The Knight (6 page)

“Then we should get on with it,” Seton said. “Let’s find the others and see if this plan of yours will work.”

It had to work, James told himself. But by the time the men were in position, it was precariously close to dusk, and he knew that his delay with Joanna might have well cost him his chance to take the castle.

From their position in the forest east of the castle, Boyd glanced to the west where the sun had already begun to sink over the horizon. “Not much light left.” His eyes fell to James’s. “I hope to hell she was worth it.”

James clenched his jaw, biting back the angry retort. She was, but Boyd’s criticism was on the mark. Staying so long with Jo was irresponsible, and James knew it. But it wasn’t going to happen again. He wouldn’t let it. Joanna was making too many demands on him, interfering where she should not. He had to focus on what was important: restoring their honor by achieving greatness for himself and his family.

The Douglas name would never be disparaged again. By anyone.

Joanna would have to understand.

Boyd didn’t seem to expect a response, and James didn’t give him one. But every minute they waited for Seton to appear on the horizon felt like an eternity.

The English would be very wary of a trap after the two previous attacks, and luring them out from behind the safety of the castle walls even in the daylight was going to be difficult.

But James had taken the lessons of the Highland Guard and the outfoxing of the English at the Battle of Brander to heart. He had earned a reputation not only for the frenzy and surprise of his attacks, but also for the craftiness of his plans. The Black Douglas seemed to spring up out of nowhere, whether it was in the church by mingling among the English on Palm Sunday, as he’d done in the first attack against the castle, or driving off the castle cattle with a small party to encourage the English to follow, and then leading them into an ambush, as he’d done last time.

For this third attack his plan was even more subtle. Seton and a dozen of James’s men would pass to the west of the castle in peasant robes, their horses laden with bales of hay and bags of grain, as if they were making their way to the fair at Lanark tomorrow. James and Boyd, with their distinctive builds, recognizable even at a distance, and the other half of his men from their position near the castle gate would wait to close in on the English sortie from behind and, if all went according to plan, take the castle.

James just hoped the attacks he and his men had waged on the supplies making their way to the castle the past few months had done what was intended and made the garrison desperate for provisions. Desperate enough to take their bait. With the fair set for tomorrow, waiting was not an option. Every minute James stayed in the area they risked discovery. It had to be today.

“There they are,” James said. Finally the first of the “pack” horses led by Seton came into view a few furlongs to the west of the castle on the colorless, windswept moorland.

There was less than an hour of daylight left, and the figures were still discernible as peasants, but he prayed it wasn’t too late. Would the English take the chance of an attack and leaving the safety of the castle with darkness falling?

The minutes crept by. Bloody hell, was no one on duty? It seemed to take forever for a guard to notice them.

His pulse raced faster, blood pounding through his veins in anticipation and nervous energy. It was always like this waiting for the plan to unfold, the edginess and slight flaring of his nerve endings. It should be any minute now…

But nothing happened.

Damn. He cursed under his breath, eyeing the “travelers” in the distance. Seton and the men were moving too fast. They would be out of view before the enemy managed to don their damned hose. What the hell were the English doing in there? They were as slow as lasses readying for a feast!

Fortunately, Seton realized what was happening and took action. The bales of hay attached to his horse came untied and tumbled to the ground. He stopped to retie them, halting the rest of the train behind him.

Still the gates did not open. It was too late. James’s delay had cost them. The English weren’t going to take a chance with darkness edging closer and closer.

“They aren’t biting,” Boyd said.

James heard the unspoken criticism. “Give them a minute,” he insisted. Damn it, where was that fool English pride when he needed it? They were peasants; surely the soldiers wouldn’t worry about a little darkness?

He nearly sighed with relief when he heard the grating sound of metal pierce the cool twilight air. Though it wasn’t as grand as the great Border castles like Berwick, Roxburgh, and Jedburgh, and didn’t have a portcullis, the circular donjon tower of Castle Douglas was protected by a barmkin wall and gatehouse with a sturdy iron yett—an iron yett that was opening.

