Chapter 32
Chapter
Thirty-Two
R uari didn't feel the sharp bite of the wind or the numbing cold, only the rage like a weapon that he kept finely sharpened, for things lost--a look in deep blue eyes, a mischievous smile, the challenge in a slender hand that confidently moved the game piece across the board then took his knight, the sound of laughter...
Gone now. So that only the rage was left and burned, slow, patient as the sharpening of a blade at a forge as he watched the English soldiers ride out at first light.
They would eventually find the others--a boot poking through the snow, the edge of a tunic that caught the eye, a riderless horse.
He wanted them to find them. Then, they would look for more, hunting for dead men... hunting for him, buying him time. But he would not be there. He would be in the last place they would think to look.
He waited through the long hours of the day, then waited until the light faded and torches burned at the top of the wall to the fortress through the growing darkness beneath a lowering sky.
Before wrapping the man in the deer carcass and leaving him at the gate, he had stripped Blackwood's personal guard of his tunic and sword, then took his horse. Now, he left the edge of the woods and skirted the edge of the moor, taking the path the English soldiers had taken, avoiding the marshy muck that could drag down both man and horse.
He reached the gates, features concealed behind the leather helm, and raised a hand in acknowledgement as one of the guards at the top of the wall called out. His hand at the handle of the sword, Ruari rode up to the gates, and called out.
"I bring word for his lordship."
There was a moment's hesitation as a guard leaned over the top of the wall with a torch in hand. As the moment became several, Ruari's thoughts went to his plan for escape if the guard should refuse to open the gates.
The torch overhead briefly disappeared. Then the gate slowly opened. He gave a wave of acknowledgement, and guided the horse through the opening.
It had been many years since he'd been in the old village. As a lad it had been high adventure, hiding among the ruins of tumbled stones with Gabhran's stories of invaders. In his imagination then, warriors attacked and sacked the village, a horde against a brave handful of his companions and himself. Even then little remained of the dome roofed structures that had once been part of a thriving settlement of farmers and traders.
Only the church had survived, built by monks several hundred years earlier, a stone structure with a chapel, storage chambers, and a small chamber for the monk who served the village and surrounding crofts.
As lads they had fought their battles, beating back the enemy, but with a reverence for the old church and a bit of fear of old places that most children have. It was only later, when he was sent away, that he learned about real fear at the hands of another--those who served God, sworn to protect those who were innocent...
Now, only the church, a long shed, and the stone half wall at the well, remained, glimpsed in the flickering light of a half dozen torches set about the yard. By the sound of the horses as he rode near, the long shed served as stables for the garrison. There was no guard at the stable.
He retrieved the bow then slipped between two horses at the end. There was a shuffling of hooves, then a warm breath and a nudge at his shoulder. He ran a hand over the rump of one horse and felt the familiar Fraser mark that James put on all of their horses.
Add horse thief to Blackwood's list of offenses, along with rape and murder, offenses that every Scot to a man would see a man hanging from the nearest post and left to bleed out.
Soon, Ruari thought, as he stepped into the shadows at the side of the shelter.
By the number the English soldier had provided as he lay dying in the forest, at least a dozen more remained at the fortress after the column of English had ridden out. With four at the wall that meant others were somewhere inside the compound along with retainers and others like those who rode with Blackwood.
He had to move quickly. It would only be a matter of time before one of the guards informed Blackwood that one of 'his men' had returned. He needed that time to learn where the others were, and to find Blackwood.
The English had established the outpost the year before, building up the stone wall that surrounded the village with heavy timber ramparts. The conflict at the borderlands the year before while he was gone had brought everything to a head and the English were forced to abandon the fortress, until the past summer months when a company of English soldiers had returned to the garrison. It was here that Blackwood had come after the attack at Lechlede, and here he would die.
He saw no soldiers inside the walls of the garrison. Given the time of day, they were probably at evening meal and would then replace those at the top of the wall.
He followed the faint glow of light from window slits at the church, slipping through the darkness unseen.
The doors at the main entrance to the church had been replaced. Beyond those doors, Ruari knew, was a landing the led to the main chapel with its arched ceiling and altar, long wood planks where the people of the village once sat during prayers. Two chambers were to one side of the chapel, with the monk's chambers and store rooms off the other side.
He moved past the main entrance , the light from the torches fading into darkness, as he slipped down the side of the church to the back.
There had once been a wall there that surrounded the monk's garden. Most of the wall was gone, the stones crumbling over time, even when he fought those imaginary enemies as a lad. He slipped through a gap in the stones and moved to the back of the church.
The door at the back of the church was still there and intact. Once it had opened easily at the persuasion of two young lads, but time and the weather had taken their toll. The wood was warped and wedged firmly in place. He ran his hand down the length of the wood, his fingers brushing the bronze hinges, then the latch .
Ruari wedged that fine English blade that he'd taken from the dead soldier under the latch, then leaned his weight against it. Bronze grated against bronze as he pried the latch open, then flattened himself against the outside wall, the claymore gripped in his left hand and listened for any sounds from within that someone might have heard.
