Knight Tenebrae Read online

  Alex whispered to the others, “Settle in, boys, and make yourselves comfortable. If you’ve got to pee or whatever, do it now before the sun rises. Once there’s light, nobody moves a hair.” And having reminded himself, he took the opportunity to step deeper into the trees for a leak and a good scratch. Then he reclaimed his position by the trail and settled in to sleep. His men also took turns stretching their legs, then the sun came up and they all slept.

  * * *

  Briefly in the afternoon, the warm sun high overhead, Alex awoke to hear voices above. Startled, he looked around, thinking his men were about to be discovered. But the voices were of archers on the battlements far above. And from their conversation it was plain they had no idea they had enemy Scots listening in. All that moved in the forest around them were leaves fluttering in sun-dappled breeze. So Alex laid his head down and fell back into his doze.

  Darkness came, late this time of year and at this latitude. Alex began to listen for the return of John, his squire, and Lindsay, his belly now complaining for something to eat. The moon was high by the time the three arrived and took up position. The cold food was distributed, and the men of Alex’s detail settled in for another night of waiting. Frequently, for the sake of keeping his muscles from stiffening, he approached the top tree line to note the positions of the archers, then made his way to the valley floor for a look before climbing once again to his position among the trees.

  That morning before dawn another knight was permitted to take his squire to the encampment to sleep. Lindsay insisted on staying, and the following sunset the two on camp rotation returned with food. The watch continued.

  “This is not knightly behavior, lying in wait,” said John after nearly a week.

  “This is the only way to be certain the English aren’t sneaking out to attack us. Or to get messages to King Edward.”

  “‘Tis unmanly.”

  “It’s what will accomplish our purpose.”

  “I wonder if the result is worth the means.”

  “Trust me, John.”

  The man fell silent, and another night wore on.

  The following morning Alex insisted Lindsay return to camp for the day. He could see the strain on her; she wasn’t built for this, and a cough was coming on her. All night she’d been smothering her ticklish throat in the crook of her arm. This time when he ordered her away she didn’t argue with him, but assured him she would be back that night.

  After nightfall, before there was any sign of her, sounds came from above. Englishmen traipsed down the trail with barely a thought to the noise they were making, so certain the nearest Scots were on the other side of the castle. Alex’s pulse picked up; his detail readied themselves for attack, and drew their daggers. Swords would be little help in the close quarters of these trees. Alex whispered with almost no breath. “On me.”

  The English coming from above made enough sound, but here on the north side of the rock, in the overcast, moonless night, they were shadows within shadows. They picked their way downward, then located the trail through the trees and made their way down it. The Scots kept deadly still as they waited for the signal. Alex let the Englishmen come, the shadows too numerous to count in the deep darkness.

  When their file was surrounded by the Scots, close enough to smell their filthy linens, Alex erupted with a roar and his men attacked as one. He plunged his dagger through a coif opening into the exposed throat of one shadow, then moved to another. The slope was steep, and several guys went tumbling, grappling with each other as they fell. Alex kept his footing and moved upward as English shadows tried to escape back to the castle. One turned to face him, and slashed with his dagger. Alex ducked and slammed him with his elbow, and the knight toppled and rolled down the hill. The next shadow was struggling uphill, and Alex chased. They burst from the tree line, and as the quarry scrabbled for foothold on the dark granite Alex thrust his dagger into his bare neck. One squeak of pain and despair, and the Englishman fell and rolled to the trees below.

  Another figure was already on its way up the faint trail, but Alex declined to pursue. It was time to beat hell out of there.

  A hail of arrows pattered and whooshed among the trees, and all across the open ground around them. “Wait!” Alex’s men halted, hardly needing to be told to drop and hug the ground. An Englishman raised up to shout, and Alex kicked him in the head to shut him up. Then he knelt to place his dagger at the man’s throat, and promised he’d die on the spot if he uttered another sound. When the knight lay still, Alex looked around and listened to know whether any of his men were wounded.

