Noble Traitor, page 4
“Nae. It is a heathen thing to do. Forbye why would you kill hostages you can trade for ransom or for your own who are captives?” Kirkpatrick grimaced. “If King Edward leaves any alive to trade for.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“That I am nae sure. I am better at fighting than planning, so I have nae part in the council.” He thrust his chin at a door at the back of the dais. “They will be making plans. I can tell you that we dinnae have enough men to fight Pembroke. The King will have to summon his brothers and all the followers they can gather. Then I suppose it depends on where Pembroke goes next. And it depends on what the Comyn does.”
The next day they rode out from Kildrummy Castle, leaving behind the Queen and the other women and Nigel de Bruce in command of its defense. They traveled north, riding over roads dusty in the summer sun. The braes were still covered in swathes heather starred with yarrow and gorse, the fields golden with grain awaiting harvest, and in the pastures, shearers bent over sheep bleating and cut off the blanket-like fleece. With only brief stops, they hurried through the King’s lordship of Garioch. Crowds cheered at Inverurie, where another two hundred spears joined them.
They rode to the Earl of Atholl’s ancient Strathbogie Castle, and the earl sent out commands for his levies to join them. Alex and Edward de Bruce arrived with a thousand troops from south of the Forth and brought with them more bad news. Pembroke had taken Bishop Wishart prisoner, captured Cupar Castle, and come gone north they believed intending to take the walled city of Perth. Moreover, the Prince of Wales was leading a much larger army advancing from London.
In the vaulted great hall, Thomas listened, biting his nails, to a long and noisy debate between the King and his closest advisors. Grimly, the Bruce announced that there was no choice but to turn south and bring Pembroke to battle before he had a chance to take even more castles and before the prince’s army joined him. Such a huge force might be undefeatable. The next day they turned toward Perth.
Chapter 5
June 19, 1306 Perth, Scotland
A hot June afternoon sun battered down, the air muggy, and sweat rolled down Thomas’s face. The fields outside the walls of Perth were empty. Golden plants, ready for the harvest, waved in the wind, but no laborers were in sight. Christopher Seton’s scouts had reported seeing men with scythes whilst sheep were being driven to graze in the Lower Inch. By the time they reached the burgh, all had long since fled.
The gates were closed, and archers paced atop the thick high walls. Thomas licked his lips and tried to slow the rush of his heartbeat.
The King, astride his massive stallion, commanded the four thousand men to spread out with the blue of the River Tay on their left and the marshes of the River Almond on their right. He sat with the other hundred knights at the front of their force, the closed gate before them. Thomas shifted in his saddle. He wanted to ask if Kirkpatrick what Scots he thought had joined de Valence, but he feared the answer.
“Sound a salute,” the King commanded the trumpeters. They gave a brazen blare.
As they waited for a response from the burgh, Thomas eyed the banners flowing above the walls, the three leopards of England, the blue and white stripes of Aymer de Valence’s banner, and England’s banner of Saint George as well.
“Do you think he will come out to fight?” Edward de Bruce asked the King.
“He is a proud man. Proud of his honor and his prowess in battle, especially. I have never heard of his holding back in the face of an enemy. And we dinnae have the siege machines to bring down the walls. Challenging him is our best chance.”
“Could we starve them out?” asked James of Douglas.
“Nae, lad,” Robert Boyd said. “They would just bring food in on the River Tay. And Prince Edward’s army would attack to relieve them and crush us in the doing.”
Thomas was glad that Douglas had asked, so he didn’t embarrass himself with the question. But there had few sieges in Scotland since he was grown, none he had witnessed. He had much to learn.
There was a bustle of movement at the gate. King Robert waved forward his herald under the royal banner. When the herald was close to the gates, he shouted, “Robert, King of Scots, makes you challenge. Come out and put your right to the test. King Robert will meet the Earl of Pembroke in single combat or meet him and his men in battle. Fight or surrender his royal burgh.”
There was a long pause. Thomas’s heart hammered so hard he wondered if the others could hear it.
