by JR Tomlin
"No, my lord." He nudged his father's hand that had the piece of bread in it. "Take a few bites and rest you."
Douglas grunted. "If I'm to be returned to Berwick, you'll need that more than I. My lady wife will soon get aid to me there. You..."
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the middle of a clanking line of prisoner, Andrew scuffed through the dirt on a narrow road twisting down a braeside. On each side rode guards. They walked through a blackened valley, miles long. He gagged at the reek from the smoke of destruction. He trudged past an orchard where the fingers of burnt trees jutted into the air. The bridge across the Clyde was burnt as well, but the flow was low in the summer's heat so they only had to range a short way to find a ford, splashing across the rocky bed in knee-deep water. Gap-tooth swore at him when he paused and plunged in his head.
To Andrew's relief the next day, they reached the gray-green forest. Giant sentinels, pines so big it would take two men to reach around their trunks, in endless profusion loomed overhead cutting off the summer sun. Beneath his feet, the floor was a carpet of brown needles.
Midges buzzed about them endlessly; sweat dribbled into the stinging sores of their bites. The third day, the guards unfettered his hands so he could half carry his father, his arm draped across Andrew's shoulders and his feet dragging as often as moving.
He had never known he could be so weary. His father's weight dragged at him hour after hour; prayers to the Virgin and the Lord Jesu to give him strength bubbled up, prayers he hadn't made since he was a child at his mother's knee. Once he knew that tears ran down his face, but when the Gap-tooth laughed, he made his eyes go dry and his heart go hard.
He fell taking his father with him. Gap-tooth kicked his father until his groaning stopped and he lay still. "Next time, I'll put a pike through his heart. The king will nay know the difference." The guard laughed a high bray. "Ah, he might reward me for saving the cost of bread and water."
If I had my sword, I'd give you a reward. Andrew rolled onto his hands and knees, struggling to his feet.
From a few feet away, Buchan watched with hooded eyes. Atholl stooped to take Lord Avoch's arm but got a blow that knocked him to his knees for it. The dark-haired sergeant has his father's arms bound and slung around Andrew's neck so he carried him on his back. Atholl was up once more, nursing an arm against his chest. He managed a hand to pull Andrew to his feet.
Reaching backward, Andrew humped his father's flaccid body higher. Half-bent, he started at the prod of a blade, his father juggling limply against him.
Gap-tooth was laughing again. "His father loves him so much." The man gave a noisy sigh. "What a lovely sight. A father bouncing on sonny's arse. 'Twould be cruel to separate him from Papa." He laughed his high keening laugh. "What else are these Scots good for?"
One day you'll find out. I swear it.
They trudged through an endless day in the shadows of the forest. His legs and shoulders throbbed. Sores under the rubbing shackles leaked dribbles of blood. He left crimson specks in the dirt with each footstep. The rope rubbed his throat bloody. Time after time, he hoisted his father higher to loosen the rope so he could breathe. None of that mattered. Tramping on aching stumps, his world shrank to a need to carry his father one more step and then another.
His left eye swelled shut from the beating. Hot and inflamed, it pulsed where they'd split open his forehead. His throat was so raw he could only force down a bite of the dry bread he was given, but he drank water whenever the guards let him. Once the youngest, less hard-eyed, slipped him a cup of ale. In the gray dawn of the next morning, his father begged them to let him walk.
Andrew bit back a command not to beg. But how could he add to his father's shame? Gap-tooth just laughed and said a father who loved his son so much should bump on his arse.
The next night in the gloaming, a sudden dip in the road as they entered a glen sent his him flat and his father rolling. The guards shouted and jumped from their mounts, loping down the slope.
Madness seized Andrew. He tackled one of the guards around the knees and wrenched his sword from its scabbard. I don't care if they kill me. I'll die a man, fighting. He scrambled to his feet, crouched. Gap-tooth waved a sword at him, and he batted it away. He lunged. Pain exploded in the back of his head. His face hit the needle-padded ground. Black spun around him pierced with scarlet pinprick stars.
When the darkness spit him out, his father was propped against a tree and the sergeant, feet spread, stood over him.
