Galloglass Book V: Every Deed Into Judgement

Prologue

The Monastery of Bangor / Ireland

1328

Each day I awake in the hour before dawn. From my bed, I can hear the bell calling the brethren to chapel for Matins, the first service in the Daily Office. Some habits formed in one’s youth are impossible to break. Ten years in the service of Temple changed my liá and made me the man I have become. In my youth, if you had asked me did I enjoy my time spent in prayer and contemplation, I would have laughed at you. Now it seems it is all I have left. Those of you who are reading this have followed my tale and are aware that I am dying. It is no secret. The only mystery is how much time I have left.

Yesterday, I told my children and my wife what their inheritance would be upon my death. My sons were satisfied, as they should be. Their inheritances were won by my strong right arm. Unlike their father, they will begin with money and title and most of all, land. It is the nature of things that as a parent, you always wish more for your children than you yourself had. I myself received nothing from my own father except opportunity. Alasdair Og MacDonald was a hard man and was indifferent to my plight as his eldest and his bastard. I grew up fast. I was mean, arrogant, and insufferable as a youth. I was angry at the world and especially with my father. That anger caused me to do stupid things. At sixteen, an affair and a brawl over another man’s wife placed me with the Templars as a donate. I left Islay with nothing but the clothes on my back, even the sword that I carried was a gift from my grandfather. Alasdair was glad to be rid of me.

Ten years in Outremer will change a man. I rose to prominence in the Order. I gained knowledge, skill, and perhaps most importantly, reputation. I channeled my anger. No mere warrior, I became a killer of men. My abilities were recognized and rewarded. I was knighted and served as the Turcopole and personal bodyguard to two Grandmasters. Upon leaving the Order, I was gifted with horses and armor so that when I returned to Islay, I did so as a knight, owing no man.

Age brings maturity and wisdom. Reputation brings enemies, something that I had yet to truly understand. I buried my feud with my father and was welcomed back. My growing reputation had earned the grudging respect of both my father and my clan. Alasdair gave me command of two corrughadh in Ireland, and I served him and the MacDonald well. I also married a banfhaídh, a prophetess, a woman from my dreams. Her name was Sorcha, and I loved her as I had loved no other woman in my life.

I can hear my scribe come scratching at the door to my cell. Matins must be over. He is nothing if not efficient.

My lord, Abbott Cathal has asked if you require something to break your fast before we begin?

I lifted the jug beside me and shook it. "Aye, more uisce beatha, whisky."

Would my lord not prefer some bread or apples?

I set the jug down and reached behind me. I had hung my dagger on a peg in the wall near my bed. One never knew who wanted my death, and I was determined that no one would hurry it before its time. I withdrew the blade and said, Listen, you ink stained little shit, unless you want to feel the pain I have twisting my guts, you’ll find me some whisky.

He looked at the dagger and then at me, unsure of my ability to carry out the threat. The monk bowed and slipped out the door. I could hear the pad of his bare feet as he hurried down the corridor seeking shelter.

Dawn broke as I waited for the little monk’s return. I stood on unsteady legs and left my bed for the window that looked out over a garden and some cloisters leading to the chapel. I was still there when Cathal entered my cell sometime later. He was carrying a tray loaded with fresh bread and a crock of what was probably butter; there was also a jug of uisce beatha and a skin of water.

Told on me, didn’t he? I asked.

The good abbot smiled and set the tray on a small table by my bed. You really shouldn’t be up.

What you mean is I really shouldn’t be alive, I said.

He shrugged, "Inscrutabilia sunt judicia dei."

I slowly shuffled over to the bed and sat. Cathal handed me the jug. I don’t know what was worse—the burning of the uisce beatha or the churning in my guts. I sat back and let the warmth from the fiery liquid slowly spread across my body. The pain in my guts eased somewhat, and I took the proffered slice of bread, thick with butter.

Cathal smiled again and seated himself on the stool by the door. Brother Cormac will return shortly with his writing tools and parchment. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay awhile and hear your story. I didn’t know you then.

I continued to sip from the jug, dulling the pain more. I suspect there was more to the whisky than liquor and was grateful. I nodded in acceptance and grinned. The time between the death of Angus Og and my father, Alasdair Og, was tumultuous. A fine word, that. Yet it describes the uncertainty that steered the course of the MacDonald’s before the coming of de Bruce. As a clan, we needed vengeance. The insult given to Alasdair over his wife’s dowry could not be ignored. Alasdair was determined that whoever would bring us that, be it Longshanks or later, de Bruce, he would be the one we would support. Our holdings in the Isles and Ireland were always what was important, not who sat the throne in either Edinburgh or London.

There was a slight scratching on the wall outside my room. Cathal stood and helped the young scribe enter with his quills and parchment. A writing table had been placed by the window to help give him all the light he could get. I watched in wry amusement as the monk nervously set up his tools in preparation for another day with me.

Take your time, brother. We have all day, said Cathal while handing me some more bread.

I chewed my bread, savoring each piece and the creamy butter covering it. Several days had passed since I had been able to keep anything down, and it was a great relief to put something in my stomach. Soon the young scribe was ready to begin. My lord? he asked.

I sat up and propped myself against the wall. Taking a swig from my jug, followed by a quick squirt of water from the skin beside me, I nodded to Cathal and began.

Part One

Our Beloved

1.

Spring / 1296

Spring in the isles, the weather unpredictable at best. On this particular morning, it was beautiful, with little wind, few clouds, and bright sunshine. I was looking forward to taking my destrier out and putting him through several drills. The winter had made him fat, lazy, and meaner than usual. I left my cottage just after sunrise and was on my way to the stables when Duncan, my bodyguard, caught up with me. Lord, there is a swordsman waiting your pleasure in the hall.

