In the Time of Kings (26 page)

I have no idea where this is going or why he’s mentioning it now, but I let him go on.

“She had the same hair, same eyes, same nose as you. Even the laugh was the same. Every day I look at you is a reminder of what I lost.”

“So that’s why you let Duncan and his wife raise me?”

“In a way, aye. But where William was rugged and independent, learning to ride and fight at an early age, you were often ill and read to pass the time. I knew Duncan would teach you how to fight and he did. In time you grew stronger and healthier, but also more defiant. You often voiced your dislike for war, saying we should embrace peace and trade, instead. At one time, you wanted to join the priesthood, but I wouldn’t allow it. If I’d had more sons, I might have, but I had only the two of you, so I couldn’t. I’ve worked too hard to gain what little I have. I grew up as one of the lesser Sinclairs of Orkney, fourth son of a fourth son, always overshadowed by my more prominent cousins. When Mariota’s father proposed your marriage, I leapt at it. Apparently, he’d had a falling out with Alan Stewart’s father. Blacklaw was part of her dowry, so I had to move quickly on the matter before the offer was gone.”

His lips twitch with a wry smile. “You argued with me over that, too. Even as beautiful as she was, accepting her meant giving in to me. In the end, you yielded — only because Duncan talked you into it.” There are bags beneath his eyes so deep they form creases in his cheeks. Hard years have taken their toll on him, making him appear far older than I know he is. “When William told me he was going to join Lord James Douglas as he carried King Robert’s heart to the Holy Land, you decided to go with him. I made you promise to keep each other safe, but you ...” His voice cracks. He blinks away tears, turns his head away to hide them. “You alone returned.”

A reminder of his grief twice over by then. But how does blaming me solve anything? “So why did you jump in after me? Why not just let me die?”

Slowly, he turns his head to look at me. “And lose you, too?”

“You were going to let me die in England, anyway,” I remind him. “You didn’t even try to raise the ransom. Why should I —”

“Do you want to know
why
you were coming north when Archibald found you? There was indeed an exchange to take place. But not for ransom.”

“For what then?”

“Me.” His joints crack as he rises to leave. “I was going to take your place, so you could have your freedom.”

LONG, LONG AGO

Berwick, Scotland — 1333

O
n the morning of the 19
^th
, I rise before the sun’s light falls upon the western hills. With exquisite slowness, Duncan’s page helps to dress me in full armor. It’s the first time I’ve worn it since the day I fell from the bridge. Working the mail hauberk over my head has been a feat unto itself, since I can still barely extend my right arm above shoulder height. I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming out in agony as I straighten that arm to slip it through the sleeve. Even the lesser weight of the aventail — a hood of mail that extends to the tops of my shoulders — causes discomfort. Finally, the page straps the metal plates on to protect my arms and lower legs. I may not be Iron Man, but I certainly look the part.

Last night, the rain had poured down hard, not relenting until an hour ago. I hadn’t slept at all, more for knowing what’s to come than because I’d been afraid of being swept away in a flash flood. Looking at the faces around me as I join the others, it’s obvious I’m not the only one with that problem.

Yesterday, Lord Archibald returned from his feigned attack on Bamburgh. Nothing had come of it. He’d barely arrived within sight of the great fortress before receiving news of Edward’s hanging of young Thomas Seton. In the meantime, our camp had been relocated far to the west, near a village called Duns. The intention was to get ourselves well out of sight. From the top of Halidon Hill, just north of Berwick, Edward can see almost everything. The only thing obscuring his view is the hill further to the north called Witches Knowle.

Duncan and I make our way to Archibald’s tent, where several dozen other nobles are already awaiting his first command. Sunlight glints off polished bascinets. Grim faces stare down at dew-slicked grass. The chink of rowel spurs sounds as more join us. Boots squelch in the mud with shifting weight. Here and there, a low murmur of greeting is exchanged.

No one smiles. No one raises their face to the morning light.

The moment the tent flap opens and Archibald walks out, silence drops like a bomb of foreboding. Everyone pulls back into a wide circle, giving him clear berth.