"I let them get sloppy. I blame myself, so I won't kill you this time." The man gave him a kick in the side, but more token than it might have been. "Try it again, and you won't reach Chester Castle."
Atholl wiped blood from his own mouth and stared after the man as he strode towards the campfire. "Chester..." He looked down at Andrew. "I know this country--have lands near here. We're not far. Tomorrow perhaps. Or the next day, as slowly as we march."
"Aye." His father's voice was stronger than it had been since that day at the battle. "But they'll not keep us there, Atholl. The Tower of London. That is where Edward Longshanks will want the two of us."
Andrew lay on his back, staring at the night sky and trying not to think about the pain that throbbed through every inch of his body. The crescent moon moved through the sky like a woman swanning past sparkling jewels. Orion raised his club and Leo reared beyond the faint hope of the North Star. The Chained Lady peeked between the branches of a pine. Will I ever see another night sky, he wondered. And I never knew that it could be so beautiful.
"Andrew," his father said, his voice so low that for a moment he thought it was the wind. "You must listen."
"Must I?"
"I'm still your lord father. Listen to me."
He took a deep breath. "Aye, Father. I'm listening."
"This is the end for me."
He turned his head. His father, Lord of Avoch and Petty and Bothwell, who had put his first sword in his hand, ridden in half a hundred jousts, and faced down boars as he speared them was leaning limply against a tree. His hands rested, feeble, beside him. Yet this couldn't be the end for him. He would surely grow strong again. His father couldn't die.
"You can't give up."
"I leave it to you. You'll fight them. For me. Revenge...for all they have done. To us. To the king."
Gap-tooth stormed toward them. "Hold your bloody tongue."
Shame-faced, Atholl looked at the ground. Gap-tooth grabbed the front of his father's tunic, lifted him and backhanded him across the face. With a snort, he stomped away.
Revenge... His father stifled a moan. God in heaven, revenge would taste sweet.
His father kept quiet until the campfire burned low. In the darkness, when Gap-tooth was safely snoring, his father whispered, "I command you."
CHAPTER NINE
Dozens of prisoners were shepherded by mounted guards as they shambled along the road to London. On the hill above the high, thick walls of the city of Chester, Andrew tried to pick out his father's figure amongst them.
"You might want to envy them," the sergeant growled. "A dungeon in the Tower will be luxury compared to Chester if I know aught of Lacey." He motioned for the guards to strike off Andrew's shackles. He sucked in a breath as the metal scraped across the bloody sores on his wrists and ankles. Another guard tightened a rope from his wrists to the sergeant's saddlebow. Apparently, he was receiving special attentions as the other six remaining prisoners were strung out behind a guard's horse. The sergeant called an order, and Andrew limped along behind him.
Like spires, ships' masts thrust toward the sky, docked in the deep river. The River Dee gurgled and sang as it dashed under the wide stone bridge. A bitter smile twitched his mouth as they passed under the branches of a huge oak. How many weeks had it been since the king had knighted him? He'd never dreamt how fast sweet could turn to ash in his mouth.
Above the gate waved a huge checky banner with squares of gold and red. Lacey. He'd heard rumors they were always in d
ebt to the king to maintain their pride. What might Lacey do with a ransom if he could get word to his uncle? But his uncle was in the north of Scotland at Elgin Cathedral--a world away.
The sergeant shouted and a drover cracked his whip to move a wagon piled with hay out of their path. The city gates stood open, and guards, standing to the side, leaned casually on their pikes.
Soldiers, servants, and urchins gathered in the cobblestone street to whoop at them. A yellow mongrel followed at their heels, barking. When it snapped at a horse's leg, a guard ran it through and cantered, laughing to the head of the column, holding it aloft. "Look, the Scottish banner." He shook the dead dog overhead and blood splattered in Andrew's hair.
"Traitors," someone in the crowd shouted. A clod of dung hit the side of Andrew's face. He spat to keep the muck out of his mouth. He stumbled on a loose cobblestone and thudded hard on a knee. A poke in the back with a pike made him scramble to his feet, jerked by the rope. He spat again and shook the dung out of his eyes, gagging.