Finally, a loud voice called down, “The day is too far spent to enter battle. Return on the morrow, and I shall meet you at the head of my men.”
The King exchanged a look with Christopher Seton, eyebrows raised, and ordered the serjeants to send patrols on all the roads into Perth. As afternoon shadows lengthened, he led them west to a wooded ridge above the banks of the River Almond. The light of the afternoon was fading as they rode under the elegant, upright ash trees. The crowns of the trees thick with leaves grew together overhead, shutting out most of the red sunset.
The shade gave welcome relief from the summer heat. He pulled up his courser and dismounted. He listened as Christopher Seton called out names of men to act as sentries, but he was not one of them. A fallen tree trunk was overgrown with brambles surrounded by tufts of dried grass. He tied the reins to a branch and breathed in the earthy scent of damp earth and old fallen leaves.
In between the trees, men and horses passed by. Fires sputtered into life, and sparks drifted on the breeze. Hundreds of voices murmured as men stripped off their armor, amid the creak of horses’ harness, the whicker of horses. Someone laughed. Men grumbled. Someone sang a bawdy tavern song. His horse was dining on the meager patches of grass, and Thomas could hear the scrunch and then the faint clink of the bridle as it ate. Past some trees, King dismounted as Scrymgeour planted the Lion Rampant on its tall pole.
With a deep sigh, Thomas pulled off his helm, an evening breeze ruffling his sweaty hair.
“Och, feels good.” a gruff voice said behind him.
Thomas flinched, hand dropping to his hilt. Then he grimaced, hoping that in the dim light that Roger Kirkpatrick had not seen his start. He turned. “Aye.” He squatted and set his helm on the ground. “Do you think it is all right if we take off our armor whilst we rest?”
Kirkpatrick had his helm tucked under his arm and removed his gauntlets. “I’ll tell you, lad, I dinnae like to do so, but we need to rest to be fit for a fight on the morrow.”
Speaking of the coming fight made his pulse racing, but Thomas took a deep breath. “I can break some branches from that downed tree. Will you share a fire with me?”
“That I will, lad.” Kirkpatrick unbuckled his sword belt and hunkered down to drag a piece of wood over to use as a seat. “A pity we didnae have time to do a little hunting with our supplies running low. These woods must be full of small game. But I have some dried meat in my saddlebags.”
As Thomas piled some brown bracken and used his flint and steel to set it alight, he asked, “Did you ride with the King?” He frowned at the little flame that was sending up a tendril of smoke. “I mean before. Did you ride with him and when he fought with Wallace?”
“I did. The King is a braw fighter, the best with a sword or an axe I have ever seen. There is no man better to lead us. I promise you that.” He dragged his chain-mail hauberk over his head and laid it across a small bush beside his gauntlets and sword belt. “Your first battle.” His voice sounded considering. “All the practice in the world does nae prepare you for it.”
Thomas pushed a few branches into the flames. “I killed a man in a fight when we took Ayr Castle.” He was ashamed to tell the older knight that afterward, he had feared he might throw up. “I had better unsaddle my horse. He needs rest for the morrow too. And I have a couple of apples in my bag.”
The night was rapidly falling, but Thomas could see the gleam of the fire reflected in Kirkpatrick’s eyes. “Go ahead. I’ll build up the fire, and we’ll share what we have.”
Thomas unloosed a canvas bag from the front of his saddle. He pulled out two withered apples and turned to toss one to Kirkpatrick. He froze at the sound of a trumpet.
“Enemies! To arms!” a sentry cried out somewhere in the darkness. “They’re upon us!”
Shouts wrapped through the trees. Someone yelled, “Where? Where are they?”
Thomas dropped the bag and jerked his reins free. He spun toward the fire, trying desperately to recall where he had laid his helm.
Trumpets shrilled and shrilled again. He heard crashing of men through the underbrush and thousands of hoofbeats, so many the ground trembled beneath his feet. Kirkpatrick was struggling into his hauberk, cursing.
Christopher Seton shouted, “To arms! To arms!”
