Chapter Fourteen
Acting as his squire, Duff carried Domnall’s shield and battle ax onto the field where the two combatants would face off. Word of the battle had spread far beyond Dunfermline. Spectators had come from far and wide to witness the event, the crowd of thousands filling every space surrounding the lists. All had come in the hope of seeing blood.
As Duff handed Domnall his ax and shield, he offered some final counsel. “Fitz Ranulf is bigger and more experienced than ye, and will be expected to win, but yer youth and hardiness will prove yer advantage. This battle will nae be won by sheer strength, but by strategy and stamina. If ye can manage to stay out of his reach, he will wear himself out in time.”
While the strength of his armor and size of his shield would make Fitz Ranulf impervious to many of Domnall’s strikes, Domnall was confident the combined weight of it all would quickly wear him down under the extreme exertions of single combat. Though he made himself much more vulnerable by eschewing mail, speed and agility were as valuable to Domnall as his weapons in this fight.
“His heavy armor will make him slow,” Domnall declared. “I’ll be able to stay out of his reach.”
“And when he shows fatigue, ye can then move in with the ax,” Duff said. “Ye dinna have to kill him. Ye dinna even have to wound him. Ye only need to wear him down to exhaustion. There is one more thing, lad,” Duff advised. “Ye must hold as tightly to yer temper as to yer shield. Many a man in such a trial has lost his head,” he made a slicing gesture along his neck, “by losing his head.”
Duff was right, but holding his emotions in check would take a supreme effort. Too much depended on the outcome. Domnall was fighting not only to avenge the death of Davina’s family, but also to save Davina herself from what would surely be, for her, a fate worse than death.
Once the combatants were fully armed and in their respective positions, the justiciar stood to address all those who had come to witness the spectacle. “Let it be hereby kent that no man shall disrupt this trial in any manner; any man who does so, shall be seized and sent to the king’s prison, there to remain for a year and a day. There are no rules to this fight. The combatants are free to use any method at their disposal. The last man standing will be the victor. This trial will now proceed until the one or the other of these men declares himself vanquished. Faites vos devoirs and let God’s justice prevail!”
Armed with swords, axes, and daggers, the two men came together, slowly circling and sizing each other up. Fitz Ranulf eyed Domnall’s weapons with contempt. “I will defeat you swiftly this day, and have the slut in my bed this same night.”
“If that is yer plan, ye must needs kill me,” Domnall said. “For I will ne’er let ye touch her.”
His opponent’s mouth stretched into an evil leer as he re-sheathed his sword and took up his ax. “So be it. I will now kill you by pieces and take the greatest pleasure in inflicting the maximum pain.”
“Bien,” Domnall replied in his Highland-accented French. He added with a taunting smirk, “Faites vos devoirs.”
*
As Fitz Ranulf’s accuser, Davina was compelled to witness the swearing of oaths prior to the trial, but she was strictly prohibited from speaking. It was all she could do to listen in silence as Fitz Ranulf compounded his crime of murder with perjury as he swore his innocence. However this day ended, she consoled herself that he would eventually be judged and punished with the flames of hell.
Yet, her confidence in the final disposition of his immortal soul did nothing to lessen her fears for Domnall. The prince had informed her that the laws of chivalry were irrelevant in such a contest as this. Domnall was honorable and Fitz Ranulf was evil to his marrow. With no rules of engagement, the battle would surely favor Fitz Ranulf.
As she watched the combatants enter the field, she was vividly reminded of the tales of ancient Roman gladiators who waged battle to the bitter and bloody end purely for Caesar’s entertainment. But unlike the Romans of old, theses spectators were almost eerily silent for fear of the dire punishment of distracting the combatants.
Fitz Ranulf wore full Norman armor—a hooded mail hauberk crowned with a nasal helm of burnished steel and chausses over his legs. He was girded with sword, daggers and battle ax, and bore a full Norman-style shield bearing his father’s coat of arms.
Domnall, however, wore boiled leather armor and proudly displayed his Highland plaid. He was girded with a sword and dirk, but the weapon he wielded was a battle ax with his Highland targe.
He’d come to fight with almost no protection. What was he thinking? Davina’s spine was rigid and her hands clenched tightly in her lap as the two men began to circle one another. She already wanted to scream for this to cease, but there was no ending what had begun. The die was cast. She had no choice but to watch, or shut her eyes and pray.
Choosing the latter, she squeezed her eyes closed and whispered desperate supplications to the Blessed Virgin, only to peer through her fingers moments later. The bright summer sun glinted against the shining steel as they traded blows, but the combatants themselves were nearly obscured by a cloud of dust.
