28

Keith Leslie had been up all night, making sure the warhorses were in fit condition to fight. He had examined the bits, bridles, and reins of every destrier that belonged to a de Warenne knight, and then two hours before dawn he had begun fitting the snorting, restive animals with the armor that protected their heavy chests, shoulders, and flanks. He kept Lord de Warenne’s and his squires’ destriers until last, making sure the saddles were well secured and the stirrups at the exact length required.

It was physically exhausting work and when his part was done, Keith lay down in the straw and closed his eyes. He drifted on the edge of slumber for almost two hours, but he was too keyed up to actually sleep and imaginary battle scenes filled his head.

Suddenly, he sat bolt upright, his eyes widening in dismay. Keith knew immediately that he was experiencing a vision, because what he saw had slowed down so that he could see everything in minute, horrific detail. He saw Thomas become the victim of treachery, as one of de Warenne’s own men brought up his ball-and-chain and felled the squire with a single blow. Keith watched helplessly as the traitor vaulted onto Thomas’s destrier and spurred it mercilessly until he came up behind Lord de Warenne. Once more in slow motion the iron ball-and-chain was raised.

“Noooo!” Keith screamed a warning that went unheeded. Lynx de Warenne’s limp body rolled to the ground and lay supine. Keith watched helplessly as the traitorous soldier unsheathed his sword and impaled the unconscious man who lay defenseless upon the ground. Keith saw only the eyes, filled with hatred, blood-lust, and then triumph. Keith knew he would never forget those eyes; he would see them as long as he lived.

The red-haired youth struggled to his knees, then to his own disgust began to vomit in the straw. When he had voided the entire contents of his stomach, he gained his feet and began to run. The ground beneath his feet was soft and spongy from the spring thaw. He passed the wagons of the baggage train and stopped beside a group of men-at-arms who stood by with fresh horses and weapons.

Their mood was jubilant. Apparently, William Douglas had come over to the side of Robert Bruce, and the other Scots leaders, one after another, were withdrawing from the field. The Battle of Irvine looked as if it would be an undisputed victory for the English. Keith Leslie stood apart, mute, drowning in despair.

By midafternoon the battlefield held only the dead and the dying. The heavy mist rolled back in from the sea, as if to shroud the foul atrocities men had committed upon one another that day.

    Taffy knew he was in danger of losing his sanity. He replayed the battle over and over in his mind, wondering what he had done wrong. He had sliced through the enemy as easily as a warm knife cuts through butter. But when he gained the other side of the battlefield and wheeled his destrier back into the fray, Lord de Warenne and Thomas were nowhere to be seen.

Taffy reined in his horse, glancing sharply about to locate them, but it was futile. His warhorse danced impatiently, seizing the bit between its teeth and plunging forward into the melee. Taffy had no time to panic. In battle it was easy enough to become separated, though it had never happened to him before. He had no idea how long the battle lasted, for time always seemed to pass with such lightning speed, all became a blur and what seemed only minutes was in actuality, hours.

Eventually the fighting ranks thinned until there were far more men and horses lying on the ground than were engaged in combat. Taffy recognized Montgomery and rode to his side. Both men realized the fighting was finished, the battle won.

“You got separated?” Montgomery asked.

“Early on, Thomas fell behind, but he soon caught up again. Next thing I knew, they were both gone, so I fought on alone. I had no choice!”

“You came through unscathed, that’s all that matters.”

But Taffy knew he should have stayed doggedly on his lord’s left flank, no matter what. Gradually, more of the de Warenne knights gathered, but none had seen Lynx since he had led them into battle. Fear rose up in Taffy and sank its fangs into his throat. The thick white mist lay everywhere. “Christ, we’ll never find him in this.”

Montgomery cuffed him with a sticky gauntlet. “Banish those morbid thoughts. He’ll be celebrating the victory with the Bruce and the governor by now!”

But Taffy knew Lord de Warenne would celebrate nothing until his men were all accounted for. He spurred his horse from group to group, hope raging a battle with fear inside of him. He questioned Bruce men-at-arms and finally located Robert, who was busy looking for his brother. “We’ll search him out, never fear.”

They located Nigel Bruce on the infirmary field being treated for a flesh wound in his sword arm, but they could find neither Lynx de Warenne nor Thomas. Robert could see that Taffy was in a full-scale panic. “Lynx is no doubt searching for you and cannot find you in this fog. Go back to camp and let them know you are unscathed.”

