Boyd tried to wrench his weapon loose, but the earth gripped back. Blood flushed his face as he grunted with the strain. A torrent of sweat gushed from his temples. Before he could whip it loose and send it screaming at Randolph’s lean, bare neck, Neil Campbell rushed forward, hooked his arm and yanked him back.
“Let the king decide his fate,” Neil said.
“Och! Let him swear himself to our good and honest King Robert,” Boyd bellowed as he freed himself of Neil’s grasp in one clean jerk and heaved his sword free, “or I’ll plunge my blade through his navel and clear to his backside to let the truth of daylight through.”
Before Neil could prevent him, he lurched forward. The tip of his sword pricked Randolph’s belly, but Randolph did not flinch. He had been trained as a soldier from boyhood. Taught to stand his ground and rally, even when his opponent had beaten him to the ground. Blows and cuts were merely tests of one’s inner mettle. And death... was a part of life.
Randolph cast his cold blue eyes upon his oldest uncle. “I do not fight in the name of cowards who flee from honest battle.”
Boyd applied force until the tip indented Randolph’s stomach. Then he pulled down, ever so slightly, so that the cloth of Randolph’s tattered shirt rent and a fine line of blood trickled from the path of the metal’s point. Randolph shuddered and blinked once, but his glare upon Robert remained as slick as ice.
Randolph had meant what he said. He believed it. Love him or not, there was something admirable about his obstinacy.
“Say the word, my lord.” Boyd’s sword arm shook with anticipation, waiting, seeking. “Just... Damn it, say it!”
Sifting for an answer, Robert glanced off into the tangled depths of the pines and spruces. “I think,” he began, turning to look directly upon me, “that since James is his captor, I will let him decide what to do with Thomas Randolph. Tell us, James – do we let Boyd slice him open to see if there is a heart inside? Or spare him?”
I circled Randolph. The bindings had been wrapped so tightly about his wrists that the rope cut red into his skin. As I stepped behind him I clenched his shoulders with both hands and dropped him to his knees. Boyd’s sword remained aimed at his entrails.
“If we spare him, there’s not a penny’s worth of ransom in it, him being a Scot.” I entwined my fingers in his stiff hair, yellow as a field of corn in high summer, and pulled his head back so I could look into his pale-rimmed, penetrating eyes. “If we don’t, what a fine example he would serve.”
Boyd grinned like the devil invited to play, but I held up a hand to stop him.
“I say spare him,” I said. “Let him prove himself the braver, better soldier than the rest of us, for I do not think he is. I think, indeed, that it is he who is the coward, who feared his own death too much to say, ‘I am a Scot, born and bred, and King Robert is my liege’. Let him swear that very thing this day and I say his life will be spared.”
As I curled my fingers deeper into Randolph’s hair, I nudged forward on his shoulder with my other hand just enough so that Boyd’s blade bit into his flesh. A gasp escaped Randolph’s throat. Every muscle in his body went taut.
“Swear,” I commanded.
Instead of an oath of loyalty, he began to whisper the Lord’s Prayer. Pious son of a bitch. As I brought my chin up to give affirmation to Boyd’s dark urges, Robert spoke.
“No.” Robert came forward and laid a pleading hand on Boyd’s bulging upper arm, whose every muscle and tendon was poised for the kill like a tightly winched crossbow. “He brought men and arms to Kildrummy and news of Pembroke’s approach. I myself witnessed him slaying ten Englishmen at Methven before I lost sight of him. Something not to be forgotten. I owe him... time, to think it over. Time to learn the value of forgiveness. Lay off, Boyd. James, untie his hands. And Gil, a salve for the ulcers on his wrists. Clean clothes and water for him. Some bread and salted pork, if we have any left.”
As King Robert walked off, uphill along the path of the stream, toward the waterfall near where his blankets were spread – for he had no tent anymore, traveling as scant as the rest of us – half of those around wanted to pounce on Randolph and snap his neck or loop a rope around it and dangle him from the highest tree. The rest were in speechless astonishment at the king’s magnanimous treatment of such traitorous scum. I, and perhaps only a few others, understood the motive behind the gesture.
