In the Time of Kings (20 page)

I lower my shield. Beaumont? Why does that name sound so familiar? “Who exactly is this Beaumont, besides being an Englishman?”

“Henry de Beaumont, Lord of Liddesdale and self-proclaimed Earl of Buchan. One of the Disinherited.”

“The who?”

“The Disinherited. A few years before the Battle of Bannockburn, Beaumont married Alice Comyn, niece and heir to the former Earl of Buchan. The Comyns, along with the Balliols, were never friends of the Bruces. When King Robert came to power, he declared the lands of all those who still fought for England as forfeit — they are the ‘Disinherited’. And so when the old Earl of Buchan died, Beaumont was denied the earldom, an affront which he has never forgotten. The man is a greedy opportunist. He served Edward II, but turned on him when it became advantageous for him to do so. After helping Isabella and Mortimer bring the younger Edward to the throne of England, he then betrayed Mortimer. He’s the one who helped bring Balliol back from France and convinced him he could avoid violating the Treaty of Northampton by simply sailing up the coast and depositing an army on Scottish soil, instead of crossing the border with them on foot. A scheming rogue, if there ever was one. For now, he stands behind Edward III. For now. But I reckon he’ll do whatever it takes to gain back the inheritance he feels he’s been denied for far too long.”

Before I can absorb everything he’s said, he flails his weapon at me, sideways, then down, sideways, down. Gentle blows, slow and methodical. Sideways. Down. Sideways ... I block each one, as we lapse into a monotonous rhythm. In time, I learn to let my body react to the motion, my innate defenses taking over.

“Now strike on the offensive,” he instructs.

I feint to the left, then flick my sword crossways. It glances off the top rim of his shield with an unimpressive click.

“Harder. Put your whole strength into it. And come at me faster. You’re giving me too much time to prepare in between.”

Three times, I punch my training sword at his chest, but it’s as if he knows my moves before I make them.

“More force! Faster! Don’t think so hard. And stop looking where you’re going to hit next.”

Now I’m just flailing at him like an angry toddler whacking away at a piñata. I’m frustrated. But determined.

“Your mother was an ugly whore,” he mutters.

“What did you say?” I lower my weapon slightly. He seizes the opportunity and swings his blade backhanded. My reflexes are barely sharp enough to ward off the blow.

“Your mother was a whore, Sinclair. Stood like a bitch in heat for every rutting lad who could sniff her out. She birthed you in a latrine, hoping to lose you down the drain hole. If not for a vigilant servant, you would have drowned in the moat.”

“Oh, stop. You’re making all this up.” Besides, the mother he’s talking about wasn’t
my
mother.

“Am I? What if I told you she could pleasure a man the whole night long?” A hint of a wink dances across his brow. “I know. I had her.”

“Does your wife know that?” I joke.

“She died three years ago.” A sadness creeps across his face, but he shrugs it away. “I do not pretend to be a saint, by any measure. Nor was your mother.”

Neither was my
real
mother. She loved a man who couldn’t love her back and wasted her life in the effort. But there was good in her. There was. “Ah, now that you have wrong, my friend. She was a good woman.”

“Good, aye. Good for one thing. But good to you? Hardly. She left you, remember?”

She did. And left me with that miserable bastard.

Rage surges inside me, the pressure mounting until my will to contain it is a wall neither high enough nor strong enough. I strike at him — forward, backward, down, up, down, back, spin, thrust. He parries each blow deftly. The collision of dense wood reverberates up my arm, rattling bone and sinew. My hand begins to cramp and I grip the hilt tighter, swing harder, faster. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he yields ground.

His breathing grows more ragged. He leaps backward and stumbles over a root. He throws his sword arm wide to regain his balance. His concentration broken, I attack again, my blade swiping horizontally. But instead of blocking my blow with his shield or parrying, he ducks behind a tree. My wooden sword whacks against the tree trunk so hard it splinters with a crack.

The next thing I know, I’m holding a jagged piece of wood. The blisters in my palm are beginning to burn.

Duncan slaps me on the arm. “Now that is how you fight! Remember that.”

Laughing, he marches over to the fence where his horse is tied and takes a long swig from his flask. Two little boys, maybe four and six, peek beneath his horse’s belly from the other side of the fence, watching with fascination and awe.

“You did make all that up about my mother,” I say, joining him, “didn’t you?”

