Chapter Four
January 1, 1141
After leaving Castle Kilmuir, Fitz Duncan led his men on a steady southward trek, inspecting castles and conscripting soldiers as they traversed the Highlands toward Carlisle. They rode hard and rested little, covering many miles in brutal temperatures and snow so deep that it sometimes reached the horses’ chests. Fitz Duncan always rode at the front, leading his men, with his captains by his side.
Domnall learned quickly that though nobly bred, his father was a hard man who was accustomed to the privations of a soldier’s life. It was also evident from the swift and efficient manner in which his commands were carried out, that Fitz Duncan’s men regarded him with awe and respect.
When they’d arrived at Nethy Bridge, where they made temporary camp, the constable received Fitz Duncan with open arms. Treating him as the most honored of guests, he even vacated his own chambers to accommodate him in comfort. Was it out of reverence or fear? Perhaps a bit of both.
Domnall had no warm feelings for his sire, but he still couldn’t suppress a certain surge of pride to be Fitz Duncan’s son—even if he was regarded as a bastard. He could learn much from such a man. Yet, in three days of travel, Fitz Duncan had barely acknowledged Domnall, let alone spoken to him. He would have thought his presence had been forgotten altogether, were it not for a certain Guilbert Champernon, one of the rare Normans who spoke Gaelic, and one who appeared to have been put in charge of Domnall.
“Are ye a knight?” Domnall asked.
“Not yet,” Champernon answered. “I have five years left to serve as a squire.”
“I dinna understand,” Domnall said. “If a man can ride well and fight well, why canna he be a knight?”
“Because Knighthood is more than fighting. It requires strict discipline and much preparation. I began serving Fitz Duncan as a page at seven years and have already been ten years in training,” Champernon pronounced proudly.
His declaration hardly impressed Domnall. “Ten years and ye still havena mastered it?”
Champernon scowled. “You don’t understand how ’tis. Any man who wishes to become a knight must prove himself beyond mastering the arts of war. He must live by the code.”
“What code is this?” Domnall asked.
“The chivalric code,” Champernon replied with an exasperated huff. “’Tis the virtues that all knights live by. Do you know the Chanson de Roland?”
“Nae,” Domnall said. “Who is Roland?”
“Only one of the greatest knights of all time,” Champernon answered. “He set the standard to which all should aspire. You must read the poem.”
“I dinna like books,” Domnall replied with a scowl.
“If you wish to be a knight, you must do many things you may dislike,” Champernon replied. “You will start as a page, in which role you will fetch and carry and humbly do whatever menial task your lord requires of you. If you do well and please your lord, you will be promoted to squire when you are old enough.”
“What does a squire do?”
“A squire assists his knight in whatever capacity is needed, but he also trains to fight.”
“Then I’ll skip the page and become a squire,” Domnall said.
“It is not your choice to do so,” Champernon replied. “You must be at least fourteen to become a squire.”
“But that’s four years away!” Domnall said.
Champernon shrugged. “There is no shortcut.”
Nevertheless, Domnall vowed to find one. He was a Highlander, not a Norman, and refused to spend the next decade of his life in servitude. “’Tis nae the way of it in the Highlands,” Domnall said. “’Tis the worthiest man who rules the clan, regardless of his birth.”
“Are there no noble families?” Champernon asked.
“Aye, but a man must still prove himself or be replaced.”
“Replaced?” Champernon threw his head back with a laugh. “’Tis a kind way to phrase murder.”
Domnall flushed in the face of his companion’s mockery. “’Tis only the way of it when a weak man refuses to step aside for the good of the clan.”
“Or when a more ambitious man desires his place,” Champernon argued.
“What of ye?” Domnall asked. “What is yer ambition? Why do ye seek to become a knight?”
“As a younger son, ’tis my only recourse,” Champernon said.
Domnall realized then how precarious his own position was. Like Champernon, he had nothing to inherit and no desire to seek a living in the church. His only way path forward was to learn the ways of war. And whether he liked it or not, Fitz Duncan was the best man to teach him.
