Chapter Twelve
It had been a short but rough road from Willby castle into the lowlands of Scotland. Simon shifted in his saddle as they plodded along the dirt path that passed for a road, scanning the landscape around them. It was dreary and dull, at least to Simon’s eyes, and he felt an overall uneasiness about being past the Firth. The last time he had been so far north, he had seen terrible battle and defeat, and it had forever left a stain upon his soul.
He glanced back over his shoulder and took stock of his company. They were freeholders, sellswords from York, veterans, all of them and just as mean as he. Their mail was old and worn, with chips and dents in the rims of their gauntlets and shields, but their swords and lances were polished and sharp, ready for action at a moment’s notice. He saw on their faces the same uneasiness he felt being in an enemy country, despite the countries being at peace. They had all fought Scotsmen before, and they were both eager for revenge and scared of being overwhelmed.
One of them spurred their horse forward in the marching column. He wore a different colored tabard than the rest, and his gear was cleaner, denoting his higher standing among the rest of the company.
“Sir Gretchen,” Simon said, nodding at his approach. “How fares the saddle?”
“Just as stubborn as it always is,” Sir Gretchen answered, drawing up alongside him. “Never thought we’d be back here, eh?”
“Indeed,” Simon said, his voice dropping an octave as he continued to scan their surroundings.
“You fear an attack?” Sir Gretchen asked, following Simon’s gaze.
“I cannot be sure,” Simon answered, then let out a sigh. “There is not much I do fear, but a bloodthirsty Scot certainly gives me pause.”
“We are too strong for such an action,” Sir Gretchen replied. He reached down to his saddle and brought up a waterskin, drinking deeply for a moment before stowing it again. “They would not dare.”
“I am not even sure who ‘they’ would be,” Simon said, shifting a bit in his saddle. “I know only that this is unsafe country.”
“And yet you have returned,” Sir Gretchen said, bobbing his head. “It was a large purse you paid for us in York. What is our purpose here?”
“All will become clear in time,” Simon said, glancing sideways at Sir Gretchen. The old knight had scares adorning his face, and his nose had been broken several times by the looks of its crooked positioning. “Lord Hamilton has his reasons.”
“You keep saying that,” Sir Gretchen said. “The men share our discomfort with this place. It could help if we knew the nature of our journey.”
“Was that purse not big enough?” Simon asked, darting a sharp look Sir Gretchen’s way. “Keep your men in line; that is all you must concern yourself with.”
“Fair enough,” Sir Gretchen said with a snort, and he hacked forth a large glob of saliva over the side of his horse. Simon made a face at the vulgar display. He was a murderer, a soldier, and overall, a plain mean bastard, but he liked to hold himself to certain standards of public decency, as any knight should. Sir Gretchen, it was clear, held none such principles.
Then a shape appeared far ahead on the road, riding fast toward them. Simon squinted a bit until he made out the rider’s garb and recognized the light horseman as their designated scout.
“He’s in a hurry,” Sir Gretchen said, his hands tightening on the reins of his horse.
“Aye,” Simon said slowly, feeling anxiety rising up within him but doing his utmost to tamp it down. “We shall see what he has to say.”
The rider bore down on them, rearing to a halt as he came into contact with the war party. He had been riding hard, and he gasped for a bit of breath as he calmed his horse.
“What is it, man?” Sir Gretchen asked sharply, pushing his horse forward to meet the scout. “Speak up now!” Simon glanced over his shoulder and saw the uneasiness on the companies faces.
“Hold,” Simon said, spurring his horse forward a bit further. Then he glanced over at Sir Gretchen and said softly, “Not in front of the men.”
The three of them trotted a good number of paces away from the company as the rest of the men came to a standstill, lingering out in the open Scottish countryside. Then Simon demanded a report from the scout. “What has you riding so?”
“There are trees ahead,” the Scout finally managed, calming down a bit more with each breath. “And there are men among them.”
“How many?” Sir Gretchen asked, leaning forward a bit in his saddle. “Brigands? The King’s men? Out with it, man!”
“I saw only two, but I saw signs of many, perhaps fifty, or even a hundred,” the scout said. “They did not look like the King’s men, they were ragged and worn, but they carried weapons.”
“Brigands then,” Sir Gretchen sneered. “No trouble then. We will cut them down should they try us.”
“Brigands do not rove in such large numbers,” Simon mulled aloud, glancing again up the road. The spark of an idea had begun growing in the back of his mind. “Did they look well?”
“Nay,” the scout said, shaking his head. “Underfed, underclothed, but not lacking in arms.”
“We are dreadfully close to McGowan castle now,” Simon continued to think aloud. “If they were soldiers of the Laird, they would be dressed as such. If they were brigands, they would not be allowed to raid the road so unless the Laird has so terribly failed in his duties.”