His laughter falls away. “Aye, I did. Your mother was an angel who graced the earth with her presence for far too short a time. ’Tis no wonder your father loved her so. But the next time someone comes at you with a weapon, think of her, think of Mariota. Think what would happen if your attacker sought to kill you so he could violate them. Tap into that fury. Use it to survive. Use it to keep them safe. Fight for them.”

LONG, LONG AGO

York, England — Late 1332

W
ith every inhaled breath, the sackcloth over my head flattens against my dry, cracked lips, chafing them raw. I would sell my soul for a drink of water right now, if only a sip to moisten my mouth.

Between the darkness and the coarse threads of burlap, I cannot make out the faces surrounding me, although their whiny English accents assault my ears. The taste of smoke is on my tongue. It scratches at my throat and a cough shoves upward from the depths of my chest. Eyes watering, my ribs convulse as I hack up sputum. When the tide of coughing passes, I sit back, the heels of my boots digging into my buttocks. That’s when I sense the heat of a fire warming my back, almost singeing the hairs on my neck.

I dare not move. I cannot. My hands and feet are bound.

As the minutes plod by, my skin grows hotter, until I can imagine my flesh melting from my bones. The air inside my lungs is burning now. Around me, the murmurs rise in volume, their tone shifting from one of secrecy and contemplative debate to intense argument.

I am the object of their disagreement.

Two men on either side hook me beneath my armpits and haul me forward, my knees scraping over frozen rocky ground. A flake of stone tears at the cloth of my leggings. As they continue to drag me, I can feel flesh peeling from bone. I’m shoved onto my side, blood oozing from my kneecaps, smears of it wetting my shins. Snow melts against my cheek.

“He came unarmed and unescorted, as bid,” a voice says.

Gruff hands grab behind my back at my wrists. The cold metal of a knife slides between them, sawing at the ropes until the threads fray and finally the pressure breaks. Slowly, I pull my arms to my chest, cramped muscles resisting. Next, they release my feet, long since grown numb from the tightness of the binding. The cloth is ripped from my head, but I keep my eyes closed.

“Look at me, Scot.”

I comply. Shapes and edges come into focus in the wavering firelight. A man is crouching before me, chainmail covered by a brightly colored surcoat. I know the emblem on his chest. I was told to look for it. A gold lion on a field of blue with fleur-de-lis. It’s him.

“York’s a long way from Annan now, isn’t it?” The cloud of his breath hangs suspended in the cold December air. Henry de Beaumont extends his hand to the side. Someone lays a roll of parchment into his open palm. “Pitiful bad luck for you, Sinclair, meeting up with Balliol just as your own people chased him from Scotland. Good luck for me that he had the presence of mind to bring you along as he ran for his life.

“Now,” he says, an exultant smile on his mouth, “let us see how complicit your father is.”

He tilts the roll to catch the light and inspect the seal. Satisfied it is what he’s been expecting, he breaks it and unrolls the letter. As his pupils scan the contents, the smugness fades from his countenance, his mood quickly replaced by annoyance.

“Damn him to hell if he thinks he can bargain with me.” Rising to his feet, he spits at the ground in front of me. A moment later he circles behind me. “He wants Liddesdale, does he? Well, he’s not going to get that now, is he? Not now that I have you. I’d say matters have shifted entirely to my favor. Perhaps you’ll be a little more compliant than your father proved to be, the covetous bastard.”

He slides his blade from his scabbard. Its point pricks the small of my back. I flinch, but hold back a gasp. Sweat springs from my temple, trickles down my cheek and neck.

“Kill me now,” I tell him over my shoulder. “I won’t —”

“Shut up!”

His gloved fist slams against the side of my head, toppling me. Again, my world goes black
.

LONG, LONG AGO

Blacklaw Castle, Scotland — 1333

C
old sweat drenches my body. I press a hand against my chest. Inside, my heart is beating at a frenetic pace. I’m hyperventilating, so I force myself to draw air deeper into my lungs.

It was so real, so vivid. But was it a memory — or merely a dream?

