Dragonblade Trilogy - 03 - The Savage Curtain (36 page)

The Scots also had archers, not
particularly well trained, but in a concentrated mass that fired barrage after
barrage into the castle.  It kept the Englishmen’s heads down.   Stephen
ordered his archers to focus on the siege engines as they came in range,
raining fire arrows on to the wood.  But the Scots had been clever; they had
soaked the wood in water for days, causing it to swell up and become very
moist, and flame could not gain hold.   When Stephen saw what was happening, he
had to think quickly.  The stakes of the battle were growing higher.

“The damn siege engines are wet,”
Kenneth came up beside him, having watched several barrages of flaming arrows
fall away ineffectively. “If we cannot light them on fire, we are in for a cozy
dance when they come upon us.”

Stephen nodded. “I know,” he
replied. “We need something that will stick on them and burn at the same time.”

“Oil?”

Stephen nodded. “If we had enough
of it, which I do not believe we do.” He caught Alan and Lane’s attention as
the men stood several feet away, watching the engines approach. “Start boiling
water and oil, as much as you can find.  We are going to pour it through the
murder holes in the gate house if they breach the entry. Alan, do you remember
what we did the last time the Scots attacked?”

Alan
nodded swiftly with a gleam in his eye. “Quicklime and sulfur fire.”
      Stephen nodded firmly. “Bring it; all we have left. And I want you to
bring all of the rags, pitchers and jars you can find.”

Kenneth watched the men flee in
their quest to do Pembury’s bidding.  He watched the first siege engine pull to
within a quarter mile of the castle.

“What are you planning?”

Stephen’s cornflower blue eyes
were riveted to the sight of siege engines and more Scots on the horizon. “I
have an idea,” he replied vaguely.

Kenneth had to admit, it was a
very good idea. They produced the oil incendiary devices first; carefully
pouring oil into a gourd, they would stick a rag in the end, light the rag, and
throw it at the siege engines, two of which were upon them and ready to open
up. The gourds would shatter against the damp wood, spilling burning oil all
over the place.  Stephen and his men began hurling the oil bombs at the men on
the towers, lighting them on fire and generally creating havoc.   When the men
on the siege towers would panic and run from the burning oil, archers on the
walls would cut them down.

Stephen and Kenneth, with their
muscled arms and power, threw the hardest. They would sail the bombs from the
gatehouse into the siege towers, splashing burning oil everywhere.   As the oil
began to run low, Alan and Lane began to assemble the bombs with the quicklime,
sulfur and saltpeter, filling the remaining pitchers they had, and even
earthenware jars from the kitchens, before securing them with a strip of linen
at the opening and using it as a wick. 

The first quicklime bomb that
Stephen threw exploded like a starburst against a group of men below who were
heading to the main gate with a battering ram.   It scared the men more than it
hurt anyone and most of them dropped the ram and ran off with their tartans
smoking.  Stephen and Kenneth threw a few more of the bombs before Kenneth took
an armful and turned for the tower stairs.

“I am heading to the Postern
gate,” he said. “I do not trust these fools that all of this activity at the
gatehouse is not a ruse.”

Stephen gave him a grin. “What
makes you think this is a ruse? There are thousands of Scots all over the
bloody place. They are everywhere.”

Kenneth’s lips twitched. “I think
all of Scotland has come down around us. What did you do to make them so
angry?”

Stephen shrugged in an
exaggerated gesture as if he had no idea. “I make them furious simply by
living.”

“You have the same effect on me.”

They snorted as Stephen gestured
to the bombs that Kenneth was carrying. “The Postern gate is heavily protected
but I agree with you,” he said. “Take what you must in case you need to defend
it.”