*
Axes at the ready, Domnall and Fitz Ranulf slowly danced around one another, in an ever-tightening circle as each man sized the other up. Tense with anticipation, Domnall followed every movement, every twitch of his opponent’s face. He was also powerfully aware of every muscle and nerve in his own body. He was glad Fitz Ranulf had opted for the ax. The weapon required far more force than a sword. If he could keep his opponent on the offensive he would quickly tire.
Fitz Ranulf’s attack came swiftly in a sudden flash of steel as his ax blade sliced the air. Domnall was swift to deflect the blow that was meant for his head. Instead of sundering his skull, the ax glanced off his targe.
The next strike, however, came perilously closer, the blade whistling downward beside Domnall’s left ear. Although he dodged in time, the strike was nearer than he would have liked. He hoped he hadn’t underestimated Fitz Ranulf’s skill with the ax.
When Fitz Ranulf attempted a third strike, Domnall parried with his own weapon, rather than with his shield. Their hooked blades twisted, tangled, and locked above their heads. Nearly chest-to-chest, they pushed and pulled, grunting and heaving in an effort to unbalance each other. Bashing their locked weapons with his shield, Domnall managed to break free and wheel away. Panting from the close encounter, both men retreated and reassessed. But soon, the deadly dance began anew.
There was no stealth or calculation to the next engagement. This time, they came together with feral ferocity, with grunts and growls, and axes raised as if to cleave each other in twain. Trading blow for blow, their shields took the brunt of each impact, resounding with the dull thud of steel against wood.
Sweat pooled on Domnall’s brow as the intensity heightened. The air echoed with the ring of steel to steel and the thud of stave against stave, with neither man gaining any advantage. Fitz Ranulf guarded himself well with the larger Norman shield, leaving no vulnerability for Domnall to exploit. The weight, however, was becoming a burden. His breathing had grown louder and his movements were less coordinated, sure signs of fatigue. He moved well, considering his old injury, but he’d also begun to favor his right leg. The two men came together again in a rush of crashing shields. The momentum of the hit knocked Domnall off balance, but he managed to dodge the slashing ax blade and retreat.
Just as Domnall considered his next move, Fitz Ranulf charged again. But this time he threw down his shield to take the ax in both hands. The blade flashed above Domnall’s vulnerable head and came crashing down full force on his targe. The wood cried out under the force of the blow and spit splinters into the air. Although his shield was still intact, the blow had weakened it.
Domnall swiftly pulled back out of striking distance before he took another hit. While his mind raced for a better strategy, Fitz Ranulf recovered his own shield and drew his sword for a fresh assault.
Domnall had hoped to keep his opponent on the offensive until Fitz Ranulf exhausted, but clearly the game had changed. Fitz Ranulf was stronger and more skilled with the sword than he was. Taking hit after hit was not going to work to his advantage. He had to go on the offensive. He glanced down at his ax. Duff had taught him much but, thus far, he’d done little with it other than to match blows. Perhaps there was a better way?
Tossing aside his targe, Domnall transferred the ax to his left hand and then drew his sword with his right. The ax might not cover his body as well as the targe, but it was still useful to defend as well as to fight. He could parry, strike, and most importantly of all… he could hook with it.
Armed now with both sword and ax, Domnall moved in toward Fitz Ranulf. His expression was wary. Had the change in tactics taken him by surprise? Good!
Weapons at the ready, they came together again in a ferocious rush of thrusting, striking, and slashing, their steel singing through the air and then ringing like church bells with hit echoing after hit. The frenzy of strikes was almost too much for Domnall to counter, let alone attack.
But eventually, Domnall saw his chance. Feinting with his sword hand, Domnall raised the ax and hooked Fitz Ranulf’s shield. Yanking with all his might, he pulled the shield aside to create his first true opening. Domnall lunged in with his sword and struck downward, aiming for Fitz Ranulf’s right leg. Perhaps it was not the most honorable of moves, but he cared naught of honor and dishonor in this battle. He cared only for defeating him for Davina.
Fitz Ranulf’s leg gave way to the force of the blow, sending him crashing down onto his knees, but he still managed to parry Domnall’s next strike. Domnall’s attempt to disable him had fallen short. His sword had failed to penetrate the mail chausses.
Seizing the opportunity to strike his enemy’s head, Domnall raised his sword and lowered it with all his might, but the blow glanced impotently off Fitz Ranulf’s steel helm. Domnall rapidly struck a second and third blow using the pommel as a bludgeon but barely dented the steel helm. Fitz Ranulf’s face was florid with rage but to Domnall’s dismay, he appeared uninjured. Though Domnall continued a relentless assault with sword and ax, Fitz Ranulf managed to parry Domnall’s every strike.