  Lindsay. Alex’s heart clenched. Where was she now? Could she have been caught by the hail of arrows? A terrible sinking hollowed his gut and he yearned to search for her. But he couldn’t take his men out into that deadly barrage until the archers tired of shooting aimlessly into the darkness and trees.

  It didn’t take long. When the silence came, Alex waited until a few more arrows were loosed. Then no more, and there was muttering from the battlement above. They were done. Alex hauled his captive to his English feet, then indicated the other men should strip the dead and move out. Three knights beheaded bodies, and carried the grisly trophies by the hair. Alex’s first thought was to forbid it, but he thought again and decided to let them. He wasn’t sure why, but tonight he didn’t feel much bothered by it.

  Again the Scots hugged the foot of the mound as they made their way back. Though it was a shorter run to be out of range if they went straight out from the mound onto the open ground, they would be sure to be seen in the moonlight then, and shot at in their race to get far enough away. By keeping to the trees they stood a chance of making it back to the encampment without being seen at all.

  Keeping to the trees, they also stood a chance of finding Lindsay.

  Alex did find her, crouched beside a cluster of rocks not far from their hiding place. He handed his prisoner off to John and let his men go on, then went to Lindsay. When he reached her he had to resist an urge to throw his arms around her in his relief, and to keep himself from it held his sword belt tightly in his fists.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “I’m fine. Not a scratch. What happened?”

  “We surprised a foray. Killed all but two. One escaped, and the other we’ve taken.”

  “Bravo.”

  Alex grinned, and they continued to the Scottish encampment for him to relieve his prisoner of equipment, clothing, and ransom pouch filled with French gold and English silver. Then, having been ransomed so the Scots wouldn’t have to guard him and feed him, the proud English knight was sent back through the portcullis without a stitch of clothing on him, accompanied by the hoots and catcalls of the Scottish army behind him. Alex grinned as he watched the pale, barrel-chested, spindly legged man run with both his hands over his privates, leaping and dancing as he stepped on rocks in his bare feet, calling out to his compatriots to open the portcullis. Archers on the battlement exchanged arrows with Scottish archers on the ground in covering fire as the castle gate was opened just enough to let the English knight squeeze under.

  Far less in jest, the three severed heads were impaled and raised on spears in full view of the castle. Alex stared long and hard at the horrifying sight, and eased his qualms by telling himself it was a message the English garrison would understand.

  That night a modest feast was provided by Sir Edward for Alex and his men, and Alex was happy to eat and drink himself into a royal stupor, laughing and joking with his comrades after the long, tense week. Around the cook fire, the men told and retold the story among themselves and to all who gathered to listen.

  Every so often through a haze of mead, Alex glanced at the impaled heads lit by torches stuck in the ground near the pikes, blood and other fluids dripping and making strings toward the ground, mouths agape. The smell of flaming grease in the cook fire filled his head, and contempt for the enemy filled his heart. He knew he was lucky to be among the ones still alive. His skin ti
ngled and his blood pounded with the understanding of the precarious nature of existence, and the knowledge that in this place there were only the successful and the dead. He looked around at the bright faces of the men who had gone with him. ruddy-cheeked in the flickering firelight, and knew they must be thinking the same thing.

  Sir Hector arrived, cut a chunk from the spitted haunch of venison, stuffed his mouth full with it, and announced as he chewed the enormous wad of meat, “We’re leaving this place. On the morrow.” Then he swallowed and immediately reached for another bite of the greasy meat.

  Alex stopped laughing at something John had said, and struggled to focus on Hector. “No more siege?”

  “He gave them a year.” The laird let himself down to perch atop a felled log.

  “He what?” There was a murmur among the others, and Lindsay bit her lip without saying anything.

  Hector continued. “I’m told Edward Bruce made an agreement with Mowbray, that they would surrender without a fight if the English king did not send help within a year.”

  “So who’s going to run to England and tell the king?”

  “Mowbray is sending a messenger.”

