by Tessa Murran
‘Aye, well, choice or not, Robert wants that castle, and he will have it, no matter what the cost. I must hasten away. I may be gone for some weeks.’
Ravenna said nothing for a moment. In the silence, she thought she heard a rat scurry in the roof. ‘It is a long ride south, is it not?’
‘Aye, we are to take the roman road to Doune, to meet Black Douglas, the King’s man, and then on to Roxburgh and a siege, most likely. The weather is turning in our favour so we will make good time. The sooner I get there, the sooner I get back, and then we can continue to know each other better when I return.’
‘Make sure you do return,’ Ravenna said sweetly.
He came up to her and gave her a tender kiss.
There, Cormac had confided in her. He would be on the road south, with a small party of his men, to join with the King’s men further along. In these last few weeks at Beharra, he had never told her where he was going or what he was doing. Now she had given him satisfaction abed, he was trusting her a little, and telling her what she needed to know. How easy it was to play the submissive little wife.
Too easy.
It occurred to Ravenna that she might have actually felt something soft for him when they had made love or had it just been a mutual lust and sating of hunger. She was playing a game, wasn’t she, and that was part of it? Whatever she felt when he took her was a passing fancy and nothing more.
But if that was the case, why did her heart sink just a little at the thought of passing on his confidence to her father’s spy? And if she did pass it on, what would her father do with it?
Chapter Twelve
Roxburgh Castle - Scottish Borders
Four weeks later
Cormac looked upon the walls of Roxburgh with dismay. There was nothing but open ground between the woods in which they hid and the castle, which stood staunch and defiant on high ground at the junction of two rivers. Anyone guarding the walls could see for miles in all directions, and he had little faith in the Black Douglas and his reckless plan to approach them unseen.
Sir James ‘Black’ Douglas had earned his nickname, not for the shock of black hair on his head, but for the darkness of his heart and his relentless pursuit of vengeance against Scotland’s enemies. Cormac had won his respect through his ferocity in battle, so he was one of several men, hand-picked to undertake this risky venture.
Lyall had been left waiting in the shadow of the trees where it was safe. Now Cormac was out in the open, cloaked in black and crouching low on all fours, moving haphazardly towards Roxburgh’s towering walls, all six feet thick of sheer stone. He and his clansmen were hoping that any defenders up above would mistake them for black highland cattle and therefore ignore them, instead of raining down arrows on their defenceless bodies.
There was a great deal that was absurd about what they were doing, but there was also a grain of common sense and cunning about it. Black Douglas rivalled the Bruce when it came to reckless courage and deviousness, along with a dogged certainty of success, no matter what the odds.
Dusk was coming on, which helped, and they were well-equipped with grappling hooks to scale the walls and ladders of hempen rope and light wood, which they dragged low in the long grass to avoid detection. The ramparts were not thickly defended, there were gaps in areas where the guards were stationed. They were tired at days end and too confident in the impregnability of their walls, but any castle, given time, could be taken.
Cormac got close first, his heart thumping, and quickly threw off his cloak. From over the castle walls drifted the faint sound of merriment soon to be cut short, if this went well. Standing back from the walls, he took aim up high with the hook. It flew up and over the battlements, landing with a clatter which was horrifying to his ears. He did not pause, if he had been heard it would not matter, he was a dead man, so he pulled slowly and carefully on the rope. It snagged on the walls, the hook must have dug into something well enough to hold. It would have to do.
He whispered orders to his men and started to scale the walls. It was hard work with his feet slipping on the slimy stone, but he had strong shoulders, and he had to be quick before they were discovered. Halfway up, he heard the clunk of another grappling hook landing above and slightly to the side of him. He hoped the fools would not skewer him with the next one by swinging too close with it, as their aim was sometimes woeful. His concentration wavered, and his foot slipped, causing him to twist and crash painfully against the walls. Thankfully he kept hold of the rope, as he was high up now and the alternative was crashing downwards to break his legs or bash his brains out on the fall.
