by Alisa Adams
The last he had seen of them before he led what was left of the second division off the field of death was the laird on his knees as if in prayer and Brice and the king standing before him. A few paces away, the line was already dissolving. Mungo cringed when he thought about the cacophonous roar emitted by the victorious English when the Scottish army had finally collapsed into a rout of fleeing men. It had scudded over the land like a violent thunderstorm. He had looked back once to see his proud countrymen run like a rabbit from the fox. There was no sight of his laird, Brice and his king in the ensuing melee.
“Where have we gotten to?” asked Brice.
“This should be the River Browney. It’s not that far from the town of Durham,” answered Alastair. He looked at the king. “Are ye all right, my King?”
King David, whose complexion was as white as a cloud in the sky, winced in pain. “I will manage. Just get us to safety, Macleod. We can bother about this bleedin’ arrow when we are well-hidden.” His words were slurred, impeded by his wound.
Alastair nodded. He spent a moment studying the wound on the king’s face. The projectile had entered his cheek, and the pointed tip was most probably embedded in his palate. The bleeding had slowed to a mere trickle. For the most part, the blood had dried up on his chin and around his mouth. “Come on, sire. Let us descend the riverbank and get under the bridge. That should hide us well enough.”
The king let Alastair and his son help him along. Occasionally, shouts could be heard coming from the direction of the English pursuit. They were very close now.
“We must hurry, Da. They are nearly upon us,” said Brice, picking up the pace. “How long do we stay under that bridge when we get to it?”
“Until nightfall. Then, we will use the cover of darkness to put as many leagues between us and the English,” responded Alastair with authority.
“And if they catch us?” Brice dreaded the prospect.
“Then we shall enjoy the hospitality of King Edward’s dungeon,” said the king, flinching with discomfort as he took another step. Even talking was an arduous task that brought on the pain.
“Not for me… I already had that pleasure once. I was an inmate at Chillingham Castle. It was the vilest of places. It was like being stuck in purgatory. The mere presence of the walls was enough to kill a man,” said Alastair.
“How long were ye there for?” croaked out the king.
“Fortunately, only for a few months. Not like poor old Finlay who was imprisoned there with me. Chillingham Castle killed him in the end.” Alastair creased his brow as if he was in pain. “I can tell ye, sire, that not seeing my reflection since the day I last looked at it in the loch, close to my home, made me almost forget what I looked like. In there, each heartbeat lasted for minutes. Yer mind was trapped in nothingness, the dungeon its home, slowly torturing yer sanity toward a slow and agonizing death. Some nights, ye’d scream for escape, but ye’d ken that it was never gonna come. All that ye ken was that it seemed as if centuries had passed since the last meal, millennia since the last time ye held a lass in yer arms – that was when ye begged for yer body to succumb like those of the others. Being alone down there was like time shattered into a thousand broken pieces, each shard reforming to become an endless tunnel – it was all that was left of the world.”
“How very cheerful,” said the king. “After hearing that, I suggest we don’t get caught, eh?”
“All right, sire. We will do our best,” said Alastair, allowing a small chuckle to pass his lips. He was impressed with his king’s valor; he certainly put on a brave face despite his obvious agony.
Walking on in silence, Brice felt a small shiver slide down his back. He knew his father’s story well. His father had told him many times about his sojourn at Chillingham castle. He was captured after he had ridden south to England to bring his mother back to her English father. He could virtually picture the face of the hideous guard that had watched over Alastair. His mind meticulously recreated an image of the large verruca on the man’s nose; his squinty eyes and crooked mouth were a vile image he never wanted to share.
Brice could almost smell the stench within the twenty-foot deep pit, called the oubliette. The name was aptly suited for those men who ended up there were always forgotten. Bodies were left to rot. Prisoners had always left deep scratch marks on the walls on their way down as they fell. By the time they hit the bottom, limbs were often broken.
Brice shivered as an odious thought crept into his mind. He remembered his father telling him about John Sage. According to legend, he fed on the flesh of the deceased. It was his ghost. He was Edward the Longshanks’ former torturer who, like so many others, had found his demise at Chillingham Castle on the command of his former master. It was a vile place that Brice never wanted to see the inside of.
“Are ye all right, laddie?” asked Alastair.
“Aye, I was just thinking of that place.” Brice shivered again as the words passed his lips.
“Aye, I ken what ye are feeling. Even if ye have never been to Chillingham Castle, its evil can touch ye when a person only tells ye about it.” Alastair improved his grip on the king. “Come on, Brice, we only have a little further to go. And try and think of Skye rather than that horrible dungeon. It’ll bring yer spirit up.”
It was a good suggestion. As the men walked in silence, Brice tried to imagine what Skye would be doing at that very moment. Would she be practicing with her sword? Or maybe… The next thought made him chuckle. It was possible that her mother might have forced her to hone her sewing skills now that she was going to be a wife. He could imagine her getting all furious because of it. Skye’s rages were not something you wanted to get on the wrong side of.
