UNEXPECTED OCCURRENCES
Duncan lurked in the shadows. It was cold out in the wintry night, so cold. The sentries were pacing along the wall, perhaps thirty feet away from where he hid. He could see they had a fire up there, the fitful gleam of it when they passed, cloaked and hooded, patrolling the length of the wall.
I should go now.
The sentries had changed five minutes ago. They were distracted, in a brief lull while the old sentries walked back to the watchtower and the new ones talked among themselves, discussing events of the night. It was the best time for anyone to attempt anything untoward.
Keeping to the shadows, Duncan grunted, feeling that his toes were numb, and walked, shuffling, to the rear entrance of the kitchen. At the door, he listened to the noises from inside. The wind had died down outside, making voices from within carry more clearly to him where he stood. He waited, counting to ten, and heard nothing.
When he was fairly sure whoever was in there had either gone elsewhere or slept, he slid the key into the lock and turned it. He felt the pins lift, one by one. Then the door slid open as he pushed it, giving a slight creak.
It opened on livid darkness. The fires had burned down, leaving two pools of dark red glow where the coals stayed alight, ready to be stacked and set for fresh fire the next day. Duncan listened briefly. He could hear nothing, or almost nothing. A slight rise and fall, barely audible, could have been the breath of someone sleeping there. He slipped inside.
The stairs were in darkness and Duncan almost swore aloud as he slipped, his numb toes giving him no purchase on the narrow planking. Someone stirred within and he held his breath.
When no one seemed to be looking for him, he slid in and pulled the door shut. It creaked and then there was silence. He slid the key into the lock again but did not turn it. He might need to escape this way later on.
Looking around the kitchen again, he stepped carefully off the shallow plank stairs and walked across the flagstones. He reached the door that led into the main house.
It was locked. Luckily, the key was in the lock. He turned it and again left it unlocked behind him as he had with the outer door, in case he needed it for a quick escape.
He was in the great hall.
Listening, his whole body tense with the need for secrecy, he stepped quietly forward.
The hallway was quiet, the dark fitful, lit with a torch perhaps twelve feet up ahead. Duncan let his hand touch the cool stone of the rightmost wall, trailing his fingers along it. He walked slowly and soundlessly along the hallway.
Where am I? Where is the hall? The sleeping quarters of the family?
He paused. Listened. He could hear nothing. After a moment, he thought he heard the murmur of guards. The sound was coming from a doorway on his right. He walked the two paces to it and stood before it, listening carefully. The doorway was half open. It opened into a room, black with darkness, one wall taken up with arched windows, and it was through these the sound drifted.
Taking a risk, Duncan slipped in to look through the window. As he thought, the courtyard was below him and he could see sconces with torches flickering across its paved length, marking the doorway to the great hall.
Assuming most keeps were laid out in a similar way, Duncan guessed that he must be in the guest wing. It was a fairly small castle, more on the scale of his own home, Dunkeld, and not on the larger scale of Lochlann, where he had most recently been living. He walked quietly from the room, grateful that the stone flooring was silent below him, and carried on along the hallway.
He found the end of the corridor and turned right. So far his guess was correct that this place was laid out like the ones he already knew. If he really was correct, the solar should be close by.
He headed along the corridor and reached a doorway. Moonlight, silvery soft, pooled on the floor. The whisper soft peace of it reminded him, in some strange way, of Alina. He stepped in.
The room was the solar, as he hoped it would be. A long row of arched windows faced towards the courtyard, letting in sunlight by day, moon light in the night. He stepped in, glad the floor was still flagstones. The fire had burned down, the coals raked out, though faint warmth still seeped from it as though recently done. He sighed.
If the sword is here, it is in this room.
He looked about. Wishing he could light a brand to see with, he squinted at the walls.
The only one where he could see anything metal was the wall above the fireplace. A soft gleam came from there. Widening his eyes, Duncan walked closer.
It was a sword. A beautiful sword. Straining to see it better, Duncan almost sighed in appreciation. Long and two-handed, the sword was the work of a master. The blade clearly wrought of steel and iron, channels for the blood to run stood proud in its blade. The edge shone with the bluish tinge that spoke of Spanish steel.
He reached up to it. It was heavy and, in the half light, it was difficult to see how it hung from the wall. He pushed it up and, with luck, his guess was right. Two nails had been driven into the wall – one to support the blade and the other below the handle. He lifted it and, carefully, brought it down.
The blade had dulled a little, which was good – his only grip on it was to hold the blade, until he had it beside him. He took the grip in both hands, surprised by the weight of it. With the handle in his hand, it balanced perfectly. The sword had been made especially for its original owner – whoever that was – and it was obviously balanced for his weight. By luck, whoever that was must have been the height of Duncan, mayhap a little taller, for the balance was perfect for his reach.