All was quiet when he reached the top and dragged himself over the merlons, dropping down onto the ramparts with cat-like stealth. There was a man some distance in front of him, a black outline against a vivid sunset. As Cormac closed the gap between them, the man turned. In an instant, they were locked together in a mortal embrace, and then Cormac managed to get his knife in, straight up through the gullet, silencing any scream before the man could utter it and warn of the danger. He hoisted the man’s body over the side and a second later heard it land with a soft thump.
Leaning over, he could see his men gathering below, flinging off their cloaks to keep their weapons free to fight, so he quickly lowered the rope, and they attached the ladder to it. Once he had secured the ladder against the castle wall, he gestured furiously for men to climb up. He saw another man a little way off do the same. In a matter of minutes, men started to pour onto the battlements, and suddenly, there was a noise of fighting, angry shouts cut short as the defenders were cut down.
More and more men poured over the wall. Cormac rushed down to the courtyard, quickly dispatching anyone who came at him, and then on to the gatehouse. It took several men to lift the portcullis, and by now, the other ‘cattle’ had reached the main gate and came rushing through and onwards to the main hall and their target, the English garrisoned there.
When Cormac rushed inside, it was to see many men feasting and drinking, well in their cups and completely off guard. So the slaughter began.
***
Cormac touched a finger tentatively to his ear. His throat was dry from shouting orders, his muscles ached, he was sticky with the blood of the slain and his own too. An arrow had skimmed his ear, splitting it open. He would have to find someone to stitch it up later. For now, he had to secure the castle.
God, how he longed for a jug of ale and a woman to rub his aching muscles. He thought of Ravenna doing it and laughed bitterly. She would burn in hell before she eased any ache of his. Strange he should think of her now, amidst the carnage.
The fighting was over, they were victorious, and Roxburgh castle and its garrison of English soldiers had been dispatched, well, almost all, as the shrieks and pleas of prisoners being executed had rung out well into the night.
It was dawn now, and what an ugly dawn it was. Still, there was killing. Bodies lay everywhere, the castle’s contents had been spilt out into the yard which was now being piled with hay and wood to burn it to the ground. In the name of Robert the Bruce, Black Douglas was about to destroy one more obstacle blocking his master’s path to the undisputed throne of Scotland.
Cormac watched as Lyall picked his way among the debris to his side. His brother’s face was grey and tense.
‘Is the keep taken?’ he asked him.
‘Aye, it is. Commander is finished, chewing on an arrow, went straight in one cheek and out the other. He’s on his knees, begging for mercy and safe passage south while his people are punished for his siding with the English.’ Lyall looked stricken as he uttered the words.
‘What is it, Lyall?’ Cormac asked quietly.
‘All this Cormac, how do you bear it time and time again?’
‘It is your first siege, your first real taste of battle and…’
‘It is bitter in my mouth, Cormac.’
‘Aye, it is the stuff of nightmares but this is war, Lyall and, in war, you must have the courage to do terrible th
ings. In the name of freedom, you must do terrible things.’
Lyall would not look his brother in the eye as he said, ‘Black Douglas told me I fought with valour. He said my reward is that I get to choose ten men and hang them from the castle walls. Some of the prisoners are young, just boys. It will achieve nothing, it is just murder for the sake of it.’
‘If they captured you, they would do the same, with no hesitation. If you do not follow the order, he will think you weak, or he will think you disloyal, and it will be your corpse blowing in the wind. So you must do it, and do it quickly before your conscience hobbles you. This is a fight to the death, brother. The sooner you get used to its cruelty, the better.’
‘Then I will go and do murder Cormac, in the name of the King.’
As he walked off, Cormac called after him. ‘Take the oldest, those who have lived their lives, take the wounded, the lame, the broken men. Spare the ones who have a future, if you can. Black Douglas does not care who you choose, a death feeds his appetite for vengeance that is all.’