I stopped and sighed. When did he arrive?

In the hour before dawn. He stood outside the gate and waited until the watch admitted him.

Does Alasdair know?

Yes, lord. He told me to tell you he is tired of guesting half of Scotland just because you have a reputation.

I snorted in irritation, pushed the feeling aside and asked, Who is he and is he alone?

Duncan smiled. Cormac MacCoinneach, tanist of the MacCoinneach, and he’s here with his clan chief. Which is another reason why Alasdair sent me.

Which is? I asked.

Your father wanted me to tell you not to kill the wee man. He’d like to make an alliance with the MacCoinneach, and your killing their tanist won’t help.

Easy for him to say, now isn’t it? He’s not the one having to fight the man.

Duncan shrugged. I’m just the messenger, lord.

Have my armor and weapons brought to the training yard. Tell the MacCoinneach I’ll meet him there within the hour and tell Alasdair it depends on how hard this tanist fights. I’ll make him no promises.

And if I need you, lord?

I’ll be in the stables.

Duncan nodded and scurried back toward the hall. I continued to the stables and spent the next hour checking my destrier’s hooves and avoiding being bit while trying to curry him. Paul and Jean, the two French horse boys I had brought back from the continent on my return, took turns helping me. Both lads were no longer boys but strapping young men who had done well in my service. Both were exceptional with our horses and even Alasdair had remarked at how much better our animals were since their coming to Islay.

The hour passed quickly and before I was ready, Duncan appeared at the door to the stables, ready to escort me to the training yard. I passed the war horse’s halter rope to Paul and asked Duncan, Anything I need to know?

He’s a might large, lord, he grinned.

Since I returned to Islay, this was the sixth time a swordsman had arrived at Eilean Mor and demanded a fight. My reputation, mo cháil, had spread throughout Ulster, the Isles, and the Highlands. When challenged, it was my duty to defend that reputation, and that in turn extended the reputation of the MacDonald. Not all my fights had ended in death; some were just to first or second blood. There were three bodies buried in the graveyard on the other side of the causeway near the village church and one more that had been returned to Italy. I was wondering if perhaps there would be a fourth.

I didn’t like the look on Duncan’s face but let it pass. Gathering up my cloak, I left the stables and crossed the lane to the training yard. To my surprise, both my father and Angus Og along with their guards were there in addition to the MacCoinneach and his tanist. There was also the usual training cadre of MacDonald galloglass working with the weapons of our trade. The yard was full. I was going to have an audience.

As I walked toward my father at the opposite end of the yard, I got a look at my opponent. Duncan’s description didn’t do the man justice. I was a head taller than he, but he was wide and thick with a neck like a bull. He outweighed me by at least fifty pounds. The greatsword he was swinging was possibly a foot longer than mine, and he made it sing like it was a toy.

Can you take him? asked Angus Og, meeting me half way across the yard as we walked to where Alasdair waited with the MacCoinneach.

Aye, but don’t be asking me not to kill him if they want this to the death. It’s one thing to fight to first or second blood, quite another if he’s meaning to put an end to me, I replied.

My uncle patted me on my back. Just win. We’ll worry about the rest later.

I continued to where my father waited with the MacCoinneach and his champion. The MacCoinneach eyed me up and down and then grinned, clearly pleased with what he saw. Your bastard, MacAngus?

My eldest son and tanist, replied Alasdair, annoyed by the man’s arrogance.

"Your clú is great, Ronan MacAlasdair. Your father has made it known he seeks an alliance against the MacDougal. Before that happens, the MacCoinneach want to know how great, said the clan chief. A fight with swords then, to see if what has been said is true."

First blood? I asked.

The MacCoinneach tanist stepped toward me and grinned. "Chun an bás, to the death!"

The MacCoinneach was unarmored wearing only a gambeson and no helm. Duncan appeared at my side and handed me my sword and a pair of leather gauntlets while I slipped off my hauberk and handed it off.

More MacDonald galloglass began to appear as word of the duel spread. I drew my sword and tossed my scabbard to Duncan. The MacCoinneach squared off and flourished his blade, confident in his ability. I set myself in the Fool’s Guard, my right foot forward and waited. Whenever you’re ready, wee man.

The MacCoinneach launched himself at me with a downward strike at my head, covering the space between us with remarkable speed. I met his attack, stepping off line to my right, while raising my hilt horizontally so that our blades met in a bind. Pushing my hands high and sweeping my right leg back in a semi-circle, I wound my sword around his and then cut, hoping to hit his head as he passed.

Not so easily taken, the Highlander felt the winding motion and turned with the pressure so that our blades disengaged, and we were left facing each other. This man had training and ability, and it was apparent to me, at least, that I would have to careful. So, I attacked. My sword rose, and I used a Cross Strike, moving from right to left, aimed at his head. As expected, he brought his sword forward, attempting to parry. Our blades touched, and then I wound my sword the opposite way, turning my wrists over and striking him on the left side of his head.

The Highlander managed to pull his head back at the last instant so that the tip of my sword sliced his cheek to the bone. He grunted in pain and then lunged forward with a straight thrust at my throat. Our blades were still in contact, so I elevated my hilt and stepped forward and to my right. The move forced his sword tip past my head and over my left shoulder. I continued to drive my hands forward and caught him above the eye with the pommel of my sword. He dropped at my feet like a hammered ox and, like that, the fight was over.

The smirk on the Chief of Clan MacCoinneach’s face disappeared. Both Angus Og and my father were grinning from ear to ear. Alasdair turned to the MacCoinneach and said, I’ll be sending galleys north in another month. I’ll expect your cooperation.

The clan chief nodded and pointed to his fallen champion. Is he dead?

