James mounted, wheeled about, and trotted to join them. He gave the command to move, the talk withered, and the men climbed into their saddles. Gelleys rode out first with the outriders he led, Philp and Hew. Wat nodded to James and called to the dozen men who would form the rear guard. They waited as James raised an arm overhead and signaled the main force to follow.
James rode into the Forest. He followed the game trails and shallow streams through the wilderness of gnarled trunks and branches that cut off the summer sun. That night they camped in a small haugh next to the Lyne Water. The next day as the sun set in ripples of rose and gold, they reached the outer edge of the Forest.
Gelleys emerged from the undergrowth so quietly that James's mount shied. James settled it and swung from the saddle. “English?”
“Guards around the edge of the village. Only two of them. Fools.” He snorted.
Behind James, Boyd laughed. “The main force?”
Gelleys shook his head. “Nae seen a hair of their heads.”
James chewed his lip as he looked over their men. “We'll go in afoot. Robbie, have a dozen men of your guard the horses. If things go awry, we'll split up and meet back here.” He motioned to Rane and draped an arm around the lad's shoulder. “You'll show us to the malting and then hide, you hear?”
Rane gave a jerk of his head in assent. “It's just a mite past Torbank Hill.”
James handed his reins to one of Boyd's men. They followed Rane up the steep hill shaped like a sand dune. James motioned to follow as he crawled the rest of the way. Robbie and Wat followed. He lay flat on his belly at the crest, looking across the purple and pink heathery stretch of land dotted with beech trees casting long shadows in the last rays of the sun. The braeside was speckled here and there with patches of yellow gorse. In the distance lay the village.
Rane scooted his way to beside James as he studied the welter of small houses with thatch roofs. A piddling gray stone tower stood only three stories high with no outer wall.
“It isn't big enough to hold the soldiers, so they took our place.” Rane pointed to the long stone building with a slate roof on the far side of the tower. The village was oddly quiet, the enclosure where sheep would be sheltered at night empty. A guard was a black silhouette against the last ray of sunlight as he paced a path to and fro.
“Does the door bar from inside?”
The lad looked at him as though he was crazed. “Why would it do that? It's chained from the outside at night.”
“Good man, Rane.” James scratched at his narrow strip of beard. “Best you take the long way home. Long enough so they don't know you've been sneaking about at night.”
“Aye, my cousin has a croft not far. I'll bide there for the night.”
“Robbie, go back down and circle to the other side of the village. Probably there's another guard for you to deal with. When an owl screeches a third time, come in.”
Boyd nodded and trotted in a crouch down the braeside, leading his men. James lay flat to watch on the village as the blanket of night fell. The crush of heather under him scented the air. A bee buzzed near his hand. Wat whispered and sent two men to guard their flanks.
James studied the sprawling village. A few of the cots had spread to two or three rooms. A shaft of moonlight broke through a cloud to glint on the tower, but no light shone in its narrow, slit windows. There were slats of light showing in the windows of the malting though. Shutters opened, a figure momentarily silhouetted in the window. The light inside dimmed as though torches were snuffed. The night turned from gray to purple.
“Wat,” James said softly, “Send Allane and Sande to see to our friend down there. One owl's hoot when they're done.”
Their departure was a whisper of movement.
James slithered down to his waiting men. “Ready your weapons. On their signal, we move.”
“Reminds me a bit of a night at Methven,” Wat said.
James smiled. “Except we're the ones doing the sneaking this time.”
“Well, I've heard the Sassenach want to meet that devil of a Black Douglas.” Wat laughed softly. There were whispers of blades as they were drawn from their scabbards. “Might be I'll introduce you to them when we're there.”
“Fergus, come with me on to kick in the door.”
The man grunted assent.
On the scree of an owl, James drew his sword. “Mayhap they'll be glad to meet me.”
He watched as the men spread out. All blooded under his command, they knew what to do. They would go in quietly and surround the building. He whistled to Wat to start the men creeping over the crest of the hill. In a crouch-walk, James led them forward, silence more golden than speed. A thud sounded as someone tripped in the darkness over a dark shape and a stifled curse. He froze, but nothing stirred in the oblivious village. The sliver of moon slid out from behind a fleeting the fleeing clouds. It's faint like gleamed on his face. He put his hand to his mouth. Scree... Scree...
A breeze brought the scent of rabbit cooking inside a cot as he slipped past, back pressed against the wall. James could just make out the dark shape of the building ahead, hulking black in this still watch of the night. How many English were yet on watch? Awake?
