Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (2 page)

Bloody and broken, we had made it as far as a glen pocked with rocky overhangs and small caves, somewhere near Balquhidder. We laid the worst of our wounded in the largest cave, stinking of mold and sheep droppings and crawling with insects, high up on the hillside. In a few days, God permitting, we would be on our way again. Yet every step would be clouded with the dread that John of Lorne’s Highlanders might attack again. Ah, how can we drive out the English when we cannot stop fighting our own?

Stubborn! Stupid! Fool!

“The sun out today, my lord?”

I turned at the sound of the voice, so feeble I might not have heard it, had I not been so close to its source. Behind me, near the cave’s opening, a man sat propped crookedly against the wall. He was perhaps in his mid twenties, but the toll of battle had added a decade or more. A faint webbing of veins traced purple across his milk-pale skin. Curly, dark red hair lay in matted clumps on the top and right side of his head. But on the left... the hair was gone. An oozing mass of dried blood and mangled flesh marked the place where, only a day ago, his ear had been. The right eye was swollen shut, too, the lid a lumpy, mottled patch of blue and green.

“Aye,” I said. “Bright and bold.”

“Good.” He half-smiled. “My Muriel will like that. She’s an ill-tempered beast when it’s gloomy.” A shiver gripped him hard, made his teeth clack. When it had passed, he patted his lap and the ground. Finding nothing, he drew his hand to his chest to cradle the other arm against the chill. His right arm was nothing but a stump – a bloody, grotesque stump – the hand hewn clean off by a Highlander’s axe. Someone had wrapped it in rags, but already they were soaked red.

I unclasped my cloak, flecked brown with battle-blood, and draped it across his legs. “Is Muriel your wife?”

“Daughter. My wife, she died last year.” A tear squeezed from his good eye, blue as the winter sky, and streaked its way down his dirty cheek, leaving a jagged white trail. “My son, too. He was only three months old.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Children should never die so young. Nor wives.” A wave of grief crashed inside my chest. My first wife, Isabella of Mar, had died in childbirth at not yet eighteen. Too young, too beautiful, and too much a part of me. Lately, every time I had looked at my daughter, who now tottered on the precipice of womanhood, it had sent a knife of sorrow through my heart because I saw so much of her mother in her: the sweeping, dark lashes that contrasted sharply with her corn-gold hair, the peculiar way she thrust her chin forward when determined to have her way, the dimples that creased her cheeks when she smiled. The pain of memories does not so much as fade, as it hides and waits in unexpected places. Even in the innocent face of a child. But Marjorie was not a child anymore.

A yellow dung-fly circled my head sluggishly, its annoyance yanking me back into the present. I swatted it away. “Tell me your name.”

He laughed – a dry, raspy cackle, which quickly deteriorated into a hacking cough. Another violent shiver rattled his body, so that his words came out in broken bits. “N-never had a... k-king ask my name before. It’s Col–Colin. ”

“What happened to them, Colin?” I squatted down to hear him better. He had little strength left, even for words, but he told me his story, perhaps because he thought it was the last thing he would ever do.

“I was in the hills with Muriel. May. The hawthorn was in bloom – clouds and clouds of it. How my lass loved to watch the lambs play king of the cairn. She laughed until her belly ached.” The vaguest of smiles curved his mouth, but soon the corners trembled and slipped downward. “And then, I saw the smoke above the hills. I knew,
knew
it was my home burning. I snatched her up and ran like the devil. But he was... they were already there. I was...” Colin paused, his disfigured face contorting even more with the agony of the memory. Several breaths passed before he whispered, “Too late.”

No need to ask who ‘they’ was. It had been happening as long as anyone could remember – the English marching imperiously north every year when the days lengthened, plundering and murdering, striking terror wherever they went like the Hounds of Hell unleashed. Ever since Longshanks had cozened our nobles into signing the Ragman’s Roll at Norham.

