by J. R. Tomlin
They'd have a cold camp. James sliced up the last of the sausage. There was still oats for bannocks but they'd need more. Mayhap he should risk stopping at a croft. Thinking on it, he wrapped himself in his cloak and pressed against the stone. Sheltered from the fine rain, he told Wat to wake him to keep the late watch.
He lay there for a minute or two, a side tooth the king had knocked loose aching. He poked at it with his tongue. It was loose but not so bad he would lose it. Then Wat nudged him and he sat up the rest of the night, the moonlight making flickering shadows from the broken walls.
He didn't remember this keep. Mayhap he'd never been this far with his father. An owl hooted and its shadow passed over the moon.
* * *
There was no straw on the floor, only bare stone cold enough to soak through Lamberton's body. The one slit window was high in the wall, far higher than he could hope to reach. It let in a beam of dim light at least so he supposed it might have been worse, although a cold wind whistled through most nights. In the corner, the slop bucket that went days between being emptied sent up a stench he was sure. He was past smelling it.
He examined for the thousandth time the walls of pale gray festooned with patches of green mold and an age-blackened door three inches thick and studded with iron.
He feared he had lost track of the days he had been here. There was no way to mark them, so he tried to count. Two hundred and eighty-nine days he thought. But had he counted a number twice? Or missed counting? Some days he'd been confused.
No one spoke to him. He'd heard no human voice but his own in all these months, except when he was told of an execution. Sir Christopher Seton, Nigel de Bruce, the next eldest and fairest of those brothers, the Earl of Atholl, Sir Simon Fraser and his brother. Like the days, he'd lost count of the executions. All he could do now was pray for the friends who'd gone to the scaffold and a torturous death.
Not knowing what was happening gnawed at him so that at times, he had to force down the gray food he was given. Of a certainty, if they'd captured Robert de Bruce they would have told him. King Edward wouldn't have passed up the chance to gloat over it before he had Robert tortured to death or even had he been killed in battle. The worse hadn't yet happened. Mayhap he had fled to Norway where his sister was dowager queen. Yet, even that, Lamberton suspected would be used to torment him. Not knowing--King Edward did indeed know how to torment.
Lamberton made plans in order to keep himself sane. Robert would raise a new army. Lamberton would be rescued, and together they would heal Scotland. Muttering to himself to hear a voice, he planned the laws he would write as the king's chancellor, the additions he would make to complete St. Andrew's Cathedral.
The nights were the worst. In the darkness, unable to sleep, his memories became nightmares. He remembered before King Alexander died. He was twenty, at the great tournament with his mentor, Bishop Wishart. There was peace in the land. No one thought of war, not in Scotland. They'd been at peace for a hundred years. The grass was lush, scattered with the purple of heather. The wind carried the scent of spring flowers. The wine tasted sweet and Wishart frowned when Lamberton got muzzy headed, but it was as much happiness withal. He remembered Robert de Bruce in his golden armor, still a squire. It must have been his first tourney, so young. He fought like a madman, laughing as he unhorsed opponents left and right. Lamberton had smiled as Bruce circled the field after defeating Campbell to win the champion's crown from King Alexander. A cloud had covered the sun. In his memory, the king faded away--as he had only weeks later, falling to his death. Leaving Scotland with no heir--no king--no champion--to Edward of England's certain conquest.
The hours stretched into days into years, it seemed although he kept count. He prayed for hours every day, almost as much to keep from raving as for the victims he prayed for, yet he ached for the friends who died.
The low flap at the bottom of the door opened, and a wooden tray slid through. He sighed. The usual flagon of water and a bowl of some watery gruel, a piece of bread, enough to keep him alive.
He ran a thumb down the back of his hand, thin except for the knuckles. From the damp, they had swollen, paining him constantly. The worst was the dirt, embedded deep in his skin, under his nails that were blackened with it. He'd been a fastidious man. If he lived to see the freedom again, would this cure him of the fault or make him worse, he wondered. Sometimes he used his water to wash instead of drink and endured the thirst. Without soap that did little good, yet it made him feel more human.
