The Battle for Duncragglin

by Andrew H. Vanderwal

  “Ye, over there, where be the stable master?” Don-Dun called.

  The tall boy took one look at the muddy and disheveled Don-Dun and Alex in the doorway and scowled. “Be gone; we have nothing here for ye.” He went back to brushing the horse.

  “I said, WHERE BE THE STABLE MASTER? Answer me, boy!”

  The boy scampered to the other side of the horse and peered uncertainly at Don-Dun. “We havenae lodgings or food here – terribly sorry.”

  “I don't want to be eating and sleeping with the horses. I want to have a word with your stable master.”

  “That's me.” The voice came from deep within the dark stable. Stepping out from the gloom came a man with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, a brown vest, and strikingly tall leather boots with cuffs. He stopped and slapped a loosely held leather glove onto the palm of his hand. “State your business.”

  “Outside is a cart full of the richest and greenest hay that can be bought on the coast. Hay that's fit for the king's horses … only seeing how the king is no here, I suggest it be for the castle lord's horses instead.”

  The stable master looked skeptical. “Show me.”

  He followed Don-Dun out of the stable, eyes widening as he saw the mountain of hay. He rubbed some ends between his fingers and gave them a sniff. “Is it the same the whole way through?”

  “I'm no trickster,” Don-Dun said, an edgy note creeping into his voice.

  The stable master ignored him. “And what manner of greenery is that on top of your load? Horse feed?”

  “Oh, no.” Don-Dun laughed. “Those are the finest fresh vegetables, fit for the castle lord's dinner. They were grown in a valley well in from the coast with the best soil north of the River Forth. I aim to sell them to the master of the kitchen.”

  “I can take care of that too. Let me have a look.”

  Alex climbed the cart slats to where the vegetables lay perched high up on the hay and tossed down a leafy bundle. Don-Dun caught it and held it up proudly.

  “Take note of these turnips, plucked from the ground not when they are the fattest, but when they are the tastiest. And what about these right braw cabbages? Have ye ever seen anything like 'em? The castle lord will sing the praises of any cook that presents him with a plate of these – they're the tastiest variety known to mankind.”

  The stable master gave one a squeeze. “Lord Hesselrigge is not in the habit of singing anyone's praises,” he muttered.

  “But how could he not? Let's not forget these fat fresh beauties.” Don-Dun split open a long green pod and scraped out a row of beans.

  The stable master popped them in his mouth and chewed slowly. “How many have ye got?”

  “There's ten twenty-pound sacks of beans, thirty-two heads of cabbage, and forty-three bundles of turnips.” Don-Dun smiled broadly. “That's two hundred and twenty-six individual turnips, if ye wish to count them that way.”

  “Three groats,” the stable master said abruptly.

  Don-Dun's smile faded. “These fine vegetables are worth more than that….”

  “Three groats for the whole lot. Everything on your cart.”

  “What?” Don-Dun's brow furrowed. “Ye do me wrong. That's much less than I had to pay for all this. I need fourteen groats just to cover my costs.”

  “Four groats, and not a ha'penny more. I can buy this off any of the merchants who come this way.”

  Don-Dun shook his head. “That's no true. None but the growers of this valley I spoke of can produce such quality. Perhaps, seeing how ye do not have the good sense to recognize the difference, I should show it to the master of the kitchens instead.”

  “Without me, ye won't get to see the master of the kitchens,” the stable master retorted. “He's in the castle, and the guards will not let ye in without me.”

  Don-Dun turned toward the blockhouse. The drawbridge was still up and about a dozen soldiers were stationed on the ramp. They did not look as if they would politely step aside and have the drawbridge lowered at the request of a muddy man with an equally muddy boy and an ox-drawn cart of hay.

  Frustrated, Don-Dun scanned the rows of market stalls. “Is there no one here who can buy my vegetables?”

  A smile flickered across the stable master's lips.

  “Very well,” Don-Dun said. “Take me to the kitchen master and I'll pay ye five percent of what he pays me for the goods. Only though,” he hastened to add, with one finger in the air, “if ye buy my hay for two groats.”