Domnall’s lungs heaved with his exertions and his eyes burned with a mixture of sweat and dust that was beginning to obscure his vision, but he was unable to disengage long enough to wipe his eyes. His incessant blinking must have given him away. Just as Domnall thought he might be gaining the advantage, Fitz Ranulf grabbed a handful of dirt and slung it straight into Domnall’s face. Temporarily blinded, he stumbled backward, coughing and choking and fighting to clear his vision. Throwing his ax aside, he frantically wiped his eyes on his sleeve while Fitz Ranulf clambered back to his feet with the help of his shield.
He was limping heavily but pressed forward with forceful slashes and thrusts of his sword that drove Domnall back until he realized, almost too late, that he was being forced into a corner. His vision still hadn’t completely cleared but he had to do something or he would soon find himself at the mercy of Fitz Ranulf’s sword. With his back now pressed against the stone wall enclosing the field, Domnall had but one last option.
Parrying the thrust, Domnall grabbed Fitz Ranulf’s blade with his left hand in an attempt to wrest the weapon away. Fitz Ranulf jerked and yanked at the sword, but Domnall’s grip remained firm. As long as he could hold the blade, the weapon was rendered useless.
Unable to free his sword, Fitz Ranulf jerked his head back and slammed his helm into Domnall’s face. The pain was an explosion that sent him reeling backward.
Stunned, Domnall found himself lying in the dirt with blood gushing from his broken nose. He shook his head violently in an attempt to clear the cobwebs of confusion, but the earth still spun around him.
As Domnall struggled to sit up, Fitz Ranulf’s booted foot made contact with his ribs, forcing all the air from his lungs. As he lay gasping for breath, the same foot bore down on his chest, pinning him to the ground. Fitz Ranulf now stood over him, eyes gleaming, and dagger in hand.
“Perhaps I will kill you quickly, after all. I find myself eager to claim the spoils.” His mouth slowly stretched into a lascivious leer. “This very night, with the king’s blessing, I will take your Scottish slut over and over in every conceivable way. I will relish her screams as I thrust into her. And in a few months’ time, when I have tired of her, I will slit the bitch’s throat.”
“As I live, ye will nae!” Domnall choked out, as the crushing weight of Fitz Ranulf’s body shifted more fully onto his chest. In desperation, his gaze darted upward to the long, perpendicular slit in the front of Fitz Ranulf’s hauberk, an unexpected opening to his enemy’s most vital organ.
Wrenching his body, he reached upward and grabbed the flaccid flesh, and squeezed with all his might. Fitz Ranulf’s eyes bulged as he released an earsplitting howl. The dagger dropped from his hand.
“Cease this at once!” the king shouted. “He declares himself vanquished!”
The king’s command fell on deaf ears.
As the vilest of creatures, Fitz Ranulf deserved no compassion, no pity and absolutely no mercy. Domnall twisted his hand. A bursting sensation ensued, followed by a warm gush. Fitz Ranulf’s eyes rolled back and then he collapsed to the ground.
Ioan Fitz Ranulf was, indeed, thoroughly and unquestionably vanquished.
*
Davina peered through her fingers at the sound of the king’s voice.
Vanquished? Which one? Both men were stretched out on the ground. Domnall was covered in blood and Fitz Ranulf lay close by. His body was still but his mouth opened and closed like a landed fish, with no audible sound emerging.
The king leaped to his feet with his fist raised. “This man who calls himself Domnall Mac William, has willfully and wantonly defied me! Take him away and put him in irons.”
Davina watched in shock and horror as the king’s guard surrounded Domnall’s battered body. Blood ran down his face as they jerked him to his feet and dragged him from the field. “Nae! Majesty!” she threw herself to her knees and clasped the hem of his silken robe. “I pray ye for mercy!”
“Mercy?” the king scoffed. “I shall show him precisely the same degree of mercy he displayed to Fitz Ranulf.”
“But he proved Fitz Ranulf’s guilt!” she protested. “The man is a murderer!”
“Domnall’s duty was only to prove Fitz Ranulf’s guilt, not to deliver his sentence!”
“What will ye do to him?” Davina asked.
“I will seek the answer from God through fasting and prayer,” the king answered. “And I will do the same regarding you.”
Davina swallowed hard. “Me?”
“Your betrothed is all but dead,” the king replied coldly. “I must needs find you another.”
“So soon?” she asked.
