by J. R. Tomlin
Long and faint, a trumpet's call drifted from out of sight. James cursed. “Grab those sumpter horses,” James ordered. “We need the supplies. We'll not wait for company from the castle. Parties of two. A single pack mount with each party.”
The men scrambled for their mounts, grabbing the reins of the sumpter horses as they ran. James scowled as he looked his men over. Hew pulled Richert from under the body of a horse. His gashed arm from a shattering pike dripped red through Richert's grasping fingers. Were there no other wounded? They'd been well in luck. It would take the forces from Bothwell Castle a few minutes to mount and reach his spot, but not many. Wat chivvied the men to gather the pikes and lash them to horses.
“Richert, with me.” James nudged his horse and leant to snatch the reins of a skittering horse. He jumped down and hoisted the man to his feet and into the saddle.
The English knight on the ground was cursing under his breath as he cushioned an arm against his chest. James gave him a hard look, but he was no danger. James picked up the dropped sword before he leapt into his saddle. He thrust the sword into a pack on one of the sumpter horses and grabbed up its lead.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Hurry,” James yelled. “Make sure you've lost them before you head for camp.”
James sat on his horse, unmoving. He waited as his men threw themselves on their mounts. He took a deep breath to yell for them to hurry, but they were already moving. They melted into the forest. In three heartbeats, the road was empty of his men.
Blood dripped from Richert's hand. “Stay ahorse,” James said. At Richert's nod, James kicked his horse and plunged into the forest. Shouts and the sound of hoof beats followed from the road.
The trees were widely spaced here away from the true forest. The true edge of Ettrick Forest lay a two-hour ride ahead to the south and east. Their horses' hooves made no sound in the thick leaves underfoot. James frowned at the clank of his harness and armor. He'd cut their escape close.
He glanced over his shoulder. Richert swayed in the saddle, his freckles bright splotches in a white face, his ginger hair dripping with sweat. They needed space from their pursuers.
“Keep close,” James said and clapped his heels to the horse's flanks. He plunged to a gallop. Behind a voice shouted, “Get them.” Trees whipped by as he wove his way between the trunks, ducking limbs that slashed at his face. He spared a look to Richert who hung on with a desperate scowl.
It was impossible not to leave signs of their passing and drops of Richert's blood provided a sparse but clear trail. Somewhere ahead was a small burn, he knew. The rocky waterbed would hide their passage if they could reach it. Far to the left, there was another shout. Some of the pursuit must have split off to chase other of his men.
Ahead, water gurgled its way over a rocky course. The little burn might buy them some time. James plunged down the little slope and pulled up, water splashing around his horse's fetlocks. Sunlight dappled the waves as they rushed over the rocks.
Richert pulled up beside him and bent. He retched, spewing a thin stream of yellow bile. His horse snorted, dancing. James grasped his arm. “You've got to hold on.” He took Richert's reins out of his hands. “Hold onto your saddlebow. I'll lead you.” James shook his head. He looped the sumpter horse's lead around its neck as it blew through its nose. This would cost, but it couldn't be helped. He turned it and slapped its hindquarters hard. “Ha!” The animal snorted, dancing. He slapped its flank again and clattered up the opposite side and away at a run.
He tugged on Richert's reins and followed the middle of the burn. The shallow water foamed, splashing up the horse's legs.
“I'm all right,” Richert muttered.
“Aye, you're a braw man. Soon we can stop, and I'll tie that wound up for you.” James urged the horses to a fast canter. The sound of the water covered the clop of their horses’ hooves. Blood soaked in dribbles into the coat of Richert's horse, but perhaps not so much it would kill him. James hoped. The trees began to grow close to the edge of the burn and closer together. Branches formed a thick canopy.
James kneed his horse and led Richert up the little slope. The dense shade of the trees was crisp and fragrant of pine. He slid off his mount. “Let me look at that arm.”
Richert grasped looked at him, eyes dull. “Not sure I can get down.”
James twitched a slight smile. “Fall sideways. I'll catch you.”
