Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] (29 page)

“Then you know what you must do, but don’t leave until you can ride with the countess. I’ll see that she knows you mean to join her, and puts no rub in the way of your taking your own road as soon as you are beyond sight from the castle.”

Nodding, he said, “We men travel light, so I’ll ha’ nae need to do much for m’self. And if I offer to help saddle horses for the countess’s ladies and them, I can saddle me own then, too.” With that, he set Pawky on his shoulder and left.

Meg watched until the door shut behind him, knowing she had no other safe recourse. But she prayed fervently, and against all odds to the contrary, that neither of the two dangerous tasks she had set for the boy would result in his death.

Chapter 19

“This deed was done at the Otterbourne, About the breaking of the day . . .”

I
n the increasing dawn light, Wat, Neb Duffin, and their little band of men cut a swath through milling cattle, inert bodies, fallen tents, miscellaneous gear, and natural obstacles of the landscape, fighting their way toward the Redeside water meadows, where Buccleuch’s portion of the foot had taken their stand.

At first Englishmen seemed to be everywhere. But as they moved, Wat saw that the Scots were fiercely holding their own and had already pushed much of Hotspur’s army back across the river. Knowing the Redesdale landscape better than the enemy did, thanks to frequent forays into the area over the years, the Scots could avoid the worst of the bogs as they drove their opponents into them. Once mired, their enemies were easily dispatched.

As they neared the meadows, Wat began shouting, “Buccleuch! Buccleuch!”

Ahead of him, others echoed the cry, and following the shouts, he found his father’s men in pitched battle. “Where’s Himself?” he bellowed at a man who had dispatched one opponent and whirled on Wat, clearly expecting to dispatch another.

The man held his club high, his gaze shifting warily back and forth over the melee around them, as he said, “Yonder, sir, by the wee stream!”

Plunging on, Wat saw less fighting ahead, where a streamlet from the steep hills behind them tumbled into the river Rede. The land around the confluence was, he knew, naught but marshland.

Most of the fighting in that area had moved to the other side of the Rede, where Scots pursued retreating English. Sunrise was just minutes away.

He saw a group of four men near the base of the hillside from which the streamlet flowed, and a chill shot through his body, because their demeanor was much the same as the group he had left behind with Douglas.

Finding Neb at his side, Wat gave him a grim look. “When you said he wanted me, what had you heard?”

“A lad said to fetch ye quick to Buccleuch,” Neb said. “He didna say more.”

Nodding, Wat looked to see which of his own men were nearest. “Tam, Gibbie, to me!” he shouted. Then, to Neb, he said, “Keep your lads close to mine, and see that this area stays clear of English until I learn what’s happened. If he
is
down and we can move him to safety, we will. You’ll take your orders from me.”

“Aye, sir, o’ course,” Neb said cheerfully.

“Even if he countermands them?”

Neb raised his eyebrows. “D’ye think he will?”

“I don’t know,” Wat replied truthfully. He feared that if his father thought he was dying, he would do just as Jamie Douglas had done.

As the thought crossed his mind, he realized he had heard nothing yet to tell him whether Douglas still lived or had died.

He had no time to think about it, because the captain of his father’s men had seen him and was waving him forward.

Both the frantic wave and the man’s anxious expression reinforced his fear that Buccleuch was down but gave him hope that he was alive.

Then he saw him on the ground, eyes shut. His mail shirt was bloody but looked undamaged. Wat’s gaze scanned downward until it came to rest on the upper right side of his father’s leather breeks, dark with what he suspected was blood.

Someone had gathered damp moss and was kneeling to try to stanch the flow. “How bad is it?” Wat asked as he came up to them.

“Himself does say it be none so bad, sir,” the man said. “But that villain yonder smote him with his mace. The wound looks gey painful, though he doesna complain. Trouble is we’ve nowt at hand save his shirt to bind it. But we’re loath to take off his mail to get at it until the last o’ this lot around us falls back.”

Buccleuch’s captain said, “He struck his head when he fell, sir, but he’s got a harder one than most. I think he’ll do.”

Wat nodded and looked around, the better to assess their situation.

Hotspur’s army was falling back across the river and beyond. The Scots followed, shrieking and brandishing weapons, cutting down anyone they caught.

Neb’s men and Wat’s own stayed with Wat. With Buccleuch’s fighting tail, they quickly formed the same sort of circle around Buccleuch that they had formed earlier around Douglas, facing out with lances and swords at the ready.

The villain who had struck Buccleuch lay in the center of the circle, unmoving, so Wat dropped to one knee at his father’s side.

