Noble Traitor, page 9
Thomas sat with Hugh, and Geoffrey relit the fire from the previous night. From the stores, Geoffrey fetched some dried meat, a double handful of grain, and a pot to make pottage. Once it was bubbling over the fire, they lounged on the grass, watching the flames.
“We should outnumber them and be better armed,” Hugh said at last. “They have no chance.”
“Mmm…” Thomas plucked a piece of dried moor grass and twirled it between his fingers. They had outnumbered the earl at Methven. It had done them no good.
“Well, of course, they have no chance.”
“I saw King Hob joust once,” Geoffrey said softly. “He was amazing. Defeated everyone he came against. Never saw anyone so good.”
Hugh huffed. “Yes, but riding at the tilt and fighting a battle are not the same thing. I say they have no chance.” He gave the bubbling pot a stir. “Almost done.”
They spoke of it no more, but after everyone slept, amongst snores and sleepy mumbles, Thomas watched clouds racing across the stars and thought that his uncle did indeed have no chance. And in spite of the horror that had been committed at Castle Douglas, he prayed to the Virgin Mary that he would have no hand in his death.
Thomas was pulling his hauberk over his head when Sir Walter came out of his pavilion. His squire ran to and fro carrying orders, and then a trumpet blared. He hurriedly belted on his sword and strode along with the other knights to stand to wait for the knight banneret’s orders. Behind them, the men-at-arms crowded, the muttering of speculation a low, steady rumble of hundreds of voices.
“Quiet!” Sir Walter let his gaze sweep over his men as silence settled. “If King Hob thinks I am going to lead my army through a narrow valley without scouting it first, he is wrong. But I must know where he is.” He pointed to Hugh. “You will lead a patrol, but one strong enough not to be easy prey. But remember, your task is to find him, not to attack. Sir Thomas, and Geoffrey, and Reginald will accompany you and a score of men-at-arms. The rest of the army will be ready to move once you report.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows at Geoffrey. Hugh clapped each of them on the shoulder and gave them a shove. “If we capture King Hob, we will be well rewarded. Let us go!”
Like a beehive kicked over, the camp turned into a swarm of noise and movement. Spears were being handed out, serjeants were shouting, horses were being saddled and led from the horse lines. Sir Walter’s banner hung limp in the still air. He was in the middle of the camp, calling out commands for the men-at-arms to form into a triple column.
Thomas grabbed his great helm with its pointed top where he had left it beside the fire and loped across the camp to saddle his mount. Soon they rode at a fast canter around the foot of Meureg and into the shaded depths of Glen Trool. The track was wide enough to ride three abreast.
Muldonnoch towered dizzyingly above their heads, steep, stony, and bare. The hair on the back of Thomas’s neck constantly prickled as though they were being watched. But look up and back over his shoulder as he might, there was no sign of watchers.
The path narrowed until they could only go two abreast. Their horses’ hooves clattered on the stony ground. Riding beside Thomas, Geoffrey leaned to peer over the other side, down at the loch’s edge, at least twenty feet below. He jerked back and turned to Thomas, his eyebrows high. A misstep would be deadly.
The track turned to the south, and Hugh called out, “Halt!” He pointed ahead.
On the west side of the loch beneath heavily wooded slopes was a camp. Campfires sent up tendrils of smoke. A banner flew over the tents, limp in the still air but yellow and red, but too far to make out the device. Thomas could see men moving about. He sucked in his breath. Did they not know after all that the English were nearby?
Hugh commanded two of the men-at-arms to return to Pembroke with all speed. Their quarry was within sight. Once the messengers had galloped away, he dismounted and walked to the edge of the precipice. Thomas joined him and shielded his eyes with his hand to try better to make out the camp. Hugh did the same, muttering under his breath.
“Can you make out how many?” Thomas asked.
“No. There are only fifty tents, but probably most of the Bruce’s men have not had the chance to steal one.” He pointed to the left of the camp to horse lines. “About fifty horses, which seems right. Most of their men will be afoot. It looks like their main camp true enough.” They both remounted. Hugh wheeled his horse and signaled them to follow him back to meet Sir Walter with the main party.
