The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by William Meikle

  “No man bar myself,” Martin whispered, and winced as the doctor stripped a red, sodden bandage from the wound. He heard the doctor’s sudden intake of breath.

  “It is bad?” he asked.

  “Aye, sir. You are hurt sore. I fear the arm will have to come off.”

  “Not yet,” Martin said. “Take this and bind it with the wound.”

  He handed Menzies the wiry wolf’s hairs. The old man protested.

  “It will only cause more infection…do you want to die of the black suppuration?”

  “It is from the woodsman,” Martin said. “And if it were not for him I would be dead long since. Bind it against the wound.”

  The old man finally capitulated, but grudgingly.

  After the bandaging was complete, Martin sent Menzies off to finalise the preparations.

  Last night’s battle hadn’t dented the old man’s efficiency—the travelling band was organised and ready to depart less than an hour after Martin had given the order.

  And it was only then, when Menzies returned for the last time to tell him that the people were ready to move, that Martin finally stood from the Thane’s chair.

  “I would have you hear a vow, old friend,” he said to Menzies.

  “Vows are serious matters, my Thane,” the Doctor said. “And not to be made in the heat of anger.”

  “I have little anger in me at the moment,” Martin replied. “Only sorrow and pain. And this is a vow that must be made now.”

  “As you wish, sire.”

  Martin put his hand on the arm of the great chair. When he spoke his voice rang with authority, and all around was silent, as if the walls themselves were listening.

  “The Thane of Milecastle will not sit in this chair again until the wall is once more secure, and there are no Others left to stain the fields of England. I vow this in the name of my father and his fathers, and all the Thanes before me.”

  “A fine vow,” Menzies said. “And one I hope to see concluded.”

  Martin stretched his back and flexed his wounded arm. Menzies looked alarmed. “Please do not do that, sire. I would rather not spend the rest of my life stitching you together.”

  Martin smiled.

  “You have done a good job this time, old friend,” he said. “It feels stronger already.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t test it,” Menzies said. “But come. Your people are waiting for you.”

  The remaining people of the town had been gathered in the courtyard, a ragtag group looking bedraggled in the drizzling rain. Only Martin and Menzies wore the uniform of the watch—the rest were wrapped up in cloaks and furs, huddled together against the damp and cold. Cattle had been yoked to three large carts and the women, children and infirm were lodged in the back, with three men at the front of each.

  Martin found that Menzies had allocated him Greystar, a favourite ride of his in the past. The old doctor was himself astride a pony that Martin knew was not fast, but would travel all day with no complaint.

  Only four other horses could be spared, and Menzies had given them to the best shots, who had their muskets loaded with silver.

  Menzies also found room for the soft leather tubing they had used to feed the bellows. In the bottom of one of the carts, three of the bellows were stowed safely away, along with five sacks of fresh bulb.

  “Let us hope we find some more bulb, and mayhap even some barrels,” Menzies said.

  “Aye,” said Martin. “Carlisle will have both, if we get there in time.”

  Martin mounted his horse and stood up in the stirrups.

  “Today we are leaving our home. But we have not been driven out, we are choosing to go. The Others tried to break us, and they failed. They tried to take the town from us, and they failed. People of Milecastle, the Protector is proud of you. My father was proud of you. I am proud of you.”

  There was a ragged cheer.

  “I go to Carlisle, but I leave the town in the hands of your new Constable, the Warden of Garstang, Nathaniel Cooper. Step forward, Nat.”

  The big man came forward out of the crowd. Martin had a bad moment when he thought that William Barnstable had returned, but he saw that Cooper had somehow got a hold of a Constable’s uniform. He hadn’t thought of that—the wearing of the uniform, a well known sign of authority, would enable Cooper to be taken seriously that much quicker.

  And all resemblance to Barnstable ended with the uniform. Cooper’s face was split in a wide grin, an expression that was unfamiliar to the previous incumbent of the post.

  “Most of your men have met me this day, sire, and I’ve already cracked a few heads together. And all things will be perfect once we find where the innkeeper hid his ale.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.

  “This man stood on the wall with Sean Grant and Menzies last night,” Martin shouted. “He fought for the people of this town, and his friends died alongside ours. From this day on he is a man of Milecastle, and my representative in my absence. What do you say, Nathaniel Cooper. Will you be our Constable?” And the new Constable took the Thane’s hand, and pledged his vow to the town and the Thane, and the small crowd cheered. Not a big thing in itself, but it had shown to Martin that the people’s spirit was not yet broken. Wounded, yes, but wounds would mend, given time.

  When he gave the command for the small group to move out, his heart was lighter than it had been all day.

  Martin had one last look at his father’s pyre, now no more than ashes being dampened by rain, and led them out of Milecastle and on to the road to Carlisle. The Warden had already organised a makeshift guard, and they stood along the south wall, saluting their comrades as they left the South gate.

  Once outside the gate he had only looked back once, to see the grey stone towers which sat darkly against the wall beyond. From here it was almost impossible to tell that anything had happened the night before, but there was a place inside him that would remember, that would always be empty.

