Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
I t was called Cu Lodain in ancient times, a village that once sat at the edge of the moor when his ancestor first set foot on this land, the forest thick where he now hid as he had as a boy before he was sent away to the abbey in the north--to tame his spirited ways. So long ago that it seemed another lifetime, someone else he had once known.
The village, like those adventures of years before, was long gone except for a few low building. What remained, stone walls and crumbling stones, had been taken by the English, heavy timber fortifications rising above the stone walls, and inside... soldiers of the English army, and Blackwood, his banner snapping in the cold winter wind as it had at Calais, as if it was a living thing, the red dragon with wings spread, breathing fire and death.
Once, he would have charged in, attacked, not cared who he cut down. Reckless.
It had been that way at Calais and he would carry the mark of that encounter until he drew last breath. But this was different. There was only himself, not an entire army about him as there had been in the past. That was gone. Now he would fight as his kinsmen fought.
He cared not that he was but one, and there were two score within. There was only one he wanted, and he would not stop until he had Blackwood under his blade. That it might mean his own death mattered not. There was nothing inside him now except rage.
As he had countless times before in countless places serving the French king then James and the clan, he knew the risk, had felt the cold hand of death before, and simply accepted it.
He accepted it now. Everything he had hoped for, the one thing that had mattered, was now lost to him.
When night fell, he wrapped the thick fleece around himself in the shelter of thick pine trees and ate strips of deer meat and apples as light from torches glowed in the distance. Then as the cold set in, he wrapped himself in thick fleece and sheltered under thick pine boughs.
When first light came, he stripped the saddle from the stallion, along with leather pouches and the weapons he'd brought. He loosely tethered the stallion. It would be easy enough to free himself when he did not return. Ruari had no expectation of leaving there alive.
Throughout the day that followed, he watched the fort, the coming and going of those within, the cook fires with smoke that hovered above the old chapel, and the irony was not lost on him--pure evil in that sacred place. As it had been once before, a long time ago...
The second day, he still watched as heavy clouds rolled down from the highlands and the English prepared for the storm that was coming. He learned their habits, their routines, how many left the fortress at a time, the length of time they were gone, the way they traveled, and when they returned. Blackwood was not among them, but that banner that snapped in the wind with the coming storm was proof enough of his presence at the fortress.
And then the storm came and with it blowing snow that swept across the moor and invaded the forest, whipping pine boughs overhead, covering the ground and growing deep between the trees, any trace that anyone was there soon buried beneath a white mantle
The shelter he built was much like the one Gabhran had built for them when he was a lad no older than Connor. But he remembered it well, the adventure of it, alone in the woods with the old warrior, living off what they had with them and what they could make.
"Use what ye have, boy, including the head on yer shoulders. Look about ye. Learn from the creatures. Think." He had thumped him on the head.
" That's what it's for, aye?"
More than once over the years since, what he'd learned from Gabhran had been the difference between life or death. Even that time in the north country, as a lad no more than fourteen years when he had made a hard choice, took a life, and had been a lad no more.
" Make yer choice, use what ye have... God knows our people have never had much. But ye have courage and yer a smart lad. Do what ye must, then keep moving, don't stop even when ye think ye canna take another step. A man who keeps moving is no' an easy target."
Then Gabhran had sent him off into the forest alone. "Let us see what yer made of, boy. Use yer head and what I've taught ye, and let's see what ye can do. Remember, it matters not if yer outnumbered. It's the wise mon who takes that into account and overcomes the numbers.
"But never assume that yer alone. Every rock, tree, or hiding hole provides shelter, but may also hide an enemy."
He had set off that day years before, confident, full of himself. But as the forest closed around him and there was only the sound of the wind in the tops of the trees, he had taken a wrong turn and found himself back at the encampment expecting a rebuke to find it abandoned with only the remains of the camp fire.
Every rock, tree, and hiding hole... Use what ye have.
Finding himself completely alone had been the most valuable lesson. He smudged his face and arms with charred pieces of wood at the edge of the smoldering camp fire. Then he had taken full stock of the two weapons he had with him--a sling shot, and the sgian-dubh tucked into the top of his boot.
Use what ye have ...
He had gathered rocks and tucked them into the front of the woolen shirt tucked into his brecs--each one a good size for the sling shot and with sharp edges from the rocks they'd broken from. When he had a good number of them, he set off into the forest again.
He followed the lessons Gabhran had taught him, glimpsing the direction the moss grew on the trunks of trees, keeping his footfalls in the soft loam rather than just charging over broken limbs and scattered leaves, staying off the path, instead, moving like one of the creatures, sneaking over down trees, listening before he took the next step.