His very foremost men were at and around the walls, crouched and waiting. Fergus's bulk at his side, the two of them stooped as they moved through the darkness. At the building, James touched the rough stone of the wall as he moved low to the ground. It was impossible to see the door in the darkness.
From inside came a voice, “I'll lead a search tomorrow myself. Take half our men into the Forest. I swore I'll hunt Douglas down, the damned brigand.”
James's breath caught in his chest at the familiarity of the voice.
“It's too risky, Randolph. We don't have enough men. Forbye, the Torwood is nothing but a trap waiting to snare a man.”
When his fingers touched the age-slick wood of the door, James touched Fergus's arm. As the rest of the men waited, he whispered, “Ready?”
The man stepped two paces back and crouched. “Aye.”
“Now!” James kicked with all his strength into the door as Fergus crashed his shoulder into it beside him. It gave with a thunderous crack.
James stumbled a couple of steps inside until he caught his balance.
“What the devil,” Randolph said, silhouetted by the dim light in a hearth, gold hair catching the little light. So, like his uncle, King Robert. Randolph whirled and threw himself across the room toward a sleeping pallet where a sword lay. Beside James, his men thundered in, spreading as they ran.
The other man scurried backward, empty hands raised. “I'm not armed, man.” Yelps came from groggy men in pallets as they were prodded, trod upon, and kicked into submission.
Randolph swept his sword up from beside a pile of blankets and swiveled.
“Randolph. Yield.” James lunged after him. Their swords rang together. Again, testing. James backed off a step. Randolph followed, tried a slash. James jerked back, and the wind from the blade brushed his cheek.
“Honorless scoundrel,” Randolph spat.
James gave way, a smile twitching his lips. “Fine words from a traitor.” He circled backward, leading Randolph. The knight tried a hack at his legs; James leapt away, hopping lightly over a pile of blankets.
“Craven,” Randolph said through gritted teeth. He came at James hard. Steel clanged on steel. James let Randolph drive him back, blocking each blow as he stepped over shields and blankets that littered the floor. He smiled blithely into Randolph's eyes. He almost laughed when the man growled under his breath. His blade swished by James's stomach, but James hacked a tear into the mail on Randolph's shoulder.
“Lost your skill at swordplay since you've kissed English arse?”
Randolph lunged, slamming the hilt of his sword toward James's face.
James dodged and caught Randolph across the stomach with the edge of his blade, scoring a gash into his mail. He sidestepped again and slid around the table where the two men had stood talking moment before. “Or mayhap you grew over-fond of the English King.”
James drove out from the other side of the table, hard and fast. Randolph blocked. James jerked his sword upward toward the knight's head. Randolph took half a step back, braced himself, and slammed his sword down in a savage arc. James knocked it aside and slid away to the side. He brought his sword down into Randolph's elbow. The mail ripped. Randolph grunted as he half-turned and slammed James's sword aside. James bared his teeth in a grin as he stood his ground. A rivulet of red ran down Randolph's arm. James rained a flurry of blows. Randolph parried--again and again. Each parry was slower. James could hear the knight panting for breath. The crimson from Randolph's elbow dripped down onto his fingers and then the ground. He staggered.
James slammed his sword at Randolph's head. Randolph lost his feet. He lurched back, tripped over a blanket, and went down on his back. James knocked the sword from his hand with the flat of his blade. Beyond the rush of blood in his head, someone was shouting. He raised his sword, two-handed, aiming a swing that would split the traitor from neck to groin.
Hard hands grabbed him from behind, gripping his arm. He spun.
“James. No!” Robbie Boyd back-pedaled, raising his empty hands. “Not the King's kin.”
James panted. Silence hung over the room. He let his arms fall. Around the edge of the room, kneeling amidst their sleeping blankets, the English gaped at him, still as could be with good Scottish steel at their throats.
His mouth was swollen and bloody where the hilt had caught him. He took off his helm. His hair hung into his face, dripping sweat. He spit out a mouthful of blood. Leaning on his sword, he sucked in a deep breath of air. “Richert, tie the traitor up. And then stop his bleeding. He'll not die before he reaches the King.”
Randolph propped himself on his elbow despite blood dripping down his cheek. He glared at James. “Brigand serving a brigand.”
James sheathed his sword. “If he opens his faithless mouth again, gag him. We've no time for other prisoners. Bind them.” He jerked a gesture toward the wary prisoners. “If they're in luck, someone will release them. Or let them starve.”