I knelt and placed my hand on the side of his neck. I could feel his pulse and shook my head. He’s alive, though I’ll wager his head will hurt for the next month or so.

Alasdair called to two of our nearby galloglass. Come, take him to one of the guest houses. MacCoinneach, you’re welcome to stay until your man can travel.

As always, Alasdair, your generosity is legendary, said the clan chief with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

My father just grinned, and as he was walking away, back toward the hall, he said, Aye, and don’t you be forgetting it!

The next day the weather changed. The winds shifted to the northwest, making it raw and cold, with showers sweeping out of the North Atlantic that lashed Islay with sheets of stinging rain. I was warm and comfortable by my hearth. My wife Sorcha was rocking my son in the other room, quietly singing him to sleep. We were lucky. The child had come in the summer and was healthy, full of life. God had been kind. After a half day of worry, he entered the world mad and hungry and, best of all, his coming had not hurt his mother. Sorcha had recovered quickly. Life was good, but I knew there was trouble on the horizon.

A knock on the door of my cottage in this weather did not bode well. I stood and called, Come in!

Sorcha stood in the doorway of our bedchamber and rocked our child, waiting. Henri d’Orval stepped into the room and said, God save all here, his French accent almost overcoming his Gaeilge.

I smiled. Henri was Andre Bruchard’s squire, and Andre was one of my most trusted commanders. You’ve come quite a distance from the hall. And in bad weather. Is something wrong?

Henri shrugged as only the French can. It is not for me to say, lord. A Scots noble and his retinue have arrived at the hall. Your father asked if I would fetch you.

I went to the wall near the hearth and took my sword and its baldric from its peg. As I buckled it on, I asked, Who is it?

Henri shook his head. I have no idea, lord. I am not a Scot

My wife chuckled at his answer and came into the room. Whoever he is, love, I’ve not seen him.

Sorcha was known as a banfhaidh, a prophetess. I had witnessed her ability more than once. If the man in the hall were dangerous, she would have seen it in a dream. I put on my cloak and followed Henri back out into the weather. The walk from my cottage near the loch up to the hall did not take long, yet my brat was soaked when I arrived. The galloglass standing guard admitted me at once. Lord, your father is waiting.

I nodded and paused to remove my brat and hand it to Henri. Duncan, my bodyguard, was just inside, waiting for me. The hall was smoky, the rain and the damp making it difficult for the smoke to escape the fireplaces. There was an undercurrent of tension. I did not hear the usual boasting and lies from my father’s men. Who is here? I asked.

A messenger from the king, he responded.

"Which king, Rí Shasana nó Rí na hAlban?"

Duncan grinned. I should have known you’d be smart enough to ask. Ingram de Umfraville has come from Baliol, so he has.

I motioned for the two men to follow as I walked down the main aisle toward the dais at the back of the hall. This should be interesting.

Alasdair Og, my father, spotted my approach and held up his hand to halt the conversation between himself and the men on the dais. Beside him sat my uncle, Angus Og. My uncle caught my eye while sipping from his horn. He grinned at my arrival. My lords, this is my son and constable of the MacDonald galloglass, Ronan MacAlasdair. He should hear this.

There were six men standing before my father, three knights and their squires. The one closest to Alasdair was richly attired, his cloak trimmed in ermine. No braes on this one, he was dressed in an expensive, embroidered red and white tunic and hose. Grey eyes, aquiline nose, dark hair and beard well-trimmed—this was one of Scotland’s nobility. A man used to the highest circles of Scottish society. There was an unmistakable look of disdain on his face that I recognized at once. It was the same look I would usually receive from members of the nobility in Outremer, until they realized who I was.

I inclined my head and said, My lords.

The one in the red and white tunic studied me a moment and then asked, Are you the one who left the Temple?

I returned his stare. I had the honor of being a donate of that Order. Yes.

He nodded, and half turned to Alasdair. It seems your son has quite a reputation. At court we hear so many tales from Outremer nowadays. They often seem hard to believe. It is nice to see that someone I have heard of really does exist.

I bowed my head again and said, Reality can often be deceptive, my lord.

Indeed, well the summons I brought to your father is most certainly real, he replied.

Summons?

Yes, nephew, summons, sniggered Angus Og from behind his cup. It seems the wee king in Edinburgh has demanded the MacDonald answer his call for men. Apparently, Longshanks has had enough and is about to invade.

Excusez-moi, mon seigneur, I smiled, using my most courtly French. You have me at a disadvantage. I do not know your name.

The lord did not return my smile. Apparently, my uncle had annoyed him. I am Ingram de Umfraville, Baron of Urr, he replied rather haughtily.

The smile never left my face although I wanted to ram a dagger into the baron’s belly. My lord, the MacDonald are under no compunction to answer your king’s summons. We have never sworn fealty to the throne of Scotland.

I could see the color rising in de Umfraville’s cheeks. John Balliol is not just ‘my’ king. He is yours as well. The Treaty of Perth granted Manx and the Isles to Scotland.

Neither my grandfather nor my father attended Balliol’s Parliament in 1293. The fact is, my lord, no one from Clan Donald swore fealty to John Balliol. If Balliol needs men, then he can get them from Alexander MacDougal. After all, he made the MacDougal Sheriff of Argyll at that same parliament.

De Umfraville turned to my father. You would do well to remember who holds the throne. When Edward is gone, who will help you then?

Alasdair set his cup down. The hound at his feet sensed his master’s mood and lifted his head. A deep, menacing rumble rolled forth from the animal’s chest. Alasdair stood, and the hall went silent. My father was a big man, physically imposing when he so desired. The look on his face was enough to tell those who knew him there could be violence. There will be no men for your king, Lord de Umfraville. Let Balliol face the problem he created when he allowed Longshanks to interfere in his kingdom from the day it was created. You and your men are welcome here this night under the ancient laws of hospitality. I would suggest that in the morning, you take yourselves hence, lest I forget my obligations as Chief of Clan Donald and Lord of the Isles.

