Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
" G et him out of my sight!" Blackwood raged.
Mallory gave a signal to the guard, who dragged the bewildered steward away.
"The man has no idea how the food became contaminated." He chose the word carefully.
"It was not deliberate. The loss of a hand is not warranted, milord... "
Blackwood turned on the captain of his regiment.
"You plead the man's cause?"
"He has served you well, milord. The loss of a hand is severe and would render the man to no more than a beggar, while you have need of his skills while here in Scotland." He poured more wine.
"I simply ask that you consider the effect on your guard. This is a cold, forbidding land and it wears on your men. There is an uneasiness among them over the man whose body was found at the gate these eventide. Hot food and a bit of drink would ease their fears."
"Hot food?" Blackwood threw back at him. "Then let them eat rat!"
In a fit of temper, he swept a platter with stale bread, across the room.
Bread! All he had was stale bread, and not a word yet from the men he had sent out.
"What of the man who returned earlier? What word is there?"
"I have not spoken with him yet." In truth, he had not been able to find the man. There had been too much excitement over a dead rat!
"About Edmund... " Mallory reminded him. Blackwood waved him off.
"Very well, Spare the man the loss of his hand. But I place responsibility for him on you. Have more wine brought!" he ordered.
"The cold in this God-forsaken place makes my bones ache! And find me the soldier who returned. I want to know what word he brings!"
Mallory glanced to the old altar that had been taken for a table where Sir John Blackwood now sat, reclined in the chair with those elegant if crude carvings of a hunt scene with wild boar and that ancient French inscription -- Je Suis Prest-- taken from Lechlede like a trophy. Or an open challenge?
Mallory pushed back the uneasiness for things that had been done, that King Henry had yet to learn of, and went in search of the soldier who had returned earlier.
Blackwood drank to warm himself, and to his success. Lechlede was his, or very nearly his. As soon as there was a break in the storms, he would send a message to London. May the devil take Marshal and his agreement with the Scottish king, he would hand King Henry the entire north of Scotland on a platter by right of his claim.
He had already left a 'message' for the chieftain of Clan Fraser. He would be forced to avenge his family and his clan-- that damnable Scot pride! When he did, he would crush him, and the Fraser clan once and for all. Then, come spring he would summon more men and take Stirling.
The more he drank, the better the wine tasted. Or it might have been the sweet taste of victory that was at hand. He smiled. The king would be forced to acknowledge his accomplishment, and Marshal might well find himself set aside.
The fired burned low at the hearth as he rose slightly unsteady. He raised the goblet to the cross carved in stone at the altar, then tossed back the last of the wine.
The monk's room was small and cramped by what he was accustomed too, and bloody cold. There was a narrow niche of window with a wood shutter that had been repaired and set in place. Beneath it was a brazier where a small fire burned, and a narrow table with a basin used for washing.
Smoke curled from the brazier and drifted toward that narrow slit of window opening. A linen towel had been laid out and the bronze basin was warm to the touch.
His steward was trying to redeem himself, Blackwood thought. He would let him sit, bound hand and foot and strung up like a guinea fowl in the stables for a few days in the freezing weather, and then consider his fate.
Through the wine haze, he felt the stirrings of lust, and thought of Fraser's woman. She had fought him with a rare spirit--no mewling, weak-kneed maid, but a spirited girl who had not hesitated to use the blade.
Girl...
Again the thought came to him that she seemed younger than he expected for one who had been wed to the chieftain of Clan Fraser for almost ten years and borne three children by what he was told. A rare piece, not only spirited, but beautiful... in spite of the marks he'd given her .
Oh, yes, Fraser would come. That cursed Scot pride and thirst for revenge, in a people hardly more than barbarians, would not allow what he'd done to go unpunished.
But he would be the one to hand out punishment--Fraser's death, and then lay claim not only to Fraser land, but perhaps his woman as well.
He unfastened the belt across his tunic, setting aside the short blade, then unfastened the buckles at his shoulders and removed the tunic. He went to the basin and rolled the sleeves of the woolen shirt back and dipped his hands into the basin to wash away the filth of the day.
The water was dark and murky in the half light of a the flame at the oil lamp.
"What the devil?" Blackwood exclaimed.
Was the basin filled with muddied water? Was there nothing of comfort in this cursed place, that he must endure not only the cold and food crawling with vermin, rats, bad wine, and water that was not fit for his horse?
Ah, but when Lechlede was finally his, he would make certain he lived as good as the chieftain... No! Better, he thought.
He would rebuild the stables for those fine Fraser horses. Then, he would rebuild the hall as befit a lord of the manor or, perhaps tear the cursed thing down and build his own fortress.
He reached for a linen towel. At least in that his steward had accomplished at one of his tasks. Still, there was the matter of his supper plate. He couldn't abide such carelessness. He would see about replacing the man, perhaps have one of his household staff sent from London.
He wiped his hands on the linen cloth. Then stared at the cloth. It was stained, and he cursed. Then he realized the stain was from his own hands. He continued to wipe them, the stains on the cloth even in the half light of the oil lamp that flickered were red stark against the white linen.
He was not injured, but by God... !
He stared down at the basin. The surface shimmered, dark red.
Blood!
He cursed, then shouted again for his steward. When the man finally appeared, he thrust the cloth at him.
"The basin," he shouted. "Tis full of blood! What is the meaning of this?"
His steward shook his head. "I do not know, milord. The water was drawn earlier." He angled a look at the basin and the bloody contents.