“Today is the day, then.” Archibald forces a smile of encouragement, but the normal confidence is lacking in his demeanor. He pulls in a deep breath and draws his shoulders back as he looks from face to face. “King Edward steadfastly refused to acknowledge our relief of Berwick, even though we crossed the bridge and delivered much needed supplies. Several times, he has refused to abandon Berwick to protect his own cities and people. This morning I received a message from him again stating that the truce expires today. There are no more chances for negotiations, no possibility of relieving the town, no hope the English will leave until they either have what they came for or are beaten down for their arrogance. Many have criticized me for my unwillingness to act with haste.” His gaze lingers on Alan, but only a moment. “Some have called me indecisive. A coward. But whatever you think of me matters not. The day is here.”

I can’t imagine the load he bears for his decisions or the judgment that has already been passed on him. Seven hundred years from now, the history books will portray him as a mere shadow of the man his brother the good James Douglas was. They’ll refer to him as the Tyneman — the loser. Yet I know Archibald to be a good man, a respected leader.

If he knew how many lives are to be lost, would he avoid battle? Perhaps the opportunity to change fate rests not with me, but him? I have to say something. Maybe coming back here is my chance to avert tragedy?

Now or never.

I rush forward, my arm bumping his as I stop with my mouth inches from his ear. I keep my voice low, so only he will hear. “I beg you, my lord, do not take to the battlefield. This day will not end well for Scotland if you do. Thousands will —”

“Have you abandoned courage so readily, Roslin?” he whispers back. “The first arrow has not yet flown.”

“And they will, Archibald. Flight after flight. He won’t come down from Halidon Hill. I promise you that. He has no reason to. The moment you descend from Witches Knowle, your fate is decided. Scotland will lose Berwick. Thousands will die in the folly.” Including me and you, I think but omit adding. “I have seen what is to come, my lord. Believe what I say.”

He shrugs. “What do you propose then? We just ... give up and walk away?”

“Yes.” I lower my gaze. Even I, an out-of-place American from some other time, realize how ridiculous a proposal that is. I can’t impose my twenty-first century thinking on any of them. These are proud men. They’re soldiers. Robert the Bruce had brought their fractured groups together as one nation and defeated the mighty army of England time after time. They intend to do the same, no matter what the odds.

“Between the two of us, Roslin ... I agree with you. It would save so much grief.” Archibald places a hand lightly on my forearm. “But that is not up to me alone to decide, my friend.”

Then he strides to the middle of the circle, hands clasped behind his back. He raises his chin, looking nobler than any man I have ever known. “So what shall it be, my lords? Do we stand down, cede Berwick, that city which we have fought so hard for since before our noble King Robert came to the throne? Or do we stand and fight?”

“Fight,” Menteith replies. Then pounding a fist on his chest, he roars, “Fight!”

A pause follows. Some of them are hesitant. They know this is suicide. But unlike in my time, they see no honor in compromise. Nods of agreement spread. Then Keith and Atholl echo Menteith’s cry. Moments later, it’s a rumble of agreement.

Good God, I’ve never been surrounded by so much testosterone, so much ... stupidity.

“We fight then,” Archibald says. He holds his arms wide until they quiet. “The last time this many Scots gathered in one place ... was at Bannockburn. No one thought Scotland would win the day, but we did — and we shall again.”

History, so it seems, can’t be changed. And in that case, my fate is determined, too. If I am to die this day — leave Mariota just as I had Claire — I no longer fear death. There will be another life for me, hopefully another love.

They cheer as he turns to go to his horse, held off to the side by a groom. As he passes me, I step toward him. “I wish to be in the vanguard, my lord.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Is this because I questioned your courage?”

“I have only this life to give in Scotland’s defense. Let me.”

“Don’t be so sure of your own death, Sir Roslin.” The look he grants me is so intense, it sends a cold shiver down my spine. He raises a hand, palm down, to the level of the top of my head. “Touch your hand to mine.”

I extend my left hand to tap the flat of his palm.

A half smile curves his mouth. “Now, the other hand.”

Biting the inside of my lip, I try, but can’t.