The Baron of Urr, inclined his head in acknowledgement of his dismissal. He gathered his men about him and followed one of our galloglass from the hall. Alasdair waited until they were gone before seating himself once again. He leaned over to Angus Og and spoke quietly to his brother. Moments later, he called me forward. Well done. I don’t think he liked being chided by someone so much younger than he.

I motioned for one of the servants to bring me some ale. Ingram de Umfraville is an ass.

Alasdair smiled and said, You realize he is considered one of Scotland’s greatest knights?

By whom? I responded. The kingdom is in trouble if he is the flower of its chivalry.

Angus Og chortled. You seem to doubt the baron’s martial skills.

I shrugged and sipped my ale. Looks can be deceiving, I acknowledged. But, I would consider it fortunate if I were to meet him on the field of battle.

Alasdair smiled, and I recognized the implication. Are you going to tell me something, my lord, or are you going to let me stand here and guess?

My father scratched the ears of the hound at his feet and then said, I need you to go to Galloway. Specifically, I need you to go to Carrick and speak to the Earl.

Robert the Younger?

Aye. His father, Robert the Elder, turned over his estates to his son when he took the Governorship of Carlisle in October of last year. I would know what the younger Bruce’s intentions are in this war that’s coming, he said. If we are careful, we can use this conflict to our advantage. When all is said and done, I expect to place my boot on the neck of Alexander MacDougal and that shit of a son of his.

Anything else?

Yes. I will give you a letter to deliver to Longshanks from the MacDonald. You are to remain with the king until he sees fit to reply.

Am I traveling in secret, or am I taking an escort?

The fewer who know our intentions, the better, replied my father. Take who you need. I’ll have your letter in the morning.

I was met by my bodyguard and Henri as I left the hall. To Henri, I said, Tell Andre he is in command of the men until my return. I was referring to Andre Bruchard, who was my second in command. He had joined my retinue on my way home from Cyprus. He was a veteran of the Fall of Acre, and I trusted him completely. Tell him to push their training. I think we will be back in Ireland before the start of summer.

The squire nodded. As you command, lord.

The youth turned to the barracks as we crossed the yard. Duncan stayed with me as we turned up the street toward my cottage. Get everything packed. We will leave at dawn and ride to the anchorage at Lagavulin. Angus Og said that Raganvald an Dearg was anchored there at Dún Naomhaig. Best to travel quickly, by sea, to Bruce’s castle at Turnberry.

And if he’s not there?

We find him. Then we travel to Longshanks. That is when things may become difficult, I replied.

Horses?

I shook my head. We’ll purchase some on the mainland.

In the morning, then, lord.

Duncan turned and left for his quarters while I proceeded home. Sorcha was up, having already put our son to bed. The baby was strong and healthy, in many ways a gift from God. You’ll be leaving then, she said as I settled myself on a stool by the hearth.

My wife the banfhaidh, a prophetess, a seer. There were times when her knowledge of the future could be disconcerting. I gave her a look and she smiled. No gift there, love, I could tell by your face when you came in the door.

I laughed softly and held out my hand. She took it, and I pulled her close and buried my face in her waist. In the morning, I leave for Carrick. I’ll be gone for several weeks.

And then? she asked.

I don’t know. Ireland, I suppose.

Then you’ll be taking us, too?

I grinned and looked up at her. She was beautiful in the firelight. What else? If I left you here, woman, you’d be driving me poor Da mad with all your predictions.

She pulled me up and led me back to our bedchamber. No need for predictions tonight, she said.

***********

Duncan was waiting outside my door in the hour before dawn with three horses. Two animals were saddled and ready while the third carried all our gear. I walked out and handed him a sealskin bag with my chausses rolled up and stored inside. The bag was waterproof and perfect for carrying mail. There is nothing worse than rolling out mail that has been stored only to find it is covered in rust. I did not bring my great helm, trusting instead to my cervelliere and mail coif. I had no intention of jousting and decided that was one piece of protection I could do without. I hung my war hammer from my saddle and then went back inside to say goodbye to Sorcha.

My wife was in our bed with the furs pulled around her, suckling our son. At the foot of the bed lay my hound, who slowly thumped her tail on the floor when I entered. Sorcha looked up and smiled. Come back soon. I don’t like being without you.

I leaned over and kissed her. Anything I need to worry about?

She shook her head. The usual, love. You walk with death every day. I have seen nothing that concerns me more than anything else.

Good to know.

She smiled. "Gluaiseacht shábháilte, mo ghrá."

I returned to Duncan who was already mounted and waiting. It was still dark when we left Finlaggan. We rode south and then east at a steady pace for a couple of hours to reach the port at Dún Naomhaig. The sun was up when we reached the castle that overlooked the anchorage. We were recognized and admitted at once. The castle here at Dún Naomhaig had been around in one form or another since the time of our ancestor Somerled. Dún Naomhaig means Fort of the Galleys and that was its purpose. It provided safe and secure anchorage for our warships. It was not the only port we used, but it was the most secure on this side of the island.

We entered the bailey and our horses were seen to at once. Can’t stay at home, can you nephew? boomed the voice of Raganvald as he squeezed his way out of one of the nearby tower doors. He was a very large man, with plaited red hair and beard, both of which were streaked with grey. I haven’t spoken much of Raganvald and that does him a great disservice. He was my father’s cousin, and so I called him uncle. There was many a night before I left for the Templars when he gave me shelter and food when my father, in his anger, would not. I loved that big man as much as my father hated him. Their feud went back to a time long before I was born, and though the two didn’t get along, they never let it get in the way of family business. He clapped me on my shoulder with a hand more like a paw and smiled. Well, what does Alasdair want now?

