Games of Otterburn 1388

PUBLISHED BY

HANGMAN BOOKS

First Edition

Copyright
 
©
2012 by Charles Randolph Bruce

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Published and Distributed in the
United States

PO Box 64007
Virginia Beach
,
VA
23467-4007

otterburn1388.com

Manufactured Entirely in the
United States of America

Cover design by Charles Randolph Bruce

Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews and articles.

This work is fictional. Almost all of the characters’ names and the events depicted in this novel have been extracted from historical records, however, neither these characters nor the descriptions of events are held to accurately represent real people or their conduct. Every effort has been made to present readers an exciting, interesting story set in a reasonably authentic environment. No other purpose than entertainment was intended or should be implied.

Dedication

.

To Carolyn who always inspires me to do better.

.

Background from Google Maps

White Labels and Arrows are
Applied
by the Author

August 5

Castle Dundonald in
Ayrshire
,

Scotland

It was early morning when the old man rolled to the edge of his pallet and put his booted feet on the flagstone floor. He coughed a time or two, grunted to complain over the general discomfiture of his sickly seventy-one year old body then awkwardly dragged his slop pot from under his footed pallet, set it betwixt his
spraddled
legs, loosed his trews and began to stream the
piss, that
had forced him from his slumber, into the pot.

On the wall above the old man’s head hung a battle-scared shield with the arms of the King of Scots carefully painted on it.

“Ye
a’right
, Yer Majesty?” questioned the valet through the heavy wooden door.

“Ye can have the
stinkin
’ pot when I’m done,” grumped Robert in a graveled voice just loud enough to get the words through the door as he harnessed his still spitting self back into his trews.

“Aye yer Majesty,” Fitzhugh replied back through the door. “Have yer bread and ale fixed directly.”

The old man didn’t bother to answer but Fitzhugh was well accustomed to not getting an answer and so went about his duties in the upper hall of the king’s private third floor quarters.

Robert wiped the wetness from his hands on the coverlets of his pallet, put his elbows on his knees and parked his dizzy head atop his upturned palms and wondered if the day was at hand when God was going to take him to heaven and rid him of his terrible plight.

His leg began to hurt again. He rubbed the ache hoping it would be abated by the massage. He stretched his leg and continued pampering the swollen area with his hands. Soon he stood and stretched his arms upward.
 
He limped to the window with an abbreviated sway and pulled the shutters back into the small room until they were arrested by the inner wall. He then swung wide the mullioned windows made of green tinted translucent glass that were hinged from the sides of the window frame.

The sun was already well above the horizon making the quaint village below the castle into a shimmering mosaic of activity as the villagers were well within the throes of their daily tending the surrounding fields of growing plants and noisy livestock.

The crisp air filled his lungs as much as he could catch his breath through the security bars on the window. He coughed more. He breathed deeper as if trying to draw in the strength of nature to get him animated. He grasped the window bars to steady
himself
then suddenly wondered if he was a prisoner. He laughed a bit at the absurdity of the thought. How could he be? He was the King of Scots. He was the grandson of the great Bruce. It was not possible for him to be a prisoner. All of those things in turn were what he thought while standing at the open barred window.

Robert turned when he realized Fitzhugh was again knocking on his door.

“What ye
a’wantin
’?
he
roughly replied.

“Yer
mornin
’ victuals, Yer Majesty,” said Fitzhugh still through the door.

“Come!” was the single word command.

Fitzhugh opened the door and an older woman than Fitzhugh’s thirty years stood behind him holding the tray with fresh made bread still warm from the ovens on the laigh level of the castle, jam for the spreading and a cup of ale.

Robert watched the woman with a careful eye as she came into the room. Her eyes were averted certainly from the king’s eyes and from his person as well.

Fitzhugh jockeyed the small table into juxtaposition with the soft tufted chair and Marie placed the contents of the tray onto the table, bowed and left the small room.

“Be all, Yer Majesty?” asked the valet as he bowed a bit.

“How long
syne
my
Euphemia
passed?” asked Robert still standing at the window.