The Scotsman (40 page)

“Catkin … we have not much time. Rise, my love, for we must flee. You are safe … I have you. Catkin?”

Blinking tears from her eyes, she focused on the dark form leaning over her, then took his outstretched hands
in hers and allowed him to lift her. She barely glanced at the lifeless body next to her, revulsion making her shudder as she saw the jeweled hilt of a dagger protruding from Percy’s back.

“Alex….”

“Shhh. I know, love. I know. I just wish I had taken more time to show him a bit of the pain he enjoys giving others, but we are in a hurry. Can you walk?”

She nodded, reeling a little as he took her by the arm and pulled her to him to fold her in a quick embrace. “Good. We have little time left to us before they figure out ’tis only a diversion … come, my sweet, for I think there are some friends waiting for us at the east gate.”

“Yes.” She laughed suddenly, a nervous bubble that sounded strange even to her own ears. “Robbie, I think. And John Elliot. And Tam … he wrote me a note in English, Alex, and it was very good.”

He was taking her with him, bending to snatch up Percy’s sword, then half walking, half carrying her across the bailey toward the east gate. “Then all your hard work was not in vain, catkin. Here … let me help you.”

He boosted her up to a low wall, then leaped atop it more agilely than should be possible in light of his recent injuries, pulling her with him in a running walk along the narrow edge. She lapsed into silence, still shaken by her ordeal, but suddenly fiercely glad she was going with him, when she had never thought it possible.

And when he lowered her over the wall at the east gate and she saw Robbie MacLeod’s bright hair shimmer in the black shadows, she felt oddly as if she were among friends again. Robbie caught her in his strong arms, grinning at her with a reckless light in his eyes, and said, “ ’Tis good tae see ye ag’in, milady.”

“Yea, Robbie, more than you know.”

Alex set her pillion behind him on the horse, and she
wrapped her arms around his waist and clung to him as if she would never let go as they galloped swiftly over the rocky hills that fell away from Bothwell Castle. Exultation filled her. They were free.

The pounding of hooves on turf and the motion of the horse beneath her were safe and familiar, and she was reminded of once before when she had ridden almost this way with Alex Fraser. Then, she had been terrified of the savage Scot. Yet now she felt safe with him, even knowing that they would be fiercely pursued. She thought of Nicholas, and how angry and distressed he would be, but it could not be helped. He had chosen his life, and she must choose hers. God help her if she was wrong, but she knew that even if she died for it, this was where she wanted to be.

Nothing else mattered now, for she was with Alex.

Warily, Nicholas regarded the Welshman with frustration. “Curse you, man, let me pass!”

But terror appeared to have seized the man, and he swung at Nicholas again, the blade of his Welsh sword narrowly missing Nicholas’s head. There was nothing for it but to fight back, and Nicholas turned in an agile pivot on the balls of his feet, bringing the blade of his sword back in a smooth swing that caught the Welshman across his ribs. The soldier grunted with pain and went to his knees, and Nicholas pushed past him, too impatient to reach Catherine to see to the man’s welfare.

But when he reached the open door of the chamber, it was empty. Not even a serving maid occupied the room, and he swung about, storming back down the corridor to the wounded soldier. Grabbing him by the hair, he jerked the Welshman’s head back and snarled, “Where is she? By all that is holy, if you have let something happen to her—”

“My lord.” Beakin came toward him, striding down
the hallway with urgent steps. “The Scotsman has escaped.”

Nicholas released the groaning Welshman and cursed long and hard, until Beakin’s face went pale and he swallowed nervously.

“My lord … he must have had help, for his shackles were unlocked and the guard’s throat was cut.”

“Aye, he had help, of that much I am certain.” Nicholas pushed grimly past Beakin. “If the assault on our west gate is a diversion, we needs check the east gate, for ’tis my guess that is where we will find Alex Fraser. God help the man who allows him through those gates….”

Following behind him, Beakin offered, “Percy has gone to the east gate to ensure it is kept secure, my lord. He will not fail.”

“No doubt. I have seen a sample of his work.” Nicholas took the stairs two at a time, using his hands against the walls for balance as his feet skimmed the narrow, twisting stones designed to block easy access to the keep. A man descending could use his sword in defense, but a man trying to climb these steps would find his sword useless in the tight passage.

The bailey was a deafening clamor of chaotic action. Men shouted, and fires blazed as water was heated in hide tubs to pour onto the heads of the assailants. Light danced eerily over the ground and walls, fitful beneath torches, but beyond the wavering pools, there was only black shadow. He strode toward the east gate, sword in hand and murder in his heart, praying that he would find Alex Fraser.

And Catherine.…

“My lord!”

He paused impatiently, and swung around. “What delays you, Beakin?”

“Here … ’tis Percy, milord.”

Another oath tripped from his tongue as he moved to where Beakin crouched beside a body. Beakin rolled Percy over to reveal his bloodied face, and the open staring eyes and slack jaw were evidence of his violent death. His breeches were unlaced and he was exposed as if he had been slain while relieving himself. When Beakin released him and Percy flopped back onto his belly, Nicholas saw the jeweled hilt of a dagger protruding from a reddish brown stain in the middle of his back. It had been plunged into him with such force that the dagger had snapped in twain. He touched the split hilt with a finger, frowning. Then his jaw tightened.

“By Christ, she killed him!”

“Grant pardon, my lord?”

He looked up into Beakin’s face and muttered, “I have seem this dagger before.”

Rising to his feet, he turned toward the east gate again. Even if it had not been Catherine’s hand that plunged the dagger into Percy’s back, she had killed him just as surely by giving it into the hand of the Scot. Ah, God, he would dearly love to see Alex Fraser pay for what he bad done to his sweet, gentle sister. She was no longer the maid he had long known, but strange to him now, a woman who would betray her own brother and kill her own countryman to lend aid to the enemy.