*
They spent Christmas Day at Cadzow Castle, the king’s favored hunting lodge, where Fitz Duncan gave the men leave to celebrate, but ’twas a far cry from the festivities that Domnall was accustomed to. Rather than pipers and feasting, the Normans spent hours in the castle chapel on their knees in prayer. The meal that followed was generous enough, and the wine flowed freely, but the levity and mirth of a Highland holiday were sorely lacking. The more Domnall learned of the Norman ways, the more he disliked them. He wished he was back at Black Isle at Castle Kilmuir where they would make merry well into the wee hours.
The day after Christmas, Domnall and Champernon were permitted to join Fitz Duncan and the castle constable, along with a select group of senior knights, on a boar hunt in the great oak forest surrounding the castle. Domnall had hunted birds and rabbits and other small game with his stepfather, Fergus, since he was a wee lad, but he’d never experienced the excitement of a boar hunt.
Domnall was still rubbing sleep from his eyes when he entered the great hall where the hunters had gathered. They broke their fast quickly, passing around baskets of hot bannocks and pitchers of cider. A pack of dogs circled the tables panting in excitement. Anticipation filled the air as the group of men and hounds departed the great hall bound for the armory to gather weapons for the hunt. In wonderment, Domnall stared at the massive display of spears, axes, javelins, and swords that covered the four walls.
Champernon handed him a long spear with wings jutting out from the base of the point. “’Tis designed for boar hunting,” he explained. “The shape of the head keeps the beast from running through the spear.”
“Through it?” Domnall asked.
“Aye. A wild pig is a mad beast. Even impaled on a spear, he’ll still try to kill you.”
“Have ye seen it?” Domnall asked.
“Aye,” Champernon replied grimly. “I’ve witnessed a number of men mauled by wild pigs. There’s no more aggressive game.”
Domnall digested that information with a hard swallow. He knew wild boars were fast and easily antagonized, but he’d not understood the full scope of the hazard. Domnall accepted the spear and tested its unfamiliar weight in his hand.
“’Tis unlikely you will need it,” Champernon said, “but you should carry it just in case. We hunt during breeding season. They will be easily provoked.”
Armed with knives, bows and boar spears, the group of hunters exited the keep, bound for the dog kennels. The air was chill and the first rays of the sun were just beginning to break through the lingering shadows of night.
The dogs’ excitement had now reached a fevered pitch. The pack was a mixture of breeds, all with muscular bodies and slobbering jowls. Although whimpering to be let loose from their leashes, the hunt master ignored their pleas. Instead, he called for the limers.
“The scent hounds,” Champernon answered Domnall’s inquiring look.
Two lads emerged from the kennels with a pair of smaller, snub-nosed dogs that immediately commenced circling with noses to the ground. Domnall could smell only mud and manure but the dogs seemed to detect something more.
“Now what?” Domnall asked.
“They will track the game,” Champernon answered. “Once they detect a scent, the hunt will commence. Come,” he said. “We must prepare the horses.”
Domnall accompanied the squires who were responsible for saddling their knight’s mounts for the hunt and then their own. By the time Domnall was mounted, the limers had returned, baying and frantically wagging their tails, and working the hunting hounds into a veritable frenzy.
With a nod of his head and then a blast of his horn, the master of the hunt commanded the hounds’ release. A canine chorus of howls erupted as the dogs raced from the bailey toward the forest.
Laughing and shouting, the hunters spurred their horses in a mad dash to catch up with the dogs. As Domnall expected, Fitz Duncan was at the head of the group. The pack soon splintered, the hounds now running in two different directions. Though he was lagging far behind on an inferior horse, Domnall continued to chase after his sire, clinging tightly to his galloping horse’s neck to avoid the low hanging boughs. Champernon was not so lucky, getting smashed in the face by a branch and swept from his mount. His fellow hunters demonstrated as little concern as his rider-less horse, leaving him behind as they continued the chase.
Domnall quickly lost sight of the other men, but the sound of baying dogs echoed through the woods. As he turned to follow the sound, something large and dark bolted out from the brush, spooking his horse. It reared in fear and Domnall hit the ground. The impact of his fall knocked both the wind out of his lungs and the spear from his hand. He was still gasping for breath as he discovered the dark blur that had nearly rammed into him was an enormous black boar with blood gushing from its side.