  As he turned his troop on the road south, the women wailed, and there were tears in the eyes of some of the men, but Martin hardened his heart, and his eyes were cold and icy. He did not turn. He would not look on his home again until he was sure his people were safe.

  After the horrors of the night, the trip was uneventful. At first the signs of the dark army’s passing could clearly be seen on the trampled ground, but after a mile the footprints in the grass veered off to the left and away out of view.

  “They will be laying low in the day,” Menzies said. “Away from the eyes of the sun.”

  “But where? If we could find them, we could end it, here, before it goes any further,” Martin replied. He had to bend down almost to his horse’s neck to speak to the old man, so low was the doctor’s pony.

  “The Boy-King is not about to let himself be taken that easily,” Menzies said. “There were many in his army that were not yet turned—you yourself saw Barnstable. Those like him will not have the same fear of the sun, and will be protecting the Others, wherever they are.”

  Martin pounded the pommel of his saddle in frustration. He used his wounded arm, and he saw Menzies glance at it in alarm. In deference to the old man, he rested his arm at his side before continuing.

  “Nevertheless,” he said. “It may be our only chance. You know as well as I do that there are few places where you could hide an army that large, especially one that has a distaste for the sun.”

  “Aye. But what would we do if we found them? Look around you,” Menzies said. “I do not think your people have the stomach for it.”

  For the first time Martin really looked at the small group, and saw what Menzies meant. He saw many dull eyes, all spark gone, the shock of the night having driven all else but terror and fear from their minds. Even his musketmen were skittish and nervous, ready to shoot at anything that might wander into their path. But the sight only strengthened his resolve. He was now Thane, and he would protect his people. “As usual, you have the right,” he told Menzies
. “We must get to the safety of Carlisle. But if he does not come tonight, I will ride on the morrow to seek him out.”

  “I do not think you will have far to seek,” Menzies said. “Nor do I think you will have to wait until the morrow. He will come to Carlisle. It is too big a prize for him to ignore.”

  The old man dropped back to tend to an old man in the last cart who had begun to scream and rant. Martin was left spearheading the troop, and he led them onwards towards their destination.

  An unrelenting drizzle meant that they were soaked after only a mile. The clouds hung low overhead, and the troop crouched low with their heads bowed, as if to avoid being hit by them. By late afternoon they were wet through and as miserable a group of people as Martin had ever seen.

  He dropped back to be beside Menzies and his patient.

  “Come, Doctor. You are a singing man. Give us a song to lift our hearts.”

  The doctor looked sheepish.

  “I’m afraid I’ve not consumed nearly enough ale my Thane, but I will try.”

  But before the doctor could start, his patient had began to sing—a clear, high baritone that rang in the air. The ditty was one that Martin recognised from drunken nights in the inn.

  There was a man from Bisbel

  Who didn’t have a pizzle

  And when he took his wife to bed

  You should’ve heard him whistle.

  Peals of laughter followed the first verse, and in the second some of the other men, and a few of the women, joined in.

  He took her skirts off slowly

  And she looked at him most coy

  “My Lord,” she said, as they went to bed,

  “I hope you are no boy.”

  She put her hand between his legs

  And said, “Where is your gun?”

  He smiled at her most sweetly

  And said, “I have my tongue.”

  The bawdy song went on for ten more verses, and when it ended Martin rode beside the old man.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, old man,” he said smiling.

  The old man smiled back.

  “I may only have two wrinkled prunes and a small sausage left, but I still have my memory,” he said, and everyone within earshot laughed loudly. One of the men started up “The Ballad of Barbara Allan”. During that well-known tune, the clouds parted and the sun came out.

  The singing continued all the way to Carlisle. As the sun began to slide down, Martin noticed people casting worried glances around them, but there was still red in the western sky as he brought the band to the outskirts of the town.

  Carlisle was surrounded by makeshift barricades hastily thrown together from carts, sandbags, even tables from household kitchens. Behind these rough defences stood a thin line of the Protector’s army. Their red tunics showed up garishly against the drab grey background and their pale white faces looked like many small moons. Martin was dismayed to see that each man had several yards of barricade to defend on his own.

  Inside the barricades the town sat quiet and seemingly empty. The only other activity to be seen was more soldiers moving atop the castle walls some four hundred yards distant.

  The castle sat on a small hill, overlooking the town which seemed to have grown organically around it in a maze of closely packed houses and shops. Those furthest from the castle were little more than wooden hovels; those closest were fine stone buildings of three storeys or more, the leaded windows and high chimney pots testament to the wealth of their owners.

  Martin and his group were stopped at a makeshift gate by a sullen guard. The man had to take a clay pipe from his mouth to speak to Martin.

  “The commander has decreed that no more travellers are allowed to enter,” he said, and he actually raised his musket until it was pointing at Martin’s chest.

  Menzies’ face flushed with anger and he was about to speak. Martin stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Go tell your Commander,” Martin said to the guard, “that the Thane of Milecastle demands an audience. Either that or let us through and I will tell him myself. I do not have time to bandy words with a gatekeeper.”

  Martin’s voice rang out loud in the night, and he saw many heads turn along the barricade. The gatekeeper’s jaw dropped, and he lowered the musket.