How do you know he wants something?

Because you and your man are here, dressed in mail, and you were leading a pack-horse. Which means you’re most probably on your way to the mainland. And that means I’ll be taking you.

I laughed and shook his ham-like arm. You are right. We need to be at Turnberry Castle, sooner than later.

Carrick, is it? he asked while scratching his beard. We can be gone on the evening tide. Am I waiting on you, or will you be getting back on your own?

Unfortunately, we’ll be coming back on our own, I replied.

Raganvald shook his head. That tells me Alasdair has you involved in more than just talking to the Earl of Carrick. He held up his hand. Don’t say another word. Whatever it is that he has you doing, trust none but Duncan here. He nodded to my companion. The mainland is a cauldron of trouble. Nothing is as it seems. Remember that.

Raganvald’s advice was sound. I was going to speak to several people whom I did not know personally. That, by its very nature, would be dangerous. Once I left the Earl of Carrick’s lands, I would be in grave danger from anyone allied to Balliol, especially if they discovered I was a MacDonald. Duncan and I went with my cousin, who took us to the hall and had us fed. We spent the rest of the day following my cousin as he rounded up crews for two birlinn and then got the galleys ready to sail.

Raganvald was the most experienced captain in the MacDonald fleet, and I was not surprised to find both ships ready to sail just as he had predicted. I asked him why we were taking two galleys. His response was simple. To avoid trouble.

Trouble from whom?

The MacRuari. They’ve been raiding again. I told your Da we needed to take the fleet and burn out that clan of pirates, but he told me there was more to worry about than that rancid pack of sea wolves. If so, then he’s got a powerful lot on his mind, boyo. Them people are bad business, so they are.

It was always good to talk with Raganvald. He never failed to drop pieces of information my father always seemed to omit whenever we discussed clan activities. I turned and looked at Duncan. He nodded in agreement. My cousin Lachlan, most probably. He’s Ailéan MacRuari’s illegitimate son and tanist. I heard he was about, causing trouble.

To Raganvald I said, Plan on returning to Turnberry Castle in three weeks. If I am not there, wait a week. If I’m having trouble getting back, I’ll send word.

My uncle nodded and grinned. That’s more like it. Besides, you might need me.

I hoped he was wrong, but it never hurt to be cautious. True to his word, Raganvald sailed on the evening tide. We took our time, dropping down from Islay and rounding the Mull of Kintyre and making our way through the treacherous North Channel at night. Early the next morning, we made the crossing to the Carrick coast and Turnberry Castle.

Turnberry was strongly built, its curtain walls encompassing a small peninsula. The landward approach was protected by a dry moat and a curtain wall that could be accessed only by a drawbridge protected by a portcullis. The town of Turnberry sat beyond the curtain wall but was itself protected by a palisade and dry moat with a fortified gate at its entrance.

The other three sides of the castle were walled and surrounded by the sea. Divided into two parts, the castle had both a lower and an upper keep. There was also a protected harbor with an entrance, like the main gate, that was protected by a portcullis. It was to the sea gate that we sailed that morning. I was surprised that we were admitted without delay. Raganvald grinned and pointed to a flag flying from the mast that sported a yellow field with a black galley on it. They know who we are. Know this galley, too. Know me as well. I’m hard to miss. The portcullis was raised, and both our ships were met by a sergeant in a small curragh, who guided us into the anchorage.

When we were docked and properly secured. A small party of men-at-arms came to the wharf and waited for us to disembark. They were led by a young knight who was not in mail, though he wore a sword on his hip. Is that the Earl of Carrick? I asked, having never met any of the Bruce.

Raganvald shook his head. No, that’s Edward, one of his younger brothers.

I crossed from the galley to the dock on a gangplank, flanked by Duncan and Raganvald. The closer I got to the knight, the more I realized he was not more than twenty and probably a few years less. My lord, I said. I am Ronan MacAlasdair. I have come from Alasdair MacDonald seeking your brother, the Earl of Carrick.

Edward Bruce nodded and said nothing while he studied me. Well built, with a shock of auburn hair hanging across his forehead, he stared at me with piercing blue eyes for some time before speaking. I did not realize you were so tall, he said. You are the MacDonald some call the Templar.

I bowed my head slightly in acknowledgement. I was once a Templar, yes.

He nodded again and opened his arm and waved us forward. Welcome to Turnberry. If you will come with us? Robert is below the castle, in the town. Something about getting one of his horses shod. I have sent word and I expect he will arrive shortly.

Edward and his men escorted us to the largest of the towers in this portion of the castle. A winding set of stairs brought us to the main floor where the Bruce had his hall, the interior of which was decorated with banners, tapestries, and war trophies hung along the walls. Surprisingly, it was rather well lit as there were several windows that served as arrow loops in time of need, looking out over the yard below.

Our arrival had caused a stir, and as we awaited the return of the Earl, several of his brothers and sisters took it upon themselves to come to the hall and inspect the newcomers. Bruce’s father, the sixth Robert of his name and now the Lord of Annandale, had taken up the governorship of Carlisle and had left his eldest son not only his title, Earl of Carrick, but had made him the head of the family and placed him in charge of his four younger brothers and two of his five sisters.

We were ushered to a long table and seated, where we were offered ale and fresh bread and cheese while we awaited the Earl of Carrick. Edward seated himself across from me at the table and asked, Are the Saracen as fierce an enemy as we are led to believe?

