Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (12 page)

“I know you will.” I draped an arm about his shoulder, guiding him down the grassy slope, slick with the first drops of dew. “And we’ll pummel those damned English so hard that they’ll never come back to take our families and homes again.”

Ch. 10

Robert the Bruce – Ayrshire, 1307

The road to Cumnock stretched emptily. Sun and clouds flirted above. Below, the grass lay parched and sparse amid rock-strewn hills. Scattered behind the ridge that ran along the road, some of my men dozed in the warm, heady air.

Gil alerted us to the first sign of a light column of English, drawn out in a line just four across and straggling out lazily a quarter mile along the road. The Earl of Pembroke’s pennons flopped in the breezeless air. Pembroke sat his horse at the fore with his nose held high. I crept along the ridge to gain a better view and crouched down beside Gil.

“How many on foot?” I asked, pushing away a bead of sweat from between my brows.

Gil squinted. He flexed his mailed glove. His lips moved as he counted the rows to himself. “Between a hundred seventy and a hundred eighty. Twenty... no, twenty-four horses.”

I looked around. My men were drawn up tightly on the far side of the ridge where the English could not see them. We had left our horses behind, choosing the sloping, wooded ground as our advantage.

“Shall we attack when they draw abreast, just below?” Gil said.

“No. Wait until they swing around the bend to the west. That other hill there butts up against the road. The narrower the better. They’ll knock each other flat trying to get to us.”

He nodded and sank back down. “I’ll tell the others.”

Gil slunk off and spoke to Edward, then Boyd. The English slogged tediously along. Longshanks would have driven them along far more rapidly. Pembroke, however, was cautious and calculating. At length, the English began to round the bend below. I gestured to Boyd to wake two men near him who were sleeping. Gil gave the signal for our handful of archers to fit their arrows to the strings of their short bows. There was no sound but the tromping of English feet and the sharp breathing of my own men.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw James sprinting as nimbly as a cat over the rocks and between the trees. He vaulted over a fallen log and dived to his knees beside me.

“It’s a trap,” he forced out, his chest heaving.

I yanked him in close and whispered, “What? How?”

“A lure. A diversion. The column on the road is a diversion. John of Lorne is to the north, just over the next line of hills, bearing hard and fast on our rear. Pembroke means to draw us down into the glen along the road while Lorne comes up from behind. We stand no chance. Our routes are constricted to the east and west by several bogs – we could cut through them, but just as well could Lorne and his men.”

Damn. I had not wagered on Lorne teaming with Pembroke so soon. “How many?”

“More than at Dalry.”

Think quickly, quickly. It is the measure of a shrewd commander and your men will judge you by such.

“Somehow,” James began, his voice low so that no one else could hear, “they have received word of our position.”

We were fewer in numbers. Fewer in arms. Trapped. Fight... or flee? Ah, how would we ever evict the English from Scotland if we were forever running from them?

“Robert? What do I tell them?”

The English cannot beat you if they do not meet you. Fight by your own rules, on your own ground.

My thumb stroked the binding on the hilt of my sword. “That we will not fight, James. The odds are poor – deplorable, actually. And I’ve no wish to serve as a martyr today.”

We had only minutes to spare. I split the men into three groups. Edward took off with the largest number to the southeast, to draw Pembroke after him. James and the fastest on foot shot straight northward to taunt Lorne into pursuing them. I picked up my bow, took the ten nearest to me and we slipped away to the east, up into the hills, thickly nestled with trees and broken terrain littered with boulders and hard by the river, where we knew the places to cross, should the need arise.

We clung to the high ground, running a trail etched roughly over the jagged hills. But the further we went, the fewer the trees were, the harder the ground to navigate, the more and more tired we became. The rocky ground slowed us. Twice I stumbled, fell and cut my hands. As I reached the pinnacle of a bare crag, I paused to wait for my men. I looked to the ground behind us. There, a mob of English soldiers trickled over a far ridge. But worse than the sight of them was the sound that came before them – the baying of a hound, hard on a scent.

“Dogs,” Neil said, as the rest caught up and reclaimed their breath.