By nightfall they had broken open the casks of wine in the castle’s cellars, using the wood to set fires, along with anything else that would burn. They threw carcases into the wells, along with salt, to poison the water. Ten bodies swung in the wind as fire licked up the castle walls, lending light to the whole grisly scene.
Roxburgh was dead and judging by the grim look on Lyall’s face, so was his illusion that war was an honourable thing.
***
The next night Cormac slept well for the first time in weeks having stopped to rest at a small village halfway between Roxburgh and Beharra. They had taken over a barn and now his men, two score of them, were sound asleep, as the first soft light of dawn crept in through the doors.
Cormac made his way outside, blowing on his hands to warm them, and plunged his head into the horse trough. A vibration in the ground under him had him jolting upright and alert, in time to see a man ride towards him astride a huge warhorse. He wasn’t slowing down. Fool, he should pull up, or he would crash right into him. Cormac put up a hand. ‘Stop,’ he shouted, just as he realised that the rider had no intention of stopping.
He was un-armed, he had no defence but his wits. With seconds to react, Cormac braced himself and, at the last moment, when the man was committed and could not turn, he rolled sideways and out of the way of the pounding hooves. He felt a whoosh of air as a morning star, a spiked, metal ball of death, flew past his ear.
The rider pounded on through the village, not foolhardy enough to try and turn the horse and attack again. The big beasts could charge forward with great ferocity, but they were unwieldy things.
He must have cried out in anger, for men came streaming out of the barn, Lyall in the front with sword in hand. He looked at the rider, pounding away up the road north.
‘God’s blood, what just happened?’
‘Someone tried to murder me.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘But the truce?’
‘Worth nothing and it never was. Don’t have any illusions about that.’
Lyall’s face was ashen. ‘What are we to do?’
‘Get home to Beharra as soon as can be. We ride all day and all night if we have to.’
‘First, you need to come and have a look at some of the men, they are coughing and shivering. I don’t like the look of them.’
‘A fever?’
‘Let’s hope not brother,’ said Lyall, with a grim look on his face.
Chapter Thirteen
Ravenna hurried up the winding staircase, trying not to spill the ale in her haste. When she got to Fearghas’s chamber, she went in quietly, in case he was finally sleeping but he was not, she could hear him struggling to breathe from right across the room. It was a torturous sound, a death rattle.
In the weeks after Cormac had left, his father had grown quiet, his face slowly blanching to the colour of parchment. At first, they thought he had taken a chill, and Ramsay took to fussing over him like an old woman. Ravenna suspected that whatever ailed the old man was on the point of taking him, and when he began to cough up globs of blood, she knew he did not have long.
‘Laird, I brought some ale from the kitchens, the cook warmed it for you.’
‘No point, girl. I am dying, every breath I take is torture.’
Ravenna put the ale near the fireplace to keep it warm.
Fearghas rasped in a breath. ‘Something is tearing at my insides, twisting my guts into knots. ‘Is it you, did you put a hex on me to finish me off? Should I have you burned for a witch?’
‘You were dying before I met you, and you have been for some time.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I have seen men die of what ails you, many times before. At my wedding, your face was grey, you were in pain, but you tried hard not show it in front of my father.’
‘Come closer to me, so I can see your face and how it lies.’ He waved a skeletal hand at her. ‘Come and entertain me with your wickedness. Where did you see men die?’
‘In the convent that I was sent to. We saw our share of the wounded and afflicted, and it was our duty to care for them.’
‘Why a convent, was it because Gowan wanted to hide you away and be rid of his bastard?’
‘Because his bastard disappointed him. With my father, you only get to do that once,’ said Ravenna.
‘Must have been bad what you did, for you to suffer that fate.’
‘Aye, it was wickedness of the most awful kind, and I’ll not share it with you.’
‘Do you not want absolution, Ravenna?’
It was the first time he had said her name aloud, and not referred to her as ‘girl’ or ‘whore’ or ‘bitch’.