With a groan, Richert shoved himself out of the saddle, kicking his feet free of the stirrups. James caught him around the chest and lowered him to the ground. It took a moment rustling through Richert's saddlebag to find linen bandages. James slit Richert's leather jerkin, and wrapped the gash, pulling the strip tight. The man hissed a breath through his teeth, lips going even whiter. At least the bleeding had slowed whilst they rode.
James took his water bag from his saddle and knelt. He propped Richert up to give him a drink. “Rest for a minute, before we move on.” If he could get far enough from their pursuers, he'd consider resting until the morrow. They still had a long ride to their camp in the depth of the Forest.
A snort from a horse brought James's head up with a jerk. He put a hand to Richert to shoulder. The man nodded, wide eyes, and James stood. For a moment, all he heard was the rush of blood in his ears. Leather creaked. There was a rattle of tack.
James pulled out his dirk. He pressed his back to a rough trunk in the dark shade of the close grown trees. One of his own mayhap? He eased around the tree and darted to the next in the direction of the sound. A horse stamped. Tack clattered. James peered around the huge trunk.
An English knight, back turned, looped his reins of his big roan destrier around the branch of a deadfall pine. He pulled off his helm, dropped it to the ground at his feet, and muttered something under his breath in obvious disgust. He kicked a branch.
Lost? It didn't matter.
James lunged. The man grunted and started to turn. James grabbed his chin. Jerked it back. Slammed his dirk's point into the man's throat and ripped. A gurgle. Blood gushed, warm and sticky over his hand and up his arm. A hand tugged feebly at his arm. He kicked. James held on until the man went still and shoved the body away with a gust of a sigh. Rolled the corpse over with his foot. Dead eyes stared up at the canopy of leaves. Gray streaked hair draggled into a puddle of blood. He was old enough to be someone's father. Too bad his King hadn't let him stay home where he belonged.
James wiped his blade on the man's surcoat. He chewed his nether lip and frowned at the knight's mount. Shame to leave it, but it was hard too hard to sell a destrier. Time to ride.
He led Richert, bent over his horse’s withers and swaying in the saddle, toward the forest of thick pines, under a heavy canopy of branches that turned daylight to murk. He kept to unmarked trails or no trails at all. He stopped twice more, but only briefly, watering the horses and re-bandaging Richert's wound before moving on at a slow, steady pace. The man grasped his saddlebow, swaying in his saddle, face twisted. Dusk fell. The uneven ground became dangerous even for their sure-footed beasts when James spotted a spot sheltered by a couple of deadfalls.
Silently, James dismounted, scanning the shadowy shapes of the trees around them. There was barely room in the nook to hobble the animals and make a cold camp.
Richert slid from the saddle and collapsed onto his knees. James wrapped the man in both their cloaks and held his water bag to his mouth.
Richert shoved the water bag away. “You should let me make my own way.”
“Get some sleep. We're riding at day break.” James loosened the saddle girths, pulled off the saddles, and ran a cloth over the horse's coats.
He dropped a leather-wrapped pack beside Richert and sat down. There was a little dark yellow cheese, a bit dried but still edible. Using his dirk, James cut into slices. Richert managed a few bites before he drifted into sleep. James rested his back against the weathered trunk of one of the fallen giants and closed his eyes in a light doze.
Richert was stead
ier when they mounted and rode in the first light of dawn. Two hours later, a hawk's cry shrilled, sharp through the morning birdcalls. James pursed his lips and answered. The day warmed and another hawk called to him. He answered once more and through the boles of the thick grown trees was the edge of their camp.
It was a transient one, consisting of cowhides stretched over rough wooden frames, crude tents erected under the shelter of trees. A hart was roasting over the single fire pit in the middle of the clearing. Someone shouted, and his men gathered to greet their returning leader.
CHAPTER SIX
Two months later
James settled onto the floor, cross-legged, and leant back against the warm stones of the hearth. He closed his eye for a moment as his muscles unknotted, relaxing. He took a deep breath of the scent of pine fire and bread baking on the hearthstone.