He got the tray from the floor and poked with a spoon at the thin liquid in the bowl. He picked the bowl up and drank some of the greasy stuff down. It had no real taste, but it more or less filled his belly--less than more. Twice a day, he was fed. Now there was another day to get through.
Lamberton was on his knees with his prayers for the soul of-- Who? He'd drifted off into memories again. From outwith the door came the rattle of chains. He put a hand on the damp wall and pushed himself to his feet. The door creaked open.
Two gaolers stood in the opening, one holding shackles.
"What's happened?" Lamberton asked, forcing down terror, his racing heart.
The one with the shackles, short and stout, smirked as he came in and grabbed Lamberton's hand.
"Behind his back, my lord said," the other told him. He was frowning though, not enjoying himself.
It could be that he had an ounce of mercy.
"What's happened?" Lamberton asked again trying to keep the panic from his voice, but the man shook his head. His fellow jerked Lamberton's hands into chained shackles behind his back.
At least, they left his feet free. He walked steadily between them down the worn stone steps. Shoved through the narrow doorway, he blinked, blinded by daylight, eyes tearing.
One of the gaolers put a hand on his shoulder to halt him. Over the castle’s eastern wall, the sun's harsh light cast shadows of the tall merlons across the stony ground, a maw of lion's teeth. The cold, wet air was filled with the half-forgotten smells of horses and rain.
Squinting, he saw a knot of knights around the entry of the keep. King Edward stood a few feet ahead of them, his clothing all crimson and gold, patterned with a leopard on his chest and a gold crown on his head. Then Lamberton saw why they'd brought him down. He took a stumbling step.
Thomas de Bruce knelt, dripping blood into the dirt. Beside him lay a man Lamberton didn't recognize until Alexander de Bruce turned his head. Purple bruises covered his face, his eyes, swollen shut. Beyond them, the scaffold stood ready, a fire sending up a thread of smoke from a brazier.
An executioner in black leather held his terrible knives.
"No," Lamberton whispered.
"Bishop," Thomas croaked to him, raising his hands, "forgive-"
A man-at-arms ran at Thomas and kicked him sprawling into the dirt.
Men were shouting and laughing but Lamberton never heard them.
"Ego te--" Fingers thrust through his hair, jerking Lamberton's head back. The gaoler had a cloth in his hand. Lamberton threw himself sideways, wrenching his head to the away. "--te--" His scalp ripped and blood trickled down his neck. The gag cut off his words.
One man-at-arms pulled Alexander with each arm; his feet thudded on the edge of the steps as they dragged him onto the scaffold. Supported between two more, Thomas stumbled his way up.
King Edward strode to the middle of the bailey. "My son begged my mercy for his dear friend, Alexander de Bruce." He looked into Lamberton's face and smiled. "But treason shall not go unpunished." He motioned to the executioner. "When you are done with them, bring me their heads."
Behind him, the gaoler twisted Lamberton's arm. The joint tore and Lamberton groaned through gritted teeth. "Be still," the man snarled in Lamberton's ear. Sour wine scented his breath. "If you fight me, I'll make you sorry."
The executioner hauled on the rope and Alexander's limp body swung, twisting. The body thumped onto the ground and the executioner bent over it. He straighten
ed. "My lord, this one is dead already."
King Edward stared deep into Lamberton's eyes, though his smile wavered. "His head will grace the castle gate. Now the other."
The executioner repeated the process and quickly lowered Thomas back onto the platform. Thomas groaned when a man-at-arms dashed a bucket of water over his head to revive him.
De profundis clamavi ad te domine. Tears ran down Lamberton's face. They soaked into the gag, and he tasted their salt. He threw himself forward. The gaoler wrenched Lamberton's arm up behind him. He screamed into the cloth. Only the force of the hold, hard as steel, digging into his arm kept him on his feet.
Men-at-arms lifted Thomas onto a table and held him. The executioner lifted a blade. He slashed down at Thomas's groin. Blood gushed and splattered across the tormenter's hands.
Dimly, as if from far away, Thomas screamed, "Robert!"
The blood-soaked execution threw flesh into the fire. Again, the man bent to his task, blood puddling around Thomas as his belly was ripped open. A shriek. Then all was silence.
