The Promise of Peace (24 page)

“Aye, heard it myself from Sir Bryan. And I brought these orders for ye,” he said, pulling out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to Keifer.

Keifer scanned the brief words on the paper and glanced up at Nola, then to Owyn. “We need to be ready to ride in the morning.”

“Thought that might be the way of it. I'll see to the packing and getting the horses ready.”

Keifer looked out the winnock at the lowering sun. “Aye. And you'll sleep here tonight.”

“Are ye sure? Don't want to impose on yer honeymoon.”

“We're sure,” Nola said. “I will feel better about Keifer's leaving knowing he has you to watch over him.”

“That I will do, my lady. That I will do.”

A HEAVY MIST shrouded the sun the next morning as Owyn and Keifer saddled their horses.

The time had come to leave Nola, and Keifer was having second thoughts about the wisdom of marrying. Not of marriage to Nola— there was no doubt that she was the only woman he would ever love. But doubts about the wisdom of marrying at all. The dreary weather didn't help his spirits. When he'd tightened the girth, Keifer turned to Owyn. “Will you finish here while I get our provisions from Nola?”

“Aye, my laird.”

Keifer started toward the manse, shoulders drooping.

Owyn laid a hand on his arm as he passed. “Keifer.”

He looked back at his friend.

Owyn squeezed his arm. “Take yer time.”

Keifer nodded in acknowledgment and continued walking. There was not enough time in a whole lifetime to say good-bye to Nola. They had parted any number of times over the years, and each time had been painful. But never like this.

The sharing of their hearts, souls, and bodies these past weeks had deepened his love for Nola to a level he could never have imagined. No wonder that God ordained the marriage bed to be sacred.

He should never have married her. If he should die, she would be abandoned, just as he had been by his father and brother. As his mother had been when Ian Macnab died. A fresh burst of anger at his uncle surfaced, as it was wont to do now and then.

Keifer would not nurture that anger, for his own sake and for Owyn's. But Angus would be riding with them against the English.

Could he be trusted? Keifer reached the door and walked into the kitchen where Nola stood with her back to him, staring out the small window that faced south. She turned to him. She was not crying as he had feared, and he thanked God for that. He didn't think he could ride away from her knowing there were tears in her eyes.

She held out her hands and walked to him. Taking her offered hands, he drew Nola close, then crushed her to his chest.

“I do so hate good-byes,” she murmured.

“As do I.” He held her, kissed her, drank in her sweetness. “Are you sure you don't want to come as far as Homelea with me?”

She pulled back and looked at his face. “Much as I would treasure another day with you, I feel I should stay here. Lady Randolph will need company with her husband gone, too. 'Tis the least I can do to repay her for her kindness. And surely this will be the best place to hear news.”

He nodded. “Think how many times that good lady has seen her husband ride into conflict and waited to hear of his fate.”

“Most of their married life.”

“Perhaps this time we will win a lasting peace so that you won't have to do the same.”

“I will be waiting here for you, Keifer. Husband.” Her voice caught. She blew out her breath. “I will not cry. Absolutely not.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “Now then.” She reached for two identical sacks tied shut with string. “Here are oats enough for both you and Owyn, as well as some dried apples. Do you have your oilcloths packed?”

He smiled at his always practical wife. “Aye.”

“And here.” She held out the Macnab laird's ring. “You should wear this.”

He took it from her. “But you have no wedding ring other than this.”

“You will buy me one when you return.”

“That is a promise.” He put the ring on his finger but couldn't make himself turn for the door.

She sighed. “Let us not draw this out.”

“One more kiss?” he pleaded.

She grinned. “Aye. And no long-drawn-out farewell in front of Owyn.”

“I remember.” As he kissed her, he also remembered that the last time she'd said such a thing she'd gone back on her word and flung herself into his arms.

They parted reluctantly and walked hand in hand into the small courtyard where Owyn and the horses waited. Keifer checked the girth once more and—satisfied that it was secure—gathered the reins and mounted.