A moment later a score of plundering English whoresons charged out of the castle on armored horses.

The bastards had taken the bait. His plan had worked. Satisfaction surged through his veins in a hot rush, his muscles flaring with anticipation at the battle to come. But it wasn’t all over yet. There were still plenty of pieces that needed to fall into place.

“Be ready, lads,” he warned softly.

He felt the excitement building in the men behind him. To a one they were chomping at the bit for a chance to exact retribution on the English invaders. They were men like him, lord or vassal they’d had something taken or been on the receiving end of English “justice.” It was James’s ability to rally the men of Douglasdale to his banner to harry the English that made him so valuable to Bruce. He and his men already controlled the forests of Ettrick, but they wouldn’t rest until they’d wrested every inch of Scotland from English hands.

The tension was palpable as the English drew closer to Seton and his men. A hundred feet… eighty… fifty…

Now,
he urged silently,
now
.

Boyd wasn’t so circumspect. “Christ, Dragon, attack!”

Almost as if he could hear him, Seton finally gave the signal. The lead English knight was already upon him when Seton tossed off his tattered robe and reached through the piles of hay for the sword that had been hidden carefully therein. With a bloodcurdling battle cry of
Airson an Leòmhann
—For the Lion, the battle cry of the Highland Guard—Seton cut down the first Englishman who’d been almost on top of him before he realized what was happening. With a shout of surprise the knight fell from his horse, his leg nearly severed from his body from the force of Seton’s blow.

As for the men riding behind him, from a distance it looked as if someone had pulled the ground out from underneath them like a rug. Horses reared wildly in every direction as the charge behind the fallen soldier came to a sudden halt. The carefully ordered formation exploded into chaos as the English struggled to react to the surprise attack and the fact that the helpless peasants they’d intended to plunder had become formidable armed warriors.

Before the English could regroup, Seton and the others were moving around them, not giving them room to maneuver. The horses, which should be an advantage, had become a hindrance. The long pikes of James’s foot soldiers reached them well before their swords and hammers could strike.

A half dozen men were plucked from their horses in those first key moments of chaos. But the English commander was not without courage—and skill, James conceded with a tightening of his jaw. He watched as Sir John de Wilton, the man who’d shown such “consideration” to Jo, shouted and rode his horse back and forth, waving his sword as he attempted to rally his shocked and dispirited men back into position.

And it was working, damn it.

They were counting on the English to race back to the castle. When the yett that had closed behind them opened again, James, Boyd, and the rest of the men would make their move—James to face the fleeing soldiers and Boyd to take the castle.

Boyd grew restless beside him, swearing under his breath. “They aren’t breaking. What the hell is the matter with Dragon? He looks half asleep out there.”

Seton did seem unusually subdued. “Give him a minute,” James said, showing patience he didn’t feel.

It was rewarded. Suddenly stirring from his lethargy, Seton led a brutal charge right through the heart of the reforming English line. Three more soldiers fell and the first man turned and broke for the castle. The English commander shouted furiously, trying to rally them once again, but it was in vain. More horses turned and the retreat was on.

It was their turn now. “Almost time,” James said in a low voice.

The piercing grate of steel echoed his words. His mouth curved as he heard the sound of the yett opening once again. One more piece.

He could almost feel the press of the men behind him as they waited for his signal. The English were riding hell-bent for leather back to the castle, Seton and his men chasing hard behind them. The yett was wide open. James eyed the distance. He needed to time it perfectly, giving his men enough time to get into position but not enough for them to have time to close the gate. A few more seconds…

“Now!” he shouted. “A Douglas!”

The men echoed the battle cry behind him, racing from their cover in the trees. If it had been like a rug had been pulled out from under them before, when the fleeing Englishmen met James and his men it was as if they’d run straight into a wall. They seemed to crumple in a slow backward wave as English horseflesh and mail met the steel wall of the Scottish pikes.