‘Not from you, I don’t,’ she replied. ‘And what would I gain from confessing? In your eyes I am already beyond redemption, for my name is Gowan and I can never recover from that sin, can I?’
He grasped her hand. ‘Tis Buchanan now, don’t ever forget it.’ His grip was firm despite his being almost a corpse. ‘My son…he is an honourable man. If you know what’s good for you, you will look for that in him, and learn to respect him, to love him.’
‘I won’t lie to you old man, even on your deathbed. I am not here by choice, I will never be a Buchanan and, honourable or not, I will never love Cormac.’
Fearghas did not seem to hear her. His rheumy eyes held hers, a milky brown, and they were anguished. She only just caught his next words.
‘I know what you are, girl.’
‘No, you don’t.’ Alarm gripped her. What did he mean? Was she already found out?
‘It’s a shame that you are cleverer and prettier than I had hoped.’
‘You wanted a whey-faced milksop, who knew her place and stayed out of the way. A ghost of a woman, that’s what you wanted for Cormac.’
‘Aye, if you like,’ croaked Fearghas.
Ravenna went over to the fire and took hold of the goblet with a rag so she would not burn her hand. She went back to Fearghas and held it up to his lips.
He looked up at her. ‘Did you spit in it?’
‘No, would you like me to?’ she replied.
He grimaced as he drank it, sucking it in through thin, pale lips, then he sank back down onto the bed, wincing in pain, but he hadn’t finished with her.
‘I hoped Cormac would not notice you, but he likes the look of you, I can tell. Curse me for saying it, but if I were twenty years younger, I would probably try and tup you myself. I always liked the wild ones. No point in having a tame woman under you, no sport in that.’
‘Lucky for me, your days of tupping are behind you,’ said Ravenna sharply.
‘While yours are just beginning with my son, eh?’
Ravenna had had enough of his jibes. ‘I should fetch you some better company, Laird.’
‘Ah, how she glowers at me when I goad her. Don’t pretend to be delicate about it, girl. I have no time for the nonsense of women.�
��
‘And I’ve no time for the foolishness of old men, so I am going.’
His hand shot out again and grabbed hers. ‘Don’t hurt my son, with your looks, your power to stir him. Promise me you will not be the death of him, Ravenna, I beg you.’
How he loved his son, this man. How he crumbled at the thought of Cormac being hurt. It must be costing him a great deal in pride to ask this of her. And what could she say? She had her own family to protect, well, some of them anyway. Could she lie to Fearghas, before God, as he was breathing his last?
‘Laird I will not…’
The door thudded open, and Morna rushed in and up to the bed. ‘Father, I bring good news. A messenger has come. Roxburgh has fallen to Black Douglas, Cormac and Lyall are safe. They will be home soon.’ She stroked his thin hair gently. ‘You will see them soon, Father, I promise.’
Fearghas smiled, and his eyelids grew heavy. As he sank into sleep, Ravenna made ready to leave them in peace.
‘Don’t go, Ravenna. Stay and help me comfort him, please,’ said Morna.
‘I don’t think that is my place. He would not want me to.’
Tears swam in Morna’s eyes, and so Ravenna relented and sat back down at the edge of the bed, bracing herself for a long night. She wondered at Morna’s distress and the love she had for her father. All she had ever felt around her own was shame or dread. She felt her eyes well up, not for the man lying on the bed, who cared nothing for her, and never would have, but for herself and what life had withheld from her.
The hours of darkness slid by and, come the dawn, Morna’s tears had gone from a trickle to a flood. Fearghas, Laird and warlord of the Buchanans, died in the night and, with his sons fighting and his daughter too young and shocked to cope, it fell on Ravenna to set his house in order and deal with the chaos he left behind.
***
Fearghas was buried five days later. They waited for Cormac, but he did not come, so the priest was called to put the Buchanans’ Laird to rest. The women wailed and set to quiet sobbing at the graveside, while the men looked stoic, with stony faces, as the priest droned on about what an honourable and brave man Fearghas had been.