The Promise of Peace (25 page)

Keifer looked at Owyn, whose grin must surely match his own. To capture the king! Quickly Keifer brought his attention back to Randolph and his instructions.

“Once you have him, make for the river, there. His men will not be able to cross the river on foot, which will delay their pursuit until they can saddle their horses. Send a few men to cut the horses loose so the English will have to round them up before they can follow you.”

Keifer was puzzled. “But the marsh will prevent our retreat.”

Randolph smiled. “I'm sure Edward thinks so, too. My men and I will make it possible to retreat through the marsh.”

“How?”

“We have scoured the countryside for wooden planks which we can lay over the bogs, cross over, and then pick the planks up as we move forward. It will be slow, but until they find planks of their own, the English will not be able to follow.”

Keifer was exhilarated to see action at last—to be one of the men chosen to raid the English camp in hopes of capturing the young king. The English nobles would have to pay a hefty ransom for their king—nothing short of a treaty of peace and recognition of Scotland as an independent country.

His enthusiasm did not dim in the nearly three hours it took to circle around the camp. The water was high at the river crossing from the recent rain, and the mud sucked at the horses' hooves. They traveled slowly and as quietly as possible, as their success depended on taking the English by surprise.

Keifer saw his uncle among those who would set the English horses free. The man's presence unnerved him, but he'd given no indication thus far of any animosity to Keifer. Still, he was glad to have Owyn at his side as they moved into position.

At the earl's signal, Keifer and Owyn followed Sir Bryan into the sleeping camp, slashing at tent ropes and trampling anyone in their path. The king's large tent had been easy to spot at a distance and in daylight. But in the confusion and cover of darkness, Keifer lost his bearings. He turned his horse this way and that, fending off half-dressed enemy soldiers until the alarm was sounded.

Keifer wondered if his uncle had been successful with the horses.

When he'd disarmed yet another Englishman, Keifer looked up to see Sir Bryan just ahead.

Sir Bryan pointed. “There! Go!”

Keifer spurred his horse in the direction the knight pointed and found himself heading straight for the pavilion that housed the king of England. By now the royal household guards—Edward's most trusted and well-trained knights—were awake and armed, and the fighting became fierce.

All the practice in the lists had not prepared Keifer for real combat. The confusion and noise overwhelmed him. He followed behind Sir Bryan, slashing with his sword, jostled by friend and foe. Twice Keifer had to curb a blow to avoid harming a fellow Scot. Though the guards were on foot, they were suicidal in their ferocious protection of their king. As the camp awoke, more and more English came to the defense of the king's pavilion.

After the initial shock, Keifer stood his ground, engaging and defeating several men. Now the hours of practice made sense. Sweat poured off him and his arms grew weary. Despite their best efforts, the Scots were driven back and it soon became apparent that the king could not be taken without serious loss of life and limb. Sir Bryan blew his horn to signal their retreat to the river.

Disappointed that they failed in their mission, Keifer turned his horse around and fought his way free to ride after his comrades. He and Owyn were among the last to leave the camp. Sir Bryan sat on his horse at the side of the trail and waved them on. He would wait until he was sure all the Scots had cleared the field before following them.

In high fettle, Keifer and Owyn whooped and hollered. They hadn't captured the king, but they'd come close enough to give the boy a good scare.

The English by now had started to round up their horses. It would be some time before they caught and saddled their mounts to give chase. Keifer urged his horse faster. The muddy ground slowed them, and Keifer's horse stumbled and regained its balance. As he came in sight of the river, Keifer looked over his shoulder and pointed to Owyn—a rider was coming up behind them. Keifer spurred his horse and pulled ahead of Owyn by several yards.

The land sloped gradually toward the river with a final thirty yards of fairly steep embankment before the water. Thick forest lay on either side of the trail. The ground was churned up by the several hundred horses that had already passed over it, and Keifer's mount struggled to keep up its pace.

By now the other rider had caught up to them. Uncle Angus! And he still had his sword drawn! Too late Keifer reached for his sword, barely unsheathing it when Angus swung his sword. Keifer raised his sword and stood in his stirrups to withstand the blow against his blade.