Edward de Bruce’s loud voice bellowed a wordless war cry and then, “Form up!” The air filled with yelling and screams. In the darkness, men were closing in from all sides. There was no time for his helm, he must fight without it. He swung into the saddle, drew his sword, and wheeled his horse around.
All around in the murk was the sound of crashing steel, shattering lances, and snorting, galloping horses. “I have him!” a voice shouted but then a scream of pain.
A horse trumpeted in rage.
The King yelled, “To me! To me!” In the confusion, Thomas turned in every direction. On his left, his uncle stood beside his downed horse and swung his blade in tremendous sweeps to keep back an English knight circling him like a hawk after a hare. Seton came from the darkness. His courser reared, lashing out with iron-shod hooves that slashed the King’s attacker.
Then a man ran at Thomas, hands grabbing at his reins, and he was too busy to look. He rode the man down, cutting at another who leapt out of the way. Roger Kirkpatrick bellowed a wordless shout as he hacked at men who surrounded him. Thomas rode to him, bringing his sword down on one attacker’s helm with a blow that jolted him to the shoulder. Kirkpatrick cut down another, giving himself a little space, but a knight rode at him, lance couched. Kirkpatrick tried to dodge, but the knight followed his movement. The lance took him in the belly. It went clear through him.
“No!” Thomas shouted.
The knight jerked on his lance, but it stuck in Kirkpatrick’s fallen body. He tossed it down and grabbed for his sword.
Thomas put his heels to his horse’s flanks, urged it to a gallop, and rode at him. His opponent, tall and spare, caught the blow on his shield and aimed a swipe at Thomas’s head. He knocked it aside and circled around him, looking for an opening.
In the dark, his horse’s leg tangled in the fallen branches. It crashed forward onto its knees, its head almost to the ground. The stumble threw Thomas forward, and he flew out of the saddle like a catapult shot, hitting the ground flat on his back with a crash. He lay, limp and numb, the trees wavering as though they were under water. He blinked, and his sight cleared to see the dark shape of the knight bending over in his saddle.
Thomas groaned, shoving with his elbows to rise, but they were too limp to work.
Someone kicked his head and said, “He’s only stunned. Should I finish him?”
Sparks flew in the blackness that crept around the edge of his vision like an engulfing fog.
“No, the earl will send him to hang with the rest of the prisoners, but that horse of his and his armor are fine prizes. Hand me the reins.”
The man-at-arms kicked his head again. Thomas’s vision grew darker as the foot drew back again. In his muzzy brain, it took a long time as it came toward him until it was all he could see. The foot slammed into Thomas’s face, and darkness swallowed him.
Chapter 6
Hearing came back first. One moment strange, distorted dreams filled his head. The next, he lay in still darkness with every sound clear and distinct.
A man said, “Strip his armor. It is mine for his capture.” The voice left, but other sounds went on, the clank of armor, the murmur of distant voices, someone groaning, the whicker of horses. He listened without caring what the sounds were.
After a while, he knew he lay on his back on the ground, sharp rocks digging into his back. Sick. Stiff, aching. He wondered where he was. He wondered how he got there. Why was he on the ground? He could feel his linen gambeson against his skin. But no armor. He drifted into darkness again.
The next time he awoke, he opened his eyes, the heaviness had gone though they were swollen half shut. He was on the ground with morning sunlight beaming down, and Lord Gordon hunkered at his side. “…beg you, My Lord. He is only a lad.” His words seemed strange until Thomas realized he spoke French. Of course. The English knights and nobles all spoke French, and Gordon was talking to one of them.
He struggled to sit up and realized his hands and feet were bound.
“My command from the King is that I am to send all rebels for execution.”
“His uncle lied to us both about why they wanted him. In God's mercy, I beg that you not execute him for his uncle’s crime.”
Above them towered a tall man with fair hair to his shoulders. He had thin features, a smooth-shaven chin, and wore gleaming armor and a tabard with the easily recognized arms of Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke. He glowered down so hard that Thomas felt himself color. “I like executing youths no more than you do.” Pembroke sighed. “If you swear to me it was not of his will, that they forced him to ride with the Bruce, I shall spare him. Because he served unwillingly… I must do my best to justify sparing him to the King.”