Alycie took his hand and pressed a cup into it. “You're deathly weary.”
He opened his eyes and she was kneeling beside him. “Weary enough, lass.”
Wat groaned. “Your pardon, my lord. My bones are too old for floors.” He hooked a stool, shoved it close into the yellow light of the fire, and thumped his bottom onto it.
James twitched the corner of his mouth into a half-grin. “Sit where you please, Wat, as long as I don't have to climb onto a horse tonight.”
“Aye, but we've done right well.” Wat knocked back a goodly swallow of the fiery uisge beatha. “Lost only two men, a handful hurt and cut off supplies to every castle near the Forest. A good season's work.”
Will accepted a cup from his sister. “The problem is that it's stirred them like an angry bee hive. We've been stung.”
James sipped at the liquor in his cup. It eased its way down with welcome warmth. Alycie sat beside him and nestled close. He hooked his arm around her waist and settled her in the crook of his elbow. “How badly?”
She shuddered. “Young Copin. He had a dirk hidden.”
James tangled his fingers into her hair, stroking softly.
Will cleared his throat roughly. “They found it on him and dragged him to the castle. He died from the hanging before they could gut him. Head's still over the gate.”
James traced a finger down the long muscle of her neck as she pressed her face into his shoulder. “What about this new commander at the castle?”
There was a quick triple knock on the door. Will stood up and opened it a crack so that Iain Smythe could slip in. The man gave a half-bob in James's direction, bushy auburn hair half covering his forehead, bare arms dotted with scars from his forge. “My lord.” He squatted, his heavily muscled shoulders resting against the wall. “I'm working the steel you brought as fast as I can, but it's nae easy to keep the Sassenach from catching on. They're watching us close.”
“Do the best you can.” James raised an eyebrow at Will. “This commander of theirs?”
Will drew his blond brows into a frown. “Sir John Webton by name. I've only seen him from a distance, but he's had his men out. Searching for weapons. Searching for you. For anyone helping you. Grabbing every mite of supplies they can lay hands on. Left us curst short on food and all.”
“I'll have to try for the castle again. What the King has done, I'm not sure, but I've not taken even one castle. As long as they hold those, they hold Scotland.”
Will scrapped a stool across the floor to join them, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Did King Robert mean you to take them?” He shook his head. “They say that's a nasty business, besieging castles.”
James closed his eyes again, stroking the silken length of Alycie's braid. “Sieges, no. Any we take must be in secret.” He laid a kiss on the top of her head.
Alycie squawked softly and jumped to her feet. “My bannocks.” She clambered over James's legs to kneel in front of the round hearth and grab a wooden peel from beside it. She shoved it under a round of the oaten bread to plop it onto a tray. A second and third followed. She slid her gaze to James with a wry twist of her lips. “You make me forget my chores. That's not good of you, Sir James.”
James's stomach grumbled. “At least I brought bags of oats with me. Don't complain, lass.”
She picked up the tray and carried it to the table.
The smith rubbed his mouth, looking hungrily at the oaten bannocks. “We need the supplies, my lord. No one has starved yet, but stomachs are lean.”
Alycie wielded a large knife to cut the loaves into quarters. “You eat enough for two men anyway, Iain.” But she held out a wedge of the steaming bread as Will sliced a piece off a circle of yellow cheese. Iain Smythe glanced at James before he took the bannock.
James grinned. “You're even bigger than I am. Go ahead.” He got his feet under him and went to the table to pick up one of the bannocks. He broke off a piece and chewed it, frowning as he pondered the problem of food for the village.
“Copin didn't ride with me. Too young, but they'll take revenge anywhere they can. And cutting off the English supplies was bound to make them steal more from our people. Not a consequence I wanted, but I fear it cannot be helped. Still...” He took the pungent cheese Will held out and ate it between two pieces of bannock, then washed it down with a drink of the liquor. “Since they're seizing supplies, if we show them something easy to snap up, we can be sure they'll take the bait. And the day after tomorrow is the Lanark fair, so someone taking hay to sell at the fair would be no surprise.”