He reminisced about the last kiss he had shared with Skye on the day of his departure for England. Brice could still taste her in his mouth. It had been a mixture of her natural sweetness with the saltiness of her tears that had streamed down her cheeks. Brice had pulled her closer still. He could still feel the contours of her body pressed against his. Never in his life had he thought that missing somebody could be so painful. The sensation was like having a blunt knife being dug into one’s chest, alternating with the singe of the wringing of one’s guts. Sometimes, it was enough to make him sick.
Half an hour later, the three fugitives made it to their hiding place under the bridge. Alastair hoped it would provide them with ample cover from the searching English. Also, they could go no further, especially with the king in the state he was in. They needed to rest, and hopefully, in the course of the night, Alastair could attempt to remove the arrow from his face before they trudged in the direction of the Anglo-Scottish border.
Their arrival was none too late. Brice heard the English close by. He held his breath for a few moments. When he exhaled, the thudding sound of many hooves could be heard. It drew closer and closer.
“Where do you think the old bugger has got to?” said a man with a distinctly English accent, maybe from Yorkshire or Lancashire.
“He’s bound to be around here somewhere. He’s wounded,” said another soldier, stepping onto the wooden planking belonging to the bridge, his feet provoking loud thumps.
“Really? What if he’s dead?” asked another.
“He’s not dead. I remember seeing the king fleeing the battlefield… He got away all right despite his wound.”
“How was he wounded?” asked the second trooper.
“Arrow hit him smack bang in the face – saw it I did,” said the first man.
The king let off a groan when Alastair sat him down on the ground under the bridge. On cue, the talking up above them ceased.
“Oi, what was that?” said soldier one.
“It must be an animal,” responded someone else.
“Shush – there it is again.”
“What a lot of tripe.”
As they continued to argue, more and more men approached the bridge. Very soon, there was a gathering of over fifty hundred men standing above the king, Br
ice, and Alastair. The deep rumble of approaching horses snuffed out the sound of the men’s’ voices. Nickering and neighing soon followed, and then they came to a halt.
“What is the meaning of this gathering?” asked a man in the obvious tone of a leader.
“We thought we heard something strange, sir. We are just not sure what it was,” said soldier one.
“Aye, some of us here think it was an animal of sorts, and the other lads are of the opinion that it might be an escaped Scot,” said soldier two.
Grunting, the commander of the detachment, John de Coupland, dismounted. He promptly walked to the side of the bridge and peered over the side. “I’d wager this is only some lame excuse to idle about, eh?”
“No, sir – we’s not idling about. We’s doing our duty, sir,” said soldier one.
“Then get a move on. We only have a few more hours of daylight left. We need to find the king and drag him out of whatever hole he has hidden in. The king would very much like to offer the Scottish king some nice English hospitality;” said John de Coupland.
The men sniggered but soon started to file off as their superior commanded.
Underneath the bridge, the king had crawled a few paces to where the water flowed. The loss of blood had made him thirsty. He drank eagerly.
Alastair trod lightly toward him so as not to make a sound. “My King, ye must not be too close to the edge, lest they see ye,” he whispered.
Just as the king nodded, the two soldiers that had been reprimanded for idling by John de Coupland started speaking again. “I swear I saw a reflection in the river,” said soldier one.
“It was only a cloud, you daft bugger,” said his mate.
“A flesh-colored cloud. I don’t think so. Some mangy blighter is lurking about down there – I promise you.”
“All right, let’s go an’ have a look then.”
The sound of heavy boots reverberated over the wooden bridge.
Brice exchanged nervous looks with his father. He mouthed the words, “What are we going to do?” His heart beat faster than at any time during the battle. He almost imagined that it might spring up his throat and plop out of his mouth.
Alastair very slowly unsheathed his sword. The rasping sound this action created was almost jarring in the otherwise silent environ. Instinctively, Brice held his breath and followed in his father’s example.
The king wanted to do the same, but Alastair stopped him. “If it is only them two soldiers, Brice and I will make short work of them. But ye are wounded. Ye are the king, and ye need to live. Leave the fighting up to us.”
The king nodded reluctantly.
“What have we here?” said an English soldier’s voice.
His mate did not have the time to respond. Brice was upon him before he could open his mouth. Miraculously, the trooper had the time to riposte. The action was uncoordinated and ungainly, but it saved his life. Like a stalking predator, Brice circled his antagonist. Not once did his eyes leave the Englishman’s face.
Moments later, Alastair attacked the other soldier who shouted for help. He was primed for the confrontation and performed better than his comrade. However, nothing could prepare him for the clansman’s brute strength, experience, and ability with the blade. Like a mountain of muscle, tartan, and steel, Alastair hacked and thrashed, nipping his opponent on the arm. He did not stop there. A lightning-fast twirl on his feet brought him closer until only a hand’s width separated their faces. With visceral force, the laird pressed the other man down until he collapsed on the ground. He hacked the soldier’s blade away, quickly bringing the tip of his to rest on his throat.