Pale moonlight casts a silvery glow, barely enough to see by. It’ll be hours yet before the rest of Blacklaw’s residents are up. Kicking my blanket onto the floor, I swing my feet over the edge of the bed. My whole head hurts, like someone has rammed a railroad spike into the top of my skull, shattering the bone. I cradle my head in my hands as I try to recall the details of the dream: my thirst, the darkness, the December cold, the bindings, the men around the fire ... the blow of Beaumont’s fist. I had been sent to Annan to deliver a message to Balliol and ended up there with Beaumont, somewhere outside of York.

No, it had happened. It really happened. But how is it that I remember that night with such stark clarity when everything else from this life is hidden to me?

Cool night air drifts from the open window, encircling me in tranquility. My breathing deepens; my heart rate slows. Sir Henry had been conspiring with Beaumont. But ... was he still? Why would he even consider it to begin with?

The edges of my vision blacken as I stand. A rush of lightheadedness washes over me and I grapple blindly for the bedpost. Moments pass before the blood returns to my head. This is how it was when I was a kid and had the visions. Sometimes they came to me in the hazy hours of half-sleep just before dawn; sometimes during times of full wakefulness, but usually when I was alone. They always took a few minutes to recover from, for my awareness and body control to return to normal. This time is no exception.

I push away from the bed, but my knees are rubbery. I stagger, stumble, and throw a hand against the wall to steady myself. The floor tips beneath me. I sink down, my hand trailing over rough stone, until my knees hit the floor. There I wait for the world to stop spinning, while golden sunlight banishes the silver light of the moon.

––––––––

B
ending over a basin, Sir Henry brings cupped hands to his face. Water trickles between his fingers and down to his elbows, wetting the wide sleeves of his nightshirt. He dips his hands again and then pauses, having caught sight of me.

“What is it?” He wipes his hands across the front of his shirt and stalks toward me.

“My lord, I’m sorry.” An older servant with lopsided shoulders brushes past me and stoops low in a bow to Henry. “I told him you had not yet risen and that he should return to his quarters to await your summons.”

Ignoring the servant, I stride into the room. It’s on the topmost floor of the main tower, just above the meeting room where Henry conducts his business. Even though it’s one of the bigger rooms in the castle, there’s little more here than the bare necessities: a bed wide enough for only one, a small table with a basin and a cup, two unadorned chests, and a bench.

Henry wheels around. Color flares at his neckline. He shakes a fist at me. “What do you —?!”

“I remember,” I say.

His fist sinks to his side. “Leave us, Alfred.” With a wave of his hand, he banishes the servant. “Remember what?”

“That I was at Annan to meet with Balliol.”

Turning away, he walks to the hearth and braces a hand above the mantel. “How much more do you recall?”

“That I carried a letter from you. Balliol was to deliver it to Henry de Beaumont. But I was taken captive and sent to Beaumont in York. He read the letter. Your response angered him. Greatly.” I pause to let him speak, but he says nothing so I go on. “You were bargaining your loyalty for land.”

His shoulders heave in a shrug. “And ...?”

His nonchalance surprises me. I’d expected more: anger, denial, name calling. Instead, he reacts as if I’ve just given him a weather report. “That’s all.”

Slowly, he turns around, tilting his head in thought. I realize he’s weighing how damaging that amount of information is and what I intend to do with it. His bare feet drag over the floor planks as he approaches me. The urge to bolt from the room nearly overcomes me, but I force myself to remain where I am.

He stops midway. “You assumed I was giving secrets to the English? Information that would aid Balliol’s cause and in the end benefit me with some lofty title and a swath of land rich enough to reward me and my heirs for eternity?”

“Were you?” I say bluntly.

“If I was, what do you think your part in it was?”

“I told you, I don’t remem—”

“How convenient that you recall some things and not others. Let me refresh your memory, then.” He goes to the bed and sits on the edge, his fingers splayed across broad thighs. His nightshirt falls to just below his kneecaps. On the inside of his right calf is a puckered scar about four inches long that forms a gouge in his flesh. I wonder how many other permanent reminders he bears of all the battles he’s fought in. His bed, I notice, is already made and beside him, his clothes have been neatly laid out. “After you returned from Spain, I was approached by an agent of Henry de Beaumont. I didn’t know who he was at first, though. He was merely a traveler who happened by here. I offered him food and lodging. Somewhere between tankards of ale, it came out that Blacklaw was not my possession, but my daughter-in-law’s.” He raises his eyes, deeply set and hooded by thick brows feathered with gray. Something behind his pupils hints of self-pity.