s notice to battle the Scots. At first light, the bedraggled troops lent pursuit with determination if not direction.

  Rob watched from a high hill, hidden by trees, and saw with satisfaction that the force decided to split in two. It would be easier now to pick off stragglers, demoralizing the enemy with lightning strikes and swift flight.

  A party of thirty men, including some of his own and those of Sir Alec, rode out to lure the forces into following. They spurred their horses to a grassy hill within sight, and when seen, took flight. A small band of riders broke off from the main force that was already divided and gave chase.

  Circling around, they led them straight into the jaws of Douglas and the rest, surrounding them with ease. It was a fierce fight, quickly engaged. Deflecting a sword with his blade, Rob kneed his horse forward, swung his weapon up and around in a wicked slice. Blood spurted over him, thick and hot, and he ignored it, a roaring in his ears like thunder as he worked.

  There was no time for anything but the reflexes of his body, the gauging of opponents, and the constant assessment of what lay beyond his blade. An enemy could strike from anywhere, and it was as if another part of him stepped aside to watch and warn. The fight was swift and bloody, with half the enemy slain and the others captured.

  “We will accept coin and gear in lieu of prisoners,” Douglas said with a grin when he joined them, “and let them reflect upon our kindness on the long walk back home.”

  One of the knights, bloodied but defiant, swore softly. “May the devil take you back home, Black Douglas! Aye, and may all your damned Scots demons see Hell with you!”

  Amused, Douglas spurred his mount close to the unhorsed knight whose dented helmet was tucked under his arm and his blond hair matted with blood. Douglas raked him with a close eye, surveying the crest stitched upon the bloodied tabard. “I know of you. You’re Wakefield’s whelp.”

  The young man nodded grimly. “Aye, so I am.”

  “Then you have family here, young Wakefield. Glenlyon, come and meet your brother by law.”

  Giving a start, Wakefield narrowed his eyes. “Glenlyon rides with you?”

  “Yea, he does. He stands not a yard’s distance from you now.”

  Curse Douglas for his perverted sense of entertainment. Rob sheathed his bloodied sword, stepped forward to stare coolly at the young man staring back at him with hot green eyes full of murder.

  “You have a most droll way with you, Douglas,” Rob said tightly and heard him laugh.

  “Ah, it was bound to happen one day, Glenlyon. Now is as good as then.”

  “Give me my sword,” Wakefield demanded, “to settle a matter of honor.” Rob recognized that upward thrust of chin, square instead of rounded, a man’s face for all that he resembled his sister.

  “I think not.” Douglas leaned from his horse to say, “The familial resemblance is remarkable, do you not agree?” and a thread of laughter rippled through his words.

  “Devil take you, James Douglas.” Rob said it without rancor, a resigned curse that he knew Douglas would no more heed than he had Wakefield’s.

  “Give us your Christian name, young Wakefield,” Douglas said, “so that we will know whose horse and gear we have.”

  Flashing him a glance of resentment, he said stiffly, “Sir Payton of Langdon.”

  “Ah, Sir Payton. Do you not wish news of your fair sister?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw, but after a moment, he gave a jerk of his head. “Aye, for the news I have of her must be wrong. ’Tis said she resides with the devil now.”

  “Do you think ’tis so?” Douglas grinned wider, nudged his blowing horse in a half circle around the young man. “Ah, now I see the resemblance between you.”

  Weary of the banter, Rob said abruptly, “Your sister is safe, Sir Payton.”

  “In the hands of a Scot?”

  Anger flared. “You are in the hands of a Scot, and you seem well enough, by hell! If you thought it so barbaric a fate, then you should never have sent her to Caddel Castle.”

  “Had I my way about it, she would still be on English soil,” the young man growled. “If you have any honor, you will see her returned to her family.”

  “Had the earl any honor, he would have paid the ransom for her return,” Rob shot back at him. “It seems that Scots manors and estates have more importance for him.”

  “A lie!” He stepped back, drew off his mail gauntlet, and threw it on t
he ground between them. The challenge drew instant shouts from his companions, bloodied and beaten as they were, and Rob stepped forward to take up the glove.

  “Hold, Glenlyon,” Douglas said, serious now, his thin face sober, “we have not the time for such play. It grieves me, but ’twill have to wait until another day.” He slid a thoughtful glance back to the captured Englishmen. “Set them all afoot but for this one. I have a special message for the earl that he may carry.”