I scratched my head and thought a moment. They are no better or worse than what you face here in Scotland or England. They are simply different. Their fighting style is not as ours is in the west. When you fight them, you must realize that they have no intention of meeting a charge of heavy cavalry head on. They rely on horse archers and movement, and if you fail to understand this, they will slaughter you.

They have courage then? he asked.

They are men. When they are well led, they are dangerous. When they are not, they are certainly beatable.

Then came the inevitable question. If it is as you say, how did the Temple allow the fortress city of Acre to fall? Were the Templars not in charge of the defense of the city?

The young knight’s question brought back bitter memories of remorseless fighting and terrible sacrifice. I took my time in answering, carefully choosing my words. The defense of Acre was shared equally between the Military Orders, the King of Jerusalem, and the citizens of the city. We were besieged by close to a hundred thousand Mamluks and their Saracen levies. Without help from the Kingdoms of the West, the outcome was a foregone conclusion.

Your Grandmaster was killed there along with the entire Templar convent. Forgive me, but I have heard you survived. How was that possible?

Duncan shifted on the bench beside me as he loosened the dagger in his belt. Edward Bruce’s tone implied disgrace. He was not alone in feeling this way. There were many, who not knowing the real story, thought that those who did not die when the city collapsed were all cowards. I smiled at the young lord. I do not know what you have been told. I can only say what I know. I was Grandmaster Giullaume de Beaujeu’s Turcopole and personal bodyguard. After his death, I, along with Eoghan MacRuari, was ordered by Marshal de Severy to accompany the Templar Treasurer, Tibald de Gaudin, and the Templar treasury to Cyprus. I did not want to leave, but I did as I was commanded. We escaped that night through a postern by the sea. The Templar citadel fell the following day. For the next year, I served the next grandmaster, just as I had de Beaujeu, as both Turcopole and bodyguard. The next year I left the Order after the death of de Gaudin with no stain upon my honor.

I did not like the look Edward had in his eyes, but the knight held his tongue. Moments later, I heard another of Edward’s brothers exclaim, Robert, we have guests!

We all turned and watched as Robert de Bruce, the seventh Earl of Carrick, entered the hall. He spotted us at once and headed our way. I stood at once, as did my companions. The Bruce came straight to Raganvald, grasping my cousin’s arm and grinning from ear to ear. Raganvald an Dearg, you old pirate. What brings you to Turnberry?

The old warrior returned the Earl’s affection. I’m drawn to wild, hard headed men such as yourself, lord. It was time for a visit.

Indeed? he answered while turning his attention to Duncan and me. Who is this?

Raganvald clapped a meaty hand on my shoulder and said, My nephew, Ronan MacAlasdair, and his man, Duncan MacRuari.

The Bruce, like his brother Edward, took his time looking me over. The Bruce was younger than I by three or four years. Thick necked, shorter than I, with reddish brown hair and a broad face, he moved like a man who was used to command. His eyes shone in the hall’s uneven light and then he smiled, his face registering recognition. "MacAlasdair. You are Alasdair MacDonald’s eldest, the Templar they call Angelus Mortis."

I inclined my head and bowed. While I am no longer a Templar, lord, I have been known by that name.

"Edward, here, has recently returned from Antrim. Our allies, the Bissetts, have heard of your campaign in Dun na nGall. I believe they think you’re backing the wrong brother?"

I shrugged my shoulders. Kinship. I simply do as my father commands.

It wasn’t always that way, replied the Bruce.

No, lord, it wasn’t, I replied. The Bruce obviously knew more about me than I had considered. It was apparent that he gathered information about people, just as I had gathered information about him. That meant that he understood that knowledge, intelligence, was power. And, that meant that he could be a very useful ally or an exceptionally dangerous foe. I’m sure, lord, you and your father have on occasion disagreed.

Aye, but my father never gave me to the Templars. Although, I am sure that he probably considered it on more than one occasion, he smiled.

The smile was genuine, the Bruce’s words not meant to offend, unlike his brother Edward. Come, walk with me. I have to see to one of my horses.

I motioned for Duncan and Raganvald to remain and followed the Bruce from the hall. As we were leaving, one of his younger sisters entered the hall on a run. She slid to a stop beside us followed by two hounds, who danced around nosing all of us in turn, seeking attention. Maude, can you not keep your beasts under control? asked the Bruce, mildly irritated.

The girl giggled and flashed a bright smile as she straightened her dress and pushed several wayward strands of hair out of her face, Don’t pretend to be mad, Robert, just because we have guests. Who is this?

I bowed slightly and introduced myself. Ronan MacAlasdair, my lady. And you are?

She blushed when I looked down at her and then smiled. I’m Maude, I mean Matilda. You are quite handsome, you know.

It was my turn to laugh as the Bruce turned his sister about and pushed her back toward the others in the hall. You will forgive her. She is young and much too bold for her own good.

We watched her cross to the table with her brothers and then left the keep. I followed the Lord of Carrick through the yard and another gate that led to the lower half of the castle. In another bailey, they had located a small stable for the lord’s horses. We entered, and I waited while the Bruce spoke to his farrier about shoeing one of his destriers.

My lord has fine taste in horses, I said, noting the big bay the farrier was working on.

The Earl nodded. This one is unusual. Very calm, likes people, until he smells blood. Then he is all business. One of the best war horses I have ever owned. He ran his hand along the animal’s withers. So, tell me why Alasdair MacDonald has sent his son to Turnberry.

I looked at the farrier and said, I think this conversation should be just between us, my lord.

The Bruce inclined his head, and I followed him out into the yard where there were no servants. Satisfied, I began by touching the leather tube at my side. I have a letter here, my lord, from my father.

Have you read it? he asked.

Of course, my lord, I replied, handing it to him.

What does Alasdair want?