Keeping his eyes on the animal, he fumbled for his dirk and clambered backward toward the nearest tree, hoping to scale it for safety. But his movement must have caught the animal’s attention. The boar spun toward him and charged. Domnall’s heart leaped into his throat as he raised his knife to defend himself. His dirk, however, was no match against the boar’s long, razor-sharp tusks.
Just as he thought his life might end, the hounds came barreling through the brush. Baring their teeth, they surrounded and attacked the injured pig. The defiant boar fought back, tossing one of the dogs with his snout and impaling another with his tusks.
Catching sight of his lost spear, Domnall scrambled to his feet. Two hounds remained locked in combat with the boar that was holding his own. Spear in hand, Domnall cautiously approached, his nostrils filling with the pungent scents of wild boar and blood. Though his body shook with fear, he somehow managed to raise his spear.
One of the hounds latched on to the wounded animal’s throat. Seizing his chance, Domnall sucked in a breath. Aiming for the heart, he plunged his weapon into the boar with all his might. A shrill squeal pierced the air the moment it penetrated. The boar fought and thrashed for a few seconds longer before it fell to its side and went completely still.
Stunned, Domnall stood over the dead animal, his body still quivering as the dogs began ravaging the carcass. He made no move to interfere. The dogs had more than likely saved his life. A moment later, he was surrounded by hunters who looked as surprised by the kill as Domnall felt.
Fitz Duncan was the first to dismount from his horse. He eyed the dead boar and then Domnall. He cocked his brow with a censorious look. “It seems you have taken my prize.”
“I-it was already wounded,” Domnall protested.
“Which only made it all the more dangerous.” Fitz Duncan’s mouth stretched into a slow smile. “My son has shown great valor on his first hunt.”
My son.
Until that moment, Domnall had wondered if Fitz Duncan had forgotten his existence. Although he didn’t want to admit, even to himself, how much his father’s praise meant, those two words warmed a cold place deep inside.
The dog handlers quickly appeared and leashed their charges, praising the animals with warm words and rewarding them with the legs of the dead boar.
Another celebration followed the hunt. While the cooks roasted the pig, the Normans engaged in various games and contests of strength—to include archery, grappling, and hammer throwing. There was even a wager between knights to swim the icy moat! Though he was too small to participate, the games still roused Domnall’s competitive spirit.
Fitz Duncan seemed different toward him now, even allowing Domnall to ride by his side when they departed three days later, which seemed to displease Champernon. Was he jealous? Aside from blackening both of his eyes, the squire was relatively uninjured, but had received merciless taunting for losing his horse during the hunt. Domnall was certain that his bruised pride hurt him much more than any injury sustained by his fall. Nevertheless, he sensed a growing resentment from the young man he’d hoped to call a friend.
They spent the next night as the guests of the Earl of Strathearn. While most of the men made camp in the bailey, Fitz Duncan took Domnall with him into the castle, where Fitz Duncan and Strathearn sat by the fire, drank, and talked war and politics well into the night. Domnall sat in silence, studying the two nobles and struggled to make sense out of their discussion.
He knew England was still at war. But in the Highlands, it had seemed so remote and irrelevant since the peace treaty. The two men, however seemed greatly concerned with the power struggle in the south, and seemed to have differing opinions as to who should rule England. Although David of Scotland had made peace two years ago with Stephen, the usurper of the English crown, he’d previously sworn his allegiance to Empress Matilda, the designated heir to the throne.
It all seemed very confusing and convoluted to Domnall. One thing was clear, however. King David had used the situation in England to his advantage. He’d invaded the north of England to expand his own territories. In the treaty, King Stephen had ceded control of most of the land he’d taken, with a great chunk of it under Fitz Duncan’s control. Domnall’s sire had a very vested interest in the outcome of the war.
Fitz Duncan had been raising troops from every place they’d stopped. He had amassed several hundred men. Was he only concerned with defending his lands or was he preparing once again for war?
It wasn’t long before Domnall’s eyes grew heavy and drowsiness overtook him. His dreams that night were filled with visions of the bloody boar hunt and the look of pride that had gleamed in his father’s eyes.