Chapter 21

Novice John held the goblet close to Earl deLongait’s lips. The pungent odor of the priory’s vintage wine seemed enough to rouse him from his stupor. DeLongait’s eyes flapped open with a look of complete shock that he remained in the land of the living. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, his voice weak from the massive loss of blood.

“We stopped the bleeding,” the novice proclaimed. “But we can’t move you just yet. You’re too heavy to carry up the wellkeep without risk of opening that shoulder again.”

“Find—my—troop, boy. Bring—Plumat. You must—warn—him—about—giant . . .” That was all he could say before passing out again.

Prior Bede shook his head and turned to leave. “Stay with him, John. Make him as comfortable as you can. We’ll bring down the brazier and charcoal later to cauterize that wound. A hot iron and prayer is all we can offer him for the time being. I’m sure the rest of his group will be along soon enough. They can decide what to do with him. I must see what manner of evil that monster has brought to my church, now that he is loose on the grounds.”

Fortunately for Prior Bede, he had no clue what transpired in the middle of the churchyard above him. At that moment, Plumat’s troop prepared to launch a headlong charge down the slopes of Moorfoot, straight into mortal combat with the most fearsome foe any of the attackers would ever encounter.

Meanwhile, Daynin managed to steady Abaddon and get Sabritha to her feet. He thought about the bounty he’d just left in the shambles of the catacombs and could only hope Prior Bede would salvage some of it from the ruins. A last look at the far end of the valley convinced him that they had to make a run for it. Eluding the Duke’s men had almost become second nature to him by now and this time he had a head start, albeit a short one.

After a slightly hesitant effort at brushing the sheep dung off Sabritha’s backside he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Oh sure, I’m just fine,” she snapped back. “I nearly get my neck broken, I smell like sheep dip and now I assume we’re off on another wild jaunt to who knows where. Daynin—do you make this kind of trouble everywhere you go? And who is that—that—giant over there?”

Her weak gesture towards Brude quickly brought McAlpin’s plight back to Daynin’s mind as he helped Sabritha onto the wagon, then climbed aboard. “A friend, I guess you’d say—or an ally actually—I’ll tell you more on the road. He may be joining us again up north, when we take ship for Rhum.” A crack of the whip punctuated the last statement, as Daynin put Abaddon into motion.

Sabritha fell backward against a chest in the rear of the wagon. “Ouch! Are you trying to kill me, you mophead?”

“Sorry—we have to move fast. Hell is coming to supper.”

Sabritha righted herself and growled, “Saxons are at the far end of the valley, if you didn’t know it. I saw a standard.”

“Yes, I know. If we can reach Lamington Leech before dark, there is no way they can follow us through that maze of craggy canyons. We should reach the Firth of Clyde by midday tomorrow with any luck. We’ll hire a ship and be gone before they catch up to us.”

Sabritha turned to see the drama unfolding behind them. “Are you leaving that poor fool behind to take on the Duke’s army all by himself?”

Daynin stole a quick peek over his shoulder. Brude stood his ground defiantly, even as a dozen horsemen lined up to charge down upon him. “Aye, his choice—not mine. But McAlpin has the kind of courage my father had. It’s the enemy you should feel sorry for,” he replied, lashing old Abaddon even harder.

“Men!” Sabritha jeered. “That fool thinks he’s invincible and you actually think you can outrun mounted knights in a miller’s cart. Where are all the sane men in this country?”

That comment brought a wry smile to Daynin’s face, despite her sarcasm. Och! She called me a mahn! First Brude calls me ‘highlander’ and now this. Two firsts in one day. Now if I can just keep us alive live long enough to enjoy the next ‘first’ with her.

* Above The Priory Grounds *

Angry that he had seemingly lost both his squire and his trusted lieutenant, Plumat groused, “Where the bloody hell is that boy? And where is deLongait? We can’t sit here all night.”

Scarba cupped his hands over his brow to fend off the light rain. He gave the valley a long scan. “I cannae say for certain, m’lord, lest that be his horse makin’ for the heath way yonder on t’other side of the valley. Looks to be draggin’ something, or somebody. If it’s the squire, we won’t find enough left of ‘im to fill a beer mug, wager that.”

Another of the Caledonians spoke up. “Forget the squire. Can ye not see what stands awaiting us in that courtyard? Has to be the biggest mahn ever fell from a womb, says I. That beast is taller than a jousting mount reared up on its hind legs, ‘e is.”

“Aye, and wider than Scarba’s old lady,” another man added, his jest falling on deaf ears.