“Thank Lady Randolph for all she has done, Nola.” He wanted to say so much more, but the time for words was over. Though he had spent the last years of his life training for battle, he prayed this would be the first and last time he ever had to ride away to war.

True to her word, Nola kept her chin up and he detected no tears as he spurred his horse and trotted away from his wife. But he couldn't help wishing she'd embraced him one last time.

SIXTEEN

K
EIFER AND OWYN met up with Randolph and the others at their camp just north of the English border late that afternoon. The very next day the Scots headed south through the Kielder Gap and down the valley of the north Tyne. They traveled light, each man carrying his provision of oats, which could be made into a paste and grilled directly on their plates. They carried no wine, not even water, relying instead on the rivers for their refreshment.

Keifer admired Randolph's methods—by killing local cattle, he kept his army in meat. That and the oatcakes made a satisfying meal. Though the food was monotonous, Keifer found it met his needs. And most importantly, without the added weight of wine or water casks, they could travel swiftly through the countryside. The lack of wagons gave them superior mobility. And from what Keifer knew of English tactics, they would need that advantage to be victorious.

They crossed the border into England and raced south, splitting into three columns, each led by a different commander. Keifer stayed with Sir Bryan's group. As Keifer and Owyn sat around the campfire on their third evening, Keifer knew they must be getting close to the English army. He asked Sir Bryan about the battle plan for the coming days.

Bryan picked up a stick and drew a crude map in the dirt. He pointed to the ground. “We are about here, well into English territory. Our scouts tell us Edward and his troops are still south of us. It looks like they plan to enter Scotland by traveling up the eastern march. 'Tis what they've done in the past.” Bryan drew the low country of the northeastern-most English counties. “They will expect to feed off the land and thus save their supplies for when they enter Scotland.”

“But we won't let them get that far north,” Keifer said.

“Aye. And just to be sure, tomorrow we will begin burning and looting the English countryside between here and the border. If they do make it past us, they won't have enough provisions left to come deep into Scotland.”

“Would we burn our own lands to prevent them from coming north?” Owyn asked.

“Aye. Randolph and Bruce have done it in the past and would do so again.”

“Speaking of Bruce, where is our king? Did he ride with one of the other troops?” Keifer asked.

Bryan said, “He is in Ulster, dealing with his wife's inheritance there.”

Disappointed, Keifer said, “Ireland? What if we need him to fight this battle?”

Bryan shook his head. “We will not engage the English. They have far superior weapons and over two thousand heavy cavalry.

'Twould be suicide to meet them head on.”

“So what will we do?”

“As we have done in the past. Lure them to us by day, using the terrain to our advantage. Then slip away at night and disappear.”

“To what purpose?” another of the men asked.

“To get them to make a mistake we can take advantage of.”

Keifer grinned with sudden insight. “You want to capture the king!”

Sir Bryan clapped him on the back. “Can you think of a better way to force England to sue for peace on our terms?”

“Then we may see battle yet?” Keifer asked, hoping he didn't sound overeager.

“On a very limited basis, perhaps. And only when conditions are in our favor.”

Keifer looked at Owyn, and the other man shrugged. They had trained for war, were willing and ready to meet the English on a battlefield. Keifer stifled his disappointment that he might not even draw his sword on this campaign.

THE FOLLOWING DAY Sir Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, watched as the slow-moving English army, led by young Edward III, advanced on the Scottish position north of Durham. In the several miles between where Randolph stood on an overlook and Edward's army, the English countryside lay in devastation. While Randolph disliked putting common people—even though they were English— out of their homes and destroying their crops, he had to use these tactics against such a superior force.

The death of Edward II and the widowed Isobella's takeover had created a crisis within the English government. With luck, Randolph hoped to use the confusion and division amongst England's nobles to Scotland's advantage. While Randolph and his three columns of raiders ransacked the northern counties of England, the English marched north with a mighty army, the pride of which were 2,500 heavily armed Flemish knights.

