The Battle for Duncragglin (20 page)

The old man was no longer talking to Alex; he was talking to himself. His voice was strained. “I miss you, Lizzie. I will to my dyin' day.”

Alex did not dare interrupt.

“My dochters have married good lads, but they cannae make enough to live. Their wee bairns cry out in hunger. Two of my sons were taken to be soldiers. Before the soldiers could come for my other two sons, I met the good William Wallace, who told us we could fight – aye, fight and win!”

The man paused and looked intently at Alex. “To me dyin' breath, I shall fight. It's better to die spittin' on the dead of your enemy than living with them spittin' on ye every day, don't ye think?”

“What happened to your sons who became soldiers?”

“I've never seen 'm again.” The old man abruptly pulled up on the wheelbarrow handles. The wheelbarrow's nose dug into the dirt and the grisly contents slid out and tumbled into the trench.

The man squinted at the twisted corpse. Although all his armor had been removed, Alex recognized him as the soldier that had chased him.

“That's no my son,” the old man said, with a tired note
of relief. “Now, lad, ye know why I have this job. If I do find my missing sons, I will want them to have a proper burial.”

“Where are your younger sons?” Alex handed the old man his shovel.

“They're no so young. Big strappin' lads they are, and they're here fightin' with William Wallace.” The old man flung a shovel of fresh earth down into the trench. It landed with a dull thud, splattering dirt over the white dead face.

“I just hope they don't meet their older brothers on the battlefield. And if they do, I hope they won't know it.”

The old man flung down more shovelfuls until the corpse was but an outline in the dirt. Only the toes of one foot protruded. Waving away the persistent flies, Alex noticed there were many more outlines in the dirt, each covered with squiggling, whitish gray shapes – clusters of feasting maggots! Suddenly, Alex knew why the air about him had such a strong sickly-sweet odor. He felt the now all-too-familiar sensation of blood draining from his body.

Waving away the flies, Alex said weakly, “Good-bye. See you again sometime, Mr….”

“Bruford,” the old man said with a smile. “Alan Bruford's my name, and y'rs?”

“Alex.”

“I thought so. My son has told me much about ye already.”

“He has? Do I know him?”

“Aye, ye've met him a few times. Malcolm's his name. Say hello to him for me. Hurry off now.”

Alex raced back down the embankment. He was still stiff and sore from having run so much earlier that day, but he did not want to be late.

A
lex jogged through the entire camp without finding Malcolm and his men. He did not know where they were to meet and was worried that he might not find them.

Heavy clouds had rolled in, bringing a bout of drizzle and mist. The damp took the enthusiasm out of the war games. Men sat clustered near their tents, playing games of chance and dexterity with small sticks, ready to take refuge should the rain come down harder. They shouted and threw back their heads with great bellows, exchanging coins whenever someone won.

A tent flap flung open and Sir Ellerslie appeared. Relieved, Alex was about to shout and wave when he noticed, barely visible in the darkness of the tent, a woman in a long dress. Sir Ellerslie turned back and they embraced. Alex kept going, not wanting Sir Ellerslie to catch him watching.

Horses neighed in the distance. Alex explored the outskirts of camp and found Malcolm with a small group of men, leading the horses from paddocks. The men were dressed
entirely in black. Their horses snorted impatiently, sensing a hard ride ahead.

“Everything ready?” The voice came from behind him. Alex looked over his shoulder and saw Sir Ellerslie approaching. He was alone.

“Aye, Sir.” Malcolm slapped a saddlebag. “We have torches in watertight bags, with flints to light them, rope to help us climb, and picks to hack our way past underground obstacles. We have a few skins of water also. Beyond that, we'll have to live by our wits – and the sword.”

“That we will do – well done, Malcolm.” Sir Ellerslie ran an appraising eye over the men. “And tell me, who have ye chosen to join us?”