After the initial strike, James led the charge, swinging his two-handed great sword in a long, deadly arc into the ribs of the English coward who’d turned and broken first. The force of the blow took the man from his saddle. He landed in a dead heap at James’s feet. Perhaps a dozen Englishmen remained. But wedged between the score of Scotsmen attacking from both sides, they had nowhere to go.

James fought his way toward the center, dodging blows of a hammer and an axe as he wound through the tangle of soldiers to the commander, who’d been dismounted.

He saw the flicker of recognition in De Wilton’s gaze—and fear. To his credit, the knight did not balk. He held steady, swinging his sword around to meet him. But it was the bravado of a dead man. For that’s what he was. De Wilton had sealed his fate the moment James had learned of his interest in Jo.

James attacked with a vengeance, anger and jealousy lending a brutal edge to his blows. To James’s surprise, De Wilton held him off, blocking every crushing swing of James’s blade with his own. The clamor of steel on steel thundered in his ears, reverberating in his bones. The Englishman’s skill only made James angrier.

Vaguely he was aware of the frenzied fight going on around him and the noise of the castle attack behind him, but his focus was locked on the man struggling to hold him off. With two hands, De Wilton held his sword defensively inches from his head, where James’s blade was poised over him. De Wilton’s arms were shaking with the struggle to keep the blade back, but James used his height to press. Below the edge of his steel helm, James could see the knight’s pain. His face was red, his teeth were clenched, and veins were bulging in his temples.

De Wilton might be strong.

But James was stronger.

Slowly the knight lowered to his knees, James’s sword inching closer and closer to his head.

Their eyes met. Enemy-to-enemy. Knight-to-knight.

“Yield,” De Wilton gritted out. “Damn it, I yield.”

James didn’t want to hear him. He kept pressing. Kept inching closer to the deadly victory he craved.

What mercy had the English shown his father? None. They’d shown him none.

“Damn it, Douglas, he said he yields.”

Seton’s voice penetrated the frenzied veil of battle, pricking something James didn’t want it to: his conscience.

James stared in frustration and anger at the warrior who’d come up beside him. He saw the condemnation in his friend’s gaze.

“This isn’t who we are,” Seton said.

Knights.
They were knights. With a code that he was supposed to ascribe to, even if at times he would like to forget it.

James warred with himself. De Wilton was barely holding on. One more push and he would be crushed. He wanted this man’s death, wanted it badly. But Seton’s words had come perilously close to Jo’s. It was her voice he heard now. It was her voice that stayed his hand.

With a furious oath, he lifted his sword and moved back from the knight that had been moments from death.

Seton gave him a short nod and started to move off.

De Wilton’s sword had fallen to his side, but out of the corner of his eye, James caught a movement. The knight was reaching for something at his waist. De Wilton grabbed hold of something and started to pull it out.

Instinct took hold, and James reacted. Spinning around, he whipped his sword across the other man’s neck. The steel of De Wilton’s armor prevented the blow from cleaving him in two, but he fell to his side, blood spurting from the deadly wound.

That’s what James got for showing mercy. A knife in the back.

“What in Hades?” Seton said, turning at the sound.

“He was reaching for a blade,” James replied before moving off.

He left Seton standing there and headed toward the castle, shocked to realize the battle was over. There wasn’t an Englishman left standing.

One of the men Boyd had taken with him ran out to meet him. “We’ve taken the gate, my lord,” he said. “The rest of the garrison has retreated into the tower and are asking for terms, but Boyd says we can take it. He awaits your instructions.”

“Tell him to take it,” James said. “Kill them all.”

“Wait,” Seton demanded angrily, coming up behind him. “Before you condemn those men to death, you need to see this.”

Like Joanna, James had had enough of Seton’s interference. Still he asked, “See what?”

“What the knight you just killed was reaching for.”

To James’s surprise, it wasn’t a blade that Seton held out but a piece of parchment.

He scanned the words, his heart sinking with every flourishing stroke of ink on the page. His stomach sank.