Reassurance that the alliance between our two houses is still strong. That the promises made years ago at this castle between our families still stand.

If you are asking me, will I answer Balliol’s summons to Caddonlee, the answer is no. As far as I know, neither will the Earl of Dunbar. As for the others who signed the Band, I cannot say. And the MacDonald?

I am sure you know of our feud with the MacDougals. They are too closely linked to the Comyns who are Balliol’s dogs. We have sworn no fealty to the new king, though he has demanded it. In fact, I am on my way to Edward to assure him of our loyalty after I leave here. You?

The Bruce’s face was hard. Like the MacDonald, there is no love between Bruce and Comyn. As long as Baliol holds a throne that is rightfully my father’s, there will be no reconciliation. We have heard that the king intends to confiscate our lands and hand them over to the Comyns for our disloyalty. Like you, my brothers and I will ride to Edward within the week to swear fealty.

Does Balliol have a chance to defy Edward? I asked.

The Earl smiled. John Balliol is not the man for such a task. Can it be done? Possibly, but it would be a long, hard, war of wills. The winner must be willing to sacrifice everything he has if he hopes to succeed.

I nodded my head in agreement. I am sure you have the right of it, my lord. I will tell my father that the alliance between our two houses still stands firm.

Bruce tapped the leather tube on his thigh and said, If you intend on reaching Longshanks, you will need horses and a guide. The land between Carrick and the English border is not safe. The word we have is the king is marching north with his army from Newcastle-upon-Tyne. My guess is that he will cross the Tweed with his army somewhere near Coldstream and turn toward Berwick first. It seems that Longshanks intends to impose his will on Balliol and Scotland for that matter. If you wish to reach Longshanks, you will need to slip through the Scots forces gathering at Caddonlee. You are fortunate that I am here. On the morrow, I am taking a small group of my retainers south to reinforce my father’s garrison at Carlisle.

I would be grateful for any help you can provide, lord. Once I deliver Alasdair’s letter to the king, I would like to return here to Turnberry. If all goes well, we should be back in three weeks.

Then it is settled, said the Bruce. You can stay the night and entertain us with tales of Outremer. In the morning, one of my men will take you to Longshanks while I and my men leave for Carlisle.

2.

March / 1296

The Earl of Carrick was true to his word. The next morning, Duncan and I were provided with horses and a guide and sent on our way with full packs of food for our journey east. The Earl himself, with his brother Edward and one hundred men-at-arms, followed us out the gates of the town and then turned due south, to relieve his father at Carlisle.

The day was mild for so early in the spring. A weak sun tried to force its way through gray mists as we traveled overland to a small ford over the River Doon. Once beyond the river, we traveled almost straight as an arrow between the Ayr and the Nith and made our way northeast toward the royal burgh at Lanark. Thirty miles later we camped atop an old hillfort whose low embankments provided no protection other than its view of the surrounding countryside. Our guide, a small man whose name was Gilbert de na crainn, which meant Gilbert of the trees, suggested we build no fire.

Our guide was taciturn, saying little unless spoken to. He watched everything, often slipping from his mount to check the ground before us. I asked him what he did for the Earl and that caused him to smile. Hunt, lord. I am the earl’s tracker.

I nodded and asked no more, happy with the Bruce’s choice in guides. The three of us rotated the guard, each standing watch a portion of the night. The next morning, I awoke to discover the little man was gone. Duncan was already awake and gnawing on a piece of jerked beef. When I looked to the horses, he smiled and said, The wee man left an hour ago, to scout our trail. Don’t know what he’s worried about. He took the last watch, shook me awake before he left, and then slipped out of camp on his garron.

I shrugged out of my horse blanket and went and made water against the bank opposite our camp. When I got back, I took some of Duncan’s jerky and then dressed. After slipping my mail over my gambeson, I found a sharping stone in my saddle bag and sat and worked on my blade.

Expecting trouble? asked Duncan while slipping on his own hauberk.

Aye. This has been too easy. If the Scots are massing at Caddonlee, then we are bound to run into some before long.

And if we do? he asked.

Depends. I would rather fool them than fight them.

Duncan laughed. Since when?

Since they have a bloody army, and there are but two of us, I grinned.

Duncan and I proceeded to break camp and saddle the horses. As I was checking the cinches on my saddle, Gilbert slipped into the dun. We need to go. I think we’re being followed.

You think, or you know? asked Duncan.

The little man grinned and rubbed his balding head. I know there are twenty men, mounted and armed, moving in our direction. But, they are not the ones to be worried about. There are eight others, also mounted, though poorly. They are much closer. Would you like to wait to find out what they want?

Duncan pulled himself up into his saddle and said, Not really. Let’s ride.

I was already in the saddle when Gilbert turned back and looked at me. My lord?

We need to be in Lanark by nightfall. Let us be gone.

Gilbert turned his horse and trotted through the embankment and down the slope to a track leading northeast. Turning back, he leaned over his saddle and said, I intend to stay on this track to make time. If I see the need, we’ll turn off and cut across country.

I waved in agreement and followed the little man as he trotted away. We stayed in the saddle, stopping only to water and rest the horses. It rained much of the time, a fine, cold mist that soaked everything, seeping through my wool cloak and then my mail until even the gambeson underneath was wet. Cold and miserable, I made the decision to halt and eat near mid-day. There was a break in the rain, and a weak sun shone occasionally through a slate grey sky when we dismounted near a swift running burn that we would eventually have to cross.

It was Gilbert that noticed them first; five men armed with bills and cudgels standing on the opposite side of the burn at the crossing. The little man stood up and said, Trouble, lord.