“I hardly think your grief over him is so overwhelming that you require a period of mourning,” he answered dryly. “You have proven a troublesome maid, Davina of Crailing. I would wash my hands of you sooner rather than later.”
“Troublesome am I?” Her body trembled with fear and anger, yet she stood her ground against the king. “All because I wouldna have a murderer to husband?”
“There are women who have suffered worse,” he replied dismissively.
Davina had no answer to that. His reply took her breath away. Was he truly so cold and heartless?
“Avaunt you now!” the king uttered with an irritable wave.
“Come, Davina,” Prince Henry urged lowly with a hand on her shoulder. “Now is not the time to speak. ’Tis far wiser to be out of his sight and far from his mind. In sooth, you should return at once to Haddington.”
“What of Domnall?” she asked. “What will happen to him?”
“I cannot say,” the prince replied. “My father’s fury rises swiftly, but it is also quick to pass. Were politics not entangled in this, he would likely imprison Domnall for a month or two and then let him go. But alas, the repercussion of this deed could be great. Especially if Fitz Ranulf dies of his wounds. ’Tis all the more reason for you to hie from here.”
“I canna go,” Davina said. “I must ken what is to befall Domnall.”
“I warned you, Davina.” The prince threw his hands up and turned away.
Davina knew he was right. It could do her no good to remain at Carlisle under the king’s nose, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave Domnall. She vowed to stay, though she was as powerless to help him as she was to help herself.
*
Domnall didn’t know how long he’d lain chained like an animal on a bed of dank straw that smelled of piss. He didn’t even know if it was day or night. His mind was muddled and his body felt as battered as if he’d been trampled by a hundred horses.
His last recollection was of Fitz Ranulf’s threat to do unspeakable things to Davina. What followed was a blur of muddled images—Fitz Ranulf shrieking like a banshee and then blood. Copious amounts of blood. Domnall was caked with it. He stank of it. He tasted it in his mouth. But whose blood was it? He suddenly recalled looking down at the severed piece of Fitz Ranulf’s manhood in his hand. Had he truly emasculated FitzRanulf with his bare hands? It seemed so.
He released a long, racking shudder that sent a torrent of pain through his entire body. He tried to move his limbs. They were heavy, as if weighted with lead, but nevertheless obeyed, or at least as far as his iron chains allowed. His eyes were swollen almost shut, and his ribs felt like knives inside his chest with every breath, but at least he breathed. He was alive and had every reason to believe Fitz Ranulf was not or, at the least, now wished himself dead. He shut his eyes again knowing Davina was safe.
*
“Do ye live, lad?” A large hand gently shook Domnall’s shoulder. Domnall awakened for the second time to find Duff squatting beside him. “Ye had me worried for a moment.”
“I live.” Domnall shifted with a groan. Pain racked his body with every movement. “But I’ve lived far better.”
“Here,” Duff retrieved a flask. “Ye need this more than I do. Mayhap ’twill help revive ye.”
Accepting the drink, Domnall took a long, burning draught of uisge beatha, the Highland water of life. It didn’t take many swallows for his pain to lessen and for his body to relax. “What news have ye of Fitz Ranulf?” Domnall asked.
“He will nae survive,” Duff said. “The blood loss was too great.”
“’Twasna enough for me to just fell the man,” Domnall said. “He was guilty of the most foul and savage murder. He deserved far worse than he got.”
“Aye, but I fear ye will get far worse than ye deserve,” Duff countered. “Ye have roused the king’s fury. I warned ye to keep yer emotions in check!”
“I could do nae differently,” Domnall declared. “And I would do it over again still.”
Duff sighed. “Let us hope a short imprisonment is sufficient to cool the royal ire.”
“What of Davina?” Domnall asked. “Is she still here in Carlisle?”
“I dinna ken,” Duff said. “But I will try to discover it for ye.”
“I would see her if possible,” Domnall said.
Duff grinned. “Everything is possible.”
“Thank ye, Duff. Ye have been a great friend to me,” Domnall said.
“And I will continue to stand by ye,” Duff said. “All of the men have pledged the same. We will see this thing through, lad. Ye have my vow on it.”
*
Although Davina desperately wanted to see Domnall, it took several days and a valuable silver brooch to arrange it. Entering the cell, Davina stifled a gasp. His appearance was, indeed, shocking. Dried blood covered him and his face was so beaten he was almost unrecognizable.
“Dinna come too close, Davina,” Domnall said with an embarrassed look. “I am forced to lie in filth and have been denied a bath.”