No sounds came from inside the church or the guards at the gate. He slowly wedged the door open and slipped inside.
A familiar, cloying smell of damp stones and old places closed like a fist at his throat, and old memories slipped through the darkness and moved across his skin of another place such as this--the whispers of the monk amid the cries of the helpless, and then as now, a waiting silence followed by a startled gasp, the weeping of a helpless child...
He pushed it back into that place that lived in the shadows deep inside him, and moved through the dark toward the flickering light of a torch, and voices.
"Marshal has made the peace with the Scottish king at Stirling. To remain goes against the word of King Henry. We should leave and return to England as soon as the weather allows," someone argued.
"I serve the king!" The reply came, the tone dangerous, filled with authority. "And you serve me! This land-hold is mine and I intend to keep it!"
Blackwood. Ruari recognized the one who had made that reply, even if his response hadn't revealed him. It was a voice remembered from Calais.
"The king would never condone what happened at Lechlede ... " the other continued to press his point.
"What was done... the Fraser woman... !"
Blackwood cut him off. "What happened at Lechlede was necessary, Mallory, to send a message so that Fraser would have no doubt that I am now his overlord."
"I know the man from the border war, " the one called Mallory protested. "He is a fierce warrior. By what you have done... "
Blackwood made a scathing sound. "For what I have done, he will have no choice but to come to me. And then he will die. With Fraser lands secured, I will be able to guarantee our king will have all of Scotland no matter the agreement at Stirling!"
"But the dead soldier... " Mallory protested. "It means there are others about."
"One dead soldier," Blackwood dismissed it. "Our men will find any who are out there, and then send another message to Fraser. You overstep yourself! You are captain of my guard, " he spat out. "Do not challenge me again in this!"
When Mallory had gone, Blackwood shouted for his steward.
"I would have food, and more wine!" he ordered when his steward appeared . "And wood for the fire in this God-forsaken, cold place!"
Ruari watched as he drained the wine goblet that sat at the table before him then threw himself into a high-backed chair that Ruari recognized--like other things at Lechlede that had been taken.
He stepped back into the shadows. He had no illusion that he would escape the fortress alive. That was not his intention.
This was not about Calais. It was about something far more important and he was going to repay Blackwood--pain for pain, brutality for brutality-- with a slow death.
The wine was only passably acceptable. Blackwood's choice would have been the fine Bordeaux he had enjoyed at Henry's table in London. But this was not London, he reminded himself as he awaited his supper.
It was the north of Scot land, where the clans--Fraser clan in particular--had been allowed to govern themselves--warlike, almost primitive, with many claiming lineage to those who had fought with William of Normandy. But no more!
For years the strength of the Fraser clan, along with other clans, had thwarted English attempts to bring the people to heel and lay claim to the north country for the crown. All that had changed... He had changed it with the claim Henry had promised.
It was a birthright, Fraser lands, albeit by marriage, along with the prized Fraser horses that old Simon Fraser had bred down through the generations. Some of those highly prized animals were now in the shed that served as temporary stables. And that was just the beginning.
He would have them all, and he would have old Simon Fraser's whelp--James Fraser--and all his kinsmen hanging from the walls of Lechlede so that all would know who ruled all of Scotland once and for all.
He thought of Linnea and the empty shell of their marriage. She had provided what he wanted most--the claim to Fraser land. But in time that could be set aside. He would have to persuade Henry of it.
Perhaps a son by Fraser's widow once he was gone, he thought. She had been a lively piece. It was an interesting prospect that would more than secure his claim once James Fraser was gone.
Even with what he'd heard, the woman's fierce strength had surprised him. She had not begged or pleaded with him. There had been no words at all. Helpless, the weapon taken from her and her hands bound, she had defied him with the look in her eyes like no weapon he had ever confronted, that had made the taking of her less than pleasurable. As if she was the victor.
He rubbed the still fresh wound just below his left eye. Her blade had very nearly blinded him. She would yet pay for that. He would make certain of it, after she watched her husband and children die.
"Where is my supper?" he shouted, unable to rid himself of a thought that had plagued him that long way from Lechlede. He had found none of the chieftain's children at Lechlede.
They had undoubtedly escaped. They would not escape again. He would take great pleasure as Fraser watched them die one by one, then himself.
The anger eased as Edmond, his steward, finally returned carrying a platter covered with a cloth against the cold and whatever crawled in this infernal place.
"Will there be anything else, milord?" his steward asked.
Blackwood waved him off as he poured more of the wretched wine. The first order, he thought, was to have wine sent from London. He reached for the edge of cloth at the platter. He would also have his steward see about the deer carcass. Deer meat would be measurably better than the mutton he was forced to endure, the beast taken from Fraser keep along with other things he had need of. He lifted the cloth from the platter, then sprang back from the table and bellowed for his steward.
By God, he would have the man flogged, beaten within an inch of his life! He shouted again amid curses, a dead rat floating in his mutton stew.