The moat around the castle ran like a second river, deep and murky. The gate was a dark tunnel with murder holes letting in thin shafts of light. A guard had galloped ahead to tell of their coming so people crowded close in the inner bailey--servants in livery of red and gold, guards in their boiled-leather jacks and shrieking children underfoot. Shouts and screams deafened him; dung and rotten apples splattered, stinking, around him. Something hit his back with a squelch. He shook his head, dazed.
Ahead, a flight of stone steps led to the entrance of one of Castle Chester's round towers. A nobleman in silk with a light summer cloak thrown back from his shoulders stood looking down on him, on each side a knight in mail with the red and gold Lacey colors on their tabards.
"Lord de Lacy, I've brought your prisoners," the sergeant said.
A blade in his back prodded him a step forward.
"This one is Lord Avoch's git. You're to hold him fast." The man swung from the saddle and climbed the steps to hold out a parchment. "I was ordered to mention the forgiveness by the king of certain debts."
"Forgiveness of debts..." As he took the parchment, Lacey spoke in so soft a voice that Andrew could barely hear the words. He unrolled the document. After he looked it over, he met Andrew's eyes. "His grace, the king, is displeased with you, Sir Andrew, I do fear."
Lightheaded, Andrew trembled with fever and exhaustion. He worked enough moisture into his mouth to speak. "Send to Elgin Cathedral. To my uncle, the dean there. Ransom..."
"And anger the king?" He held up the parchment. "Who is forgiving my debts to the exchequer?"
De Lacey smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling, but those eyes, dark as a storm cloud, showed nothing. The Lord of Chester Castle finally pursed his lips, and said, "I have a room that will suit such a traitor."
Andrew lifted his chin even though chills shook him and glared into Lacey's face. "I'm no traitor."
De Lacey flicked a hand. "Take him to the cell beneath Half Moon Tower. The sight of him offends me." He didn't wait for an answer but turned, his blue cloak swirling behind him. Andrew had time for a quick look up at the high summer sky, a horsetail cloud skating across it, before the guards grabbed his arms. Andrew let them drag him across the yard into a high stone tower.
Walls of reddish stone were swathed with patches of leaking green. The air stank of mold and damp. Down a dozen steps and the chill went bone-deep. A door of dark wood banded with iron... They heaved him inside. The door slammed shut, and he saw no more. Darkness enclosed him. He was blind.
On his hands and knees, he inched his hands across the cold stone floor, damp under his seeking palms. Black, total darkness. "God have mercy," he murmured as his hand touched a wall, his body shaking with chills. King John will bend with the wind, his father had said... and lead his men to destruction.
How he had trusted. How he had been wrong...
The dungeon was under a keep built to hold Welsh prisoners. To hold Wales under the power of the English conqueror. As the same conqueror would hold Scotland. He cursed them all: the greedy King Edward of England, John de Balliol for his weakness, John Comyn, Atholl, Robert de Bruce, Edward's foul creature Cressingham. Then he cursed himself. "Fool," he muttered. "Devil-curst, trusting fool."
Shivering even harder, his stomach was the liar of a fox, twisting and biting. He heaved and retched. It had been so long since he'd eaten that only a slimy string came up. At last, limp, he crawled, sweeping his hands before him, along the rough wall until he touched straw and plunged his fingers into it. A musty stench came up but there was mercy somewhere, it seemed. He crawled onto the pile and lay there, sweating and shivering. Grateful at least to be off the damp floor. A bug crept across his hand. He twitched his fingers, but what did it matter?
His skin sweated, his stomach whirled and pitched, head hammered. He rolled over and rested his head on his arms. The only good thing he could think of was that they had unbound his hands and feet. He slid in and out of dreams of screams and blood that were little more comforting than reality.
When he kept very still, he didn't hurt quite so much so he did his best not to move. Ages passed. The throbbing in his head eased. Nothing else changed. It had been afternoon when they'd thrown him in the dungeon. There was no telling how long he'd gone in and out of sleep.
The drip of water... Not another sound. It must be night. He prayed so. He pushed himself up on his elbows with a groan. Every movement grated. His face felt like a bag filled with pebbles. He ran his tongue over splits in his lips and the rough edge of a broken tooth.