Ignoring his warning, she pressed her lips to his bruised and swollen face. “I have brought ye some food.” She retrieved a linen-wrapped bundle from the sleeve of her cloak. “I will get ye some water to bathe and some clean clothes. I promise ye!”
“Have ye any news from the king?” he asked.
“Nae.” She shook her head sadly and offered him some bread and a large hunk of cheese. “But Fitz Ranulf is dead of his wounds. I fear what the king might do now. He is sore vexed with us both.”
“Dinna fear, Davina.” He squeezed her hand. “This shall pass in time.”
His words failed to reassure her. “How much time?” she asked. “Even if he releases ye, I dinna see now how we can e’er be together now. The king will ne’er allow it. He already speaks of another espousal for me.”
“The king will have naught to say about it,” Domnall vowed, his voice gruff and impassioned. “Once I am free of this place, we will leave together. I will take ye with me to Kilmuir. From this moment, Davina, I will be my own man and I will fight for my own cause. I will ne’er serve another king.”
“Nae! Dinna say such things!” She pressed her fingers to his lips to silence him. “Ye must go to him with a contrite spirit and placating words if ye e’er wish to be free. Please, my love,” she pleaded, “ye must do this for me or ye will ne’er be free!”
*
A fortnight later, Domnall found himself released from his shackles and taken before the king. He’d thought long and hard on Davina’s request and though it irked him to do so, he was fully prepared to make a show of contrition and beg the king’s forgiveness, but it was not to be. Arriving in the king’s chambers, Domnall was surprised to discover Davina had also been summoned. Her worried look told him that they were both to face David’s wrath.
“I have received grave news this day,” the king began without ado. “News that has both stricken my heart with grief and roused my royal fury. Your sire, my kinsman, William Fitz Duncan, has been slain.”
Domnall stared at the king in stunned disbelief. His father was dead? He’d heard the words but couldn’t seem to comprehend them. It seemed impossible to believe.
William Fitz Duncan had seemed almost immortal to Domnall.
“How could this be?” Domnall asked, once he found his voice. His father was an experienced warrior and Skipton was a heavily-garrisoned and seemingly impenetrable fortress.
“He was drawn away from the castle on a ruse and then ambushed,” the king said.
“By whom?” Domnall asked.
“’Tis believed ’twas Ranulf De Gernon, Earl of Chester, the very man whose son you slew.”
“An act of vengeance,” Domnall declared.
“Vengeance and more,” the king replied. “An eye for an eye was nae enough to satisfy him. He has now seized Skipton and taken Fitz Duncan’s widow and children hostage.”
Domnall was suddenly seized with guilt. When last he spoke to Fitz Duncan, he had sworn to protect his half-brother in the event of his father’s passing. But how could he have foreseen any of this?
“There is no doubt in my mind that the slaying of Ioan Fitz Ranulf has set off this unconscionable chain of events,” the king declared.
Domnall had no rebuttal. The king had voiced his own thoughts.
“I cannot let this go unpunished,” the king continued. “After much prayer, deliberation, and fasting, I have come to the conclusion that you both must be held accountable.”
“Both?” Domnall looked at Davina. “But she is innocent! ’Twas I who challenged Fitz Ranulf and I who slew him. She is nae responsible,” Domnall insisted.
“You are indeed responsible for his death, but had she obeyed my wishes in the beginning and wed Ioan Fitz Ranulf, none of this would e’er have occurred.”
“’Tis unjust!” Domnall argued. “His guilt was proven!”
“Silence!” The king hissed. “You shall not speak again unless I address you.” He inclined his head to the armed men who appeared ready to act should Domnall disobey.
Davina looked frightened as the king finally acknowledged her directly.
“Davina of Crailing, since you refused to wed the man I chose, you shall wed no man at all. Instead, you will become a bride of Christ.”
Her eyes grew wide and her lips quivered when she spoke. “Ye will send me to a nunnery?”
“It seems apropos given the circumstance,” the king replied coldly. “Your lands will be forfeited as your dowry to Haddington Priory. You will go hence and live out your days in penance for your waywardness and disobedience to your sovereign lord and king.”
“As to Domnall Fitz William,” the king interrupted his thoughts. “I hold you directly accountable, not only for the death of your sire, William Fitz Duncan, but also for the unlawful seizure of his property, his widow, and his children. Your slaying of Fitz Ranulf, done in willful violation of my command, can only be regarded as an act of treason.”
He was being charged with treason?
The very word sent a shudder of dread throughout Domnall’s body. He tensed in horror-filled anticipation as the king continued. “And as a traitor to the crown, you shall be hanged by the neck until death doth ensue. May God have mercy on your soul.”