June 1068, Scotia
Alaric hated this kind of mission, he thought, as heavy rain beat down on his thick leather cloak. Summer in Scotia land. He shivered and turned in his saddle to glance back at his entourage: a long line of mounted men, packhorses, warhorses, and one carriage. Alaric smelled moss, fetid grasses, musky, wet wool . . . and danger.
Roderick and Etienne rode silently beside him. He felt their increasing unease as they all trekked farther north than they had ever been. Unused to this territory, he had been tense, listening, watching as they traveled through the densely wooded lands—Ghost Country, he had been told. He knew it to be true as giant, misty shadows appeared in the thickets and disappeared suddenly, making their trained horses skittish as young colts and compelling the bishops to wave their crosses and chant prayers against the trolls and elves and demons.
Besides the specters, summer offered thick leafy cover for those intending ambush. Along the journey, they had passed few travelers. Merchants and bandits might wait for better weather. Rain, however, would not deter armed warriors following their climb up into the colder realms. Etienne, his best tracker, had seen signs of riders following their progress, although they remained well out of sight.
Alaric’s relief at leaving the woods this morning was quickly replaced by a different concern, for now they rode fully exposed through the grassy plains stretching before them to the jagged horizon. His scouts traveled a horn blow ahead of the vanguard, and Etienne’s men backtracked the rear guard. Alaric glanced again at the banners bearing Alain le Roux’s device and those bearing holy crosses and knew neither would give them safe passage through Alba, for he had little confidence in the dubious protection of royal messengers.
Le Roux and two bishops, all appropriately neutral ambassadors, carried William’s message to King Malcolm. William had put Alaric and Alain le Roux in an awkward situation. Because he held English estates and a related title, Alaric outranked le Roux, who had yet to receive either. Although the count and his men answered to Alaric, the king had put the delicate mission entirely in le Roux’s hands. Alaric would accompany him everywhere: when he met Malcolm, when he mingled with Malcolm’s royal court, to the privy. He would even sleep in le Roux’s chamber.
“Jesu!” Roderick cursed and spurred his horse forward.
Alaric looked ahead, barely able to see the advance guard through the rain. To ease the blow of being outranked, Alaric had given le Roux’s steadfast captain, Jagu the Tall, the honor of leading the vanguard. Now, he saw the lead horses slow their pace and watched Roderick racing past them to meet the scouts galloping back.
A few moments later, Roderick and Gawain, Alaric’s Welsh scout, reined in beside Alaric.
Gawain pointed to the ridge they approached. “The road winds through a narrow pass. Armed men block the far end of the passage. The vanguard awaits your orders.”
“Malcolm’s forces?” Alaric asked.
Gawain shook his head. “Rogue warriors.”
Alaric had hoped to avoid such an encounter. He tipped his head at Roderick, who immediately rode back along the line of soldiers whistling signals. Several dozen riders broke rank and split up. Alaric and the main body of men continued along the road with a new formation. The horns signaled instructions to both the vanguard and the rear guard.
Le Roux left the center of the pack and joined Alaric. “What is amiss?” he asked, watching the knights shift their positions.
“We have company.” Alaric gazed at the ridge.
“We are in Scotia. Our orders are not to engage. No hostilities!” le Roux said.
“My orders are to protect you and the bishops. If they attack, we kill them.” Alaric turned to his squire. “Bring up the black.” He would ride his warhorse for this task.
Alaric, with Roderick beside him, joined the vanguard just as they entered the narrow passage. It had stopped raining, though the clouds lay heavy in the sky, dragging misty fingers through the rocky crags.
After conferring with the vanguard’s captain, Alaric took the lead, and quickly scanned the area. Their challengers had selected this place, perhaps, for its perceived advantages: a passage no wider than eight horses abreast, a sheer wall of rock on one side, on the other, a river raging down a steep ravine. A good site if both sides were on foot. Far better to force a skirmish in a field prepared with hidden traps, or stage an ambush in the woods, where hidden archers could easily kill horses unable to maneuver. Experienced warriors would know that in this small, narrow space, warhorses have the advantage.
At his signal, his retinue stopped. He walked his horse slowly toward the soldiers blocking the passage. By facing them alone, he insulted them, a ploy to provoke an angry, careless response. He studied this band of bedraggled warriors and recognized their woolen caps and round shields distinguishing them as English. He measured their threat: fewer than fifty, on foot, no archers, no lances, but they would use their deadly axes skillfully.
“Blaecwulf!” a gruff voice shouted out from the warriors bunched together, blocking the road. “We es waitan fur ye. Well cuman to Scotya.”
