Chapter Two B
Two days later
Kirkburn Castle, six miles northeast of Netherton
Seat of St. Drostan Lindsay
“I am sorry tae hear of yer troubles, Cam. God be with ye, lad.”
A tall, thin man with wispy, reddish hair stood in the great hall of Kirkburn Castle, facing a rather pathetic character who had just ridden into his mud-filled yard.
Covered in soot and smelling heavily of smoke and compost, the man was barely able to stand, exhausted in body and grieved in mind. He was a young man, relatively speaking, with a muscular build and a handsome face, but at the moment he looked as if he were a thousand years old.
This wasn’t the Cam Netherton that St. Drostan Lindsay knew.
“Sit here before ye fall down.” St. Drostan indicated the only feasting table in the hall.
There used to be more in the cavernous hall of Kirkburn, but his men liked to drink, and toss one another around, and furniture didn’t often withstand such abuse.
“I went tae Netherton after I heard of the raid, but it was in flames. I couldna find nary a soul alive.”
Cam stumbled over to the table, plopping into a chair that cracked, teetered, and collapsed under his weight. He sat there a moment, looking at the broken chair as if to wonder why nothing in his life could go well for him at the moment.
A broken life, a broken chair…
St. Drostan rushed over, reaching down to pull Cam up and onto another chair that was more properly repaired.
“God’s Bloody Bones,” St. Drostan hissed. “My lads canna do anything right except break things. When they break them, they stay broke, by God.”
Cam was so muddled that he wasn’t quite understanding that he alone didn’t break the chair. Reaching up, he grasped St. Drostan by the arm.
“They’re dead,” he rasped. “Everyone is… dead. Murdered.”
St. Drostan nodded sympathetically, but it was all for show.
He didn’t mean any of it. “I know, lad,” he said quietly.
Then, he sat down opposite Cam. “I heard from my own men that it was the Keith. They raided Netherton and burned it tae the ground, leaving the sprigs of bog myrtle behind so all would know who had committed the atrocity. So many… lost.”
Cam had a dazed look about him, like a man who hadn’t slept in years. His green eyes, usually so bright and sharp, were dull with sorrow.
“I’ve spent the past two days burying the dead,” he whispered. “Burying my family and friends, men I grew up with. I saw the destruction with my own eyes.”
“And yer wife?”
Cam’s eyes filled with a lake of tears that he quickly blinked away. “Gone.”
St. Drostan grunted with sorrow. “Tira, isna it?”
“Aye.”
“Ye married her when ye were quite young, as I recall.”
“She was barely a woman.”
St. Drostan shook his head, sadly. “Ye have my sympathies,” he said. “The Keith have been our enemies since years past, since the time of my grandfather’s grandfather, but never have they been so bold, the murderous bastards. Tae raid Netherton is unforgivable.”
Cam hung his head. “Help me,” he breathed, his head coming up again and the red-rimmed eyes focusing on St. Drostan. “Help me tae punish them for what they’ve done.”
St. Drostan could see madness in the depths of Cam’s eyes, the madness stirred by the loss of a loved one, by the loss of everything held dear.
He had known Cam nearly all of his life.
The man was a leader in Netherton, looked up to and well respected.
St. Drostan’s father, Finbarr, knew Cam’s grandfather, who had also been well respected during his living years.
From grandfather to grandson, the mantle of village leader had passed.
But Cam was no ordinary man. Years ago, the grandfather had told Finbarr that his daughter, Cam’s mother, had loved a Northman prince and Cam was the result.
Cam had a natural air of command about him and the makings of a great leader, all of it hidden behind the facade of a rather passive blacksmith.
The Northman presence was strong in the smithy from the Highlands, but Cam was the only one who didn’t seem to see it.
Yet St. Drostan did.
Cam was a threat.
“I will help ye,” St. Drostan said after a moment. “I have summoned my allies and we shall discuss how tae punish the Keith. I swear tae ye that this terrible act will not go unpunished, Cam. Ye have my word.”
Cam’s ragged gaze lingered on the man for a moment before he lowered his head again, running his fingers through his blond hair in a nervous gesture.