"Tis the same your men washed with... " he stammered, his gaze downcast, fearing what he might see in that fierce gaze.
"Get it out of my sight, and bring fresh water! Do it now, and make certain there is nothing amiss or you will find yourself hanging from the top of the wall come morn!"
He threw the cloth into the fire.
"Bring me fresh linen! And send Mallory!"
Rage made him restless, pacing the earthen floor of the chapel--common dirt! By God he would have stone floors, and carpets sent from London once Lechlede was his.
The two incidents had made him restless, and fueled the anger. He unleashed on Mallory when he finally appeared.
"What word is there from the column?" he demanded, standing before the hearth, hands braced at the stone mantle.
Mallory collected himself and chose his words carefully. Experience had taught him the least said, and straight to the point, the better. Little time had passed since their last conversation on the matter and the men wouldn't return in the dead of night. They would make their camp in the forest and take up their search at first light. Only then, might the captain send back a man with word of their progress.
"No word yet, milord. And the weather has closed in. It will make any further search impossible until morn... "
"The weather!" Blackwood fired back. He rubbed a hand across his face.
The infernal weather. It was either raining or snowing, making everything a misery. Yet, these damned Scots seemed to think nothing of it, going about their tasks without bother, even prepared to ride against Marshal at Stirling. An uneasiness tightened the muscles at the back of his neck.
"You have sufficient men at the guard?"
Mallory nodded. "Yes, milord, although with the cold it is necessary... "
Blackwood cut him off. "Double the guard and keep them at their posts. These damned Scots are like ghosts the way they appear then disappear. I will not have them slipping inside these walls and murdering us all in our beds!"
"Yes, milord."
When Mallory had gone to see the matter done, his steward returned, with a basin of fresh water and clean linen, or as clean as could be accomplished in the far reaches of the north country. His man set the basin at a small table, the linen folded beside it.
"Is there anything else, milord?" the steward cautiously asked.
"Get out!" Blackwood snapped.
A rat in his evening meal, his wash basin filled with blood! He swept the basin from the top of the table in a fit of temper.
Who had done this? But the deeper question was, how was it done?
He was assured that the fortress was secure, but he was no fool. He was not unaware that there was great dissatisfaction among his soldiers on this extended campaign. Unaccustomed to the harshness of the weather that made the simplest task a labor of fortitude and perseverance with mud and muck that covered everything, woolens that never seemed to dry and made life a constant misery, not to mention the food that defied description, there was bound to be discontent among them. It was not uncommon for men to turn on one another, or the one who commanded them under such conditions.
And what of Mallory? The man was from a well-connected noble family. Did he have ambitions of his own, perhaps favor with the king when he returned to London?
Still he could not see disloyalty from the man. He was highly principled and as much as those principles aggravated Blackwood, the man was of value to him. He crossed the chamber and retrieved his sword, then slipped it from the leather scabbard. He needed to know what word the lone soldier brought.
The wind howled about the ancient chapel, slipping through breaks in the stones at the walls. There seemed not enough wood to fight off the cold.
The substantial amount of wine, poor as it was, eased Blackwood into fitful sleep at his pallet, layers of thick fleece and wool easing the misery of the dirt floor, the sword just under his hand.
He was not given to regret. That was for pathetic, mewling men of no ambition who left their dark deeds to others who had no such weakness. Therefore his nights were not haunted by the things he'd done nor would yet see the need of. Let others talk and make their agreements, then he would see the matter carried out as it suited him.
He had a certain amount of leeway in such things, a reward of past deeds carried out for the king. The rout at Calais had been an unfortunate blight on his record.
Sources had informed him there would be little resistance once he landed and he would be able to establish a hold on that part of the coastline, and then move on Paris. But his sources had not counted on the presence of the mercenaries returning from the Holy Land.
Some might have called it fate, an unfortunate turn of events that could not be foreseen. He did not agree, and the man who had provided information was immediately drawn and quartered and fed to the fish in the channel. The defeat had been costly in both the king's men and his own. But he had escaped unscathed.
For a man who never dreamed of past deeds, images of Calais slipped through the wine haze. He tossed and turned, the uneasiness finding him like a creature that stalked him through the shadows of the fortress, relentless, emerging from the shadows then disappearing once more...
What was that? His steward returned? He roused slightly and cursed that infernal man...
Was it morn already and William had come to replenish the basin with warm water?
There was no answer when he called out groggy from sleep and too much wine.
Mallory perhaps? Was there word from his men? Again no answer.
His throat was parched and his mouth felt as if it was stuffed with fleece. He came more fully awake, then roused off the pallet.
The infernal cold... !
But the cold in the chapel was nothing compared to the icy coldness of the blade pressed against his throat!
Surprise was replaced by rage, smothering any other thought as Blackwood eased back down onto the pallet, thoughts churning.
Countless campaigns had taught him to be aware of his surroundings--a movement, the number of those who came at him, their weapons...
He could call out, and risk that blade drawing blood. But he was no fool, and not inclined to lose any blood. Having made that decision, he took a deep breath, controlled the instinct to roll to his feet and tear out the throat of whoever was at the end of that blade, and took careful stock of everything about him--the fire that had burned low, the shadows steeped at the walls, the smell of the cold and damp, the flame that quivered at the oil lamp, then reflected at the armor at encased the hand at the end of that sword.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
Ruari flicked the tip of the sword. A drop of blood appeared then trickled down Blackwood's neck.
"Death," came the whispered reply.