And he knew, with sickening clarity, that his father had been right. It was oft better to lose the hand than the entire arm. He would have to cut Catherine from his life.

Torwood Forest was a vast wood with rocky outcrops that sprawled across the ancient Roman road from Edinburgh to Stirling, some five miles north of Falkirk. Since the end of April, Robert Bruce had been assembling an army there and training them for the coming battle.

Alex had made it safely to Bruce’s camp, ensconcing Catherine in a small house in the nearby hamlet of Bannock that lay on the edge of the burn. There, with the growing Scots army surrounding her, she would be safe.

Yet it was now almost midsummer day, the time set for the battle near upon them, and the Scots army numbered between five and six thousand—scarcely more than a quarter of the English host that approached to engage them.

“Sir James, Sir Robert, and Sir Alex have just brought word to me that King Edward is now in Edinburgh,” the Bruce informed his commanders in a meeting that included Alex. “The English are weary from their rush, with few halts for sleep and nearly none for food. A fool’s reckless pace, for the horses, cavalry, and infantry will be worn out with exertion and hunger.” He paused, then said with soft effect, “We are well rested and well fed, and wait for them with open arms.”

A resounding cheer went up, and Bruce smiled. “By the time Edward’s army replenished supplies from the ships at Leith and marched thirty-two miles to Falkirk, they were covered in dust and staggering from the heat. Yet we are here, shaded beneath the trees, with the burn to cool us when we grow heated.”

Another cheer rose, and Bruce regarded them all with an assessing eye. “See that the men are made aware of our advantages, and of the English disorder, for ’twill be of great comfort. I will not have them discouraged by ill words.” He paused before saying, “It is time for the camp followers, grooms, children, and those who are ill-armed to retreat with the wagon trains of food and equipment to the valley behind Gillies Hill. Those stragglers who are armed but arrived too late for training should accompany them, and wait until I summon them.”

Again he paused, then said firmly, “We have neither the horses, the equipment, nor the men to attempt fighting the English cavalry with our own. We must fight on foot and depend upon the schiltron as our defense, as William Wallace did so effectively at Stirling Bridge. Yet, though that bristling wall of spears is superb defense, it can be used as an offense as well. It cannot remain stationary, but must be mobile. I intend for the Highlanders, with their expertise in ambush and assault, to wield their spears in this formation as offensive weapons.”

“Grant pardon, sire,” Sir Robert Keith spoke up with a grave frown, “but Highlanders are more used to independent fighting than as a group. Will they retain enough control to be effective in the tight formation of a shield-ring? Schiltrons require disciplined spearmen…”.

As one of the Highland chiefs present began to protest angrily, Bruce put up a hand and answered, “I understand your concern, Sir Robert, but I have personally supervised the training of the Highlanders who will be under my command, and vouch for their control and competence. Do you doubt me?”

Sir Robert, marischal and commander of five hundred light horse and a small company of archers from Ettrick Forest, shook his head and looked chagrined. “Nay, I would never doubt you, sire.”

Bruce grinned. “Then I fear me you are unique in that sentiment, sir, for there are many English who yet do. But have we not come far? Have we not arrived at the moment when all of Scotland lies before us with hopeful hearts? Yea, and we will not betray that trust, none of us. Alone, I could not accomplish what these men with stout hearts and love for their country have done. Together, Scotland will once more belong to those who love the land and cherish its people.”

Alex held to that hope, for only if Scotland was victorious would it survive. Edward I, the hammer of the Scots, had near destroyed it in trying to conquer it, and his son was little better.

Yet as Alex and Douglas surveyed the wood filled with men, he could not help a surge of pride in his countrymen. Through it all, they had persevered. Some out of loyalty to their country, some for their own gain, as with men of all nations. But there was a strongly connected sense of patriotism under the Bruce that had not existed with any other king. Perhaps it was because Robert Bruce took pains to speak to all his men, greeting them with good cheer and an encouraging word, learning their names to separate them one from another, and the men loved him for it. They would lay down their lives gladly for the man and the king.

“What think you,” James Douglas said as they climbed a slope littered with campfires and men, “of the Bruce’s choice of battlefield?”

Alex considered. “Tþs a strategic site for a battle. The only means for the English army’s approach is by way of the Roman road through the New Park, or perhaps to the east they can pass outside the New Park and under the lea of the escarpment at the Carse’s edge.”

“Yea, and since we have dug so many pits to trap unwary horses or men, and felled trees across any paths through the forest that can be used, they will be forced to advance along the route we want.” Douglas paused, frowning, then added softly when they were past the camps and alone, “Sir Robert is greatly concerned about what we saw, Alex. He thinks the Bruce should inform at least the commanders of the truth of the situation.”

Alex smiled wryly. “Yea, I can understand his concern. I have never seen so many English. The whole land is
covered with mounted men, waving banners, columns of foot soldiers as long as the road to Berwick, and enough wagons to clog up the Firth of Forth.”

Douglas fell silent, and Alex with him. It was June 22, and on the morrow, the battle would commence. So little time left, and he must see to Catherine.

He turned to Douglas. “I must ask a pledge of you.”

Sir James looked at him in surprise. “A pledge of me, Alex? Twill be the first time you have ever done so. Ask it then, for I am curious what is so important that you would wait until now to broach it.”

“My lady. Should I be killed, I would see her safely away.”

“Ah. And you ask me to see to her safety.”

Alex nodded grimly. “Yea, for I know of few other men who would be both capable and trustworthy to keep her from harm.”

“Me? The Black Douglas whose very name frightens children into obedience and sends women running in terror? I vow, Alex Fraser, your wits must be addled, for I thought you wanted me far from your lady.”