Buccleuch’s eyes remained shut. He had shown no awareness of his son yet.

“Sir?” Wat said gently.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Buccleuch grumbled, opening his eyes to mere slits. “You should be with Douglas.”

“He has men enough,” Wat said. “The English are in retreat.” Remembering Douglas’s words, he added, “Hotspur must have begun the attack the moment he and the other leaders arrived at the Rede. Jamie said Hotspur’s impatience would win the day for us, and I think it has. In the poor light, the English cut down a host of their own men, and the bulk of their army is still strung out to Newcastle.”

“Aye, and they’re all afoot, because the bogs defeated their horses. I heard someone had captured Ralph Percy,” Buccleuch added. “Pray God that’s true.”

His voice was weak and his face pale. But aside from the bloody breeks, he looked well enough. The only thing that worried Wat was that Buccleuch was no longer protesting his presence. Leaning over him to take a better look, he set down the mace he’d been wielding to good effect just a short time before.

Buccleuch’s breeks and thigh had been ripped open. But the wound was oozing, not pouring blood. He could see damaged muscles and knew the injury must hurt like blazes, but no large blood vessel spouted at him.

He was thinking he would seek out Richard Lundie, Douglas’s chaplain. Like most clerics, Lundie was skilled at tending injuries, and as Douglas’s chaplain, he had vast experience. “What do you know of wounds like this one?” he asked the man applying moss to Buccleuch’s thigh.

The man said reassuringly, “He’ll do, I th—”

“Master Wat! Ahind ye!”

Recognizing Gibbie’s voice, Wat shot to his feet, whirling to see an upraised club before Gib’s body blocked his view. Then, before Wat could do aught to help him, Gib crashed down at his feet.

The English lout who had struck him was the same one who had struck Buccleuch. Still charging, he had his mace raised again, aimed at Wat.

Snatching his dirk from its sheath, Wat sidestepped him and ended his life with a vicious slash across his throat.

Kneeling swiftly by Gibbie, Wat saw that he had taken the blow on the side of his head. Blood poured from his eyes and nose. “Oh, Gib, why?”

“Nae time,” Gibbie gasped, the words gurgling through blood in his throat. “Should ha’ made sure he were dead.”

Wat gripped his hand and leaned closer to be sure Gibbie would hear him. “You’re a good friend, Gib. We’ll get you home.”

“I am home,” Gibbie murmured back, his voice barely audible. “There’s me Annie now.”

Tears sprang to Wat’s eyes, and he gripped Gib’s hand tight, determined to hold him in this world, Annie or no Annie.

But Annie won.

Despite rising so early, the morning passed swiftly for Meg. Her plans went well, because the countess and her ladies departed before noon without incident and with Sym in their train. The only surprise came with the discovery that Sir Ralph’s men had searched so thoroughly for the countess’s necklace that they had searched Meg’s and Amalie’s belongings along with everyone else’s.

The men had not been tidy, either, so the two found their tiny bedchamber in a chaotic state when they returned to refresh themselves before the midday meal.

They tidied the room and returned to the upper hall, where they learned that searchers had found the necklace in a bag where the minstrel kept his extra lute strings and polishing cloths. Sir Ralph had ignored Giles Gilpin’s indignant protests of innocence and ordered him thrown into the pit to await Douglas’s judgment.

Meg felt a twinge of guilt when she heard that news, but Amalie received it stoically. They were still at the table, solemnly congratulating themselves on a trap well sprung, when word came of a large mounted force approaching the castle.

Hoping it was Douglas, Wat, and the others returning, both young women hurried to the portcullis chamber, from which they could view the main approach.

“Who is it?” they asked the astonished guards. “Who comes?”

“We dinna ken, m’lady, but ’tis a royal banner they be flying.”

“Mercy, is it the Earl of Carrick?” Meg demanded. Knowing it could not possibly be the ailing King, she feared that her plan had failed miserably and that the countess had missed intercepting the earl.

“Nay, for Carrick flies his own flag,” the elder of the two guards told her.

“Then who . . . ?”

“Ye’d best go back into the hall, the two o’ ye, till we learn who they are.”

Accepting his advice, they had their answer ten minutes later when the riders’ leader strode into the hall, still wearing his chain mail and visor. He took off the visor as he entered, and when his gaze shifted to the dais table where Meg and Amalie sat, his astonishment at seeing them was as great as theirs was to see him.

“What the devil are you two doing here?” Simon Murray demanded.

The sun blazed down on Otterburn, revealing carnage across the land. The air reeked of blood and shuddered with groans. The din of lowing cattle was constant.