I squinted into the sun and there at their front, maybe less than half a mile from us but following the very same steps as ours, I could see a single hound pulling on a lead, his nose to the ground. Every so often came the deep, joyous bellow from his throat signaling his quarry ahead.

“Not dogs,” I said. “A dog.
My
dog.”

Torquil twirled his spear in one hand. I grabbed his arm.

“Come with me, Torquil. The rest of you, split in two: one group to the south, one to the east. Torquil and I will follow the river. I dare not think it, but I fear it is I alone that the hound follows. The river is our only chance of throwing him.”

Neil nodded and they went their different ways. Torquil and I ran as fast as our legs would allow. Stones flew from under our feet and skittered downhill. My lungs burned. My heart was near bursting. I picked the hardest ground I could find, plunging into a small ravine and then up a loosely soiled slope. As long as we were just beyond eyeshot they would have to follow the dog.

Torquil’s legs were long and sinewy, making him a good match for my uncommon speed. I had picked him to accompany me, because I knew that he would lay down his life even as death itself bore screaming down on him. I had seen it in him on the sea as cold rain sliced at us and on land when our foes’ arrows clouded the sky like a flock of jackdaws blotting out the sun as they swooped above fields of corn at harvest-time.

We ran... and ran. But still, we heard the dog – its long throaty bawl as it paused in confusion where we had turned or crossed over our own tracks or cut across rocky ground. The yip of exultation as it took up our scent again. The tenor of its cry sent a knife through my heart. I knew it as I knew my own voice in my ears. Coll, my own dog – taken from Kildrummy when Nigel was captured, no doubt. As the wind gathered strength, my hope waned. Coll would follow us more quickly now. He would leave the warm scent of our steps on the earth and cast his unfailing nose to the air. Somehow, we must get downwind of him or by God’s eyes he would trail us to exhaustion and sure death. My loyal dog would find his way to me even if the very flames of hell rose up before him.

Ch. 11

Robert the Bruce – Ayrshire, 1307

To the east, the ground plunged away to a river, so shallow that a man or dog could walk across it, so narrow that our scent would have easily carried over. The forest, where we might have had some chance of throwing Coll off our trail, was far to the west of us now. Torquil searched my face as I stood there in mounting panic. Impatient, he pulled at my sleeve and together we slid down the hillside, our legs churning. Loose soil and rock clattered down into the ravine where the meandering river coursed through it. We leapt up to our calves into the cold water and with knees thrust high we ran upstream for what seemed like a long distance. Sharp rocks jabbed at the soles of my boots. My limbs twisted and tangled as I struggled to keep balance.

As Coll’s warbling rang clearer, Torquil grabbed my arm again and pulled me up onto the grassy bank. There were a few trees here, although not enough to hide us. We were at a bend in the river. In the middle of the bend hunched a small mound. We ran a short way along the river’s edge and dashed behind the earthen mound. On our bellies, we scrambled up the hillock and looked over.

Pitching hard on the lead, Coll sprang over the rise on the opposite side of the water. An English soldier strained to hold him back, the leash jerking and snapping. Two other men trotted behind, scanning everything in view to catch sight of us as they trailed down toward the river and into it. Torquil and I dipped back behind the hillock. I motioned for him to follow me.

Hearts hammering, we darted across a small, boggy meadow, the muck tugging at our wet feet, and into a narrow gully where a tiny brook trickled with the last rain. Barely waist-high at first, the gully soon deepened to just above our heads. The earth around us began to rise and fall in sweeping undulations. We squeezed around a huge slab of rock, which nearly blocked the gully, and stopped there. I unslung my bow, then plucked three arrows from the bag on my back. I must have lost the rest during our frantic escape.

“I will handle the men, Torquil,” I said. My hands trembled. “You... must kill the dog. Understand?”

He nodded and sank back behind the rock. My cut and bruised hands tenderly seeking handholds, I mounted the rock and stood, making myself as visible as possible. A gusting wind tossed my hair across my eyes. I swept it away and tucked two of the arrows into my belt. The third I fitted against the bow and pressed the familiar string between my calloused second and third fingers. The Englishmen debated tersely over whether to follow our trail into the narrow confines. The braver and more foolish of them won and Coll’s warble fell to a low whimper. He knew I was near. He was glad. I glanced down at Torquil. His spear was gripped tightly in his right hand, drawn back from his shoulder.