 “Must have been twenty of the damned Englishmen,” Colin said, little wheezes now leaking out in between strained breaths. “Maybe more, I don’t know. There was so much smoke. Merciful Father, it was everywhere. The thatch was burning. Flames bursting from the door. When the roof fell in… I thought they were dead.” His trembling stopped as he winced at a pain and drew his maimed arm tighter to his chest. Gulping, he struggled to pull in another ragged breath, before continuing. “Then… I heard my son cry. He was alive! But they’d heard him, too, and they went to the haystack where the sound had come from. One of them plunged his sword into it. Then another threw a torch on it. My wife jumped up and ran, holding the boy, but it was for naught. They were all around her. Everywhere, everywhere. They... they ripped my son from her arms and flung him to the ground. He stopped crying. Stopped moving.” A long silence followed as he steeled himself to go on. “I knew if I went down there, I would die, too, and so would Muriel. So I hid. Like a coward, I hid in the hawthorns, my hand over Muriel’s mouth so they wouldn’t hear her whimpering. One after another, they raped my wife. Raped her, until she was bloody from her hips to her heels. I thought they would let her go, but... oh, sweet Jesus, they –” He tilted his head back, his mouth hanging open as he let out a sob. When he spoke again, his words were hollow with loss. “They c-cut her throat. Left her there to bleed like a butchered pig.”

I laid a hand on his shoulder in comfort. Even through the cloth of his shirt, crusted with the dried blood from his missing ear, his flesh was ice cold. “Where’s your daughter now?”

 “In Aberdeen, with my sister. Her husband died at Methven. She has six children to raise on her own. Seven now.” He swallowed hard, my cloak wadded in a shaking hand against his stomach. “Whoring bastards. I’ll slice their bollocks off and shove them down their gullets, then strangle them with their own entrails.” Bruised lips twisting in a sneer, he gazed down at his useless stump.

When they’ve killed your family and burnt your home to the ground, what is there left to do but dream of revenge?

If only a short while ago, I had wondered if the struggle was worth such sacrifices, I wondered no longer. Enough of suffering, enough of fear. No more.

A moan drifted from the back of the cave. Dawn stretched its pale light upon the clotted mass of battered bodies. Shapes came into focus, although it was a wretched, ugly site to behold. The stink of blood, urine and infection hung thick in the air. It might have turned my stomach, had I not been so accustomed to it. Somewhere, a body stirred. The scrape of a weapon over stone. Muffled weeping. The hushed whisper of desperate prayers. Another ghostly moan. Longer, more distressed.

I ventured further inside the cave. With dozens crammed tight in such a small space, there was barely room to walk between. I went slowly, carefully, I thought. My foot struck a stone. I stumbled, threw my hand against the wall to stop my fall and quickly righted myself. A sticky veil clung to the whiskers of my beard. I pulled back, my eyes focusing as I scraped at my stubbled chin. Before me, a cobweb glinted with morning dew like pearls strung on silver threads.

Last night, I had watched the wee spider dangling from the cave’s ceiling, trying in vain to weave her web. Finally, a chance draft had wafted her to the wall, where she anchored her thread. Aye, the spider was still there, her intricate task complete. Resting now. Her creation still mostly intact, despite my clumsiness. Already a fly had become entangled in it, its meager movements tugging in vain at the fibers. The spider scurried forth, then froze, waiting for the fly to exhaust itself.

Beyond the web, a spindly, narrow-shouldered figure stood motionless. With an overturned kettle hat – doubtless taken from a fallen Englishman at Methven – tucked beneath his arm, Gil de la Haye gazed solemnly at James Douglas lying on the floor, as if studying him. Then he crouched down and balanced the helmet on his knees. With a thin hand, he brushed James’ cheek. Next, he took a cloth from inside the helmet and twisted it. Brown water streamed into the helmet. As tenderly as if he were caring for a sick child, he dabbed James’ forehead and temples. A fierce warrior in his own right, Gil was sometimes physician to us. He knew how to treat wounds, set bones, and what herbs to use to soothe an aching head or settle a disagreeable stomach. And when we were desperate for a prayer, it was Gil who repeated long verses of Latin, imploring God to guide our blades through English hearts and our shields and armor to ward off their arrows.

I picked my way through the tangle of bodies and discarded weapons. As I squatted down beside Gil, I said lowly, “Fever?”

“No, not so far, thanks be to God.” Gil handed me the helmet, water sloshing onto the ground. He bent nearer to James, whose right arm lay across his chest. Between wrist and elbow, the arm was bent at an odd angle, the broken point of the bone jutting against the inside of his flesh. Gil rubbed a hand across his hawkish nose and sighed. “The sooner I set it, the better, I suppose. But he’ll be in more pain then. He won’t sleep. Best to let him rest for now.”