Kenneth descended the stairs and
emerged into the bailey, dodging a flurry of arrows that came sailing over the
walls.  The castle was completely surrounded by Scots, more than he had ever
seen, and he was concerned as to how long Berwick could hold out against such
an onslaught. It was worse than he had originally imagined it would be. He
wondered what happened to the spies they sent out after Kynan, presuming that
the men must have been discovered and killed.   But that was his last calm
thought before he came into view of the Postern gate, seeing immediately that
it had been torn off its hinges in a massive breach. There were dozens of
English fighting off a flood of Scots who were struggling to pour in through
the man-sized gate. It would only allow one man at a time but the Scots were
attempting to dispute that. Limbs, heads and bloody bodies littered the area
near the gate.

Kenneth dropped the bombs and
unsheathed his broadsword.  Before he rushed on the group, he turned in the
direction of the gatehouse and bellowed one harrowing word.

“Breach!”

Stephen heard Kenneth from his
post on the gatehouse. It was a booming, stressful cry; he would have known it
anywhere. He ran to the east side of the gatehouse, able to see the Postern
gate from his vantage point. He could see a flood of men pouring through the
opening.

“Seal up the gatehouse,” he
snapped to the soldiers on the parapets, jabbing a finger at the two closest to
him. “Get to the keep and seal it. Same for the great hall.
Move!
”

The men ran to do his bidding as
both portcullises dropped and the soldiers began sealing up the gatehouse and
towers, compartmentalizing their fighting areas so that if one portion was
breached, another one would not automatically be compromised.   The English
were calm and decisive as they sealed up the castle and Stephen watched with
satisfaction as one area after another was sealed off.   But he also noted with
some concern that the Scots seemed to be multiplying.  They were literally
everywhere and he divided his attention between watching them breach the bailey
and the siege engines that were preparing to breach the walls.

Two of the siege engines were
burning thanks to the oil bombs. Apparently, not all of the wood was wet and
the dry wood had caught fire and was burning heavy smoke into the noon sky.  
The Scots struggled to dismantle and move aside the burning siege engines and
pull the non-compromised towers up to the wall.  It was a long process that had
slowed them down considerably. However, the fight in the bailey was in full
force and Stephen watched from the walls as Kenneth and about two hundred
English soldiers fended off what must have been hundreds and hundreds of
Scots.  Stephen could see Kenneth near the gate itself, his massive broadsword
cutting down man after man.   He had to grin at the man’s enthusiasm.

On the north side of the castle,
ladders were being pushed up against the walls.  Stephen could hear the call
for assistance go up from the northern wall and he moved to help along with
several other soldiers.   By the time he got to the north wall walk, several
ladders were already alongside the walls and the enemy was beginning to mount
the parapets.

Stephen unsheathed his
broadsword, smelling blood.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It had been over two weeks since
Joselyn left Berwick.  She was counting the days since she last saw her husband
because he had told her that their separation would not be a long one.  No more
than a few weeks, he had told her. Well, a little over two weeks was a few
weeks as far as she was concerned and she was growing increasingly anxious.  
She had mentioned it to Lady de Lara, who in turn told her husband to send a
soldier to Berwick to see how the situation was faring.  

The soldier also carried a
missive from Lady Pembury to her husband, something sweet and short.   Joselyn
was coming to see that Lady de Lara was most definitely the route to go in
order to have her wishes known to Tate.  The words were not even out of Toby’s
mouth before Tate was moving to fulfill her requests.  But, then again, Stephen
was the same way with her. 

Not that the past two weeks had
been terrible; on the contrary, she was having a marvelous time.  Toby was
sweet and hospitable, and she liked her very much.  She and Cade had also come
to know each other better during this time and she could see that he was a
generally sad boy but eager to please. She wanted to make him happy, to see him
smile more, so she spent as much time as she could with him when he was not
playing with Roman and the twins.   But as time passed and Cade began to
realize that a life he had never expected was opening up to him, he began to
show more joy in things.

Joselyn had played a child’s game
of cards with him the night before, along with Roman, Cate , Dylan and Alex,
and she was coming to see the happy boy beneath the sad façade.  Roman and Cade
had conspired to cheat against Dylan and Alex, causing the twins to start
fighting each other, and Joselyn had sat back and watched while Roman and Cade
nearly busted a gut laughing about it.  It had been truly hilarious to watch and
in that small gesture, she found herself falling more deeply in love with her
son.  He would make Stephen proud.