“The best!” Malcolm said, holding out his arm toward a slight, fine-featured man who, at first glance, seemed better suited for the ministry than part of a crack assault team. “Reagan here is an expert climber. He spent much of his youth in the Highlands and was renowned for his ability to climb sheer cliffs – even when they sloped forward over the climber. He can hang out over nothing. I thought his talents would be useful to us.”

Reagan finished tying a coil of rope to his saddle and made a small bow.

Malcolm gestured to an intent-looking man with neat, oily-black hair. “Neil, on the other hand, is a champion swordsman. He can swing a sword so quickly that before his opponent can counter a move to one side, Neil has him on the other.”

Neil's eyes never left Sir Ellerslie's, even as he gave a slight nod.

Sir Ellerslie suddenly made as if to draw his sword, but before it cleared the scabbard, Neil's sword was under his chin. Sir Ellerslie swallowed and slid his sword back. “Nicely done.”

Neil put his sword away and bowed.

Malcolm carried on to the next – a tall man with several daggers protruding from over his shoulder in a modified quiver. “Hugh here is good with a sword too, but what distinguishes him is his ability with a dagger. He can throw one with such force that it sinks to the hilt, unless, of course, it's stopped by a rib.”

Sir Ellerslie rubbed his chin. “That's an unusual talent. Can we have a demonstration on yon tree?”

Hugh reached back over his shoulder. There was a flash of spinning steel and a dull thud.

Sir Ellerslie let out a low whistle. “That would be very effective in confined quarters – if ye can strike a spot with no armor.”

“I've seen him skewer an apple thrown into the air. Now George – that large muscular man there – is the best at unarmed combat. He can outwrestle any man I've ever met and can snap a person's neck at will. But when he's not agitated, he's the gentlest man around. Aren't ye, George?”

George tipped his cap and bent to pick up a heavy saddle. Seemingly without effort, he swung it high and lowered it gently onto his horse's back.

“He loves animals and playing with children. When he stands with his arms out, children pretend he's a tree and climb all over him.”

There were a few smiles, but no one laughed. They knew better than to laugh at big gentle George.

“And who's that man with the unusually short bow?” asked Sir Ellerslie.

A barrel-chested man not much taller than Craig looked up from tightening his horse's saddle.

“Yon's Donald. We have many men who excel with the longbow, even more that are good with a crossbow, but none who fire a short bow like Donald. He can fire one arrow after another so quickly that the second is airborne before the first has struck.”

“Short bows are hard to pull – and hard to shoot straight,” said Sir Ellerslie.

“Aye, but they're good for short-range conflict, such as we may encounter in caves or a castle,” Malcolm said. He gave Donald a nod.

Following a flash and a blur, two arrows quivered in the tree, one on either side of Hugh's dagger.

“Hey!” Hugh protested. “Ye could have damaged my dagger. That handle is finely carved from deer antler –”

“Calm down, Hugh,” said Malcolm, stepping between them. “If Donald wanted to hit your dagger, he would have.”

Hugh looked unconvinced, but retrieved his dagger from the tree. He hesitated, then pulled out the arrows and handed them to Donald.

“Well, this is an excellent collection of talent ye have assembled here, Malcolm.” Sir Ellerslie gave a playful smile. “So tell me, what speciality do ye bring to the team?”

Malcolm did not hesitate. “I lead, Sir. I apply the talent where and when it's best used.”

“Then we truly have everything we need for success.”

Sir Ellerslie clapped his hands and raised his voice so everyone could hear.

“This will be a difficult mission, one where we will face grave danger and near impossible odds. But when we succeed, and succeed we will, Hesselrigge will swing from a gibbet, and we will have gained a great victory in our fight for liberty. It is also a secret mission. Once I tell ye of what we are to do, there is no turning back. Should any of ye wish to decline, tell me now.”

Reagan spoke up. “We're with ye, Sir Ellerslie. I believe I speak for us all.”