“To whom do I owe this gentle greeting?” Alaric answered likewise in Saxon, knowing his translators would keep le Roux and the bishops informed.
A burly man stepped out from the group. “Beardlong,” he said.
An apt name, thought Alaric, seeing the man’s long brown beard, twisted and oily like unraveling rope.
“God’s peace, Edgar of Wessex,” Alaric said to the only mounted warrior in the center. He saw tan hair, a sparse short beard on young cheeks, and a shield bearing the unmistakable arms of Wessex.
The boy jerked in his saddle. The soldiers around him tensed, and their shields clattered as they jostled to protect him. Alaric realized immediately that these soldiers had fled with their prince to Scotia. Here he received asylum and might gather enough military strength to challenge William for the crown.
“Your greeting mocks our rightful King Edgar,” Beardlong said.
“Have you come to escort us to King Malcolm?”
“We’ve come to kill you.” The leader grinned.
Alaric nodded, a smile on his lips. “Single combat?” he said to Edgar, daring him to engage.
Edgar edged his horse through his men toward the front.
Beardlong intervened. With sword raised, he roared and ran straight at Alaric along with four or five others.
Alaric charged. His black stallion, with mane whipping the wind, sped surefooted toward the warriors. They paused as the stallion’s hooves thundered toward them. Someone screamed. Alaric wheeled his stallion, bucking and kicking at those trying to surround him, leaving sharp cries in his wake. The warriors fell back, even as more joined the pack. Alaric’s sword hacked at several men, his long shield blocked the axe, and his stallion, now in blood thirst, bit an unprotected arm. Alaric slashed Beardlong down and wheeled again. Those still standing backed away. Beardlong lay vanquished, his hand clawing the ground as he tried to raise himself.
Alaric lowered his bloody sword. “Come, gather your dead and wounded.” He backed his horse, feeling his stallion’s flesh quivering for the next bout.
A handful of men cautiously looked to a pale Edgar, who nodded. They ran forward, grabbed their comrades and dragged them back behind their line.
Their best fighters, now dead or dying, Alaric surmised, seeing blood streaking across the narrow combat field. At his signal, Roderick joined him.
“Capture Edgar on the next round,” Alaric said, watching the warriors regroup.
“With pleasure!” Roderick grinned and returned to the waiting retinue.
As the English shouted insults, boasting their prowess, Alaric sat on his warhorse in silence. Their shield wall clattered into place before they moved in close order, and stepping in a jerky, uneven pace slowly toward him, they created a broad bar, three men deep, spanning the width of the pass. He let them come, noticing the men on the ends slowing their pace to narrow the center. The geese formation, intended to drive a wedge through the middle of Alaric’s retinue, push the mounted knights into the river or against the cliff—an action Alaric and his men had anticipated. Alaric wiped his bloodied sword with his horse’s mane before sheathing it.
He identified the leader whose shouts set the pace and called for a lance. The instant it slapped into his palm Alaric spurred his horse forward and launched his spear into the leader’s eye. The blow knocked the commander back, creating a slight break in the wall. Alaric and two knights who had joined him moved into the break, quickly killing those in the advance position, widening the breach and cutting a swath through a dozen men. At the same time, parallel columns of Alaric’s knights charged, flanking the English, squeezing them into the center where they had no room to fight, where they fell atop each other. Edgar’s men were soon surrounded and found they could not retreat for the mounted soldiers blocking their rear.
With a twist, Alaric yanked his lance from the fallen body before pulling back, leaving room for another charge. He saw that Roderick had Edgar’s reins and now led him over writhing bodies, forcing his horse to skirt the edge of the ravine.
Alaric faced the English. Would they stop now? These warriors, no match for him or his men, had died foolishly. He seethed, blaming Edgar for it, and Malcolm, who might have encouraged the boy to provoke this skirmish, an exercise to cut his teeth.
“Who else seeks to join our Maker this day?” Alaric roared.
The English glanced at each other, more frightened it seemed by Alaric’s rage than his sword.
“You, there,” Alaric pointed his lance. “You look reasonably awake, Man. Come forward so I can take your scabby head to Malcolm.”
The combatant did not move.
“Who will meet me now?”
“I will,” said a boy, perhaps fourteen winters, shouldering through the warriors.
Alaric glared at the boy, at the others, and back. “Your name?”
“Cedric of Marden.”
“You are a brave man, Cedric of Marden.” Alaric looked again at the men standing behind the boy, seeing them avoid his gaze. “Live to fight a different battle,” Alaric said. “Lead these men from this place. Train them.”
“We have sworn our allegiance to Edgar,” the boy said. “Our English king, chosen by the Witan.”