  They finally agreed on one groat and three pence for the hay and seven percent of what the kitchen master paid for the vegetables. The stable master also offered to buy Don-Dun a pint of ale, once all was said and done. “And a cider for the lad,” he added.

  “Fair enough,” Don-Dun said. The deal was sealed with a handshake.

  The stable master called to the boy in the stable. “If anyone asks for me, I'm in the castle. Tell them I'll not be long.”

  Don-Dun turned Rhua and the cart in a tight semicircle. He steered him well away from a group of workers busily assembling a tall wooden structure that looked like it could be a frame for a market stall, but for its location in the center of the open courtyard. Only when one of the workers tossed the end of a thick rope over the end of a timber arm did the purpose of the structure become chillingly clear.

  Alex tugged on Don-Dun's sleeve and pointed, not wanting to risk saying a single whispered word for fear of the stable master hearing.

  The stable master noticed his interest. “Aye, silent lad,” he said. “It's a gallows. It's where many a man has swung high and kicked his last.” Lowering his voice, he spoke to Don-Dun. “It's hard to know why people swing from this gibbet sometimes; the offenses that can lead to it are so many. They assemble these gallows so often, I don't know why they don't just leave it standing.”

  Alex watched the assembly with morbid fascination. He wondered how they actually went about the mechanics of having people hang by a rope from the neck until dead. Did they have them stand on a chair, slip a noose around their neck, then kick it out from under their feet? How long would it take?

  With a fright, he discovered that Don-Dun, Rhua, and the stable master were nowhere in sight. How could a huge cartful of hay just disappear? Fretfully, he ran in the direction they were heading, spotting a swaying green mound emerge above stall awnings. They were climbing the ramp. Alex dodged through the market-goers and caught up with them when they were almost at the drawbridge.

  The stable master called out to guards clustered about a game of dice. “Lower the bridge; we're coming through.”

  A guard paused, dice in hand. He turned and shouted a gruff command to the blockhouse.

  The drawbridge descended in fits and stops, nudged along by wooden arms. It was hinged at the top and held up by heavy chains. Creaking and groaning, it connected with the ramp. From within the blockhouse, heavy portcullis bars lifted to clear a passageway into its dark interior.

  Rhua's first step onto the drawbridge echoed with a hollow thud. He halted abruptly, eyes rolling.

  “It's alright, Rhua. Let's go, let's go! Hup, hup!” Don-Dun flicked the switch across the ox's rump.

  Rhua's pace quickened and the cart wheels rumbled loudly across the timbers. The bridge vibrated under his hooves. He pulled the cart faster than Alex had ever seen him move before, slowing only when they were past the huge entrance doors and onto the solid floor of the dark passageway.

  Alex was hardly able to believe his luck – he had made it into the castle!

  20

  BARTERING WITH THE KITCHEN MASTER

  Don-Dun led Rhua into a covered courtyard. The roof was staggered with slits that let in shafts of light. Overlooking the courtyard on all sides were long interior balconies, one above the other, six levels high.

  For attackers, it would be a death trap. Should Wallace and his men somehow manage to storm the front gates and get past the drawbridge, they would find themselves squeezed through a narrow passageway into thi
s courtyard, where defenders could fire down on them. Arrows, rocks, spears, hot boiling tar – the works – would rain death. Wallace's men would have to climb over an ever-growing pile of their own dead. Should the pile reach all the way up to the first balcony, the defenders would simply climb the ladders to the second. The courtyard would become a mountain of death.

  “Go on ahead,” a soldier said to the stable master. “Ye know the way.”

  “Aye, but I've also got some fresh greens,” the stable master said. “C'n ye send for the kitchen master?”

  The soldier shouted for a more junior soldier to convey the stable master's request.

  Don-Dun and Alex followed the stable master through double doors into a two-storey chamber. Inside were large mounds of straw, hay, and grains. A ramp spiraled down, dried horse dung and straw dust clinging to its worn slats. Below, Alex could see stalls, where the horses of the castle lord and his high-ranking soldiers were kept.