“Aye, I'm with ye as well.” Neil's pronouncement was followed by nods from the others.

Sir Ellerslie smiled. “Very well, let me tell ye of our mission. We will be penetrating the castle by way of secret caves. Once inside, we will disrupt the defenses and find a way to facilitate a main assault, which will commence before sunrise the day after the morrow, approximately thirty-six hours from now.”

The men murmured their surprise.

The questions came in rapid succession:

“Where are these caves?”

“Are they guarded?”

“Will we have to dig our way in?”

“Who is this lad?”

Sir Ellerslie raised his hands.

“This is Alex.” He had Alex stand before him and face the men. “The first time I saw this lad, he was lost in the woods and about to become intimately acquainted with the working end of a robber's club. He is a bit of a mystery to us. He speaks
strangely, and no one is sure from where he comes, although he claims to be of Macpherson lineage.

“Alex is not alone. Every time I find him, he's with young folk, all of whom speak strangely, though none as strange as him. The others claim to be of the McRae clan, but none of the McRaes have knowledge of them. He has told us of a secret tunnel that is rumored to access caves beneath the castle. It's our job to find it.”

Sir Ellerslie paused for this to sink in and gently clapped Alex on both shoulders. “Tell the men, Alex, what ye know of these caves.”

“The caves are old,” Alex began hesitantly. “They were here before the castle was built. Not many know they exist. Some who found them went in and were never heard from again….”

The men rolled their eyes.

“It's true!” Alex tried desperately to sound more convincing. “My parents were among those who disappeared in those caves, and I'm going to find them –”

Sir Ellerslie cut him off. “We will be searching the caves only to find a way into the castle. But I do commit to ye, Alex, that when our battles are over and Duncragglin is ours, we will do what we can to help ye.”

Sir Ellerslie turned to address the men. “Our first task is to find the tunnel. If we do not succeed, we will have lost no more than a day's effort. If we do, the game is on.” He put his foot in the stirrup and swung onto his horse. “Let us be off.”

The men headed out, leaving Alex to scamper up the horse Malcolm had prepared for him. As Alex caught up, his horse slowed to a steady canter. The men let the horses find their own pace, and before long, they were down to a brisk trot. Alex bounced painfully in the saddle until he got the hang of the new rhythm.

The path narrowed rapidly, and the horses moved into single file. Alex found himself right behind the swordsman, Neil, whom he recognized by the oily-black shiny hair that protruded from under his deerskin hat.

Ahead was a hazy mist. Branches brushed past when the horses maneuvered turns. After being slapped in the face by a wet leafy branch, Alex learned to watch Neil's back and duck and weave when he did.

As if to better assault the riders, mist particles banded together to become a chilling, penetrating drizzle. The light rain soon pasted Alex's hair to his head and sent trickles of water down his neck. He fumbled to button up his jacket with one hand, the other holding the reins of his trotting horse. Although thankful that his jacket held back most of the rain, he wished it had a hood, or that he had a hat like the others … or better yet, that it would stop raining.

By the time they reached the coast, the rain had become an outright downpour. They took shelter under the canopy of large trees, but cold splatters of water continued to find them. Soaked all down his back, Alex sat shivering, hunched in his saddle, feeling miserable. Here he was, seven hundred years from his own time, his friends captured or dead, no place to call home…. Unexpected tears mixed with the rain that trickled down his face.

Through the din of rain crashing through the forest, Alex heard one of the men speak. “Good thing it's coming down like this,” the man said. “Less likely for soldiers to be about.”

“Aye, it will send them dashing back for the shelter of the castle,” said another. “Besides, it can drizzle for days, but rain usually stops after a downpour.”

Sure enough, it was not long before the steady roar became lighter and the rain stopped altogether.

Malcolm dismounted and signaled for the others to stay put. Sprinting across the wet grassy plateau, he kept low to the ground all the way to the cliff edge, where he scanned the base of the cliffs and the shoreline.