The other Englishman popped over a low hill. He had taken the higher ground above the brook, meaning to serve as a pair of eyes. But I had him marked well before he saw me. He let out a yell, gripping his sword. I let the arrow fly. It pierced the base of his throat. His body sailed backward and impacted against a pile of stones. He drew his legs up in agony. His sword still in his right hand, he brought his other hand up to touch the bloody hole where the shaft stuck out. His feet kicked once more and he lay as dead as the stones beneath him.

“John? Ho!” came his comrade’s voice. “What –”

I had another arrow snug against my bowstave when the second man poked his head above the tufted bank. I released the arrow. But the wind caught it and the shaft veered sharply to the right and fell aimlessly behind him. His head snapped around. In a second he was up and over the lip of the bank and screaming toward me. I reached for the third and last arrow at my belt. As I lifted it, it slipped from my dry fingers and bounced over the stone until it teetered halfway off the rock’s edge. I lunged for it as his steps thundered closer. I grasped it by the feathers and slapped it against my bowstring.

I didn’t even straighten to stand as I eyed the blur bearing down on me and stretched back the string simultaneously. He was less than ten feet from me, his axe arcing up above his head, when I put the arrow into his quaking belly. But he kept coming – the blood spurting from his open gut, the wind gone out of him. And still he kept on. I ducked as he heaved the shining axe head at me and felt the whoosh of air from its force. My balance off, I shoved him with bare hands. He tottered. His torso swayed and pitched. His foot slipped. Then he fell backward over the edge, his arms flailing wildly in the air.

I dropped my bow, leapt forward and peered down into the shadows. The wounded man lay in a twitching, gurgling heap exactly where Torquil had been waiting. But Torquil was not there. Coll yelped as Torquil’s spear glanced off the dog’s shoulder. Just on the other side of the rock Torquil grappled hand to hand with the last soldier. I leapt all the way down, my feet stinging as I landed. Clutching both my sword and axe I went forward. Coll’s nose quivered. His head lifted. Ears perked. He bounded at me, his tail whipping with joy.

I hesitated, wanting to open my arms and let him bound to me. He barked in glee. And then I heard... other voices. English ones.

“My noble Coll... forgive,” I said, as I pulled back my arm.

With all my strength I heaved the axe. It cleaved deep in Coll’s ribs. Into his heart. He lurched forward one step and, his jaw smacking the ground first, collapsed onto his belly. Dead.

Torquil was on the ground, crawling backward, gravely wounded. I sprang at his aggressor, thrashing my sword. Again and again I struck, until the man fell lifeless into the shallow water and even then I stabbed my sword deep into his body, pulled it free and thrust it in again as the water ran over him. When my rage was spent, I stopped to survey the carnage. My knees wobbled. My shoulders and arms burned fiercely.

Torquil’s fading voice came to me like a waking dream. “My... lord.”

I went to him, dragging my feet through the bloody brook. His legs lay in the water, streams of red pouring from his wounds. I hooked my hands under his arms and pulled him onto dry earth. There was a curving cut that ran from the outside of his brow to just below his ear. It was deep – to the bone – and hard to look upon. I knelt and cradled him in my arms. His flesh was cold, deathly cold.

“We will get you up on your feet, Torquil, and back to the rest. And if you can not walk I shall carry you on my own back and Gil will sew up your cheek there and then you and I will –”

“No, I am done.” He bit back the pain and shivered violently all at once. “Go on. I heard them. More coming. I heard... them. More.”

“I do not leave behind those who have given me so much. I won’t.”

“A corpse is heavy.” He no longer shivered. A stiff grin flitted over bruised lips. He looked at something up above him, happy. “There – a gull.”

I looked there, too, in the big, open sky full of nothing, and when I looked back down at him his eyes were empty of life. Whispering rapid prayers over his soul, I pressed his face against my chest. Then I lowered his head to the ground, stood on weak legs and searched around for a place to lay his body and rocks to cover him. But through the valley came the sounds of Englishmen, still following me. I heard the distant voices, thick with their crude accents, and the clop of hooves. Numbly, I gathered up my weapons, sword and axe.