“Draw them out?” the smith asked. “Like you did with Thirwell?”
“Not exactly. I need to move my men closer to Douglas Castle so we can take it. When I take it, I'll make sure no English hold it again. That I promise you. One castle. A start.”
The smith crammed a hunk of bannock in his mouth. He nodded, apparently ready to take James's word for it. With a long-limbed step, James reached the door and cracked it. He pursed his lips and a loud shree split the air. After a moment, he did it again.
Running footsteps thudded and a low voice asked, "Aye, sir?"
“Send Gelleys for the men. I want them outwith the village by daybreak.” The lad took a step back, but James held up a hand to halt him. “We'll need hay. Wat should bring fourteen bags of it.” He closed the door as the young man pelted into the darkness. Smiling slightly, James picked up another piece of bannock. “Nothing wrong with your chores, hen. Best bannock I've tasted in many a day.”
She tilted her chin up. “I should hope so. As though you men can bake as well as I do.”
He put an arm around her shoulder to give her a squeeze. When he held the chunk of bannock to her lips, she nibbled at it. “I don't think the Sassenach will be watching you too closely after tomorrow,” he said.
Iain Smythe grabbed another hunk of bannock and turned for the door. “That'll be a right relief, my lord.”
Will cut off two more slices of cheese. He smiled at James and followed the smith to the door. “I'd take it kindly if you'd leave a bite of bannock for breaking my fast on the morrow.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The scent of the early morning air was damp and green in the dawn light that filtered through the giant oaks. James squinted as he hoisted a bag of hay and looped its rope across the horse's saddle to the bag on the other side. The animal snorted and tossed its head. He patted its neck before he looped the rope around itself so that a tug on one end would release both bags.
The horse stamped and snorted again. It snapped at his arm. James laughed as he jerked back. “Easy, boy. It's only this once.”
Wat strode up, sword in his hand, and tried a cut. “Would be better if I led them and you brought up the reinforcements.”
James couldn't make out Wat's features in the shadows, but he could hear the scowl.
“No. This is how we'll do it.”
“You get yourself killed and we're crow's bait.”
James shrugged. “I won't. You move the men into position in the trees. You'll be beside us soon enough.”
Wat sheathed his sword. “As you say.”
J
ames tossed him his reins and walked along the line of men and horses. He patted Gelleys's shoulder as he checked the knot to be sure it would release. Hew was still fiddling with the rope, muttering curses under his breath, so James showed him again how the hitch knot worked. When he saw that the fourteen men who would bait the English out were ready, he narrowed his eyes and strained into the dimness. A hundred men were astride shaggy mounts, lightly armored with steel helms and leather, metal reinforced baldrics. They massed like a hand ready to slap. James saw his blue standard unfurl as one of his men shook it out.
James turned and walked back to Watt awaiting him. “See that they charge on my battle cry.” He jammed his hands on his hips and scowled. “Where is that tunic?” he barked. Wat handed it to him. James held it up. “It's not ripped down the side. How do you expect me to free my sword?”
He flapped into the rough woolen garment over his chain-mail hauberk. It came to mid-calf. He waived away the rope belt. “Give me your dirk,” he said and ripped the side to the hem. He whipped out his sword, sheathed it, and whipped it out again.
He handed the dirk back to Wat who stuck it into his belt. “If I die, you can nag at me then.”
“What good will that do?”
“You'll feel better.”
“I'll be dead, too.”
“Then I'd best not get killed.” James whipped out his sword again, saluted Wat, and yelled, “Let's move.” He motioned ahead with the sword.
He picked up the horse's reins. The animal gave another snort and toss of its mane as they set off. Hooves plodded softly on the dirt road. They emerged out from under the heavy branches at the edge of Ettrick Forest. Pale golden waves of dawn washed up the eastern sky. Overhead the sky was still a dusty gray and a sprinkling of stars strained to hold out against the light. Wisps of fog crept along the ground, playing a game of hide and seek with the road.