“A valiant pledge,” Alaric said, glancing at Edgar surrounded by Alaric’s men. “Your liege lord would not want you to fight a losing battle. He wants you to retire and prepare to fight another day. Is that not so?” Alaric looked at Edgar.
Outnumbered, surrounded, a step away from the steep ravine, Edgar had no other choice. He glared at Alaric before nodding to his warriors.
“We are sworn to protect him,” the boy insisted.
“By my saints,” Alaric said to the boy. “I swear before these bishops, he will be delivered unharmed to King Malcolm.”
Cedric looked to Edgar and back at his companions, all silent, bitterly acknowledging with shifting, lowered eyes that their will to die had waned with Edgar’s capture. The boy looked at both ends of the narrow passage.
Alaric saw that his men blocked the English from retreating in either direction. “Make way. Let them through.”
They settled that night on a hill, sheltered from the wind by rock outcroppings, yet able to see attackers moving in on them. The sky cleared, the full moon rose, and it became colder, more uncomfortable for the bishops. Despite complaints, Alaric forbade fires to impede anyone from detecting their location.
He had entrusted the night watch only to his men. Now, his gaze swept carefully over the bishops talking together beside their tents, a sullen Edgar refusing the dried meat offered by a guard, his men settling down on the periphery. Gawain caught his eye and nodded. Etienne and the others were alert at their posts.
Le Roux and his captain approached him.
“Edgar wants to speak with you. Alone,” le Roux said.
“I have no wish to speak to him,” Alaric said, still angered by the men he’d killed for Edgar’s folly. “He’s in your custody. Keep him under strict guard.”
“You have no right to take Edgar to Malcolm,” le Roux said. “By God’s will, Edgar fell into our hands. You must kill him. It is your duty to William, your leal duty to your king!”
“I swore to take Edgar safely to Malcolm.”
“Yes. Before witnesses, you swore an oath to those witless vermin. You need not honor that oath.”
“My oath stands,” Alaric said, rubbing his aching shoulder.
“What about the oath you swore to your king? We all know you love the English. Do you love them so well that you will uphold your oath to them over the allegiance you swore to your cousin, to your king? You must kill this boy who contends for William’s crown. You must stop him from raising arms against our king as William himself wishes.”
Alaric knew better.
When you find Edgar, give him this, William had said in private, giving Alaric a small packet. And give this to Malcolm.
Both packets were marked carefully so he could not mistake one for the other. Am I to bring you Edgar’s head, or the boy himself? Alaric asked.
William smiled. Keep him safe and very much alive. If you bring him, it must be of his own will. Some of my followers are more impatient than others. My reign, my dynasty, has just begun. Take care that those wishing to see hurried results do not gamble with our future.
Now, to le Roux, Alaric said, “We take Edgar to Malcolm. If he is harmed, if he is rescued, escapes, or leaves your care, I will give you fifty lashes. Get back to your charge.”
As night deepened, the travelers settled down and his squire began to snore. Alaric stepped softly to his tethered traveling horse. He nodded at the guard before taking the horse and slipping away from camp.
Once away, he mounted and walked his horse until he could lope, then canter, then slow again to an easy walk. He did not know where he went, only that he rode . . . away. He had been struggling against the fatigue following combat, and now as his horse rocked him at a steady pace, his eyelids dropped, and sleep slithered gently beneath his armor. He jerked awake and rotated his left shoulder, feeling the persistent ache from the injury he’d received at Hastings, and inflamed today. He stopped, sniffed the air for smoke, and smelled none. His horse nibbled on the grasses. He listened: nightjars, scurrying mice, a soft thump as something–or someone–crept near and stopped.
He shook his head, acknowledging Roderick’s presence. His childhood friend, his captain, his shadow. Roderick had sworn to protect him, to ride with him, to serve him as he had for years. They had no need for words. Roderick would wait in the high grasses, listen and watch.
Alaric dismounted and guided his horse between the rocks toward the sound of running water. As his horse drank, he stared at the creek glistening in the moonlight. He removed his helm, hood, and padded cap. A cool breeze rippled through his hair. He knelt in the soft, wet bank and sluiced his head and face with cold water, moved to a rocky ledge and leaned back against a boulder. He slipped his hand through the tear in his mail, through thick-leather padding, through his woolen braies and picked out a metal rivet embedded in his skin from a wayward blow. Staunching the blood on his thigh, he gazed at the water, seeing a glassy, haunting vision of Beardlong rippling in the moon’s reflection. Before he could finish his prayer for the men he’d killed this day, he fell asleep.