The Battle for Duncragglin (19 page)

I have to,
Alex thought grimly. He forced himself to leave his hiding place and drop from branch to branch to the ground. He ran back the way he came, past the same sharp thorny bushes that had scratched him a few minutes before. He ran and ran until he was at the edge of the forest, where the soldiers had left their horses.

Alex had been on a horse only once before. A schoolmate in Canada lived on a hobby farm. There, Alex had brought a horse to a trot, bouncing awkwardly in the saddle while trying hard to get the hang of moving with the horse's rhythm. He wasn't good at it, but he'd managed to stay on.

The horses snorted as he approached and watched him warily. There was no time to waste. Alex untied the reins of each horse and turned them about. Any hope he had of a quick and merciful death at the hands of the soldiers was eliminated by what he was attempting to do; they would now be angrier than ever.

Alex picked the most docile-looking beast of the lot, quickly adjusted the stirrups, and swung up onto its back. Still
holding the reins of the other three, he dug his heels into the horse's sides. To his dismay, it did not move. It simply put its head down and munched on grass.

“Cm on, giddyap, GO!” For good measure, Alex gave the horse a slap. Nothing, only the a swish of its tail.

Alex heard a shout, and an arrow whizzed past his shoulder. He slouched as a second and third arrow passed over him. The soldiers were closing the gap. Pleading with his horse to get going, he saw a soldier stop to fire off an arrow. It went astray and stuck deep into the rump of one of the horses. It reared, with a loud shrieking neigh. Bucking and kicking, it bolted, frightening the other horses into running too.

Alex's horse broke into a furious gallop. He flew right out of the saddle, but managed to hang on. The frightened beast thundered across the field.

Alex spotted the remaining horses: one galloping alongside, the one with the arrow in its flank stomping and rearing, but no longer running. The last had resumed grazing.

Alex's horse slowed. He dug his heels into its sides to keep it going, but it ignored him. A soldier leapt onto the grazing horse and spurred it on. Infuriated, Alex saw the soldier's horse instantly obey. He shook his reins, yelled giddyap, and even tried to kick his horse, but to no avail. His horse merely shook its head and stopped altogether. Frustrated and feeling a deep rage well up within him, Alex leaned forward and sunk his teeth hard into his horse's twitching ear.

That did it! His horse surged forward. He attempted to direct it inland towards the woods. To his amazement, the horse responded. Soon, trees were flashing by. But as the horse galloped along a narrow forest trail, it brushed so close
to the trees that some almost caught his legs. It ran headlong under low branches, making Alex flatten and slide to one side to avoid being hit. Several times, the horse jumped over fallen tree trunks. Each time, Alex flew from the saddle and almost lost his grip.

The hard-whipping soldier was close behind. Alex shouted, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” to keep his horse on its careening gallop. It ran over an embankment, deciding to charge down a dry creek bed. That was fine with Alex, as long as it kept going. When the creek bed ended at a small loch, the horse hurtled along the shoreline. Alex barely had time to register that the water to his left was the loch of the McRaes' farm – the loch near William Wallace's camp before his horse plunged back into the forest, following yet another narrow trail.

Suddenly the soldier's horse fell, tumbling head over hooves as if shot dead in midstride. The soldier was flung into the air and landed in a flailing roll. He sprang to his feet, drawing his sword, only to suddenly turn into a porcupine person, arrows protruding everywhere. He fell to his knees, then onto his face, and lay twitching.

Alex frantically reined in his horse, trying not to fall. “I hate haggis, I hate haggis!” he cried, throwing up his hands.

Its reins slack, Alex's horse snorted, shook its head, and stopped. Bowmen materialized all around, their bows drawn.

“That be the old password,” one said.

“Take me to Sir Ellerslie … or William Wallace,” Alex pleaded. “I have important information.”

The bowman stretched his bow. “We take no captives.”

“Sure you do!” Alex was desperate. “Why else have you got Jack, the jailer? Also, Groenie will be unhappy if you shoot me – I was his helper.”

The bowman hesitated. “This lad knows us all.”

“Is he not among those impostors they were to bring to the McRae clan?” asked another.

“That was a trick to fool Rorie,” Alex pleaded. “Ask Malcolm; he knows.”