“How good are you at wielding a weapon with your left hand, Roslin? Not very, I presume. Could you even bear the weight of your shield with your right? I doubt so. No, you’ll stay with the reserves in the rear, tend to the extra horses and supplies. When we defeat the English, we’ll have need of you.”

With that, he walks by me and mounts.

––––––––

A
lot goes through your head when death looms: the people you loved, the ones you hated, the things you’re proud of, the chances you had but didn’t take.

This day as I watch the army of Scotland — my brethren — advance down the slope from Witches Knowle, I sense the wisdom of seven lifetimes in every bone, blood vessel and sinew of my being. I’m still afraid of the pain that will come with dying, but not death itself, for I know my soul will carry on and that every word I have ever spoken, every action I have ever taken, will echo through the millennia. Like a pebble tossed into the ocean, one molecule displaces another, one action elicits a response, the word spoken is heard by another’s ears.

If I do have another chance at life, I pray I can put this life’s lessons to good use. For nearly thirty years, I’ve tried to make sense of my dad’s harsh words and quick criticisms. I now realize it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him. He was hurt early in life, although I’ll never know how or by whom. The verbal weapons he lobbed at me and Mom were expressions of those inner wounds. But instead of drawing us nearer to him like a lasso reeling in the wild colt, they had pushed us further away and thus shielded him from more pain.

I have to let go of how he failed me and remember my love for my mom. I have to remember that being in that house where my parents fought constantly inspired me to be a better husband, to love Claire with all my heart, to cherish what was good about her and overlook her flaws. God knows I have my own. She loved me despite the fact that I arranged the books on my shelves by size and color one day, then by subject matter the next, never fully satisfied either way. I’m not that man anymore, the one who tried to control every insignificant minutia of his day. I know what matters now.

Sir Henry might never say he loves me, or is proud of me ... or that he forgives me for William’s loss. But he risked his own life to save mine, and that’s the greatest act of love there is.

And just when Claire was taken from me, Mariota was given to me. I shouldn’t have ignored that. Maybe in the next life, I’ll get it right.

A memory breaks free: the day Claire and I spent at Georges Square in Glasgow, eating our Indian food, watching people when an old couple caught our attention.

‘Promise me something, Ross.’

‘Anything.’

‘If, for some reason, we don’t both make it to that age, promise me you won’t mourn me forever. That you’ll find someone else to make you happy. I can’t stand the thought of you being alone.’

Claire gave me full permission to move on, to love again, and I’d missed my chance.

Beside me, Christian leans against a sturdy, forked branch which serves as a crutch, gazing on as the three schiltrons — the left commanded by Lord Archibald, the center by young Robert Stewart, and the right by the Earl of Moray — descend onto lower ground. From here, their bristly spear points resemble the spines of a hedgehog. Each man in the formation is half an arm’s length from the next. Those on the perimeter of the wedge shape hold their shields before them, edges overlapping. The rest clutch them high, ready to cover their heads. Christian was supposed to be one of the spearmen, but on his way back over the bridge that night, he’d leapt too soon. The fall had been far and he’d ended up with a broken ankle, unable to walk.

Sensing my eyes on him, he glances at me, a sneer marring his youthful face.

“You were very brave that night,” I tell him.

He shrugs. “It made no difference, though, did it?” A mess of blond locks tumbles across his eyes as he returns his gaze to the impending battle. “I’m not sure any of it will.”

He’s right ... but I can’t tell him so.

The Scottish army, I estimate, numbers well over twelve thousand. More than the English, but it won’t be enough. As I’d forewarned Archibald, Edward’s army hasn’t moved from its vantage point. The progress of our men slows as they enter the marsh. The rains have soaked the ground, making it like a sponge that can hold no more. Doubtless they’re slogging through muck halfway up their shins. Even so, they maintain their lines, spears gripped firmly, shields at the ready.

There’s a tug on the reins. My horse nickers and tosses his head. I remember earlier that morning, when Sir Henry mounted his own horse. The look in his eyes was grave.

“Your sword has saved many a Sinclair man,” he said to me. “It was a gift from the King of Norway to my own great-great grandfather. Keep it close. Use it. Never let it from your sight.”