  Through a narrow slit in the rear wall, Alex could see a covered bridge connecting to more of the castle. Under it was the entrance to the harbor.

  Don-Dun gestured to the top of the cart. “Up ye get, m'lad, time to unload.”

  Alex tossed the vegetables down to Don-Dun, who gently caught each one, stacking it against the wall. Then he climbed back down and looked about for a pitchfork to unload the hay. He sighed. It looked like a lot of work.

  “Stand back, lad.” Don-Dun unbuckled straps that secured the cart-poles to Rhua and pushed up, his arms straining. He brought the cart to a balancing position and gave it a further heave. The cart tipped, sending the entire mountain of hay sliding off the back to land with a great dust-billowing crash. Alex covered his mouth with his sleeve. From down below came the neighing and stomping of startled horses.

  Don-Dun slowly raised his arms until they were straight out in front of him. “Didn't think that would work, did ye?” he said with a big grin.

  Alex punched him on the arm.

  Laughing, Don-Dun pulled the empty cart back down to rest the pole straps across Rhua's back. His few possessions, and Alex's bow, remained secure in a sack tied to the cart's front slats, but his lance had slid to the floor with the hay. Don-Dun tossed it back onto the cart, hiding it in a gap in the boards and covering it with handfuls of hay.

  The stable master frowned. “The soldiers would not be pleased to see that.”

  “There's no need for them to see it,” Don-Dun replied grimly, “unless they give me cause.”

  “If ye're not going to be a bit smarter than that, ye too will be hanging under the rope tonight, together with the young foreign spies.”

  Alex's head jerked up. A terrible rushing sound filling his ears, he dimly heard Don-Dun inquire as to where these spies had been captured.

  “Up the coast a wee bit,” the stable master said. “It's said they speak with some strange dialect and are in these lands under no authority or permission. That alone is enough to hang, of course, but moreover they're accused of spying for the rebels.”

  Alex clung to the cart for support. It cannot not be true; oh, let it not be my friends that are to hang tonight. But every shred of hope crumbled the moment he held it. It had to be them. What, oh what, am I to do?

  “Your lad appears rather pale,” the stable master commented casually. “Is something wrong?”

  Alex almost forgot to remain silent. He opened his mouth to reply, but only a few stammering sounds came out.

  Fortunately, everyone's attention was diverted by a heavy potbellied man who stomped into the chamber, followed closely by a tall thin man with long gray hair. Alex thought the tall thin man looked familiar.

  “Who is it,” the potbellied man bellowed, his jowls jiggling, “that claims to have fresh greens of such quality that they warrant disturbing the kitchen master?”

  Don-Dun replied haltingly. “That, er … would be me,” he said. “These greens I laid out here for ye to see were grown in a fertile valley far from here … but they are fresh, I assure you. I brought them here with great haste and –”

  “Duncan!” The kitchen master snapped his fingers for his companion to examine the greens.

  The tall thin man strode over to where Don-Dun was proudly displaying his wares. He randomly flipped over some samples, holding a few to his nose. He took out a knife, carved into a tuber, and nibbled on its crunchy insides.

  He nodded approvingly.

  “Rubbish!” The kitchen master's heavy jowls quivered. “I can see from here that's naught but a pile of half-rotted rabbit feed.”

  The stable master cleared his throat. “Wait a moment,” he said. “Even I can see that these are quality greens.”

  “Have ye been offered a percent of the sale?” The kitchen master sneered when the stable master averted his eyes. “Very well, ye have gone to the trouble of bringing him here. I'll be generous and pay a groat for all this.”

  He reached into a vest pocket and drew out a silver coin. He gave it a toss, and it fell with a ting on the floor.

  Don-Dun made no move to pick it up. He stared at the kitchen master, his face turning a deep shade of red.

  “Ye've been paid, now go – or do I have to call the guards?”

  The kitchen master put his hand on the handle of a long dagger tucked into his belt.

  Don-Dun's voice was flat and cold: “This is robbery.”

  “Have it your way … guards!”

  Two burly armored guards burst into the chamber, swords drawn. Alex suddenly realized that the kitchen master knew he would need these guards; he'd planned this robbery from the start.