He felt his saddle shift to the right. He stood on the left stirrup to right it and heard a sickening snap of leather. Before he had time to react, the saddle slipped further right, throwing the horse off balance.

It slid on the wet, muddy incline.

Keifer reached for the horse's mane, grasping the hair in a futile attempt to stay aboard. But the high cantle and pommel anchored him in the saddle. Where it went, Keifer would go too.

Owyn forced his horse between Keifer and Angus as Keifer's horse reared up in an effort to shake the unbalanced load off its back.

In horror Keifer felt the animal lose its footing and go down, taking him with it. As the animal went over, Keifer kicked his feet from the stirrups but was unable to get free of the saddle before the horse hit the ground, pinning Keifer under its weight briefly before it lurched back to its feet.

Keifer looked up and saw Owyn, saw him wave his sword, saw his mouth moving as the cantle dug deep into Keifer's back. A sharp jolt shot down into his hips and legs and up to his head. His brain exploded in pain.

One thought filled his head and heart before the world went dark.

Nola.

OWYN WATCHED IN HORROR as Keifer's horse went down. He barely checked his own mount in time to keep from running over Keifer where he lay, much too still. Owyn faced his father, kept his mount between Angus and Keifer.

But Angus ignored him and halted his horse a few feet away. “Well,” his father bellowed. “Will ye finish him off or should I?”

Owyn just stared at his father. “Keifer Macnab is my laird. Ye'll have to kill me first.” Owyn shook his head in disbelief as Angus charged toward him, sword drawn. The blow glanced off the chain mail on his left arm, stinging and bruising but not breaking through the protective barrier.

Angus came at him again. This time Owyn was ready, slashing and pushing his father back and away from Keifer. Their swords clashed and the hilts tangled, locked together as each man fought to disengage. With a mighty shove, Owyn freed his weapon and immediately attacked, catching Angus in the side. Angus leaned sideways to escape the worst of the blow.

Owyn pressed his advantage, slashing at Angus's sword arm. The other man's saddle did not have a deep seat for fighting. This made it easier for him to move out of range but it also made it easier to unhorse him. Owyn slashed repeatedly at his father's sword arm until the man dropped his weapon. Then, while Angus was off balance, Owyn shoved with his foot and sent him to the ground.

Angus picked himself up and grabbed his sword from the mud, ignoring Owyn, stalking instead toward Keifer. He stood over Keifer's still body, but instead of raising his sword to strike, he bent down and yanked the laird's ring from Keifer's finger.

Enraged, Owyn leaped from his horse, landing on top of his father. The ring flew from his hands into the mud. Angus grunted in pain and Owyn moved quickly away from him. From the corner of his eye, Owyn saw another rider approaching. Desperately he searched until he found the ring. Angus rose to his knees, stilling as the rider slid his mount to a halt. Sir Bryan dismounted and strode toward them. “What is the meaning of this?”

But Owyn returned his attention to Angus, who glanced to where his sword lay in the mud and inched toward it, still on his knees.

Fearing that any distraction would be disastrous to Keifer, Owyn ignored the knight and stood on the tip of his father's blade. “Do ye yield?”

Angus jerked his head toward Keifer. “Is he dead?”

Owyn didn't know for sure, but he wouldn't give Angus the satisfaction. “Nay, he's alive, ye miserable blackguard.”

“Let me stand.”

“Do ye yield?”

Angus eyed both men and let go of his sword. “Aye.”

Sir Bryan walked over and knelt next to Keifer, his back to Owyn and Angus.

Owyn indicated that his father should stand and lifted his foot to retrieve Angus's blade.

In one fluid motion Angus came to his feet and pulled a dirk from his boot, lunging toward Keifer.

“Sir Bryan! Watch out!”

The knight spun toward them and reached for his sword hilt, rising to his feet to withdraw it fully. Angus was nearly upon him and, seeing the danger, Bryan didn't hesitate. He plunged his sword in Angus's gut and withdrew it with an upward flourish.

Surprise, shock, and anger crossed the wounded man's face as he slowly sank back to his knees. “Ye've killed me,” he said in obvious disbelief. He fell sideways to the ground as blood stained his tunic.