The executioner walked to the edge of the scaffold and dropped to a knee. "I'm sorry, Your Grace."
"A poor job that he died so fast," King Edward barked. "Do better next time or you'll join them."
The gaoler spat. "They're done.
The knot of nobles parted and the king passed through them. Numb, Lamberton let the gaoler drag him into the darkness. He didn't remember the man unfastening the shackles, but they were gone. A shove landed him into the corner of his dungeon. The door crashed closed.
He lay in a shuddering heap where he'd landed, sucking in gulps of air. At last, he rolled onto his back. He moaned at the pain that shot through the torn shoulder, but it must be born. Inching his hands up the slimy wall, he crawled onto his knees. He leaned his head against one of the rough stones and shuddered. God in heaven, how could even Edward be so cruel?
"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum--"
He never knew how long he had prayed or even all that he had said, but at last, calmness washed over him. Holding his throbbing arm to his chest, he climbed to his feet.
He stumbled to the cot and sat down. The bowl of gruel still sat where he'd left it. Sticking the spoon into it, he gave the cold mess a stir and then put some in his mouth. He choked it down. For a moment, his stomach rebelled. He leaned forward, hand over his mouth. It burned, surging back into his throat. He forced it down and waited until he could manage another bite. Then another.
Edward Longshanks would not destroy him.
* * *
The next day was another long walk. James and Wat passed nothing that looked likely for getting more food. They made do at noonday with another bannock cooked beside the road. As they started to leave, James heard the clank of harness. He held up a hand. A horse whinnied. They might have hidden, but they were just two men-at-arms being sent for reinforcements. Hiding would look suspicious.
Six riders crested the rise in the road, jingling towards them. Six all in chainmail. One was a knight in a shining breastplate with a blue lion rampant on a shield that hung from his saddle. Percy’s men this far east? James's face closed.
"Ho." The knight called as he reined in, his big charger stamping and snorting as they drew up. "Just who are you two?"
Horses long away from their stable in need of grooming. That shield had a splatter of blood on it. James bowed and kept his eyes down. The bishop had always said his eyes showed too much. "Sir, I'm Jim. My lord ordered us to Castle Douglas."
"Scruffy looking pair. Two men-at-arms the best Lord Clifford can do?"
Douglas scratched his beard. "Been on the road awhile, sir. Don't know about my lord. Just do what I'm told like."
The knight nudged the horse closer to them. James examined the animal's hair fetlocks. Keep still, he told himself, and don't reach for your sword. "I'll let you go then. Don't want to interfere with his lordship. We've cleared the Scots from the area. Orders to make sure they don't try rising for King Hob." A couple of the men laughed.
"Ah. King Hob. Yes." James chewed that over, but there was too much wrong with it to think on whilst the knight was sneering down at him.
The man spat at his feet. "Dumb as dirt. Bloody Scots." He jammed his heels into the horse's flanks and cantered away, the others following after.
James waited until they were out of sight beyond a bend in the road. "Let's go. I'd as soon not meet up with them again. There wasn't a word of that I liked the sound of."
"Mayhap we should leave the road--James."
James licked at his sore lip. "No. I need to see what they meant about clearing the Scots."
So they started northeast again on the rutted road. Where were the travelers? Merchants? People on their way to market? They kept trudging. Once in the middle of a dark stand of pine, they came face-to-face with two men laboring to pull a cart of firewood. As soon as the men saw them, they dropped it, backing away. Then the two turned and ran. James looked after them and Wat made a sound in his throat.
"Dead frightened," he said.
It was a long day's walk. They passed under the limbs of a dense stand of oaks, the ground littered with brown leaves and rotted acorns. Through the trunks, James saw a village or the smoke that rose from it. There was something wrong with that, rising in a thick column. Not wisps from a chimney.
It was the first village they had approached since leaving the king's hiding place. James skirted it to the right whilst he sent Wat the other way to make sure no one lurked in what was left. Sliding in and out amongst the beeches and oaks, sword in hand, he startled a hind that leapt away and bound through the gorse. James watched after it for a moment. Wat waved to him, so he turned and went in. No one was in the village but they hadn't been gone long. Three of the houses were still smoldering, their roofs fallen in, a column of smoke drifting in the breeze. The air was thick with the stench of smoke and death.