  “Stop all this madness,” the stable master protested, flapping his loose glove up and down. “It was in good faith that I brought this man here –”

  “Be still, or I'll have ye clapped in irons also.” The kitchen master raised his fleshy arm and pointed to Don-Dun. “Guards, take him away.”

  The taller of the two guards loosened wrist irons from his belt. “Come with us quietly, or ye die here,” he growled.

  Don-Dun edged back to the end of the cart.

  The shorter guard raised his sword up over his shoulder and held it like a bat. Mouth twisted into a grimace, he took slow deliberate steps forward.

  Alex had no particular plan, but knew he had to do something. He slipped the sack off the cart and pulled out the crossbow behind the cover of the cart wheel. Stepping on the bow with both feet, he pulled the drawstring back to its notch. Then he inserted a bolt.

  Don-Dun's eyes stayed fixed on the guards while his fingers burrowed into the loose hay on the cart. “I've been robbed by the likes of ye before, but no more,” he said.

  “Don't do it!” The stable master called out too late. The shorter guard lunged and swung his sword.

  Don-Dun raised his lance, deflecting the blow, and crashed the butt end against the guard's helmet. The guard spun and thrust with his sword, but it lacked the lance's reach. It caught him, point first, just under his breastplate, penetrating so far that its point made a tepee from the tunic on his back. The guard's grimace was replaced by a slack-jawed look of shock. He took a rasping breath, his sword clattering to the ground.

  That frozen moment seemed to take forever, but it was over in the blink of an eye. Don-Dun gave the guard a hefty kick, but before he succeeded in wrenching his lance free, the other guard's sword came swinging down with a force that would have severed Don-Dun's unprotected arm were it not for the stable master, who whipped out his own sword and blocked it with a heavy clash of steel.

  Their swords locked, the stable master roared for the guard to stand down. Far from obeying, the guard used his brute strength to force the stable master's sword down to one side. He attempted a release-and-thrust, but the stable master was quicker. He sidestepped and gave the guard a swift jab, catching him precisely in the gap between the bottom of his helmet and the top of his metal shoulder plates. Blood spurted through the guard's fingers as he clutched his neck. He staggered backwards, sword still raised, and
collapsed on the floor.

  The kitchen master slowly raised his dagger over the stable master's unprotected back as the stable master bent over the fallen guard.

  Alex stepped out from behind the cart and raised his crossbow. “STOP!” he shouted.

  The kitchen master's eyes flicked over to Alex. He froze, dagger in the air, then stepped back, quickly returning it to its sheath.

  “Don't move.” Alex's finger was tight on the crossbow trigger. He looked straight down the stock to the kitchen master, his heart pounding in his ears.

  “My back made a tempting target for ye, did it now?” The stable master's voice was low and threatening. He raised his sword to the kitchen master's chin. “But for this lad, ye might have had me there.”

  “Ye have attacked the castle guards,” the kitchen master replied. “That's a capital offense.”

  The stable master jerked his thumb toward the two dead guards. “It seems to me that they did the attacking – something they clearly will do no more.”

  “It's this piece of scum who did the attacking.” Don-Dun pointed at the kitchen master, shaking with rage.

  The kitchen master fluttered his hand as if to ward off a pesky fruit fly. “How dare ye address me in that –”

  “Shut your trap.” Don-Dun leveled his lance with the kitchen master's big belly. “Ye're no worthy of a response. My days may well be numbered by what has transpired here today, but it gives me some satisfaction to know yours are over.”

  Don-Dun pulled back his lance. The kitchen master turned a sickly gray color and dropped to his knees. “No please … spare me … I'll do anything … I'll tell the captain that the guards killed each other in an argument … ye are free to go … I swear….”

  Alex held out his hand. “Wait! Stop!”

  Don-Dun looked at Alex in surprise, his lance poised.

  “Tell him to free my friends from the dungeons, and it's a deal.”

  “Your lad is not so silent now,” the stable master said, a smile flitting across his face. “And that would be a foreign dialect I hear – would ye be a rebel spy too?”