As evening descended, all the de Warenne knights were eventually accounted for. Many had flesh wounds or broken bones which were being treated by the Welsh healers, but none had seen Lord de Warenne since morning when he led the advance. Taffy’s anxiety soon spread throughout the knights and Welsh bowmen who had returned to camp. They quickly organized search parties and set off on their grim task.

    Keith Leslie knew he had to find Taffy. He did not know if Lord de Warenne and Thomas were dead or alive, but he knew they had gone down on the battlefield. Finding a specific soldier amid twenty thousand was no easy task, Keith soon learned, and at last he decided to return to camp. Young Harry Eltham, nursing a broken arm and collarbone, gritted his teeth and told Keith that every able-bodied man was out searching for Lord de Warenne.

It was two long hours before the men started to return to camp. Keith busied himself tending the wounds of the horses, which almost broke his heart. Through the darkness, noisy celebrations could be heard from every direction, but in the de Warenne camp every face was grim.

When he saw Taffy slide wearily from his saddle, Keith ran up to him and clutched his blood-soaked gambeson. “I saw him go down … first Thomas, then Lord de Warenne … I saw it happen, I saw who did it … it was one of his own men!”

“You were at the battle?” Taffy asked skeptically.

“No, I had a vision!” Keith was shouting to make Taffy believe him. A group of Welsh bowmen gathered closer to listen to the lad’s tale. They believed in visions and omens, and they knew from their own experiences that a few chosen Celts had the second sight. “I can lead you to him … we will find him!”

“We’ve searched for hours,” Taffy said hopelessly. “This accursed fog blankets everything. We’ll look again when it lifts.”

Montgomery spoke up. “Lynx de Warenne would not give up on me if I were still out on that field.”

Taffy knew Montgomery spoke the truth, but he was so afraid that all they would find would be a dead body. The lump of sorrow wedged in his throat almost choked him. If only Thomas were at his side to help in the search. “Do you really know where he lies?” Taffy asked Keith.

“No, but I have an unfailing instinct that I’ve learned to trust.”

“Who goes with us?” Taffy shouted.

Every man within earshot set out once more for the battlefield. In less than an hour they found Lord de Warenne amidst a tangle of other bodies. The ground on which they lay was steeped in blood. Lynx’s men gathered around him praying that he wasn’t dead.

Taffy, the first to touch him, drew his hand back in horror when he felt that Lord de Warenne’s body was as cold as a corpse. They looked closer and saw the sickening belly wound. Montgomery lifted the body slightly and felt the ground beneath the wounded man soggy with his lifeblood. “He lives—he’s not yet stiff!”

Two dozen hands lifted with care and carried their lord as slowly and gently as they could back to camp. Taffy followed carrying Lord de Warenne’s great battle sword. They laid him on the floor of his own campaign tent, then watched in silence as Taffy and Keith Leslie removed his helmet, gambeson, mail shirt, and leather chausses.

Then Taffy and Keith stepped aside so that the Welsh healers could examine the wound. Lynx’s once tawny hair lay plastered to his skull, soaked with sweat and blood. They saw that he had a large lump on his head, but what they focused on was his belly. It was an undisputed fact that far more men died from putrefaction of their wounds than ever died on the field of battle.

One after another shook his head in sorrow. Any there who knew aught about battle injuries, knew that when the belly was sliced open, the stomach stabbed, and the bowel pierced, that it was a mortal wound. All knew that Lord de Warenne was a dead man. His life hung by a thread and not a few of his men hoped he would go peacefully without regaining his wits.

“Someone must tell John de Warenne,” Montgomery informed the other knights. Then he realized he held the highest rank and it was up to him. When he arrived at the governor’s campaign tent there were so many milling about, it looked like a circus. Dimly, Montgomery realized the governor was negotiating terms with the Scottish leaders who had capitulated after just one skirmish. Montgomery pushed his way through the throng and into the tent.

John de Warenne looked up and saw him. “Tell my nephew we are breaking camp and moving into Scone. We are finished here, the Lowlands are ours!”

“My lord earl,” Montgomery rasped, “Lynx fell in battle.”

“That is not possible—we won, they have capitulated!”

“My lord earl, his wounds are so grave, we fear for his life.”

“Splendor of God!” John’s voice cracked; he’d been shouting orders all day. “Percy! Take over here. I must get the physicians—”

Flanked by doctors, a haggard Earl of Surrey entered his nephew’s campaign tent. Someone pulled aside the blanket so they could examine the man’s wound. When they saw the damage, none of the battle doctors wanted to touch him. They feared making matters worse and they feared being blamed for killing him.

