Chapter Twenty-One
Matthew was in pieces. Never had he been so defeated, so ashamed, and so powerless. He rained blow after blow against the training post, carving off large notches of wood with each strike from the training sword. Sweat poured from his temples, and his muscles burned as he struck again, and again, and again until finally, he struck one time too many, and his worn grip gave way, and the sword spiraled off into the ground.
“AHHH!!” he screamed in anguish, falling to his knees, feeling the muck of the yard dampening his kneecaps and shins. He looked up to the sky and watched the darkening northern clouds washing over the worn castle walls. It would storm that night, it was clear, and the incoming rain clouds mirrored his impending implosion of anguish and guilt.
Jacob’s words wrang round and round in his head. On the one hand, Jacob was betraying everything they had been taught since birth. It was their duty, their family’s duty, to follow the conventions of the Kingdom, defend the honor of agreements, and know their place in the pecking order, and they were as close to the bottom as one could get without being a serf. In the ranks of nobility, they were dead last, a single castle holding and a tremendous burden of debt to their name.
On the other hand, they were a family, and they loved one another, and they were meant to protect each other. But what could he do when that value rubbed up against the other? Jacob had made his choice, but Matthew thought it was the wrong one, so why was he so tormented?
Matthew thought of Lord Hamilton’s sinister face, his twisted leg, and his brutal tactics of control and domination. He thought of Sir Simon’s reputation for ruthlessness and the scores of men he had cut down, both on the battlefield and off of it. He knew Jacob was a fearsome fighter, but he wasn’t that fearsome. What’s more, he had ridden off only wearing his mail and bearing his sword. He was not fit for battle, least of all against that host.
The more he thought on it, the surer he was that Jacob rode to his death. That broke him, and still, he was torn. He thought of Laila and the horror she would endure at Lord Hamilton’s vengeful hands.
“Damn you, Jacob,” he muttered, slowly struggling to his feet, wiping away some of the muck from his britches. “This is all your fault.”
Would Laila have run without his help? He couldn’t be sure. She was always strong-willed and fearsome, but could she have managed alone? Jacob had set it in motion. He had sent her to McGowan castle. Besides the family trouble, now there was the question of the truce. This small family affair had the potential to spiral into a massive political blunder, and Matthew also thought of reprisals by the King, of Scotland and of England, against any truce breakers.
“What am I to do?” he asked the darkening sky, waiting for God’s reply. He had asked God for answers many times in his life and never had he heard an answer, but something happened that evening, something that set Matthew in motion. There was a flash of lightning above him and a roar of thunder as the rain began, and in that flash, he saw Laila, suffering, tied up, being beaten by Lord Hamilton, and he saw Jacob, splayed out on the grass, his guts opened and rain pouring in. Whether that was a message from God or just his own mind guiding him to the decision he knew was the right one, he would never know, but it set him in motion.
The rain came down heavy, and Matthew marched with purpose to the hall, throwing open the doors with gusto. He was the older sibling. It was his job to protect them both, and protect them he would.
“Father!” he called. Lord Willby looked weak and withered, gazing out of the windows at the end of the hall at the rain streaking down the glass. The fire was dim and dying, and in the poor light of the place, Lord Willby looked more like a ghost than a man, devoid of all meaning in his life as everything came undone around him.
“Matthew,” he muttered, glancing only briefly over his shoulder, “what do you want?”
“Raise the levy,” Matthew said, planting his fists on the table with a thud that echoed another clap of thunder.
His father turned slowly, a look of defeat and confusion in his aged eyes. “What?” he asked simply as if that was all he could truly muster. He looked pale, distraught, and fraught with fear.
“Raise the levy,” Matthew said once more. “We cannot abandon Laila and Jacob to their fates. I will not allow it.”
“Oh, you won’t, will you?” Lord Willby said, raising an eyebrow as he turned all the way around. “You children, all so insolent, look at what you have wrought upon our family. I try to dig us out of debt, and you, all three of you now, do everything in your power to destroy us. What am I to do? What am I left with? Raise the levy, pah!” and he spit onto the stone floor as lightning flashed once more. “I will not lose you as well. You, my heir! I thought you had more sense than this.”
“When you gave me my word and armor,” Matthew said, “you told me that I was to protect this family at all costs.”
“Aye,” Lord Willby growled, “and look at the fine job you’ve done.”
“I have not forgotten that oath, Father,” Matthew said, standing straight and throwing back his shoulders, suddenly overshadowing his father’s withering frame by a great margin. Thunder roared once more.
“Raise the levy,” Lord Willby scoffed. “All twenty men, eh? For what? To get them killed, and then our walls destroyed? How can you be so naïve?”
“It is you who are naïve, Father,” Matthew said, channeling Jacob’s seething words. He had sat on the fence too long, and with each crack of thunder, he felt more and more emboldened to act. “I go to our family’s aid, just as Jacob has. If you wish for any of us to return alive, you will raise the levy and lead them to McGowan castle.”
“And now to cross the border with armed men,” Lord Willby scoffed. “You have all lost your minds, my whole house, undone! Because of youthful foolishness!”
“Is it foolish to protect those you love?” Matthew challenged.
“It is foolish to betray tradition!” Lord Willby roared. “I will hear no more of it!”
“Very well,” Matthew said, stiffening his jaw. “Think on those words when you burry us all.”
“Matthew—” Lord Willby tried to stop him from leaving, but Matthew spun around and marched out, letting the rain drench his hair as he walked toward the keep. He entered and went down a short set of stairs to the armory, and looked upon his battle armor, arrayed on its stand, his great longsword and lance mounted beside the metal.
“Milord?” the armorer said, stepping in from the workshop. “What can I do for you?”
“Help me with this,” Matthew said, a grim determination creeping over his entire being. He knew he may well be riding to his death, but that was better than withering away here like their father. He would put up with it no more. Jacob had been right, and on top of everything else, he would not be proven wrong by his little brother.
“Milord?” The armorer asked, blinking. “The storm, you cannot ride—”