While his attention was diverted, St. Drostan looked over to the fringes of the dim hall and saw a few of his men lingering there.
He motioned for drink and one of the men disappeared into the shadows.
“I was too late,” Cam muttered as St. Drostan signaled to his men.
“I was in the village of Brechin when they came and by the time I returned, all that was left were smoke and ashes. There was nothing I could do but listen tae the survivors tell me about men with swords and torches, tossing bog myrtle tae the ground. I felt so… helpless. I wanted tae take my hammer and chase them down and kill them all, but those still living needed my help. I couldna refuse.”
St. Drostan put on a good air of sympathy. “What do ye want, Cam?” he asked. “Do ye want tae go after the Keith by yerself? ’Tis a wish for death if ye do, lad.”
As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. Perhaps that’s exactly what he wanted to happen—for Cam to run off, crazed with grief, and try to exact revenge against the Keith. Of course, they would kill him, and St. Drostan’s problem would be solved.
But Cam took the questions seriously.
“I have spent my life as a peaceful man,” he said. “There was no need tae know how tae fight as a warrior does. Netherton was never threatened and when it was, the Lindsay always protected us. Where were ye when the Keith came?”
St. Drostan was caught off guard by the plea of a question. Certainly, he couldn’t tell Cam the truth.
We were already there…
“We dinna hear of it until the village was already in flames,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as if he were stumbling through his explanation. “We came too late.”
Cam seemed to accept his excuse without question. In truth, he had no reason to doubt the man.
“My grandfather always told me that a man should be peaceful until he was pushed too far,” he said quietly. “Then, he would know when he needed tae fight.”
“And now ye need tae fight?”
Cam didn’t say anything for a moment. He simply sat there, staring into space, as St. Drostan’s man returned with an earthenware pitcher and wooden cups.
St. Drostan and his man exchanged concerned glances as a cup of wine was put before Cam, who ignored it.
He simply kept staring into the dimness of the hall.
In fact, St. Drostan wasn’t even sure if Cam had heard the question until he finally spoke.
“For my Tira, I need tae kill,” he muttered. “I canna let the Keith go unanswered. What they did… they must pay.”
“What do ye intend tae do?”
Cam looked at him. “Someone told me once that there was a place where men could learn tae fight,” he said. “Fight like warriors, I mean. They called it the Ludus Caledonia. Have ye heard of the place?”
St. Drostan couldn’t help the surprise on his face. “Aye,” he said. “I know it. Who told ye?”
Cam shrugged, suddenly noticing the wine in front of him.
“I heard of it years ago,” he said, grabbing the cup.
“Many years ago, but since the raid on Netherton, it has been at the front of my thoughts. The Ludus Caledonia, where men can become warriors. Is there really such a place that will teach men tae fight like that?”
St. Drostan watched him drain the cup. “There really is a place,” he said. “I’m surprised ye know of it. The only ones who know of it are lairds and fighting men, or those who gamble. Not smithies from the Highlands.”
“And they teach men tae fight there?”
“I’ve heard they’ll teach men with promise,” St. Drostan said. “At least, that was what I heard when I visited there, once. The Cal is a place of secrecy, hidden in the Lowlands south of Edinburgh, but it is a place of a great reputation.”
“The Cal?”
“It is referred tae as such,” he continued.
“Men with wealth, or men who are looking for a great warrior tae serve them, will go tae The Cal tae watch the battles and place wagers on them. When I was there, I saw a laird from Saxony offer one winner a good deal of money tae serve him. The best warriors get such offers.”
“Will they teach me tae fight, then?”
St. Drostan’s first reaction was to discourage him.
Cam was only a smithy, after all. He wasn’t a fighter, and certainly not of the caliber of the Ludus Caledonia.
But before the words left his mouth, he quickly reconsidered—if Cam went to The Cal, then St. Drostan wouldn’t have to worry over the man any longer.
Perhaps the Ludus Caledonia would accomplish what St. Drostan’s men failed to do on that fateful night.