“Blaggards,” Plumat growled. “Have I hired an army of cowards that you sit here trembling at the sight of one suit of armor?”

A look of disdain passed from man to man amongst the Caledonians, their courage having been sullied by a Saxon prince once again. Only the Duke’s colors kept the seedy mob from cutting Plumat’s throat right there on the spot. That, and the very real prospect that he would take several of them to hell with him, even in a lopsided fight.

“Are you with me lads?” Plumat barked. “Five silver pieces for the man who delivers a killing blow to that Goliath and ten extra for the boy’s head. What say you?”

Loot spoke louder than honor to the Caledonian killers. Almost with a single voice, they proclaimed, “Death to the Goliath! Onward lads!” and flooded down the cairn’s rocky slope.

Plumat held back, knowing it might take half the troop to bring down that giant. He couldn’t commit himself to that kind of frontal assault. After all, that’s what levies were for—to provide the bloodletting. “Whoa, Cauldron,” he said, tightening the charger’s reins. “Not yet, boy. We’ll wait for the minions to do their job. Then we shall see what kind of mischief there is left to be done in this place.”

* The Hole Inn The Wall *

“Quickly, Mediah,” Kruzurk said. “We’ve not a minute to lose. If the Duke’s men left for Abbotsford this morning, they’ve likely already arrived. I only hope Daynin had the good sense to drop off his penance with those monks and keep moving. Elsewise we may be too late.”

A seedy blind beggar sat huddled in a dark corner of the barn, his ears pricking at the overheard conversation. He stood up and tip-tapped his way into the horse pen, a knobby stick guiding his steps. Beside him, a nasty, mud-encrusted mastiff the size of a small pony dogged his every move. The animal stopped instantly upon seeing the two strangers in the pen. His snarling growl announced the beggar’s arrival.

“Alms for the poor?”

“Call off your dog, beggar,” Mediah warned. “I already gave you a tuppence for your information earlier. Now begone with you.”

“Meanin’ no harm, your lordship. Thor here—he’s my eyes. He sees that which my cane cannot reach.”

Kruzurk approached the beggar, proffering his half of the bread loaf they’d just bought. The move elicited an even more unfriendly growl from the dog. “Take this bread—it’s all I can offer you just now. We have to be on our way.”

“You’re too kind, m’lord. Fergum is my name—Olghar Fergum. They call me ‘Fermin’ hereabouts, since my unhappy circumstances force me to live with the rats.” The beggar held out his filthy mitt to receive the gift. “And don’t mind Thor. He’s only vicious if he senses there’s harm coming to me.”

Kruzurk sidestepped the dog’s enormous head to place the bread in Olghar’s outstretched hand. “We were told this road goes through Abbotsford Priory. Is that true?”

“It certainly used to go there m’lord. Not being able to travel these ten years since my blinding, I can only guess the track has not changed much. But one must be very careful taking that route. There are a dozen thieves’ dens along the way, so they tell me. Cut your throat just to watch you die, they will.”

Kruzurk made sure Olghar had the bread firmly in hand, then turned to mount his horse. “Thank you for that warning. We will be on our guard. Now we have to go.”

Olghar took a few halting steps toward Kruzurk’s fading voice and added, “Meanin’ no disrespect, your lordship, but uhm, I believe it’s dark out and I wouldna make that journey ‘til first light, if I was you. Many a pilgrim has tried to reach the priory overnight, only to get waylaid by a bunch of no-goods out there in the dark. I hear about such things, you know—every day it seems.”

After offering Kruzurk a much-needed boost up onto his saddle, Mediah turned to the beggar and snapped, “We are hardly what you’d call pilgrims, Fermin. And we have to get to the priory straightaway. We’ve important business there.”

“Greek, eh? Your voice—it has the ring of Greek to it, does it not?” Olghar asked.

Mediah cast Kruzurk a quizzical glance, who simply shrugged. “Keep that to yourself, old man. Sometimes it’s best not to know too much about travelers.”

Olghar’s knobby cane rose up to point straight at Mediah’s chest. “I know this much, Greek. There’s a track through the Tweedsmuir bog that will save you a three hour ride to Abbotsford and keep you out of harm’s way.”

“Hog rot,” Mediah scoffed. “The inn keeper said nothing of a track across the moors.”

“Aye, the inn keeper—that nasty slug makes ‘is livin’ off the thieves here ‘bouts. You think he’s gonna tell you the truth? I can get you to Abbotsford—but you have to take me with you. That’s my price. I wish to die on holy ground and none of these blaggards will carry me there.”

