Chapter 23

Fairly soused from hefty quantities of the priory’s beer, many of the Caledonian bountiers awoke still reveling in their lopsided victory as a new day dawned. Even a generous stuffing of charcoal mutton the night before and the interruption of a vicious dog circling in their midst had failed to dull the edge on their blood lust.

“Wake up lads—it’s time to string up that giant!” someone shouted.

That seemed to be a common refrain among the drunken lot as the men began to scrounge for breakfast. Most wanted revenge for Scarba’s death. But they all knew an execution could only be carried out when their Saxon overseer gave the order. And that was not likely anytime soon.

Plumat busied himself interrogating clergymen on the other side of the cathedral grounds. He had spent much of the night watching the monks tend to Earl deLongait, then searching for felons and trying to determine where the treasure and his squire had gone—to no avail.

Brude McAlpin maintained a stony silence all night, hoping the enemy’s attention on him would allow his allies to make good their escape. It had taken every length of rope, chain and cord the Caledonians could pilfer from the church to bind McAlpin tight enough to prevent his escape. They taunted and jeered at him like some hulking beast with its senses knocked out. They even slopped beer and sheep manure on him, secure in the belief that his will had been soundly broken.

The giant allowed the blaggards to continue their festivities. Despite his enormous strength advantage, he never uttered a word or made any real attempt to escape.

Apparently out of fear of rekindling their prisoner’s anger, no one had attempted to remove the Pict’s helmet that they might finally look on the face of their enemy. The armored giant posed a real enigma for such backward men—a prize to be sure, but not one to be enjoyed unwisely. Besides, they had plenty of time for sport. The day’s revelry had just begun, or so they thought.

“One more time, abbot. Where’s the boy?” Plumat continued, having slapped an empty gauntlet across his thigh impatiently several times during the morning’s inquisition. “He’s a wanted felon and I intend to see him hanged for murder. Tell me now, or tell me while you bleed—makes me no never mind. And if you think that robe will protect you, you best think again.”

Trussed up in front of his own hovel like some witch set for a burning at the stake, Prior Bede’s anger grew with each verbal lash from Plumat. “You Saxon blaggards have violated every tenet of the Church. God may forgive you, but I won’t. And neither will I help you in your black deeds. Be gone with you, Anglishman. Enough of this blasphemy!”

Plumat motioned for one of the Caledonian henchmen to deliver another smack across the Prior’s face. The man hesitated, unsure just how far Saxon justice would allow the torture to proceed.

“Hit ‘im, damn you!” Plumat roared.

A solid slap fell on the Prior, followed by a second one. “I said loosen his tongue, you drengleslob—not knock it out!” Plumat stepped forward and shoved the Caledonian aside. “Tell me what I need to know priest, or I’ll let this blaggard build a fire and roast your fat ass for breakfast.”

Prior Bede inhaled a deep breath and spat as hard as he could, landing a blob of bloody phlegm squarely in the center of Plumat’s heraldry. “Get thee gone, Saxon, or I warn you, all the Caledonian henchmen in creation won’t be able to save you from the fires of retribution.”

Only his innate fear of killing a clergyman prevented Plumat from allowing his anger to override justice at that moment. He gritted his teeth and shouted, “Set fire to one of the outbuildings! We’ll see how far this cloistered coven will go to protect a felon when they see their life’s work going up in smoke.”

* South of Glasgow *

“Why are you stopping?” Sabritha demanded impatiently, having spent half the morning trouncing along in silence in the back of the cart.

Daynin’s eyes went first to the creek running alongside the track, then to the squire, sound asleep in the cart behind the woman, then back to Sabritha. “Abaddon needs rest and some water and grain. It will take hours for the Duke’s men to ferret out which trail we took through Lamington Leech. By then, we’ll have made the coast. I only hope Brude can find his way there, else I may have to break my word and leave ‘im behind.”

“You men and your word. You’d think your word was more precious than life itself, the way you value it.”

Having quickly unhitched Abaddon, Daynin turned to deal with Sabritha’s latest tirade. “If you cannae see the importance of a mahn doing what ‘e says ‘e’ll do, then there’s damn lit’le point in trying to explain it to you.”

Even Daynin seemed surprised by the tenor of his words and the heavy highland brogue his voice had just adopted, seemingly without thought. It felt like he had just quoted his father, word for word, accent for accent. He could tell that Sabritha had been taken aback by it, too.