I finished off a small piece of cheese and stood, looking at the men on the other side of the burn. Behind me I heard a snort and turned to see five other men mounted on some of the worst looking horseflesh this side of a slaughterhouse. Dressed in ragged gambesons and rusty, Norman style helms, they were armed with an odd assortment of swords and axes and looked intent on using them. Their leader leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle and grinned at me through broken teeth. Greetings, those are some fine looking horses you have there.

Nice weapons, too, chirped one of his companions.

Fuck off, you pox ridden piece of shit, snarled Duncan in Gaeilge as he slid his sword from its sheath.

Now that’s not being very friendly, said their leader, the color coming up in his face.

By now I had also drawn my own blade and was holding it in the Fool’s Guard with my sword pointed out to my side instead of to my front. If I were you, I would back away and run to whatever hole you crawled out of, ‘friend’.

There’s ten of us, he said reasonably, sweeping his arm about, and only three of you. I’m thinking we’ll take our chances. Lay down your weapons, and I’ll let you live.

I shrugged my shoulders. Duncan, is he as stupid as he looks?

Yes, lord. Dumb as a hammer, he is.

You realize, stupid and ugly is no way to go through life?

The brigand snarled something and kicked his horse forward and the others followed. I dodged to the man’s left, forcing him to strike at me across the head of his mount. I easily deflected his blade and then cut as he went past. His gambeson held, and I was forced to turn into the next attack from a horseman to my right. Ducking a swing to my head, I cut diagonally into the horse’s hamstring as it went past. The animal screamed and then collapsed, rolled and crushed its rider in a tangle of rolling horseflesh and flashing hooves.

The third brigand was on me before I could get my blade up. He was wielding an ax, and just before he dropped it onto my head, he went backward out of his saddle with an arrow through his throat. I spun in time to see Gilbert send another hunting arrow deep into the chest of a horse to Duncan’s right. The animal went to its knees in a yard-long skid and pitched its rider over its head. The brigand, who moments before had ridden at Duncan, was now screaming and spewing blood where the Highlander had taken his leg off at the knee. The outlaw slumped and slowly toppled from his horse as his cries grew faint.

By now the five men on the opposite side of the burn were across and charging our camp. The leader of the brigands, once past us, stayed behind his men and drove them forward. An outlaw with a bill was in the lead when another hunting arrow from Gilbert took him off his feet. The arrow’s broad blade sliced through his throat and cut his spinal cord, downing him like a puppet with its strings cut. The next man forward carried an old boar spear and came at me in a rage.

My left foot was forward, and I was holding my sword in the half-sword low guard position. As the brigand lunged upward at my face, I caught the incoming blade with my sword just above my left hand and pushed his weapon to the right. I continued to move onward as he rushed ahead to meet me. Lifting my hilt and using his spear shaft as a swivel, I drove my blade deep into his chest. He staggered, and I kicked him off the end of my sword so that I could attack the next man.

Duncan squared off with a brigand who knew his business wielding an ax. The blade began its downward vertical descent and turned into a horizontal swipe meant to cut him in half at the waist. My companion was not so easily fooled, swaying backward to let the blade pass, he lunged forward and drove his sword deep into his attacker’s chest. Kicking the blade free, he then chopped into the man’s neck to finish him.

There were now three men left, even odds. The two brigands without horses looked at us and decided they’d had enough. Backing away, they turned and ran for the crossing over the burn. Their leader, still on his nag, cursed us and turned to follow his companions. Gilbert put an arrow into the back of his head, the point going through his helm and into his skull. He slid out of his saddle and tumbled to earth, dead before he hit the ground.

Damn, Gilbert, I didn’t know you could use a longbow, I exclaimed.

Gilbert nodded a wide grin on his face. When I was young, I fought with the old earl against the Welsh in ‘83. First time a saw one, liked it and got me one.

I watched the little man as he checked the dead and retrieved his arrows. I turned to Duncan, but he was already slitting throats and going through the brigand’s pouches for coins or anything useful. The horse that I hamstrung had managed to rise on three legs and stood quivering in pain. I picked up a fallen axe and walked over to it. Speaking softly, I tried to soothe the animal before I hit it between the eyes, putting it out of its misery. I’ll be honest, this is one of the worst things about being a warrior. I would much rather kill a man than put a horse down. It’s something about their eyes that haunts you.

I’d have done it, said Duncan, patting me on the back.

I shook my head. This was mine to do. Find anything?

Not much, a few halfpennies and a groat.

Poor little for this sorry lot, I said. Take their weapons and throw them into the burn. No sense in giving others the same bad ideas.

Duncan shrugged and grinned, Aye. Killing’s a nasty bit of business, but I’m glad for the work, all the same.

While I watched, Duncan policed the field as Gilbert finished retrieving his arrows and cased his bow, strapping it to his horse. I’ll be moving ahead, lord, to check the trail. You never know about desperate men. There may be more were these came from.

I waved him on and then fetched our horses. Duncan was not long in his efforts. Once we were both in the saddle and moving, it began to rain again. The rest of the trip was cold, wet, and uneventful. It was early evening when we reached Lanark. Rather than camp outside the city walls, I had decided to find an inn, get a hot meal, and dry off. My companions both agreed, and so we passed into the royal burgh through the town gate of West Port. While waiting in line to pay the murage, the toll for the upkeep of Lanark’s walls, I asked one of the guards about an inn. Dropping a silver halfpenny in his hand, he grinned and said, Once you’re inside, take the third lane to your right. Go to the first inn you come to, the Green Duck. It’s a proper inn, lord, with a yard and stable, and the food is reasonable.

I dropped him another coin, and he knuckled his head and waved us on through. We made our way through the town, following the guard’s directions. Night was falling and the gate to the inn was closed when we arrived. Duncan rode up and used the head of his axe to knock. Moments later, a portal in the gate opened.