If Thomas Randolph could be won over of his own volition, Robert would gain yet another strong ally and an indispensable soldier. If not, he had lost little. Randolph dead would soon be forgotten – carrion for the crows. Alive, and if loyal, he was priceless.
Ch. 19
Robert the Bruce – Argyll, 1308
Victory came in pieces so small that I feared we might never see the whole of it. Following our victory at Slioch, Buchan fled to England. There he died, alone and disgraced. With the taking of Aberdeen, the northeast was now in our hands. But down in ever-wild Galloway, the MacDowells were again harrowing the folk with fierce persistence. While my brother Edward was more than gleeful to go after them, the rest of us went to Argyll in search of John of Lorne and his irksome Macdougall clan.
My nephew, Thomas Randolph, gradually abandoned his argumentative ways and instead kept his thoughts to himself. I insisted that my men treat him kindly, as a welcome guest and not a rank murderer destined for the gallows – although I said nothing when Sim of Leadhouse shoved him to the ground or William Bunnock cuffed his ear. The whelp deserved some abuse.
In his younger years, Randolph had been obsessed about practicing at swords and could barely contain his joy when he was given his first warhorse. As a close kinsman, he had been often in attendance at Lochmaben during Christmas and with us at Turnberry in the summers. He and Nigel would spend hours discussing scripture. Then he would wrestle my youngest brother Thomas to the ground and within the same hour outride Alexander or better him at chess. He had Edward’s abrupt manners, then as now, but it wasn’t the same sort of arrogance. It was justifiable pride.
Being ten years older, I had treated the fair-tressed Randolph like a rowdy pup, but I never overlooked that he was strong, able and intelligent. He was also a proper knight – true to God above all. And it was his faith in God that had helped him to endure his ordeal in the Tower and brought him here. Every night while my men were riled by their bawdy talk and every morning as they slept off their latest plunder of wine or ale, Randolph knelt in fervent prayer, forswearing all offers of drink.
One morning, as I lazed on a sunny hillside with James, Randolph was led to the stream below by his guards, Sim and William. He stripped to the waist and knelt. Eyes closed, he scooped up water to splash his face repeatedly, scrubbing vigorously with his fingers from his hairline to his neck. When he opened his eyes, Boyd was standing before him, his large hand stroking the round buttocks of a woman young enough to be his daughter.
She giggled as she kissed Boyd on the cheek. Tugging at one of her fire-red curls, she flicked a tongue over full lips and said to Randolph, “A beautiful morning, m’lord, is it not?”
He shrugged and dipped his hands in the water again.
Boyd patted her rump playfully. “I was about to find the fair Muirgheal here an escort back to her home, when she caught sight of you and asked for an introduction.”
“I’m hardly free to escort her anywhere.” Randolph smirked. “My apologies.”
Letting out a guffaw, Boyd cuffed him on the shoulder. “Studying for the priesthood, are you?” He leaned over, his face intrusively close to Randolph’s, although he still spoke loudly – the effect of a long guzzle of morning ale. “She thought you were quite comely. Says she’s in love with you and wants to... get to know you.”
“Priesthood?” James muttered, snapping a clutch of twigs between his hands. “Hardly. Sainthood is more likely.”
I pressed a finger to my lips to shush him.
Randolph stood and turned to study Muirgheal. Her eyes dipped to his groin, then flicked t
o his chest, where droplets of water glistened from neck to sternum. Without looking away, she picked up his shirt from the ground and began to blot away the dampness. Starting at his shoulders, she rubbed the cloth downward until she was stroking in languorous circles from hipbone to hipbone. Just below his navel, she paused, glancing at him brazenly beneath fluttering lashes.
Stoic, Randolph wrapped his fingers gently about her hand and pushed it back to her own chest. “I’d sooner lie on hot coals,” he said coolly, “than lie with a whore.”
She blew a burst of air between her lips, her flagrant desire slowly turning to umbrage. “You mistake me, m’lord. No man has ever given me coin for... favors.”