Resisting the urge to try the blade, he wrapped it in his cloak. Wishing he had thought of bringing a scabbard – though being a beggar with a scabbard would have been difficult to explain – he pushed the bundle under his arm, surprised once more at how heavy the sword was.
Whist, this thing is awkward, he thought. Beneath one arm, the sword made a fairly ungainly burden and he walked slowly, keeping some distance from the wall lest the cloak snag on it or the blade meet stone and give a metallic ring.
Looking quickly around, breathing tense, Duncan slipped back down the hall the way he had gone. He walked along it, turning right towards where the servant's corridor opened out. Then he walked down it to the kitchen.
The kitchen was still silent and the door was, mercifully, unlocked. He slipped inside. He tiptoed across to the other door, noticing for the first time the cook, asleep before the fire. He was fairly sure other servants slept here – they would spend the nights either here or in the great hall, sleeping on the benches – and did not want to wake them.
He tiptoed to the door, wincing as he lifted the sword alongside him. He leaned on the door. The sword slipped and the handle hit the door making a ringing sound. He drew in a breath.
“Gylas?” the cook mumbled. “Go back tae sleep. It's no' mornin' now.”
Duncan tensed and then, as he heard her breath become even, he let out a ragged sigh. The door was open. Looking around to make sure Gylas was not there – whoever he or she might be – he stepped out.
The air beyond was icy and he wished he had not had to remove his cloak. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he shut the door, and then walked quietly around the side of the building.
He guessed the rear gate was behind the long building that housed the guard. Walking stiffly along, the weight of the sword tiring, he headed along that way, hoping that any sentries would assume him a man-at-arms or sentry, on his way to the privies. He had not gone far, just rounding the back of the buildings, when the shout sounded.
“Who goes there?”
Duncan froze. He leaned back against the wall, heart thudding in his chest. They had seen him. Just as he was about to shout back, deciding he might as well answer it, shouting “Adair”, or whatever other more popular name he could think of, he heard more shouts. They came from further along.
“You bastard!”
“Off!”
“Fetch the men!”
Duncan stared.
They were not looking at him at all, but at another man, who had been walking along below the main wall of the place. As Duncan watched, heart pounding in his chest, he saw the man draw his sword and run at the guardsman.
The guard howled, and drew his sword, and soon all the men-at-arms in the vicinity were pouring towards them. At that moment, ten other men appeared as if from nowhere, clad similarly to the first, and ran at the guards.
Duncan moved closer to the pandemonium, wondering if it was possible that Blaine had managed to secure a small fighting force and was currently rescuing him. As he got closer, however, he realized this was not the case.
Blaine was not anywhere to be seen, and these men were ragged, filth-caked men from the hills, the sort who lived in wooden forts, untouched by towns and cities, and raided when they could. He could hear them shouting and he could barely understand their words, a rough dialect he had rarely heard before and could not understand. It was certain Blaine would not, either, and so they must not be with him.
As Duncan watched, horrified, one of the hill-men stabbed down at a youth in the guard, no older than perhaps fourteen. As the young man fell to his knees, the man lifted his dagger, about to deliver a deadly strike. The youth turned to Duncan, eyes wide in mute appeal.
“No!” Duncan howled and, howling, threw himself into the battle. The sword was under his arm and he raised it in both his hands as the cloak fell back to reveal the blue-steel blade. The firelight from the torches licked along the blade and made it a living thing in his hands, a flame of blue steel and vengeance.
Not stopping to think, Duncan brought the blade down on the youth's aggressor in a blow that could have cut the man in half. Duncan blinked, surprised, as he fell back. He was not used to the sword yet, nor its quality. Would not have guessed what it could do.
The force of men fell on him, seeming to decide, probably rightly, that he was the most dangerous foe on the field that moment.
The guardsmen, noticing nothing other than that Duncan appeared to be on their side, fought with refreshed strength. Duncan heard the scrape of a knife near his ear and turned sharply. A man stood at his side, dirk drawn, shield in his other hand. Duncan brought the sword down, hard, against the shield, splintering it as if he cleaved through porridge. The man was driven back and, sensibly, decided to run.
As Duncan fought, the space seemed to clear. Between the dozen guardsmen and himself, they quickly overpowered the threat.
“Have the bastards gone?” one of the guards shouted. He was talking to a man beside Duncan.
“Aye.”
They all stopped. Looked around, disbelieving, in the way of men who are surprised to find they still survive. Duncan drew in deep breaths, panting as his heart pounded and his body cooled in the cold air. At that moment, all he could do was stand still and wait, eyes unfocused, while his body realized that it was completely exhausted. His breath heaved and sweat poured down his face despite the freezing cold outside.
As his heart slowed and returned to its usual pattern and his arm rested by his side, still aching, the sword clasped in one hand, the weight almost too much for one arm alone, especially a tired one, the guards seemed to suddenly notice.