He scooted sideways off the pile of straw. The floor was the same--cold, damp, flat and smooth, stones laid close. He felt his way to the wall and ran his palms up it--rougher, grittier stones joined with lines of mortar, part of the wall of the keep. Shivering, he crawled back onto the straw.
There would be a window slit high in the wall. If he waited, it would get light. It had to get light. It had to.
He lay huddled for hours, quiet. Thinking thoughts he could have done without. Like that, he'd heard of prisoners left to starve to death in dungeons. Like that, men were sometimes gnawed by rats as they died. Like that, he might go mad if it didn't get light.
It didn't. He counted his breaths to keep from screaming. Pressed his fists into his forehead. Nothing changed. He had to move--to know where he was. He licked blood off his lips, his tongue so dry it felt like leather. Perhaps he could get to the water dripping somewhere. Perhaps...
On his hands and knees, he crept across the clammy floor, pressing a shoulder against the rough stones of the wall. Otherwise, he might crawl in circles. He swept his hands ahead as he went. A well or hole could be in front of him, and he wouldn't know. He trembled, half from weakness and half from fear of what he would find. A few feet of crawling brought him to a corner. The next wall was rough stone set with mortar as well. Pressing against it, he explored that way. He came almost at once to another corner. Around that one. A few feet down that wall and he knew where he was. The wooden door they had thrown him through. He stroked his way up it, the greasy wood slick under his palms, fingering wide strips of iron when he came to them. Solid. Merciful God. He clamped his teeth on a whimper.
In the fourth corner, he came upon a clay pot. A slops jar, empty but still reeking of old piss. Surely that meant he wouldn't be left here to die. Why would they give him a slops jar and let him die of hunger and thirst? He realized it must have been a day since he'd pissed. He inched his back up the wall and breathed a sigh of relief as his heavy bladder drained. He'd not known how much his belly had been aching until that moment.
He shook off the last drop of piss. The stink added to the musty smell.
Then he sank down onto the floor, arms around bent legs and head on his knees. His head was pounding again. His mouth was parched. Curse them. Trice-curse them. What had he done but follow his king? What any knight was sworn to do.
Cressingham's face seemed to float before him in the darkness. His fa
t lips sneered as he pointed and pronounced: ...traitors and criminals... "No," Andrew whispered.
He had fallen into a doze when footfalls echoed in the quiet. At first, it was part of his dream. It seemed years since he had heard anything but the distant, tormenting drip of water. They couldn't be real. He shivered with chills, his lips cracked and leaking blood. When the heavy wooden door creaked open, he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glimmer. A gaoler bent, watching Andrew closely, and put a bowl and cup on the floor.
"Is it day?" Andrew croaked.
The gaoler was a barrel of a man with a pebbly face and beard down onto his chest, clad in a dark leather jack studded with metal. "No talking." He slammed the door.
Andrew blinked as the light vanished. On hands and knees, he crawled towards the precious cup. It was cool and beaded with water. Grasping it with both hands, he took a mouthful and let it dribble down his parched throat. Careful not to let a drop escape, he sipped until it was gone. He used a finger to wipe out the last drop.
A wave of despair washed through him. How could he do this? It was too much. He leaned his forehead against the wood of the door and choked down a sob. He had to get through it. That was all.
The bowl had beans in it and a lump of bread. He scooped them up with his fingers and shoveled them down. Then he wiped the bowl clean with the bread, too, and licked the juices off his fingers. He crawled back onto the straw and curled up in a ball. He was cold... so cold. After a while, he slept.
Eons seemed to come and go. He couldn't tell when he woke if it was day or night. He could feel that his eyes were open when he touched his face. Open or closed, there was no difference in the darkness. He lay huddled against the chill and sang "Turn Ye to Me" to hear something besides the drip of that water he couldn't reach. He hummed every tune he could think of. He took to cursing to make a change.
Another gaoler came to leave another bowl and cup. This one was a scarecrow of a man. Andrew begged him to say if it was day or night. A blow of a truncheon was his reply.