We all needed our rest – only, I could not sleep with so many troubled thoughts crowding my mind. Last night after the battle, I had not slept at all and the night before that Elizabeth had thrashed beside me.

Yesterday, there was something she had wanted to tell me. A small thing, she said, that could wait. How long before I would see her again, before she could tell me? Would I ever know? Pray to God my brother Nigel could get her and the rest to Orkney: my daughter Marjorie and sisters, Christina and Mary. There, they could wait out the winter and join us in Ulster come spring, where Elizabeth’s father was the earl.
If he would have us. A distant hope, but what other sort was there now?

“Take care of him, Gil.” I set the helmet down and rose on stiff knees. A faint breeze stirred the hair on the nape of my neck. At the opening of the cave, a tall shadow blocked the light from outside.

“Cursed spider,” my brother Edward growled. In one arm, he clutched a small bundle of logs. Scowling, he waved his free hand in the air and, with a flick, smacked his palm against the wall, crushing the tiny creature. Then, too loudly: “Ah, dear brother, there you are!”

A collective grumble of protest rolled through the cramped space. Without grace or care, Edward made his way to me, kicking a wounded soldier in the shin. The man pulled his fist back, aiming for Edward’s kneecap. But Edward was too quick. He snatched a log as thick around as his forearm from the bundle and swung it downward. Finger bones cracked. The man howled, then swore, “Virgin-fucking bastard!”

“I am no bastard,” – Edward’s lips flickered in a wry smile, the log held out before him menacingly – “but I do favor virgins. Now get out of my way, you steaming puddle of dog vomit, before I piss on your wounds.”

The man dragged himself backward, his teeth gritted as his wound scraped over rocks. Blood streamed from his leg, leaving a bright trail that darkened as it seeped into the dirt. Gil leered long at Edward, as he went to the man to tend to his freshly opened wound.

I took a step and banged my head on the low ceiling. Biting back a curse, I went to my brother.

“How many are we now, Edward?” My fingers probed the lump on my skull.

Shrugging, he heaved the logs upon the fading coals of the fire. A cloud of ashes burst upward. Soon, everyone was awake, those closest coughing, and those that were not...  well, it was doubtful they were even still alive. “A guess? Eighty less than yesterday, give or take twenty. Sorry to be so vague, but I haven’t had time to take a formal count. While you’ve been staring at the wall and lamenting your poor luck, I’ve been getting things done. Gathering firewood, for one. Sending men to fetch water and find food. Assigning the more alert ones to stand guard. Do you know that last night I tripped over a corpse in here? Boyd said his name was... och, I don’t bloody know. Maybe he didn’t say. Does it matter at this point? Anyway, we were all too tired until this morning to drag him outside and pile stones over him. The maggots were already at work on him. That’s where I just came from. Burying a dead man whose festering wounds stank like rotted meat. A man I never knew. Soon, the buzzards will be circling. That’s certain to alert the English to us.” Sniffing, he looked around. “Dear God, it reeks of death in here still. Have you checked them all?”

He nudged at a nearby lump with the toe of his boot. The body rolled away, groaning.

“Hah, not that one then.” Hands propped upon his hips, he swung around to face me. “Well, Robert, what next? We can’t move on with this many ailing. And if we stay long we’re sure to be found and slaughtered in our sleep. Doomed either way, it seems.”

“We stay. For a few days, at least.” I brushed past him, as weary of body as I was of his crassness.

“And eat
what
, exactly?” he said, his voice nearly lost against a cascade of coughing from behind him. “My gut’s so empty I can feel my spine against the back of my navel.”

Ignoring him, I stumbled out into the daylight. As I passed Colin, I saw that his eye was open, unfocused. His body an empty husk. Thank God he had not suffered long. I plucked up my cloak and slung it over a shoulder.

As I stepped outside, I squinted against the glare of sunlight. The chill was lifting. There would not be many warm days left in the year. We needed to push on, find someplace safer. Those not gravely wounded and in the few caves tucked into the hillside were scattered on the slope below, some huddled behind boulders, as if they could hide. In truth, we were no better than lame deer, hoping the wolves did not stumble upon our scent. One keen pair of eyes from any vantage point within miles and we were fallen prey.

Close by, a sheep trail wended along the ridge before plunging downhill. I followed it, not so much because I had any purpose in mind, but because it was easier to let my feet carry me toward some unknown, than to stay and face the misery I had caused.