John de Warenne, the hardened supreme commander of all the English armies, broke down and wept. “Take him to his wife and child,” John told Montgomery. “He might not survive the journey, but I know he would want to go home to them.” John spoke with Taffy, who seemed to be paralyzed with grief. “Tell Lady Jane that I will come as soon as I may. I will confirm Lynx’s son as my heir and appoint a legal guardian.”

*   *   *

Roger Fitz-Waren and his light cavalry swept through Scone, ostensibly making it safe for Scotland’s governor, John de Warenne, to take over the palace so he could finalize peace negotiations. In reality, Fitz-Waren knew of the priceless treasures that the fleeing Chief Justice William Ormsby had left behind in his haste to save his skin.

Fitz ordered his men to pack up the wealth of booty and transport it to Torthwald, promising to share the spoils if they kept their mouths shut. Then he himself took two wagonloads to Edinburgh and awaited his father’s return. Fitz knew that Lynx de Warenne’s death would devastate John, perhaps even speeding up his aging father’s own demise. When John returned to Edinburgh, Fitz would be there to console him, ready, willing, and fully prepared to become the new heir.

    The only medicinal herb the Welsh healers carried to staunch the blood of wounds was powdered yarrow. One of them held apart the torn edges of Lynx’s flesh, while another sprinkled the yellow powder into the wound. The patient moaned, but did not awaken.

Taffy, spurred on by the actions of his countrymen, brought water and began to cleanse the blood and grime from Lord de Warenne’s body.

Keith Leslie knelt beside Taffy, easily reading his thoughts because they mirrored his own. How were they to face Jane? “Thomas is still out there,” Keith murmured.

“Thomas is dead,” Taffy whispered numbly. “He’s lucky.”

“The Irish squire looked after me … I will find him,” Keith said with solemn conviction.

“Take a horse … he’ll be a dead weight,” Taffy said choking off a sob.

    At Dumfries, like everywhere else in the Scottish borders, spring had arrived early, and it seemed to Jane that nature had outdone herself this year. There was more sunshine, more flowers, more birds and butterflies than she ever remembered. Even the ewes were producing a bumper crop of lambs.

Jane helped Sim and Ben with the newborn animals that were troublesome, giving thanks that her brothers had decided to stay at Dumfries and do what they did best, which was tending their sheep flocks, rather than joining the rebels. The two shepherds worked night and day shearing the thick winter coats from the sheep, then with the help of their father, sold the wool at the best possible price to fill Dumfries’ coffers. Jane had no doubt whatsoever that Lynx had freed her brothers for her sake and she would be forever grateful to him.

Lynx and his men-at-arms had been gone for three months and Jane missed him fiercely. Lincoln Robert was a big, healthy baby with fat, rosy cheeks. He was a happy child who laughed and kicked and seldom cried. On the rare occasion when something did displease him, however, he was capable of screaming down the castle. He now slept through the nights and recognized his beloved mother. When she carried him about, he always clutched two fistfuls of her long hair and crowed like a little cockerel. Jane couldn’t wait for his father to return and see that his son was growing into such a beautiful boy.

Marjory de Warenne tutored Jane in her reading as well as her riding. Now that spring had turned into early summer, the three ladies, Jane, Jory, and Elizabeth, rode out every single day. Jane took them to her forest pool where they kilted up their skirts and played at the edge of the water, and she amazed her friends with her extraordinary rapport with the wild creatures who gathered to watch. She told them about her encounters with the lynx and lamented that she had never seen him again, once his wound had healed.

Life was quite serene without the men, but the three young women daydreamed constantly about their return. Jory and Elizabeth pined for Robert Bruce, while Jane longed for Lynx de Warenne, the lord and master of Dumfries; the lord and master of her heart. She missed her brother Keith, as well as Taffy and Thomas, but she didn’t worry unnecessarily for their welfare. They were with Lynx and he would keep them safe.

One lovely warm day when the three ladies rode to Lochmaben, they learned the news that the two armies had confronted each other just outside Scone at a place called Irvine. A battle had been fought and the English once again had emerged victorious. Their hearts swelled with the knowledge that the conquering heroes would soon return. They carried the news home to Dumfries and all the people, both in the castle and the town, were relieved that the hostilities had been settled. There were many Scots who hated the English with a passion, but the people of Dumfries and most of Annandale knew they were far better served under the Bruce and Lynx de Warenne.