Randolph's own troops, on the other hand, traveled light. Sir Thomas had no intention of engaging Edward's superior forces. Instead, he would lead the young, inexperienced king farther and farther from his supply source, allowing hunger and frustration to take its toll. It was a good plan. He'd thought of everything. Today they would put the plan in motion.

Sir Thomas turned to Bryan Mackintosh. “We have succeeded in making them dependent on their baggage train. Now we must separate them from their supplies.”

Sir Bryan nodded. “How do you plan to defend against the new weapon?”

The baggage train included a gunpowder cannon. Randolph had seen one demonstrated while he was in France. It wasn't terribly accurate, but the noise and fire were enough to immobilize an enemy with fear. “We must stay out of range of its projectiles and lead the English into terrain where the cannon cannot be taken.”

“Aye.” Bryan pulled out a map and spread it open. “I suggest that all three columns band together, move south, and wait for them to come to us.”

Randolph stared at the map Bryan held. Bryan was an excellent tactician, much like his father. Sir Thomas carefully weighed what the younger man said. “Agreed. But what if we were to put out the word that we are headed for the Tyne at Haydon Bridge?”

“You think Edward will be fooled into thinking we are done raiding and headed home?”

“Aye. But we will move west of the burned area and wait to see if he takes the bait. If he heads for the Tyne, he'll have to abandon the wagons when they reach the boglands. His army should be on short rations by the time they reach the river.”

Bryan smiled grimly. “And we won't be there or even close by.”

Randolph nodded. “We'll let them wait there for awhile before we split into two groups and lure them after us. You and Douglas will lead the forward raids and I'll remain behind to cover the rear. Gather your men and move out.”

Bryan left, and Randolph looked to the overcast sky. Rain threatened, and not for the first time he wished he were safe and warm in his home in Edinburgh.

EDWARD III, the fifteen-year-old king of England, paced back and forth as his tent was being set up at the end of another wet, dreary day. A mild drizzle still fell, chilling him despite layers of warm garments and a waterproof oilcloth.
Blast the weather.

Though old enough to wear the crown and lead troops, Edward needed to prove himself as the rightful leader of England so that he could oust his mother and her paramour. A victory over Bruce would allow him to do so.

Acting on reliable intelligence information, Edward had taken his army north to the Tyne River at Haydon Bridge to await the retreating Scots. The certainty of victory had balanced out the need to leave their supply wagons behind. Or so he had thought.

Eight wet, miserable days later, days when the supplies they'd been able to carry with them had dwindled to nothing, there was still no sign of the Scots. Saddles rotted in the damp, fires could not be built with the water-logged wood, and the men were hungry and grumbling.

So he had offered a reward to any man who could bring back word of the location of the Scottish army. Two dozen squires had scattered in all directions, seeking the elusive enemy.

Yesterday one of the men returned—the earlier reports had been false, and Edward had been sitting here in the miserable weather for naught. The Scots were camped on the south bank of the River Wear, twenty miles to the south near Stanhope Park.

Edward hastened his hungry army south, finding the Scots camped with the raging river in front of them and a marsh to their backs. They were trapped, and Edward eagerly anticipated moving in for the kill.

His tent, always first to be pitched, was soon ready. He entered the tent and gladly shed several layers of garments as the peat fires in the braziers warmed the enclosure. Warm and fed, despite his army's hunger and cold, Edward looked forward to morning. Tomorrow would be his day of glory at last.

KEIFER AND OWYN stood beside Sir Bryan and watched the English set up camp on the other side of the river. Keifer wondered why they didn't attack now—he itched to take part in his first combat.

Sir Thomas joined them in the gathering dusk. “Our opportunity has arrived. You and your men will circle around to the south and cross the river. That will put Edward between you and me. Attack when their camp is quiet for the night. You will attempt to capture the English king.”