He had come upon a deer that day, upwind, moving silently through the tree cover that surrounded the small glen. The deer had not moved, but continued to nip at green shoots that grew up through the loam at the forest floor. He was not hunting deer that day, but another who had disappeared as if he was no more than smoke.
Gabhran had not gone far.
Ruari knew his habits, had listened to his words, and was certain of it. With that certainty, moving silently, he circled back, gradually closing the distance to their encampment.
Every rock, tree, and hiding hole provides shelter... Or hides an enemy!
A rabbit that startled from the undergrowth might have been the sign he looked for, if not for the fox that gave chase, both disappearing into thick cover followed by the faint sound as the fox chased the rabbit to ground and then silently disappeared with its meal.
The cover of darkness also added a new challenge and he used his other senses--picking up the muted sound of a footfall. Then another, not deer or fox, but like his own.
In the shadows that gradually descended, he placed a rock in the sling shot, and made it ready. Then the sense of something else in the slight shift of the wind that whispered through the low-hanging branches, felt at his cheek--a scent. Not of animal, but of sweat and man.
A fallen tree. He took aim, let the rock fly, then pulled the slender blade from the sheath at his belt and attacked.
Another lesson learned that day--a larger quarry required a different strategy as Gabhran rose out of the darkness and swatted the blade from his hand, then wrapped a giant paw of a hand around his neck and flipped him over his shoulder and dumped him at his feet.
Spitting dirt and blood from biting his cheek as he landed, Ruari had rolled to his feet, the smaller sgian-dubh pulled from his boot.
"And what do ye plan to do with that wee blade against a mon who stands head and shoulder over ye?" Gabhran had grunted with satisfaction.
Shorter that he was at the time, there was only one recourse--one he'd heard from one of their own men at the practice yard.
"Slit yer bollocks and feed them to the crows!" he had announced with false bravado even as he steadied his trembling hand around the handle of the smaller but very sharp blade.
His initial attack thwarted, dumped on his arse in the dirt, he had rolled to his feet and then circled round ready for the next attack. The last thing he expected was for Gabhran to break out laughing.
With false bravado and no small amount of embarrassment he demanded to know that the war chief was laughing at. Gabhran had stopped then, his expression thoughtful, eyes narrowed.
"Aye, outweighed, no more than a stripling lad, I believe ye would separate me from me manhood." Gabhran had then swept his feet out from under him, pounced on him, yanked his head back and laid a blade against his throat. Another valuable lesson--don't be caught off guard.
The shelter he now built as the storm closed in, was a simple one using things found in the woods--downed tree limbs, others he cut and stripped, making a stout ridge pole to support the other limbs with an opening the length of his arm and as long as he was tall.
Shorter limbs, thick with pine needles were lain across front to back and prevented the snow from sifting down into the inside of the shelter. Dead leaves that had accumulated, provided a thick cushion for the floor of the shelter. The thick pile of leaves provided a barrier to the cold and a cushion against the hard ground.
The skin of water was easily replenished from the snow that fell, and the deer meat provided enough food for several days. Then he laid out his weapons.
He had the bow and a score of arrows, cut from alder wood with bronze tips. It was much easier to use from a distance. He was able to draw the bowstring back and secure it with his left hand while taking aim with the right. When the arrow was released he was able to quickly replace it with another.
The claymore was a more deadly weapon--one blow and a man could be severed in two. But it was a close strike weapon, one on one. The smaller blades were tucked into the top of each boot, and a slightly long blade in the leather sheath at his belt. A length of rope was curled beside the weapons.
This would not be an open confrontation as it had been at Calais or on other battlefields. He was one against two score, possibly more. It must be done one or two at a time. Strike then disappear, but always moving closer to the one target that mattered.
The weather was his final weapon. The English were not experienced with the cold and heavy snow this far north at the edge of the highlands, and there were many to feed inside the fortress. Eventually they would be forced to leave Cu Lodain to hunt.
Water was not the same challenge as food, for the cistern and well in the middle of the old ruins, that had once provided water for the village, was still there. No, it was food that would be the greatest challenge for those within the fortress.
He watched, made his plan, built traps under the cover of the storm as he once had with Gabhran, as if the old warrior watched over his shoulder.
" Use what ye have, boy. And the land--make it yer weapon as well."
Then he waited.
It quit snowing the fourth day.
Ruari emerged from his shelter, ate a fistful of dried berries from his pack and the last of the dried deer meat, then downed both with water from melted snow. Just as he knew they would, the English emerged from Cu Lodain, as first light broke.
There were a half dozen English soldiers--two astride, four afoot--a hunting party by the long pikes carried over the shoulders of two of them while others afoot carried bows and those astride carried long swords.
He covered the entrance to his shelter with more downed limbs, then hooked the bow over his shoulder, and disappeared into the tree cover.