Brice was still busy with his man who proved to be far more adept with the blade than his looks suggested. He was a tall, wiry type. One might even mistake him as weak looking. However, his sword skill proved otherwise. The Englishman had great strength that taxed even Brice’s excellent dexterity. They circled, thrashed and lunged at each other. The soldier’s blade slithered across Brice’s arm, cutting the skin and severing some of the flesh. A stab of pain simultaneously followed. But he had to ignore it – there was no time.
Even though his ears pumped blood, Brice heard the shouts of more men arriving on the scene up above him and beyond. In a blur, Alastair raced past him to face the new threat. He faced three English men-at-arms and more soon followed. Behind Brice, on the other side of the bridge, came even more soldiers. It was lost. The English outnumbered them three to one, and the odds were getting worse with the influx of reinforcements.
Brice needed to dispatch the man he was facing. So far, none of his attempts had been successful. Every time he got close to him, he darted out of reach. Also, the king had started to move. If Brice could not protect the other side, the English would seize him. Expertly, he forced his opponent in the direction of the approaching soldiers.
“Get behind me, sire,” cried Brice.
“You are not getting out of this, you Scottish dog,” hissed out the Englishman.
“Oh, no… I think this is yer last fight, ye mangy knobdobber.” With those words, Brice hacked down. His attack was easily countered, but that was what he was aiming for all along. With another lunge, Brice brought his blade through the Englishman’s defenses. It buried itself in his flesh as if it were butter. The soldier let off a deep hiss as the air escaped his lungs. A growl, and then he tipped down onto the ground.
Brice removed the cold steel from the corpse and stepped closer to the other men approaching him. They were wary for they had seen how he had expertly slain their comrade. A quick glance in his father’s direction told him that he was holding his own against three opponents – a further four men lay on the ground around him. Brice, on the other hand, had three foes before him and another two were sliding down the slope and heading in his direction – the odds were not in their favor.
“Stop this madness!” commanded the same authoritative voice from before. “You are outnumbered, and more of my men are on the way. Your majesty, please give the order to your two brave subjects that they lay down their arms. There has been enough bloodshed this day.”
The soldiers advancing on Brice stopped in their tracks; the same happened for his father on the other side of the underside of the bridge. Behind the men facing Brice, John de Coupland approached down the incline at a casual pace. With him came a heavily armed escort that, like their commander, looked as if they could hold their own in a fight. Coupland was strong of build and had a proud demeanor on his clean-shaven face. His eyes were blue and piercing.
“Lay down your weapons,” he commanded a second time.
Brice heard the shuffling of feet behind him. In moments, the king stood beside him with his sword drawn.
“Sire, ye are wounded and must rest,” said Brice.
King David ignored him. He stepped forward, and with speed belying his wounded state, he attacked John de Coupland. The onslaught was so unexpected that the king of Scotland managed to ram the butt of his sword into his antagonist’s face, knocking two teeth out in the process. The English squire staggered back, holding a hand to his bleeding face. He breathed heavily. Although wounded, he was not out.
“Seize these men – make sure you take them alive,” he snorted out between wheezes.
Promptly, the English soldiers moved in. By now, there were over twenty of them. Brice heard more of them on the bridge above them. The situation was lost. The English would soon overwhelm them, and he would end up in an English dungeon like his father before him.
The melee that followed was over after a very short time. Alastair managed to fend off the English a little longer by wounding one man and killing another but he soon was surrounded on all sides by a ring of pointing swords. For Brice, it was a similar situation. The English soon had the king and him cornered. All that there was left to do was lower their arms and let fate take a hold. Brice knew that this new destiny that was facing him would take him far away from the woman he loved. With resignation, he let the English soldiers take h
is weapons and push him in the direction of his father.
“Well, well, well, the king will be most pleased when he receives news of his victory. And you thought that you had the upper hand.” John de Coupland chortled. “Never underestimate the English. You would be wise to remember that. Just because our forces were held up in France, it did not mean that we would let you pesky Scots run all over our kingdom.”
“What is to become of our king?” asked Alastair, ignoring his jibes.
“You will be escorted with him to Ogle Castle. In the meantime, I will ride to the king in Calais. I am certain he will have his own ideas what to do with you.”
Brice and Alastair exchanged glances. One of the more surgically inclined in the English host was attempting to remove the arrow from King David’s head. Both father and son knew that it would be a long road for them.
“I assume that you will be presented to the king at Windsor,” continued John de Coupland. “You will know your fate when I get back from France. But for now, rest, and tomorrow we ride north.”
He turned away from the Scots and began to issue orders to his men that they make camp for the night close to the bridge, for on the morrow they would ride for Ogle Castle, near Whalton.
11
Bad Tidings
* * *
Castle Diabaig, the Highlands, 28 October, 1346
* * *
The Great Hall was as silent as a tomb – all of the women present had ceased their talking, putting an end to the revelry that had only recently dominated. The newcomers or the clansmen standing before Mary had come to a halt slightly below the high table. They appeared like wraiths from the underworld. Their clothing, bare legs and faces were covered in dirt. They looked exhausted and hungry. Despite their appearance, she was overjoyed to see them, even if not wholly content, because two important people were missing – it made her heart pump erratically in her chest out of elation to see two of her sons and out of trepidation for those missing. What had become of them?