The Knight's Broken Promise. Nicole Locke
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stopped surveying the field and turned to walk to camp. ‘Let us hope for a long reprieve. There are too many complications with this war we wage.’
‘Hardly a war. Balliol hasn’t the troops to defend against King Edward’s fleet.’
‘Since Balliol was crowned, it made sense for us to strengthen the northern defences. I have too many questions why a fleet of our countrymen was sent north as well.’
Hugh shrugged. ‘It is not for us to know. And since we followed orders, the king could hardly fault the infamous “Black Robert”.’
He ignored Hugh’s use of his title. He did not welcome the description of him on even the most favourable of days. This day was not favourable. ‘It will take several weeks to recover.’
‘Aye, but he will be pleased at what we accomplished today. Even what happened up north could not weaken his resolve.’
‘What do you mean, “what happened up north”?’
‘You did not hear? There’s a small village, Doonhill, tucked into a valley just northwest of Dumfries. A faction of men, under Sir Howe, went there when it appeared we would not be victorious.’
‘Howe purposefully pulled his troops when the battle was not yet over?’ He quickened his stride. ‘That could have cost us victory!’
‘Aye, but Sir Howe said he had to retreat or all of them would have died.’
The story was sounding familiar. ‘Howe? Is he the one who commanded and pulled the destriers at Lockerbie?’
‘The very same.’ Hugh coughed into his hand.
‘So the bastard thought he could do it twice?’ His jaw tightened. ‘What happened at Doonhill?’
‘It was a small village, but apparently had many women.’
He did not need to hear any more. He was not naive and knew rapine happened as a result of war. Indeed, many men thought it was their due.
‘What did the king do for the women?’
‘Nothing.’
He stopped and turned his entire focus on Hugh. They had almost reached the camp and he wanted to finish this conversation in private. ‘What do you mean, “nothing”?’
‘There could be no repairs. The king said he’d be sending a message to Balliol about the incident in case there were repercussions.’
‘Why would there be consequences? Why does he not pay the men of Doonhill as he has done in the past?’
‘There are no men, Robert, or women, or children to pay,’ Hugh spoke slowly. ‘Our men destroyed the entire village.’
His head and body filled with anger and disbelief. Even to his own ears, when he spoke, he sounded distant. ‘How is that possible?’
‘It is the risk of war.’ Hugh’s horse yanked impatiently at his bit. ‘Pray excuse, I need to get this horse to rest and food.’
He shook off the hesitation he felt in following Hugh. Long ago he had stopped looking to correct the past and the destruction of the village could not be undone. Dismissing his thoughts, he patted Hugh on the back. ‘I will come. I find I must be more hungry and tired than I thought.’
* * *
Robert crested the hill. He still did not know what had compelled him to come. Hugh hadn’t been pleased he travelled alone in enemy territory. But it wasn’t logical for others to make the journey. Now that he saw the valley, it seemed meaningless.
The day ended, but the impending darkness did not dim the devastation. It was worse than his dream. Howe would have to pay for what he’d done.
His horse impatiently tossed his head and he tightened the hold on the reins. It would never make a good war horse. What good was a horse if a few smells made it shy? And there were smells. The valley was steeped in death.
Dismounting, he walked down. The stench of decaying bodies and burnt wood accosted his nose. He breathed through his mouth and stopped.
There were no bodies. He could smell them, he had been in Edward’s wars too long to mistake the smell, but they were not strewn along with the furniture or broken pots. He quickened his pace.
Close to the lake, he came across a large plot of freshly tilled land. It was a garden. The stench was so strong now he wished he didn’t have to breathe at all.
There were fresh, shallow graves mixed with patches of burnt vegetable stalks. The bodies were laid close together and there was a long scrape made in the dirt between the bodies and the garden. The bodies had been dragged to their resting place.
It was a gravesite and a gravesite meant survivors burying their dead. There were footprints, too, but it looked as if they were the same size and at least one foot dragged.
He scanned the surrounding area again, but he could hear nothing. Everything was still.
Was one man trying to bury many? He wondered why anyone would bother. There was nothing left in the village to save, no way of healing and rebuilding after the destruction Howe’s men had caused.
Knowing he was not alone, he unsheathed his sword. Keeping his weapon low and at his side, he carefully walked towards the lake.
Then he heard it: a scrape, quick and loud, coming from one of the partially burnt huts.
Wanting to make sure his words were heard, he waited until he was closer. ‘I come in peace!’ he said in English and again in Gaelic. ‘Please, I mean you no harm.’
Another scrape—it sounded like metal. There was someone definitely inside the hut.
‘I offer help.’ He tried to make his words as convincing as he could. Whoever was in there, they could not have warm hospitality on their minds.
Approaching the open doorway, he raised his sword to hip level. He would rather have waited until whoever was in the hut had come out, but the person inside could be injured and needing his help.
Setting his shoulder in first, he entered the hut. The moon’s light slashed through the burnt roof. The one room was small, square, but he could see little else. There was no time to avoid the small iron cauldron swinging towards his head.
‘Oh, cat’s whiskers around a mouse’s throat, I’ve killed him!’
Gaira stopped the still-swinging cauldron and swallowed the sharp bile rising in her throat. With shaking knees, she knelt beside the man. Slowly, so slowly, she lowered her hand to his mouth and felt hot breath against the back of her hand. He breathed!
Her heart swiftly rose. Dizzy, she closed her eyes and drew in a steadying breath. When she was sure she could, she opened her eyes to inspect him.
He was a large man, not taller than any Scotsman, but maybe thicker, and his chest was so broad it was surely carved from the side of mountains. She could not discern his face in the moonlight, but she could see his hair was long, wild and he had let his beard grow unkempt.
His hair and beard puzzled her, for it was very un-English and this man grew his as if he were the lowliest of serfs with no comb. But an English serf would not be this far north and all alone.
Carefully, she felt along his sides for a pouch or weapons. He smelled of cedar, leather and open air. Only the fine, soft weave of his clothing gave beneath her fingers. His body, warm through his tunic, was hard, unforgiving. She frowned at the fanciful word. A body could not be unforgiving.
Feeling along his front, her palms suddenly dampened, tingled, and she stopped at his hips. She wanted to continue her exploring, but she realised it wasn’t to find weapons.
What was wrong with her? She had