“Well—I guess your stay among the Anglish has finally worn off, eh plowboy? Seems your language and your manners have reverted to their crude Scotian roots.”

A hot flash rippled straight up Daynin’s back. “Sabritha, I dinnae mean to snap at you. But if a mahn has no honor, he has nothing. I find it impossible to imagine that a woman as wily and intelligent as you are cannot understand that, or at least accept it in her mahn.”

“Her mahn? Is that what you think you are now—my man?”

“Aye. I hope so, at least. I want to be your mahn, for sure. Judging from that kiss last night, I have good reason, do I not?”

Sabritha turned and climbed over the sleeping squire. She dropped down from the back of the cart and strode purposely toward the creek, tossing her long black hair and a sharp rebuke over her shoulder. “I’m gonna wash off this sheep smell, highlander. A good mahn might think about finding us a rabbit for breakfast whilst I’m doing that. A fire would be nice, too, so’s we can cook it while I warm up.”

Daynin’s face turned so hot at that instant, he could have kindled a fire without a flint. Instead, he reached down and grabbed a handful of sharp rocks from the track, then marched off into the brush to find some small game. She’s going to be a handful, that’s for sure, he mused. Just like my mother was for my father!

* Abbotsford Priory *

The vast expanse of tombstones that defined the priory’s southern boundary was more than a little frightening to the Greek. He had never before seen such an incredible array of death markers and cenotaphs, all in neat rows with idols, symbols, and strange markings decorating each.

Mediah’s beefy hand reached out to stop Olghar’s progress, pushing him gently to his knees behind a large tree at the edge of the bog. The ground ahead lay wide open to view from the church except for a head-high wall that encircled the hundred score of tombstones.

“What is it, Greek?” the beggar asked.

“We’d best be circling west, along the back wall of these grounds. We’ve nothing to cover us ahead. If we stay between the bog’s edge and the wall, I think we can reach cover on the other side without anyone seeing us. I’ll tie the horses here so’s we can proceed.”

Olghar sniffed the air, his guide stick rising almost imperceptibly to point at something his nose had caught in the wind. “Wood smoke, and lots of it—but not a campfire. Something large is ablaze.”

Having helped Mediah with the horses, Kruze moved up and quickly dropped to his knees beside the beggar. “T’would appear the mercenaries are doing what they do best—destroying the church. Let’s just hope that’s all they’ve accomplished.”

“Can you see Thor anywhere? He should have come back by now.”

“No, Olghar,” Mediah answered. “It’s a bit too foggy to see very far, but I’m sure he’s around, somewhere. Not to worry, we’ll find him. With all this smoke, he likely can’t pick up our scent.”

“Aye, that could be it,” the wretch agreed, though the catch in his voice told a somewhat different story.

The trio crept around the perimeter of the cemetery, careful to keep the wall between them and any would-be lookouts, though it seemed there was little concern for new arrivals. No guards, watchers or even the occasional stroller were in evidence anywhere on the grounds. It was too quiet—much too quiet.

At the far end of the wall next to the ruins of what must have been a workshop, a heap of old straw and sheep dung had been piled waist high. Mediah made a dash across the open ground, darted around the pile of straw and charged headlong through what remained of the stable’s back entrance. The place stood empty. Outside, nothing moved. Even the breeze had stopped, allowing the acrid black smoke on the other side of the grounds to hang in an ugly low cloud.

Kruzurk took Olghar’s arm and hurried him along to join Mediah. Once inside the stables, a quick look at Mediah’s pained expression told Kruzurk something terrible had happened. Mediah gestured toward the window. His lips formed the word “Thor” but he did not speak aloud. Fifty paces across the yard, the big dog lay sprawled on its side, a crossbow bolt jutting out of his ribs. Mediah drew his finger across his throat to indicate the time worn symbol of death.

“Any sign of the bountiers?” Kruze whispered.

“None, m’lord. This place is quieter than the Duke’s dungeon. They must have come and gone already. Mayhaps at first light.”

“Can you see my dog anywhere?” came Olghar’s pitiful query. “He’s never run off and left me like this.”

Kruzurk patted the ragged old man on the back and said, “We’ll uh—look for Thor once we get you settled with the monks.”

“Perhaps I should go alone,” Olghar offered. “If there’s trouble. . . .”

“No reason to expect trouble. After all, we are the Duke’s men.”