“I swear it, My Lord!”
“Then I give him to you to keep in close ward at Inverkip Castle. He is not under any conditions to be released.” Pembroke thrust a forefinger at Lord Gordon. “Under no circumstances.”
“Thank you. We will keep him in close ward as you command.” Gordon put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Before, he served me well as a squire. If they gave him a chance to redeem himself in King Edward’s service—”
“I am interpreting the King’s command… generously. Because you gave me your oath. Beyond that, we must wait to hear if the King agrees with my decision.” De Valence turned his back and strode away.
Because he served unwillingly… Then who would they execute? He managed to raise himself onto an elbow before he spewed up burning bile. He brought his tied hands up to wipe his mouth.
Beyond Lord Gordon, guards jerked Simon Fraser, his hair blood-caked and stripped of his armor, to his feet. He was tied next in line with scores of other prisoners to be led away. Alexander Scrymgeour was being held upright by another prisoner. Thomas shook his head slowly back and forth in denial. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.
At last, he croaked out, “Did any escape?”
“Aye. The Bruce managed to escape. He was unhorsed three times and still fought his way free. Few can ever best him in a hand-to-hand fight, hell mend the man!”
“The others? How many…?”
“He led an escape with his brothers and a few hundred of his followers.” Gordon gripped Thomas’s shoulder hard, and his voice was bitter. “They are taking the captured to Newcastle to hang. Including my own goodbrother. I telt the earl that Alex lied to us to convince you to go with him. You heard him agree that if you had nae joined willingly that he would let you live. He does so at some risk interpreting the King’s command thus. So, lad, say nothing—Nothing!—that would put that to the lie. For the sake of all our lives.”
Thomas leaned on his elbow, head hanging limp. “I swear before God… I will nae do anything to cause you harm. On my honor.”
There came a new sound—of shovels scraping in the earth. Past Lord Gordon bodies were piled and men labored at digging a long hole.
Chapter 7
Thomas stumbled a step when the guard gave him a shove in the middle of his back and muttered, “Daftie.”
The door slammed shut, and a bar thumped into place. He propped his back against the door and leaned his head against it. The ride back to Inverkip Castle had seemed to last forever, his hands tied, the ropes rubbing his wrists raw, and his head hammering with every beat of the horse’s hooves. He told himself it could have been worse. The four guards, all men he had known long at Inverkip, had done nothing worse than give him hard looks and refuse to speak to him.
Lord Gordon had used the room when he held a felon for trial at the castle, secure at the top of a corner tower. There was a pile of straw and a rough blanket in one corner and a bucket in the opposite. An arrow slit in the rounded outer wall let in a narrow beam of light. He straightened and went to stick his head as far into the opening as he could. It was too narrow to push his head through, but he could see the sky and below the sharp cliff. In the distance, a gannet with its white body and black-tipped wings soared in freedom.
He pushed away from the arrow slit and sank down onto the blanket. He tried for a whilst with japes like “All this luxury, by the saints,” and “King Edward would envy this bed” and “When does the serving wench arrive?” to lighten the situation. They did not help.
He considered as calmly as he could the possibility that they would leave him here to starve, but he discarded the idea. Lord Gordon had not saved him just to kill him. So they would hold him for King Edward’s will, and he could only hope that he was not forgotten here. With one hand on the wall, he limped to the arrow slot. The setting sun spread the western sky with waves of crimson. His stomach rumbled because, during the two-day ride from Methven, they had given him only a few pieces of oat bannock and water when they had stopped to rest the horses. He wondered if they would think to bring him food. He thought about juicy roast capon and crusty fresh baked bread and a rich cup of ale.
At about the time he had begun to wonder if they had indeed forgotten about feeding him, the hatch in the door slid open. William was there, his broad face drawn up into a morose frown. “Thomas.” He shook his head. “Why did you do it?”