Sir Walter met them, leading his men at the mouth of the glen. Thomas and the others squeezed past them to take a place behind him in the column.
“Is it this narrow all the way?” asked Sir Walter.
Hugh grimaced. “It worsens. But their camp is there on the far side of the lake. I couldn’t count the men. Probably many were asleep or foraging, but they had fifty horses in the horse line. It is clear all through the glen, though. We saw no one.”
Sir Walter snorted and ordered two men to scout ahead one on the path and one on the flank. “Better to be safe.” He raised his arm and signaled the column forward. Behind them, the double-column stretched for a quarter of a mile.
The air was still. There was no noise except the rattle of hooves on the stony ground, clank of horse tack, and the cry of a gannet high overhead. Thomas craned his neck to stare up at the slope. He tried to shake off the feeling that they were being watched. They had seen no one.
“What are you looking at?” Geoffrey asked.
Thomas drew his brows together, his face tightening. “Nothing. But I keep feeling like there is something up there. Or maybe right behind my back.”
“I have felt that way ever since we were at Castle Douglas. At this rate, the day will almost be spent before we reach their camp.”
“And they are sure to see our approach.”
Geoffrey shuddered and tilted his head toward the precipice. “True, but I wouldn’t want to ride this in the dark.”
Thomas glanced up at the sky. They were lucky it was a beautiful spring day. Rain or worse, a spring snow, would have been as bad as riding it in the dark. Mayhap worse. They were halfway through the glen. He loosened his sword and shifted his hold on his lance.
From high on the slope and behind, there came a rumbling. Stones clattered, thudding, and smashing. Horses danced and neighed as they were rained with shards, and then a massive boulder crashed down. Panicked horses reared, riders shouting and fighting to gain control. Another boulder rolled down further back, gaining speed.
A small stone bounced off Thomas’s shield. More small stones showered down, bouncing and skittering. Thomas’s horse jumped to the side, snorting. Thomas patted its neck and dropped his voice, “Easy boy. Easy.” Overhead, a crash made him jolt in his saddle and look up. His horse neighed. A boulder as big as a horse rolled, banging toward them. Sir Walter wheeled and it crashed into him. The horse screamed as they disappeared over the edge of the precipice. The boulder careened, smashing into two other riders.
Thomas circled his mount, heart thundering.
Hugh’s horse reared, eyes rolling, as he fought for control. Another boulder smashed behind Thomas. Smaller rocks followed. He craned his neck. More stones and boulders were thundering down the steep incline. Another horse squealed in pain. Men were shouting. A fist-sized rock hit Geoffrey, denting his helm. He slumped forward, swaying in the saddle and clutching his high pommel.
Which way to go? Dear Mother of God, have mercy.
Thomas reached and grabbed Geoffrey’s reins, looking desperately in every direction. The horse behind him was down, thrashing, its rider’s leg trapped beneath it. In both directions, more rocks crashed around them. Behind most of the horses and riders were down, others galloping back the way they had come. An arrow thunked into the ground in front of Thomas’s horse.
With most of their column behind in pandemonium and fleeing, going forward was no longer a choice.
“Geoffrey!” Thomas shouted. He gave the knight’s horse a slap on the rump. It snorted and took off at a terrified gallop around the downed horses and men. “Where are our scouts?” Then he realized they must have been the first victims of the deadly rockfall.
Hugh jerked his horse under control and drew his sword. He circled his mount, looking no surer what to do any more than Thomas was. Then he bellowed, “Retire! Retire!” Behind them, the rockfall had missed only a handful. “Thomas! Go.”
Another rider screamed as a boulder knocked him over the precipice, horse flailing, into the water below. A rock smashed into Thomas’s left shoulder, nearly knocking him from the saddle. He groaned and gripped frantically with his legs. His horse reared, the sweat of terror flying, and he struggled to control it, hands too busy for drawing a weapon.
“Come,” Hugh said, pointing. They both leaned forward and urged their horses to a fast canter, dodging the bodies that littered the narrow path. For a hundred horse-lengths, only a handful had survived though a few were crawling away from the mangled, bloody chaos. Thomas reached a hand down and boosted one kneeling, dazed man-at-arms up behind him.