The Scots had won against all odds, but their victory felt hollow, because Scotland’s greatest warrior was dead. The news had spread, and Douglas’s death overshadowed everything, stirring deep mourning.

The English army had retreated and was unlikely to return. Most of their leaders were among the Scots’ prisoners, including Hotspur himself and his brother, Sir Ralph Percy. But the Scots were keeping their eyes open for trouble anyway.

Supervising preparations for rapid departure, Wat saw Tammy approaching, his face devoid of expression, his jack-o’-plate and breeks as spattered with blood of victims and friends as Wat’s own. Having sent him earlier to let Huntly and Sir Hugh Montgomery know that Buccleuch was injured, and to glean what news he could, Wat demanded Tam’s report.

“They’ve prepared the Douglas’s body and some others for carting, Master Wat. Our lads ha’ put Gib’s on a horse litter, and fixed up another for Himself to ride when we go. And, as ye’ve ordered, they’ll say nowt to him about it till then.”

“How bad are our losses?” Wat asked him.

“Bethankit, we lost nae more of our own, only Gib—and Alf Geddes from Himself’s lot. A few be sporting injuries o’ one sort or another, as are four o’ Neb’s lads. All save your da’ can ride, though he’s bound to say he’ll ride, too.”

Wat glanced toward the group still paying respects to Douglas. Most were Douglases themselves, and he knew that losing him had devastated them all.

He felt numb, himself, and tried not to think about Douglas or Gib.

Gib had been a good friend and Jamie Douglas a strong presence in Wat’s life since childhood. He’d thought of him as a friend, too, as well as a leader.

Also, he knew that the Douglas’s death would roil the Scottish political world. He had left no direct, legitimate heir to whom his holdings would pass. And that lack was bound to stir trouble straightaway as men who might deserve to inherit the earldom, and men who did not, all stepped forth to stake their claims to it.

“Will they take him to Melrose?” he asked Tam, knowing as nearly everyone did that Melrose Abbey was where Jamie had wanted to be buried.

“They will, aye,” Tam said, adding, “They say Hotspur demanded to see him.”

Wat’s temper stirred. “To gloat?”

“Nay, though that be what many feared. They say he spoke well o’ him. He said the Douglas were a great man and that he’d mourn his loss as much as anyone, because he’d lived and died with honor and would be sorely missed.”

“He will that,” Wat agreed. “Is anyone else giving orders yet?”

“There’s to be a meetin’, Sir Hugh said. The earls o’ Dunbar and Moray be takin’ command. They’ll blow the horn when they want ye, he said. They’ve already sent messengers off to tell Fife and Archie the Grim.”

“Then until they blow that horn, let’s keep my father comfortable and ready our lads and his to ride. With litters, we’ll not make Hermitage until tomorrow, nor Rankilburn till late the day after. But I’m for camping in Scotland tonight if we can.”

“I’m thinkin’ we’d all best put England behind us, lest them fleein’ villains learn how greatly they outnumber us,” Tammy said. “But what if someone says we must go to Melrose wi’ the Douglas’s body tomorrow?”

“Whatever happens, we’ll see to my father first.”

Tammy frowned. “He’ll say he’s for Melrose.”

Dryly, Wat said, “Ferniehurst lies on that road, and my mother is at Ferniehurst. So I’m guessing I’ll have no trouble dissuading him. I need only suggest stopping there to let her see that he’s in good health. Sithee, she is the one person who ignores his temper and who can nearly always make him mind her.”

Tam chuckled. “Aye, I’d forgotten her ladyship were visiting Lady Jenny.”

“Well, he won’t have forgotten. We can count on that,” Wat said.

Meg struggled to find the right words when Simon demanded to know why she and Amalie had come to Hermitage. She had mentally practiced explaining their presence there to Wat, but telling Simon required even greater finesse.

Tawny haired, dark eyed, and wearing a heavy frown as he stood over them, he looked grimmer and larger than when they had last seen him. Even knowing that the impression was due to thick padding beneath his chain mail, her own dislike of him, and a certain niggling guilt she felt about Tom’s arrest, did little to aid Meg.

To give herself more time to think, she said, “Mercy, Simon, I thought you would be with the Earl of Fife. We heard that he was leading an enormous force into England from the west, with the Lord of Galloway.”

“Aye, he is, but Fife does not take all his people with him wherever he goes, and I had duties to see to.” He stepped onto the dais and set his visor on the table, adding, “My men are in the lower hall. I assume someone will look after them.”