The man beside Duncan looked at him oddly. He cleared his throat, clearly ready to ask something. Duncan winced, waiting for the inevitable question.
At that moment, the silence was broken. Duncan heard the rumble of hooves, crossing first flagstone then grass. Some men on horses appeared from round the stables, one or two with torches. They looked down at the guardsmen.
“Al, Walter?” the head man snapped. “What happened here?”
The guardsman just behind Duncan, who must have been Al or Walter, cleared his throat.
“We don't know, sir,” he panted. “We was here, on our guard. Suddenly, this lot appeared.” He made a gesture to encompass the men who lay around them. Duncan took a count and saw fifteen prone forms. Sixteen, if he counted the young guardsman, still kneeling, breath coming in slow gasps.
He could see the youth was wounded. He was gasping for each breath and holding his shoulder, gray-faced in the lamp-light. Looking up at the watching riders and hoping they were not paying him any heed, he walked slowly towards the youth. Knelt down at his side. If the men on horseback saw him, they would question him, but he could not leave a youth to die.
“Son?”
The young man looked up at him, seeming if anything more terrified of him than he had been of the others. “It hurts,” he said slowly.
“Let me see,” Duncan whispered. Looking up at the guards once more, who seemed to still be interrogating the two men-at-arms, he bent down and looked at the wound the young man reluctantly showed.
It was a terrible hole. Between the clavicle and the shoulder, a blade had pierced him. Duncan knew very little of medical things, but he knew that, had that blow been a shaving of an inch to either side the young man would be dead. As it was, dark blood welled in the wound, threatening to spill now that his hand was moved.
“Here,” Duncan said, reaching for the kerchief that should have been in his pocket. He recalled he had Blaine's trousers and cursed. He tore his shirt. He passed the youth the linen pad.
“Hold it tight,” he explained, voice deliberately low. “Staunch the blood.”
The youth took it from him with nerveless fingers. As he held it there, the blood already soaking through, he looked up at Duncan, eyes huge.
“You saved me,” he said. The tone was quiet, but emphatic. “I'd be dead, else.”
Duncan breathed out. “I was lucky to be able to,” he said. He smiled. The boy smiled shyly back, eyes shining.
As they talked, a voice called overhead.
“You! I dinnae ken you.”
Duncan closed his eyes. It was one of the mounted guard and they spotted him. He stood, looking around himself. As he did so, all the men-at-arms seemed to come to the realization that they did not know him. They stared.
One of them cleared his throat.
“I...aren't you..? I saw you!”
Duncan closed his eyes a moment. He knew the man. It was the gate guard. One of the rude ones. Now they knew who he was. They would wonder why a dullard beggar was in the castle, with a sword at his side such that they would not afford on a year's pay, ever. He looked around.
His eyes met those of the boy on the ground. The boy looked behind him, nodding to Duncan. He seemed to want Duncan to turn. Duncan turned round. He saw the horse behind him. The man was not paying attention, listening to the testimony of the man-at-arms across the patch of earth where Duncan and the men stood. Duncan understood the youth.
Bending to retrieve the sword, which he had dropped when he went to help the youth, he turned to face the guardsmen. The apparent leader was watching him intently, but the man with the horse was still distracted, still listening to the guardsman's involved tale of beggars and cloaks. As he moved, the men suddenly noticed him. However, by then it was too late. Duncan charged the man on the horse.
It was almost impossible to do it with the sword in his hand. Wishing he had a scabbard, knowing he did not, he thrust the thing through the ties of his breeches and prayed it would stay there. Then he launched himself at the horseman, wrapping his arms around him.
He was on. He was seated behind the man, who was already trying to turn, snarling, his hand on his sword-hilt. Duncan had him in a grip and, being taller and with the advantage of already having a grip on him, he let himself fall sideways. The man resisted, leaning right to pull against him. Duncan simply let go.
The man fell. Dazed, exhausted, relying on his years of horseback riding, Duncan took the reins and bolted for the rear gate.
Which was, by some miracle, unblocked. The guards who were meant to be around it had joined the battle. Duncan rode through.
His heart pounding in his chest, terrified, elated and awed, Duncan bolted out of the rear gate and into the night.
He heard four horsemen following him. Tensing his jaw, praying that his horse was accustomed to riding in woodland, that the way through the forest was unblocked, and that his belt would hold up and keep the sword beside him, he shot into the woodland.
The four horses plunged after him.
Duncan waited until he was just enough ahead for them to not see him clearly and veered sharply left.
Waiting in the gap between trees, Duncan held his breath. The rumble of pursuing feet rose and slowed.
He waited, dragging in breaths. His horse was as exhausted. Head down, ears lowered, the poor creature panted and the two of them stood in silence, waiting for the silence to descend around them in the most dangerous of places: the woodlands at night.