“Perhaps that is true.” He inclined his head. “But you were willing to lie with me, were you not? Just as you did with Boyd last night. Aye, I heard the two of you, grunting like mating pigs.”
William laughed, but Randolph sobered him with a glare.
“There was another man the night before,” he continued, returning his gaze to Muirgheal, “was there not? Two, if I’m not mistaken.”
He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, his tone softening to compassion. “You’re too precious, Muirgheal, to let yourself be passed around like a side of roasted mutton to be sampled by filthy hands.”
She dashed his shirt to the ground, grinding it into the dirt with the ball of her bare foot. Spewing a Gaelic curse, she tried to bolt away, but Boyd grasped her waist and held her.
“Stay, Muirgheal,” Boyd said. “He’ll take back his words – or I’ll cut his tongue out.”
“His apology is worth nothing to me.” Her fists hammered at Boyd’s stout arm. “Let me go!”
When he finally released his grip, she stomped at Randolph, fists balled at her sides, and spit squarely in his face. “And you – who sold your loyalty, your heart – are better than me? How dare you condemn me! I harm no one. Can you say the same?”
The glob oozed down his cheek. He dragged a hand down over his face and flicked it to the ground. “How is it that you think no one is harmed by what you do? Half those men you’ve been with have wives. One day, it will be you with a husband, tending to the children and cooking his meals, waiting for him to come home while he’s taking his pleasure beneath another woman’s skirts. I would never dishonor my own wife so.”
His words pierced my conscience. Tore a hole so huge I reeled from them. I leaned back in a sea of grass, dry stems scratching at my forearms where I had rolled my sleeves up. I had dishonored Elizabeth, saying it was for Scotland that I had lain with Christiana. In truth, I had traded power for pleasure as readily as one gives coin for goods at market. She had been there and willing; I had been weak and wanting, and in the bargain sacrificed fidelity for the sake of fleeting ecstasy – not for the preservation of a kingdom. If Elizabeth ever learned of it, would she find it in her heart to forgive? Would I forgive her for the same transgression?
A cold fist gripped my innards. No, I would not. The tally upon my soul was recorded and could not be erased. I was not worthy of her. I never had been. Yet once I had worshipped her, desired her enough to bow to Longshanks – until my dreams of a crown came to consume me even more than her.
Ah, how long had it been now since I had thought of Elizabeth, longed for her, lay down to sleep with my heart aching for her? Days, weeks? Months? I closed my eyes to shut out the sunlight, envisioning the flourish of her chestnut waves as she loosed her hair from its pins at night to join me in our bed. My fingertips recalled the silkiness of her skin; each curve, hollow and crease of her form; the inviting warmth between her legs... and the coldness of her tears as she wept for want of children, believing she had somehow failed me.
No, noooo... I had failed her!
Voices rose in anger. James was crouched in the grass, watching the scene below. I sat up.
Boyd slammed his fist into Randolph’s jaw. Randolph staggered backward and, half-hunched, raised an arm in defense. Boyd stalked closer. Skirts bunched in her hands, Muirgheal turned and fled, splashing across the stream.
“Enough!” I shot to my feet and flew down the hill. Boyd halted, his chest heaving with rage.
“Enough, Boyd. Go,” I told him. Jaw clenched, Boyd backed away, then scooped up Randolph’s soiled shirt and flung it at him. I rounded on Sim and William. “I told you to keep him from harm. So do it!”
Sim and William looked at each other blankly, both nodding.
“Aye, m’lord. We will,” William said, head hanging. Under his breath, he muttered, “Didn’t actually think Boyd would kill him or anything.”
Randolph snapped his shirt out and tugged it over his head. Muirgheal’s footprint was imprinted on his chest. He glowered at me with those eyes so blue and clear I thought they might bore into my very soul. He had heard of Christiana, I was sure of it. But I was also sure that he would never breathe another word of it – to me or anyone. He did not need to.
My guilt was punishment enough.
Pass of Brander, 1308
August, and already we were deep within Lorne’s territory. Too easily. Four days before, Angus Og and his Highlanders had joined us near St. Fillan’s shrine, not far from the Pass of Dalry where we had suffered hard losses under John of Lorne once before.