Another bowman stepped forward. “Aye,” he said. “We'd best do that. Down ye get.”

Alex slowly dismounted. Several bowmen were retrieving arrows from the soldier, now motionless. A rope was stretched taut across the trail at knee height. Either his horse saw the rope and cleared it, or the bowmen sprang the trap after his horse had passed. Miraculously, the soldier's horse was now on its feet again, appearing none the worse for its tumble.

Several bowmen swung the dead soldier by the wrists and ankles and heaved him over the rump of his horse. His head swung back and forth as they trekked towards the camp.

Alex concentrated on the trail ahead, trying not to look at the body. He saw the split rock. The bowmen waved to barely visible sentries. “Eye of the storm,” one called out. Alex presumed it was the new password.

Judging by the number of men in the camp, Wallace had found more recruits. One large group was engaged in a mock battle, clanging their swords.

A group leader called out, “What news? Has there been a battle?”

The clanging of the swords died, and Alex's party became the center of attention.

“Nae.” A bowman thrust Alex forward. “We have merely caught this young lad here leading a soldier to our camp. Maybe Jack can get the truth from him.”

Alex's protests fell on deaf ears.

The swordsmen stood aside for a familiar, pointy-bearded man. “Alex, lad! Good to see ye safe and sound.”

Malcolm waved off the men's protests. “This is a friend and an ally. Don't ye worry; I'll commend your actions in keeping this lad safe to Sir Ellerslie. I'm sure he'll want to thank each of ye personally for this good work.” He heartily put his arm around Alex's shoulders. “Now come, we must tell Sir Ellerslie you're here. He told me of your encounter with him on the coast.”

Malcolm steered him to a large tent, where guards stood aside upon Malcolm's approach. Alex strained to see in the dark interior, lit only by an oil lamp.

A dark form rose. “Alex! What brings ye here, lad?” The voice was Sir Ellerslie's.

“The soldiers found us.” Alex tripped over himself in his haste to tell him everything. “They've got Katie – we have to save her. I barely got away when the soldiers came. We've got to hurry!”

“Not so fast, m'lad; slow down and tell me exactly what happened.” Sir Ellerslie motioned for Alex to sit and poured him a mug of water.

Alex took a deep breath and recounted the events of the day, starting when he woke with the others and discovered that Katie was missing. Sir Ellerslie and Malcolm shook their heads in amazement as Alex described climbing the tree to evade the soldiers. They burst out laughing when
he told them that he'd escaped by stealing their horses.

When he finished, Sir Ellerslie turned to a large person seated beyond the glow of the oil lamp at the far end of the table. “We may need to advance the timing of our attack,” he said. “Particularly if Hesselrigge thinks to have the lassie interrogated. She knows our plan to use a tunnel.”

“I am no convinced of this plan.” Wallace's deep voice rumbled down the length of the table. “I am no convinced that diverting a team of my best men to finding tunnels and caves that might not even exist is a good idea. These men will be needed in our assault.”

“Aye, I understand your concern,” Sir Ellerslie said. “But if the tunnel does exist, and if we do manage to open the main gates from within …”

“Those are a lot of ‘ifs.’ Tell me …” Wallace leaned forward and addressed Alex directly “… this tunnel ye say can be reached only at the lowest of low tides, what makes ye say it connects with the castle?”

“I was told this by a professor who has studied the history of this area,” Alex replied. “He said that battles over the castle were won and lost because of the caves.”

“A professor? Be that one who professes knowledge?”

“Yes, he is a learned man – a scholar.”

Wallace turned to Sir Ellerslie. “There will be no rescue if ye fail. Ye will be vastly outnumbered within the castle, and heaven help ye if ye are caught: Hesselrigge will show no mercy, far from it in fact.” He pulled Sir Ellerslie aside and continued in a low voice. “Are ye quite sure to put so much confidence in the word of this lad? As I've said before, he does appear to be a bit soft in the head, does he no?”

Sir Ellerslie smiled. “I'll stake my life on it,” he said simply.

“That is precisely what ye are doing.” Wallace picked up his gloves. “Very well; this bizarre plan is a long shot, but worth a try. However, ye will get no more than a half-dozen men. Our main force will begin the assault of the castle one hour before the second dawn – whether ye have successfully penetrated the castle or not.”