Olghar turned as if to look straight into Kruzurk’s eyes. “M’lord, I may be blind, but I’m no fool. You didn’t come all this way—at night—with a blind man leading you—to do the King’s business. Of that, I am quite certain.”

“You’re right—you’re no fool. The truth is, we’ve come to fetch a boy. These bountiers mean to stretch his neck if they find him first. And I’m responsible for the bounty on his head. That’s why we had to make haste. I fear we are too late.”

A single grimy hand reached out for Kruzurk’s shoulder. The beggar pushed himself to his feet, his cane divining a path toward the door. Tip-tapping in the general direction of the graveyard, Olghar said, “Fear not, m’lord. I’ve a feeling about these things. We’ll find the boy and right the wrong done ‘im. You and the Greek stay here and I’ll see what’s what. If all’s well, I’ll return for you shortly.”

* The Firth of Clyde, Scotia *

It was just past midday when the Shiva finally made its turn upstream within sight of fortress Dumbarton’s ruins, high on the north bank of the Clyde. Though a mere five leagues from where Daynin and Sabritha creaked along in Kruzurk’s cart, Ean had no way of knowing for sure where the boy was or even if he still lived.

“Make lively there, you lot!” the captain bellowed. “Watch your depth—and trim those sheets! We don’t want to run aground in this bloody river. God knows, I’ve no wish to stay in this monster infested land any longer than need be.”

Troon lay sprawled across a hatch cover, exactly where he’d been since being fished out of the sea. Ean couldn’t tell if the wiry little arrow smith was sleeping, passed out or delirious from fever. He decided to leave him alone for the time being. Letting sleeping dogs lie seemed the best plan, especially when dealing with a grumpy old man who had just been dragged like a ballast log on the high seas. Besides, the longer he delayed waking Troon, the more time Ean had to figure out a way to keep the captain from tossing them both overboard at the next sandbar in the firth.

Having taken a position on the bow to watch for rocks ahead, Ean let out a wistful cry to the winds. “You’re out there, boy. I can feel it. If only I knew where!”

* Plumat’s Army *

Another hard morning’s ride was again telling a tale on the backsides of the bountiers. Several straggled far behind the main body of Plumat’s army. One or two disappeared along the way, either from fear or loss of interest in the Duke’s campaign. The rest had fanned out to forage and bring in new troops to replace those lost in the battle, rejoining Plumat’s main force just south of Lamington Leech.

Half a score of new men had been recruited since leaving the priory that morning. As usual, the jingle of silver played far louder than any trumpet or drumbeat when it came to enticing the locals to risk their lives in a cause for which they had no allegiance.

“Hold!” Plumat ordered, his arm raised high in the air. Unused to the chore of commanding troops himself, he wheeled Cauldron about to make sure his minions understood what he expected.

They did not, of course. Some slept in the saddle. Some were distracted by the vast panorama of deep, winding valleys that lay ahead of them. And the rest simply had no training to act like real soldiers, mounted or otherwise.

“Hold, damn you!” Plumat shouted. That stemmed the unruly column only by the shock value of the command. Most of the cutthroat mob did not wait for further orders. They dismounted, slipping from their horses helter-skelter to immediately go about establishing a day camp.

Shaking his head in dismay, Plumat swung one leg over the high pommel of his jousting saddle to wait for the rest of the ragged lot to straggle in. The Saxon knew every man would be needed for the next stage of the campaign. He could not risk losing even one of the worthless troops he had with him. Leaving deLongait behind had been a serious enough blow, and losing the squire as well. Now he faced an arduous march north into ever more hostile territory with men he neither knew nor could trust.

The last man in the column finally came over the rise, leading his horse on foot into the camp. “We’ve followers, m’lord,” he said to Plumat with little enthusiasm, a thumb jutting back over his shoulder toward the road behind them.

“Followers? What do you mean followers?”

“Dunno, m’lord. They’s a column o’ dust risin’ in the south. Has to be riders. Comin’ ‘ard too, t’would seem. And mayhaps a wagon or two, given the rumble.”

“Why in the bloody hell didn’t you come up and warn me before now?”

The levy trudged on by, barely taking note of Plumat’s commanding presence. “This bleedin’ ‘orse o’ mine ‘ad ‘is own mind, you might say. I barely got ‘im to walk up that bloody slope, I did.”

Plumat’s leg instantly swung over the pommel and back into its stirrup. He wheeled Cauldron around and dug his spurs in hard. “No one moves until I return, is that clear?” he shouted, not waiting for an answer from any of the confused faces.