The huge oak in the middle of the village was full of bodies. The crows had started on them, and one flew away, squawking when James neared. Flies buzzed in a dense black cloud. Rope cut deep into the swollen flesh of their throats. They twisted and turned as the air stirred. In front of one of the cottages, a dog growled over a man's sprawled body, his belly ripped open. A string of gut hung from its mouth.
Wat shouted a curse at it and it ran.
"Nine." James spat a mouthful of bile on the ground and cleared his throat. "Surely that wasn't the whole village. No children. Thanks be to God."
Wat turned in a circle, scanning. "Some must have run--gotten away."
James plunged his hands into his hair. Madness. "What sense does this make? These weren't fighters."
Wat squatted, looking up at the bodies that swayed in the breeze. "Do you know why your father surrendered Berwick Castle?"
James started to say because they were under siege, but then he thought about it. He remembered standing on the walls as people were cut down--thousands of them--in the city outwith the castle. The screams had gone on until he had thought they would never stop. But it had been worse when they did.
"He could have held the castle longer, couldn't he? He could have held it a lot longer." James had never thought of that before.
Wat nodded. "Now mind, I'm not saying Longshanks wouldn't have taken it, and that played into the thing. He bargained himself to save the garrison. But some will tell you that this--" he motioned to the bodies "will only work on womenfolk. Don't you believe it. Any men still alive will think hard before they risk their village and family rising against the Sassenach."
"I suppose. But there's the other side too, Wat. They'll never forgive it. So if we can show we can win, then they'll rise. They'll follow the king."
"Well, now, showing that will take some doing." Wat scratched the back of his neck. "Are these your Douglasdale people?"
"I don't remember this village, but, yes, we're in Douglasdale. But why here? Where there's been no fighting?"
Wat shrugged.
&nb
sp; James crossed his arms over his chest tucking his hands into his armpits. He wouldn't shame himself by Wat seeing his hands shake. "We can cut them down. But we have no way to bury them." James nodded towards a stone kirk at the side of the village, still whole and unburned. "Take them to the kirk?"
"Do we have time for burying, James?"
"No, but I can't leave them for the crows and the dogs. These are my own people. It's up to me to care for them." He gritted his teeth to steady himself and strode towards it. He came to a halt when he got to the front. The man nailed spread-eagle to the door of the building wore a priest's robe.
"Mother of God." Blood had dribbled down the wood from his hands and his feet.
"Wat," he shouted and ran to lift the priest's head. "He still lives."
Wat loped towards him and then broke into a run. "How do we get him down?"
"God damn them." James pulled out his dirk and began trying to lever out one of the spikes driven through the priest's hand. "See if you can find something better to use. I'll do what I can." He cursed. The spike held against the thin blade.
After what must have only been a few minutes but had seemed like days, Wat ran back with a thin bar. "He has a bothy in back." He went to work on the other hand. By the time James pulled on the one spike, Wat was pulling out the one driven through the priest's feet. James grabbed him around the chest, and they lowered him to the ground as blood dripped to sink into the dirt. The man moaned. James realized that his hands were shaking as he grabbed off his cloak. He used it to cover the priest.
Telling Wat to go cut down the corpses, James lifted the priest gently. He carried the man around back to kick open the door to the hut, leaving drops of blood in the dirt.
The place held nothing more than a cot and table. James settled the priest under a blanket. Wat was right, for a certainty, that they had no time for burying, and they couldn't give rites as should be. But they could lay the bodies safely in the kirk. The question was how badly was this priest hurt? Some of his villagers would creep back when they thought it safe. James grabbed the table and dragged it closer. There was a flagon of water. He filled a wooden cup that sat there. He looked at the wounds, bleeding but not so bad that the priest was like to bleed to death. Wound rot and fever was more a problem. Using his dirk, James cut strips from the bed covering. He wrapped them tightly around the bloody holes.