Bursting with excitement, Alex struggled to maintain restraint as he said, with his head bowed, “Thank you very much, sir.”

Wallace looked at Alex quizzically. “Quite un expectedly, we now have a lot riding on ye, m'lad. Fate can never be foretold and forever surprises. Be off now, and Godspeed.”

Malcolm followed Sir Ellerslie from the tent. “We'll need to bring five of your best men,” Sir Ellerslie said, “and
only
your best. We'll also need torches, ropes, and picks.”

“Aye, Sir, I know who to choose.” Malcolm gave a half-salute. “Give me one hour.”

“Very good.” Sir Ellerslie gave Malcolm a nod of farewell. “Alex, I have some affairs to attend to. I suggest ye get something to eat from Groenie.”

Alex was left alone to explore the camp. He stayed well clear of the area where men were practicing, clashing swords with vigor. He didn't want to get in their way.

Alex hoped to make it past the kitchen lean-to unnoticed, but Groenie spotted him, calling out with surprising
joviality, “Alex, m'lad, ye're back! From the dead, it would appear! Would ye be here to help me this time? I've been so busy with all these extra men.”

“I'm sorry, Groenie. I am to depart on an important mission with Sir Ellerslie and Malcolm within the hour.”

Groenie scrunched his brow. “It's always the same.” He took up a dirty scrub brush. “Ah, well, never mind. Come and have some grub before ye go. I've baked a new batch of bread, and there's some venison stew ye can dip it into.”

Alex gratefully accepted the offer. He sat at the long wooden table while Groenie ladled it out. Placing the bowl and a hunk of fresh bread before Alex, Groenie looked at him with a glint in his eye. “Whatever your mission, m'lad, do me one favor:
Win.
Defeat the enemy. The sooner they're defeated, the sooner I get to go back to my land and see my wife and bairns.”

Surprised, Alex watched Groenie resume his pot-scrubbing. He had not thought of Groenie as a man with a family.

Alex finished his meal and had some time on his hands, so he decided to stroll about the camp. Passing the blacksmith's workplace, he noticed racks of shiny new swords, shields, and breastplates. It appeared Wallace had plans for enlisting even more recruits.

A solitary older man was wheeling a squeaky wheel barrow down a bumpy trail. The wheelbarrow's contents were covered by a dirty cloth. Curious, Alex followed, catching up to him on the outskirts of camp, where the man was struggling to push the heavy load up an embankment. Failing at his first try, the man backed up to take another run at it.

“Can I help?” Alex offered.

“Aye, can ye carry my shovel for me?” The man carefully set the ends of the wheelbarrow down on the uneven ground. “It keeps falling off my 'barrow when I go over bumps.”

Alex took the long-handled shovel. “Do we have far to go?” He did not want to be late for his scheduled rendezvous.

“Nae, just over this wee rise here.” The old man wiped his sweaty hands on the back of his trousers. Pulling up on the wheelbarrow handles, he ran at the hill, the load bouncing and thumping with each bump. The cloth cover shifted and a bare human foot protruded from under the folds.

Alex stopped dead in his tracks.

“Cm on, then,” the old man called back over his shoulder. “Here's the spot.”

Ahead was a ridge of freshly dug earth. Reluctantly, Alex followed as the old man pushed the wheelbarrow over the last crest. The man set the wheelbarrow down before a trench, put his hands on his hips, and stretched. His backbone popped and crackled.

“I'm too old for all this haulin' about,” the old man grumbled. “I should be home sittin' before the fire with my pipe, havin' my bairns and their bairns tendin' to my needs.”

“Why don't you do that?” Alex asked, from ten paces away.

The old man's eyes lost their focus. “Aye, laddie, why indeed. At one time, I thought that is how I would live out my old age. Me and my missus worked hard on the land all these years; we had enough to share, and share we did. Those were good days. We had four sons and two dochters that grew to be big – and a few more that didn't, mind ye. Then the dark
days came. As the price for staying on my land, the purser demanded more and more of my crop 'til there was no enough for us. We grew more and more hungry, and there was nothing I could do. My wife, my dear wife of so many years, got sick. I had no money to pay for a healer – I pleaded with the lord's men to give me a reprieve on my taxes so we would have enough food … so I could take my wife to a healer and pay for some medicine….”