It was near the nooning meal on
this warm day as Joselyn sat with Toby in Toby’s well-appointed solar.  Toby
was without the baby as the child napped in the room above her head, and her
other children were outside with a big, burly man who had been introduced to
Joselyn as Wallace.   Joselyn was not entirely sure about the gruff old man
when she had first met him but she had come to see that he was something of a
grandfather to the de Lara children.   They clearly adored him.  She was not
sure if he was a servant or a soldier, but mostly, he was a playmate and
mentor.  When the children weren’t with Tate or Toby, they were with Wallace.

Cade was with him, too. She could
hear the children playing some sort of game from the bailey as she worked on a
piece of needlepoint in a frame.   She had never had much time for lady-like
pursuits so this was fairly unfamiliar territory. She had jabbed her finger with
the needle several times as Toby sat across from her and wrote on parchment. 
Joselyn had discovered that Toby managed all of Tate’s books and estates, and
she greatly admired the woman for her learned ways.

“Ouch!” Joselyn jabbed herself
for the tenth time in as many minutes, sucking the finger with the blood
prick.  She looked at Toby. “I am not getting any better at this. I would do
better chopping wood.”

Toby snorted, looking up from her
quill. “You have not given yourself enough time to become familiar with the
techniques,” she said encouragingly. “I think your bird looks very good.”

“It is a butterfly.”

Toby stared at her a moment
before breaking down into laughter.  “Your butterfly looks terrible.”

Joselyn burst into snickers. “You
do not have to be so cruel about it,” she teased.

Toby lifted an eyebrow. “Did you
not know that about me? I am a cruel woman.”

Joselyn watched her return to her
books, her smile fading.  “Nay, you are not,” she said softly. “You are one of
the kindest people I have ever met. Growing up, I never truly had a friend.
Then, when I went to Jedburgh, emotional attachments with others were
discouraged. The nuns believed the only attachment should be to God. I suppose
this is the first time I have ever had someone to really talk to.”

Over the weeks, Toby had heard
more of Joselyn’s harrowing life and she looked at the woman, her expression
soft with sympathy. “You and I had the same kind of life,” she replied quietly.
“Before I met my husband, I managed my father’s affairs because he was too
drunk to do it, tended my bedridden mother, and raised my little sister. My
entire life revolved around ensuring that our family survived. I never had a
friend, either.”

Joselyn
smiled timidly. “Do you suppose we are friends now?”
      Toby nodded her head emphatically. “Of course we are. We will be the
greatest of friends forever.”

Joselyn’s smile grew. “I hope
so,” she said sincerely.   She watched Toby as the woman winked at her and
returned to her parchment.  “Would you tell me how you and your husband met?”
she asked as she returned to her sewing.

Toby paused, looking at Joselyn
with twinkling eyes. “Good Heavens,” she exclaimed softly. “Where to begin?
Tate came to my father’s town seeking donations for young Edward, not yet the
king at that time.  Tate was Edward’s protector, uncle, father all rolled into
one.  Stephen and Kenneth were the king’s bodyguards.  I met all three of them
at the same time.”

Joselyn forgot about the ugly
needlework before her, much more interested in Lady de Lara’s story.

“Was it love at first sight?” she
asked.

Toby looked at her as if she was
mad. “Absolutely not,” she said firmly. “Tate and I had a very rough start. He
did not like a woman who spoke her mind. But he warmed to me, eventually.”

Joselyn thought back to when she
and Stephen had first met. “Odd you should say that you and Tate had a rough
start,” she said faintly, thinking back to that turbulent day. “Stephen and I
had no less a rough beginning. We were forced to wed on the eve of surrender,
neither one of us wanting to wed the other, and during the ceremony my mother
went mad and threw herself into the hearth.  Stephen took me from the hall
before I could watch her burn to death.”