Midweek, only a peddler slumped over beneath his heavy pack leaning on a staff and a gray-robed begging friar approached Roxburgh town’s gate. I leaned my shoulder against the rough bark of a hoary oak. A great tit sang tee-cher tee-tee-cher high above me, the wind whispered, and green-tinted light danced in the leaf litter. My horse stomped a foot and snorted. I had been reluctant to allow Gil to go alone into the town, but he argued with some truth that being taller than any man he had ever known made me too noticeable. And too likely to be recognized. Gile led a garron through the gates to visit merchants and taverns with his ears perked for news.
The towering, whitewashed castle gleamed in the midday sun. I squinted, trying to make out how many men were walking the parapet. Armor and helms shot gleams as guards marched back and forth, spaced no more than two spear lengths apart. To have that many on the walls meant that the garrison must be at least three hundred men. Three wains trundled their way up the steep, twisting road. Chewing my lip, I watched as they waited while approval was summoned to lower the drawbridge. Then the wagons were searched, their contents poked with spears before, at last, they were allowed entrance. A disgusted breath fluttered my lips. No simple artifice would take this fortress.
To pass the time, I whistled a tune and watched a sparrowhawk soar high overhead. At last, the sun just past its height, a figure leading a horse walked out of the gates. I waited as he briskly strode up the road. Once out of sight of the town, he turned into the trees.
“Learn anything?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Quiet. I told Symon’s family he was well last I seen him. And I bought oats for the horses and found the fletcher.”
“How many arrows?”
“Thirty of them all two-bladed.” He scratched his sparse stubble. “I did learn one thing. Fletcher says most of his bodkins the castle buys. To ship south. So he could only sell me twenty.”
“South. Probably for France. I hope so anyroad.” There was an arrow bag hanging down one side of the sumpter. “With what we already have, it should be enough. We will divide the two-bladed and try our archery practice on some game.”
“But…” Gil licked his lips. “That be poaching.”
I winked. “‘Tis my cousin’s forest, and if he didnae want me to hunt it, he should nae have sent me.”
He laughed. “I was thinking of the Sassenach.”
“Those we should keep an eye out for.” I pulled half the broadheads out and put them in my own arrow bag. “Do you ken a good watering hole? If we keep quiet until sundown, we might bag a couple of deer.”
He gave me a wide-eyed innocent look. “I would never ken about that. Nae being a poacher.”
“Aye, but mayhap a friend mentioned such a place to you? Not a friend hereabouts, of course.”
He grinned. “Mayhap.” We both mounted, and he led the way through the trees and deeper into the forest. A couple of times, we turned to check the road to be sure there was nothing worth noting. With people busy tending their spring plantings and no harvest yet. There were only a few travelers, a beggar with his feet wrapped in rags and a wain loaded with charcoal plodding toward town.
When we reached the watering hole, it was nothing more than a deep depression in the middle of a small clearing. Spring rain had filled it near the top with fresh-smelling water.
We pulled up well back in the trees, not wanting to spoil it with our traces that might frighten away the game. The slight wind was on our backs, so I motioned to the side. We cautiously circled the watering hole. With our horses tied well back, we put up a blind. There were ample oak seedlings and hawthorn to hack off for one. Soon we were set with bows strung and broadhead arrows stuck into the earth, ready for use. Gil held up the waterskin he had filled at Roxburgh and handed it to me. After taking a long drink, I handed it back.
Gil took a swing and said, “Something puzzles me.”
“What is that?”
“Why are we watching Roxburgh and riding back and forth to watch the road? We are nae like to learn anything.”
I shrugged. “Because the Lord of Douglas wants it so. He doesnae tell me his reasons.” I was sure I knew why. Douglas wanted me out of the way for negotiations on the king where I might change to a patron offering me more. He was wrong. Until Sir William or the king returned, I had a duty to serve my own ilk. I was not sure if he feared I would gain my father’s renown, somehow lessening his, or if he took against me because I was close to Sir William, whom he hated for taking Liddesdale. But those were not speculations I cared to share.
“It is a waste of our time.”
I took another swig. “Could be worse ways to waste time. Especially if we bring back a couple of deer for a fine Easter feast.”
Butterflies fluttered around pink hawthorn flowers, and the rustle of leaves in the breeze was soothing as we silently waited, shadows lengthening until, at last, it was dusk. A wood warbler gave a high-pitched trill. Leavers rustled.
Slowly, trying to make no sound, I rose to my knees. I nocked my arrow with the bow slanted so it would not show over the screen. A hart stepped cautiously from the woods, suspiciously sniffing the wind, a young one with small velvet-covered antlers. I held my breath, not wanting to give it any warning and hoping more would appear. A smaller hart followed, and then a couple of hinds, both with bulging bellies. The hinds’ ears were twitching, liquid eyes wary.
The larger stag turned his side to me as he lowered his head to drink. I stood and let fly my arrow before the stag had time to do more than raise its head. At that range, the broadhead gashed clean through its chest, deep into its lungs. Beside me, Gil’s bow thrummed, but I pushed through the brush as my target kicked out its back legs. It turned and ran, staggered, changed directions, and ran again. Then it slowed for a few steps and dropped.
The hinds had disappeared, but Gil’s gut-shot hart stood, head down, and dropped to its knees. He drew his dagger, ready to end it. When I bent over mine, it was already dead. We dragged them closer to the water to gut them and rinse out the body. They both were good-sized, though not yet fully as heavy as they would have been in the summer. But they could make an enormous feast to end the Lenten fast. We slung them over horses to finish the butchering back at the fermtoun. We had to take turns walking as there was no way the sumpter could carry both stags, but by the time light spilled over the horizon on Maundy Thursday, we had walked home.
A gaggle of villagers was heading up the hill to the kirk for terce mass, carrying branches so that once the altar was stripped, they could cover it to symbolize the stripping and scourging of Lord Jesu. Some of their mouths dropped open, and others stopped to stare as I rode by with Gil walking, leading the horses. Filan started towards us. Granny grabbed his arm and shook her finger in his face. But they might have been staring at the deer carcasses the weary horses were bearing. Gil and I would be the authors of, indeed, a great feast, but first, they must be butchered. I wanted to cleanse off the rest of the dried gore. Splashing in the pond water had not been much help.
Missing the first mass of the Triduum could not be helped.
First, the mounts had to be unloaded, watered, and fed. They would need at least a day’s rest, but in the midst of the Holy Days, that was no problem. We dragged the carcasses into a shady spot behind Ingelram’s cot, followed by a couple of dogs that had to be kicked away.
“Mayhap we could leave one whole to be roasted,” Gil said.
I wiped my forehead with my arm. “Braw plan. Then we would only have to butcher one of them.” Of course, both would have to be skinned. As much as I wanted to bathe, there was little point until the job was done, so we started on it. We were still at work when mass ended, and everyone came to help. Any who had ever butchered a deer would not care to admit it, but it was not that different from any other animal, so they pitched in and made it fast work.