“I dunna know if they’ll accept ye,” he said, rather eagerly now that he realized he could send Cam away.
“As I said, I heard they’ll train men of promise, but I dunna know more than that.
But I can tell ye where ye might seek yer answers—when I went tae the place, we gathered at a tavern and were taken tae The Cal, secretively.
I only know tae go tae a tavern in Edinburgh called The Bloody Stump. ”
“And they took ye tae the Ludus Caledonia from there?”
“Aye.”
“Do they want me tae pay them tae teach me tae fight? I have some coinage, but not much. I can work; I am strong.”
Cam was growing both eager and agitated, and St. Drostan put a hand on his shoulder to ease him. “I canna tell ye, lad,” he said. “Ye’ll have tae ask those who know.”
It was clear that Cam was considering it all quite seriously. His pale face had a hint of hope to it now, something that hadn’t been there before. The fires of optimism burned deep.
“The Bloody Stump,” Cam repeated. Then, he nodded his head firmly. “Then that’s where I’ll go.”
“Are ye certain ye want tae?”
“I am.”
St. Drostan’s gaze lingered on him. This was a better outcome than he had expected when Cam had stumbled into his hall.
Good! Go! Get yourself killed!
“Then Godspeed, lad,” he said quietly.
Oblivious to St. Drostan’s ulterior motive, the light of hope in Cam’s eyes grew. He seemed much more alert than he had when he’d first come to the hall, as if finally he’d found something to cling to. He thanked St. Drostan profusely before quitting the hall, heading out into the cool spring day.
Once he was gone, the man who had brought the wine, who had been standing off in the shadows, came forward.
“Are ye mad, Dros?” he demanded quietly. “What was that about?”
St. Drostan held up a hand as he looked to his cousin, a skinny man with pale flesh that gave him the look of sickness.
“That he even survived the raid is a failure,” he hissed.
“The man should have been dead, Ternan. He’s the one man ye should have put in the grave because he’s the one man that every man, woman, and child in Netherton looked up tae.
Leaving him alive means the man could ruin everything we’re working for. ”
Ternan Lindsay eyed his cousin. “So ye send him tae The Cal where he can learn tae fight? He’ll come back and kill us all if he finds out ’twas Lindsay behind the raid in Netherton.”
St. Drostan gave him an expression that suggested he’d just said something ridiculous.
“He’ll never find out and he’ll never survive The Cal,” he said.
“’Tis a fight guild and ye know they train the best warriors in the world tae battle against each other.
Cam doesna even know how tae hold a sword.
They’ll chop him tae pieces and feed him tae the dogs, and we’ll be well rid of him. ”
“Or they could reject him and he’ll come back here. Then what?”
“Then I’ll cut him tae pieces and feed him tae the dogs.”
Ternan could see his cousin’s point. “’Tis a sad fate for the man, in either case. He’s never done ye any harm.”
St. Drostan nodded faintly, thinking of Cam and the end of his short-lived life at the Ludus Caledonia.
“They’ll take him,” he said. “He’s big and he’s strong.
If he has the will, they may make him fodder for their more skilled warriors.
But I’ve seen fights at that place and I’ve seen the beasts they pit against each other.
Monstrous men. Cam will never survive it. ”
Ternan sat down beside him, taking some of the wine. “’Tis a pity ye chose this path for him. Ye simply could have asked him tae stand with ye. He would have.”
St. Drostan shrugged. “Cam is like his grandfather,” he said.
“The man is too righteous. I doubt he would have approved of my methods for regaining the Keith lands, even if they are the enemy. Nay, lad, in order tae regain what my forefathers couldna, I need tae start a war that will wipe the Keith of Auchnacree from the earth and Netherton is an early casualty in that war. It’s a catalyst for greater things, but Cam wouldna have seen it my way. ’Tis better that he’s gone for good.”
No guilt, no emotion. That was how St. Drostan lived his life. To him, Netherton was a name, a place, but nothing more. It was simply a means to an end. He’d destroyed it and now he’d sent Cam Netherton off to a similar fate.
Destroyed at the hands of the Ludus Caledonia.