Then Thomas realized that the deadly granite rain had stopped. Instead, there was a clatter of shod hooves on stone and from behind of shouts, “On them! On them!” Panting, he let go of the reins with one hand to grab his sword, cursing. He turned his horse to face the attackers as Hugh pulled up beside him.
Groaning, the man-at-arms slid from behind Thomas and fumbled for his sword.
“Go!” Thomas shouted.
It had been a well-laid trap. The attackers had only fifty yards to cover on fast-moving steeds, though they dared not risk their horses at a gallop down such a sharp slope. Brandishing swords and battleaxes, they shouted, “A Bruce! A Bruce!”
Hugh muttered, “Jesu God, help us.” Their own forces were so decimated that they were now outnumbered and at a standstill against a well-armed charge. What was left of the column was in total disorder, terrified horses fighting, in no formation, some trying to retreat and others to rejoin Hugh and Thomas, so they were in a nearly impassable jumble.
Geoffrey and four others spurred forward around the chaos to reach them
All around was madness, desperate fighting;
“Retire!” Hugh screamed to the men behind them. “Retire!”
Then there was no more time. The Bruce’s men swept around them like a flood. Thomas’s shoulder screamed every time he moved, but he looped his reins on the pummel and grasped his sword in a two-handed grip. Standing in his stirrups, he cut down his first assailant with a tremendous right-left hack, but the force making his shoulder burn. He lay about him, fending off another attacker until Hugh came to his aid.
Thomas slashed furiously as two more men-at-arms rode at him. There was only one end to this, and it would not be long coming. His horse reared and stove in one of their heads, saving him. He must act and had only seconds to do it.
“Form on me!” He wheeled and raked his horse’s flanks with his spurs, plunging through a narrow opening in the surrounding Scots. “Form up! Into a wedge!”
Only a wedge gave them any chance of escape. He risked a glance to see Hugh riding tight to his right and half a length back and a man at arms to his left. He hacked one-handed as he urged his horse to a gallop. There ahead, where the press was thinnest—there was a chance to cut their way through. “Ride! Ride!” he shouted. Gathering momentum, they slashed their way, only seven of them. They plunged at a gallop past the opening of the glen.
Thomas’s stomach curdled. Leading a flight from a field of battle and defeated by such means. As bitter as gall. When Geoffrey waved to him, he blew out a breath of relief and kept up his speed. Ahead in a ragtag line were the few who had fled ahead of them.
Panting, Hugh called a halt. Behind them, the enemy was forming for pursuit. “Eastward.” He pointed. “It’s the only way.”
“No,” Thomas said through his clenched jaws. “We must ride through our own camp. They’ll stop to loot it.” The sumpter horses and supplies would be a good prize for the Bruce’s men.
“You’re right.” Hugh turned his horse’s head in that direction and waved them forward.
Soon they caught up with the dozen or so other survivors who had been in the rear and fled first. The men-at-arms left to guard the camp were mounted and ready. They fled eastward through the barren valley.
They would lose horses if they continued at a gallop, so they slowed to a fast walk. Looking back, Thomas breathed a sigh of relief to see he was right. The attackers had lost interest in pursuing the survivors and were looting the camp.
His shoulder grumbled with pain. Most had wounds, but they dared not halt. The shame of having to recount the failure to Lincoln and Pembroke made him cringe inside.
“Two days’ ride to Bothwell,” Hugh muttered.
Thomas grunted. “Longer. Three days. We must stop as soon as we find a good place to camp and tend our wounded and let the horses rest. And no supplies. No food. We will have to forage.” And a bitter draught to drink when they told the earl what had happened.
Chapter 13
Thomas would have gladly stopped for an ale beneath the spreading oak in front of the alehouse they passed, but the red mass of Bothwell castle loomed on a promontory ahead. He sighed. He was hungry, and his shoulder was stiffly sore, aching insistently. At least it was not broken, merely bruised. But then his entire body ached, so it all seemed a piece.
Geoffrey glanced at him and grimaced, eyes blackened from the blow to his head.
The foraging had been scanty, so there had been no reason to tarry, but it still had taken three long days to reach Bothwell. And two more men had died on the way, their bodies tied across their saddles. At least those two would have proper burials.