  “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, although he looked anything but sorry. “I was just following orders. You’re lucky. Curfew will be called in five minutes, but you will be at the castle itself by then,” he said.

  “Have you any news of the north?” a voice called out from along the line of soldiers. “Aye,” Menzies said. “But that is for your commander’s ears.”

  “Best tell me,” the guardsman said. “The commander is a busy man.”

  “Too busy to speak to what is left of the people of Milecastle?” Martin asked, and the man’s eyes went big and round.

  “It is true then? The wall has fallen? Then we are all doomed.”

  Martin did not answer. He led his band inside the barricade, aware that rumour would be spreading like wildfire along the barricade. That might be a good thing if it served to sharpen their minds—he was horrified to see how ill defended the town was, and how few soldiers manned the defences.

  “This will not hold for five minutes, let alone a whole night,” he said, and Menzies agreed.

  “Aye, sir. And did you see? They have not even used any bulb. Do they not know what they will be facing? We must see their commander, and quickly. Night is upon us, and the attack could come at any time.”

  They made their way along a narrow street. It was lined on both sides by black and white houses, their lead panelled windows gazing emptily out at the passing carts. All was silent, and there were signs of looting from some of the more obviously empty houses.

  The road inclined slightly upwards, winding in a long curve until it opened out onto a parade ground in front of the castle. The area was empty save for a single guard posted at each corner.

  Under the direction of one of these guards—a small fat man who looked more like a tradesman—they billeted their people around a well beneath the castle walls. They stopped the carts just outside a gate that Martin was alarmed to see was open and unguarded. Leaving his people to arrange what defences they could, he took Menzies through the gate and into the castle proper. The courtyard beyond the gate was filled with people, mainly farmers and their families by the look of their dress and the amount of sheep and cattle that were crammed there with them. Whole families huddled together for warmth around small fires on which pots hissed and bubbled, the smell of cooking food almost, but not quite, obscuring the acrid odour of unwashed flesh. Children ran unchecked around the carts, and there was a huddle of men standing around a tapped beer barrel, most of them already full drunk.

  “Is that the Boy-King?” a child asked as Martin passed, a comment that brought it a slap on the head from the nearest adult. Martin turned to remonstrate with the woman who had delivered the blow and saw her flash him two fingers, warding off the evil eye.

  “Where have they all come from?” he whispered to Menzies. “There must be a thousand of them here.”

  “Did you not notice how empty the land was on our journey?” the doctor replied. “I believe that every farm and village in the area that has not gone south already is gathered here. Where else is there for them to go?”

  They picked their way through the crowd and across the courtyard. They were directed up a flight of stone steps by a very drunk woman who, much to Menzies’ disgust, lifted her skirt and offered her services for a penny.

  “Do you like what you see, dearie?” she cackled through brown, rotted teeth. “It is clean of the pox, and warmer than your hand.”

  Martin brushed past her.

  “How about you, old man?” she said to Menzies. “I’ll give you your money back if you can’t keep it up.” The doctor pushed her aside and they reached the main keep before they were challenged. Even then the guard merely waved them on up the stairs.


  “Commander Cunningham is with the Proctor in his chambers,” the guard said. “Up the stairs and second left.”

  Menzies raised an eyebrow in mock amusement as the soldier saluted them, then returned to leaning against the wall and staring into the middle distance.

  “If any of our young officers were as lax as that we would have them running laps on the walls,” he said as they ascended the stairs.

  Martin agreed with him—he had done “the rat run” several times himself.

  The door they were sent to lay open, and they heard voices from inside. Martin stepped into the room and cleared his throat.

  “Prince Charles Edward Stuart to see the Commander of this garrison,” he said.

  He was expecting a reaction, but was to be disappointed. Two people turned to face him, slowly, as if moving through molasses.

  They were sitting on large leather armchairs, in front of a hot roaring fire. There was a small table between them on which sat a nearly empty decanter of thick red wine.

  “Who the hell are you?” the one nearest him said. He was a very fat man, with twin double chins under a nearly round head and jowls that wobbled as he spoke. His eyes seemed sunken back in his head, giving him a beady, pig-like look. He wore a ceremonial chain of heavy gold that hung low on his chest over fine red velvet robes. Martin guessed that this one must be the Proctor.

  Menzies stepped forward in front of Martin, as if announcing his presence.

  “The Thane of Milecastle, our Lord Protector’s representative on the wall, requests an audience with the Commander of the Garrison of Carlisle.”

  “If you’ve come for money you will be sorely disappointed,” the Proctor said.

  “And if you’ve deserted your post because of these scurrilous rumours of the Boy-King’s return I’ll see you swing for it,” the other man said. This one was dressed in the red tunic of the army, a tunic that was stretched as tight as a drum over a large potbelly. He was nearly bald, with large liver spots dotted on his head like islands in a small sea. Long grey sideburns crawled across his cheeks, almost meeting in front of his nose, which was a red ruin that betrayed his years of drinking. His eyes were bloodshot, dark bags hanging loosely beneath, and his lips were full and red. A small dribble of wine ran from the side of his mouth to fall unnoticed onto his tunic.