Yawning, Angus stretched his arms above his head. “Is it over yet?”
“The truce?” I threw back the edge of my damp blanket and sat up. Droplets of morning dew glistened over the grassy hillside. Around us, men were already preparing to move on: putting on their padded jerkins, tucking arrows into belts and saddling horses. I rummaged in my sack, but found it empty of food. “Is it harvest season yet? I’ve lost count.”
“More than a fortnight past Lammas.”
I looked once more in my sack, as if expecting a full loaf of bread to appear there simply by wishing it. Turning the sack over, I shook it hard. Crumbs scattered upon the ground. One more shake and a frayed twig and a coil of bowstring too short to be of use fell out. My head light from lack of food, I stood slowly. “Already? Aye then, I reckon we’ll come across Lorne soon enough. Has Cuthbert returned?”
“Just now. I’ll fetch him.” He gave a nod and darted off
“And fetch me a loaf of bread, as well,” I called after him. “A bannock, a hunk of salted pork... peas, even. Something. Anything.”
Without looking back, he raised his bare arm in acknowledgment. I had not even finished rolling up my blanket when Cuthbert stumbled through a group standing nearby.
He swept off his straw hat and jerked in a nervous bow. “M-m-my lord.”
The poor rustic still lost his wits whenever he spoke to me. Nothing I said or did put him at ease. “Did you find Lorne?”
He smiled, showing off a mouth full of crooked teeth, but not a single one missing. “I d-d-did – and he was not hiding, either.”
“Is he in the pass?”
His head bobbed. “In, above... around.”
“Very good, Cuthbert. Today’s to be the day, then.” I tossed him a farthing, for whatever good it would do in these parts. He flipped it over in his palm several times, ogling at the way it reflected the light.
Under the watch of Sim and William, Randolph remained behind in a long-abandoned shepherd’s hut, built of dry-stacked, crumbling stone and with half a molding roof full of roosting starlings. After Gil said a hasty prayer, we gathered our weapons and went, following the River Awe. The Awe’s waters were deep and strong, for they rushed down from steep-sided mountains. One such giant was the great Ben Cruachan, overlooking the Pass of Brander. As we approached the mountain, Angus Og took his nimble men around its backside, where Cuthbert said that more of Lorne’s forces were lying in wait.
Morning light spilled down into the chasm. Lorne’s men gorged the Pass of Brander – thousands of them, although by numbers it was a fairly matched fight. Some stood atop stone heaps choking the road, baring their asses and whatever other puny parts they usually kept concealed under their breeches.
&nb
sp; They rattled their spears and taunted us to come on, but we tarried at the mouth of the pass, biding our time as the sun crept higher. Down below, a long, shallow-bellied galley dropped its oars to slip from the place where the river widened out toward the loch, headed in our direction.
“We’re being watched,” I told James, who stood holding the reins of his horse – a fine roan taken from the English when he captured Randolph.
He raked his fingers through its mane to part a tangle. “John the Lame there. Staying out of the fray. Angus said he’s been gravely ill of late.”
“Not down enough, though, to miss seeing this fight. Shall we?”
“Aye. Looking a bit over-confident, they are. I say they’re in need of being humbled today.”
James handed his horse off to Gil, who in return gave him his bow. He caressed the length of yew, pulled the string from a pouch at his belt and strung it tight. With a glance toward Ben Cruachan, he strode away.
While James worked his way back through our column to join his burgeoning band of archers, I dismounted and called some of my knights to me. Doubtless, Lorne thought we were arguing last-moment strategy or debating over the sensibility of trying to plow our way through the rubble. Instead, we killed time with idle small talk as we waited for Angus to move into position.
“If the fool refuses to forfeit,” Boyd said as he buffed his blade on the tail of his cloak, “I can give you fifteen ways to stretch out his death.”
“Only fifteen?” Gil gibed. “Do any involve a near drowning?”
Boyd rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “Of course.”
“Death by eels?” I suggested.
Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) Page 15