As Jane carried baby Lincoln into the bailey for his daily outing, showing him the hens and geese and pigeons that strutted about, a dark cloud swept across the sun. Suddenly, the touchstone about her neck felt icy cold against her skin and her son stiffened and began to scream.

A feeling of dread swept over her, snatching away her serenity so swiftly, she had to fight for her breath. A picture of Keith flashed into her mind and apprehension for his safety almost overwhelmed her. According to the news she had been given at Lochmaben, the fighting had ended ten days ago and Jane realized some of the men should have returned to Dumfries by now. At the very least there had been time to send and receive a message.

She rushed back into the castle. Something is wrong! Something is wrong! When they encountered Jory, pulling on her riding gloves, the baby stopped screaming, and Jane could not bring herself to voice the dread that threatened to engulf her. She declined Jory’s invitation to ride, handed her son over to Grace Murray, and made her way up to the parapet walk.

Jane gazed with unseeing eyes across the green dales. “Keith, tell me what it is!” The breeze carried her plea across the rolling hills, over the forest toward the mountains of the Southern Uplands. Jane listened intently, hoping to hear his voice. She heard nothing but her own heartbeat drumming in her ears, or was it galloping hooves and marching feet she heard?

Jane closed her eyes and emptied her mind of all thought. Once again the lynx touchstone turned icy cold against her skin. “Dear God, it is Lynx!” she cried aloud. Suddenly she was filled with an urgency that told her she must prepare. Time was of the essence.

Jane took up her big cloth bag and her herb knife and went to gather plants. The hawthorn was in bloom and she gathered the flowers to distil in water. She picked plantain, balm, and bistort. Then she pulled up madder root and gathered a large quantity of hemlock. When she returned from the forest, she went to visit Megotta and begged some white poppy heads from her grandmother’s garden. Then she took all her precious plants to the still-room and began distilling.

    The fifty-mile distance from Scone to Dumfries would have taken Lynx de Warenne’s mesne just a few days under normal conditions, but this journey had the feeling of a pilgrimage. His knights and men-at-arms opted to stay together; their common goal was to get their leader home alive, or even dead. Some days they managed to cover five miles, but others brought them only a mile or perhaps two closer to Dumfries.

Lynx de Warenne was still alive, but every man in his mesne knew he was dying. Whenever Lynx awakened they gave him water or a mouthful of broth or sip of wine, but he vomited everything back up. The flesh began to drop from his bones as if it were melting away. In just ten days he became emaciated, his large-boned frame showing prominently through the wasted flesh.

Taffy and Keith took turns nursing their lord. Keith had found Thomas stumbling about the battlefield with no memory of what had happened, but when Thomas saw Lynx de Warenne, he blamed himself completely and fell into black despair.

On the thirteenth day after the battle, Montgomery led the weary troops into Dumfries, escorting the critically wounded body of their lord. The castle people started to rejoice, but it was short-lived as they heard the devastating news. Taffy and Keith dreaded the moment when they would have to face Jane. Perhaps it would be best if they did not let her see Lynx. Both desperately wanted to spare her grief and pain, and they decided between themselves that they would nurse their lord until he drew his last tortured breath.

Marjory de Warenne rushed into the bailey before any could stop her. When she saw her brother on his litter she began to weep. Her weeping turned into uncontrolled sobbing, and a distraught Elizabeth de Burgh led her away from the appalling scene.

Jane watched from the parapets as the men rode slowly into the bailey. She had spent the best part of the last thirty-six hours up there, watching and waiting. At long last they had arrived and all her waiting was over. A strange calm enveloped her as she descended the castle steps and walked briskly into the bailey. She held up her hand in a regal gesture as Taffy and her brother tried to warn her away.

Jane looked down at Lynx without flinching, though what she saw was a thousandfold more horrendous than what she had expected, and Jane had thought she’d anticipated the worst. When Lynx opened his eyes, their green brilliance told her he was fevered. She gave him her loveliest smile, then calmly and firmly took over as Chatelaine of Dumfries.

“Please carry him to his own chambers in the Master Tower.” Jane turned to her father, who stood by devastated by what he saw. “Fetch the priest, quickly.”

It took a long, excruciatingly slow time for his men to carry Lord de Warenne’s litter up to his bedchamber. Then under Jane’s instructions, they lifted their lord onto his own bed. The hastily summoned priest stood by with his prayer book and rosary, patiently awaiting his turn.

Jane slipped her hand into Lynx’s and nodded for the priest to begin. “Hurry,” she urged softly.

The priest made the sign of the cross and began giving Lynx de Warenne the last rites.