  When the dispirited Englishmen were sent away, they had only their braies and bloodied heads to recommend them. It was a fine sight, thought Rob, to see them walk half-naked across the moors, not even boots to save their feet from the rocks and mud.

  Sir Payton wore still his tunic and tabard, though his armor and gear had been added to the pile of booty. He sat with hands splayed on his knees, eyes green ice while Black Douglas composed a letter to the earl. It was brief, due as much to lack of proper parchment and ink as to his skill.

  “Escort him to the next hill, Glenlyon,” he said when he had given the letter to Sir Payton. “I want to know he is guaranteed a safe return.”

  Flicking his eyes toward Douglas, Sir Payton said stiffly, “I am not a child to need tending.”

  “Ah no, and that is why I much prefer you far and away while we bear our gifts of horse and armor back across the Tyne.”

  Interest flickered in Sir Payton’s eyes, but he made no comment as Douglas waved him up and on his way. Rob sluiced a frowning glance in Douglas’s direction. It was unlike him to betray their plans, but Sir James had only a benign smile on his face as he remounted and directed the dispersion of their spoils.

  Limping slightly, Sir Payton began a trek up the steep incline, doing his best to avoid patches of thistles. There were few more sorry sights, Rob thought with a grin, than to see a belted knight afoot.

  To add insult to injury, he chose to ride, rather than walk the prisoner to the crest of the grassy knoll beyond, easier than running him down on foot should he decide to flee. It was still early, the sun a bright sheen on field and wood, welcome after days of rain. The light caught in Sir Payton’s hair, set agleam the locks of brown-streaked gold.

  “You needn’t worry I’ll go haring off,” he said to Rob without looking back, “for Black Douglas has my boots.”

  “And your horse,” Rob reminded.

  “Aye. And my horse.” He halted, turned, squinted up at Rob. “What of the Lady Judith? Is she well?”

  “Very well, when last I saw her.”

  Silence fell. A magpie flashed by in a blur of black and white and was quickly followed by another. One is for sorrow, two for joy, rang in his head, a saying he’d learned as a lad.

  Sir Payton continued his walk up the hill, Rob riding behind like a shadow. Near the top he stopped again, turned to face Rob, nearly eye level now with the slope to his advantage. He was older than he’d first looked, evident now under the bright sunlight. His eyes narrowed at the glare.

  “It was not the earl’s decision alone to leave her with Clan Caddel. The king forbade the forfeiture of dower lands or return of the bride gift.”

  “And the lady is worth nothing for her own sake?” Rob’s brow lifted. “It is well she is now more valued.”

  He took a step forward but halted abruptly when Rob’s hand went to his sword hilt, a warning and no more. It was not likely he would set upon an unarmed man.

  Sir Payton’s jaw set, teeth clenched. “She is valued, Glenlyon. One day you will learn how well.”

  “Perhaps that is an assurance you should give the lady. I have no need of it.”

  “You will.” Green eyes clashed with his. “You will.”

  “Yonder wait your comrades in arms,” Rob said. “Join them and be glad you have a choice.”

  He curbed his restive mount with a shorter rein and watched as the young Englishman started down the grassy slope, then wheeled and rode back to join his men.

  THE STENCH OF smoke stung his eyes, billowing black clouds of it spiraling into the air, the wind whipping sparks into a frenzy like angry red midges. More blazes sprang up where those landed, until it seemed as if all of England was ablaze, a red and black curtain sweeping across the land.

  A woman came weeping and wailing away from her home as it tumbled into ashes, and she managed to catch Rob by the foot before he could turn his horse away.

  “Please, good sir,” she pleaded through her tears, “do not take my beasts! My children will go hungry.”

  He didn’t push her away, but his voice was weary when he said, “’Tis not your children that I wish to go hungry, goodwife.”

  “I have only the milch cow and her calf left. . . . I beg of thee, sir . . .” Tears streaked her gaunt face, and her head scarf was awry, exposing brown hair heavily laden with gray.

  Fumbling in the pouch at his side, Rob took out a purse that had been lifted from the English knights and tossed it to her. “Payment for your kine, goodwife. It will buy you more than two.”

  She peered into the pouch, and her jaw sagged as she gasped, “Godamercy, sir, there’s enough here to buy a new cottage, if I will!”