  That stumped Alex. It went against everything that made sense to him about armed conflict. Several things came to mind to say and he opened his mouth to say each one, then shut it. Finally he was able to put together a coherent thought. “Is he nuts?”

  Hector frowned, puzzled. “Nuts?”

  Alex grunted, having blurted American vocabulary in the midst of his Middle English again. It took him a moment to dig the correct word from his inebriated memory, then he said, “I mean, is he mad? In a year King Edward could mass enough men to defeat us, and Sir Edward wants us to just sit here with our thumbs up our butts?”

  Hector snorted laughter, but said, “The English king certainly has got the resources, and we do not. Apparently your thwarting of an attempt to obtain rescue and provisions has convinced Mowbray he needed to encourage us to move on. The king’s brother has reasoned our resources are better used elsewhere than here. He wishes to oblige the English commander.”

  “What do you think will happen?”

  Sir Hector frowned up at the torches along the castle ramparts, thinking. “I expect that we will wait and see.”

  “For a year?”

  “Our commander will keep us amused and occupied, I think. I hear talk of raids into England.”

  “Raids?” Alex was accustomed to following orders that didn’t make much sense to him at the time, but the word “raid” gave a heady sensation and a shiver up his spine. The adrenaline charge was kicking in before the last one had quite finished with him, making his skin rise in goose bumps and his blood surge. Raid. It felt the way it had the first time he had flown a Hornet and owned the skies at mach three. It felt...incredible.

  Chapter Six

  For his success in securing the sally port of Stirling Castle, and for his role in convincing Mowbray to make a deal with Edward Bruce, Alex was awarded a trained courser and tack from Edward’s stable and the prisoner’s personal effects, along with armor and cash.

  Also, for the prowess he’d shown, he was approached by knights from Edward Bruce’s army who expressed a desire to follow him. So Alex was allowed to lead a contingent of forty or so knights and their squires. It wasn’t much more than a scouting party attached to the larger army, and flying the banner belonging to Edward Bruce, but Alex was well pleased nevertheless. Leading the small cavalry unit would be like being an officer again, and he liked the autonomy that came with being out in the countryside. Mobile and deadly. The fourteenth-century equivalent of a fighter squadron, and he was in command.

  It was also good to have a nice suit of solid, English chain mail and bits of plate—no holes—and this outfit seemed fairly new and up-to-date. Now over his flight suit Alex wore his new hauberk and coif, and on his hands were fine leather gauntlets with iron plate riveted to the knuckles and fingers. The knuckle plates were adorned with short spikes that made Alex flex his fingers as he tried to imagine clobbering someone with those. The thought was at once intriguing and horrifying, for it must be like stabbing. On his legs were quilted cloth cuisses around his thighs and saucer-shaped iron poleyns strapped over his kneecaps. They bound his tendons uncomfortably, but compared to the possible pain of being kneecapped by enemy infantry the discomfort was nothing. Alex figured he could deal with it.

  Sick of Lindsay having to stuff his boots into his stirrups every time he mounted, he bought a pair of the softer ones worn by other knights. The toes were somewhat pointed, but not ridiculously so, and the leg cuffs when fully extended were just above his knees. When not wading through streams, he wore them folded over, where they slouched a little just below the knee. He knew he was going to miss the old steel-toed boots as soon as his horse stepped on his foot again, but these were high, lightweight, well oiled, and watertight, and just a little more practical in the long run for the life he was now leading.

  He kept the Englishman’s rowel spurs, selling his old prick spurs, and they added jingling to the metallic shuss of mail when he walked. A mail coif now covered his head and protected his neck, but the prisoner’s helmet wouldn’t fit. So Alex kept the one Hector had provided and paid back with the smaller one, and he sold the captured dagger, which was not as fine as the one Alex had won in his first victory.