* Abbotsford Priory *

Prior Bede heard the giant’s deep-throated boasting outside before he even reached the top of the wellkeep. “God help us if that monster takes out his wrath on the brethren.”

Peeking cautiously through the crack between the church’s open doors, the Prior knew instantly what the giant crowed about. Less than a hundred paces from the outer perimeter wall of the cathedral grounds, a squadron of mounted troops had drawn up in line. Despite having no training in war, Prior Bede knew a bloody brawl brewed right in front of him.

The Caledonians must have realized it too. Close enough now to see the true size of their adversary, the line of attackers had come to a complete stop almost as abruptly as they had started. “Och! Look at that armor,” Scarba growled. “I’ve only seen armor like that on the story stones of the Picts.”

“Ain’t no more Picts, Scarba,” someone spoke out.

Scarba drew his Glasgow blade. “Aye, and that beast could be the last of ‘em. It’ll be us Caledonia sings of from now on, if we can take ‘im. Let’s do ‘it!”

All at once, the horsemen lurched forward, Scarba at their head. The horses charged through the gap in the wall, instantly churning the courtyard’s manicured grounds into a loblolly of muck and mire.

“Get ‘im!” someone screamed as the column of horses bore down on the steadfast McAlpin.

In a move made so fast it became invisible, Brude dashed forward and threw himself under the first rank of horses. Animals, men and weapons collapsed in a mangled heap, almost burying the Pict in the mud. The second rank of three, with no time to change direction, plowed straight into the pile of bodies, adding themselves to the mound of debris. Behind them, more horses reeled in terror, throwing riders hither and yon like sheep shot from a catapult.

In a matter of seconds, six of the Caledonians fell with injuries so bad they were out of the fight. Three more struggled to right themselves from under their fallen mounts while the rest of the column split in two lines to sweep left and right around the melee. Scarba managed to gain his feet long enough to strike one hearty blow against Brude’s helmet. Everyone in the courtyard heard the resounding ‘crang’.

Brude struck back, delivering a savage backhand across Scarba’s knees. The Pict’s humongous blade rent Scarba’s kneeguards like goat cheese. Blood splattered the Caledonians and their horses, mingling with the mud and gore. Scarba fell without so much as a whimper, dead before he hit the ground.

Three crossbow bolts dinged off Brude’s armor. He barely noticed that he’d been fired upon. He whirled in the mud, lashing out at the flank of the nearest horse. The animal screamed, reared backward and tossed its rider with a loud “splunk” in the mud.

The remaining Caledonians circled their prey, much as a pack of wolves might do, having gained considerable respect for the damage one swat from the giant’s sword could produce. Several cranked off crossbow shots, to no avail. Brude’s armor was too thick to penetrate, even at twenty paces. Another man let fly with a sling but the stone glanced off with little effect. Quickly, it became clear that the giant had never heard of Goliath and the Caledonians had no David.

The giant seemed all but invulnerable until one of the levies produced a tether used for dragging down sheep. He tied a loop in one end, rode forward as close as he dared and tossed the loop, snaring Brude’s sword arm in mid flail. McAlpin ripped at the cord, almost toppling horse and rider. Another rope came from the opposite side of the circle hit made its mark, entangling Brude’s other arm.

Both ropes stretched tight with the huge warrior in between. Brude tugged at one, then the other, even as more ropes fell around his head and shoulders. In no time, the Caledonians had their enemy ensnared with ropes pulled by horses in six directions. The fight had been brief and costly, but in the end the Caledonians prevailed by sheer strength of numbers. “Finish him!” several of the henchmen howled. More agreed, a frenzied blood lust having replaced courage and any sense of an honorable victory.

Prior Bede couldn’t help himself. Demon or no, he wouldn’t watch the Caledonians slaughter a helpless being. He broke out of the church doors holding his cross high that they might see it in the gathering darkness. “Enough!” he ordered. “The blooding must cease. You fight on sacred ground!”

“No one’s blood has been spilled here but ours,” one of the men growled back. “Be gone with you, abbot. We’ve a right to collect our reward for this victory, and collect it we will, by God!”

Turning to face the loudmouth, Prior Bede leveled his crucifix as an archer would aim a crossbow. “I warn you, my son. Hell will be your only reward if you murder this—this—man in cold blood.”

Satisfied the giant was finally defanged and helpless, Plumat urged Cauldron forward from behind the stone wall where he had watched the finale of the battle. “Take his sword and bind him,” he ordered. “Then do as the abbot says. No need to finish him here. We’ll take this big bastard with us and hang him from the first tree we find stout enough to swing ‘im. Half of you see to the wounded. The rest of you—find that damn boy!”