  “Do as you like with it.”

  Wheeling his horse around, he spurred away from the ruined village, yet another laid to waste these past weeks. The English, it had been reported, had left York nearly a week ago, moving slowly toward Durham. When the army of Flemish mercenaries arrived, they would find little enough in the way of forage for men or beasts.

  “We will lead them a merry chase, lads,” Black Douglas had vowed, and so they were.

  For two days, the English army slogged across boggy moors in pursuit, but in vain. Burdened with baggage trains, they never caught even a glimpse of their quarry. The Scots were always just ahead.

  Then, inexplicably, one of Lord Randolph’s scouts reported that the army had abandoned their baggage train and headed north to Haydon Bridge on the River Tyne to cut off the Scottish retreat. Douglas was delighted.

  “Let them wait, by hell, while we eat their beef and drink their ale! They’ll find little enough comfort or food left there.”

  Lord Randolph shook his head, perplexed. “It may be a trick. Why would they await our retreat when we do not?”

  Rob laughed softly. “Because good Sir James let slip to an English knight that we retreated to the Tyne with our new armor and beasts. No doubt, the tale has expanded with the retelling of it.”

  “No doubt,” Douglas agreed affably. “I propose that we await them in comfort. There is a manor house not far away that promises shelter for horses and men. It looks like rain.”

  For eight days it rained, while the English army waited for a Scottish force that never arrived. The river waters rose, and the camp became a sea of sticky mud. Provisions ran out, and nothing could be salvaged from the wasted lands around them. There was no shelter, and the wood too green and sodden to burn for fires. Saddle leather rotted from the continuous downpour, and men began to talk of mutiny.

  When at last the order to re-cross the river was given, a proclamation was made in the king’s name that any man who could locate the Scots would receive a knighthood and a landed estate. Sixteen hopeful squires set off in different directions. One, Thomas Rokeby, had the good fortune to fall into Rob’s hands and was promptly taken before Douglas.

  After he reported to Douglas of the English misfortunes, Rokeby was given a hearty meal and sent back to tell the king of England that the Scots had been waiting for more than a week to give him battle. The new knight then led the English army to a bank opposite where the Scots awaited them atop a rocky crag on the south side of the River Wear.

  Flooded, the turbulent water prevented their crossing, and heralds were sent asking for safe passage across so the battle could begin. The Scots reply was swift and scornful:

  “We are here in
your kingdom and have burnt and wasted your country. If you do not like it, then come and dislodge us, for we shall remain here as long as we please.”

  The English promptly blockaded the route to the border, and with an impassable marshland behind the Scots, waited for their surrender. In the days that followed, there were several skirmishes but no pitched battle. Prisoners were taken on both sides, but the greatest feat was the near capture of sixteen-year-old King Edward.

  Douglas picked two hundred men and left the main army to ride a wide circle about the River Wear and come up behind the English camp. A sentry gave the challenge, but Douglas soundly dressed him down, and the confused soldier let them pass into the sleeping camp. It was a near rout, with two hundred men riding through the lines of tents, slashing tent lines with their swords, pressing toward the silk pavilion that held the young king. Only the suicidal gallantry of his loyal household got the king safe and away, and by that time, resistance was mounted, and Douglas blew his horn for retreat.

  At the winding of the horn, Rob spurred his mount toward the river to join his men. The night was black, the range of trees along the steep banks thick and treacherous. He lost the faint track of the path and found it again, then became aware of James Douglas riding close behind him now, his horse blowing.

  “By hell, did you see them, Glenlyon?” Douglas called, his voice heavy with laughter. “Earls bare as the day they were born, covered with their own tents and swearing like defrocked priests.”

  Blood pounding, the excitement of the fight on him, Rob leaped his horse over a fallen log, landing heavily on the wooded path, hooves churning out mud and leaves behind him. “Aye, and Randolph will want to best this feat, I wager.”

  His prediction was proved true, for upon their return, Lord Randolph at once announced his intention to attack the English with a larger force. Douglas managed to dissuade him and proposed a new trick that would see them safely back to Scotland with their spoils.

  For the next several days, they remained quiet. Late in the afternoon, they finally began to marshal their troops and create a great racket that attracted the immediate attention of their enemy across the river. The English reacted as expected and stood to arms, anticipating a night attack.