  The sword, however, was a treasure. A five-foot-long monstrosity the locals called a “claymore,” it had a two-handed, leather-covered wooden grip and long quillons tipped with quatrefoils. The blade was the finest Alex had seen in this century, and so well balanced he found he could wield the weapon with only one hand if necessary, by hooking a finger over one of the quillons. To try it out, Alex took a stance, clear of everyone nearby, and swung the sword like a baseball bat. He could sure do some damage with this. A grin lit him up as he hefted the weapon. Yes, sir, he could sure do some damage.

  The money from the sales of spurs and dagger, together with the helmet and the cash found on the person of the English knight, paid the debt to Hector for Lindsay’s horse and scale armor shirt of leather and horn, and also bought a mace for her. Now they were free from debt, and as well equipped as anyone else of their rank on the field.

  One final thing his new wealth provided him was a custom-made saddle. He sold his hated battle saddle that stood high over the horse’s back with the stirrups straight down at the sides, and bought a plain riding saddle that was a little more along the lines of a modern English rig. Then he took that to a leather worker in the camp and talked him into modifying it so the stirrups were forward and shorter, and the seat situated directly on the horse’s back. The resulting saddle was somewhat crude and ugly, but his seat was now more normal and offered better control over—and more sensitivity to—the animal. Not to mention being far more comfortable on long patrols. Since he didn’t own a lance and didn’t care to learn to use one, the high, supporting pommel and cantle of the old saddle wouldn’t be missed.

  The siege ended, Edward’s forces moved onward, ever seeking to annoy Edward II and anyone loyal to him. Alex’s knights were deployed on scouting detail. Their first day out, Alex ordered them into a line and made inspection to take stock of his manpower and their equipment. They totaled slightly over a hundred men and boys—near to the same number of men-at-arms as Robert had started with seven years before.

  As Alex rode down the line on his prancing courser, he saw wealthy, experienced knights well equipped with fine weapons and armor, as well as poorer, landless knights who barely seemed to be able to keep their horses fed. The sorriest of the lot was a wary-eyed man named Sir Orrin De Ros, whom Alex could describe only as a “pencil-neck geek.” He was painfully thin and not very tall, but sat his horse as arrogantly as any of them. Orrin was known to be an enthusiastic fighter, but he also had an ever-present chip on his shoulder about his status. Word was Orrin wasn’t welcome in other units, and though Alex was aware of the knight’s reputation as a pain in
the ass, he’d taken him on because these days he needed every hand he could scrounge.

  Alex took mental note of who needed what, so that when opportunities came to reward service he could make certain captured resources would go where they would do the most good. In addition to the knights, there were green, young squires with ruddy cheeks and soft faces, who seemed grossly out of place among the battle-hardened warriors.

  A few MacNeils had joined him, including Sir Cullan, and Alex was glad to have them for they were part of his alliance with Hector and he could depend on their loyalty. The laird from Barra was turning out to be a good man to have on his side, and the MacNeil knights had a reputation for toughness. It made him glad to be one of them.

  The unit was highly mobile, for they took no wagons or extraneous followers, and made do with a minimum of pack animals to carry provisions and gear, shelter and weaponry. A huntsman accompanied them, who provided the detail with meat from the forests. Anything else they needed Alex sent for from the main army or obtained from locals. And there was plenty to be had from locals who were loyal to the English king.

  Shortly after they deployed, one late evening after Lindsay had finished with the horses she came to him and asked for some linen cloth.

  Alex was in the tent with his broadsword across his knees, sharpening it. Lindsay’s job, but he liked to do it himself because it was calming. He said absently, his concentration on the edge before him, “What for? You going to sew something?”

  Her weight shifted, and he sensed irritation. “Why ever do you think I would be sewing?”

  He shrugged and ran his whetting stone down the sword blade. “Well, isn’t that what people do with cloth?”

  “Alex.” Now there was an edge to her voice that made him look up, and he saw he’d royally pissed her off somehow. Anger had darkened her already dark eyes until they were nearly black, and her brow was in a knot. “If one of the men came to you and wanted a piece of linen, would you assume he was going to sew something?”