The rutted dirt road curved through the castle town, daub and wattle cottages that edged runrigs planted with oats and barley and some fenced to contain goats and chickens. Men and women working in the fields looked up to watch uneasily as they rode past.
At the foot of the promontory, they were met by a patrol with the Baron of Clifford’s blue and yellow checky banner fluttering over their heads. The serjeant recognized them and waved them on, so they clattered up the winding road past the tents for the soldiers, too many to be lodged within even so large a castle.
The drawbridge was lowered for them, and they rode into the vast fortress. The bailey was busy, men wielding sword and lance in the practice yard, the hammer of the smith from the smithy, the nicker of horses in the stables, boys sweeping the yard, chickens clucking near the cooking hut. The stablemaster was yelling for grooms to stable the horses.
Thomas slid stiffly from the saddle and rested his head against his horse’s neck until a groom took the reins from him. He exchanged an unenthusiastic glance with Hugh, who shrugged. There were weary groans and creaking leather as the remains of their scouting party dismounted.
“Leave us have done with it.” Hugh nodded toward the round keep that towered ninety feet above them.
Thomas gave a brusque nod and trudged up the stairs up to the door of the keep. As they reached it, it swung open to reveal a pudgy, round-faced man in a good woolen tunic. “Sirs.” He looked flustered. “Who are you seeking?”
An upper servant of the castle Thomas supposed. “Where is Lord Pembroke?”
“He is in his privy chamber with Lord Lincoln. Who is seeking him?”
“Tell him that Sir Hugh of Newent has returned to report,” Hugh said.
Thomas followed Hugh through the entry hall into the vaulted great hall as the man hurried away. Hugh, as the eldest of the remaining knights, had taken command since Sir Walter’s death, and Thomas was only relieved that he did so. Let him have the joy of reporting to Pembroke their disastrous scouting foray. Looking at his feet and trying to find a way to stand that did not pain his shoulder, he muttered, “You may want to stand well back when you tell him this tale.”
Geoffrey huffed a chuckle, but Hugh gave him a stern look. “Pembroke is not a man to lose his temper.”
“If you say so.”
Pembroke stroke furiously into the hall. “What the very devil? Where is Sir Walter?” Immediately behind him came Robert de Clifford, muscular, thirtyish, with uncompromising bones that gave his face a look of toughness and determination.
Hugh stepped forward. “Dead, My Lord. We were ambushed, and—” He cleared his throat. “—it was a rout.”
Pembroke turned a narrow-eyed stare on Thomas. “How did you come to be ambushed?”
“It was not Sir Thomas’s—”
“Leave him speak for himself.”
Thomas licked his lips. Surely he could not be blamed for this debacle. “We camped, and Sir Walter sent out small search parties. We… Geoffrey and I, that is… we caught sight of riders entering Glen Trool. He had Hugh lead a scouting party through the glen.” Hugh nodded, so Thomas continued. “There was no sign of the Bruce’s men, but we spotted a camp past the loch. Sir Walter decided to lead us to attack it.”
“Go on,” prodded Pembroke.
“There is a high, steep hill on one side of the glen, Muldonnoch. When we were all strung out along the narrow path…” He raised his palms. “It was a well-laid trap. They rolled boulders down upon us. Those brought down showers of rocks with them, and our horses went mad with terror. Many plunged into the loch. And we had nowhere to go.”
Hugh gulped and stepped forward. “My Lord, more than half our men were dead from the rockfall before King Hob’s men attacked. I led the scouting of the glen myself. If there was any fault in that, it was mine.”
Thomas made a slashing gesture. “No, Hugh was not at fault. Our orders from Sir Walter were to scout the glen, and that is what we did. We had an outrider partway up Muldonnoch, but we had no reason to scout all the way to the top. And no one ever even imagined any knight would make such an attack as the Bruce made on us. Mayhap Sir Walter should have thought of it, but it is such a steep defile and with a camp in sight…” He shrugged. “I am not sure anyone would have made another decision. I believe they must have planned it from the moment we camped to have so many boulders ready.” His throat grew tight with fury, his voice rough. “There was no honor in it. It was no real battle, but an attack by savage brutes.”