Sir Bryan stared down at Angus and then at Owyn, his expression confused. “This is your father.”

“Aye. He tried to kill Keifer.”

“I'm sorry, Owyn. I should have tried for a maiming blow, not a lethal one.”

Owyn's knees were shaking with anger at his father for forcing Sir Bryan to kill him. “Sir, I believe if ye hadn't killed him, I would have.”

Sir Bryan stared at him.

“He attacked my sworn liege.”

Sir Bryan gazed at Keifer's still form. “Is he dead?”

Owyn touched Keifer's neck and found the blood pulse. “He's alive.” He looked about and found Keifer's horse standing quietly, as it had been taught to do after losing its rider.

“Aye. Alive but not conscious.”

Owyn looked in the direction of the English camp. They didn't have much time. Surely the enemy was mounted and on the move by now.

“Let's move him off the path,” Sir Bryan said.

They carried Keifer into the woods, then quickly fetched the horses and Keifer's saddle. Owyn heard hoof beats as he dashed back into the cover of the trees. The English rode past, about a half dozen of them, intent on their quarry. They paid no attention to Angus's body, no doubt seeing his plaid and taking him for a dead enemy.

Grief overcame Owyn but he shoved it aside. His father had made his choice, had forced Sir Bryan and Owyn to do what they'd done.

When the English were gone, Owyn said, “They will come back.”

“Aye. But if they meant to engage us, they would have sent more. These are probably just scouts, sent to let Edward know our where- abouts. They won't want to be seen any more than we do.” Sir Bryan gazed at Owyn. “We don't have time to bury your father.”

“I know.” Owyn went to stand beside his father's body. He said a prayer, then honored his da in the only way he could under the circumstances— he searched the ground for Angus's sword. Owyn unbelted the scabbard from his father's waist, sheathed the weapon, and fastened it to his saddle.

When he had finished, Sir Bryan nodded.

They must move on before they were discovered.

SEVENTEEN

O
WYN HEARD KEIFER MOAN and went to him. His face was pale and his breath came fast and shallow. Owyn despaired of getting him to Homelea alive. While cool water might help as it had with Keifer's horse bite, they could not take the time for it now. They were deep in English territory and needed to head north with as much haste as possible.

“I don't see how we can take him on horseback, my laird.”

“I agree. We need to fashion a litter of some kind to float him across the river. Then we can drag it on poles behind his horse.”

They created a litter from two stout young trees and Owyn's large oilcloth. They debated whether or not to strap Keifer fast, and in the end decided that if they lost hold of him in the current, he was better off floating downstream tied on the cot than falling off into the water and drowning.

Since the girth on Keifer's saddle had given way, Owyn would have to tie the saddle fast to the horse using a length of rope. But first Owyn took his bag of oatmeal and dumped its contents into Keifer's. With a knife he slit the empty bag and placed it between the rope and the animal's hide, providing some cushioning for the horse from the abrasion of the rope. Then he looped the rope over the saddle seat and under the horse's belly, tying a sturdy knot to hold it. The stirrup leathers would hold the poles once they reached the other side of the river.

In the hour it took to prepare the litter, Keifer lay silent except for an occasional moan. If he didn't regain his senses soon, Owyn feared for his friend's life.

The sky was getting light when they entered the water. The litter floated surprisingly well, and the two men were able to steady it between their horses. Halfway through the crossing, Keifer's horse stumbled and water splashed in Keifer's face; he yelped in surprise.

“Steady, lad. We'll have you back on dry land in a few minutes,” Sir Bryan said.

Keifer seemed to pass in and out of lucidity. Owyn wished he had some whiskey to give his friend for the pain, but they didn't even have wine.

They wasted little time. Sir Bryan inspected the litter's fastening to the stirrups, and they started off. Keifer grunted in pain each time the poles hit a rock until mercifully he passed out.

It took two hours to reach the marsh, and all the way there Owyn feared the English scouts would return. He wasn't too worried that their comrades would leave them behind since they wouldn't abandon Sir Bryan.